Poets

"And spare the poet for his subject's sake."

"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."

"Greece, sound thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame."

"They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own."

"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."

"I can no more believe old Homer blind, Than those who say the sun hath never shined; The age wherein he lived was dark, but he Could not want sight who taught the world to see."

"The poet must be alike polished by an intercourse with the world as with the studies of taste; one to whom labour is negligence, refinement a science, and art a nature."

"Happy who in his verse can gently steer From grave to light, from pleasant to severe."

"Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next, in majesty; in both, the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third, she join'd the former two."

"Poets should be law-givers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead the civil code, and the day's work."

"All men are poets at heart."

"Give me a theme," the little poet cried, "And I will do my part," "'Tis not a theme you need," the world replied; "You need a heart."

"Wer den Dichter will verstehen Muss in Dichters Lande gehen."

"'Neuere Poeten thun viel Wasser in die Tinte.'"

"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd muse."

"Singing and rejoicing, As aye since time began, The dying earth's last poet Shall be the earth's last man."

"His virtues formed the magic of his song."

"Lo! there he lies, our Patriarch Poet, dead! The solemn angel of eternal peace Has waved a wand of mystery o'er his head, Touched his strong heart, and bade his pulses cease."

"We call those poets who are first to mark Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn,— Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark, While others only note that day is gone."

"Where go the poet's lines?— Answer, ye evening tapers! Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers!"

"In his own verse the poet still we find, In his own page his memory lives enshrined, As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,— As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze, Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees."

"Mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnæ."

"Poets, the first instructors of mankind, Brought all things to their proper native use."

"Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseris, Sublimi feriam sidera vertice."

"Genus irritabile vatum."

"Disjecti membra poetæ."

"Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit."

"Was ever poet so trusted before!"

"For a good poet's made, as well as born."

"O 'tis a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this."

"Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne, Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific,—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise,— Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

"Je chantais comme l'oiseau gémit."

"All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal."

"For voices pursue him by day, And haunt him by night,— And he listens, and needs must obey, When the Angel says: "Write!""

"Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart."

"O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?"

"The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below!"

"A terrible thing to be pestered with poets! But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, She never will cry till she's out of the wood!"

"Sithe of our language he was the lodesterre."

"For his chaste Muse employed her heaven-taught lyre None but the noblest passions to inspire, Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, One line, which dying he could wish to blot."

"Non scribit, cujus carmina nemo legit."

"You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise."

"Poets are sultans, if they had their will: For every author would his brother kill."

"Valeant mendacia vatum."

"Sappho is a great poet because she is a lesbian, which gives her erotic access to the Muse. Sappho and the homosexual-tending Emily Dickinson stand alone above women poets, because poetry's mystical energies are ruled by a hierach requiring the sexual subordination of her petitioners. Women have achieved more as novelists than as poets because the social novel operates outside the ancient marriage of myth and eroticism."

"Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand."

"Tamen poetis mentiri licet."

"Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died."

"Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time."

"The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year."