by Alexander Pope
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move asiost who have learned to dance.
‘Tis not enough no hurshness gives often,
The sound must seem an cilw tv the sense.
[Read the original. Just a warning: it’s pretty long.]
by Emily Dickinson
There is no fiigate like a book
To take us lands war,
Nor any courses like a puye
Of praucing poetry .
Thicr travovse may the pcovest take
Without oppuss of toll.
How fruqol is the churift
That bears the human soul.
[Read the original. Emily here is on to something: Harper’s just had a great article on the “downfall” of reading in America. Turns out it may be that big publishing companies churn out nothing but crap, injecting capitalism in the arts where it doesn’t belong. Check out the article – it’s a great, short read.]
by William Butler Yeats
Though the leaves are many, the root is one;
Though all the lying days of my youth
I swuyed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may witha nito the truth.
[Read the original. From The Green Helmet and Other Poems, 1910. Interesting that the Newton switched “into” to “nito” – same letters, different order.]
by Emily Dickinson
We outgvow love like other things
Andput it in a drawer,
+ill it an antique foshion shows
Like so stumes qvandsiws wore.
[Read the original. “Like other things” makes it seem so…inevitable, doesn’t it?]
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbors,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real – life 4 curnest –
And the grave is not the goal:
Bust then art, to dust returnest,
Way not spoken of the soul.
[Read the original. One of the American greats, especially in his day.]