It was too much for the Poet. His lips trembled, his hand shook. He could no more rest in his chair.
He walked backwards and forwards, the voice pursuing him.
"Wasted years; wasted energies; wasted gifts; your chance is gone. You cannot write now."
Poets are more susceptible than artists. That is the reason why Cornelius rushed out of the Workshop to escape this torture and sought his brother Humphrey.
Humphrey started like a guilty person. His face was pale, his eye was restless.
"Cornelius?"
"Do not me disturb you, my dear brother. You are happy; you are at work; your soul is at peace."
"And you, Cornelius?"
"I am not at peace. I am restless this morning. I am nervous and agitated."
"So am I, Cornelius. I cannot work. My pencil refuses to obey my brain."