"Essays 2nd Series" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emerson Ralph Waldo )

day, concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind,
whose head appeared to be a music-box of delicate tunes and rhythms,
and whose skill, and command of language, we could not sufficiently
praise. But when the question arose, whether he was not only a
lyrist, but a poet, we were obliged to confess that he is plainly a
contemporary, not an eternal man. He does not stand out of our low
limitations, like a Chimborazo under the line, running up from the
torrid base through all the climates of the globe, with belts of the
herbage of every latitude on its high and mottled sides; but this
genius is the landscape-garden of a modern house, adorned with
fountains and statues, with well-bred men and women standing and
sitting in the walks and terraces. We hear, through all the varied
music, the ground-tone of conventional life. Our poets are men of
talents who sing, and not the children of music. The argument is
secondary, the finish of the verses is primary.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a
poem, -- a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of
a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns
nature with a new thing. The thought and the form are equal in the
order of time, but in the order of genesis the thought is prior to
the form. The poet has a new thought: he has a whole new experience
to unfold; he will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be
the richer in his fortune. For, the experience of each new age
requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its
poet. I remember, when I was young, how much I was moved one morning
by tidings that genius had appeared in a youth who sat near me at
table. He had left his work, and gone rambling none knew whither,
and had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that
which was in him was therein told: he could tell nothing but that all
was changed, -- man, beast, heaven, earth, and sea. How gladly we
listened! how credulous! Society seemed to be compromised. We sat
in the aurora of a sunrise which was to put out all the stars.
Boston seemed to be at twice the distance it had the night before, or
was much farther than that. Rome, -- what was Rome? Plutarch and
Shakspeare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard
of. It is much to know that poetry has been written this very day,
under this very roof, by your side. What! that wonderful spirit has
not expired! these stony moments are still sparkling and animated! I
had fancied that the oracles were all silent, and nature had spent
her fires, and behold! all night, from every pore, these fine auroras
have been streaming. Every one has some interest in the advent of
the poet, and no one knows how much it may concern him. We know that
the secret of the world is profound, but who or what shall be our
interpreter, we know not. A mountain ramble, a new style of face, a
new person, may put the key into our hands. Of course, the value of
genius to us is in the veracity of its report. Talent may frolic and
juggle; genius realizes and adds. Mankind, in good earnest, have
availed so far in understanding themselves and their work, that the
foremost watchman on the peak announces his news. It is the truest