I am currently studying the Metaphysical Poets. On Friday, we discussed the idea of a conceit. In preparation for class, I dashed off a short conceited poem.
And now, I inflict it on you:
burrowed underneath the reach of heel and hand
underneath the reign of clouds and woe,
content in earthen huts and vaulted crystal harmony.
If the earth be barren of food for men
rigid, empty of the loam of healthy land,
earthworm's living, eating - e'en his waste,
does serve to feed the earth again.