The weekly Ottumwa courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1857-1872, 1857-11-26
For the 0ttumwa Courier.
What Is POetry1
BY L. A. H.

How often do we hear the question asked,
"What Is poetry?'' and IS often the answer,
81 canaot define it" II 10, in fact, the almost
iudehnable something, Of the higher, ETHEREAL
order, which prevades all nature--the essence
and quintessence of existence. a4sa5 asa b
Many have supposed that poetry 10 thought,
expressed in rhyme. This may be truth, but
not ,he whole truth-for there 10 q certain
amount of psetry in everything beantiful--
Creation tselt IS a poem, wherein we read, in
glorious language of its first great Architect
and Creator. Every thing in existence--ani-
mate, or inanimate, governed by order, hath q
greater or less degree of poetry in It's compo-
sition. ID ygr a.fs arata r.sE. sa- bsI gb8r
Nature has voice-a voice Of harmonious
music, and that voice Is poetry--it speaks d.
rectly TO the soul, and awakes it to that holier
life-that longing after the unseen, that far
reaching Tor the beautiful and true, that yearn-
ing after Immortality, which, rightly improv-
ed, makes mankind better, wiser and happier.
Are there any who deny this? To them we
say, 60 wat Oh the stars when the solemn Oh AIDES
of midnight rest upon he earth; behold the
unreasonable fields OF space lighted by those
sparkling worlds; study, ponder upon them;
ask yourself whether they are not inhaoited
by beings like ourselves, mark how they rol
in grand sablimity npon their eternal rounds
guided and directed. ages upon ages, by an un.
erring hand; thinx of MIN who made and set
these countless aorbes in motion; who by a
single breath, can crush them into nothing
ness; think, reflect. and do you not feel your
heart warm, your cheeks glow with feelings
pressing for utterance? This is the poetry of
nature, awakened by, and united with, the
sympathetic poetry of the stars. - tasgcsa
Go out among the dews Of golden morning;
mount some eminence, and gaze upon the
beautiful flush. Aurora, with her unseen
sylph-like fngures paints upon the brow OF
day; mark the beautiful change from dark
ness to light, and see the sparkling Of pearly
dow on blade and flower; feel the soft breeze
gently kiss your cheek, and hear the song. Of
signing forests, singing birds, and ripling
streams; and do you not feel the impress upon
your heart? do you not feel yoar soul gushing
within you, too deep for words? do you not
feel lifted up TO hoIier slate of being? This
is the poetry of Nature, of Natures morn,
aching upon the inner life Of yonr existence
Again, when the gates Of day are being
closed; when earth's great luninary, the sun,
gl{f "Goes softly out in the red west"
Still linger to kiss the mountain tops, and
tinge some neecy cloud; when every sound
seems sinking to quiet, holy rest; do you no,
feel the same deep calmness resting upon your
spirit? This il poetry Of evening. Il ar,lI.
Go stand, and gaze upon the bowling tenn
pest! See the forked lightning flash around
you, hear the boomil g thunder roaring through
the air, shaking the very earth beneath your
feet; see Nature in her dire commotion, as
'twer waring with herself; mark the dest,uc-
ton spreading all around you; and does 1t not
awake in you solemn awe, snblimity Of
thought? Thisis the wild poetry Of the storm.
Each thing, then, capable OF arousing the
higher, nobier feelings Of our nature, contains
that essence Of existence, poetry; which by
a train of sympathy, connects itself with that
which is in W immortal, and we feel it in .
greater or les, degree, according as the author
OF all being has for US designed. ,oti"