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102
[The Poet's your only practical man]
The Poet's your only practical man;Judge of the things of life he can;
Food and toys which all men covet
He sets at their due rate, not above it.
He wakes, he dreams; knows every mood.
His bad luck is better than common good.
He tastes his life, in joy and in sorrow.
Yesterday's his, to-day, and to-morrow.
The world is a wondrous thing to see,
And O, what a happy man were he,
Could he live content to be a Poet,
And quell the cursed longing to show it!
[Rash is the man that woos]
Rash is the man that woos,If poor himself, the Muse:
Fair-faced and noble-soul'd,
She hath no lands or gold.
103
[Bard makes not Poem, not the shortest one]
Bard makes not Poem, not the shortest one;The Poem makes the Bard; he writes it down;
Now ill, now middling, now a good deal better,
Now with fine luck, now wrong in every letter.
[I love all the masters of poesie]
I love all the masters of poesie,But none of them all shall be master of me.
[Not like Homer would I write]
Not like Homer would I write,Not like Dante, if I might,
Not like Shakespeare at his best,
Not like Goethe or the rest:
Like myself, however small,
Like myself, or not at all.
[The loving Poet shapes his fine delight.]
The loving Poet shapes his fine delight.But where are they for whom he joys to write?
Somewhere, he hopes: they seldom greet his sight.
104
[You cannot see in the world the work of the Poet's pen]
You cannot see in the world the work of the Poet's pen:Yet the Poet is master of words, and words are masters of men.
[What chiefly makes a poem? not opulence, nor grace]
What chiefly makes a poem? not opulence, nor grace,Nor grandeur, nor simplicity; the subject nor the measure;
But sweetness of proportion, to have everything in place;
Such Poem is a ripen'd fruit, an everlasting pleasure.
[Through the harmony of words]
Through the harmony of words
Murmurs harmony of things,
In whispers of our human life,
All the various world, our scene,
Pensive memories, lofty hopes,
What we were, and long to be,
Sequent, mingling, musical.
Murmurs harmony of things,
In whispers of our human life,
All the various world, our scene,
Pensive memories, lofty hopes,
What we were, and long to be,
Sequent, mingling, musical.
Subtle, complex, mystical,
Our Human Being, in the midst
Of operation manifold,
Uncomprehended, closely felt.
Existence, how intangible!
How real!—and such is Poetry;
Where, through harmony of words
Murmurs harmony of things.
Our Human Being, in the midst
Of operation manifold,
Uncomprehended, closely felt.
105
How real!—and such is Poetry;
Where, through harmony of words
Murmurs harmony of things.
[The Bard sings Beauty, and what lies behind]
The Bard sings Beauty, and what lies behindAll Beauty, in the Everlasting Mind.
Rejoice, O World, if one true verse you find;
Grave it in gold and on your forehead bind.
[No wonder if the accurate man]
No wonder if the accurate man,Who fails to weigh, do all he can,
Art and Poetry with his scales,
Be somewhat angry that he fails;
Will rather reckon those as nought
Than doubt his instruments of thought.
[If you love not Poetry]
If you love not Poetry,Pr'ythee, name it not to me.
106
[Many for Poems care much, for Poesie little or nothing]
Many for Poems care much, for Poesie little or nothing;Story, character, reasoning, subtlety, eloquence, wit,
They find; the verse at most is merely taken as clothing
And decoration,—'tis well if they be not “bored” with it;
But the fine, the mystical, magical influence, all-involving,
Lifting, dissolving, reshaping, into music revolving,
Giving a life to the words, putting an atmosphere round them,
Of this no sense have they, and Poesie leaves where it found them.
[Best Poesie, by very skill of words]
Best Poesie, by very skill of words,Blots them all out, and vision clear affords.
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