ecgan spell,
Maenan fore mengo in meoduhealle,
Hu me cynegode cystum dohten.
Ic waes mid Hunum and mid Hreth-gotum,
Mid Sweom and mid Geatum, and mid Suth-Denum.
Mid Wenlum ic waes and mid Waernum and mid Wicingum.
Mid Gefthum ic waes and mid Winedum....

(Therefore I can sing and tell a tale, recount in the Mead Hall, how
men of high race gave rich gifts to me. I was with Huns and with Hreth
Goths, with the Swedes, and with the Geats, and with the South Danes;
I was with the Wenlas, and with the Waernas, and with the Vikings; I
was with the Gefthas and with the Winedae....)

and so on for a full dozen lines. I say that the memory of such men must
have needed every artifice to help it: and the chief artifice to their
hand was one which also delighted the ears of their listeners. They sang
or intoned to the harp.

There you get it, Gentlemen. I have purposely, skimming a wide subject,
discarded much ballast; but you may read and scan and read again, and
always you must come back to this, that the first poets sang their words
to the harp or to some such instrument: and just there lies the secret
why poetry differs from prose. The moment you introduce music you let in
emotion with all its sway upon speech. From that moment you change
everything, down to the order of the words--the _natural_ order of the
words: and (remember this) though the harp be superseded, the voice never
forgets it. You may take up a Barrack Room Ballad of Kipling's, and it is
there, though you affect to despise it for a banjo or concertina:--

Ford--ford--ford of Kabul river...

'Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.' From the
moment men introduced music they made verse a thing essentially separate
from prose, from its natural key of emotion to its natural ordering of
words. Do not for one moment imagine that when Milton writes:--

But cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw.

or

Of man's first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree...

--where you must seek down five lines before you come to the verb, and
then find it in the imperative mood--do not suppose for a moment that he
is here fantastically shifting words, inverting phrases out of their
natural order. For, as St Paul might say, there is a natural order of
prose and there is a natural order of verse. The natural order of prose
is:--

I was born in the year 1632, in the City