The third glimpse came through poetry. I had become fond of Longfellow’s Saga of King Olaf: fond of it in a casual, shallow way for its story and its vigorous rhythms. But then, and quite different from such pleasures, and like a voice from far more distant regions, there came a moment when I idly turned the pages of the book and found the unrhymed translation of Tegner’s Drapa and read I heard a voice that cried, Balder the beautiful Is dead, is dead— I knew nothing about Balder; but instantly I was uplifted into huge regions of northern sky, I desired with almost sickening intensity
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