In short, whatever specific import
we attach to the word poetry, there will be found involved in it, as
a necessary consequence, that a poem of any length neither can be, nor
ought to be, all poetry. Yet if a harmonious whole is to be produced,
the remaining parts must be preserved in keeping with the poetry; and
this can be no otherwise effected than by such a studied selection and
artificial arrangement as will partake of one, though not a peculiar,
property of poetry. And this again can be no other than the property
of exciting a more continuous and equal attention than the language
of prose aims at, whether colloquial or written.
My own conclusions on the nature of poetry, in the strictest use of
the word, have been in part anticipated in the preceding disquisition
on the fancy and imagination. What is poetry? is so nearly the same
question with, what is a poet? that the answer to the one is involved
in the solution of the other. For it is a distinction resulting from
the poetic genius itself, which sustains and modifies the images,
thoughts, and emotions of the poet's own mind.
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