I'm with you. I saw the delivery, and at the time thought it so much easy bromide, soporific treacle. It's even worse now seeing the words on a page. I have an innate distrust of 22-year-old poets. What do they know of pain, loss, irrevocable breaking of things, and the compounding interests of their tolls over a longer span of life. Pretty sentiments, the simiplistic rhymes, and I could not even find a meter. Yesterday I was thinking of W. S. Merwin.

  " ... it was then that you
  saw him in his own exile and you
  paid for him and kept him until he
  could fly again and you let him go
  but then where could he go in the world
  of your time with its wars everywhere
  and the soldiers hungry the fires lit
  the knives out twelve hundred years ago."