And here it behoves a loyal and grateful disciple to guard himself
sedulously against the peril of overstatement. For to the unerring
taste, the sane and sober judgment, of the Master, unrestrained and
inappropriate praise would have been peculiarly distressing.

This caution applies with special force to our estimate of his rank in
poetry. That he was a poet, the most exacting, the most paradoxical
criticism will hardly deny; but there is urgent need for moderation and
self-control when we come to consider his place among the poets. Are we
to call him a great poet? The answer must be carefully pondered.

In the first place, he did not write very much. The total body of his
poetry is small. He wrote in the rare leisure-hours of an exacting
profession, and he wrote only in the early part of his life. In later
years he seemed to feel that the "ancient fount of inspiration"[1] was
dry. He had delivered his message to his generation, and wisely avoided
last words. Then it seems indisputable that he wrote with difficulty.
His poetry has little ease, fluency, or spontaneous movement. In every
line it bears traces of the laborious file. He had the poet's heart and
mind, but they did not readily express themselves in the poetic medium.
He longed for poetic utterance, as his only adequate vent, and sought it
earnestly with tears. Often he achieved it, but not seldom he left the
impression of frustrated and disappointing effort, rather than of easy
mastery and sure attainment.

Again, if we bear in mind Milton's threefold canon, we must admit that
his poetry lacks three great elements of power. He is not Simple,
Sensuous, or Passionate. He is too essentially modern to be really
simple. He is the product of a high-strung civilization, and all its