It may be well enough at the beginning to inquire, What is a poet? What is poetry? Every one has some idea of the poetic, and this idea is born of his experience--of his education--of his surroundings. There have been more nations than poets. Many people suppose that poetry is a kind of art depending upon certain rules, and that it is only necessary to find out these rules to be a poet. But these rules have never been found. The great poet follows them unconsciously. The great poet seems as unconscious as Nature, and the product of the highest art seems to have been felt instead of thought. The finest definition perhaps that has been given is this: "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? We have been taught that Dante was a wonderful poet. He described with infinite minuteness the pangs and agonies endured by the damned in the torture--dungeons of God. The vicious twins of superstition--malignity and solemnity--struggle for the mastery in his revengeful lines. But there was one good thing about Dante: he had the courage, and what might be called the religious democracy, to see a pope in hell. That is something to be thankful for. So, the sonnets of Petrarch are as unmeaning as the promises of candidates. They are filled not with genuine passion, but with the feelings that lovers are supposed to have. Poetry cannot be written by rule; it is nota trade, or a profession. Let the critics lay down the laws, and the true poet will violate them all.