Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

We talk about the aching beauty of Nature.  Sometimes, it’s not a metaphor.


The mole was dead upon the ground;

He did not move when he was poked.

His coat was sleek, his body round,

His life revoked.


His parts seemed not to coincide:

His hands were stuck on at the wrist;

He was long-nosed and squinty-eyed,

A humorist.


He looked too healthy to be dead;

His feet were white, his face was droll,

But he was tragic dust instead

Of comic mole.

Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds! Also look for Inklings of Reality and Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest books from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty.  And look for Williams’ very latest book, Deeper Magic: The Theology behind the Writings of C. S. Lewis, from Square Halo Books!

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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