W.H. Auden, adopting Byron's own verse style (demonstrated in my post) sumned him up best with this excerpt from Auden's Letter To Lord Byron:
I like your muse because she’s gay and witty, Because she’s neither prostitute nor frump, The daughter of a European City, And country houses long before the slump; I like her voice that does not make me jump: And you I find sympatisch, a good townee, Neither a preacher, ninny, bore, nor Brownie.
A poet, swimmer, peer, and man of action, -It beats Roy Campbell’s record by a mile- You offer every possible attraction. By looking into your poetic style, And love-life on the chance that both were vile, Several have earned a decent livelihood, Whose lives were uncreative but were good.
You’ve had your packet from time critics, though: They grant you warmth of heart, but at your head Their moral and aesthetic brickbats throw. A ‘vulgar genius’ so George Eliot said, Which doesn’t matter as George Eliot’s dead, But T. S. Eliot, I am sad to find, Damns you with: ‘an uninteresting mind’.
A statement which I must say I’m ashamed at; A poet must be judged by his intention, And serious thought you never said you aimed at. I think a serious critic ought to mention That one verse style was really your invention, A style whose meaning does not need a spanner, You are the master of the airy manner.
By all means let us touch our humble caps to La poésie pure, the epic narrative; But comedy shall get its round of claps, too. According to his powers, each may give; Only on varied diet can we live. The pious fable and the dirty story Share in the total literary glory.
There’s every mode of singing robe in stock, From Shakespeare’s gorgeous fur coat, Spenser’s muff Or Dryden’s lounge suit to my cotton frock, And Wordsworth’s Harris tweed with leathern cuff. Firbank, I think, wore just a just-enough; I fancy Whitman in a reach-me-down, But you, like Sherlock, in a dressing-gown.
W.H. Auden, adopting Byron's own verse style (demonstrated in my post) sumned him up best with this excerpt from Auden's Letter To Lord Byron:
I like your muse because she’s gay and witty,
Because she’s neither prostitute nor frump,
The daughter of a European City,
And country houses long before the slump;
I like her voice that does not make me jump:
And you I find sympatisch, a good townee,
Neither a preacher, ninny, bore, nor Brownie.
A poet, swimmer, peer, and man of action,
-It beats Roy Campbell’s record by a mile-
You offer every possible attraction.
By looking into your poetic style,
And love-life on the chance that both were vile,
Several have earned a decent livelihood,
Whose lives were uncreative but were good.
You’ve had your packet from time critics, though:
They grant you warmth of heart, but at your head
Their moral and aesthetic brickbats throw.
A ‘vulgar genius’ so George Eliot said,
Which doesn’t matter as George Eliot’s dead,
But T. S. Eliot, I am sad to find,
Damns you with: ‘an uninteresting mind’.
A statement which I must say I’m ashamed at;
A poet must be judged by his intention,
And serious thought you never said you aimed at.
I think a serious critic ought to mention
That one verse style was really your invention,
A style whose meaning does not need a spanner,
You are the master of the airy manner.
By all means let us touch our humble caps to
La poésie pure, the epic narrative;
But comedy shall get its round of claps, too.
According to his powers, each may give;
Only on varied diet can we live.
The pious fable and the dirty story
Share in the total literary glory.
There’s every mode of singing robe in stock,
From Shakespeare’s gorgeous fur coat, Spenser’s muff
Or Dryden’s lounge suit to my cotton frock,
And Wordsworth’s Harris tweed with leathern cuff.
Firbank, I think, wore just a just-enough;
I fancy Whitman in a reach-me-down,
But you, like Sherlock, in a dressing-gown.
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