Ah! yes, sire, the rainbow, the rainbow! O what an art of incontestable divination!
Zeus [much animated].
But you did not say anything about a rainbow, nor describe one, nor ever mention the elements of such a bow.
Priest.
Ah! no, sire. That is the art of the New Poetry. It names nothing, it describes nothing. All that it designs to do is to place the mind of the listener—of the august and perspicacious listener—in
such an attitude as that the unnamed, the undescribed object rises full in vision. The poet flings forth his melody, and to the gross ear it seems a mere tinkle of inanity. That is simply because the crowd who worship at the shrine of the Sminthean Apollo have been accustomed by an old-fashioned and ridiculously incompetent priesthood to look for an instant and mechanical relation between sound and sense. I would not exaggerate, sire; but the kind of poetry lately cultivated, not only at Delphi, but in Delos also, is simply obsolete.
Zeus [suspiciously].
Again I am not sure that I quite follow you.
Priest.
To your Majesty, at least, the New Poetry opens its casket as widely as the rose-bud does to the zephyr.