“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d; “Is mind a deep that wells with most of thought When void the most? I tell you none can draw A truthful inspiration save from truth. The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds, All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun; But all his fairest forms were vapors first That heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath. Thought decks itself in holiday attire,— Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia large Of large reserves of philosophic force, Forced into play, the night’s dream opening where The day’s work closes.” “Close work thus,” he said; “And all the measures of your verse may show How sweet can be the echoes waked anon By labor’s ringing anvil.” “Nay,” I sigh’d. “Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams. When born with souls like harps the Muse would play, What better can men do than toil to keep Their thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth? For this will tax them wholly. They, who try, With those few strings that fate has given to them, To play all parts of all the orchestra Will help the play of no part. We are men; And straight and narrow must our pathways be. If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall. Not given to mortal is the life supreme, In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught, Existence evermore at equipoise, Complete with that which on itself depends. Oft, who his worth would double, nothing does Except to break the back of worth that was, While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste. We men should humbler be, and pray to heaven To have horizons hanging nearer us. Our views too broad unfit us for the earth, Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,— The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.” LIV. Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much, For he would rouse me in his rattling way: “Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes. Do not you pity moods that dote on you? If, man, your metaphysics be not yet Beyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself; Be more material; or material powers Will alienated grow, and so forget And count you out in all their reckonings; And you who are of earth, will earth own not; And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not. To own yourself and only own yourself, Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile, Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.” LV. Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause, His thought would light on Edith. He was right; Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace. For deeming love’s return my only hope, And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it, My slightest flush could furnish him a glow As bright to light his pathway as the day.