2 SALMON FISHING 



left Summer immature ; and Winter has a digni- 

 fied serenity that neither Summer nor Autumn, 

 and not the Spring, can equal. Now, that is per- 

 plexing. Surely each of the seasons cannot be the 

 best ? Besides, in your praise of each to the 

 detriment of the others, you have denounced them 

 all. What are we to make of that ? " To myself, 

 awe- stricken witness of the colloquy, this speech 

 seemed dangerously inconsiderate; and I expected an 

 answer in wrath, perchance in violence. The poet's 

 hazel eyes flashed fire; but the emotion was not 

 anger. It was ecstatic understanding. " You 

 mean, How do I reconcile the odes ? " he cried. " I 

 don^t do it at all ! Not jesting, but speaking in 

 deep seriousness, I say that I, with the seasons, am 



like that great man Lord L with the ladies. 



He always said he never was in love but once, and 

 that was with the last one. So it is with myself. 

 Each of these odes is the perfection of sincerity. 

 Each is a faultless expression of feeling at the 

 moment of utterance. They are all true ! What 

 matter if the truth be variable? There is no real 

 conflict or incongruity. There is no discord. 

 There are only those differences which constitute 

 harmony. If my odes seem to be in conflict among 

 themselves, that is because you hear them in a 

 single hour. Nature herself would be a turmoil if 

 all the seasons were simultaneous. Nature, in her 

 orderly variableness, is latent poetry. Poetry, the 

 articulation of Nature, is chaotic to the logician 

 because logic is the science of the dense. Poetry 



