A young man came to see me at my lodgings the ht, and began to talk of the making of the earth and the heavens and much else. I questioned him about his life and his doings. He had written many poems and painted many mystical designs since we met last, but latterly had her written nor painted, for his whole heart was set upon making his mind strong, vigorous, and calm, and the emotional life of the artist was bad for him, he feared. He recited his poems readily, however. He had them all in his memory. Some indeed had never been written down. They, with their wild music as of winds blowing in the reeds,[FN#1] seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and of Celtiging for infihings the world has never seen. Suddenly it seemed to me that he eering about him a little eagerly. “Do you see anything, X-----?” I said. “A shining, winged woman, covered by her long hair, is standihe doorway,” he answered, or some such words.
“Is it the influence……（内容加载失败！）
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