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"In that you must allow me to look after myself. Lord Ongar certainly wants a wife, and I intend to be true to him, and useful." "How about love?" "And to love him, sir. Do you think that no man can win a woman's love, unless he is filled to the brim with poetry, and has a neck like Lord Byron, and is handsome like your worship?
You will remember my reading to you about the beds which the Finland mothers make for their children of the leaves of the canoe-birch. 'Leafy beds' are no strange thing not mere poetry." There came a bright balmy day in May when the children found a delightful surprise awaiting them.
She had had a letter from Phyllis a few days before, a very loving, comforting, trustful letter, and she thought she would read it again. It had been laid within a book which Phyllis had given her, and she brought it to the fireside. It was a volume of poetry, and Elizabeth was not poetical.
In every art there is a medium, and the poet, like all other artists, learns from the poets of the past how to use his medium. Often he does this unconsciously by reading them for delight. He first becomes a poet because he loves the poetry of others. And the painter becomes a painter because he loves the pictures of others. Each of them is apt to begin
"Tell me," she cried, "did you put in all the things I told you about?" "I put all I could," said Arthur. "That is a great deal to ask." "I only want it to be full of life," laughed Helen. "That's all I care about; the man who wants to write springtime poetry for me must be wide awake!" "Shall I read it to you?" asked Arthur, hesitatingly. "Yes, of course," said Helen.
For poetry, more than all forms of literature, loses most by translation especially from Gascon into English. Villemain, one of the best of critics, says: "Toute traduction en vers est une autre creation que l'original." We proceed to give an account mostly from his own Souvenirs of the early life and boyhood of Jasmin.
It is possible to be a great poet without possessing much intellectual wealth; just as it is possible to be a great singer, and yet be both shallow and dull. The divine gift of poetry seems sometimes as accidental as the formation of the throat.
If the robust body of literature, both poetry and prose, which lives after him does not yet correct this vain delusion, the time will come when it must; and in the meantime the delusion cannot vex him now. I think it did vex him, then, and that he even shared it, and tried at times to meet such shadowy claim as it had.
As to Morris, we have always felt that, take him all round, he is the richest and most varied in artistic endowments of any man of our time. On whichsoever of the fine arts he had chanced to concentrate his gifts and energies the result would have been the same as in poetry. In the front rank he would always have been.
But he recited the four lines, so familiar to every schoolboy, and when the poet had finished writing them, he said: "Good! I see you have a memory. Now, suppose I copy these lines once more for the little girl, and give you this copy? Then you can say, you know, that you dictated my own poetry to me."
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