United States or Samoa ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
The young man assured himself that he was not falling in love with her again; he was merely laying at her feet an involuntary tribute of admiration, the sort of admiration which he might feel for a rare poem. Meanwhile the girl with whom he was in love had made what Edward called "an object" of herself. By this uncertain phrase he did not mean an object of admiration, poetic or otherwise.
"I don't know the actual facts of the case, but without a doubt your friend Shelley was standing on the unfortunate bird's nest all the time he was writing his poem." Sarah Brown, with a deep sigh, began hoeing again. Fifty beans yet. She had altogether ceased to find pleasure in the day. Pain is an extinguisher that can put out the sun.
But to come back to poets and artists; if they really are more prone to the abuse of stimulants, and I fear that this is true, the reason of it is only too clear. A man abandons himself to a fine frenzy, and the power which flows through him, as I once explained to you, makes him the medium of a great poem or a great picture.
I see, now, that I never understood that poem before. I have had glimpses of its meaning, it moments when I was not as ignorant with weariness as usual, but this is the first time the whole spacious idea of it ever filtered in sight. If I were a public-school pupil I would put those other studies aside and stick to analysis; for, after all, it is the thing to spread your mind.
"Ah! there you are, little one. Thank you, Master what's name; that is enough. 'Tis a fine poem, but I never can remember which is which of all your gods and goddesses. Oh yes, I accept the dedication. Give him a couple of guineas, Ellis; it will serve him for board and lodging for a fortnight, poor wretch!"
If the copy is good, the poem is artistic and praiseworthy, just as a painting of a venomous spider, if a faithful representation of its loathsome subject, is praised for its art. Perhaps it was Plutarch's naturalistic theory of imitation in poetry which led him to compare poetry with painting.
Do you know the last verse of that poem: 'I sang of the dancing stars'?" Cicely raised her hand, commanding attention, and went on: "'I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth, And of Heaven, and the giant wars, And Love and Death and Birth.
There must be a sense of fitness between the poem and the melody. A poem which expresses a simple sentiment requires a simple melody. A simple story should be told simply. If the poem is sad, joyous, or tragic the melody must correspond. Otherwise the family discords begin at once. Poetry cannot adapt itself to music, because its mood is already established.
But Mr. Bryant, thoroughly aroused, read and re-read the lines aloud. "Sing 'em," said his brother-in-law, jokingly. Bryant was a good singer, and he at once tuned up with a fine baritone voice, recalling a familiar tune that fitted the measure of the poem.
He was a romantic adorer of womanhood, as a sort of divine mystery, a never-ending poem; and when his wife was long enough away from him to give scope for imagination to work, when she no longer annoyed him with the friction of the sharp little edges of her cold and selfish nature, he was able to see her once more in the ideal light of first love.
Word Of The Day