Random Bits of Poetry

One of the pleasures of being an English teacher is that the most random bits of poetry are in my mind. Today walking back from the cafeteria just the title of a poem came back to me, "Who burns for the perfection of paper." The other night walking around the campus I could hear in my head, "I will arise and go to Innisfree...And a small cabin build there, Of clay and wattles made." The funny thing about the last poem is that I heard it read once on a CD and ever since then the sound of the poem in my mind is in the shaky voice of the old man reading the poem from that CD.