A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
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OF POETRY.
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
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 | A Poet's Harvest Home |  |
105
OF POETRY.
107
I. THE POET.
The poet has been called of old,
Maker, seeker, finder, singer:
Which of these names, I would be told,
Best describes our best joy bringer.
Maker, seeker, finder, singer:
Which of these names, I would be told,
Best describes our best joy bringer.
Maker? not more than he or she
Who makes your gloves or makes my tea.
Seeker? yes, too oft I fear,
So call not him we hold so dear.
Singer? never is he set
To music but it makes him fret.
Finder? yes, he finds the word
We leap to meet whenever heard,
The best of living words, that linger
In the warmth about the heart,
Warm it comes beneath his finger,
Never more with it we part.
Who makes your gloves or makes my tea.
Seeker? yes, too oft I fear,
So call not him we hold so dear.
Singer? never is he set
To music but it makes him fret.
Finder? yes, he finds the word
We leap to meet whenever heard,
The best of living words, that linger
In the warmth about the heart,
Warm it comes beneath his finger,
Never more with it we part.
108
II. THE POET'S BOOK.
The harmonies the poet knows
Are like the petals of this rose,
Leaf over leaf so pure, so bright,
So perfumed in crimson light,
Another still, they still combine,
Like verse on verse and line on line.
Are like the petals of this rose,
Leaf over leaf so pure, so bright,
So perfumed in crimson light,
Another still, they still combine,
Like verse on verse and line on line.
Silent he hides within his book,
Like hermit wise in sainted nook,
A sheath'd sword, unseen bird in bower—
The nightingale in night's high tower,
A voice not wandering but held close
Within the petals of his Rose.
Like hermit wise in sainted nook,
A sheath'd sword, unseen bird in bower—
The nightingale in night's high tower,
A voice not wandering but held close
Within the petals of his Rose.
109
III. ART FOR ART'S SAKE.
‘Art for art's sake,’—very well,Your picture you don't care to sell?
Yes, yes, I do, and thus I try
To paint so bright they want to buy—
‘Art for art's sake,’—then I fear
You want no sympathetic tear
From the stalls and boxes here?
Yes, yes, I do, I write it so,
A hundred nights the crowds shall go—
‘Art for art's sake,’—Heavens! once more,
You'd say again things said before?
And pray, why not? I wish I could
Stand as Shakespeare, Fletcher, stood—
Nay, dear aspirant, rather write
As Shakespeare were he here to-night;
That would be far more worth prizing:—
But who can rise to that high pass—
Who can rise? alas, alas,
Shakespeare little thought of rising!
110
IV. ANCIENT FORMS.
Such, valued friend, you tell me these
Old forms, like pictures Japanese,
Are neat and curious, justly please;
Difficult also. Without doubt
To dance in chains, or spite of gout,
Is difficult, painful too; but that
Is weak; the thought is speech's law
And poet's bond;
He's no mere verbal acrobat.
Old forms, like pictures Japanese,
Are neat and curious, justly please;
Difficult also. Without doubt
To dance in chains, or spite of gout,
Is difficult, painful too; but that
Is weak; the thought is speech's law
And poet's bond;
He's no mere verbal acrobat.
Should every flower have but one frond,
Two blooms, three seeds, without a flaw?
The poet has some sweet thing to cry—
Well, let him speak straight from the heart,
And so its fairest shades impart
Harmoniously:
Spontaneous speech sets faith at ease:
Two blooms, three seeds, without a flaw?
The poet has some sweet thing to cry—
Well, let him speak straight from the heart,
And so its fairest shades impart
Harmoniously:
Spontaneous speech sets faith at ease:
111
But full-grown men now take small part
In our linguistic filagrees,
Our squeezing truth into a mould,
That may but inexactly hold.
You think so too, yet tell me still
These verses unforeseen, at will
Running like a running rill,—
Verses free as if they grew,
For ears refined will scarcely do.
In our linguistic filagrees,
Our squeezing truth into a mould,
That may but inexactly hold.
You think so too, yet tell me still
These verses unforeseen, at will
Running like a running rill,—
Verses free as if they grew,
For ears refined will scarcely do.
That is a pity, dilettanti
Sometimes of brains, not ears, are scanty;
An amateur once said to me,
‘Frame makes the picture, do you see!’
I smiled and could not quite agree—
‘But you're the painter! answered he;
So I'm the poet, born or made,
And were I not the least afraid,
To show my great hope quite unfurled,
I'd say we write for all the world.
Sometimes of brains, not ears, are scanty;
An amateur once said to me,
‘Frame makes the picture, do you see!’
I smiled and could not quite agree—
‘But you're the painter! answered he;
So I'm the poet, born or made,
And were I not the least afraid,
To show my great hope quite unfurled,
I'd say we write for all the world.
Oh, if you go so fast, so high,
Sweeping the cobwebs from the sky,
I shall no further make reply.
Sweeping the cobwebs from the sky,
I shall no further make reply.
112
V. ON READING MR. THEODORE WATTS' SONNET, ‘THE SONNET'S VOICE.’
The theory of the English form of the sonnet, as indicated here, has, I see, been expressed more at length by Mr. T. Hall Caine in the preface to his ‘Three Centuries of Sonnets.’ Mr. Theo. Watts's admirable sonnet, ‘The Sonnet Voice,’ which first appeared in the Athenæum 17th September 1881, is republished in that work.
An art grows up from year to year:
The critic weighs the utmost gains,
The last result, the perfect sphere,
Not the steps, but what remains;
The critic weighs the utmost gains,
The last result, the perfect sphere,
Not the steps, but what remains;
Sees the analogue, ebb and flow,—
Beautiful, yes, look at it near,—
The flow, the ebb returning so,—
It is at last art's perfect sphere.
Beautiful, yes, look at it near,—
The flow, the ebb returning so,—
It is at last art's perfect sphere.
But not the less our Shakespeare knew
Another way; by full discourse
To show his picture as it grew,
Worked out in many-sided force.
Another way; by full discourse
To show his picture as it grew,
Worked out in many-sided force.
Then when the heart can wish no more,
With a strong couplet bars the door.
With a strong couplet bars the door.
113
VI. REMONSTRANCE.
(ON SOME POEMS NOW WITHDRAWN).
Of all my favourite leaves these three
Appear to me
The wisest in their own degree,—
But my good arbitress would hear
No more, she stopt her ear,
And said, ‘That surely cannot be,
They are so sad, so hard to see,—
Philosophy is not poesy.’
Appear to me
The wisest in their own degree,—
But my good arbitress would hear
No more, she stopt her ear,
And said, ‘That surely cannot be,
They are so sad, so hard to see,—
Philosophy is not poesy.’
No, not oftentimes, alas,
And yet the obverse ought to hold,
Ere the poet can be crowned with gold:
At least for once, pray, let them pass,
Indeed you ought,
They cost their maker so much thought:
Perhaps the lines are wingèd seeds!
And yet the obverse ought to hold,
Ere the poet can be crowned with gold:
At least for once, pray, let them pass,
114
They cost their maker so much thought:
Perhaps the lines are wingèd seeds!
‘Perhaps they are, but then of weeds!’
Of weeds? then weeds medicinal.
‘But still would I their flight recall,
Physic is only for our needs!
Let us to the garden go,
In the garden roses grow.’
Physic is only for our needs!
Let us to the garden go,
In the garden roses grow.’
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