So, as by
enchantment, the course of the poet's existence was changed. He no
longer waked while others slept. On the contrary he seldom left his
couch until a late hour in the morning, and when at last he rose it was
often to pass the rest of the day in a Turkish bath.
Yet in spite of altered circumstances he still remained a poet, for the
poet is born, not made, or unmade. The tenor of his poetry however
was changed. Instead of the rude and vigorous subjects which formerly
engaged his lyre he would now employ his art in verse of the daintiest,
to celebrate flowers, ladies' eyebrows and similar trivialities.
This style however was not altogether to the taste of the munificent
Prince. He had expected something stronger, something more in the grand
manner. So he consulted a Wise Man, an adept in the ways of poets, one
greatly in demand as a writer of biographical prefaces to poetical
reprints.
The Wise Man heard him to the end and replied as follows: "Sire, you
have been ill-advised. Who ever heard of a happy poet? Poetry and
prosperity are incompatible. Instead of trying to make your _protege_
joyful you should have heaped sorrow upon him. It is well known that
sorrow ennobles a man and enlarges his emotional experience. 'Poets
learn in suffering what they teach in song' sang one of them who knew.
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