"That depends upon your view of her," said Klingsohr. "Nature is one thing for our enjoyment and our disposition, but another for our intellect, the guiding faculty of our earthward powers. We must take good care not to lose sight of one more than the other. There are many who only know the one side, and think but little of the other. But we can unite them both, and that too with profit. A great pity it is, that so few think of being able to move freely and fitly in their inner natures, and to insure for themselves, by a necessary separation, the most effectual and natural use of their faculties. Usually the one hinders the other; and thus a helpless sluggishness gradually arises, so that, if such men should ever arise with united powers, a great confusion and contention would ensue, and all things would be tossed here and there in an ungainly manner. I cannot sufficiently impress upon you, to endeavor with industry and care to be acquainted with your own intellect and natural bias. Nothing is more indispensable to the poet, than insight into the nature of every occupation, acquaintance with the means by which every object may be attained, and the power of fitly regulating the presence of the spirit according to time and circumstances. Inspiration without intellect is useless and dangerous; and the poet will be able to perform few wonders, when he is astonished by wonders." "But is not an implicit faith in man's dominion over destiny indispensable to the poet?" "Certainly indispensable, because he cannot represent fate to himself in any other light, when he maturely reflects upon it. But how distant is this calm certainty from that anxious doubt, which proceeds from the blind fear of superstition! And thus also the steady, animating warmth of a poetic mind is exactly the reverse of the wild heat of a sickly heart. The one is poor, overwhelming, and transient; the other perfectly distinguishes all forms, favors the culture of the most manifold relations, and is in itself eternal. The youthful poet cannot be too cool and considerate. A far-reaching, attentive, and quiet disposition belongs to the true, melodious ease of address. It becomes a confused prattling, when a violent storm is raging in the breast; and the attention is lost in a trembling emptiness of thought. Once more I repeat it; the true mind is like the light; even as calm and sensitive, as elastic and penetrating, as powerful and as imperceptibly active, as that costly element, which with its native regularity scatters itself upon all objects, and exhibits them in charming variety. The poet is pure steel, as sensitive as a brittle thread of glass, as hard as the unyielding flint."