See what talent the smith has. His
material is pliant in his hands. When the poet is most inspired,
is stimulated by an _aura_ which never even colors the afternoons
of common men, then his talent is all gone, and he is no longer a
poet. The gods do not grant him any skill more than another.
They never put their gifts into his hands, but they encompass and
sustain him with their breath.
To say that God has given a man many and great talents,
frequently means that he has brought his heavens down within
reach of his hands.
When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our
pen, intent only on worms, calling our mates around us, like the
cock, and delighting in the dust we make, but do not detect where
the jewel lies, which, perhaps, we have in the mean time cast to
a distance, or quite covered up again.
The poet's body even is not fed like other men's, but he sometimes
tastes the genuine nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and lives a
divine life. By the healthful and invigorating thrills of
inspiration his life is preserved to a serene old age.
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