"There be two kind of poets: and one dwelleth in monastery and maketh long tales of saints, or it may be he furbisheth old matter of history. But this is not my place. And another sort abideth in a king's palace; he is a jongleur, and deviseth merry tales of love, and adventure of war, to please the ladies in hall. But I am not of these neither."
Then after a little space the dreamer flung out his right hand and spoke aloud with a great passion, saying:--
"The people are dead of the pestilence, and they that live will die, for they starve and the lord of the manor refuseth them bread. But how shall one man drive three ploughs? His wife hungers and his sons are born dead. Who shall help him?"
And hereupon he smiled, but a sound as of tears was in his voice, and--
"Lo! here is matter for a new song!" cried he; "Shall I sing it, Dame Truth,--shall I sing it? Yea, the little lad spake well. For my soul's health I will."
He drew his arm across his eyes, as who should clear away a mist. "Now lead me down into the valley, O Truth, where the world dwelleth! I will follow. I will come down from the hill-top. Men shall be more than a name for me before I am done. A child hath found me out."
He had gone over upon the west side of the ridge a little way, and between him and the pearl-tinged rampart of the Welsh mountains were many little hills and cup-like valleys; and in a valley of these a single ploughman ploughed. And the midday sun was hot.
The dreamer drew in his breath a long way, a-gazing; but then he lifted an arm straight out and pointed with his finger. "Yon 's a man," he said, "no name only, but a very man; my bloody brother. Now answer for me, Peter, that I do know thee, body and soul. Have I not dwelled with thee? Did I not cover up thy face when thou wert dead? Oh, here 's a very simple and true piece of God's handicraft I 've watched in the making. Little lad, an I chose to sing o' the ploughman thou 'lt never say puppet! An' I chose--An' I chose?--A-ah! Here 's no choosing! I see! I see!"
And anon, in the glory of that vision, he forgot himself, and cried out: "Lord, send a great singer to sing this song!"
He stood with both his arms flung up to heaven, and his head went backward as at that other time when he had watched the lark. The brightness of the noonday sky, and something inward, made his face to shine. So, for a moment, he rested, and then plunged upward, forward, on the ridge again, swiftly, with a flying motion in his skirts. But for the rest of that day, until the hour came when he kneeled down to pray, his lips were sealed; only his wide, unwavering eyes spake the vision.