The point I am making is that the great things in poetry have not all
been done. On the contrary, it is the same old cry the world has heard
since Homer. Until Shakespeare wrote, it appeared, to those who had no
vision, that the immortal things in literature had all been done. But
these immortal things and things not immortal, things permanent and
things temporary, were only food and material for Shakespeare.
Literature, then, has only been furnishing the materials--the
timber--for the structure that is yet to be built. But the timber is
noble in dimension, and they must be giants who use it. If you are a
giant, your task awaits you.
"It is nonsense to talk of any great war in which this country will
ever be engaged," said a wise and experienced public man to me one
day, in discussing our future. "There is no place in the world for
distinguished service by an American soldier. He can wear his uniform;
he can study his tactics; he can be a warrior of the ball-room; but,
after all, he is only a kind of policeman."
This conversation occurred some years ago. The fallacy of this
conservative (shall we not say short-sighted, for sometimes they are
mistaken for one another) man's conclusion has been revealed by recent
events.
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