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.

Poets are soldiers that liberate words from the steadfast possession of definition.

Poets are soldiers that liberate words from the steadfast possession of definition.

Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.

Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.

A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If read more

A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him,
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
Catullus read more

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."

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.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned read more

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect

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.

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

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