Poets

"And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad."

"For pointed satire I would Buckhurst choose, The best good man with the worst-natured muse."

"Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions."

"Græcia Mæonidam, jactet sibi Roma Maronem Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem."

"Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

"I learnt life from the poets."

"With no companion but the constant Muse, Who sought me when I needed her—ah, when Did I not need her, solitary else?"

"The Poet in his Art Must intimate the whole, and say the smallest part."

"Then, rising with Aurora's light, The Muse invoked, sit down to write; Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline."

"Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name."

"To have read the greatest works of any great poet, to have beheld or heard the greatest works of any great painter or musician, is a possession added to the best things of life."

"The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years."

"The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love."

"For now the Poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry."

"God, eldest of Poets."

"He saw wan Woman toil with famished eyes; He saw her bound, and strove to sing her free. He saw her fall'n; and wrote "The Bridge of Sighs"; And on it crossed to immortality."

"Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men."

"A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue; But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new."

"It was Homer who inspired the poet."

"In Spring the Poet is glad, And in Summer the Poet is gay; But in Autumn the Poet is sad, And has something sad to say."

"And, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,—alas! too few."

"Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,— The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!"

"I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain side."