You feel it as soon as you step through the doorway
Into Melville’s study—
The air carries a different charge, more vibrant
Than a moment ago on the other side of that threshold,
As if a strong presence enlivens this room
Where he seems, still, to sit, looking across the valley,
Mount Greylock faithfully offering up 
Every day its inspiration, 
Its own steadfastness steadying his, as
He seeks, waits for the words;
Synesthetic visions of worlds beyond the mask,
Creator and loom, spinning creation
Out of sea-swirls,
Resolving for a moment into some momentous
Before the next shape-shift
Imposes its own requirements.
And—perhaps it is the magnetism of the mountain,
Perhaps the electric air—
You also feel this:  Your own soul stirring,
Your own mind starting to ask again 
The disorienting questions that must churn
Inside him, as he listens, pen in hand, for the burning words 
That will tell what it is that he sees,
Foot upon the treadle.