The poetry from the eighteenth century was prose; the prose from
The poetry from the eighteenth century was prose; the prose from the seventeenth century was poetry.
David Hare once declared: “The poetry from the eighteenth century was prose; the prose from the seventeenth century was poetry.” At first glance, these words may sound like a riddle, but within them lies a powerful truth about the nature of language, art, and the spirit of an age. He was not speaking only of verse and prose as forms of writing, but of the fire that animates them—the rhythm, the passion, the grandeur that can make prose sing like poetry, or reduce poetry to the lifeless plainness of prose.
The seventeenth century, with its voices like John Milton and John Donne, clothed even ordinary sentences in majesty. Their prose rang with cadence, with imagery, with the weight of spiritual struggle and divine longing. A sermon or a meditation of that age could move the soul like a hymn, for the writers of the time lived close to mystery. They wrote not only to inform but to exalt, not only to explain but to awaken. Thus, their prose bore the qualities of poetry, and their words endured not only as thought, but as song.
By contrast, the eighteenth century gave rise to another spirit: clarity, order, reason. The poetry of that age—think of Alexander Pope, precise and rational—was often neat, measured, and sharp, but it lacked the thunder of the heart. It sought wit rather than ecstasy, balance rather than rapture. And so, in Hare’s words, the poetry became prose—technical, clever, and controlled, but stripped of the raw fire that makes verse unforgettable. It was form without flame, structure without the wildness of spirit.
We see here that Hare’s insight is not only about literature, but about the eternal cycle of human creativity. Each age has its own breath, its own heartbeat. When one century exalts passion, the next may exalt reason; when one adorns even daily speech with grandeur, the next may dress even its poetry in restraint. Thus, art reflects not only the artist but the temper of a civilization, the tides of its soul.
Consider also how these words echo in history. In the seventeenth century, John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress—written as simple allegory in prose—has moved countless hearts like poetry, carrying spiritual truths with rhythm and image that seem sung from eternity. Yet in the eighteenth century, much of the verse, though polished, lacked this transcendent flame. The lesson is not to scorn one age or praise another, but to recognize that true art is not bound to form. Prose may live as poetry, and poetry may die into prose, depending on the spirit that breathes within it.
What, then, is the teaching for us? It is this: do not be deceived by names or appearances. A work does not live because it is called a poem, nor does it die because it is called prose. What matters is the life-force within—the rhythm, the vision, the truth that touches the heart. Seek always the fire, not the form. A simple letter written with honesty may carry more beauty than a thousand verses without soul.
Practically, this means that in your own speech and writing, you must aim for authenticity. Do not worry whether your words are poetic or plain, but let them be true, let them carry rhythm from the beating of your own heart. Read widely—poetry that sings and prose that glows—and let them teach you that form is but a vessel, while spirit is the wine within. In this way, you will not merely communicate—you will move, awaken, inspire.
Thus, remember David Hare’s paradox: “The poetry from the eighteenth century was prose; the prose from the seventeenth century was poetry.” These words remind us that greatness in art is not bound to category or name. What endures is not the shell, but the spirit—the living flame of language that turns even the simplest words into immortality.
BLBao Linh
This quote seems to speak to the fluidity of literary genres. In the seventeenth century, prose had a kind of lyrical quality that we often associate with poetry today. Does this mean that our modern understanding of 'poetry' and 'prose' is too rigid? Could we, perhaps, find more poetry in the prose of today if we opened our minds to different interpretations? What are the qualities that truly make something poetry, and how can we embrace them in all forms of writing?
DKDuong Ky
I love the idea of poetry and prose blurring into each other in different historical contexts. In a way, it suggests that art forms are constantly evolving and are influenced by the culture and attitudes of their time. But what does this tell us about the function of language? If the lines between poetry and prose are so fluid, how do we classify new forms of writing today? Are we witnessing a return to more poetic prose in some contemporary works?
HYTran Hai Yen
The idea that prose from the seventeenth century was closer to poetry than eighteenth-century poetry itself is intriguing. Could it be that language, in its earlier form, was more fluid and expressive, while later periods became more structured? If so, does this mean that we’ve lost some of the emotional depth or musicality in modern prose? How might we reclaim that deeper, poetic element in contemporary writing?
MNtran thi minh nguyet
This makes me reflect on how both poetry and prose have changed in their respective roles. In the seventeenth century, prose might have been rich with poetic qualities, while by the eighteenth century, poetry had become more structured and formal. Does this suggest that as art forms evolve, their function or impact on readers might shift as well? Could this evolution change how we appreciate or interpret literature today?
Ttranphuongthuy
David Hare’s statement feels like a commentary on how time changes our perception of language. The eighteenth-century 'poetry' being described as prose makes me wonder how much of what we consider poetic today might actually be more accessible or grounded in prose-like structures. Does this mean that the boundaries between poetry and prose aren’t as rigid as we think, but rather fluid and subjective over time?