Sublime

Poetry implies the whole truth. Philosophy expresses a particle of it.

This is the work of poetry – of the Bard. To go beyond. To travel. To bring back.

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior’s niece … Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all’s saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained.

An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them.

We die too soon, and there is no adequate recompense for the terrible, inevitable loss of life.

for faults are generally and easily pointed out, while there is yet no adequate valuation of the varieties and contrasts of virtue. We have compiled a complete botanical classification of the weeds in the poetical garden, but the flowers still flourish, neglected and nameless.

The evident idea here is that people may fling themselves

poems.

Yet with the chariots can I still go forth, And aid with sage advice: for such the right And privilege of age;