Well, I don't.

The world has passed beyond that prettiness.

You want the moon described as a Huntress or a gold disc or a flower--I say it's oftener like a beer barrel or a cheese.

You want a wealth of jolly words and real things ruled out as unfit for poetry.

I say there's nothing unfit for poetry.
Nothing, Dogson! Poetry's everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among drabs and pot-houses and rubbish-heaps than in your Sunday parlours.