They mentioned various differences, such as subject-matter, form, manner of treatment. “The chief difference between prose and poetry,” I said, “is that poetry is written in poetry.” That seemed an evident difference. “Metre, rhyme, musical measure of the words are qualities of poetry alone.” “But all poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Virginia. “No,” I answered, “but all poetry has metre. Tell me another difference. In what way does poetry affect you differently from prose?” “I know what you mean,” said Florence. “You mean because it has metaphor and simile.” “That, too, but something else.” Marian answered, with some hesitation: “Poetry is emotional. It stirs your feelings more than prose.” “That is what I meant,” I said; “it resembles music because it stirs you as much by the sound as by the sense. And just because it is more unreal and distant, it seems more real and close and complete in its grip. A thing must be far off to give us the sense of completeness and beauty. Music is to me the art of arts, because it expresses everything and defines nothing; because it is like life itself, rather than a description of life.” Henry assented enthusiastically. I went on: “You spoke of metaphor and simile. We find it not only in all poetry, but in all prose. And what is it but the relationing of things to one another, the likeness and the bond between things unlike? And so keen is it, so natural, so close to us, that we use it every day, we are poets every moment in this respect, for we hardly ever speak without using metaphor. We say a sharp look, a piercing look, and so use metaphor. Do you see?” Marian said: “When we say in school, for instance, that our teacher looked daggers, we are using metaphor.” “Yes,” I answered, “and even slang is often good metaphor.” Alfred asked: “If you call a person a lemon, is that metaphorical?” “Surely,” I said; “but I think it would hardly do in poetry, because it is too unsympathetic.” “How about 23 skidoo?” asked Virginia. “Is that simile or metaphor?” “That,” said I, “is less metaphor than nonsense.” I said that in the modern play, which could not use the figurative language of poetry, the metaphor and simile were replaced by the symbol. I could not go into this, however, as none of them, except Florence, had read any modern plays. So I spoke of the fairy story, and how it often stood for something which was not itself. “Yes, like Brandt,” said Florence. I did not dwell on this point, but went on to the subject of taking sides in poetry. I said that good poetry could not possibly take sides; that all didactic and party poetry was poor. “I don’t see that,” answered Henry. “No,” said Florence, “he wouldn’t let me convince him of it the other day.” Henry went on: “Take Whittier’s war-time poems; they were written with a purpose and taking sides.”