ght:--

Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is
risen upon thee. For behold the darkness shall cover the earth, and
gross darkness the people: but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and
his glory shall be seen upon thee. And the Gentiles shall come to
thy light, and Kings to the brightness of thy rising.

Take another passage in which the first lift of this _I_ vowel yields to
its graver sisters as though the sound sank into the very heart of the
sense.

I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, 'Father,
I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more
worthy to be called thy son.'

'And am no more worthy to be called thy son.' Mark the deep O's. 'For
this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' 'O my
son, my son Absalom'--observe the I and O how they interchime, until the O
of sorrow tolls the lighter note down:--

O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died
for thee, O Absolom, my son, my son!

Or take this lyric, by admission one of the loveliest written in this
present age, and mark here too how the vowels play and ring and chime and
toll.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.[2]
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket
sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake-water lapping, with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I think if you will but open your ears to this beautiful vowel-play which
runs through all the best of our prose and poetry, whether you ever learn
to master it or not, you will have acquired a new delight, and one
various enough to last you though you live to a very old age.

All this of which I am speaking is Art: and Literature being an Art, do
you not see how personal a thing it is--how it cannot escape being
personal? No two men (unless they talk Jargon) say the same thing in the
same way. As is a man's imagination, as is his character, as is the
harmony in himself, as is h