Description

The secret of a poem, no less than a jest'sprosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it. Yield to itsspell, accept the poet's mood: this, after all, is what the sagesanswer when you ask them of its value. Even though the poethimself, in his other mood, tell you that his art is but sleight ofhand, his food enchanter's food, and offer to show you the trick ofit,—believe him not. Wait for his prophetic hour; then giveyourself to his passion, his joy or pain. "We are in Love's handto-day!" sings Gautier, in Swinburne's buoyant paraphrase,—and frommorn to sunset we are wafted on the violent sea: there is but onelove, one May, one flowery strand. Love is eternal, all else unrealand put aside. The vision has an end, the scene changes; but wehave gained something, the memory of a charm. As many poets, somany charms. There is the charm of Evanescence, that which lends tosupreme beauty and grace an aureole of Pathos. Share with Landorhis one "night of memories and of sighs" for Rose Aylmer, and youhave this to the full.