When the full-grown poet came,

Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe, with all its

shows of day and night,) saying, He is mine;

But out spake too the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unreconciled,

Nay he is mine alone;

--Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took each

by the hand;

And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands,

Which he will never release until he reconciles the two,

And wholly and joyously blends them.