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.

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.]

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.

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.

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.

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic read more

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.

Poets have said that the reason to have children is to give yourself immortality. Immortality? Now that I have five read more

Poets have said that the reason to have children is to give yourself immortality. Immortality? Now that I have five children, my only hope is that they are all out of the house before I die.

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a read more

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.

Most joyful let the Poet be;
It is through him that all men see.

Most joyful let the Poet be;
It is through him that all men see.