"Well--if you wish it--yes:" she made reply. "And first, my auditor must know that I Relieve in inspiration, though he knows So much as that already, from my words,-- Believe that God inspires the poet's soul,-- That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear What in his realm holds finest ministry For highest aptitudes and needs of men, And skill to mould it into forms of art Which shall present it to the world he serves. Sometimes the poet writes with fire; with blood Sometimes; sometimes with blackest ink: It matters not. God finds his mighty way Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes Let in the morning light, and in that light Our faces shine with kindled sense of God And his unwearied goodness; but the glass Gets little good of it; nay, it retains Its chill and grime beyond the power of light To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass Had better eyes than he who strode his back, And, though the prophet bore the word of God, Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul Was not a fitting place for psalms like his To dwell in over-long, while waiting words, If I read rightly. As for the old seers, Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt Whether they comprehended what they saw, Or knew what they recorded. It remains For the world's teachers to expound their words; To probe their mysteries; and relegate The truth they hold in blind significance Into the fair domains of history And human knowledge. Am I understood?" "You are," I answered; "and I cannot say You flatter me. God takes within his hand A thing of his contrivance which we call A poet: then he puts it to his lips, And speaks his word, and puts it down again-- The instrument not better and not worse For being handled;--not improved a whit In quality, by quality of that Which it conveys. Do I report aright? Or do you prompt me?"