, as they are scientific, more
or less.

It might even be argued that poetry is for the general, for the man as a
man; while science is for the particular, for the man as a specialist;
and that poetry is a higher and more essential boon than science,
because it speaks to the heart, not merely to the head, and keeps alive
the celestial as well as the terrestrial portion of our nature.

Shall we prefer the cause to the effect, and the means to the end, or
exalt the matter above the form, and the letter above the spirit? Does
not the tissue exist for the sweetness of the rose, the marble for the
beauty of the stature, and the mechanism for the illusion of the play?
The "opposition" between science and poetry lies not in the object, but
in our mode of regarding it. The scientific and the poetical spirit are
complementary, as the inside to the outside of a garment, and if they
seem to drive each other away it is because the mind cannot easily
entertain and employ both together; but one is passive when the other is
active.

Keats drank "confusion to Newton" for destroying the poetry of the
rainbow by showing how the colours were elicited; but after all was
Newton guilty? Why should a true knowledge of the cause destroy the
poetry of an effect? Every effect must be produced somehow. The rainbow
is not less beautiful in itself because I know that it is due to the
refraction of light. The diamond loses none of its lustre although
chemistry has proved it to be carbon; the heavens are still glorious
even if the stars are red-hot balls.

But stones, carbon, and light are familiar commonplace things, and
fraught with prosaic associations.

True, and yet natural things are noble in themselves, and only vulgar in
our usage. It is for us to purify and raise our thoughts. Instead of
losing our interest in the universe because it is all of the same stuff,
we should rather wonder at the miracle which has formed so rich a
variety out of a common element.

But the mystery is gone, and the feelings and fancies which arose from
it.

In exchange for the mystery we have truth, which excites other emotions
and ideas. Moreover, the mystery is only pushed further back. We cannot
tell what the elements really are; they will never be more than symbols
to us, and all nature at bottom will ever remain a mystery to us: an
organised illusion. Think, too, of the innumerable worlds amongst the
stars, and the eternity of the past and future. Wheth