Портрет художника в юности

           Thiswasthecalloflifetohissoulnotthedullgrossvoiceoftheworldofdutiesanddespair,nottheinhumanvoicethathadcalledhimtothepaleserviceofthealtar.Aninstantofwildflighthaddeliveredhimandthecryoftriumphwhichhislipswithheldclefthisbrain.

           —Stephaneforos!

           Whatweretheynowbutcerementsshakenfromthebodyofdeath—thefearhehadwalkedinnightandday,theincertitudethathadringedhimround,theshamethathadabasedhimwithinandwithout—cerements,thelinensofthegrave?

           Hissoulhadarisenfromthegraveofboyhood,spurninghergrave-clothes.Yes!Yes!Yes!Hewouldcreateproudlyoutofthefreedomandpowerofhissoul,asthegreatartificerwhosenamehebore,alivingthing,newandsoaringandbeautiful,impalpable,imperishable.

           Hestartedupnervouslyfromthestone-blockforhecouldnolongerquenchtheflameinhisblood.Hefelthischeeksaflameandhisthroatthrobbingwithsong.Therewasalustofwanderinginhisfeetthatburnedtosetoutfortheendsoftheearth.On!On!hisheartseemedtocry.Eveningwoulddeepenabovethesea,nightfallupontheplains,dawnglimmerbeforethewandererandshowhimstrangefieldsandhillsandfaces.Where?

           HelookednorthwardtowardsHowth.Theseahadfallenbelowthelineofseawrackontheshallowsideofthebreakwaterandalreadythetidewasrunningoutfastalongtheforeshore.