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88 is written not as an escape from life but as the inevitable and impassioned expression of life itself. Now Gerard Hopkins' artistry was not of this supreme sort. He was essentially a minor poet; he wrote incredibly little and he interpreted but few phases of human experience. Yet, with the minor poet's distinctive merit, he worked his narrow field with completeness and intensity. And who can deny that the very quality which seemed, at worst, an eccentric and literate mannerism, proved itself in the finer passages a strikingly creative and authentic inspiration?