It is the charm which the potential has
That is the proper aura of the poem.
Though ceremony fail, though each of your grey hairs
Help string a harp in the landlord’s heaven,
And every battle, every augury,
Argue defeat, and if defeat itself
Bring all the darkness level with our eyes—
It is the poem provides the proper charm,
Spelling resistance and the living will
To bring to dance a stony field of fact
And set against terror exile or despair
The rituals of our humanity.
From "Against the False Magicians"