The Raven

The secret of a poem, no less than a jest's prosperity, lies in the ear of him thathears it. Yield to its spell, accept the poet's mood: this, after all, is what the sagesanswer when you ask them of its value. Even though the poet himself, in his othermood, tell you that his art is but sleight of hand, his food enchanter's food, and offerto show you the trick of it, -believe him not. Wait for his prophetic hour; then giveyourself to his passion, his joy or pain. "We are in Love's hand to-day!" singsGautier, in Swinburne's buoyant paraphrase, -and from morn to sunset we arewafted on the violent sea: there is but one love, one May, one flowery strand. Loveis eternal, all else unreal and put aside. The vision has an end, the scene changes;but we have gained something, the memory of a charm. As many poets, so manycharms. There is the charm of Evanescence, that which lends to supreme beautyand grace an aureole of Pathos. Share with Landor his one "night of memories andof sighs" for Rose Aylmer, and you have this to the ful