Born Thursday 19 January 1809, died Sunday 7 October 1849
Professions: Author, Critic, Editor, Poet
The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.
The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.