Whenever heredity is
lightly touched upon in poetry it is generally indicated that in the
poet's nature there are combined, for the first time, these two powerful
strains which, in mysterious fusion, constitute the poetic nature. In
the marriage of his father and mother, delight in the senses, absorption
in the turbulence of human passions, is likely to meet complete
otherworldliness and unusual spiritual sensitiveness.
There is a tradition that all great men have resembled their mothers;
this may in part account for the fact that the poet often writes of her.
Yet in poetical pictures of the mother the reader seldom finds anything
patently explaining genius in her child. The glimpse we have of Ben
Jonson's mother is an exception. A twentieth century poet conceives of
the woman who was "no churl" as
A tall, gaunt woman, with great burning eyes,
And white hair blown back softly from a face
Etherially fierce, as might have looked
Cassandra in old age.
[Footnote: Alfred Noyes, _Tales of the Mermaid Inn_.]
In the usual description, however, there is none of this dynamic force.
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