Oh, Poetry

Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, but the height of the pedestal upon which William’s placed poetry frankly shocked me.

Pauline believed that Stanhope would, of course tell the truth because he was a poet and poets could not lie. He could, she confessed, be mistaken. But because of his profession, she would consider everything as true from his point of view.

Mrs. Anstruther, who can face the possibility of death without fear, is not brave enough to recite Stanhope’s poetry. “When she was dead, she might be able to say Stanhope’s poetry properly. Even if there were no other joy, that would be a reason for dying well” (67). What sort of thing is poetry, then, that the idea of just reciting it well will bring a joy worth all that?

How did William’s come by this high opinion of poetry, a subject which almost all school children dread? I find myself wanting to read some of Stanhope’s poetry.