Ion

And as the Corybantian revellers when they dance are not in their right mind, so the lyric poets are not in their right mind when they are composing their beautiful strains: but when falling under the power of music and metre they are inspired and possessed; like Bacchic maidens who draw milk and honey from the rivers when they are under the influence of Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind.

And the soul of the lyric poet does the same, as they themselves say; for they tell us that they bring songs from honeyed fountains, culling them out of the gardens and dells of the Muses; they, like the bees, winging their way from flower to flower.

And this is true. For the poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles.

The Dialogues of Plato - Ion

M: My beloved void, does it not disturb you that men today praise the beekeeper and mock the bees? They praise metrics, technical control, and lifeless polish. The fountain of honey simply poisoned and reduced to still, mournful water. They wish to tether these light and winged and holy things like livestock to a post. And, above all my loved void, is it not disturbing that readers of today adore ill waters over honeyed songs?

V: …

M: I suppose you are right. Why is it that I blame the readers? For they simply read what they desire, what interests them. What pulls at their heart like wires of a piano, a gravity of their orientation.

V: …

M: But how despairful! Look at them, my cherished void. Souls which yearn for the resonance of their essence, creations which amplify their gravity, destined to never explore beyond the gate of the still waters.

V: Even poisoned waters reflect the sky.

M: And that alone is enough to bring me to tears. The premise bothers me, yes. But you are absolutely right my dear void: even in the most tainted pond we can find some reflection. I see in the readers not fools nor ignorant consumers. I see a man, desperate to see himself, still trying to find his own gaze in those waters. I see not a man; I see the yearning for humanity. This is hope.

V: …

M: You are right, my beloved. Honey can only be tasted, not explained. Produce honey, yes, but do not criticize the yearning from consuming from other waters.

V: Tainted ponds glimmer with heaven.