Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him,
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample;
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
Being with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."
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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.
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.
The union of the mathematician with the poet, fervor with measure, passion with correctness, this surely is the ideal
The union of the mathematician with the poet, fervor with measure, passion with correctness, this surely is the ideal
Singing and rejoicing,
As aye since time began,
The dying earth's last poet
Shall read more
Singing and rejoicing,
As aye since time began,
The dying earth's last poet
Shall be the earth's last man.
O brave poets, keep back nothing;
Nor mix falsehood with the whole!
Look up Godward! speak the read more
O brave poets, keep back nothing;
Nor mix falsehood with the whole!
Look up Godward! speak the truth in
Worthy song from earnest soul!
Hold, in high poetic duty,
Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.
The poet and the politician have this in common: their greatness depends on the courage with which they face the read more
The poet and the politician have this in common: their greatness depends on the courage with which they face the challenges of life
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
Poets are sultans, if they had their will:
For every author would his brother kill.
Poets are sultans, if they had their will:
For every author would his brother kill.
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.
