A lonely impulse of delight
There is this sweet, marvelously aching feeling in one's chest, when they - expectedly or unexpectedly - stumble against great poetry. Well, now it officially has a name to itself - a lonely impulse of delight.
What is poetry in its essence? A form of art, sire scholastic. Art, presiding your question, is an organized human activity aimed to express some thoughts, emotions, and ideas.
What makes poetry good or bad? Its ability to communicate new, operating with the ideas and the methods of old, and eventually changing the conceptions of "good", or "bad". This is how, I dare say, all art works, doesn't it? I'm simplifying things, I'm aware.
My point was, that when you stumble against poetry, it helps you to stumble along. Your comprehension of possible widens, for new words, thoughts, emotions, and ideas have nested inside your heart and liver, alike those demons, of whom there are thousand on the tip of a needle.
Yey, the poem. We got there.
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Yeats is awesome - I am ready to admit it. He preserves the entertaining fabula of the Romanticism, but the message, and, to a certain extent, the devices, by which he does it, are entirely new. There is much more of art nouveau, than of Symbolism in him.
What is poetry in its essence? A form of art, sire scholastic. Art, presiding your question, is an organized human activity aimed to express some thoughts, emotions, and ideas.
What makes poetry good or bad? Its ability to communicate new, operating with the ideas and the methods of old, and eventually changing the conceptions of "good", or "bad". This is how, I dare say, all art works, doesn't it? I'm simplifying things, I'm aware.
My point was, that when you stumble against poetry, it helps you to stumble along. Your comprehension of possible widens, for new words, thoughts, emotions, and ideas have nested inside your heart and liver, alike those demons, of whom there are thousand on the tip of a needle.
Yey, the poem. We got there.
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Yeats is awesome - I am ready to admit it. He preserves the entertaining fabula of the Romanticism, but the message, and, to a certain extent, the devices, by which he does it, are entirely new. There is much more of art nouveau, than of Symbolism in him.