Pointed, polished sheath or platter
Which you move as swift as light,
But below you’re fastened tight!’”
“Well?” asked Alois after a short pause. There were tears in his eyes and a quaver in his voice.
“Man’s Finger gripped me very hard,” replied Maya in some embarrassment. She really knew much lovelier poems.
“How do you find the form?” Alois questioned with a smile of fine melancholy. He seemed to be overwhelmed by the effect he had produced.
“Long and round. You yourself said so in the poem.”
“I mean the artistic form, the form of my verse.”
“Oh—oh, yes. Yes, I thought it was very good.”
“It is, isn’t it!” cried Alois. “What you mean to say is that Man’s Finger may be ranked among the best poems you know of, and one must go way back in literature before one comes across anything like it. The prime requisite in art is that it should contain something new, which is what most poets forget. And bigness, too. Don’t you agree with me?”