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"That's a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see
before me now," thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a grain
of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman. "Write that down!" said
she. "Even crumbs are bread. I know why you come hither. You cannot invent
anything, and yet you want to be a poet by Easter." "Everything has been written
down," said he. "Our time is not the old time." "No," said the woman. "In the
old time wise women were burnt, and poets went about with empty stomachs, and
very much out at elbows.
"Everything has been written down," said he.
"Our time is not the old time." "No," said the woman. "In the old time wise
women were burnt, and poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at
elbows. The present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not the
right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and I fancy you
do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is plenty here to write poems
about, and to tell of, for any one who knows the way.
You can read it in
the fruits of the earth, you can draw it from the flowing and the standing
water; but you must understand how- you must understand how to catch a sunbeam.
Now just you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then
pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself" The last was a very difficult
thing to do- more than a wise woman ought to ask. He received the spectacles and
the ear-trumpet, and was posted in the middle of the potato-field.
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Par
aiyann le dimanche 20 mars 2011
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