There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
A. E. HousmanRead
Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
Interpretation
The essence of poetry may be diluted by over-analyzing its meaning.
A. E. Housman suggests that while poetry often carries a deeper meaning, seeking to fully understand it can detract from the enjoyment it provides. The mystery and emotion in poetic language can be lost when one tries to dissect it too thoroughly, implying that some aspects of art are meant to be felt rather than entirely understood.
In practice
During a poetry reading, one might use this quote to encourage audience members to experience the poem emotionally rather than analytically.
There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist); and that philosophy is founded on my observation of the world, not on anything so trivial and irrelevant as personal history.
Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking_x000D_ _x000D_ Spins the heavy world around.
Conception, my boy, fundamental brain work, is what makes all the difference in art.
Acting came from growing up in dysfunction. I mean, a lot of great times, but a lot of dysfunction.
You don't make a photograph just with a camera
It's important as a writer to do my art well and do it in a way that is powerful and beautiful and meaningful, so that my work regenerates the people, certainly Indian people, and the earth and the sun. And in that way we all continue forever.
Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it.
Now its raining its pouring the old man is snoring now I lay me down to sleep I hear the sirens in the street all my dreams are made of chrome I have no way to get back home Iβd rather die before I wake like Marilyn Monroe and throw my dreams out in the street and the rain make βem grow
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