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Updated: July 13, 2025
You do not wish to be taught how to love Nathanael?" Agatha tried to smile to conceal the pain rising in her heart. "Come then, I will teach you how to love him in better words than mine, and from a woman who, though writing out of the deep truth of her poet-heart, would scorn to write mere 'romance."
The young man seated himself beside her, and tried to draw the child to his breast. Then she turned eagerly, indignantly, and pushed him aside with jealous arms. He profaned the grave! He understood her with his deep poet-heart, and rose. There was a pause. Leonard was the first to break it. "Come to your home with me, my child, and we will talk of him by the way." "Him! Who are you?
Hast thou no vestige of a heart, my friend? a poet-heart, to feel the misery of the world? ..the patient grief of all-appealing Nature, commingled with the dreadful, yet majestic silence of an unknown God? ... Oh, surely, thou hast this supremest gift of genius, . . this loving, enduring, faithful, sympathetic HEART! ... for without it, how shall thy fame be held long in remembrance? ... how shall thy muse-grown laurels escape decay?
The young man seated himself beside her, and tried to draw the child to his breast. Then she turned eagerly, indignantly, and pushed him aside with jealous arms. He profaned the grave! He understood her with his deep poet-heart, and rose. There was a pause. Leonard was the first to break it. "Come to your home with me, my child, and we will talk of him by the way." "Him! Who are you?
He saw the sketch of his own features; he read words inscribed below it, words of such artless tenderness, and such unhoping sorrow, words written by one who had been accustomed to regard her genius as her sole confidant, under Heaven; to pour out to it, as the solitary poet-heart is impelled to do, thoughts, feelings, the confession of mystic sighs, which it would never breathe to a living ear, and, save at such moments, scarcely acknowledge to itself.
He may be unable to receive this or that embodiment or form of truth, not having yet grown to its level; but it is no matter so long as when he sees a truth he does it: to see and not do would at once place him in eternal danger. Hence a man of ordinary intellect and little imagination, may yet be so radiant in nobility as, to the true poet-heart, to be right worshipful.
He saw the sketch of his own features; he read words inscribed below it, words of such artless tenderness, and such unhoping sorrow, words written by one who had been accustomed to regard her genius as her sole confidant, under Heaven; to pour out to it, as the solitary poet-heart is impelled to do, thoughts, feelings, the confession of mystic sighs, which it would never breathe to a living ear, and, save at such moments, scarcely acknowledge to itself.
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