The poet shall not
spend his time in unneeded work. He shall know that the ground is
already plough'd and manured; others may not know it, but he shall. He
shall go directly to the creation. His trust shall master the trust of
everything he touches--and shall master all attachment.
The known universe has one complete lover, and that is the greatest
poet. He consumes an eternal passion, and is indifferent which chance
happens, and which possible contingency of fortune or misfortune, and
persuades daily and hourly his delicious pay. What balks or breaks
others is fuel for his burning progress to contact and amorous joy.
Other proportions of the reception of pleasure dwindle to nothing to
his proportions. All expected from heaven or from the highest, he is
rapport with in the sight of the daybreak, or the scenes of the winter
woods, or the presence of children playing, or with his arm round
the neck of a man or woman. His love above all love has leisure and
expanse--he leaves room ahead of himself. He is no irresolute or
suspicious lover--he is sure--he scorns intervals. His experience
and the showers and thrills are not for nothing. Nothing can jar
him--suffering and darkness cannot--death and fear cannot. To him
complaint and jealousy and envy are corpses buried and rotten in the
earth--he saw them buried. The sea is not surer of the shore, or the
shore of the sea, than he is the fruition of his love, and of all
perfection and beauty.
The fruition of beauty is no chance of miss or hit--it is as
inevitable as life--it is exact and plumb as gravitation.
Pages:
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451