Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe
with all its shows of day and night) saying, He
is mine;
But out spake too the Soul of men, proud, jealous
and unreconciled, Nay, he is mine alone;
--Then the full-grown poet stood between the two and
took each by the hand;
And today and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly
holding hands,
Which he will never release till he reconciles the two,
And wholly and joyously blends them.

The paradox in poets' views was equally perplexing, no matter what phase
of the poetic character was considered. A mere resume of the topics
discussed in these essays is enough to make the two horns of the dilemma
obtrude themselves. Did we consider the financial status of the poet? We
heard that he should experience all the luxurious sensations that wealth
can bring; on the other hand we heard that his poverty should shield him
from distractions that might call him away from accumulation of
spiritual treasure. Did we consider the poet's age? We heard that the
freshness of sensation possessed only by youth carries the secret of
poetry; on the other hand we heard that the secret lies in depth of
spiritual insight possible only to old age. So in the allied question of
the poet's body. He should have

The dress
Of flesh that amply lets in loveliness
At eye and ear,

that no beauty in the physical world may escape him. Yet he should be