Poetry

Poetry trickles like a stream gone dry or rushes like a cataract that carries away its banks. It hums the working-song of a bee or growls the warning of an empty-stomached bear. It sings like a wavering kindergartener in a school chorus or ripples and glides over notes with the skill of a virtuoso. It whispers unguessed secrets or shouts the truth that we all know inside. It lives. 

Rambling Brat?

From "The Author to Her Book"
By Anne Bradstreet

"Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view...
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My RAMBLING BRAT (in print) should mother call..."