I saw sweet Poetry turn untroubled eyes
On shaggy Science nosing in the grass,
For by that way poor Poetry must pass
On her long pilgrimage to Paradise.
He snuffled, grunted, squealed: perplex by flies,
Parched, weatherworn, and near of sight, alas!
From peering close where very little was
In dens secluded from the open skies.
But Poetry in bravery went down,
And called his name, soft, clear, and fearlessly;
Stooped low, and stroked his muzzle overgrown;
Refreshed his drought with dew; wiped pure and free
His eys: and lo! laughed loud for joy to see
In those eyes deeps the azure of her own.
WALTER DE LA MARE.

Introduction.

[Most of the forty-six chapters each have their own epigraph].