And in every generation", said
Colombo, "there have been those who dreamed of beautiful things
and in every age there have been those who caught some glimpse of
that perfect beauty which the Greeks call Helen, and to have seen
Helen", said Colombo, "is to have been touched with divine and
unbearable madness."
And it became strangely quiet in the cabin as Colombo continued:
"And those authors who wrote perfectly of beautiful dreams", said
he, "will, perchance, endure, and those who saw only men as they
are, will perish--for so has it been in the past and so will it
be in the future. All of which", said Colombo, "is a rather
tiresome and pedantic excuse for the fact that I am about to read
you my own poem."
And Colombo read to the stranger the dream of the land of
Colombo's imagining, and when he had finished the stranger smiled
and shook his head sadly.
"Come, now," said Colombo, somewhat hurt. "Do not, I pray you,
pretend to like it unless you really do. Of course it is not at
all the kind of thing that will sell, is it-- and the metre must
be patched up in places, don't you think? And some of the most
beautiful passages would never be permitted by the censor--but
still--" and Colombo paused hopefully, for it was Colombo's poem
and into it he had poured the heart of his life and it seemed to
him now, more than ever, a beautiful thing.
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