I kiss your knees that self-communing prayers chastize,I kiss your feet that would appease the open sea;I wish to plunge my head between your vital thighsand in your hair-shirt weep for my iniquity;there, my dear saint, in that oblivion of the dimChasm and the Boundless, rapt with scents vibrant and fresh,when I have finished softly chanting my long hymn,I shall assuage my torment on your wholesome flesh.

Verse is everywhere in language where there is rhythm, everywhere, except in notices and on page four of the papers. In the genre called prose, there are verses [...] of all rhythms. But in truth there is no prose: there is the alphabet, and then verses more or less tight, more or less diffuse.

The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.

You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.