assert that it has no significance. It merely shows that there are many
kinds of poets, who attempt to imitate many aspects of human life. But
surely our catalogue does not show just this. There is no multiform
picture of the poet here. The pendulum of his desire vibrates
undeviatingly between two points only. Sense and spirit, spirit and
sense, the pulse of his nature seems to reiterate incessantly. There is
no poet so absorbed in sensation that physical objects do not
occasionally fade into unreality when he compares them with the spirit
of life. Even Walt Whitman, most sensuous of all our poets, exclaims,

Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul
That all these solid things are indeed but apparitions,
concepts, non-realities.
[Footnote: _Apparitions_.]

On the other hand there is no poet whose taste is so purely spiritual
that he is indifferent to sensation. The idealism of Wordsworth, even,
did not preclude his finding in sensation

An appetite, a feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thought supplied.

Is this systole and diastole of the affection from sense to spirit, from
spirit to sense, peculiarly characteristic of English poets? There may
be some reason for assuming that it is. Historians have repeatedly
pointed out that there are two strains in the English blood, the one
northern and ascetic, the other southern and epicurean. In the modern
English poet the austere prophetic character of the Norse scald is
wedded to the impressionability of the troubadour. No wonder there is a