John James

“He knew of me too. He had heard my verses often, and I had heard his praise sung. He looked me in the eye as he heard my name, and I knew what he thought. He asked himself if I were more than a witless minstrel who can sting words together for a bed or a meal, but can no more understand the real meaning of the line he sings or guess what the sounds rouse in his hearers' souls than the smith can swing the sword he forges or feel the terror that comes to the beaten warrior who sees the iron sheer down at him for the last time.”
― John James