The question, "What is poetry?" has been answered innumerable times, often
by the subtlest and clearest minds, and as many times has it been answered
differently. The answer in itself now makes a large and distinguished
literature to which, full as it is of keen intelligence and even of
constructive vision, we can return with unstaling pleasure. The very poets
themselves, it is true, lending their wits to the debate, have left the
answer incomplete, as it must--not in the least unhappily--always remain.
And yet, if we consider the matter for a moment, we find that all this
wisdom, prospering from Sidney's _Apology_ until to-day, does not
strictly attempt to answer the question that is put. It does not tell us
singly what poetry is, but it speculates upon the cause and effect of
poetry. It enquires into the impulse that moves the poet to creation and
describes, as far as individual limitations will allow, the way in which
the poet's work impresses the world. When Wordsworth says "poetry is the
breath and finer spirit of all knowledge," he is, exactly, in one intuitive
word, telling us how poetry comes into being, directing us with an inspired
gesture to its source, and not strictly telling us what it is; and so
Shelley tells us in his fiery eloquence of the divine functions of poetry.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25