human
O, they are rough to mount, those stairs ; but she Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight Shot like a meteor with her.
gpt
There, said she;
human
The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell. She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, And on the lintel there were writ these words:
gpt
Ho, every one that cometh, I divide What hath been from what might be, and the line Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, Or else forbear the hill.
human
So, cobweb, I will break thee. And she passed Among some oak-trees on the farther side, And waded through the bracken round their bolls, Until she saw the open, and drew on Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. Here she put up a creature, that ran on Before her, crying,
gpt
Tint, tint, tint, and turned, Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, With other talk enough to make one fear To walk in lonely places. After passed A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; He shook his head,
human
An' if I list to tell, Quoth he,
gpt
I know, but how it matters not ; Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered,
human
Tint, Tint, tint.
gpt
There shall be wild work some day soon, Quoth he,
human
O Content, Content, Give me, sang he,
gpt
Which is the path, I pray, That leads one to the water? But he said,
human
Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, The path that leads one to the golden gate Across the river. So she wandered on; And presently her feet grew cool, the grass Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. The air was full of voices, and the scent Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, And reared in such a sort that it looked down Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, And richest plains o' the island. It was set Midway between the snows majestical And a wide level, such as men would choose For growing wheat; and some one said to her,
gpt
It is the hill Parnassus. So she walked Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear The calling of an unseen multitude To some upon the mountain,
human
Give us more ; And others said,
gpt
We are tired of this old world: Make it look new again. Then there were some Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak From that high mountain, as the living do); But others sang desponding,
human
We have kept The vision for a chosen few: we love Fit audience better than a rough huzza From the unreasoning crowd.
gpt
There was a time, you poets, was a time When all the poetry was ours, and made By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: Our heroes die and drop away from us; Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, That many of us think scorn of honest trade, And take no pride in our own shops; who care Only to quit a calling, will not make The calling what it might be; who despise Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work Dull, and degrade them.