He shall sail singing still the songs he learned In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues Are overpast, and argosy and crew Ride at their port." "True as to facts," I said "And as to prophecies, most credible; But, as an illustration, false, I think. That which the voice and instrument may do For the composer, types may do for those Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ In language that the people do not read-- Is lame in that--and needs interpreters; While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. Your aunt can read the book within your hand As well as you, if she desire, yet finds Your score all Greek, until you vocalize Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts Which meet the eye in picture and in form, They ask no mediator but the light-- No grace but privilege to shine with naught Between them and the light. They are themselves Expositors of that which they expose, Or they are nothing. All the middle-men-- The fools profound--who take it on their tongues To play the showmen, strutting up and down, And mouthing of the beauty that they hide, Are an impertinence." "You leave no room For critics," she suggested, with a smile. "We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives And innocent babes it feeds." "No care for them!" I made reply. "They do not need much room-- Men of their build--and what they need they take. The feeble conies burrow in the rocks; But the trees grow, and we are not aware Of space encumbered by them." "Yet the fact Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, "That greatest artists speak to fewest souls, Or speak to them directly. They have need Of no such ministry as waits the beck Of the composer; but they need the life, If not the learning, of the cultured few Who understand them. If from out my book I gather that which feeds me, and inspires A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life, And give my life to those who cannot win From the dim text such boon, then have I borne A blessing from the book, and been its best Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are-- Some ready souls--that take the morsel pure Divided to their need; but multitudes Must have it in admixtures, menstruums, And forms that human hands or human life Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls In sight of great cathedrals, or in view Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, And not the best. That which they do not see Must enter higher souls, and there, by art Or life, be fashioned to their want."