We do not know what to do with this short life, yet we want another which will be eternal.

We do not know what to do with this short life, yet we want another which will be eternal.

We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.

We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a read more

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.

He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.

Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.

Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.

Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.

The muse does not allow the praise-de-serving here to die: she
enthrones him in the heavens.
[Lat., Dignum read more

The muse does not allow the praise-de-serving here to die: she
enthrones him in the heavens.
[Lat., Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori;
Coelo Musa beat.]

One fine day,
Says Mister Mucklewraith to me, says he.
"So! you're a poet in your house," read more

One fine day,
Says Mister Mucklewraith to me, says he.
"So! you're a poet in your house," and smiled.
"A Poet? God forbid," I cried; and then
It all came out: how Andrew slyly sent
Verse to the paper; how they printed it
In Poet's Corner.

If I stoop
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,
It is but for a time; I read more

If I stoop
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,
It is but for a time; I press God's lamp
Close to my breast; its splendor soon or late
Will pierce the gloom; I shall emerge one day.