There is to me a heartrending pathos in these confessions. It is easy to stand aloof, of course, like a schoolmaster with his chastising rod, and lash the frailties of poor human nature. It is easy to declare with virtuous indignation that the man who covets his neighbor's wife is a transgressor who has no claim upon our sympathy. And yet who can help pitying this great, noble poet, who fought so bravely against his "barbaric, Titanic self with its hairy arms"? His passionate intensity of soul was, indeed, part of his poetic equipment; and he would not have been the poet he was if he had been cool, callous, and self-restrained. The slag in him was so intimately moulded with the precious metal that their separation would have been the extinction of the individuality itself. The fiery furnace of affliction through which he passed warped and scorched and cracked this mighty compound, but without destroying it. A glimpse of this experience which transformed the powerful, joyous, bright-visaged singer into a bitter, darkly brooding pessimist, fleeing from the sinister shadow which threatened to overtake him, is afforded us in the poem "Hypochondria[40]": "I stood upon the altitude of life, Where mingled waters part and downward go With rush and foam in opposite directions. Lo, it was bright up there, and fair to stand. I saw the sun, I saw his satellite, Which, since he quenched his light, shone in the blue; I saw that earth was fair and green and glorious, I saw that God was good, that man was honest. "Then rose a dread black imp, and suddenly The black one bit himself into my heart; And lo, at once the earth lay void and barren, And sun and stars were straightway drenched in gloom. The landscape, glad erewhile, lay dark, autumnal; Each grove was sere, each flower stem was broken; Within the frozen sense my strength lay dead, All joy, all courage withered within me. "What is to me reality--its dumb, Dead bulk, inert, oppressive, grim, and crude? How hope has paled, alas, with roseate hue! And memory, the heavenly blue, grown hoary! And even poesy! Its acrobatic Exertions, leaps--they pall upon my sense; Its bright mirage can satisfy no soul-- Light skimmings from the surface fair of things. "Still I will praise thee, oh, thou human race. God's likeness art thou, oh, how true, how striking! Two lies thou hast natheless, in sooth, to show; The name of one is man, the other's woman! Of faith and honor there's an ancient ditty, 'Tis sung the best, when men each other cheat. Thou child of heaven, the one thing true thou hast Is Cain's foul mark upon thy forehead branded.