A great poem is no finish to a man or
woman, but rather a beginning. Has any one fancied he could sit at last
under some due authority, and rest satisfied with explanations, and realise
and be content and full? To no such terminus does the greatest poet bring--
he brings neither cessation nor sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of
him tells in action. Whom he takes he takes with firm sure grasp into live
regions previously unattained. Thenceforward is no rest: they see the space
and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots and lights into dead vacuums.
The companion of him beholds the birth and progress of stars, and learns
one of the meanings. Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and
chaos. The elder encourages the younger, and shows him how: they two shall
launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself,
and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars, and sweeps through
the ceaseless rings, and shall never be quiet again.
There will soon be no more priests. Their work is done. They may wait a
while--perhaps a generation or two,--dropping off by degrees. A superior
breed shall take their place--the gangs of kosmos and prophets _en masse_
shall take their place.
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