He seems a wingèd Franklin, sweetly wise,
Born to unlock the secrets of the skies;
And which the nobler calling,—if ’tis fair
Terrestrial with celestial to compare,—
To guide the storm-cloud’s elemental flame,
Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came,
Amidst the sources of its subtile fire,
And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre?”
Here he said, with great fun, “One great good of writing poetry is to furnish you with your own quotations.” And afterwards, when I had made him 102 read to me some other verses from his own poems, he said, “Oh, yes, as a reservoir of the best quotations in the language, there is nothing like a book of your own poems.”