OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Inversnaid

Editor's Note
33
Inversnaid
This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning, It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Moonrise

Editor's Note
65
Moonrise
I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, | in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe | of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, | lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, | of dark Maenefa the mountain; A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, | entangled him, not quit utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, | unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, | eyelid and eyelid of slumber.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/My own heart let me have more pity on; let

Editor's Note
47
My own heart let me have more pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find Thirst 's all-in-all in all a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile 's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather—as skies Betweenpie mountains—lights a lovely mile.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray

Editor's Note
46
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey. Rare patience roots in these, and, these away, Nowhere. Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills Of us we do bid God bend to him even so. And where is he who more and more distils Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Gwain to Feäir

GWAIN TO FEÄIR.
To morrow stir so brisk’s you can, An’ get your work up under han’; Vor I an’ Jim, an’ Poll’s young man,  Shall goo to feäir; an’ zoo, If you wull let us gi’e ye a eärm Along the road, or in the zwarm O’ vo’k, we’ll keep ye out o’ harm,  An’ gi’e ye a feäirèn too.
We won’t stay leäte there, I’ll be boun’; We’ll bring our sheädes off out o’ town A mile, avore the zun is down,  If he’s a sheenèn clear. Zoo when your work is all a-done, Your mother can’t but let ye run An’ zee a little o’ the fun,  There’s nothèn there to fear.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Gwaïn down the Steps

GWAÏN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.
While zuns do roll vrom east to west To bring us work, or leäve us rest, There down below the steep hill-zide, Drough time an’ tide, the spring do flow; An’ mothers there, vor years a-gone, Lik’ daughters now a-comèn on, To bloom when they be weak an’ wan, Went down the steps vor water.
An’ what do yonder ringers tell A-ringèn changes, bell by bell; Or what’s a-show’d by yonder zight O’ vo’k in white, upon the road. But that by John o’ Woodleys zide, There ’s now a-blushèn vor his bride, A pretty maïd that vu’st he spied, Gwaïn down the steps vor water.
Though she, ’tis true, is feäir an’ kind, There still be mwore a-left behind; So cleän ’s the light the zun do gi’e, So sprack ’s a bee when zummer’s bright; An’ if I’ve luck, I woont be slow To teäke off woone that I do know, A-trippèn gaïly to an’ fro. Upon the steps vor water.
Her father idden poor—but vew In parish be so well to do; Vor his own cows do swing their taïls Behind his païls, below his boughs: An’ then ageän to win my love, Why, she’s as hwomely as a dove, An’ don’t hold up herzelf above Gwaïn down the steps vor water.
​Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No! How handsome it do meäke her grow. If she’d be straïght, or walk abrode, To tread her road wi’ comely gaït, She coulden do a better thing To zet herzelf upright, than bring Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring Upon the steps, wi’ water.
No! don’t ye neäme in woone seäme breath Wi’ bachelors, the husband’s he’th; The happy pleäce, where vingers thin Do pull woone’s chin, or pat woone’s feäce. But still the bleäme is their’s, to slight Their happiness, wi’ such a zight O’ maïdens, mornèn, noon, an’ night, A-gwaïn down steps vor water.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Havèn Woones Fortune a-twold

HAVEN WOONES FORTUNE A-TWOLD.
In leäne the gipsies, as we went A-milkèn, had a-pitch’d their tent, Between the gravel-pit an’ clump O’ trees, upon the little hump: An’ while upon the grassy groun’  Their smokèn vire did crack an’ bleäze,  Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greäze Among the bushes vurder down.
An’ zoo, when we brought back our païls, The woman met us at the raïls, An’ zaid she’d tell us, if we’d show Our han’s, what we should like to know. Zoo Poll zaid she’d a mind to try  Her skill a bit, if I would vu’st;  Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I.
Well; I agreed, an’ off all dree O’s went behind an elem tree, An’ after she’d a-zeed ’ithin My han’ the wrinkles o’ the skin, She twold me—an’ she must a-know’d  That Dicky met me in the leäne,—  That I’d a-walk’d, an’ should ageän, Wi’ zomebody along thik road.
​An’ then she twold me to bewar O’ what the letter M stood vor. An’ as I walk’d, o’ Monday night, Drough Meäd wi’ Dicky overright The Mill, the Miller, at the stile,  Did stan’ an’ watch us teäke our stroll,  An’ then, a blabbèn dousty-poll! Twold Mother o’t. Well wo’th his while!
An’ Poll too wer a-bid bewar O’ what the letter F stood vor; An’ then, because she took, at Feäir, A bosom-pin o’ Jimmy Heäre, Young Franky beät en black an’ blue.  ’Tis F vor Feäir; an’ ’twer about  A Fearèn Frank an’ Jimmy foüght, Zoo I do think she twold us true.
In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An’ whether we should spend our lives As maïdens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on,  The gipsies’ dog were at the raïls  A-lappèn milk vrom ouer païls,— A pretty deäl o’ Poll’s wer gone.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Gwaïn to Brookwell

GWAIN TO BROOKWELL.
At Easter, though the wind war high, We vound we had a zunny sky, An’ zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge His dousty road by knap an’ brudge, An’ jog, wi’ hangèn vetterlocks A-sheäkèn roun’ his heavy hocks, An’ us, a lwoad not much too small, A-ridèn out to Brookwell Hall; An’ there in doust vrom Dobbin’s heels, An’ green light-waggon’s vower wheels, Our merry laughs did loudly sound, In rollèn winds athirt the ground; While sheenèn-ribbons’ color’d streäks Did flutter roun’ the maïdens’ cheäks, As they did zit, wi’ smilèn lips, A-reachèn out their vinger-tips Toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight That they did shew us, left or right; An’ woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleäce A kiss on cousin Polly’s feäce, She push’d his hat, wi’ wicked leers, Right off above his two red ears, An’ there he roll’d along the groun’ Wi’ spreadèn brim an’ rounded crown, An’ vound, at last, a cowpon’s brim, An’ launch’d hizzelf, to teäke a zwim; An’ there, as Jim did run to catch His neäked noddle’s bit o’ thatch, ​To zee his straïnèns an’ his strides, We laugh’d enough to split our zides. At Harwood Farm we pass’d the land That father’s father had in hand, An’ there, in oben light did spread, The very groun’s his cows did tread, An’ there above the stwonèn tun Avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun, Wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath A-breath’d vrom his wold house’s he’th; An’ there did lie below the door, The drashol’ that his vootsteps wore; But there his meäte an’ he bwoth died, Wi’ hand in hand, an’ zide by zide; Between the seäme two peals a-rung, Two Zundays, though they wer but young, An’ laid in sleep, their worksome hands, At rest vrom tweil wi’ house or lands. Then vower childern laid their heads At night upon their little beds, An’ never rose ageän below A mother’s love, or father’s ho: Dree little maïdens, small in feäce, An’ woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleäce. Zoo when their heedvul father died, He call’d his brother to his zide, To meäke en stand, in hiz own stead, His childern’s guide, when he wer dead; But still avore zix years brought round The woodland goo-coo’s zummer sound, He weästed all their little store, An’ hardship drove em out o’ door, To tweil till tweilsome life should end, ’Ithout a single e’thly friend. But soon wi’ Harwood back behind, An’ out o’ zight an’ out o’ mind, ​We went a-rottlèn on, an’ meäde Our way along to Brookwell Sleäde; An’ then we vound ourselves draw nigh The Leädy’s Tow’r that rose on high, An’ seem’d a-comèn on to meet, Wi’ growfen height, wold Dobbin’s veet.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hawthorn Down

HAWTHORN DOWN.
All up the down’s cool brow  I work’d in noontide’s gleäre, On where the slow-wheel’d plow  ’D a-wore the grass half bare. ​An’ gil’cups quiver’d quick,  As aïr did pass, An’ deäisies huddled thick  Among the grass.
The while my eärms did swing  Wi’ work I had on hand, The quick-wing’d lark did zing  Above the green-tree’d land, An’ bwoys below me chafed  The dog vor fun, An’ he, vor all they laef’d,  Did meäke em run.
The south zide o’ the hill,  My own tun-smoke rose blue,— In North Coomb, near the mill,  My mother’s wer in view— Where woonce her vier vor all  Ov us did burn, As I have childern small  Round mine in turn.
An’ zoo I still wull cheer  Her life wi’ my small store, As she do drop a tear  Bezide her lwonesome door. The love that I do owe  Her ruf, I’ll paÿ, An’ then zit down below  My own wi’ jaÿ.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Guy Faux's Night

GUY FAUX’S NIGHT.
Guy Faux’s night, dost know, we chaps, A-putten on our woldest traps, Went up the highest o’ the knaps,  An’ meäde up such a vier! An’ thou an’ Tom wer all we miss’d, Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss’d Among the rest in thy sprack vist,  Our fun ’d a-been the higher.
We chaps at hwome, an’ Will our cousin, Took up a half a lwoad o’ vuzzen; An’ burn’d a barrel wi’ a dozen  O’ faggots, till above en The fleämes, arisèn up so high ’S the tun, did snap, an’ roar, an’ ply,  Lik’ vier in an’ oven.
An’ zome wi’ hissèn squibs did run, To paÿ off zome what they’d a-done, An’ let em off so loud’s a gun  Ageän their smokèn polls; An’ zome did stir their nimble pags Wi’ crackers in between their lags, While zome did burn their cwoats to rags,  Or wes’cots out in holes.
An’ zome o’m’s heads lost half their locks, An’ zome o’m got their white smock-frocks Jist fit to vill the tinder-box,  Wi’ half the backs o’m off; An’ Dick, that all o’m vell upon, Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taïl gone, An’ tother jist a-hangèn on,  A-zweal’d so black’s a snoff.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Happiness

HAPPINESS.
Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peäl’d park do reach Wi’ elem-rows, or clumps o’ beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn’d house’s lofty door, Or men can ride behin’ their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds,  An’ seldom wi’ the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut’s wide-limb’d head, Or grass where apple trees do spread? No, so’s; no, no: not high nor low: ’Tis where the heart is holy.
’Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, ’Ithin the marble-pillar’d door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf’d halls, His light drough lofty window’d walls; An’ wax-white han’s do never tire Wi’ strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An’ all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten’d bwoard;  Or mid be wi’ the lowly, Where turfs a-smwolderèn avore The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor, An’ love’s at hwome ’ithin the door? No, so’s; no, no; not high nor low:  ’Tis where the heart is holy.
An’ ceäre can come ’ithin a ring O’ sworded guards, to smite a king, ​Though he mid hold ’ithin his hands The zwarmèn vo’k o’ many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geäte Avore the house o’ lofty steäte; Or reach the miser that do smile A-buildèn up his goolden pile;  Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow’r to loose or bind Another’s body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest ’ithin the breast,  ’Tis where the heart is holy.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Harvest Hwome:—Second Peärt

HARVEST HWOME.
Second Peart. What they did after Supper.
Zoo after supper wer a-done, They clear’d the teäbles, an’ begun To have a little bit o’ fun,  As long as they mid stop. The wold woones took their pipes to smoke, An’ tell their teäles, an’ laugh an’ joke, A-lookèn at the younger vo’k,  That got up vor a hop.
Woone screäp’d away, wi’ merry grin, A fiddle stuck below his chin; An’ woone o’m took the rollèn pin,  An’ beät the fryèn pan. ​An’ tothers, dancèn to the soun’, Went in an’ out, an’ droo an’ roun’, An’ kick’d, an’ beät the tuèn down,  A-laughèn, maïd an’ man.
An’ then a maïd, all up tip-tooe, Vell down; an’ woone o’m wi’ his shoe Slit down her pocket-hole in two,  Vrom top a-most to bottom. An’ when they had a-danc’d enough, They got a-plaÿèn blindman’s buff, An’ sard the maïdens pretty rough,  When woonce they had a-got em.
An’ zome did drink, an’ laugh, an’ roar, An’ lots o’ teäles they had in store, O’ things that happen’d years avore  To them, or vo’k they know’d. An’ zome did joke, an’ zome did zing, An’ meäke the girt wold kitchen ring; Till uncle’s cock, wi’ flappèn wing,  Stratch’d out his neck an’ crow’d.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hallowed Pleäces

HALLOWED PLEÄCES.
At Woodcombe farm, wi’ ground an’ tree Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul glee, At Chris’mas time I spent a night Wi’ feäces dearest to my zight; An’ took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, Her maïden hwome’s vorseäken vloor, An’ under stars that slowly wheel’d Aloft, above the keen-aïr’d vield, While night bedimm’d the rus’lèn copse, An’ darken’d all the ridges’ tops, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There, on the he’th’s well-hetted ground, Hallow’d by times o’ zittèn round, The brimvul mug o’ cider stood An’ hiss’d avore the bleäzèn wood; An’ zome, a-zittèn knee by knee, Did tell their teäles wi’ hearty glee, An’ others gamboll’d in a roar O’ laughter on the stwonèn vloor; An’ while the moss o’ winter-tide Clung chilly roun’ the house’s zide, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There, on the pworches bench o’ stwone, Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul fun, We laugh’d an’ sigh’d to think o’ neämes That rung there woonce, in evenèn geämes; ​An’ while the swaÿèn cypress bow’d, In chilly wind, his darksome sh’oud An’ honeyzuckles, beäre o’ leäves, Still reach’d the window-sheädèn eaves Up where the clematis did trim The stwonèn arches mossy rim, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There, in the geärden’s wall-bound square, Hallow’d by times o’ strollèn there, The winter wind, a-hufflèn loud, Did swaÿ the pear-tree’s leafless sh’oud, An’ beät the bush that woonce did bear The damask rwose vor Jenny’s heäir; An’ there the walk o’ peävèn stwone That burn’d below the zummer zun. Struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore By maïdens vrom the hetted vloor In hall, a-hung wi’ holm, where rung Vull many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There at the geäte that woonce wer blue Hallow’d by times o’ passèn drough, Light strawmotes rose in flaggèn flight, A-floated by the winds o’ night, Where leafy ivy-stems did crawl In moonlight on the windblown wall, An’ merry maïdens’ vaïces vied In echoes sh’ill, vrom wall to shed, As shiv’rèn in their frocks o’ white They come to bid us there “Good night,” Vrom hall, a-hung wi’ holm, that rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
​There in the narrow leäne an’ drong Hallow’d by times o’ gwaïn along, The lofty ashes’ leafless sh’ouds Rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds, The while the moon, at girtest height, Bespread the pooly brook wi’ light, An’ as our child, in loose-limb’d rest, Lay peäle upon her mother’s breast, Her waxen eyelids seal’d her eyes Vrom darksome trees, an’ sheenèn skies, An’ halls a-hung wi’ holm, that rung Wi’ many a tongue, o’ wold an’ young.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Harvest Hwome:—The vu'st Peärt

HARVEST HWOME.
The vu’st peärt. The Supper.
Since we wer striplèns naïghbour John, The good wold merry times be gone: But we do like to think upon  What we’ve a-zeed an’ done. When I wer up a hardish lad, At harvest hwome the work-vo’k had Sich suppers, they wer jumpèn mad  Wi’ feästèn an’ wi’ fun.
At uncle’s, I do mind, woone year, I zeed a vill o’ hearty cheer; Fat beef an’ puddèn, eäle an’ beer,  Vor ev’ry workman’s crop An’ after they’d a-gie’d God thanks, They all zot down, in two long ranks, Along a teäble-bwoard o’ planks,  Wi’ uncle at the top.
An’ there, in platters, big and brown, Wer red fat beäcon, an’ a roun’ O’ beef wi’ gravy that would drown  A little rwoastèn pig; Wi’ beäns an’ teäties vull a zack, An’ cabbage that would meäke a stack, An’ puddèns brown, a-speckled black  Wi’ figs, so big’s my wig.
​An’ uncle, wi’ his elbows out, Did carve, an’ meäke the gravy spout; An’ aunt did gi’e the mugs about  A-frothèn to the brim. Pleätes werden then ov e’then ware, They ate off pewter, that would bear A knock; or wooden trenchers, square,  Wi’ zalt-holes at the rim.
An’ zoo they munch’d their hearty cheer, An’ dipp’d their beards in frothy-beer, An’ laugh’d, an’ jok’d—they couldden hear  What woone another zaid. An’ all o’m drink’d, wi’ woone accword, The wold vo’k’s health: an’ beät the bwoard, An’ swung their eärms about, an’ roar’d,  Enough to crack woone’s head.
# Poetry of the Magyars

POETRY OF THE MAGYARS,
PRECEDED BY A SKETCH
OF THE
LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF HUNGARY AND TRANSYLVANIA.
BY
JOHN BOWRING,
LL.D. F.L.S. M.R.A.S.
HONORARY CORRESPONDENT OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTE OF THE NETHER- LANDS, AND MEMBER OF THE LITERARY SOCIETIES OF FRIESLAND, GRONINGEN, PARIS, LEYDEN, LEEUWARDEN, ATHENS, TURIN, SHEFFIELD, &c., &c.
Eggy Istenért, eggy Hazáért Egett hajdan, durván hív,— Eggy mátkáért, nyoszolyáért— A' törzsökös Magyar szív.
Kisfaludy K.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,
1830.
PRINTED BY GEORGE SMALLFIELD, HACKNEY.
TO HIS HIGHNESS, PRINCE PAUL ESZTERHAZY DE GALANTHA, GRAND CROSS OF THE ROYAL ORDER OF ST. STEPHEN OF HUNGARY, OF THE ORDER OF THE GUELPHS, AND OF ST. FERDINAND OF NAPLES; CHAMBERLAIN AND PRIVY COUNCILLOR OF HIS IMPERIAL AND ROYAL APOSTOLIC MAJESTY, AND HIS EXTRAORDINARY AMBASSADOR TO HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY,
WHOSE ILLUSTRIOUS NAME HAS BEEN FOR AGES SO PRE-EMINENTLY ASSOCIATED WITH THE HISTORY OF THE MAGYARS,
This Volume
IS, BY PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
BY HIS OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT,
THE TRANSLATOR.
LONDON, January 30th, 1830.
Preface
TO
FR. J. SCHEDEL.
I follow in thy footsteps, yet afar;
Thou bear'st the voice―I but the echoes hear, Of the time-consecrated Magyār; And while they vibrate in my spirit, bear The music, ere it dies upon the ear, To the old halls of England—where here are Spirits of love, of sympathy sincere, To welcome, as from some new-beaming star, All I can bring of beauty, light and song. Say to Hungaria, she shall stand among The lands which Poetry with glory girds; And if not mine, some happier lot 'twill be To fling the wreath of fame o'er ber and thee, With sweeter harmony and loftier words.
CONTENTS.
Page
DEMETRIUS CSATI.
ANONYMOUS.
MICHAEL ZRINYI.
FRANCIS FALUDI.
GIDEON RÁDAY.
LORENZO ORCZY.
DAVID SZABÓ BARÓTI.
BENEDICT VIRÁG.
PAUL STEPHEN ÁNYOS
FRANCIS KAZINCZI.
GABRIEL DAYKA.
JOHN KIS.
ALEXANDER KISFALUDY.
MICHAEL VITKOVICS.
MICHAEL CSOKONAI.
DANIEL BERZSENYI.
EMILIUS BUCZI.
GABRIEL DÖBRENTEI.
CHARLES KISFALUDY.
FRANCIS KÖLCSEY.
LADISLAUS TÓTH.
ALOJS SZENTMIKLÓSSY.
MICHAEL VÖRÖSMARTY.
FRANCIS VERSEGHI.
JOHN ENDRÖDI.
HUNGARIAN POPULAR SONGS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poetry (Poe)

One of the many first poems, written by Edgar Allan Poe, when he was about fifteen (15) years old.
Last night, with many cares and toils oppress'd Weary, I laid me on a couch to rest———
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poetry Necessary to All

Book News Monthly (June 1906) Vol. 24 No. 286 pp. 722-723.
Poetry Necessary to All
IN relation to the status of poetry we have the avowal of Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman that "the Muse sits neglected in the hemicycle of the arts;" and the declaration of Matthew Arnold that "the future of poetry is immense." These views may seem antagonistic, but they are not necessarily so. The barren dearth of winter does not distress us with the fear that there will be no returning spring; and the indifference of to-day is far from implying the indifference of to-morrow.
Goethe assures us that "there is no better deliverance from the world than through art." Of all the arts poetry is the most intimate and personal. The poet creates by the pure effort of his imagination, having no material to work with, such as paint, clay or marble: having no instructor, and in the present day no school. In his case it is peculiarly true that "the artist is conditioned on the man; that the source of the limitations of a man's art will be found, as a rule, in his character and life."
Despite the many different views as to what constitutes poetry, it is still true that poetry in some form is necessary to all—save, perhaps, to those who are content to live upon bread alone.
A story is told of Emerson's sitting in a company of friends who discussed coal, money, iron, and railroads. After a time the New England philosopher spoke very quietly: "Now let us talk for a little about real things." Poetry belongs to the real things—to the realm of the ideal which is "the only real."
In education poetry is invaluable; the study of it cultivates the memory, the imagination, and the heart. To the old—even more than to the young—poetry is a source of perpetual interest, solace, refreshment and delight. I know a man eighty years of age who is never lonely, or dull, or depressed, because in his cultivated mind there is stored much of the great poetry of the world. A year ago, in consequence of an accident, he was carried to a hospital where he lay in bed for three months. When at last he was about to leave one of the young assistant surgeons remarked: "I never could bear to pass his room without going in; he always had something so delightful to say." Then, with a wistful look he added: "He has certainly been a light in this place." A light in this place! What an exquisite tribute. This man had brought to the mechanical, monotonous, practical, sorrowful routine of hospital life the light of imagination; helping those about him to live "from a greater depth of being."
Florence Earle Coates
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1927, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 96 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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