And this is not the worst of the
difficulty. Even if we turn from Shelley to Byron, from Wordsworth to
Browning, in quest of the one satisfactory conception of the poet, we
shall not hear in anyone of their poems the single clear ringing note
for which we are listening. When anyone of these men is considering the
poetic character, his thought behaves like a pendulum, swinging back and
forth between two poles.
Thus we ourselves have admitted the futility of our quest of truth, the
critic may conclude. But no, before we admit as much, let us see exactly
what constitutes the lack of unity which troubles us. After its
persistence in verse of the same country, the same period, the same
tradition, the same poet, even, has led us to the brink of despair, its
further persistence rouses in us fresh hope, or at least intense
curiosity, for what impresses us as the swinging of a pendulum keeps up
its rhythmical beat, not merely in the mind of each poet, but in each
phase of his thought. We find the same measured antithesis of thought,
whether he is considering the singer's environment or his health, his
inspiration or his mission.
Pages:
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447