It Is The
Elements, The Essence, The Feeling Which Makes Poetry If Expressed.
I
have a passion for music, a perpetual desire to express myself in
music, but as I can't sing and can't perform on any musical instrument,
I can't call myself a musician.
The poetic feeling that is in us and
cannot be expressed remains a secret untold, a warmth in the heart, a
rapture which cannot be communicated. But it cries to be told, and in
some rare instances the desire overcomes the difficulty: in a happy
moment the unknown language is captured as by a miracle and the secret
comes out.
And, as a rule, when it has been expressed it is put in the fire, or
locked up in a desk. By-and-by the hidden poem will be taken out and
read with a blush. For how could he, a practical-minded man, with a
wholesome contempt for the small scribblers and people weak in their
intellectuals generally, have imagined himself a poet and produced this
pitiful stuff!
Then, too, there are others who blush, but with pleasure, at the
thought that, without being poets, they have written something out of
their own heads which, to them at all events, reads just like poetry.
Some of these little poems find their way into an editor's hands, to be
looked at and thrown aside in most cases, but occasionally one wins a
place in some periodical, and my story relates to one of these chosen
products - or rather to three.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 239 of 244
Words from 64724 to 64978
of 66164
