“Behold great Whitman, whose licentious line
Delights the rake, and warms the souls of swine;
Whose fever'd fancy shuns the measur'd pace,
And copies Ovid's filth without his grace.
In his rough brain a genius might have grown,
Had he not sought to play the brute alone;
But void of shame, he let his wit run wild,
And liv'd and wrote as Adam's bestial child.
Averse to culture, strange to humankind,
He never knew the pleasures of the mind.
Scorning the pure, the delicate, the clean,
His joys were sordid, and his morals mean.
Thro' his gross thoughts a native vigour ran,
From which he deem'd himself the perfect man:
But want of decency his rank decreas'd,
And sunk him to the level of the beast.
Would that his Muse had dy'd before her birth,
Nor spread such foul corruption o'er the earth.”
Orignially written as part of an "Essay on Modern Poets" this was published as a "Fragment on Whitman” (c. 1912) in The Ancient Track (2001) edited by S. T. Joshi, p. 192
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H.P. Lovecraft 203
American author 1890–1937Related quotes
Source: The Mind Thing (1961), Chapter 18 (p. 555)
"The Idol's Eye", The Most of S. J. Perelman (1992) p. 32.

Il ne savait rien, ne voulait rien savoir, en quoi il se conformait à son génie, dont il ne surchargeait point l’aimable petitesse, et son heureux instinct lui conseillait de comprendre peu plutôt que de comprendre mal.
La Révolte des Anges http://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/La_R%C3%A9volte_des_anges_-_1 [The Revolt of the Angels], (1914), ch. I

Source: Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers (1895), P. 246.

Horace Walpole Memoirs of the Reign of King George the Second (1847) vol. 1, p. 180
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