Mild sound of the seashell

This was thought to be a gift to a friend poet here in town, years ago. Now he's published. I called it "Mild sound of the seashell" (I put work on this one, I admit it). Completely IGA work, as always.

Into this matters, a selected dedication from an american poet, to my friend and every poet I know:

The true poem is the poet's mind; the true ship is the shipbuilder. In the man, could we lay him open, we should see the sufficient reason for the last flourish and tendril of his work, as every spine and tint in the sea-shell pre-exist in the secreting organs of the fish. The whole of heraldry, and of chivalry is in courtesy. A man of fine manners shall pronounce your name with all the ornament that titles of nobility could ever add.

Ralph W. Emerson: "Art and history as a private and universal adventure".

And herein is the, legitimation of criticism, in the mind's faith, that the poems are a corrupt version of some text in nature, with which they ought to be made to tally. A rhyme in one of our sonnets should not be less pleasing than the iterated nodes of a sea-shell, or the resembling difference of a group of flowers.

Ralph W. Emerson: "Nature gives second birth to itself in poetry".

The tint of the flower proceeds from its root, and the lustres of the sea-shell begin with its existence. [...] Beauty rides on a lion. Beauty rests on necessities. The line of beauty is the result of perfect economy. [...] There is not a particle to spare in natural structures.

Ralph W. Emerson: "Beauty".