But, for the Evening Star, I have it there. I would not have it nearer. Is that love As thou dost understand? Yet is it mine As I would have it: to look down on me, Not loving and not cruel; to be bright, Out of my reach; to lighten me the dark When I lift eyes to it, and in the day To be forgotten. But of all things, far, Far off beyond me, otherwise no star. Marlowe's closing words bring us to another important question, _i. e._, the stage of love at which it is most inspiring. This is the subject of much difference of opinion. Mrs. Browning might well inquire, in one of her love sonnets, How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing, of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. [Footnote: _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, XVII.] Each of these situations has been celebrated as begetting the poet's inspiration. To follow the process of elimination, we may first dispose of the married state as least likely to be spiritually creative. It is true that we find a number of poems addressed by poets to their wives. But these are more likely to be the contented purring of one who writes by a cozy fireside, than the passionate cadence of one whose genius has been fanned to flame. One finds but a single champion of the married state considered abstractly. This is Alfred Austin, in whose poem, _The Poet and the Muse_, his genius explains to the newly betrothed poet: How should you, poet, hope to sing? The lute of love hath a single string. Its note is sweet as the coo of the dove, But 'tis only one note, and the note is love. But when once you have paired and built your nest, And can brood thereon with a settled breast, You will sing once more, and your voice will stir All hearts with the sweetness gained from her. And perhaps even Alfred Austin's vote is canceled by his inconsistent statement in his poem on Petrarch, _At Vaucluse_, Let this to lowlier bards atone, Whose unknown Laura is their own, Possessing and possessed: Of whom if sooth they do not sing, 'Tis that near her they fold their wing To drop into her nest. Let us not forget Shelley's expression of his need for his wife: Ah, Mary dear, come to me soon; I am not well when thou art far; As twilight to the sphered moon, As sunset to the evening star, Thou, beloved, art to me. [Footnote: _To Mary_.] Perhaps it is unworthy quibbling to object that the figure here suggests too strongly Shelley's consciousness of the merely atmospheric function of Mary, in enhancing his own personality, as contrasted with the radiant divinity of Emilia Viviani, to whom he ascribes his creativeness. [Footnote: Compare Wordsworth, _She Was a Phantom of Delight_, _Dearer Far than Life_; Tennyson, _Dedication of Enoch Arden_.]