And yet caught up by the surrounding choirs, There, in the harmonies of the Universe, Losing himself, he saves his soul alive." "John, I'm afraid!"-- "Afraid of what, Susannah?"-- "Afraid to put those Ducklings on to roast. Your friend may miss his road; and, if he's late, My little part of the music will be spoiled."-- "He won't, Susannah. Bad poets are always late. Good poets, at times, delay a note or two; But all the great are punctual as the sun. What's that? He's early! That's his knock, I think!"-- "The Lord have mercy, John, there's nothing ready! Take him into your study and talk to him, Talk hard. He's come an hour before his time; And I've to change my dress. I'll into the kitchen!" Then, in a moment, all the cottage rang With greetings; hand grasped hand; his Excellency Forgot the careful prologue he'd prepared, And made an end of mystery. He had brought A message from his wisdom-loving king Who, hearing of new menaces to the light In Europe, urged the illustrious Kepler now To make his home in England. There, his thought And speech would both be free. "My friend," said Wotton, "I have moved in those old strongholds of the night, And heard strange mutterings. It is not many years Since Bruno burned. There's trouble brewing too, For one you know, I think,--the Florentine Who made that curious optic tube."-- "You mean The man at Padua, Galileo?"-- "Yes." "They will not dare or need. Proof or disproof Rests with their eyes."-- "Kepler, have you not heard Of those who, fifteen hundred years ago, Had eyes and would not see? Eyes quickly close When souls prefer the dark."-- "So be it. Other and younger eyes will see. Perhaps that's why God gave the young a spice Of devilry. They'll go look, while elders gasp; And, when the Devil and Truth go hand in hand, God help their enemies. You will send my thanks, My grateful thanks, Sir Henry, to your king. To-day I cannot answer you. I must think. It would be very difficult My wife Would find it hard to leave her native land. Say nothing yet before her." Then, to hide Their secret from Susannah, Kepler poured His mind out, and the world's dead branches bloomed. For, when he talked, another spring began To which our May was winter; and, in the boughs Of his delicious thoughts, like feathered choirs, Bits of old rhyme, scraps from the Sabine farm, Celestial phrases from the Shepherd King, And fluttering morsels from Catullus sang. Much was fantastic. All was touched with light That only genius knows to steal from heaven. He spoke of poetry, as the "flowering time Of knowledge," called it "thought in passionate tune With those great rhythms that steer the moon and sun; Thought in such concord with the soul of things That it can only move, like tides and stars, And man's own beating heart, and the wings of birds,