Sure as night follows day,
Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the world,
When Pleasure treads the paths which Reason shuns.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
Young—Night Thoughts. Night VIII. L. 1,045.
| topic = Pleasure
| page = 602
}}
POETRY
(See also Poets)
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 3
| text = Poetry is itself a thing of God;
He made his prophets poets; and the more
We feel of poesie do we become
Like God in love and power,—under-makers.
Bailey—Festus. Proem. L. 5.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Poetry
| page = 602
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 4
| text = You speak
As one who fed on poetry.
Bulwer-Lytton—Richelieu. Act I. Sc. 1.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Poetry
| page = 602
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 5
| text = For rhyme the rudder is of verses,
With which, like ships, they steer their courses.
Butler—Hudibras. Pt. I. Canto I. L. 463.
Some force whole regions, in despite
O' geography, to change their site;
Make former times shake hands with latter,
And that which was before come after;
But those that write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think's sufficient at one time.
Butler—Hudibras. Pt. II. Canto I. L. 23.
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
| author = Byron
| work = Childe Harold. Canto I. St. 3.
The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
| author = Byron
| work = Corsair. Preface.
Poetry, therefore, we will call Musical Thought.
Carlyle—Heroes and Hero Worship. 3.
For there is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man; also, it may be said, there is no life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed.
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery
column:
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
Coleridge—The Ovidian Elegiac Metre.
Prose—words in their best order;—poetry—
the best words in their best order.
Coleridge—Table Talk. July 12, 1827.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?
Why then we should drop into poetry.
When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"—
There is a place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,—
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
Austin Dobson—The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme.
Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.
Dryden—Absalom and Achitophel. Pt. II. L.
. "Thick and thin."
| seealso = (See also Butler, Spenser under Constancy)
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Poetry
| page = 602
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = 'Twas he that ranged the w-ords at random filing,
Pierced the fair pearls and them together strung.
Eastwick—Anvari Suhaili. -Rendering <,.
BrnPAi.
| seealso = (See also Lowell, Tennyson)
| topic = Poetry
| page = 602
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>The true poem is the poet's mind.
Emerson—Essays. Of History.
For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem.
Emerson—Essays. The Poet.
It does not need that a poem should be long.
Every word was once a poem.
Emerson—Essays. The Poet.
The finest poetry was first experience.
Emerson—Shakespeare.
| seealso = (See also Carlyle)
| topic = Poetry
| page = 602
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Oh love will make a dog howl n rhyme.
John Fletcher—Queen of Corinth. Act IV.
Sc. 1.
What is a Sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell
That murmurs of the far-off, murmuring sea;
A precious jewel carved most curiously;
It is a little picture painted well.
What is a Sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell
From a great poet's hidden ecstasy;
A two-edged sword, a star, a song—ah me!
Sometimes a heavy tolling funeral bell.
R, W. Gilder—The Sonnet.
To write a verse or two. is all the praise
That I can raise.
| author = Herbert
| work = The Church. Praise.
A verse may finde him who a sermon flies,
And turn delight into a sacrifice.
| author = Herbert
| work = The Temple. The Church Porch.
