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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
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."
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard;
To carry nature read more
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard;
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.
A Poet without Love were a physical and metaphysical
impossibility.
A Poet without Love were a physical and metaphysical
impossibility.
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 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.
The poet and the politician have this in common: their greatness depends on the courage with which they face the read more
The poet and the politician have this in common: their greatness depends on the courage with which they face the challenges of life
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 am what libraries and librarians have made me, with little assistance from a professor of Greek and poets.
I am what libraries and librarians have made me, with little assistance from a professor of Greek and poets.