Summary

The Atlantic Monthly — The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table

Now I tell you a poem must be kept _and used_, like a meerschaum, or a violin. A poem is just as porous as the meerschaum;--the more porous it is, the better. I mean to say that a genuine poem is capable of absorbing an indefinite amount of the essence of our own humanity,--its tenderness, its heroism, its regrets, its aspirations, so as to be gradually stained through with a divine secondary color derived from ourselves. So you see it must take time to bring the sentiment of a poem into harmony with our nature, by staining ourselves through every thought and image our being can penetrate.
Source: Wikisource

The Atlantic Monthly — The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table

Nature gets us out of youth into manhood, as sailors are hurried on board of vessels,--in a state of intoxication. We are hustled into maturity reeling with our passions and imaginations, and we have drifted far away from port before we awake out of our illusions. But to carry us out of maturity into old age, without our knowing where we are going, she drugs us with strong opiates, and so we stagger along with wide open eyes that see nothing until snow enough has fallen on our heads to rouse our comatose brains out of their stupid trances.
Source: Wikisource

The Atlantic Monthly — The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table

Every such poem has a soul and a body, and it is the body of it, or the copy, that men read and publishers pay for. The soul of it is born in an instant in the poet's soul. It comes to him a thought, tangled in the meshes of a few sweet words,--words that have loved each other from the cradle of the language, but have never been wedded until now. Whether it will ever fully embody itself in a bridal train of a dozen stanzas or not is uncertain; but it exists potentially from the instant that the poet turns pale with it.
Source: Wikisource

Get perspective with Kwize: daily news enlightened by great literature