No naturalist could have been more accurate in his description than this. Shelley, indeed, claimed for himself in the preface to _Laon and Cythna_ that, in his imagery, he was essentially and supremely a poet of experience: I have been familiar from boyhood with mountains and lakes and the sea, and the solitude of forests: Danger, which sports upon the brink of precipices, has been my playmate. I have trodden the glaciers of the Alps, and lived under the eye of Mont Blanc. I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers, and seen the sun rise and set, and the stars come forth, whilst I have sailed night and day down a rapid stream among mountains. I have seen populous cities, and have watched the passions which rise and spread, and sink and change, amongst assembled multitudes of men. I have seen the theatre of the more visible ravages of tyranny and war, and cities and villages reduced to scattered groups of black and roofless houses, and the naked inhabitants sitting famished upon their desolated thresholds. I have conversed with living men of genius. The poetry of ancient Greece and Rome, and modern Italy, and our own country, has been to me like external nature, a passion and an enjoyment. Such are the sources from which the materials for the imagery of my Poem have been drawn. All this was true, but Shelley was too impatient of experience to rely on it when there was a richer world of images at hand. Images--images passing into each other--meant more to him than experience as he wrote such lines as My soul is an enchanted boat Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing. He said himself of the poet that Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aërial kisses Of shapes that haunt thought’s wildernesses. There was never another poet of whom this was so true as of himself. Even when he writes A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread, or, I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown, he seems to shed upon things a light brought from that haunted world. There is more colour in Keats than in Shelley, but there is more light in Shelley than in Keats. Did he not speak of the poet as “hidden in the light of thought”? His radiance is different in kind from that of any other poet. For it is the radiance of a world in which things are not made of substances but of dreams--a world in which we walk over rainbows instead of bridges and ride not upon horses but upon clouds. IX PLUTARCH’S ANECDOTES