From what the moderns want, we must learn what poetry should

"From what the moderns want, we must learn what poetry should become; from what the ancients did, what poetry must be." Thus declared Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel, a voice of the Romantic age, who stood as a bridge between the wisdom of the past and the yearning of the present. In this saying, he calls upon us to hold both the ancients and the moderns in our gaze. From the ancients, we learn the eternal essence of poetry—its form, its dignity, its noble purpose. From the moderns, we learn its destiny—how it must evolve, how it must bend to the desires and longings of our restless time.

The ancients carved poetry from the very stone of existence. Homer sang the wrath of Achilles, Virgil raised the glory of Rome, Kalidasa revealed the tenderness of love in the turning of the seasons. These poets gave us what poetry must be: a vessel of truth, a hymn to the gods, a mirror of human greatness and frailty. Their words endure not because they pleased their age, but because they revealed what is timeless. They gave the world its sacred ground.

But the moderns, says Schlegel, show us something different. They do not wish only for tales of heroes and gods; they long for poetry that speaks to their own souls, their fractured lives, their hopes in a world of machines and cities. The modern spirit cries out for new forms, new voices, new visions. Thus poetry should become what answers that cry—not abandoning the eternal, but shaping it into fresh language, so the fire of old may warm new hearts.

Consider the story of Walt Whitman, a poet who, in the young land of America, broke the chains of classical verse and sang in sprawling, untamed lines. He drew upon the voice of the people, the rhythm of trains, the hum of labor, the vastness of the frontier. Yet within his wildness, he carried the ancient soul of poetry—the same reverence for life, the same longing for the eternal. From the ancients, he learned what poetry must be; from the moderns, he discovered what it should become.

Or think of Rabindranath Tagore, who in India carried the wisdom of the Vedas into the age of colonial modernity. His songs were steeped in ancient spiritual depth, yet they spoke to the modern heart aching for freedom and identity. He embodied Schlegel’s vision, showing that poetry does not die when ages change—it adapts, breathes anew, and yet remains rooted in eternal soil.

The meaning of Schlegel’s words is thus both heroic and practical. Poetry cannot be trapped in the past, nor severed from it. It must be like a tree: its roots sunk deep into ancient ground, its branches stretching toward the sky of tomorrow. The ancients show us the trunk that does not break; the moderns show us the buds and blossoms that must appear. To forget either is to lose balance: too much of the past makes poetry lifeless, too much of the present makes it shallow.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, learn this: when you create, when you write, when you dream, let the ancients guide your soul and let the moderns stir your vision. Read the epics of the past, yet listen also to the voices of your own day. Write with reverence, but also with daring. For poetry is not only memory—it is destiny. It carries the torch from the hands of the dead into the hands of the living, that it may never be extinguished.

And in your own life, whether you are a poet of words or a poet of deeds, remember Schlegel’s wisdom: hold fast to what is eternal, yet open your heart to what is new. For only in this union of what must be and what should become will your voice join the great chorus of humanity, echoing across the ages.