There were evidences of such an art in Insurrections, the first
book of James Stephens. In the poem called "Fossils," the girl
who flies and the boy who hunts her are followed in flight and
pursuit with a swift energy by the poet, and the lines pant and
gasp, and the figures flare up and down the pages. The energy
created a new form in verse, not an orthodox beauty, which the
classic artists would have admitted, but such picturesque beauty
as Marcus Aurelius found in the foam on the jaws of the wild boar.

I always want to find the fundamental emotion out of which a poet
writes. It is easy to do this with some, with writers like Shelley
and Wordsworth, for they talked much of abstract things, and a man
never reveals himself so fully as when he does this, when he tries
to interpret nature, when he has to fill darkness with light, and
chaos with meaning. A man may speak about his own heart and may
deceive himself and others, but ask him to fill empty space with
significance, and what he projects on that screen will be himself,
and you can know him even as hereafter he will be known. When a
poet puts his ear to a shell, I know if he listens long enough he
will hear his own destiny. I knew after reading "The Shell" that
in James Stephens we were going to have no singer of the abstract.
There was no human quality or stir in the blind elemental murmur,
and the poet drops it with a sigh of relief:

O, it was sweet
To hear a cart go jolting down the street.

From the tradition of the world too he breaks away, from the great
murmuring shell which gives back to us our cries and questionings