Most Have Beauty Of Outline Merely, And Are
Striking As The Form And Bearing Of A Stranger; But True Verses
Come Toward Us Indistinctly, As The Very Breath Of All
Friendliness, And Envelop Us In Their Spirit And Fragrance.
Much
of our poetry has the very best manners, but no character.
It is
only an unusual precision and elasticity of speech, as if its
author had taken, not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary.
It has the distinct outline of sculpture, and chronicles an early
hour. Under the influence of passion all men speak thus
distinctly, but wrath is not always divine.
There are two classes of men called poets. The one cultivates
life, the other art, - one seeks food for nutriment, the other for
flavor; one satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate.
There are two kinds of writing, both great and rare; one that of
genius, or the inspired, the other of intellect and taste, in the
intervals of inspiration. The former is above criticism, always
correct, giving the law to criticism. It vibrates and pulsates
with life forever. It is sacred, and to be read with reverence,
as the works of nature are studied. There are few instances of a
sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has spoken words,
but the speaker is then careless of the record. Such a style
removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not
take his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts.
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