He koude songes make and well endite.

He koude songes make and well endite.

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

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.

Ah, poet-dreamer, within those walls
What triumphs shall be yours!
For all are happy and rich and read more

Ah, poet-dreamer, within those walls
What triumphs shall be yours!
For all are happy and rich and great
In that City of By-and-by.

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

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

A Poet without Love were a physical and metaphysical
impossibility.

A Poet without Love were a physical and metaphysical
impossibility.

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.

The poet ranks far below the painter in the representation of visible things, and far below the musician in that read more

The poet ranks far below the painter in the representation of visible things, and far below the musician in that of invisible things.

I have never yet known a poet who did not think himself
super-excellent.
[Lat., Adhue neminem cognovi poetam, read more

I have never yet known a poet who did not think himself
super-excellent.
[Lat., Adhue neminem cognovi poetam, qui sibi non optimus
videretur.]