Sick Today. :( Sucks A Lot, Yucky Blucky.
But damn, I love Yeats and Longfellow.
From The Celtic Twilight:
Paddy Flynn is dead;
He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers,
knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth,
to people his stories.
He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the
ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for,
and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a
little dust under our feet.
And then, of course, Longfellow's vivid portrayal of one night in history:
Poetry bores me, usually. Subjective, vague, and multidimensional; those all sound like good things, but they can be tedious and dull in their attempt to be deep. But then you look at Yeats and Longfellow, and think My God. They are so crystal clear. And yet their clarity can't be mistaken for simplicity; what they write isn't any less beautiful than something you read in a cold university classroom with your rear planted on a butt-moulding-hard-plastic chair, a piece that forces the prof to ask, "Now, what exactly did Pretentious Poet mean when s/he wrote this?"