"I know not," said Klingsohr, "why the representation of nature as a poet is commonly considered poetry. She is not so at all times. Dull desire, stupid apathy and sluggishness, are in her, as in men, exposing qualities which wage a restless strife with poesy. This mighty battle would be a fine subject for a poem. Many lands and ages seem, like the majority of men, to stand entirely under the dominion of this enemy to poesy; in others, on the contrary, poesy is at home and everywhere visible. The periods of this battle are very worthy of the historian's notice, and its representation is a pleasant and profitable employment. It is usually the season of the poet's birth. Nothing is more disagreeable to its adversary than that she, herself being opposed to poesy, becomes a poetic personage, and often in the heat of the engagement changes weapons with poesy, and is violently struck by her own venomous darts; while, on the other hand, the wounds of poesy, which she receives from her own weapons, heal readily, and only serve to render her yet more charming and powerful." "On the whole," said Henry, "war seems to me poetical. People fancy that they must fight for a possession no matter how miserable, and do not observe that the spirit of romance excites them to annihilate all useless baseness. They carry arms for the cause of poesy, and both hosts follow an invisible standard." "In war," replied Klingsohr, "the primeval fluid is stirred up. New continents are to arise, new races to spring forth from the great dissolution. The true war is the war of religion; its direct end is destruction; and men's madness appears in its full dimensions. Many wars, particularly those which originate in national hate, belong to this class, and are real poems. Here true heroes are at home, who, being the noblest antitypes of poesy, are but earthly powers involuntarily penetrated by poesy. A poet, who at the same time were a hero, would be indeed a heavenly messenger; but our poetry is not equal to the work of representing him." "How am I to understand that, dear father," said Henry. "Can any object be too lofty for poesy?"