poets

Love is the only bow on life's dark cloud. It is the Morning and the Evening Star. It shines upon the cradle of the babe, and sheds its radiance upon the quiet tomb. It is the Mother of Art, inspirer of poet, patriot, and philosopher. It is the air and light of every heart, builder of every home, kindler of every fire on every hearth. It was the first dream of immortality. It fills the world with melody, for music is the voice of Love. Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings of common clay. It is the perfume of the wondrous flower-the heart-and without that sacred passion, . . . we are less than beasts; but with it, earth and heaven are gods.

A poet who reads his own verse in public may have other nasty habits.

Do you know, Considering the market, there are more Poems produced than any other thing? No wonder poets sometimes have to seem So much more businesslike than businessmen. Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.

We can say nothing but what hath been said. Our poets steal from Homer. . . . Our story-dressers do as much; he that comes last is commonly best.

All poets are mad.

Thy rare gold ring of verse (the poet praised) Linking our England to his Italy.

Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone on the poet's pages.

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!

The love of nature is religion, and that religion is poetry; these three things are one thing. This is the unspoken creed of haiku poets.