CHAPTER XIII.
GEORGE HERBERT.
But, with my hand on the lock, I shrink from opening the door.

Here comes a poet indeed! and how am I to show him due honour?
With his book humbly, doubtfully offered, with the ashes of the poems of his youth fluttering in the wind of his priestly garments, he crosses the threshold.

Or rather, for I had forgotten the symbol of my book, let us all go from our chapel to the choir, and humbly ask him to sing that he may make us worthy of his song.
In George Herbert there is poetry enough and to spare: it is the household bread of his being.

If I begin with that which first in the nature of things ought to be demanded of a poet, namely, Truth, Revelation--George Herbert offers us measure pressed down and running over.

But let me speak first of that which first in time or order of appearance we demand of a poet, namely music.