To every soul that has loved and lost, to those who have stood by open graves, to all who have beheld the sun go down on less worth in the world, these songs are a victor's cry. They tell of love and life that rise phoenix-like from the ashes of despair; of doubt turned to faith; of fear which has become serenest peace. All poems that endure must have this helpful, uplifting quality. Without violence of direction they must be beacon-lights that gently guide stricken men and women into safe harbors. The "Invocation," written nearly a score of years after Hallam's death, reveals Tennyson's personal conquest of pain. His thought has broadened from the sense of loss into a stately march of conquest over death for the whole human race. The sharpness of grief has wakened the soul to the contemplation of sublime ideas—truth, justice, nobility, honor, and the sense of beauty as shown in all created things. The man once loved a person—now his heart goes out to the universe. The dread of death is gone, and he calmly contemplates his own end and waits the summons without either impatience or fear. He realizes that death itself is a manifestation of life—that it is as natural and just as necessary. "Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me, And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea." The desire for sympathy and the wish for friendship are in his heart, but the fever of unrest and the spirit of revolt are gone. His heart, his hope, his faith, his life, are freely laid on the altar of Eternal Love. ROBERT BURNS TO JEANNIE Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn, as vilest dust, The warld's wealth and grandeur. And do I hear my Jeannie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life, alone, That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share Than sic a moment's pleasure. And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever: And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. —Robert Burns ROBERT BURNS The business of Robert Burns was love-making. All love is good, but some kinds of love are better than others. Through Burns' penchant for falling in love we have his songs. A Burns bibliography is simply a record of his love-affairs, and the spasms of repentance that followed his lapses are made manifest in religious verse. Poetry is the very earliest form of literature, and is the natural expression of a person in love; and I suppose we might as well admit the fact at once that without love there would be no poetry. Poetry is the bill and coo of sex. All poets are lovers, and all lovers, either actual or potential, are poets. Potential poets are the people who read poetry; and so without lovers the poet would never have a market for his wares.