One should remember also that in these two poems--so interesting to compare in so many different ways--Tennyson tried to elevate a homely theme into "poetry"; whereas Mr. Masefield finds the truest poetry in the bare facts of life and feeling. Tennyson is at his best outside of drama, wherever he has an opportunity to adorn and embellish; Mr. Masefield is at his best in the fierce conflict of human wills. Thus _Enoch Arden_ is not one of Tennyson's best poems, and the best parts of it are the purely descriptive passages; whereas in _The Daffodil Fields_ Mr. Masefield has a subject made to his hand, and can let himself go with impressive power. In the introduction of conversation into a poem--a special gift with Mr. Masefield--Tennyson is usually weak, which ought to have taught him never to venture into drama. Nothing is worse in _Enoch Arden_ than passages like these: "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-- Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." One of the reasons why twentieth-century readers are so impatient with _Enoch Arden,_ is because Tennyson refused to satisfy the all but universal love of a fight. The conditions for a terrific "mix-up" were all there, and just when the spectator is looking for an explosion of wrath and blood, the poet turns away into the more heroic but less thrilling scene of self-conquest. Mr. Masefield may be trusted never to disappoint his readers in such fashion. It might be urged that whereas Tennyson gave a picture of man as he ought to be, Mr. Masefield painted him as he really is. But _The Daffodil Fields_ is not melodrama. It is a poem of extraordinary beauty. Every time I read it I see in it some "stray beauty-beam" that I missed before. It would be impossible to translate it into prose; it would lose half its interest, and all of its charm. It would be easier to translate Tennyson's _Dora_ into prose than _The Daffodil Fields._ In fact, I have often thought that if the story of _Dora_ were told in concise prose, in the manner of Guy de Maupassant, it would distinctly gain in force.