Every great poet with a lively imagination is timid, he is afraid of men, that is to say, for the interruptions and troubles with which they can invade the delight of his dreams. He fears for his concentration. Men come along with their gross interests to drag him from the gardens of Armida, and force him into a fetid slough: only by irritating him can they fix his attention on themselves. It is this habit of feeding his soul upon touching dreams and this horror of the vulgar which draws a great artist so near to love.
The more of the great artist a man has in him, the more must he wish for titles and honours as a bulwark.
[1] Scents.
Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.—Dante, Inf., V (Francesca).
[No greater sorrow than to remember happy times in misery.—Tr.]