“A great poem is a fountain forever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one person and one age has exhausted all its divine effluence, another and yet another succeeds”. Our thirst for such high poetry is, in a word, unslakable. We’ll bedew our lips with no lesser type. For this, we thank God, or some superintending muse, for allowing great poetry to spring from a well at once bottomless and eternal, limpid and strong, into which, from one generation to the next, we dip our hands, and cup that eloquent liquid of life.