He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height, And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing Old ballads and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth Like Elivagar’s rivers flowing Out of the glaciers of the North. These are the things that make poets, and musicians are poets. Then continues the same author: And when he played, the atmosphere Was filled with music, and the ear Caught echo of that harp of gold Whose music had so weird a sound, The heeled stag forgot to bound, The leaping rivulet backward rolled, The bird came down from bush and tree, The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harper’s knee. Only these few lines make it clear that Longfellow has not only communed with Brage, but has also refreshed himself at the Castalian fountain; that he has not only penetrated the mysteries of the Greek mythology, but has also visited the deities of the North.