But the
man has done a great work for his generation; he has written poetry
of the purest and finest quality. Is not that enough? I cannot
understand the mere credit we give to work, without any reference
to the object of the work, or the spirit in which it is done. We
think with respect of the man who makes a fortune, or who fills an
official post, the duties of which do nothing in particular for any
one. It is a kind of obsession with us practical Westerners; of
course a man ought to contribute to the necessary work of the
world; but many men spend their lives in work which is not
necessary; and, after all, we are sent into the world to live, and
work is only a part of life. We work to live, we do not live to
work. Even if we were all socialists, we should, I hope, have the
grace to dig the gardens and make the clothes of our poets and
prophets, so as to give them the leisure they need.
I do not question the instinct of my hero in the matter; he lives
eagerly and peacefully; he touches into light the spirits of those
who draw near to him; and I admire a man who knows how to stop when
he has done his best work, and does not spur and whip his tired
mind into producing feebler, limper, duller work of the same kind;
how few of our great writers have known when to hold their hand!
God be praised for great men! My poet to-day has made me feel that
life is a thing to be lived eagerly and high-heartedly; that the
world is full of beautiful, generous, kindly things, of free air
and sunshine; and that we ought to find leisure to drink it all in,
and to send our hearts out in search of love and beauty and God--
for these things are all about us, if we could but feel and hear
and see them.
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