At no time in the history of literature have the critics been able to agree upon a definition of poetry. And the recent popularity of _vers libre_ and _imagisme_ has made the definer's task harder than ever before. Is rhyme essential to poetry? Is rhythm essential to poetry? Can a mere reflection of life justly be called poetry, or must imagination be present? I put some of these questions to Edwin Arlington Robinson, who wrote _Captain Craig_, _The Children of the Night_, _The Town Down the River_, _The Man Against the Sky_ and _Merlin: A Poem_. And this man, whom William Stanley Braithwaite and other authoritative critics have called the foremost of American poets, this student of life, who was revealing the mysterious poetry of humanity many years before Edgar Lee Masters discovered to the world the vexed spirits that haunt Spoon River, rewarded my questioning with a new definition of poetry. He said: "Poetry is a language that tells us, through a more or less emotional reaction, something that cannot be said. "All real poetry, great or small, does this," he added. "And it seems to me that poetry has two characteristics. One is that it is, after all, undefinable. The other is that it is eventually unmistakable." "'Eventually'!" I said. "Then you think that poetry is not always appreciated in the lifetime of its maker?" Mr. Robinson smiled whimsically. "I never use words enough," he said. "It is not unmistakable as soon as it is published, but sooner or later it is unmistakable. "And in the poet's lifetime there are always some people who will understand and appreciate his work. I really think that it is impossible for a real poet permanently to escape appreciation. And I can't imagine anything sillier for a man to do than to worry about poetry that has once been decently published. The rest is in the hands of Time, and Time has more than often a way of making a pretty thorough job of it." "But why is it," I asked, "that a great poet so often is without honor in his own generation, where mediocrity is immediately famous?" "It's hard to say," said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully regarding the glowing end of his cigar. "Many causes prevent poetry from being correctly appraised in its own time. Any poetry that is marked by violence, that is conspicuous in color, that is sensationally odd, makes an immediate appeal. On the other hand, poetry that is not noticeably eccentric sometimes fails for years to attract any attention.