This is a line from Joni Mitchell's song, "For Love Or Money." I suppose that it's a good description of a poet.

they go up
they go down
some rhyme, when found
some just scatter
hither and

but in common, these shapes have something
pain, edges sharp and piercing
memories clear (and as cold) as ice
saying goodbye, saying it thrice
near and dear, but dear no more
he puts up his stacks in his little word store
a monument to remembered
an edifice, rendered

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