Later he went to Sheepshead Bay to hear “Aïda” in the open air. “Suddenly when I heard the music I began to feel myself driven toward a goal—a goal that became more and more distinct each day. There were parts of such eloquent beauty in that opera that they tore my soul. At times, afterwards, even on the job amid the confusion of running engines, cars, screams, thuds, I felt the supreme charms of the melodies around me.” But he could not compose music, for he did not know one note from another—“as I still don’t know.... Music is not like the English language, that I began to write without a teacher.... In poetry I fared better. In the library I wandered upon Shelley and was again thrilled to the heart. Shelley I could proceed to emulate almost immediately.... It was a hard job to put my words in order. The stuff I used to write at first was unthinkable trash. But I was always bothering people to point out my mistakes. Grammar gave me plenty of trouble and still does. Rhyme stumped me. Then I began to read all kinds of poetry and saw that rhyme was not absolutely necessary. I also discovered that a good deal of what is called poetry is junk. So from the first I have tried to avoid echoing the things I have read, and to bring an originality both of expression and thought.” Pascal D’Angelo has taught himself French and Spanish and has read most of the best poets of those tongues as well as of English and Italian. At present he is living under the most difficult conditions, asking no favours, and writing poetry which, though much of it is naturally full of imperfections, occasionally strikes such notes as these in _The City_: We who were born through the love of God must die through the hatred of Man. We who grapple with the destruction of ignorance and the creation of unwitting love— We struggle, blinded by dismal night in a weird shadowy city. Yet the city itself is lifting street-lamps, like a million cups filled with light, To quench from the upraised eyes their thirst of gloom; And from the hecatombs of aching souls The factory smoke is unfolding in protesting curves Like phantoms of black unappeased desires, yearning and struggling and pointing upward; While through its dark streets pass people, tired, useless, Trampling the vague black illusions That pave their paths like broad leaves of water-lilies On twilight streams; And there are smiles at times on their lips. Only the great soul, denuded to the blasts of reality, Shivers and groans. And like two wild ideas lost in a forest of thoughts, Blind hatred and blinder love run amuck through the city. TAP-ROOT OR MELTING-POT?