Tragedy of the Poet?

It seems to me that poet’s are attempting to do the impossible. It’s like that song from the Sound of Music, “Maria,” that the nuns sing: . . .How do you catch a cloud and pin it down . . . How do you keep a wave upon the sand . . . How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? . . . Poets try to capture with words what they know (however subconsciously) is impossible to write. How tragic?

It’s like my theory on romantics. You know who they (you) are. If you don’t, go to the coffee bar side of Stella’s on a Friday or a Saturday night. They’re in the back, studying, usually alone, and from behind the steam of their lattes they shyly eye the people they think are watching them. They’re there not to study, but to be seen studying. Waiting for someone to see the tragic, romantic beauty of their martyred life (how tragic is studying biochemistry on a Friday night after all . . .) and rescue them. The only tragic part is that the dashing, compassionate person they wait for doesn’t exist. (I’ve waited long enough to know). But they go on believing in the fairy tale.

I suppose they’re none the worse for all their false hopes. Or are they?