The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never. School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences too.
To have great poets, there must be great audiences too.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
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.
Of trees I (Krishna) am the fig.
Of trees I (Krishna) am the fig.
Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production read more
Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind.
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 emotion know what it means to want to escape from these
Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.
Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call read more
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty.
When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
read more
When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"--
There is a place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stires and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
