Intrada (To a Poet)
Thomas Traherne, Gerald Finzi
An empty book is like an Infant's Soul, in which anything may be written; it is capable of all things but containeth nothing. I have a mind to fill this with profitable wonders, and with those things which shall shew my Love. Things strange yet common, most high, yet plain: infinitely profitable, but not esteemed; Truths you love, but know not