There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is

“There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.” Thus proclaimed Edward Young, the English poet whose Night Thoughts once stirred the imagination of Europe. In these words he reminds us that poetry belongs not only to the mind that reasons, but to the spirit that marvels. Prose logic seeks clarity, argument, and proof. Poetry, however, lives in another realm, where mystery is not an enemy but a companion, and where truth is felt before it is explained.

The meaning of this saying rests in the distinction between reason and wonder. Prose can map the world, define its borders, measure its distances. But poetry ventures where logic falters. It gives voice to longing, to awe, to terror, to ecstasy—those regions of human experience that cannot be tamed by reason alone. To demand that poetry explain itself is to miss its essence, for its power lies in its mystery, in the way it awakens in us feelings and visions that resist analysis. Poetry is not less than logic—it is more.

The origin of Young’s insight is bound to his age. He lived in the eighteenth century, a time often called the Age of Reason, when rational philosophy and scientific inquiry were celebrated above all. Yet Young’s own masterpiece, Night Thoughts, dwelt in meditation on death, eternity, and the soul. He recognized that while prose logic could argue about the immortality of man, only poetry could evoke its terror and its grandeur. Thus he turned to verse, acknowledging that the deepest truths are not explained but felt, not defined but admired in awe.

Consider the story of William Blake, who came a generation after Young. Blake defied the rationalism of his time, creating poems and visions filled with angels, prophecies, and fiery images. To the logical mind, much of Blake’s work seems incomprehensible, even chaotic. Yet it continues to move readers because it is saturated with mystery—truths clothed not in argument but in symbol. Like Young, Blake knew that poetry’s task was not to explain like prose but to reveal through wonder, leaving the reader not with conclusions but with vision.

The lesson here is clear: we must not demand of every art that it be logical. There is a higher wisdom in learning to admire what cannot be dissected. Just as the stars lose their splendor when reduced only to numbers, so a poem loses its soul if treated only as argument. We must learn to stand before poetry as before a great mountain or a silent sea—with reverence, allowing its mystery to enter us without insisting it be explained.

Practically, this calls us to patience and humility when we approach art and life. Read a poem not to solve it like a puzzle, but to dwell in its beauty, to feel its music, to let its images move you. And in life, do not demand that every moment be explained. There are mysteries in love, in death, in creation itself, that cannot be reduced to logic. To admire them is wiser than to exhaust them with explanations.

Thus the teaching endures: poetry stands beyond prose logic, a realm of mystery to be admired rather than solved. Edward Young reminds us that man is not only a creature of reason, but also of wonder. And it is wonder that enlarges the soul. Let us then honor poetry not only for what it explains, but for what it awakens—the silent awe that no words can bind, the eternal mystery that is itself the heartbeat of life.