I urged him in return to sing to me, I wished to hear it. He took no notice of my request, but replied,
"I like one of Shelley's poems greatly, you must have read it.
'We, are we not as notes of music are
To one another though dissimilar?
Such difference without discord as can make
Those sweetest sounds in which all spirits shake,
As trembling leaves in a continuous air?'"
I remained silent, but he spoke again. "I once thought," he continued, "that all good poems were more or less hollow, that they were devoid of truth and consisted of mere fantasies, but I have learned to feel that I was mistaken. How do they appeal to you?"
"I have not thought about them in that way. I read poems and like them. That is all I know."
"But," he argued, "unless you feel them to be true can you appreciate their beauty? In earlier days I used to be displeased with a love story because it seemed to me untrue and impossible. I see differently now; I now understand that
'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'
