And then was enacted a little drama—tragedy if ever there was one—that must often enough take place in the secret places of the world’s houses, where the dumb poet seeks to transfer his genuine passion into the measure of halting and inadequate verse. Poignantly dramatic the spectacle must be, though never witnessed mercifully by an audience of more than one. Paul wrote fast, setting the words down almost as they came. It was that little passionate Wind of Inspiration that was the cause of all the trouble. Smoke jumped up on the table to watch the motion of the pencil across the paper. For some reason he hardly thought it worth while to play with it: The Winds of Inspiration blow, Yet pass me ever by; And songs God taught me long ago, Unuttered burn and—die. He read the verse over, and with an impatient motion altered ‘burn’ into ‘fade.’ Then he shook his head and continued: From all the far blue hills of heaven The dews of beauty rain; Yet unto me no drops are given To quench the ancient pain. He scratched out ‘ancient’ and wrote over the top ‘undying.’ Then he scratched out ‘undying’ and put ‘ancient’ back in its place. This time Smoke stretched out a long black paw with a velvet end to it and gave the pencil a deliberate dab. Paul either ignored, or did not notice it; but Smoke left the paw thrust forward upon the paper so as to be ready for the next dab. I know the passion of the night, Full of all days unborn,— Full of the yearning of the light For one undying Morn. Smoke caught the tip of the pencil with a swift and accurate stroke, and the ‘M’ of ‘Morn’ was provided with an irregular tail Paul had not intended. Very quickly, however, without further interruption, he wrote on to the end. Above the embers of my heart, Waiting the Living Breath; The sparks fly listlessly apart— Then circle to their death. Dead sparks that gathered ne’er to flame, Nor felt the kiss of fire! Dead thoughts that never found the name To spell their deep desire! Is then this instrument so poor That it may never sound Songs that must pass for evermore Unuttered and uncrowned? O soul that fain would’st steal heaven’s fire, Who clipped thy golden wings? Who made so passionate a lyre, Then never tuned the strings? The Winds of Inspiration blow, Yet pass me ever by; And songs God taught me long ago, Lost in the silence—die.