'In the beginning of September [1892], though feeling very ill, my father looked over a book of poems at the earnest entreaty of a stranger, Mr Dalmon, and made one or two criticisms. He crossed out Mr Dalmon's despairing words about poetry -- "[italics]The end is failure[end italics]" -- saying to him: "How can there be failure, if the divine speak through the human, be it through the voice of prince or peasant?"'