“Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.”
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I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.
Eugenio Montale 
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This proves that great lyric poetry can die, be reborn, die again, but will always remain one of the most outstanding creations of the human soul.
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Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.
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Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.
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