After this brief exposition of a theory--too brief, perhaps, to carry conviction--we may ask, what would have been the fate of the "metaphysical" had the current of poetry descended in a direct line from them, as it descended in a direct line to them? They would not, certainly, be classified as metaphysical. The possible interests of a poet are unlimited; the more intelligent he is the better; the more intelligent he is the more likely that he will have interests: our only condition is that he turn them into poetry, and not merely meditate on them poetically. A philosophical theory which has entered into poetry is established, for its truth or falsity in one sense ceases to matter, and its truth in another sense is proved. The poets in question have, like other poets, various faults. But they were, at best, engaged in the task of trying to find the verbal equivalent for states of mind and feeling. And this means both that they are more mature, and that they wear better, than later poets of certainly not less literary ability. It is not a permanent necessity that poets should be interested in philosophy, or in any other subject. We can only say that it appears likely that poets in our civilization, as it exists at present, must be _difficult._ Our civilization comprehends great variety and complexity, and this variety and complexity, playing upon a refined sensibility, must produce various and complex results. The poet must become more and more comprehensive, more allusive, more indirect, in order to force, to dislocate if necessary, language into his meaning. (A brilliant and extreme statement of this view, with which it is not requisite to associate oneself, is that of M. Jean Epstein, "La Poésie d'aujourd-hui.") Hence we get something which looks very much like the conceit--we get, in fact, a method curiously similar to that of the "metaphysical poets," similar also in its use of obscure words and of simple phrasing. O géraniums diaphanes, guerroyeurs sortilèges, Sacrilèges monomanes! Emballages, dévergondages, douches! O pressoirs Des vendanges des grands soirs! Layettes aux abois, Thyrses au fond des bois! Transfusions, représailles, Relevailles, compresses et l'éternal potion, Angélus! n'en pouvoir plus De débâcles nuptiales! de débâcles nuptiales! The same poet could write also simply:-- Elle est bien loin, elle pleure, Le grand vent se lamente aussi . . . Jules Laforgue, and Tristan Corbière in many of his poems, are nearer to the "school of Donne" than any modern English poet. But poets more classical than they have the same essential quality of transmuting ideas into sensations, of transforming an observation into a state of mind. Pour l'enfant, amoureux de cartes et d'estampes, L'univers est égal à son vaste appétit. Ah, que le monde est grand à la clarté des lampes! Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit!