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Updated: June 23, 2025
All conceivable and inconceivable eccentricities are pardoned, as the usual concomitants of genius; but, looking into the home lives of many of the most distinguished poets, I have been painfully impressed with the truth of my very unpoetic theory.
A penitential bird, indeed, fitly haunting the shores of the clinkered Encantadas, whereon tormented Job himself might have well sat down and scraped himself with potsherds. Higher up now we mark the gony, or gray albatross, anomalously so called, an unsightly unpoetic bird, unlike its storied kinsman, which is the snow-white ghost of the haunted Capes of Hope and Horn.
She was far more beautiful than the sad, frail young woman who had come to the Jack-o'-Lantern not so many weeks before. "How optimistic you are!" sighed Mr. Perkins, who was eating Mrs. Smithers's crisp, hot rolls with a very unpoetic appetite. "To me, the world grows worse every day.
The dodders, then, are essentially parasites, and their apparent simplicity gives them a very peculiar aspect. Because of their destructive nature they have likewise been called by the unpoetic name of hellweed; and, for the reason that they embrace their host plants so closely, they have been called love weed and love vine.
Deronda, not in a cheerful mood, was rashly pronouncing this Ezra Cohen to be the most unpoetic Jew he had ever met with in books or life: his phraseology was as little as possible like that of the Old Testament: and no shadow of a suffering race distinguished his vulgarity of soul from that of a prosperous, pink-and-white huckster of the purest English lineage.
"As for the San Juan route," he continued, "it is two hundred miles at least out of our way. The country is a desert and almost unexplored. I don't fancy the plan I beg your pardon, Mr. Coronado but I don't fancy it at all." Aunt Maria despised him and almost hated him for his stupid, practical, unpoetic common sense.
But all seems commonplace, new, smart, and unpoetic, and we quickly grow weary of Naples now that it has been turned into a Liverpool of the South without the local colour and the peculiar attributes of which author and artist have so often raved.
Kenny sighed as he turned his eyes from her. "It's Hughie," she said. "He's watched for you too since the letter came. We all have. Hughie! Hughie!" Hughie came toward them, sturdy, middle-aged and unpoetic for all his head was under blossoms. "Hughie!" called Joan. "It's Mr. O'Neill. He must have some supper. Tell Hannah. And I'll go speak to Uncle Adam."
"Last night," he sighed, "I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?" "Nothing," returned Elaine; "I sleep very soundly." "The privilege of unpoetic souls," commented Mr. Perkins. "But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a poem."
Doubtless, it would have been more in accordance with the old poetic notions, if this poor king had maintained his ground without any misgiving at all; but it is a poet of a new order, and not the old heroic one, who has the conducting of this experiment; and though his verse is not without certain sublimities of its own, they have to consist with the report of the fact as it is, to its most honest and unpoetic, unheroic detail.
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