Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/255

“Then I gave him the poem I had written after I had come in that night. He read it over twice, then he deliberately tore it into strips.

“‘Now—why? I said, rather annoyed. “There was nothing wrong about that poem, Mr. Carpenter.’

“‘Not about its body,’ he said. ‘Every line of it, taken by itself, might be read in Sunday School. But its soul—what mood were you in when you wrote that, in heaven’s name?’

“‘The mood of the Golden Age,’ I said.

“No—of an age far before that. That poem was sheer Paganism, girl, though I don’t think you realise it. To be sure, from the point of view of literature it’s worth a thousand of your pretty songs. All the same, that way danger lies. Better stick to your own age. You're part of it and can possess it without its possessing you. Emily, there was a streak of diabolism in that poem. It’s enough to make me believe that poets are inspired—by some spirits outside themselves. Didn’t you feel possessed when you wrote it?’

“‘Yes,’ I said, remembering. I felt rather glad Mr. Carpenter had torn the poem up. I could never have done it myself. I have destroyed a great many of my poems that seemed trash on successive readings, but this one never seemed so and it always brought back the strange charm and terror of that walk. But Mr. Carpenter was right—I feel it.

“He also berated me because I happened to mention I had been reading Mrs. Hemans’ poems. Aunt Laura has a cherished volume, bound in faded blue and gold, with an inscription from an admirer. In Aunt Laura’s youth it was the thing to give your adored a volume of poetry on her birthday. The things Mr. Carpenter said about Mrs. Hemans were not fit to write in a young lady’s diary. I suppose he is right in the main—yet I do like some of her poems. Just here and there comes a line or verse that haunts me for days, delightfully.