In poesy as in music, and indeed as in all the arts and sciences, you can never see its grand revealments, its possibilities and its powers, its radiance and its glory, until you drop from your shoulders the mantle of materiality, and stand forth all spirit, with an abiding desire within your souls to find the beautiful, the holy, and the pure.
This poet soul,[[3]] of whom I speak, has at times requested me to give expression to some of my thoughts in the golden light of poesy, to drape them with the snowy robes of melodious song; but I shrink from the task, feeling that I cannot do justice to the noble rules of rhyme and rhythm.
[3]. John Critchley Prince.
Spirits do not, as a rule, underrate their own powers; there is no false delicacy to be assumed; they understand something of the possibilities within, and eagerly and thankfully accept the opportunities afforded them to cultivate their powers, and to develop these possibilities of the soul.
Therefore, though I do not at present feel to echo these sounds from the other shore through the channel of poetic expression, yet I do feel that some time I may so develop my inner powers as to sing in measured tones and cadences the song of my spirit, the melody of my soul.
But there is one being on earth to whom I would bring the early efforts of my spirit, to whose name I would sing my first song, and over whose soul I would pour the melody of my undying love. And so, feeble, crude, and imperfect though it be, I bring my song and sing it to
MY MOTHER.
Dear mother, when I found that I was dead,
And that my soul had passed beyond the tomb,
The first few, feeble words my spirit said