Like Dante, we seem disposed to faint at every step in our revelation. Now a doubt crosses our minds whether the child of genius in his crippled moments is better fitted than the rest of us to point out the pathway to sacred enthusiasm. It appears that little verse describing the poet's afflatus is written when the gods are actually with him. In this field, the sower sows by night. Verse on inspiration is almost always retrospective or theoretical in character. It seems as if the intermittence of his inspiration filled the poet with a wistful curiosity as to his nature in moments of soaring. By continual introspection he is seeking the charm, so to speak, that will render his afflatus permanent. The rigidity in much of such verse surely betrays, not the white heat of genius, but a self-conscious attitude of readiness for the falling of the divine spark. One wonders whether such preparation has been of much value in hastening the fire from heaven. Often the reader is impatient to inform the loud-voiced suppliant that Baal has gone a-hunting. Yet it is alleged that the most humble bribe has at times sufficed to capture the elusive divinity. Schiller's rotten apples are classic, and Emerson lists a number of tested expedients, from a pound of tea to a night in a strange hotel. [Footnote: See the essay on Inspiration. Hazlitt says Coleridge liked to compose walking over uneven ground or breaking through straggling branches.] This, however, is Emerson in a singularly flat-footed moment. The real poet scoffs at such suggestions. Instead, he feels that it is not for him to know the times and seasons of his powers. Indeed, it seems to him, sometimes, that pure contrariety marks the god's refusal to come when entreated. Thus we are told of the god of song, Vainly, O burning poets! Ye wait for his inspiration. * * * * * Hasten back, he will say, hasten back To your provinces far away! There, at my own good time Will I send my answer to you. [Footnote: E. C. Stedman, _Apollo_. _The Hillside Door_ by the same author also expresses this idea. See also Browning, _Old Pictures in Florence_, in which he speaks "of a gift God gives me now and then." See also Longfellow, _L'Envoi_; Keats, _On Receiving a Laurel Crown_; Cale Young Rice, _New Dreams for Old_; Fiona Macleod, _The Founts of Song_.] Then, at the least expected moment, the fire may fall, so that the poet is often filled with naive wonder at his own ability. Thus Alice Meynell greets one of her poems, Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine? This winter of a silent poet's heart Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art, Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.