Could that be expressed in a sonnet? I think not. At least, it could not be expressed so vigorously, so wisely, so well. There is, however, one obvious peril against which the enthusiast must guard himself. _Vers libre_ is not of itself a complete warranty of success; because a poem is in this form, it is not necessarily fine poetry. “Love is enough,” says William Morris; he would not have said the same about _vers libre_. A certain power of conception, beyond the brilliant and original idea involved in the very employing of the free verse-form, is requisite for real importance in the finished product. Nor is the statement of the poet’s own unique and terrifying importance a sufficient theme to constitute the burden of all his work. Several of our most immortal living _vers librists_ have fallen into such an error. This “ego über alles” concept, though profound and of a startling originality, lacks variety if it be indefinitely repeated. Should the poet, however, feel deep in his soul that there is nothing else worth saying except this, let him at least take care to beautify his idea by the use of every artifice. After saying “I am I, and great,” let him not forget to add variety and contrast to the picture by means of the complementary idea: “You, O world, are you, and contemptible.” In such minglings of light and shade lies poetry’s special and proper beauty. _Vers libre_ has one incontestable advantage over all those more artificial vehicles in which the poets of the past have essayed to ride into immortality. This newly popular verse-form can be used perfectly well when the poet is drunk. Let no one of temperate habits underestimate this advantage; let him think of others. Byron was drunk most of the time; had he been able to employ a form like this, how many volumes could he perhaps have added to the mere seventeen that now constitute his work! Shelley,—seldom alcoholicly affected, I believe,—was always intoxicated with ideas; he, equipped solely with the new instrument, could have written many more epics like _Queen Mab_, and would probably have felt less need of concentrating his work into the narrow limits of such formalistic poems as _The West Wind_. Let it be understood that all the principles suggested in this monograph are intended only for the true devotee of _vers libre_. One can have nothing but contempt for the poet who, using generally the old-fashioned metres, turns sometimes to _vers libre_ as a medium, and carries over into it all those faults of restrained expression and patterned thought which were the curse of the old forms. Such a writer is beyond hope, beyond counsel. We can forgive Matthew Arnold, but not a contemporary.