s was the other's,
a centripedal one. It is the noble Platonic rising from the love of one
beautiful person to the love of many beautiful persons; and from that
onward, through translunar gradations, to the love of the supreme
Beauty itself. Shelley's "spirituality" is a living, growing, creative
thing. In its intrinsic nature it is not egoistic at all, but profoundly
altruistic. It uses Sex to leave Sex behind. In its higher levels it is
absolutely Sexless. It may transcend humanity, but it springs from
humanity. It is, in fact, humanity's dream of its own transmutation.
For all its ethereality and remoteness, it yearns, "like a God in pain,"
over the sorrows of the world. With infinite planetary pity, it would
heal those sorrows.

Edgar Allen's "spirituality" has not the least flicker of a longing to
"leave Sex behind." It is bound to Sex, as the insatiable Ghoul is
bound to the Corpse he devours. It is not concerned with the
physical ecstasies of Sex. It has no interest in such human matters.
But deprive it of the fact of Sex-difference, and it drifts away
whimpering like a dead leaf, an empty husk, a wisp of chaff, a
skeleton gossamer. The poor, actual, warm lips, "so sweetly
forsworn," may have had small interest for this "spiritual" lover, but
now that she is dead and buried, and a ghost, they must remain a
woman's lips forever! Nor have Edgar Allen's "faithful ones" the
remotest interest in what goes on around them. Occupied with their
Dead, their feeling towards common flesh and blood is the feeling of
Caligula. "What have I done to thee?" that proud, reserved face
seems to say, as it looks out on us from its dusty title-page; "what
have I done to thee, that I should despise thee so?"

Shelley's clear, erotic passion is always a "cosmic" thing. It is the
rhythmic expression of the power that creates the world. But there is
nothing "cosmic" about the enclosed gardens of Edgar Allen Poe;
and the spirits that walk among those Moon-dials and dim Parterres
are not of the kind who go streaming up, from land and ocean,
shouting with joy that Prometheus has conquered! But what a master
he is--what a master! In the suggestiveness of _names_--to mention
only one thing--can anyone touch him? That word "Porphyrogene"--the
name of the Ruler of, God knows what, Kingdom of the Dead--does
it not linger about one--and follow one--like the smell of
incense?

But the poem of all poems in which the very genius Edgar Allen is
e