"My lord Media," impetuously resumed Yoomy, "I am sensible of a
thousand sweet, merry fancies, limpid with innocence; yet my enemies
account them all lewd conceits."

"There be those in Mardi," said Babbalanja, "who would never ascribe
evil to others, did they not find it in their own hearts; believing
none can be different from themselves."

"My lord, my lord!" cried Yoomy. "The air that breathes my music from
me is a mountain air! Purer than others am I; for though not a woman,
I feel in me a woman's soul."

"Ah, have done, silly Yoomy," said Media. "Thou art becoming flighty,
even as Babbalanja, when Azzageddi is uppermost."

"Thus ever: ever thus!" sighed Yoomy. "They comprehend us not."

"Nor me," said Babbalanja. "Yoomy: poets both, we differ but in
seeming; thy airiest conceits are as the shadows of my deepest
ponderings; though Yoomy soars, and Babbalanja dives, both meet at
last. Not a song you sing, but I have thought its thought; and where
dull Mardi sees but your rose, I unfold its petals, and disclose a
pearl. Poets are we, Yoomy, in that we dwell without us; we live in
grottoes, palms, and brooks; we ride the sea, we ride the sky; poets
are omnipresent."



CHAPTER XXXIV
Of The Isle Of Diranda