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Updated: July 29, 2025
Of course this imaginative experience if I may use the phrase for brevity differs with every reader and every time of reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. What then does the formula "Poetry for poetry's sake" tell us about this experience? It says, as I understand it, these things.
A bard will come, who, with a child's mind, like a new Aladdin, will enter into the cavern of science, with a child's mind, we say, or else the puissant spirits of natural strength would seize him, and make him their servant; whilst he, with the lamp of poetry, which is, and always will be, the human heart, stands as a ruler, and brings forth wonderful fruits from the gloomy passages, and has strength to build poetry's new palace, created in one night by attendant spirits.
"Poetry's the truth of life," he hastened to add carefully, "and it's not poetry to say that you could be a kill-joy." The little lady tossed her head. "Well, you'll never have a chance to prove it, for I'm taking the express east on the night of your wedding. That's settled.
No sooner had his eyes beheld the straight lines of streets and houses than his brain was aquiver, and he had conceived that Egyptian prose poem. If that had been lost, now.... Milde had lately begun to appreciate Ojen; at last his eyes had been opened to his poetry's delicate uniqueness. Irgens, who sat close enough to hear this unusual praise, leaned over to Mrs.
It is probable that about this time Spenser's genius began first to distinguish itself; for the Shepherd's Calendar, which is so full of his unprosperous passion for Rosalind, was amongst the first of his works of note, and the supposition is strengthened, by the consideration of Poetry's being frequently the offspring of love and retirement.
Poetry's a Base-metal maid. I'm not sure that any writing's good for the digestion. I'm afraid it has spoilt mine." "Fear nothing, uncle!" laughed Richard. "You shall ride in the park with me every day to get an appetite. You and I and the Golden Bride. You know that little poem of Sandoe's?
A lurch, a grinding, thumping slide, and the flat-boat slid free of shore. "It's a mighty good thing if that man isn't on the island," remarked Dave as he took up his half of the propelling mechanism. "Because when our craft took the water she certainly did 'wake the echoes of yon wooded glen, as the poet says." "Poetry's got nothing to do with this boat.
'Damask cheeks and dewy sister eyelids. Or else the Ercles vein 'God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world. No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours." "Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?" "No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker."
The mass of resistance I had to face, for poetry's sake, was too enormous ... my country's motto was not "beauty is truth, truth beauty," but "blessed be that man who can make two hills of corn grow where one bank of violets grew before," ... and my pilgrimage, in that hour of vision, it disgusted me ... for I was making it not to some grand poet like L'Estrange, but to the home of the chief exponent of the "Honest-to-God, No-Nonsense-About-Me Hick School of Literature" ... and associated with him was the syndicate poet, William Struthers, called familiarly Uncle Bill, whose daily jingles run together as prose, were now making him a fortune.
He was a Democrat, of fearfully pro-slavery ideas, and he replied, sententiously: "O, the poetry's tolerable, but the sentiment's damnable." The official designation of our prison was "Camp Sumpter," but this was scarcely known outside of the Rebel documents, reports and orders. It was the same way with the prison five miles from Millen, to which we were afterward transferred.
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