XVII. 



A SUMMER STROLL. 



MY friend the Poet and I walk the world 

 together on somewhat different principles. 

 It is a fixed belief of his that illusion is far 

 more beautiful than reality. He likes to see 

 the distant hills through some dim veil of 

 mist ; he likes to believe the skylark feeds 

 on dew and sunshine, and he is revolted 

 when I explain to him, in spite of Shelley, 

 the actual staples of its unromantic diet. 

 To him, it seems, everything loses just half 

 its beauty when he knows all about it. 

 Analysis, he says, is destructive of pleasure. 

 Only in an imagined and unrealized world 

 can he find the pure elements that delight 

 his fancy. 



