“A great poem is a fountain forever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one person and one age has exhausted all its divine effluence, another and yet another succeeds”. Our thirst for such high poetry is, in a word, unslakable. We’ll bedew our lips with no lesser type. For this, we thank God, or some superintending muse, for allowing great poetry to spring from a well at once bottomless and eternal, limpid and strong, into which, from one generation to the next, we dip our hands, and cup that eloquent liquid of life.

“Poetry is a sword of lightning ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it”. Tis’ an unalloyed, ethereal blade, a bold dagger around which no mortal sheathe could wrap. Tis’ an electric sword, a flaming rod of steel, a keen weapon wielded by the tireless Uriel. He is, after all, the immobile, unblinking angel, the stolid cherub by whom our re-admission to Eden is forever barred. Until he relents, let us marvel at the poet’s hand setting the sky ablaze.

“A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness, and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why”. May we never know how highly perched above us the nightingale nests, nor in what tenebrous darkness the sweet poet sings. Suffice it for us, for now, simply to be moved by the intimacy of their music, and to warm ourselves in the embrace of their undetectable touch.

“I have seen the softness and beauty of the summer clouds floating feathery overhead, enjoying, as it seemed, their height and privilege of motion, whilst yet they appeared not so much the drapery of this place and hour, as forelooking to some pavilions and gardens of festivity beyond”. Might we not also gain admittance to this distant, empyrean place? Might we not forego our rusted clay and join that white plumage in which the sweet dew of divine precipitation gathers? I think we might.

"The incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church, or state, is interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year". Let us, at long last, heed their arboreal whispers, and embrace their silent grandeur. Beneath the protection of their ample shade, between the columns of their rigid bark, we’ll build our nests, live as neighbors, and, better still, love as friends.

"That virtue only makes our bliss below, and all our knowledge is, ourselves to know". In other words, if this couplet were to be condensed into an utterance more succinct, "Know Thyself". So saith the inscription on the wall of the famed temple at Delphi, so saith the less-than pagan Pope. Enjoy this final installment of his "Essay On Man".

"Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives". Join me for this--Pope's penultimate installment to his famed, "Essay On Man". The themes upon which the divine Pope, that mitred-master of the couplet, proceeds to dilate are many: God and Nature; instinct and reason; man and beast; government and state from its infancy, till now. Enjoy.

"Know, then, thyself, presume not God to scan; the proper study of mankind is man". So read, in part, the inscription above the Apollonian Temple at Delphi; so says the near-divine Pope, by whom his touch of English eloquence was added to the lapidary Greek. We humans exist in a middle state, somewhere between the lofty angels and lowly beasts. We're a troubled stream flowing from a purer source, yet this source is not for our minds to fathom. Simply drift with me as we chart the wandering sea.

"Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; but vindicate the ways of God to man". This is a vindication, mind you, not a justification--as John Milton might have it. Whether or not you wish to contemplate the subtle differences between the two, or simply bask in the light of their poetic brilliance, I leave to you. Either way, enjoy this reading. I hope you find it restful.

"The Devil hath not in all his quiver's choice, an arrow for the heart like a sweet voice". Indeed, so dulcet a dart must be loosed by a gentler hand. It must be guided by an aim more eloquent than his. It must, if it's to strike that vital part, and penetrate that pulsing organ entombed in the breast, climb onto the honey-laden bow from which, with both melody and grace, it'll swiftly fly. Allow me to relieve the eager tension of this string and deliver that which divinity alone most adores: a sweet voice. Relax and enjoy this reading of Lord Byron's "Don Juan".