The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Including Essays on Poetry

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 146

their creation of
new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.


'Oinos'.

But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.


'Agathos'.

In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
_creation_.


'Oinos'.

Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?


'Agathos'.

It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--


'Oinos'.

God.


'Agathos'.

I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.


'Oinos'.

You did.


'Agathos'.

And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
air?


'Oinos'.

But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
passions of a turbulent heart.


'Agathos'.

They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts!





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