To know life he listens to the baby's prattle, the
mother's lullaby, and the father's prayer; he looks upon faces that show
joy and sorrow, hope and despair, defeat and triumph; and he feels the
pulsations of the tides, the hurricane, and the human heart.
=How the poet learns life.=--He sits beside the bed of sickness and
hears the feeble and broken words that tell of the past, the present,
and the future; he visits the field of battle and sees the wreckage of
the passions of men; he goes into the dungeon and hears the ravings and
revilings of a distorted soul; he visits pastoral scenes where peace and
plenty unite in a song of praise; he rides the mighty ship and knows the
heartbeats of the ocean; he sits within the church and opens the doors
of his soul to its holy influences; he enters the hovel whose squalor
proclaims it the abode of ignorance and vice; he visits the home of
happiness where industry and frugality pour forth their bounteous gifts
and love sways its gentle scepter; and he sits at the feet of his mother
and imbibes her gracious spirit.
=Transfusion of life.=--And then he writes; and as he writes his pen
drips life. He knows and feels, and, therefore, he expresses, and his
words are the distillations of life. His spiritual percipience has
rendered his soul a veritable garden of emotions, and with his pen he
transplants these in the written page. And men see and come to pluck the
flowers to transplant again in their own souls that they, too, may have
a garden like unto his.
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