"There's nothing great
Nor small," has said a poet of our day,
Whose voice will ring beyond read more

"There's nothing great
Nor small," has said a poet of our day,
Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve
And not be thrown out by the matin's bell.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic read more

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.

The poet ranks far below the painter in the representation of visible things, and far below the musician in that read more

The poet ranks far below the painter in the representation of visible things, and far below the musician in that of invisible things.

A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.

A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.

Poets are all who love,--who feel great truths,
And tell them.

Poets are all who love,--who feel great truths,
And tell them.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.

Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.

Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.

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.