Evening star., 1925-03-19

Maupassant. o. Henry and Haw-
thorne. In their stories results are
| achieved with such perfect art as to
conceal art
Days may have been spent In
polishing a story. yet the story itself
| with life. The right word is in the
right place. Here Is an adjective
that just Ats. Only the mind of a
master could have put it there. 1t Is
genius.
SO it is with the poems OF Edgar
Allan Poe. His words are used with
a purpose. He knew what he was
doing. Personally, / do not believe
he composed THE Raven in any such
| mechanical fashion as he himself
| said he did. Genius works by no
laws, not even its own. A spirit
hovers over him and seizes his pen.
When he gets through. he looks at
his work and whispers: Who wrote
it?'
Take those lines from THE Valley
of Unrest"
Al. by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustic through the unquiet heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the vioets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye
over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave
They wave:-from out their fragrant tops
They weep:-from OFF their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems
One has a suspicion that most any
modern writer OF verse liber" would
sell his soul to be able to write four
lines such as those last. They have
| To be read aloud for the best effect
Try it:
They wave:-from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:-from of their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
The secret of this charm is hard
to find. 1t is in moro than just the
endrhymes. 1t is music in words,
whether the new poetry cult cares
to admit the existence of such a
quality or not
Thou vast that all to me, love,
green isle in the sea. love,
fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
We can forgive that did pine" for
the rest of il.
The ending:
And all my days are frances
And all my nightly dreams
And where thy gray eye glancss,
Ana where thy footstep CLEANS
In what ethereal dances,
BY what eternal streams.
Y X X
One fingers over Poe's poems as
he might over a casket OF rare
jewels which belonged to some one
else, but which one would like to
keep.
The reader enjoys the word music,
but he cannot call IL his own, al
though he loves 1t. DO you know
why?
Because these poems belong to Poe.
These poems are more peculiarly
his than tho poems Of any other
writer are that writer's. The magic
he put in them was his alone.
In their peculiar way they are
| unique. 1t is not Tilt that does il.
although they have Tilt. 1t is not
their music that makes them great,
|. although they possess that quality
to transeendent degree
only from dark, brooding soul
such as Poe, could these poems have
come, and, although he gave them to
the world. he kept them fast to him
self forever. Perhaps no real lover
| of Poe but feels this.
He reads with delight, yet he goes
away dissatisfied. Other poets sur
render themselves to the reader They
seem to say, Here are my poems
they are yours"
But Poe is different He makes Won
realize the precious irony of life.
Lo! I is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years,
An angel throng. bewinged bedixht
In wells. and drowned in tears,
Sits in a theater, to see
play OF hopes and fears
While the orchestra breathes ftfuIly
The music of the spheres.