Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

You speak
As one who fed on poetry.

You speak
As one who fed on poetry.

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed read more

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.".

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, read more

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

Poetry is truth dwelling in beauty.

Poetry is truth dwelling in beauty.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
read more

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.