There I read Heine, all of him, every word. And over and over! I wish I could have the joy of it back. Those were memorable years in Europe when Heine, Goethe, Chopin, were in their prime. Germany helped enlarge boundaries of the human mind, when she began putting out cheap editions of the world’s printed art. Here, for a few pennies, one can procure in scholarly renderings, classic writers of India. _Kausika’s Zorn_, (a play) by Kschemisvara; _Savîtri_, a dramatic story of the supremacy of love from the Mahabharata, _Mudrarakschasa_ (The Chancellor’s Seal Ring), a play of the ancient Indian Drama, _Malati u. Madhava, Urvasi_, a dramatic piece by popular Kalidasa. In reading these books, I found where Goethe procured short, surprising meters that do not belong to Germany, (despite the _Stab-Reim_), which he uses in Faust. They were a borrowing from Indian Drama. Goethe borrowed from Persian writers too. He was enchanted with this newly presented art of the East, this world of beauty and blazing light. And so was Heine! Heine was akin to it. The Orient was in his blood. The soul of him dwelled under its mighty sun. I fancy his dream of the Orient was more superb than realization could have been, had he had health and money at the same time, to make the journey. Blessed be poverty! Poverty is still the _nobile donna_, of the divine dream of Dante. Her road is straight. Her road is narrow. But it leads far. Occasionally pages of Indian literature are richly studded with color, like their white lace-work marbles. The Peacock Throne, for example, with gems! The same lavishness! The same piling of richness upon richness, that not even their astounding sun could destroy, and which their black eyes, deep and disconcerting as pools of ebony, knew how to love. Compare this, (to return to Goethe’s borrowing), from the _Hitopadesa_, with Faust: _Grausam zart, Sanft und hart, Falsch und wahr Immerdar. Spenden Gabe, Suchend Habe, Immer gebend, Guterstrebend._ Would you not think you were reading Faust? Goethe’s _West-Östlicher Divan_ is merely a divine way, a proud impenitent poet’s way, of translating Firdusi, Hafiz, Saadi. He declared that in reading life-giving books of the East, he had cast off years, grown young. Somewhere in _The Divan_ he cries: _Once more I will be young! I will mingle with the herdsmen on the plains. I will travel with the caravan!_