22WHAT ISPR                           Y? POE~TRY DE1FINED.
Poetry is the blossom and fragrance of a!l human kcnowledge, human
GENTLE stillness of a       ing rosebud, the cherub child, the waving grain,
spring-time evening, the modest violet, -all breathe the music of
when, with heart at-   poetry!
tuned to the glories     The beautiful face, the gentle, thrilling pres-
fthe   twloht scene,    sure of the hand, the kettle singing for tea, the
we listeni enraptured to teclosing song of busy   joyous meetiiig of the husband and wife on
nture, h-ushing to repose -this is otr.          the return from labor at the twiligrht hour, the
The coming storm, preeeded by the rushing smile, the kiss -all this is poetry!
wrind; the dark, angry, approaching clouds, It flashes in the sky, it blossoms on the earth,
capped with the flashing, darting     lightning,  it breathes music in the air, delighting the eye,
with the low muttering, and anon the deep- charming the ear, and filling the soul with in-
:toned thunder, coming nearer and nearer in its effable happiness - all this is poetry!
awful grandeur!I To the lover of the grand and -To appreciate, to comprehend, and to inter-
sublime -this is poetry!                          pret this golden, sunny halo of beauty, is the
The silvery quiet of the moonlight night, gift of the poet.
when we wander amid the jessamines and roses, Poetry is not necessarily tol in rhyme. It~
with our darling, Whispering words of love,       is oftentimes revealed as beautifully in prose.
and dreamiing ofthe future - this is poetry!      B. F. Taylor illustrates this very strikingly in
Them   digt' hour in the attic, when, through  the following description of
the crevices of the roof and windows, we catch                     The Old Church.
Cglimpses of the flashing, lightning, and listen,      ~'Last evening we were walking leisurely along. The music
slnuber, and dream2 to the music of the patter- of choirs in three churches came. floating out ito the darkness
ing rain-drops on the roof - this is poetry!       around us, and they were all new and strange tunes but one ;
and that one, itwsnot sung as we bad beard it, but it awa-
The roaring cataract, the silvery rivulet,-the  k,ried a train of long buried memories, that rose tonus even as
towering mountain, the Adark ravine, the open- they were before thie cemetery of the soul had a tomb in it. It
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