It is true that not all poets agree that these years of labor are of
avail. Even Bryant, just quoted, warns the poet,

Touch the crude line with fear
But in the moments of impassioned thought.
[Footnote: _The Poet_.]

Indeed the singer's awe of the mysterious revelation given him may be so
deep that he dares not tamper with his first impetuous transcription of
it. But as a sculptor toils over a single vein till it is perfect, the
poet may linger over a word or phrase, and so long as the pulse seems to
beat beneath his fingers, no one has a right to accuse him of
artificiality. Sometimes, indeed, he is awkward, and when he tries to
wreathe his thoughts together, they wither like field flowers under his
hot touch. Or, in his zeal, he may fashion for his forms an embroidered
robe of such richness that like heavy brocade it disguises the form
which it should express. In fact, poets are apt to have an affection,
not merely for their inspiration, but for the words that clothe it.
Keats confessed, "I look upon fine phrases as a lover." Tennyson
delighted in "jewels fine words long, that on the stretched forefinger
of all time sparkle forever." Rossetti spoke no less sincerely than
these others, no doubt, even though he did not illustrate the efficacy
of his search, when he described his interest in reading old manuscripts
with the hope of "pitching on some stunning words for poetry." Ever and
anon there is a rebellion against conscious elaboration in dressing
one's thoughts. We are just emerging from one of the noisiest of these.
The vers-librists insist that all adornment and disguise be stripped
off, and the idea be exhibited in its naked simplicity. The quarrel with
more conservative writers comes, not from any disagreement as to the