Marianne Moore

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
    Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
    it after all, a place for the genuine.
      Hands that can grasp, eyes
      that can dilate, hair that can rise
        if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
    useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
    the same thing may be said for all of us—that we
     do not admire what
      we cannot understand. The bat,
        holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
    a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
    ball fan, the statistician - case after case
    could be cited did
    one wish it; nor is it valid
        to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
    however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
    nor till the autocrats among us can be
        "literalists of
        the imagination"-above
            insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we
    have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion-
    the raw material of poetry in
        all its rawness, and
        that which is on the other hand,
            genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Note: Marianne Moore viewed her poems as fluid and constantly revised her output. As a result you will not find anywhere one definitive version of this poem.