Coleridge reveals, throughout this poem, an exaltation of the senses, which is the most poetical thing that can befall a simple poet. It is necessary only to refer, for sight, to the stanza on ‘the moving Moon’ at the bottom of page 267; for hearing, to the supernatural stanzas on page 271; and, for touch, to the line— ‘And still my body drank.’ ROSE AYLMER.—Page 281. Never was a human name more exquisitely sung than in these perfect stanzas. THE ISLES OF GREECE.—Page 286. One really fine and poetic stanza—of course, the third; three stanzas that are good eloquence—the fourth, fifth, and seventh; and one that is a fair bit of argument—the tenth—may together perhaps carry the rest. HELLAS.—Page 290. The profounder spirit of Shelley’s poem yet leaves it a careless piece of work in comparison with Byron’s. The two false rhymes at the outset may not be of great importance, but there is something annoying in the dissyllabic rhymes of the second stanza. Dissyllabic rhymes are beautiful and enriching when they fall in the right place; that is, where there is a pause for the second little syllable to stand. For example, they could not be better placed than they would have been at the end of the shorter lines of this same stanza, where they would have dropped into a part of the pause. Another sin of sheer heedlessness—the lapse of grammar in _The Skylark_, at the top of page 296—will remind the reader of the special habitual error of Drummond of Hawthornden. THE WANING MOON.—Page 298. In these few lines the Shelley spirit seems to be more intense than in any other passage as brief. ODE TO THE WEST WIND.—Page 299. This magnificent poem is surely the greatest of a great post’s writings, and one of the most splendid poems on nature and on poetry in a literature resounding with odes on these enormous themes. THE INVITATION.—Page 303. No need to point to a poem that so shines as does this lucent verse. LA BELLE DAME BANS MERCI.—Page 316. Keats is here the magical poet, as he is the intellectual poet in the great sonnet following; and it is his possession or promise of both imaginations that proves him greater than Coleridge. In his day they seem to have found Coleridge to be a thinker in his poetry. To me he seems to have had nothing but senses, magic, and simplicity, and these he had to the utmost yet known to man. Keats was to have been a great intellectual poet, besides all that in fact he was. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.—Page 320.