Nothing can be its own reward and hold Rank above patience, or whatever game, Angling or avarice, is selfisher. O watering palates! and, O skyey grapes! O purple path above the milky way! Give me to dream dreams all would love to dream; To tell the world's truth; hear the world tramp time With satin slippers and with hob-nailed shoes To my true singing: fame is worth its cost, Blood-sweats, and tears, and haggard, homeless lives. How dare a man, appealing to the world, Content himself with ten! How dare a man Appeal to ten when all the world should hear! How dare a man conceive himself as else Than his own fool without the world's hurrah To echo him! Smith. But if the world won't shout Till he be dead? Hallowes. Let him address the street: No subtle essences, ethereal tones For senses sick, bed-ridden in the down Of culture and its stifling curtains. Gusts From bean-fields and the pine-woods, thought and deed Of the young world bursting its swaddling bands Before the upturned eyes and warning palms Of fangless Use and Wont, his nurses hoar-- These find an echo everywhere. Smith. The world Still follows culture, though. Hallowes. Maybe. But it Follows itself, and shall, Narcissus-like, Perish of self-love. Smith. Echo, what of her? Hallowes. She shall be re-incarnate by the word That she shall hear. Smith. What word? Hallowes. It is not said. Smith. Who shall pronounce it? Hallowes. Who knows?--You, or I? Smith. Well said! We'll go together to the North. Hallowes. What! are you free? Smith. I am. You want to write: I want to think. When shall we start? Hallowes. To-morrow. Smith. So soon! But you are right: one must become Fanatic--be a wedge--a thunder-bolt, To smite a passage through the close-grained world. [They go out. ACT II SCENE.--An arbour in Graham's orchard. Enter Smith, Hallowes, and Graham.