self struggles to free itself from its complexities and
come out into the open. These _Songs_ are the history of that struggle.
As in all creation, so in poetry, there is the opposition of forces. If
the divergence is too wide, or the unison too close, there is, it seems
to me, no room for poetry. Where the pain of discord strives to attain
and express its resolution into harmony, there does poetry break forth
into music, as breath through a flute.

When the _Evening Songs_ first saw the light they were not hailed with
any flourish of trumpets, but none the less they did not lack admirers.
I have elsewhere told the story of how at the wedding of Mr. Ramesh
Chandra Dutt's eldest daughter, Bankim Babu was at the door, and the
host was welcoming him with the customary garland of flowers. As I came
up Bankim Babu eagerly took the garland and placing it round my neck
said: "The wreath to him, Ramesh, have you not read his _Evening
Songs_?" And when Mr. Dutt avowed he had not yet done so, the manner in
which Bankim Babu expressed his opinion of some of them amply rewarded
me.

The _Evening Songs_ gained for me a friend whose approval, like the rays
of the sun, stimulated and guided the shoots of my newly sprung efforts.
This was Babu Priyanath Sen. Just before this the _Broken Heart_ had led
him to give up all hopes of me. I won him back with these _Evening
Songs_. Those who are acquainted with him know him as an expert
navigator of all the seven seas[51] of literature, whose highways and
byways, in almost all languages, Indian and foreign, he is constantly
traversing. To converse with him is to gain glimpses of even the most
out of the way scenery in the world of ideas. This proved of the
greatest value to me.

He was able to give his literary opinions with the fullest confidence,
for he had not to rely on his unaided taste to guide his likes and
dislikes. This authoritative criticism of his also assisted me more
than I can tell. I used to read to him everything I wrote, and but for
the timely showers of his discriminate appreciation it is hard to say
whether these early ploughings of mine would have yielded as they have
done.

(34) _Morning Songs_

At the river-side I also did a bit of prose writing, not on any definite
subject or plan, but in the spirit that boys catch butterflies. When
spring comes within, many-coloured short-lived fancies are born and flit
about in the mind, ordinarily unnoticed. In these