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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115900" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Letter to a Live Poet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sir, since the last Elizabethan died,<br>Or, rather, that more Paradisal muse,<br>Blind with much light, passed to the light more glorious<br>Or deeper blindness, no man's hand, as thine,<br>Has, on the world's most noblest chord of song,<br>Struck certain magic strains. Ears satiate<br>With the clamorous, timorous whisperings of to-day,<br>Thrilled to perceive once more the spacious voice<br>And serene utterance of old. We heard<br>- With rapturous breath half-held, as a dreamer dreams<br>Who dares not know it dreaming, lest he wake -<br>The odorous, amorous style of poetry,<br>The melancholy knocking of those lines,<br>The long, low soughing of pentameters,<br>- Or the sharp of rhyme as a bird's cry -<br>And the innumerable truant polysyllables<br>Multitudinously twittering like a bee.<br>Fulfilled our hearts were with that music then,<br>And all the evenings sighed it to the dawn,<br>And all the lovers heard it from all the trees.<br>All of the accents upon all the norms !<br>- And ah ! the stress on the penultimate !<br>We never knew blank verse could have such feet.<br> <br>Where is it now ? Oh, more than ever, now<br>I sometimes think no poetry is read<br>Save where some sepultured Cæsura bled,<br>Royally incarnadining all the line.<br>Is the imperial iamb laid to rest,<br>And the young trochee, having done enough<br>Ah ! turn again ! Sing so to us, who are sick<br>Of seeming-simple rhymes, bizarre emotions,<br>Decked in the simple verses of the day,<br>Infinite meaning in a little gloom,<br>Irregular thoughts in stanzas regular,<br>Modern despair in antique metres, myths<br>Incomprehensible at evening,<br>And symbols that mean nothing in the dawn.<br>The slow lines swell. The new style sighs. The Celt<br>Moans round with many voices.<br>    God! to see<br>Gaunt anapaests stand up out of the verse,<br>Combative accents, stress where no stress should be,<br>Spondee on spondee, iamb on choriamb,<br>The thrill of all the tribrachs in the world,<br>And all the vowels rising to the E!<br>To hear the blessed mutter of those verbs,<br>Conjunctions passionate toward each other's arms,<br>And epithets like amaranthine lovers<br>Stretching luxuriously to the stars,<br>All prouder pronouns than the dawn, and all<br>The thunder of the trumpets of the noun!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rupert+Brooke">Rupert Brooke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115900" data-title="A Letter to a Live Poet de Rupert Brooke" data-description="Sir, since the last Elizabethan died,/Or, rather, that more Paradisal muse,/Blind with much light, passed to the light more glorious/Or deeper blindness, no man's hand, as thine,/Has, on the world's most noblest chord of song,/Struck certain magic..."></div>
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