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.

Poets have said that the reason to have children is to give yourself immortality. Immortality? Now that I have five read more

Poets have said that the reason to have children is to give yourself immortality. Immortality? Now that I have five children, my only hope is that they are all out of the house before I die.

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 alone are sure of immortality; they are the truest diviners
of nature.

Poets alone are sure of immortality; they are the truest diviners
of nature.

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

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

"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.

Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; read more

Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.

Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard;
To carry nature read more

Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard;
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.

Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.

Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.