Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
Wordsworth – stupendous genius! Damned fool! These poets run about their ponds though they cannot fish.
The true poet for me is a priest. As soon as he dons the cassock, he must leave his family.[Le vrai poète pour moi est un prêtre. Dès qu’il passe la soutane il doit quitter sa famille.]
The poetical tendency of the present and of the preceding century has been divided in a manner singularly curious. One loud and conspicuous faction of bards, giving way to the corrupt influences of a decaying general culture, seems to have abandoned all the properties of versification and reason in its mad scramble after sensational novelty; whilst the other and quieter school constituting a more logical evolution from the poesy of the Georgian period, demands an accuracy of rhyme and metre unknown even to the polished artists of the age of Pope.
Out of the thousands
who are known,
or who want to be known
maybe one or two
and the rest are fakes,
hanging around the sacred precincts
trying to look like the real thing.