Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes. [Footnote: _To William Wordsworth_.] Wordsworth himself boasts over the laborious investigator of facts, Think you, mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, We must be ever seeking? [Footnote: _Expostulation and Reply_.] But the dispute goes deeper than mere method. The poet's immediate intuition is superior to the philosopher's toilsome research, he asserts, because it captures ideality alive, whereas the philosopher can only kill and dissect it. As Wordsworth phrases it, poetry is "the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science." Philosophy is useful to the poet only as it presents facts for his synthesis; Shelley states, "Reason is to the imagination as the instrument to the agent, as the body to the spirit, as the shadow to the substance." [Footnote: _A Defense of Poetry_.] To this the philosopher may rejoin that poetry, far from making discoveries beyond the bourne of philosophy, is a mere popularization, a sugar-coating, of the philosopher's discoveries. Tolstoi contends, True science investigates and brings to human perception such truths and such knowledge as the people of a given time and society consider most important. Art transmits these truths from the region of perception to the region of emotion. And thus a false activity of science inevitably causes a correspondingly false activity of art. [Footnote: _What is Art?_] Such criticisms have sometimes incensed the poet till he has refused to acknowledge any indebtedness to the dissecting hand of science, and has pronounced the philosopher's attitude of mind wholly antagonistic to poetry. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, [Footnote: _Lamia_.] Keats once complained. "Sleep in your intellectual crust!" [Footnote: _A Poet's Epitaph_.] Wordsworth contemptuously advised the philosopher, and not a few other poets have felt that philosophy deadens life as a crust of ice deadens a flowing stream. That reason kills poetry is the unoriginal theme of a recent poem. The poet scornfully characterizes present writers, We are they who dream no dreams, Singers of a rising day, Who undaunted, Where the sword of reason gleams, Follow hard, to hew away The woods enchanted. [Footnote: E. Flecker, _Donde Estan_.] One must turn to Poe for the clearest statement of the antagonism. He declares,