When I stand in a library where is all the recorded wit of the
world, but none of the recording, a mere accumulated, and not
truly cumulative treasure, where immortal works stand side by
side with anthologies which did not survive their month, and
cobweb and mildew have already spread from these to the binding
of those; and happily I am reminded of what poetry is, - I
perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not foresee into what
company they were to fall. Alas! that so soon the work of a true
poet should be swept into such a dust-hole!
The poet will write for his peers alone. He will remember only
that he saw truth and beauty from his position, and expect the
time when a vision as broad shall overlook the same field as
freely.
We are often prompted to speak our thoughts to our neighbors, or
the single travellers whom we meet on the road, but poetry is a
communication from our home and solitude addressed to all
Intelligence. It never whispers in a private ear. Knowing this,
we may understand those sonnets said to be addressed to
particular persons, or "To a Mistress's Eyebrow." Let none feel
flattered by them. For poetry write love, and it will be equally
true.
No doubt it is an important difference between men of genius or
poets, and men not of genius, that the latter are unable to grasp
and confront the thought which visits them. But it is because it
is too faint for expression, or even conscious impression. What
merely quickens or retards the blood in their veins and fills
their afternoons with pleasure they know not whence, conveys a
distinct assurance to the finer organization of the poet.
We talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, and the poet could
only express what other men conceived. But in comparison with
his task, the poet is the least talented of any; the writer of
prose has more skill. See what talent the smith has. His
material is pliant in his hands. When the poet is most inspired,
is stimulated by an _aura_ which never even colors the afternoons
of common men, then his talent is all gone, and he is no longer a
poet. The gods do not grant him any skill more than another.
They never put their gifts into his hands, but they encompass and
sustain him with their breath.
To say that God has given a man many and great talents,
frequently means that he has brought his heavens down within
reach of his hands.
When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our
pen, intent only on worms, calling our mates around us, like the
cock, and delighting in the dust we make, but do not detect where
the jewel lies, which, perhaps, we have in the mean time cast to
a distance, or quite covered up again.
