Then I thought of a poem that is pure distilled ecstasy to my spirit. I will write it, and be happy again:
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright;
Spirit of a winter's night!— ...
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw'd,
Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix those pleasures up,
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shall quaff it!—
Ah! And so I went along, “sun, moon, and stars forgot”—laughing and half dancing. People stared at me—and I laughed. And then I passed three pretty girls, and I laughed, and they laughed too. I guess they thought I was going to follow them.
—But that pleasure was not in my cup, dear girls.
Some of these days I hope to live in a beautiful world, where a man may speak to a pretty girl on the street. Badness is its own punishment, let the bad world observe.
I would rather look at a beautiful woman than do anything else I know of in this world, except listen to music.
May 18th.
I often think how I shall spend my money after The Captive is done. I shall take a band of chosen youths, seekers and worshipers, and we shall build a house on a mountain-top and worship the Lord in the beauty of music!