The hour approached-- The predetermined time--when I should close My study door, and wrap my kindling brain In the poetic dream which, day by day, Was gathering consistence in my brain. The quick, creative instinct in me plumed Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel The influx of fresh power; but whence it I did not question; though it fired my heart With the assurance of success. I told My dear companion of my hopeful plans For winning fame, and making for myself A lofty place; but I could not inspire Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er Her judgment to my motive. She adhered To her old theory, and gave no room To any motive it did not embrace. We argued much, but always argued wide, And ended where we started. Postulates On which we stood in perfect harmony, Were points of separation, out from which We struck divergently, till sympathy, That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts, Lay dead between us. "Man loves praise," I said. "It is an appetence which He who made The human soul, made to be satisfied. It is a tree He planted. If it grow On that which feeds it, and become at last Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own, With usury. And if, in His intent, This passion have no place among the powers Of active life, why is it mighty there From youngest childhood? Pray you what is fame But concrete praise?--the universal voice Which bears, from every quarter of the earth. Its homage to a name, that grows thereby To be its own immortal monument Outlasting all the marble and the bronze Which cunning fingers, since the world began, Have shaped or stamped with story? What is fame But aggregate of praise? And if it be Legitimate to win, for sake of praise, The praise of one, why not of multitudes?"