possibilities, and in doing so he does for himself what afterwards his poems do for us—he awakens or creates emotions in his heart that it knew little or nothing of before, and as he continues he clarifies, strengthens and adds to them.
The Muse is light-footed, but does not, like Poe, consider a poem more essentially poetical for being short. No, as children continue their Indians and Pirates from day to day and from one holidays to another, she sustains the poet's interest in Aready or Babylon, in murderous king and incestuous queen, for years together, and renews it from age to age; yet she often welcomes novel themes. She loves to defeat the "proud limitary" theorist who is for a hole-in-the-corner business, with one properly labelled ware of a high quality. One generation having deified classical example, she prompts the next to scoff at "monstrous Milton"; yet will very likely lead the scoffer's son back to that blind man's feet. In fact, like children, she hates a declared purpose; for the game is best when the players forget themselves entirely in it, even though it be preaching, for then she loves a sermon. The poet is only a poet when he lays aside the interests of his life among his neighbours and shares her free absorption over anything or everything. To live poetry as Rupert Brooke dreamed of doing is impossible, for though Life may follow, she can never overtake those immaterial feet. The welfare of one man, of one neighbourhood, of one nation or period, is a pettifogging affair when past and future lie open. If the poet treats of his own love he must be careful not clearly to distinguish her from Helen of Troy, or should, at least, give us the illusion that they are equally real to him. That is why failure in love and war is so much more inspiring to the poet than success; when the real world has rejected a man he feels freer in the Muses' house; he no longer has any interests that conflict with theirs.
