A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers - Pennsylvania State ...

their month, and cobweb and mildew have already spread
from these to the binding of those; and happily I am reminded
of what poetry is,—I perceive that Shakespeare and
Milton did not foresee into what company they were to fall.
Alas! that so soon the work of a true poet should be swept
into such a dust-hole!
The poet will write for his peers alone. He will remember
only that he saw truth and beauty from his position, and
expect the time when a vision as broad shall overlook the
same field as freely.
We are often prompted to speak our thoughts to our neighbors,
or the single travellers whom we meet on the road, but
poetry is a communication from our home and solitude addressed
to all Intelligence. It never whispers in a private ear.
Knowing this, we may understand those sonnets said to be
addressed to particular persons, or “To a Mistress’s Eyebrow.”
Let none feel flattered by them. For poetry write love, and it
will be equally true.
No doubt it is an important difference between men of
genius or poets, and men not of genius, that the latter are
unable to grasp and confront the thought which visits them.
A <strong>Week</strong> on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
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But it is because it is too faint for expression, or even conscious
impression. What merely quickens or retards the blood
in their veins and fills their afternoons with pleasure they
know not whence, conveys a distinct assurance to the finer
organization of the poet.
We talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, and the poet
could only express what other men conceived. But in comparison
with his task, the poet is the least talented of any; the
writer of prose has more skill. See what talent the smith has.
His material is pliant in his hands. When the poet is most
inspired, is stimulated by an aura which never even colors
the afternoons of common men, then his talent is all gone,
and he is no longer a poet. The gods do not grant him any
skill more than another. They never put their gifts into his
hands, but they encompass and sustain him with their breath.
To say that God has given a man many and great talents,
frequently means that he has brought his heavens down
within reach of his hands.
When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with
our pen, intent only on worms, calling our mates around us,
like the cock, and delighting in the dust we make, but do