Prose is not so dependent on sound. The line of poetry, with the

O seekers of wisdom, hear well the words of Donald Hall, who speaks of the sound and structure that lie at the heart of poetry: "Prose is not so dependent on sound. The line of poetry, with the breaking of the line—to me, sound is the kind of doorway into poetry. And my sense of sound, or my ability to control it, lapsed or grew less." In these words, Hall reminds us of the unique nature of poetry—how it is not simply a vessel for meaning, but a carefully constructed art that relies on the sound of words, the rhythm of their arrangement, and the way they break upon the reader’s ear. Poetry is, in many ways, a sonic experience, and it is through sound—the breaking of the line, the rhythm, the pause—that poetry opens its doors to the soul.

In the ancient world, the poet was not merely a teller of stories, but a master of sound. Homer, whose works have shaped the foundation of Western literature, understood the power of sound in poetry. His epic poems, such as the Iliad and the Odyssey, were meant to be heard aloud, and they relied heavily on rhythm and meter to carry the listener through the story. The line of poetry, with its carefully crafted breaks and cadences, was as important as the meaning it conveyed. The sound of the words was the gateway into the emotions, the action, and the grandeur of the world that Homer depicted. His poetry was not just meant to be read—it was meant to be performed, to be heard, to move with the rhythms of the human spirit.

Hall's reflection on the breaking of the line and the role of sound echoes this ancient understanding of poetry as a living, breathing thing. While prose can be understood primarily through its meaning, poetry lives not only in its words but in the sound of those words. Sound is the doorway that invites us into the world of poetry, guiding us through the emotions and images it evokes. The line, the break, the pause—they are all part of the poetry's music, the rhythm that carries us from one thought to the next. Just as a great symphony cannot be reduced to the notes on the page without the performance, poetry cannot be fully appreciated without the experience of its sound.

Consider the work of W.B. Yeats, whose poetry was defined not only by its imagery and themes, but by the sound of his words. Yeats was a master of rhythm and meter, and his poems—whether The Lake Isle of Innisfree or The Second Coming—are meant to be heard as much as they are meant to be read. The cadence of his lines, the way they break and fall, gives life to the themes he explores. When Yeats writes, he does not just craft ideas; he crafts a song, one that carries the weight of history, emotion, and spirit. The sound of his words is inseparable from their meaning, for in poetry, as Hall suggests, the sound itself is the gateway into the deeper, often ineffable truths that the poet seeks to convey.

The importance of sound in poetry is not only in the way it guides us through the poem, but in the way it allows us to experience the world through the poet’s ear. Rainer Maria Rilke, in his Letters to a Young Poet, speaks of the need for the poet to listen deeply—to listen not only to their own heart, but to the world around them. Rilke understood that poetry is not just about the meaning of the words but about the resonance they create in the soul. When Hall speaks of his lapsed sense of sound, he reflects the complex relationship the poet has with their craft—how, as time passes, the instinctive understanding of sound may fade or become harder to control, but the poet’s relationship to it never fully disappears.

The lesson that Hall offers us is clear: poetry is an art of both meaning and sound. The breaking of the line, the rhythm of the words, the way they flow—these are just as important as the thoughts and ideas contained within them. If we are to understand poetry, we must engage not only with its meaning, but with its sound, its music, its rhythm. The words must be felt, not just understood; they must be heard, not just read. Like Homer, Yeats, and the poets who have come before and after, we must remember that poetry is a performance—a dance between the mind, the ear, and the soul.

Thus, O children of wisdom, let us take this lesson to heart: when we read or write poetry, let us not forget the power of sound. Let the rhythms, the pauses, the breaking of the line guide us to deeper understanding, to deeper feeling. Let the words of poetry be not just vessels of meaning, but vessels of sound, of music, of life. Whether you write poetry or read it, let the sound be your guide into the heart of the work. For in the sound of the words lies the true poetry, the gateway to the deepest truths that the poet seeks to convey. Let poetry be a song that speaks to you—not just with its ideas, but with the music of its very being.