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.

God's prophets of the Beautiful,
These Poets were.

God's prophets of the Beautiful,
These Poets were.

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.

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

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.

Happy the poet who with ease can steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
[Lat., read more

Happy the poet who with ease can steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
[Lat., Heureux qui, dans ses vers, sait d'une voix legere
Passer du grave au doux, du plaisant au severe.]

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.

Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.

Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.