The Poet

(A Lyrical Play)

(Rendered by ‘Shyama’ from the Kannada original)

(From the Author’s Foreword: When the intellect awakes, it leads to inquiry or speculation; but the answer that can give full satisfaction is to be found only when the heart awakes in the fullness of delight, when the inquiring mind itself is dissolved in joy.)

Dramatis Personae

The Poet
The Poet’s wife
A leader and his band of youthful friends
Yaksha (a demi-god)
Mountain Spirit
Wood-Nymph
Water-Nymph
Wind Spirit

Human Personality

Goddess of Beauty

Meditative Chant

By Beauty’s stamped this face,
And joy doth th’ other grace.
What a coin to circulate ‘mongst those of taste and light!
Venerable is the poet minting it e’er bright.
Salutations unto him who can dispense.
His heart’s bounty of creative joyance.

Scene 1

(Place: Path leading to the woods. Time: Early part of morning.)
Enter some lads.

Leader: We have a holiday at last! Come, let us be merry. Why delay? Come on, friends, ye wayfarers on the path of pleasure. The sun is already up and shining. Say, how shall we engage ourselves next?

First Boy: Look here, the basket is full! All this have I brought gratis, by begging from house to house and teasing all the grannies.

Second Boy: (Examining the contents) That’s fine indeed! Cakes and puddings and fried salted things, and a potfull of coffee besides! Well, thou art exempt from carrying the basket.

First Boy: Leader, tell us what is our next program.

Leader: To eat a roaming what has been brought a-begging;
To ramble in the woods and up the hills till we sweat;
To swim and sport in the river to our hearts’ content;
To lie down for rest in the shade of some tree.

Third Boy: Enough, my friend, enough, enough! Why this very same kind of diversion for ever? Can we have no other pastime but this?

First Boy: He is the one fellow that always complains....Well, tell us if you have anything else to suggest.

Boys: (Each one asks in turn) Will the bamboo park be free at this hour from the usual pleasure seekers? Why not have boating in the tank? What picture will be shown in the cinema-house today? Is there any other new entertainment in our city?

Leader: Oh, the Poet, the Poet! Why not go to him?

Second Boy: Oh, the cave, the cave!

First Boy: Who’s that Poet and what’s that cave?

Leader: The Poet whom we met the other day.

Second Boy: The dark cave for our amusement!

First Boy: (To the leader) Yes, yours is a good suggestion; I give my assent.

Fourth Boy: Quite nice! I agree with you.

Leader: He hankers after people why can appreciate his poetry.

First Boy: Poor man! He must be feeling quite lonely.

Second Boy: True, for his wife is a shrew!

Leader: And that is the cause for our amusement,–the discord between the couple.

Boys: (Each one expresses his reaction).
His hospitality! Her protection! This really sickens me.
Let us first empty the basket and then go to tease the Poet.
What are we to do if the Poet goes on reading his poems?
What but to curse our fate that took us there.
I shall busy myself counting his children,
I shall listen to the grumbling of his wife.
I shall count the bamboo’s overhead.
I, for my part, shall deplore the never-ending pages of his manuscript.

Leader: Do nothing of the kind, for the Poet is astute and an adept in divining what others think and feel.

First Boy: Be not listless, lest his enthusiasm should wither.
Leader: Give ear to whatever he recites, and nod in appreciation ever and anon. Acclaim him: “Thou alone taste the sweet of poetic delight!”

Third Boy: O misery, misery, woe is me!

Second Boy: What ill-luck dogs us even on such a fine holiday!

Leader: Then why have a programme which is not to your liking? Let us give it up and get off to the bamboo grove instead.

First Boy: No, I beg to differ. As some French king hath said, let us amuse ourselves by being miserable, and go and listen to the Poet and his work.

Third Boy: Lo, who comes there?

Fifth Boy: The Poet’s wife. She is coming this way.

Leader: I can recognise her well.

First Boy: Then enquire about the Poet.
(The Poet’s wife enters carrying a basket for vegetables)

Leader: (Going towards her) Salutations to you, mother.

Poet’s Wife: Oh! You! Salutations.

Leader: Is the Poet at home? We wish to meet him.

Poet’s Wife: What obligation can keep him to the house? His native abode is that hilly woodland.

Leader: May I carry the vegetables for you?

Poet’s Wife: O, whoever speaks so kindly to me? But this isn’t the first time that I am bothered with household worries. I shall have no respite from them till I die.

Leader: Alas! alas! Poets are always thus. Poesy and domestic life are born foes.

Poet’s Wife: What words to say! Speak no more. Domestic life is the aim and substance of all poetry. What occurred there, and what here; how it happened then, and how now; the victory of one, the defeat of another, and the flight of a third–long-spun and high-sounding are the words that describe all these. Why the poor woman wept while the wicked fellow laughed,-who can resolve this tangle with waves of poetic fancy, save the Poet?

Your Poet is interested in the affairs of other people, but his own family is none of his concern. Yes, why should he worry when there is someone else to drudge for him? It is enough that he eats whatever is served and prates all the time. (Wiping her tears) Now, sirs, go to your friend there in the woods and exhort him to take pity upon his wife and children.

Yonder, that’s our house. Please come in and have something to eat….On waking up this morning, he sullenly left the house without even taking his breakfast. And for all I know, he cannot withstand hunger for long. So, please prevail on him to eat something out of what I give you.

Leader: (With kindness and sympathy) No, mother, we do not need anything. Here we have a basketful,–enough and to spare. We will share them with the Poet, and also bring him home. May you be happy!

(She proceeds on her way.)

Fifth Boy: My word! A strong woman!

Leader: She is the soil and he is the tree, and without her he cannot blossom.…….Comrades, why should there be any more delay? Come, let us to the woods by the river where the Poet has gone.

Comrades: Here we are, ready to start!

(They go, making hilarious noise as is natural to youths.)

Scene 2

(Place: Forest. Time: Midday. The Mountain Spirit, the Wood-Nymph and the Water-Nymph appear on the stage in appropriate form and garb. The Mountain Spirit is articulate but static. The Wood-Nymph and the Water-Nymph have speech as well as movement…..The Poet is discovered in the interior of the forest in state of emotional exaltation.)

Poet: What a charming day has now dawned in my life! My heart light, my senses are keen, and my soul is unsullied by the world’s sordid loves and fears. I am like the potter’s wheel which begins to revolve with speed once it is roused from inertness, and attains at last the repose of concentrated movement. Nay, nay; it seems as if the Supreme Being has tuned the lute of life to suit His mood and is now striking its sense-chords with myriad fingers. I wonder what joy He wants to reveal thereby, and with what music He wants to regale His heart! Ye woods and range of mountains, O torrent rapid, thou cluster of wild flowers, O twitter of birds, O thou limitless blue heaven, O sun and ye manifold melodies that express the rapturous mind of the Great and Auspicious One, resound ye all through me so that the World-Poet may rejoice, being fascinated by His own song. (Goes into profound contemplation.)

(A Yaksha descends to earth and sings)

Yaksha:                       The song transmitted from some distant place
Rides upon the electric waves the globe around
And pulsates still in the interspace.
An instrument acute doth catch its sound
And amplify it as to reach men’s ears.
There is a ceaseless spring of Song benign
Emerging from the core of the Universe
Beyond life’s range, the source of joy Divine,
Which runs through all existence where ’tis caught
In folds of change and hushed. Thou Poet, art
The Mind-Machine by Artist Nature wrought
To sense-quicken the Song and Joy impart!
Attune thy mind life’s latent good to show.
And help all creatures their own nature know.

(The Yaksha disappears)

Poet: (Awakened and bewildered) What wonder is this? The silence of the woods has burst into song! Who is singing and who is listening: I or the Auspicious One, He or I?

Mountain Spirit: Did ye hear the eloquent words of the Yaksha? It seems this person here is a Poet who is capable of echoing the voice of the Auspicious Being so as to bring it within our understanding.

Wood-Nymph: What, is he a Poet?

Water-Nymph: Does he echo the voice of the Auspicious Supreme? Does he know the secret of destiny?

Wood-Nymph: I am athirst for knowledge and would like to enquire something of him.

Poet: This is a dream–no reality–and I am under the spell of slumber. So it will not surprise me now, even if all these sylvan voices took shape and walked up to my presence.

(The Wood-Nymph goes up to him)

Lo! who is this lovely maiden disclosing herself in semi-visible form like a walking shade among shadows, a tangible dream among dreams? (Gazes at her for a while) Donning a garb of woodland green with sparkling border; exhaling all the fragrance that the forest abounds in; resembling the singing creeper in her gait and gesture, here comes a charming lady with a light naughty smile on her lips!

Wood-Nymph: What, Poet, dost thou not know me?

Poet: Forgive me, mother, I plead guilty of forgetfulness.

Wood-Nymph: (Sings and dances) My body is the forest of trees that stands high, measuring the sky like the foot of Vamana; my drink is the milk of dew which mother Night suckles me with in her nocturnal leisure; my food is the quintessence of the ores found on the rich ridges of father Mountain.....I am the Wealth of the Woods, the Wealth of the Woods.

Spring is my lover, a connoisseur of beauty, who wooes me with gifts of sprouts and blossoms that usher new life, The vernal fragrance wafts our love, the buds reveal our thrill, and the calls of the cuckoo express our intimate love-talk; and we celebrate the consummation of our love with a dance-variety, to the music of the winds and the drumming of thunder. I am the Bride of Spring, the Bride of Spring.

Poet: Art thou the goddess of the woods?….Verily, now there is no doubt about it for thou hast manifested thyself just as I had imagined thee, and vouchsafed to me a vision of the divine Self. I greet thee; O great one! Fortunate are these eyes that have beheld thee! This life has attained its fulfillment.

Thy being is great, O mother, and so is thy power. You increase the joy of the world which it considers a blessing–free from pain of any kind.

Wood-Nymph: Fie, Poet! Is this how thou hast comprehended me? In truth, my love is apprehensive of sorrow. On some night when my lover takes to the road like a pilgrim under the vow of wandering, who will save me from the onslaught of anguish? Then do I heave the whirlwind-sigh and suffer pangs from the forest-fire of separation. And as I get the exhaustion of winter despair, I squander all the wealth of leafage and grow quite bleak. I am eternally love-lorn, eternally love-lorn.

Delightful is the spring-reunion, but distressful the winter separation. Say, Poet, why has my life become so mixed–a slave to pain and pleasure? In the hope that thou canst explain its hidden import have I come to inquire of thee.

Poet: The mystery of spring and winter....the secret of pain and pleasure–how could they be within the ambit of my understanding, mother?

(The Water-Nymph steps forth)

Wood-Nymph: Lo there! Methinks the goddess of the mountain-stream, my sister is coming to meet thee, Poet. I shall hide me in the bosom of this tree to know what brings her here. (She stands aside immovable as the tree).

(The Water-Nymph comes dancing)

Poet: Her lovely face reproves the laughter of the lotus, and her eyes are charming like these of the fish; she has the graceful gait that resembles the playful waves, and rich is her raiment like the star-strewn sky!

Water-Nymph: (Sings and dances) I am the craving of the cripple mountain to scamper, the desire of the speechless forest to sing, and the longing of the earth to laugh as it bears the burden of creation. I am the resource of all life and the beloved of the world. It is I who madden the clouds. The River Queen am I.

My vesture has a lace of inwoven rays; my ornaments are the stars endowed by Night; and the digit of the moon is the flower I wear in my braid of hair. I am the daughter of the immortals. Laughing the white foam-laughter and scattering the wave-folds of my attire, I am the bride that eagerly hastens to garland the Ocean King.

Mirth and dance are my nature, and movement is the very urge of my being. Time and place cease to be, as my music offers the merriment of flowers to the shrubbery on the banks and the gaiety of green to the neighbouring land. Gleeful and glee-radiating goes on my life.

I express the yearning of inert Nature to walk, mute creation’s desire to sing, and the longing of the fate-bound human kind ruled by Laws to laugh. I am the frolic of the forest, the merriment of the mountain, the yearning of the sea, the prosperity of the land, and yea the beneficence of the sky. Aha! the Queen of the Streams am I.

Poet: I welcome thee, O Queen of the Streams! Thou sweet-voiced mother, give me thy benediction. Tarry for a while that I may satiate my sight. May life become joyous and pleasing, and blessed the present and the future.

Water-Nymph: Nay, nay, I cannot stay: not a moment can I tarry. My nature is to move on, and I am the slave of my nature. Oft has the forest invited me for play by offering the lure of flowers, by shedding her leafy tears and by hindering my course with branches of trees; the hill has sometimes caught me in his lap wishing to caress me; the pool has now and then checked my flow that I might be refreshed from the fatigue of the journey; and the sea has held me captive for a while in his wave-embrace. But I have lingered no more than a moment, as my nature is to move on forever.

Cleverly hiding in the caverns, suddenly jumping on the rocks and gently gliding from the mere, I speed to the sea. Climbing on the, sunbeam-ladder, I mount the chariot of clouds. After going round, I leap down to the bosom of the earth and again begin to flow.

I cannot linger though longing to tarry, and I cease to live if I wish for rest. Motion is the law of my being and I have become its thrall. What is this yearning? What its intent? What is acting? Has it any purpose? I know not these. What power, what curse impels me to be ever running thus? About this have I come to inquire of thee and tarried here for an instant. O Poet, who art aware of the mysterious cause of existence, tell me the secret of my life.

(Indicating by gesture the touch of the invisible wind)

Whose mischief is this of tossing the loose hem of my cloak? Who dares so to tickle me?–Oh, is it thou? Yes, yes, I know thy antics of folly. I shall get out of thy way; forbear a little, thou vagrant wind. (She disappears into the river).

(The Wind Spirit appears laughing)

Poet: His colour is of transparent blue like the ether, and his cheeks are brimful of jollity and grace. Who is this deity that instills both love and fear at once?

Wind Spirit: Ha, ha, ha! how this little girl of a torrent slipped out in anger! How she started and fled staring at me in scorn and reproach!

Poet: Father, that laughest so as to be pleasing to the heart and awe-inspiring to the mind, who art thou in the pantheon of World-Ministrants? Pray, what hath brought thee here?

Wind Spirit: Bravo, little boy! Thou hast guessed aright, for I am verily the father of all living beings. As Life cowered under the pressing weight of Time deep down in the darkness of the lower region of the Universe; as Earth lay longing for the life that was still unmanifest and prayed for the lifting of her burden; then, as she heaved a sigh I took shape and stood before her. O, how shall I describe my delight? The expression of our cheer spread abroad, filling the entire world. Earth cried out in ecstasy and danced wildly with girlish abandon, because her long-cherished yearning had been fulfilled at last. Soon, the land heaved up into mountains and the water gushed out into rivers. Now that Life had become buoyant and free, it spread out first as greenery and gradually extended into manifold births with varied names, as he, she and it, each bearing a distinct nature. And thou too art its manifestation.

Poet: I offer obeisance unto thee, O life of the world! I salute thee, O protector of all creatures!

Wind Spirit: Rise, rise! Stop this play of making prostrations and stand erect. Live and thrive! I exist that thou mayst prosper. Yet let me tell thee, thou art the only person who hath shown me such respect instead of ridiculing me as others do. Oh, I seem to have been born only to cause amusement to the world.

Poet: True, O Lord, my Life, in this world of affliction thou alone art the refuge of gladness.

Wind Spirit: Oh, poet! cease this fun of praise. My bondage has become the butt of ridicule in the world. The withered leaf that I bear down to the earth in winter laughs at me; the tender leaf that I help to burgeon in spring makes fun of me; the bud that blossoms at my touch proceeds to titter; the liquid note that I bring to the cuckoo mocks me: with its ‘coo-hoo’; the cloud rumbles in the sky as though guffawing at my roving life; the lightning flits laughing as it punches my face; even the shower that I shake down in a patter from the cloud begins to giggle at me as it rolls adown the mountains.

Not that such pranks do not gladden my heart, poet. In truth I consider these as little children’s freakish jokes born of familiarity.

But I feel sorry that I haven’t always the unmixed pleasure of wafting the odorous message of love from flower to flower, of tugging the chariot of the rainbow-festooned monsoon cloud, of playfully bearing the boat of melody to every ear, and of lovingly assisting my sister Earth in her seasonal toilet.

There is someone within who taunts me, “Slave, drudge on!” How shall I punish him? Who could this fellow be? Can anybody tell me? Oh! Oh! how he provokes me and makes me shriek in the wide expanse of the heavens! I bounce, I tear, I cry, I roar, I dash, I howl. The more I get enraged, the greater does the world dance in its frenzy of fun. Tell me, Poet, tell me, what is the cure for this laughter? Why should I incessantly weave all creatures in the warp and woof of life, and yet blame the creator for this never-ending task? Oh, I have unwittingly yielded, to slave for the children of my sister Earth and submitted to the ridicule of all creation. Say why, O Poet, say why!

Tree, River, Mountain: (Laughing) Say why, O Poet, say why!

Wind Spirit: Oh, oh! what shall I do to these mischievous urchins? Oh!

(He rushes forward and vanishes)

(The Human Personality appears)

Tree, River, Mountain: (Together) Lo! here comes the incarnation of human aspiration; here comes our godson. Why comes he? What query has he brought? (Addressing the Poet) This youth seems the very embodiment of your egoism. Why comes he? What query has he brought?

Poet: Shall I bow to him? Or prostrate myself before him? Or welcome him? Or embrace him? Or merely say, ‘Come, friend!’ and receive him? What would be the proper mode of courtesy for the occasion? Oh, here he is, please tell me quick.

Tree, River, Mountain: Bow down, bow down, bow thou to thine own self.

(The Poet bows)

Human Personality: Long accustomed to bowing unto this god and that, it has now become thy second nature to bow unto whomsoever appears before thee, Poet. Arise! Stand beside me as an equal and taste the pleasure of true living.

Poet: (Rising) O tell me, who art thou? Though not similar, thou art yet so much like me. Thy words are full, of pride. Thou art like the embodiment of all the various little somethings in me. Pray who art thou?

Human personality: The night has a little something that’s more than right; the light too has a modicum in excess of mere light. The earth, the mountain, the forest, the river and the wind have each surplus little hidden in their being.

Every object has an other something which laughs down the assertion, “What else can anything be but itself?” and victoriously declares, “Here, look at me, the excess little of everything!” Aye, I am the Miracle brought into being by the play of all such transcendent trifles, all unbeknown to them.

Even as creatures depend on air to breathe, it is my mind that provides the atmosphere for the gods to live in. Who are they, these gods? The cream of my overflowing joy. In my mind are they born, and there do they die like the icebergs. Who am I?–The abode of the gods, and the field for their sport as well. I am the breath of the gods, the womb of heaven.

Poet: Welcome, O thou soul of the universe. I am now elate with joy. “I am the breath of the gods, the womb of heaven!” The mountain adds greatness to the earth, the forest lends loveliness to the mountain, the birds and beasts bring life to the forest; the eye knows the colour, the ear hears the sound, the nose catches the odour; but greater, lovelier and subtler than all is the mind; a subtler grace than mind is knowledge in fineness and grace. Yet joy is found to surpass thee. But what lies beyond that?

Tree, River, Mountain: Aha! what lies beyond that?

Poet: Say, O say, what lies beyond that?

Human personality: I too am exceedingly curious about what lies beyond that. And so, I swim in the milk of my emotion right up to the cream of Deity; but trying to peer further still, I brush the cream aside and quickly turn in very doubt that there is A Something Higher and there is not–Oh, when is the end to this quest and conflict?

Human personality: Just as Shiva holds Ganga in his matted locks, I sometimes subdue the world and hold it fast in the tangled tresses of my desires. When I think that I have reached the end of the quest and I am myself that end, the desires in me swirl with rage and churn the heart, bringing out only the poison. Having thus begotten poison, I drink it in the ardent hope of attaining immortal joy. And in my flaming urge for felicity, I create several kinds of gods. Straining to comprehend what lies ahead, I step to take a greater leap into the Unknown Beyond, and forsaking the faith in gods I sink into mental restlessness. Where shall I find refuge? When will this storm cease? If thou knowest the answer, make it known to me. May you prosper!

Poet: Effulgence of Man! O thou great egoist! Thou has dazzled my understanding with thy brilliance and brought upon me the darkness of nescience. To what god shall I appeal to resolve thy doubt? How may I know that which is beyond the gods themselves? (He merges into meditation).

(Light grows intense and the Goddess of Beauty descends.)

Human personality: Here she comes, here comes the queen of thy life! Now am I sheer vapour, and she being my sustainer, I dissolve in her (He melts into air.)

Poet: (Awakened): Ho, the vision has melted, my egotism has fallen off! What! My speech is taken away and I cannot inquire who she be; blurred is my sight and I cannot see her; my mind has drooped and I cannot know her. Oh marvellous light!

(The Goddess of Beauty dances. Tree, River, Mountain, Wind and Human Personality make the ground music.)

Goddess of Beauty: Behold, I have become manifest, hearken, I sing a song.

Mille is the great effulgence that surpasseth the brightness of the sun, and it is I that lendeth lustre to everything. When man accepts me by his wonder and praise, I come to light; when he denies; me, I slip out of sight. I lurk on the fringe, of everything and every place. I scintillate more capriciously than lightning.

Joy is my ray of light and man’s heart my organ of sight. The external beauty of everything and every place is only the dispersion of my white radiance. Behold my magnificence in every place.

I do not assume the self-same form a second time; so subtle, small–so elusive and changeable am I. But the wise recognize me, however I be. Therefore, am I stable and steady.–The burden of desire I cannot bear; and from greed I keep quite away. I a close to everything and every place, but infatuation finds me beyond its reach.

The earth is trying to catch me with her towering trees and uplifted peaks; the sky is endeavouring to clasp me to its bosom; it is in search of me that the wind is ever wandering; the human mind has ventured into the cave of desire in order to realize me. All those who eagerly seek me wistfully complain that I am more illusory than the mirage. Yes, indeed! That is very true. Though I am the aspirer’s despair, still the world is enamoured of me. Despite what others feel or say, I exist in everything and every place making even the gods wonder, “O, how subtle!”
Behold my manifest presence and ponder over the song that I have sung.

Poet:   O, what a marvel! Now the world appears fresh and new, and all existence is in bloom. The relish for life is surging in me and the light of my mind has dawned. Oh, marvellous experience!(Gazing upon the dance of the Goddess of Beauty, he goes into a mystic trance.)

(The Goddess of Beauty goes, dancing gently, into the interior of the stage, and the light gradually fades out.)

Yaksha: (Entering) Oh, miracle! Awake, awake, O Ye, Earth and Mountain, Tree and River, Wind and Sky, O human Personality and thou, O Poet, arise from the stupor of delight and surround this Goddess of Beauty at once. Lo, hold of her, now that she has come amongst you. Lo, here she is, laughing right in front of you. It is she who is the object of your ceaseless pursuit, she alone is the reward of all your efforts; she is the single answer to all your queries. Here she is, smiling in front of you. So near–within your reach! O, her splendour! The bewilderment of one and all! Ho, there, she is flitting away, away to the sky-shore beyond the clouds! (The brilliance of the light diminishes. The Tree, River, Mountain, Wind and Human Personality awake from ecstasy. Only the Poet still remains in his trance of bliss.)

Tree, River, Mountain, Wind, and Human Personality: Ay, what has befallen us? Where is she?

Yaksha: Ye dull, poor things! There she goes.

Tree, River, Mountain, Wind, and Human Personality: Ay, where is our friend, the poet?

Yaksha: He is here in the langour of joy-intoxication.

Tree, River, Mountain, Wind, and Human Personality: What has happened to him? What about our query?

Yaksha: Leave him alone and give him your blessings. Some humans are coming this way, bringing with them a diverse mode of life. So, off to our routine, unto our daily tasks.

Tree, River, Mountain, Wind, and Human Personality: Aye! Aye! Noe we are off to our routine, unto our daily tasks.

(Tree, River and Mountain get transformed into the tree, the river and the mountain. The Wind and the Human Personality disappear. Yaksha vanishes. But the Poet is still in his trance.)

(Enter the leader and his friends.)

Leader: See yonder, friends, there is our Poet. Come along, let us go. He looks as if he is drooping.

Third Boy: No, he doesn’t seem to be drooping. He is having his afternoon siesta.

First Boy: I see hunger stamped on his face.

Leader: (Going forward he gazes at the Poet, gets excited, comes to his comrades and addresses them) Move off, move off; don’t you make noise. That isn’t the sweet slumber of mid-day, but some other wondrous state. Some strange vision has carried off in a whiff both his mind and look; and softly opening his lips and eyes a little, Joy has stolen his consciousness itself.

(All the lads, step and stand in amazed silence.)

Second Boy: (Bending over the Poet and regarding him with attention). He is joy-stupefied by an inward vision which our eyes fail to see. Look, how he glows in his state of trance!

(The inner curtain drops concealing the Poet)

First Boy: Here are only the mountain, river and forest just as they are found anywhere else. I know not what wonder the Poet has beheld here to assume this animated amazement.

Leader: Accustomed only to the outward phase of everything, how can we ever feel such exhilarating wonder! This Poet is verily a marvel, for he lights up the core of everything with his own thought and feeling.

Second Boy: Now that we have seen the real Poet, we have no longer the right of the ignorant to laugh at his life and work.

Leader: Nay, not so, my friend–When the Poet speaks we all laugh at him, even as the mother-frog of the story laughed at the little one which tried to describe what it saw. And that is the illusion!

First Boy: Aye, the Poet, who glows with experience, of Beauty, is superior to him who glibly speaks of it–Come to the shade and hold yourselves in silence until his inebriation of joy subsides and normal consciousness returns.

(All depart)
(CURTAIN)