“A worm there is, a worm,” said I,
“That strives to glimmer on the earth,
A light for all. Is that not worth
A life as in the changeful sky?
Shines the moon, shines the sun
Not unknown unto One.”
The writer of these lines had no literary skill, and could not write good rhyme and rhythm; but he could, and did, weave the symptoms and symbols of mere melancholic passion into exquisitely organic imagery; he translated the sense of hopeless loneliness into the useful solitude of the light-house, and the sensation of being abject like a worm into the vision of a glow-worm. Do you think he felt abject or lonely while he was writing these lines? His passion had become transformed into power.
Perhaps some reader may feel inclined to say that his mind is neither innocent nor quiet; that he has nothing to think of except anger, hatred, and unsatisfied lusts. That is not quite true of anybody; still, let that pass. I am neither parson nor moralist; it is no part of my function to tell you that such passions are wicked. They are, in their own way, not bad material for art. If you have nothing to think about except stormy passions and desires, think about them; but think about them truly according to the laws of your own thinking machinery. We cannot all acquire skill in weaving words into harmonious verse, but we can all be artists in thought and group ideas harmoniously. Whatever you have to think about, learn to think according to the Laws of Thought.
If you are on a long voyage across a monotonous
