* * * * *
His thoughts went forth like emperors, and all
His words arrayed themselves around them like
Imperial guards.
* * * * *
Opinions which I had been taught to hold
As full of pith and gravity, he took
As 'twere, 'twixt thumb and finger of his wit—
Rubbed off their gloss, until they seemed to me,
All, as he said, varnished hypocrisies.
* * * * *
Most wise for one so young! and strangely read
In books of quaint philosophy—although
His mind's strange alchemy could find some
Rich thought hidden in the basest thing,
Which he transmuted into golden words,
So that in hearing him I often thought
Upon the story of that Saint whose mouth
Was radiant with the angel's blessed touch,
Which gave him superhuman eloquence;
And though he was thus gifted, yet—ah me!
* * * * *
Still earnest with my theme, I bade him think
Of Auerbach's cellar, and that wassail night
Whole centuries ago: and then in phrase,
Better than that which cometh to me now
I likened it—the necromancy which
Drew richest vintage from the rugged boards—
Unto the spell wherewith he'd bound himself—
The spell by which he drew from simplest things
Conceptions beautiful, as Faust drew wine
From the rude table; for this friend of mine
Was a true poet, though he seldom wrote:
The wealth which might have royally endowed
Some noble charity for coming time
Was idly wasted—pearls dissolved in wine—
* * * * *
Still on my theme I hung and pointed out,
Full eagerly, how Mephistopheles
Ordered the gimlet wherewith it was drawn: