on all the haunted plan;
        The passions of the human heart
        Beating the marble breast of Art,
        Were not more lone to one who first
        Upon its giant silence burst,
        Than this strange quiet, where the tide
        Of life, upheaved on either aide,
        Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
        With human waves the Morning Street.”

“How lovely!” said Isabel, swiftly catching at her skirt, and deftly escaping contact with one of a long row of ash-barrels posted sentinel-like on the edge of the pavement.  “Whose is it, Basil?”

“Ah! a poet’s,” answered her husband, “a man of whom we shall one day any of us be glad to say that we liked him before he was famous.  What a nebulous sweetness the first lines have, and what a clear, cool light of day-break in the last!”

“You could have been as good a poet as that, Basil,” said the ever-personal and concretely-speaking Isabel, who could not look at a mountain without thinking what Basil might have done in that way, if he had tried.

“O no, I couldn’t, dear.  It’s very difficult being any poet at all, though it’s easy to be like one.  But I’ve done with it; I broke with the Muse the day you accepted me.  She came into my office, looking so shabby,—­not unlike one of those poor shop-girls; and as I was very well dressed from having just been to see you, why, you know, I felt the difference.  ‘Well, my dear?’ said I, not quite liking the look of reproach she was giving me.  ‘You are groins to leave me,’ she answered sadly.  ’Well, yes; I suppose I must.  You see the insurance business is very absorbing; and besides, it has a bad appearance, your coming about so in office hours, and in those clothes.’  ‘O,’ she moaned out, ’you used to welcome me at all times, out in the country, and thought me prettily dressed.’  ’Yes, yes; but this is Boston; and Boston makes a great difference in one’s ideas; and I’m going to be married, too.  Come, I don’t want to seem ungrateful; we have had many pleasant times together, I own it; and I’ve no objections to your being present at Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthdays, but really I must draw the line there.’  She gave me a look that made my heart ache, and went straight to my desk and took out of a pigeon hole a lot of papers,—­odes upon your cruelty, Isabel; songs to you; sonnets,—­the sonnet, a mighty poor one, I’d made the day before,—­and threw them all into the grate.  Then she turned to me again, signed adieu with mute lips, and passed out.  I could hear the bottom wire of the poor thing’s hoop-skirt clicking against each step of the stairway, as she went slowly and heavily down to the street.”  “O don’t—­don’t, Basil,” said his wife, “it seems like something wrong.  I think you ought to have been ashamed.”

“Ashamed!  I was heart broken.  But it had to come to that.  As I got hopeful about you, the Muse became a sad bore; and more than once I found myself smiling at her when her back was turned.  The Muse doesn’t like being laughed at any more than another woman would, and she would have left me shortly.  No, I couldn’t be a poet like our Morning-Street friend.  But see! the human wave is beginning to sprinkle the pavement with cooks and second-girls.”