Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - The Poet's Symbol.
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tree of his life bears leaves impressed with long
and learned words: diligence and perseverance
crawl like snails on the hog’s leather bark: the
moths have got into the inside – and that is
bad, very bad! Pardon the rich fulness of the
song, the inconsiderate enthusiasm, the fresh
young, intellect. Do not behead Scherezade!
But he beheads her out of hand, sans remorse.
There sits a dress-maker, a sempstress who
has had some experience of the world. She
comes from strange families, from a solitary
chamber where she sat and gained a knowledge
of mankind – she knows and loves the romantic.
Pardon, Miss, if the story has not excitement
enough for you, who have sat over the needle
and the muslin, and having had so much of
life’s prose, gasp after romance.
“Behead her!” says the dress-maker.
There sits a figure in a dressing gown – this
oriental dress of the North, for the lordly
minion, the petty prince, the rich brewer’s son,
&c., &c., &c. It is not to be learned from the
dressing gown, nor from that lordly look and
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