absorbed in the other world to such a degree that blindness, even, is a
blessing to him, enabling him to "see, no longer blinded by his eyes."
The question of the poet's health arose. He should have the exuberance
and aplomb of the young animal; no, he should have a body frail enough
to enable him, like the mediaeval mystic, to escape from its
importunatedemands upon the spirit.

In the more fundamental questions that poets considered, relating to the
poet's temperament, his loves, his inspiration, his morality, his
religion, his mission, the same cleavage invariably appeared. What
constitutes the poetic temperament? It is a fickle interchange of joy
and grief, for the poet is lifted on the wave of each new sensation; it
is an imperturbable serenity, for the poet dwells apart with the eternal
verities. What is the distinguishing characteristic of his love? The
object of his worship must be embodied, passionate, yet his desire is
for purely spiritual union with her. What is the nature of his
inspiration? It fills him with trancelike impassivity to sensation; it
comes upon him with such overwhelming sensation that he must touch the
walls to see whether they or his visions are the reality. [Footnote: See
Christopher Wordsworth, _Memoirs of Wordsworth_, Vol. II, p. 480.]
How is his moral life different from that of other men? He is more
fiercely tempted, because he is more sensitive to human passions; he is
shut away from all temptations because his interest is solely in the
principle of beauty. What is the nature of his religious instinct? He is
mad with thirst for God; he will have no God but his own humanity. What
is his mission? He must awaken men to the wonder of the physical world
and fit them to abide therein; he must redeem them from physical
bondage, and open their eyes to the spiritual world.

The impatient listener to this lengthy catalogue of the poet's views may