T. S. Eliot wasn’t the only 20th-century poet fond of cheese, it seems. W. H. Auden wrote:
A poet’s hope: to be,
like some valley cheese,
local, but prized elsewhere.
This reminded me of a passage from the Bible, from which the common phrase, “a prophet without honor” comes (misquoted, as you can see):
Now it came to pass, when Jesus had finished these parables, that he departed from there. When He had come to His own country, He taught them in their synagogue, so that they were astonished and said, “Where did this Man get this wisdom and these mighty works? Is this not the carpenter’s son? Is not His mother called Mary? And His brothers James, Joses, Simon, and Judas? And His sisters, are they not all with us? Were then did this Man get all these things?” So they were offended at Him. But Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own country and in his own house.” Now He did not do many mighty works there because of their unbelief (Matthew 13:53-58).