n
abstruse affair that two friends laid a wager as to its real meaning. My
only consolation was that, as I was equally unable to explain the enigma
to them when they came to me for a solution, neither of them had to lose
any money over it. Alas! The days when I wrote excessively plain poems
about _The Lotus_ and _A Lake_ had gone forever.

But does one write poetry to explain any matter? What is felt within the
heart tries to find outside shape as a poem. So when after listening to
a poem anyone says he has not understood, I feel nonplussed. If someone
smells a flower and says he does not understand, the reply to him is:
there is nothing to understand, it is only a scent. If he persists,
saying: _that_ I know, but what does it all _mean_? Then one has either
to change the subject, or make it more abstruse by saying that the
scent is the shape which the universal joy takes in the flower.

That words have meanings is just the difficulty. That is why the poet
has to turn and twist them in metre and verse, so that the meaning may
be held somewhat in check, and the feeling allowed a chance to express
itself.

This utterance of feeling is not the statement of a fundamental truth,
or a scientific fact, or a useful moral precept. Like a tear or a smile
it is but a picture of what is taking place within. If Science or
Philosophy may gain anything from it they are welcome, but that is not
the reason of its being. If while crossing a ferry you can catch a fish
you are a lucky man, but that does not make the ferry boat a fishing
boat, nor should you abuse the ferryman if he does not make fishing his
business.

_The Echo_ was written so long ago that it has escaped attention and I
am now no longer called upon to render an account of its meaning.
Nevertheless, whatever its other merits or defects may be, I can assure
my readers that it was not my intention to propound a riddle, or
insidiously convey any erudite teaching. The fact of the matter was that
a longing had been born within my heart, and, unable to find any other
name, I had called the thing I desired an Echo.

When from the original fount in the depths of the Universe streams of
melody are sent forth abroad, their echo is reflected into our heart
from the faces of our beloved and the other beauteous things around us.
It must be, as I suggested, this Echo which we love, and not the things
themselves from which it happens to be reflected; for that which one day
we scarc