unless the poet is subject to the unifying influence of a great passion,
which, far from destroying perspective, as was hinted previously,
affords a fixed standard by which to gauge the relative values of other
impressions. Of course the exceptionally idealistic poet, who is
conscious of a religious ideal, can say with Milton, "I am wont day and
night to seek the _idea_ of beauty through all the forms and faces
of things (for many are the shapes of things divine) and to follow it
leading me on with certain assured traces." [Footnote: _Prose
Works_, Vol. I, Letter VII, Symmons ed.] To him there is no need of
the unifying influence of romantic love. In his case the mission of a
strong passion is rather to humanize the ideal, lest it become purely
philosophical (as that of G. E. Woodberry is in danger of doing) or
purely ethical, as is the case of our New England poets. On the other
hand, to the poet who denies the ideal element in life altogether, the
unifying influence of love is indispensable. Such deeply tragic poetry
as that of James Thomson, B. V., for instance, which asserts Macbeth's
conclusion that life is "a tale told by an idiot," is saved from utter
chaos sufficiently to keep its poetical character, only because the
memory of his dead love gives Thomson a conception of eternal love and
beauty by which to gauge his hopeless despair.

In addition, our poets are wont to agree with their father Spenser that
the beauty of a beloved person is not to be placed in the same class as
the beauty of the world of nature. Spenser argues that the spiritual
beauty of a lady, rather than her outward appearance, causes her lover's
perturbation. He inquires:

Can proportion of the outward part
Move such affection in the inward mind
That it can rob both sense and reason blind?