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."
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Sure there are poets which did never dream
Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon; read more
Sure there are poets which did never dream
Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose
Those made not poets, but the poets those.
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.
Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.
Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds
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.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the read more
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
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.
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.
He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.
He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.
