he says, if I may repeat the phrase; but he seems to have loved the words,
as much as the things, -- "dear names", he adds. The born man of letters
speaks there. So, when his pulse is at its lowest,
he cannot forget the beautiful surface of his South Sea idyls
or of versified English gardens and lanes. He cared as much
for the expression as for the thing, which is what makes a man of letters.
So fixed is this habit that his art, truly, is independent
of his bodily state. In his poems of "collapse" as in those of "ecstasy"
he seems to me equally master of his mood, -- like those poets who are
"for all time". His literary skill in verse was ripe, how long so ever
he might have to live.


II

To come, then, to art, which is above personality, what of that? Art is,
at most, but the mortal relic of genius; yet it is true of it that,
like Ozymandias' statue, "nothing beside remains". Rupert Brooke was
already perfected in verbal and stylistic execution. He might have grown
in variety, richness and significance, in scope and in detail, no doubt;
but as an artisan in metrical words and pauses, he was past apprenticeship.
He was still a restless experimenter, but in much he was a master.
In the brief stroke of description, which he inherited from
his early attachment to the concrete; in the rush of words,
especially verbs; in the concatenation of objects, the flow of things
`en masse' through his verse, still with the impulse of "the bright speed"
he had at the source; in his theatrical impersonation of abstractions,
as in "The Funeral of Youth", where for once the abstract and the concrete
are happily fused; -- in all these there are the elements, and in the last
there is the perfection, of mastery. For one thing, he knew how to end.