Poetry (n.) should be heard less by children, and by men meant to fear slavery more than death, the more poetic the passage is.
Poetry (n.) waters sex, anger, and every desire, pleasure, and pain, and makes rulers of them when they ought to wither and be ruled.
Poetry (n.) stripped of its musical colorings looks like the face of a boy who is neither fine nor beautiful once the bloom of youth has left it.
Poetry (n.) is only speeches to a crowd once stripped of melody, rhythm and meter — oratory practiced in the theater, flattering men, women, children, slave and free alike.
Poetry (n.) about human beings says the just are wretched, the unjust happy, and justice another's good but one's own loss — stories to be banned once we know what justice is.
Poetry (n.) is not made with knowledge but by inborn talent and inspiration, like prophecy: the bystanders could explain the poems better than the poets.
Poetry (n.) is loved as one loves someone whose passion isn't good for us — we force ourselves to stay away, chanting the argument like an incantation against slipping back.
Poetry (n.) is not made by mastery: each poet can compose only what the Muse stirs him to — one dithyrambs, another epics — and is worthless at the rest.
Poetry (n.) once its pleasure-giving Muse is admitted makes pleasure and pain the city's kings instead of law and reason; only hymns to gods and eulogies of good people may enter.
Poetry (n.) brought into conversation is like hired flute-girls at a drinking party: an outside voice for people who cannot entertain each other with their own.
Poetry (n.) cannot be reached by expertise: whoever comes to its gates without the Muses' madness will fail, and his self-controlled verses will be eclipsed by men driven out of their minds.