What the full-grown poet came, Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe with all its shows of day and night) saying, He is mine; But out spake too the Soul of men, proud, jealous and unreconciled, Nay, he is mine alone; --Then the full-grown poet stood between the two and took each by the hand; And today and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands, Which he will never release till he reconciles the two, And wholly and joyously blends them. The paradox in poets' views was equally perplexing, no matter what phase of the poetic character was considered. A mere resume of the topics discussed in these essays is enough to make the two horns of the dilemma obtrude themselves. Did we consider the financial status of the poet? We heard that he should experience all the luxurious sensations that wealth can bring; on the other hand we heard that his poverty should shield him from distractions that might call him away from accumulation of spiritual treasure. Did we consider the poet's age? We heard that the freshness of sensation possessed only by youth carries the secret of poetry; on the other hand we heard that the secret lies in depth of spiritual insight possible only to old age. So in the allied question of the poet's body. He should have The dress Of flesh that amply lets in loveliness At eye and ear, that no beauty in the physical world may escape him. Yet he should be absorbed in the other world to such a degree that blindness, even, is a blessing to him, enabling him to "see, no longer blinded by his eyes." The question of the poet's health arose. He should have the exuberance and aplomb of the young animal; no, he should have a body frail enough to enable him, like the mediaeval mystic, to escape from its importunatedemands upon the spirit.