No More Learning

To him complaint
and jealousy and envy are corpses buried and rotten in the earth--he saw
them buried. The sea is not surer of the shore, or the shore of the sea,
than he is of the fruition of his love, and of all perfection and beauty.

The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss--it is inevitable as
life--it is exact and plumb as gravitation. From the eyesight proceeds
another eyesight, and from the hearing proceeds another hearing, and from
the voice proceeds another voice, eternally curious of the harmony of
things with man. To these respond perfections, not only in the committees
that were supposed to stand for the rest, but in the rest themselves just
the same. These understand the law of perfection in masses and floods--that
its finish is to each for itself and onward from itself--that it is profuse
and impartial--that there is not a minute of the light or dark, nor an acre
of the earth or sea, without it--nor any direction of the sky, nor any
trade or employment, nor any turn of events. This is the reason that about
the proper expression of beauty there is precision and balance,--one part
does not need to be thrust above another. The best singer is not the one
who has the most lithe and powerful organ: the pleasure of poems is not in
them that take the handsomest measure and similes and sound.

Without effort, and without exposing in the least how it is done, the
greatest poet brings the spirit of any or all events and passions and
scenes and persons, some more and some less, to bear on your individual
character, as you hear or read. To do this well is to compete with the laws
that pursue and follow time. What is the purpose must surely be there, and
the clue of it must be there; and the faintest indication is the indication
of the best, and then becomes the clearest indication. Past and present and
future are not disjoined, but joined. The greatest poet forms the
consistence of what is to be from what has been and is. He drags the dead
out of their coffins, and stands them again on their feet: he says to the
past, Rise and walk before me that I may realise you. He learns the
lesson--he places himself where the future becomes present.
The greatest
poet does not only dazzle his rays over character and scenes and
passions,--he finally ascends and finishes all: he exhibits the pinnacles
that no man can tell what they are for or what is beyond--he glows a moment
on the extremest verge. He is most wonderful in his last half-hidden smile
or frown: by that flash of the moment of parting the one that sees it shall
be encouraged or terrified afterward for many years. The greatest poet does
not moralise or make applications of morals,--he knows the soul. The soul
has that measureless pride which consists in never acknowledging any
lessons but its own. But it has sympathy as measureless as its pride, and
the one balances the other, and neither can stretch too far while it
stretches in company with the other. The inmost secrets of art sleep with
the twain. The greatest poet has lain close betwixt both, and they are
vital in his style and thoughts.

The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of
letters, is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity,--nothing can
make up for excess or for the lack of definiteness. To carry on the heave
of impulse, and pierce intellectual depths, and give all subjects their
articulations, are powers neither common nor very uncommon. But to speak in
literature with the perfect rectitude and insousiance of the movements of
animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods
and grass by the roadside, is the flawless triumph of art. If you, have
looked on him who has achieved it, you have looked on one of the masters of
the artists of all nations and times. You shall not contemplate the flight
of the grey-gull over the bay, or the mettlesome action of the blood-horse,
or the tall leaning of sunflowers on their stalk, or the appearance of the
sun journeying through heaven, or the appearance of the moon afterward,
with any more satisfaction than you shall contemplate him. The greatest
poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts and
things without increase or diminution, and is the free channel of himself.
He swears to his art,--I will not be meddlesome, I will not have in my
writing any elegance or effect or originality to hang in the way between me
and the rest like curtains. I will have nothing hang in the way, not the
richest curtains.