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A poet is someone who is astonished by everything.

Poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious attention than history.

Poetry is itself a thing of God; He made his prophets poets;and the more We feel of poesie do we become Like God in love and power,--under-makers.

'Twas he that ranged the words at random flung, Pierced the fair pearls and them together strung.

You speak As one who fed on poetry.

For rhyme the rudder is of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses.

Some force whole regions, in despite O' geography, to change their site; Make former times shake hands with latter, And that which was before come after; But those that write in rhyme still make The one verse for the other's sake; For one for sense, and one for rhyme, I think's sufficient at one time.

For florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.

Poetry, therefore, we will call Musical Thought.

For there is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man; also, it may be said, there is no life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column: In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

Prose--words in their best order;--poetry--the best words in their best order.

Made poetry a mere mechanic art.

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?

Why then we should drop into poetry.

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind has a "formal cut,"-- There is a place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stires and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made a still a blundering kind of melody; Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in; Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem.