Some cursed fraud
Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,
And me with thee hath ruined.

Some cursed fraud
Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,
And me with thee hath ruined.

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all read more

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Poetry is all nouns and verbs.

Poetry is all nouns and verbs.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a
poem.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a
poem.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

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.