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had enough philosophy and theory, but what is most interesting in him as a poet, I believe, is not in them but in the very place where they were powerless—I mean the place where, like a light which brings out the shadow, they only appeared to present the other indefinable quality. I am glad his forethought and afterthought did not kill his inspiration. His art tried its utmost to give it the best possible light; and he could not be satisfied, as it seems to me, till he had taken its earthly life and flame out, and made it to be an art perfect after all desires. What we have in him, therefore, is the intensity that has subsided, the ecstasy that has become silent, the hope that has come to its rest. I admire the proud manner with which he soared above the journalism of his own day, which exists, not only to-day but any day, only to trouble the heart of art; however, he made his art, on the other hand, often too uncomfortable to look at simply through over-studied carefulness, and even the Rh