IRetttrn to mature 



singers whose chords have remained true 

 and irresistible for centuries? 



But what does it matter to the genuine 

 poet whether his contemporaries read his 

 songs or not? No question of commercial 

 values ever went into a true piece of art; 

 the one all-embracing concern was the ex- 

 pression of inexpressible beauty. A song 

 of the cat-bird or of the wood-thrush is 

 just that, no matter when or where sung, 

 and the longing of the lilies, as they wander 

 over the hills, is just that in all ages. So 

 much, at least, we may gather from a 

 primeval wood-nook and an hour with the 

 old anthology. 



i8i 



