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.
