Where Angels Fear To Tread

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

And so I come to you my love, my heart over my head. 

It was not of my knowledge that this was an excerpt from Alexander Pope's essay on criticism.
Needless to say that I am in love with it.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.  

The idea of angels and the connotation between them and treading sort of lightened the burdens of my soul like the effeverscence that makes that cup of cold, melancholic soda a tad bit more exciting.

And then we have the fools... where in the absence of angels just leaves more room for those red horns clouding one's judgements, hence a fool.

Not guided by its altruistic moral intuitions.
No longer blessed by the light of wisdom and intellect.

That fool is not what I aspire to be, so now let us dwelve into the realm of the rest of Pope's words.

Learn then what morals critics ought to show,

For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.

'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;

In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:

That not alone what to your sense is due,

All may allow; but seek your friendship

Be silent always when you doubt your sense;

And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:

Some positive, persisting fops we know,

Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;

But you, with pleasure own your errors past,

And make each day a critic on the last.

'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true;

Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;

Men must be taught as if you taught them not;

And things unknown proposed as things forgot.

Without good breeding, truth is disapprov'd;

That only makes superior sense belov'd.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence;

For the worst avarice is that of sense.

With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,

Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;

Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.

Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,

There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,

With loads of learned lumber in his head,

With his own tongue still edifies his ears,

And always list'ning to himself appears.

All books he reads, and all he reads assails,

From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.

With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;

Garth did not write his own Dispensary .

Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,

Nay show'd his faults—but when would poets mend?

No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,

Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead:

For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks;

It still looks home, and short excursions makes;

But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks;

And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,

Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,

Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?

Unbias'd, or by favour or by spite;

Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;

Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere;

Modestly bold, and humanly severe?

Who to a friend his faults can freely show,

And gladly praise the merit of a foe?

Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;

A knowledge both of books and human kind;

Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;

And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were critics; such the happy few,

Athens and Rome in better ages knew.

The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,

Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:

He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,

Led by the light of the Mæonian Star.

Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,

Still fond and proud of savage liberty,

Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 'twas fit,

Who conquer'd nature, should preside o'er wit.

Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell

"Nature's chief master-piece is writing well."

Such was Roscommon—not more learn'd than good,

With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;

To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,

And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.

Such late was Walsh—the Muse's judge and friend,

Who justly knew to blame or to commend;

To failings mild, but zealous for desert;

The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.

This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,

This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:

The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,

Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing,

(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,

But in low numbers short excursions tries:

Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view,

The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:

Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame,

Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,

Averse alike to flatter, or offend,

Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

I have yet to venture and dive deep into the technicalities of reading poetry, but what I have done was basically get myself Thomas C Foster's How To Read Poetry Like a Professor... and I think that should go well. 

Conclusively, the challenge is to be able to primarily understand the meaning of poetry I desire to read. I mean.... I cannot be 20 and not know how to read a poetry well.

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