When the full-grown poet came,
Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe, with all its
    shows of day and night,) saying, He is mine;
But out spake too the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unreconciled,
    Nay he is mine alone;
--Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took each
    by the hand;
And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands,
Which he will never release until he reconciles the two,
And wholly and joyously blends them.