The Difference in Poems We Admire from Those We Love

Was reading  Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus Heaney , which is a quite interesting book. Ran across this:

"Put it this way: some poets and poetry you admire in the way you admire produce in a market. Natural, beautiful stuff, delightfully there in front of you, thickening your sense of being alive. But you're still looking at it. You're savoring it but you can move on to the next display. Then there are poets and poetry that turn out to be more like plants and growths inside you. It's not so much a case of inspecting the produce as feeling a life coming into you and through you. You're Jack and at the same time you're the beanstalk. You're the ground and the growth all at once. There's no critical distance, as yet."