As we behold men going up and down the corn-fields of history,
they are plucking the ears of corn as they journey. What are you
reaching after with those long mental fingers, O Shakespeare?
“I’ve seen how the corn of human nature grows upon the stalk of
life, and I’m plucking at the heart of this mystery.” What are
those great hands grasping after, O Beethoven? “I’m dreaming of
unblended harmonies my deaf ears have never heard, and these
hands are trying to pluck them from out the invisible realms of
harmony.” Why run those hands up into the sleeve of darkness, O
Milton? They seem to be straining after something. “Worlds of
light lie behind these dead eyes of mine. I’ve seen an angel
and heard him sing, and these hands are fumbling about in the
darkness hunting for words to tell about his song.” What are
those majestic hands reaching after, O Angelo? “I need a few
bars of light, a few bursts of morning, a few scraps of sunset,
to show men how God paints pictures. I’m plucking the golden
ears of color from nature’s garden to hang up in a picture
gallery.”--F. F. SHANNON.
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