As civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines.

Hear the sober words of Thomas Babington Macaulay, historian and orator of the nineteenth century: “As civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines.” At first, these words may wound the heart of the dreamer. How can it be, we ask, that progress, which brings wealth, knowledge, and power, also carries with it the fading of the poetic spirit? Yet Macaulay, with the eye of a historian, speaks of the tension between the growth of reason and the loss of wonder. He reminds us that as societies march forward into complexity, the raw simplicity that births great poetry is often left behind.

For in the dawn of nations, when the world is still half-shadow and mystery, men see the gods in every river, hear the voices of spirits in every wind, and tremble before the unknown. From this awe springs the first poetry—the hymns of Homer, the chants of the Vedas, the sagas of the Norse. In those days, imagination is not an ornament but a necessity, for myth is the vessel that carries truth when reason is not yet strong. But as civilization advances, knowledge displaces mystery. Science explains what once was sacred, industry tames what once was wild, and in this taming, the poetic flame begins to flicker.

Consider the example of ancient Greece. In its early age, Homer sang of gods and heroes, and Aeschylus clothed the stage in grandeur. But as philosophy flourished, as politics grew intricate, as Athens became the school of reason for the world, the old poetic power waned. Plato himself banished poets from his Republic, believing that reason must govern where imagination once ruled. So too in Rome: the early epics of Ennius gave way to the dry orations of law and history. The muse was not dead, but she was no longer enthroned.

Macaulay saw this pattern repeated in his own age. With the rise of machines, with the spread of commerce, with the triumph of science, he feared that the conditions for great poetry were slipping away. For poetry, in its highest form, thrives on mystery, passion, and the grandeur of the untamed. But the modern man, he argued, has less need to dream when he can measure, less need to sing when he can calculate. To him, the thunder is no longer the voice of Zeus, but the discharge of electricity. And when the gods fall silent, who shall give birth to epics?

Yet let us not despair. For though Macaulay spoke with the severity of a historian, the truth is not absolute. Even in advanced civilizations, poets rise who turn the gaze inward, who find mystery not in the stars above but in the human heart. Wordsworth, in the very age of industry, sang of daffodils and streams, reminding man that progress need not silence wonder. Tagore, in the modern world, found the divine in the simplest acts of life. Thus the decline Macaulay foresaw is not inevitable, but a warning: that without vigilance, the soul of poetry can wither in the glare of progress.

The lesson, then, is plain. As you walk through this advancing world, guard the poetic spirit within you. Do not let the noise of machines, the calculations of markets, or the coldness of reason alone strip away your sense of awe. Seek poetry not only in ancient tales but in your own life: in the face of a child, in the silence of a forest, in the courage of those who endure hardship with grace. Let progress serve your body, but let poetry feed your soul.

Therefore, remember Macaulay’s warning, but also remember your power to answer it. Yes, civilization advances, and yes, it may seem that poetry declines. But if each of us chooses to honor beauty, to seek wonder, to speak truth in images and rhythms, then poetry will not perish. It will change its form, but not its essence. For wherever the human heart beats, there too the muse waits, ready to turn even the most advanced age into a hymn of life.