"As nature unconsciously produces that which appears to be the result of consciousness, so the greatest artist consciously produces that which appears the unconscious result."
Poetry must rest on the experience of men—the history of heart and brain. It must sit by the fireside of the heart. It must have to do with this world, with the place in which we live, with the men and women we know, with their loves, their hopes, their fears and their joys.
After all, we care nothing about gods and goddesses, or folks with wings.
The cloud-compelling Jupiters, the ox-eyed Junos, the feather-heeled Mercurys, or the Minervas that leaped full-armed from the thick skull of some imaginary god, are nothing to us. We know nothing of their fears or loves, and for that reason, the poetry that deals with them, no matter how ingenious it may be, can never touch the human heart.
I was taught that Milton was a wonderful poet, and above all others sublime. I have read Milton once. Few have read him twice.
With splendid words, with magnificent mythological imagery, he musters the heavenly militia—puts epaulets on the shoulders of God, and describes the Devil as an artillery officer of the highest rank.
Then he describes the battles in which immortals undertake the impossible task of killing each other.
Take this line:
"Flying with indefatigable wings over the vast abrupt."
This is called sublime, but what does it mean?