symbolism may be only a fancy, that it has no root in the ground. It may be his love, but not a purpose; and that is a weak point for him. He has elaborate adjectives, phrases, and description, but we are sure he must find some other way to make his poem alive. Truth and beauty want no explanation, nor pomp of line. His poetical mind is clear like a looking-glass which reflects every line and colour. But his enemy is himself; he has too much restraint, a certain heaviness, unmistakable difficulty with his lines, appeals too much to the reader’s eye; he has an excess of exactitude which only makes him difficult to follow. He uses too often a sharpened pencil to make a landscape of large size; it makes the picture a failure as a whole; he spoils the general effect by paying too diligent attention to details. He is a wonder of development; he is a poet of taste. He takes a little seed of a strange flower, puts it in the ground, waters it, makes it bloom, places it on a tokonoma, and gazes at and admires it from every side; he does not require a great subject to sing on. But his poetical mood is often sophisticated; he is too careful, too timid, like a shy bird. And if he grasps life’s meaning, unfortunately he kills it. It would be his triumph if he could leave out his classicism which he himself created. He has to conquer his own soul; he has to learn the emotion of faith which is primal After all, his cleverness
