I am not a bit wiser than I was before, but I am a great deal happier; although I have not the slightest idea where Xanadu was, and only the vaguest notion of Kublai Khan.
There are poems whose charm lies in their illusiveness. Fancy any one trying to explain Rossetti's "Blessed Damozel." Yet when the mood is on us we see her as she leans
| "From the gold bar of Heaven: |
| Her eyes were deeper than the depth |
| Of waters stilled at even; |
| She had three lilies in her hand |
| And the stars in her hair were seven." |
We look over the mystic ramparts and are dimly conscious that
| "the souls mounting up to God |
| Went by her like thin flames." |
This is not astronomy nor theology, nor any of the things we know all about—it is only poetry.
Let no one trouble me by attempting to elucidate "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came." I do not care for a Baedeker. I prefer to lose my way. I love the darkness rather than light. I do not care for a topographical chart of the hills that
| "like giants at a hunting lay, |
| Chin upon hand." |
The mood in which we enjoy such poetry is that described in Emerson's "Forerunners."
| "Long I followed happy guides, |
| I could never reach their sides. |
| . . . . . . . . . . |
| But no speed of mine avails |
| To hunt upon their shining trails. |
| . . . . . . . . . . |
| On eastern hills I see their smokes, |
| Mixed with mist by distant lochs. |
| I met many travelers |
| Who the road had surely kept: |
| They saw not my fine revelers." |