Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process
of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music?
The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then
a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on
alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising
the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it
might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed
“setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced
the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will
recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel
of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet
swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls
of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur
in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off
a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
by Lewis Carroll
I never loved a dear Gazelle—
Nor anything that cost me much:
High prices profit those who sell,
But why should I be fond of such?
To glad me with his soft black eye
My son comes trotting home from school;
He’s had a fight but can’t tell why—
He always was a little fool!
But, when he came to know me well,
He kicked me out, her testy Sire:
And when I stained my hair, that Belle
Might note the change, and thus admire
And love me, it was sure to dye
A muddy green or staring blue:
Whilst one might trace, with half an eye,
The still triumphant carrot through.
c.f.
Thomas Moore
Lalla Rookh
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nurst a dear gazelle
To glad me with its soft black eye
But when it came to know me well
And love me it was sure to die!
—Infoplease
