Little Poems in Prose

XII CROWDS IT is not given to everybody to bathe in the man-ocean; to enjoy the crow is an art; and he only can revel in their vitality at the expense of the human race in whom, while he lies in his cradle, a fairy has breathed the taste for trav- esty and masquerade, the hatred of home and the passion of travel. Multitude—Solitude: these terms are equivalent, and are convertible by the active and fertile poet. He who does not understand how to people his solitude is equally ignorant of the art of being alone in a crowd. The poet enjoys this incomparable privilege, that he can be at his pleasure himself or an- other. Like those wandering souls which seek for an embodiment, he enters where he will into the personality of each. For him alone all houses are to let: and if certain places seem to be closed to him it is because in his eyes they are not worth the trouble of being visited. The solitary and pensive stroller draws a singular intoxication from this universal com-