of colour at a word, raising ideas of harmony without breaking the
stillness of the air. He can lead on the dance of words till their
sinuous movements call forth, as if by mesmerism, the likeness of
some adamantine rigidity, time is converted into space, and music
begets sculpture. To see for the sake of seeing, to hear for the
sake of hearing, are subsidiary exercises of his complex
metaphysical art, to be counted among its rudiments. Picture and
music can furnish but the faint beginnings of a philosophy of
letters. Necessary though they be to a writer, they are transmuted
in his service to new forms, and made to further purposes not their
own.

The power of vision--hardly can a writer, least of all if he be a
poet, forego that part of his equipment. In dealing with the
impalpable, dim subjects that lie beyond the border-land of exact
knowledge, the poetic instinct seeks always to bring them into
clear definition and bright concrete imagery, so that it might seem
for the moment as if painting also could deal with them. Every
abstract conception, as it passes into the light of the creative
imagination, acquires structure and firmness and colour, as flowers
do in the light of the sun. Life and Death, Love and Youth, Hope
and Time, become persons in poetry, not that they may wear the
tawdry habiliments of the studio, but because persons are the
objects of the most familiar sympathy and the most intimate
knowledge.


How long, O Death? And shall thy feet depart
Still a young child's with mine, or wilt thou stand
Full grown the helpful daughter of my heart,