Poetry is a beautiful way of spoiling prose, and the laborious

Hear, O seekers of words and wisdom, the voice of Horace Walpole, who with wit and irony declared: “Poetry is a beautiful way of spoiling prose, and the laborious art of exchanging plain sense for harmony.” Though these words may seem to mock the poet’s craft, they conceal a deeper reflection on the eternal tension between clarity and beauty, between the straight path of sense and the winding road of song. Walpole, master of satire and observer of human folly, spoke in jest, but his jest carries truth, for in it we are reminded that poetry is no easy ornament—it is both gift and burden.

For what is prose, if not the voice of plain speech, the language of reason, instruction, and common life? In prose, we say what we mean with directness, as one man to another, without disguise. It is the bread of communication, nourishing but unadorned. Yet poetry dares to take this bread and transform it into wine, flavored with music and metaphor. In so doing, it may seem to “spoil” prose, twisting straightforward meaning into veiled imagery. But is this spoiling, or is it sanctifying? Walpole’s irony invites us to ponder this paradox.

The “laborious art” he names is no idle exaggeration. For to write poetry is to wrestle with form and rhythm, to choose not the simplest word but the word that sings. The poet labors to bend plain sense into patterns of harmony, sometimes sacrificing direct clarity for resonance, sometimes exchanging blunt truth for symbolic fire. Yet it is precisely this sacrifice that gives poetry its power. In the loss of plainness, something greater is gained: the music that awakens the soul.

Consider the tale of Homer, whose epics shaped the Western world. If he had written only plain accounts of war and wandering, we might know a little of Troy and Ithaca. But by clothing these stories in verse, by weaving sense into harmony, he gave them immortality. The shield of Achilles, the song of the Sirens, the wrath of Achilles—these live not because they were plainly told, but because they were sung. If prose is a lamp that lights the road, poetry is the torch that burns into eternity.

Walpole’s words also remind us of the danger: poetry can confuse as much as it enlightens. The “spoiling” of prose is real if poetry becomes vanity—more concerned with clever sound than with meaning. Many a poet has been guilty of exchanging truth for mere decoration, sense for hollow music. This is why Walpole speaks with irony: he warns that poetry must serve meaning, not merely harmony, or it risks becoming a beautiful shell without life inside.

Yet, even in jest, Walpole cannot hide the admiration in his words. He calls poetry “beautiful,” acknowledging that even when it departs from sense, it enchants. For beauty has its own truth, and harmony its own wisdom. A single verse can move the heart where plain prose cannot. A song can console the grieving when reason fails. Poetry may spoil sense, but it awakens spirit; it may twist meaning, but it teaches us to see meaning more deeply.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, the lesson is this: do not despise the “spoiling” of prose by poetry, nor fall into the trap of thinking clarity and beauty are enemies. Learn first to speak plainly, that your words may carry truth. Then learn to adorn them with harmony, that your truth may endure. Strive always to balance sense and song, reason and rhythm. For prose feeds the mind, but poetry feeds the soul, and the greatest works of humanity are born when both are united.

So remember Walpole’s wisdom, clothed in jest: poetry is indeed a laborious art, a reshaping of plain sense into radiant harmony. Treat it not as a frivolous indulgence, but as a sacred task. Let your prose be the foundation, let your poetry be the flame, and together they will become a light for generations yet unborn. For beauty may spoil plainness, but in its spoiling, it creates eternity.