Passage A: A poem that yields its meaning on first reading has, in a sense, nothing left to give. Difficulty is not a flaw to be apologized for; it is the poem's way of slowing us down, of resisting the lazy skim we bring to everything else. The lines that puzzle us are the ones we return to, and it is in returning that reading becomes rereading—the only kind that matters. Ease is forgettable. What resists us, we remember. Passage B: There is a difference between difficulty that rewards and difficulty that merely fences readers out. Some obscurity is the residue of real complexity; some is only a poet's insecurity dressed as depth, a coded handshake for the initiated. The test is whether the effort pays: does wrestling with the lines open something, or only flatter those who claim to understand? Difficulty is not a virtue in itself. A locked door is not profound merely because you lack the key.