It was to escape from all such
that he had clamoured. The Poet is silent.
"I asked but for recognition," cries the Musician, "that men might
listen to me; not for my music to be taken from me in exchange for
the recompense of a successful tradesman. My inspiration is burnt
out; I feel it. The music that once filled my soul is mute."
"It was born of the strife and anguish," the Stranger tells him, "of
the loves that died, of the hopes that faded, of the beating of
youth's wings against the bars of sorrow, of the glory and madness
and torment called Life, of the struggle you shrank from facing."
The Poet takes up the tale.
"You have robbed us of Life," he cries. "You tell us of dead lips
whose kisses we have never felt, of songs of victory sung to our deaf
ears. You have taken our fires, you have left us but the ashes."
"The fires that scorch and sear," the Stranger adds, "the lips that
cried in their pain, the victory bought of wounds."
"It is not yet too late," the Stranger tells them. "All this can be
but a troubled dream, growing fainter with each waking moment. Will
you buy back your Youth at the cost of ease? Will you buy back Life
at the price of tears?"
They cry with one voice, "Give us back our Youth with its burdens,
and a heart to bear them! Give us back Life with its mingled bitter
and sweet!"
Then suddenly the Stranger stands revealed before them. They see
that he is Life--Life born of battle, Life made strong by endeavour,
Life learning song from suffering.
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