ART POÉTIQUE

No laws should rule by force or guile, But let your verse go singing soft, And in the solvent air aloft Find music, music all the while. Nor be too diffident in phrase, But let your song grow drunk with wine Where mystic unions vaguely shine In luminous and errant ways. Like veilèd eyes your song should be, Like noondays trembling in the sun, Like autumn dusks when days are done And stars and sky join secretly. Not vivid colors should adorn, But shades alone when dream to dream Is wed, and tender shadows gleam Like flute notes mingled with the horn. The “point” which slays and cruel wit, And smile impure you should despise, For like base garlic they arise To spoil the poem exquisite. Take eloquence and twist its neck! And sophist rhyming which would lead You headlong into sing-song speed 'Tis well for you to hold in check. Oh, who shall tell of evil rhyme! A trinket coin with hollow ring, A barbarous or childish thing Passed downward idly to our time. Music, music, evermore, The burden of your song should be, Inherent like the melody Of souls a-wing to distant shore; Or like the brave emprise and pure Of morning breezes which imbue The thyme and mint with honey dew— The rest belongs to literature.