or he sees them pictorially; or, he sees pictures immersed as it were
in an atmosphere of thought. When the process is complete,
the thought suggests the picture and is its origin.
Then the Great Lover revisits the bottom of the monstrous world,
and imaginatively and thoughtfully recreates that strange under-sea,
whose glooms and gleams and muds are well known to him as
a strong and delighted swimmer; or, at the last, drifts through the dream
of a South Sea lagoon, still with a philosophical question in his mouth.
Yet one can hardly speak of "completion". These are real first flights.
What we have in this volume is not so much a work of art
as an artist in his birth trying the wings of genius.

The poet loves his new-found element. He clings to mortality;
to life, not thought; or, as he puts it, to the concrete, --
let the abstract "go pack!" "There's little comfort in the wise," he ends.
But in the unfolding of his precocious spirit, the literary control
comes uppermost; his boat, finding its keel, swings to the helm of mind.
How should it be otherwise for a youth well-born, well-bred,
in college air? Intellectual primacy showed itself to him
in many wandering "loves", fine lover that he was; but in the end
he was an intellectual lover, and the magnet seems to have been
especially powerful in the ghosts of the men of "wit", Donne, Marvell --
erudite lords of language, poets in another world than ours,
a less "ample ether", a less "divine air", our fathers thought,
but poets of "eternity". A quintessential drop of intellect
is apt to be in poetic blood. How Platonism fascinates the poets,
like a shining bait! Rupert Brooke will have none of it;
but at a turn of the verse he is back at it, examining, tasting, refusing.
In those alternate drives of the thought in his South Sea idyl
(clever as tennis play) how he slips from phenomenon to idea and reverses,