Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a

Thomas Babington Macaulay, historian and man of letters, once spoke with irony and profound recognition: “Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.” In these words, he does not mock poetry, nor belittle those who love it. Rather, he unveils a paradox long observed—that to write or even to deeply delight in poetry is to allow the mind to wander beyond the rigid walls of reason. Poetry requires a kind of unsoundness, not in the sense of madness that destroys, but of looseness from the ordinary, a willingness to embrace visions, emotions, and mysteries that logic alone cannot hold.

The origin of this thought springs from the ancient suspicion of poets that stretches back to Plato himself, who banished poets from his Republic for their dangerous power to stir passion and imagination. Macaulay, centuries later, acknowledges this tension: the poet, and even the reader of poetry, must surrender to a reality not wholly bound by reason. To step into verse is to step into a world where metaphor overturns literal meaning, where rhythm reshapes thought, where imagination triumphs over the rigid structure of logic. This requires a kind of delightful unsoundness of mind, a loosening of the grip of cold reason so that the soul may breathe in beauty.

History abounds with examples of this truth. Consider William Blake, painter and poet, whose visions of angels in London streets and prophecies of cosmic struggle seemed madness to his contemporaries. Many dismissed him as unsound in mind. Yet his poetry endures as a blazing testament to the marriage of imagination and truth. Without that so-called unsoundness, his vision could never have pierced the veil of the ordinary. Or think of Edgar Allan Poe, whose haunted mind gave birth to poetry that still chills the soul. To be a poet, or even to relish such poetry, requires a spirit willing to embrace what reason calls strange.

The meaning of Macaulay’s words also strikes at the heart of what poetry offers. Ordinary reason concerns itself with survival, with calculation, with daily affairs. But poetry calls us higher—it asks us to dream, to sorrow, to yearn for what is eternal. To give ourselves to poetry is to allow the mind to stray into realms where reality is reshaped by symbol and song. To resist such straying is to remain “sane” in the eyes of the world, but it is also to be poor in spirit, cut off from the richness of imagination. Thus Macaulay suggests that to enjoy poetry at all requires a measure of unsoundness, a willingness to step into another dimension of being.

And yet, this unsoundness is not weakness—it is strength. For what the world calls madness may be the very wisdom of the heart. The poet sees beyond appearances, hears music in silence, finds meaning where others see only emptiness. To ordinary minds, this seems folly; to those who understand, it is vision. Great leaders, prophets, and creators have often been accused of madness, yet it was their so-called unsoundness that opened paths no one else could see. The poet’s unsoundness is therefore the seed of humanity’s deepest truths.

The lesson we must draw is that we should not fear this unsoundness, but cultivate it carefully. Allow yourself moments where reason loosens its chains, where imagination rises, where beauty overwhelms logic. Read poetry not to dissect it like a dead specimen, but to let it intoxicate the heart. Write, if you are moved, without fear of being thought strange. For it is in this strangeness, this divine unsoundness, that humanity has always found its highest wisdom.

Practically, this means setting aside time for poetry, for art, for wonder. When you read, do not only look for meaning—let the rhythm carry you, let the images bewilder you, let the metaphors lift you into mystery. Accept that part of you must step outside the walls of common sense to truly savor beauty. And if others call this unsoundness, smile—for they speak truth without knowing its glory.

Thus Macaulay’s words endure like a torch of paradox: “No person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.” Embrace this unsoundness, for it is not decay but liberation. It is the madness that births vision, the folly that reveals wisdom, the strangeness without which the human spirit would be starved. For in the realm of poetry, sanity is too narrow a vessel to hold the infinite.