The angel at the Gates of Happiness spoke again unto me, saying:
Your suffering, O poet, is no greater in degree than that of your fellow mortals; yet it is different in kind.
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You have been blessed with many causes of happiness, for all the beauty of the world is there for you to enjoy as it is for all members of your race.
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Your mission, poet, is to celebrate the good. Even in your songs of mourning, you affirm what is good by your sorrow at its passing.
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Your proper attitude is not only that of celebration, but of gratitude. The true poet harbors no resentment, but only a humble and grateful spirit for all the good that has been given.
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Your peculiar suffering, O poet, no greater than yet distinct from that of your kin, is this:
There is a happiness which is granted to most of your kind that is denied you, although you desire it more than any other good.
It is a happiness which you have never once possessed;
and it is a happiness which you never once shall know.
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Your friends believe you suffer for a happiness which you once held, then lost. Yet in truth you grieve for a happiness which was never for a moment in your hand.
They do not know the true nature of your suffering, nor the true object of your sorrow. Like the nature of your treasure, that is only for you and your Maker to know; you may only speak of it in symbols and in myths, those great tools of the poet's art.
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Your deprivation seems to you cruel and unfair; but what did you ever do to deserve any gift, O mortal? The gods dispense their gifts as they please.
None deserve the good they have. If they had deserved anything, they should have no reason to be grateful.
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Your poverty, though it seem a curse, is in truth a blessing to you, O poet. It enables you to receive the strange and wondrous treasure that is given to poets, for which all the world counts as loss.
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If you had the happiness which you desire, you should not have the happiness which is properly yours, and which is the true fulfillment of your being.
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The fulfillment of your desires does not consist in your own satisfaction, but in the happiness of others. For this reason your tears shall become refreshing water for your kin; your blood shall become sweet wine to lighten their spirits; and your cries of sorrow shall become songs of beauty and of joy.
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You are not made low as an act of cruelty but as an act of grace. The grape must first be crushed in order to produce wine.
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Suffering is the lot of mortals. Your holy mission, dear poet, is to sing sweet songs full of truth and beauty and divine grace, that you may ease suffering on the earth, not only your own but also that of your fellow creatures.
In this way shall your loss be made gain, and your tragedy triumph.
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For it is through your words, O poet, like the works of all those who bring love and grace, that the gods kiss the hearts of men and bring healing to their souls.
Thus spoke the angel.
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I awoke from the dream, and, pondering these things, took pen in hand and crafted a song such as I was capable of making.
Glancing out my window, I saw children playing merrily in the street, old men and women smiling upon them with gladness, young men and women embracing in love. Though I could not join them, I was nevertheless happy for them, and that happiness was true.
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