These people,
emotionally speaking, are senile. They should not try to read
poetry.
But most of us--even those who are outwardly commonplace,
practical, unenthusiastic, "solid," and not "sensitive"--lose our
youthful keenness with regret. And that is why poetry, except for
the hopelessly sodden, is a tonic worthy of a great price. For the
right poetry at the right time has the indubitable power to stir
the emotions that experience is no longer able to arouse. I cannot
give satisfactory instances, for the reaction is highly personal.
What with me stirs a brain cell long dormant to action will leave
another unmoved, and vice versa. However, to make clear my
meaning, let us take Romance, the kind that one capitalizes, that
belongs to Youth, also capitalized, and dwells in Granada or
Sicily or the Spanish Main. The middle-aged gentleman on a winter
cruise for his jaded nerves cannot expect a thrill from sights
alone. If it is not lost for him utterly, it is only because Keats
has kept it, in--
... Magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn, q and Nashe in--
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair.
Pages:
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279