The sentimental speaker slips into pathos (from logos to pathos) as she muses in rhyme, and can you (really) blame her literal lapse?—After all, is poetry not the ultimate pathos; the thought in feeling; the rapturous heart? And does it not befit she who it reads to dazzle in awe; to marvel at maniacal frenzy? Indeed, marvel is marked by an astonished wonder roused by the pangs of a passion, devoid of reason’s hegemony. Echoing the words of a great poet about a certain greatest of poets, she says: let the rhythms of rhyme marvel us to the point of petrification; let the marvel “make us marble with too much conceiving”—the marvel (n): the poetry; the marvel (v): the garnished effect of the reading—the emotion that binds found only in rhyme; the glittering rhetoric; the truth in mirage; let it remind that:
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.”
And so, can we blame the ecstatic Speaker; the hapless romantic; for a truant reason, a pathetic incline?
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