I think it can be said that poetry resembles the dream in at least one very important sense: the latent content, or meaning, is not necessarily identical with the manifest content, or meaning; and indeed one may question whether it is not precisely when the two kinds of meaning are most at variance that the poetry becomes most rewardingly alive. The poet may believe, for example, in a given poem, that he is praising life, all life, with all the profundity and richness of which he is capable: such praise, and searchingly, is his theme: and the praise is in fact there. But also there, and to a great extent unknown to the poet, may be just such a selection of images, phrases, rhythms, chosen in spite of himself out of old habits and preoccupations, as will undo the praise entirely, and lend to it the unmistakable accents...