ays that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and
simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul,
_quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For
in regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus--is
unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth
we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before,
we experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
which merely served to render the harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements
which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes
the ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine
in Heaven--in the volutes of the flower--in the clustering of low
shrubberies--in the waving of the grain-fields--in the slanting of tall
eastern trees--in the blue distance of mountains--in the grouping of
clouds--in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks--in the gleaming of
silver rivers--in the repose of sequestered lakes--in the star-mirroring
depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds--in the
harp of Bolos--in the sighing of the night-wind--in the repining voice
of the forest--in the surf that complains to the shore--in the fresh
breath of the woods--in the scent of the violet--in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth--in the suggestive odour that comes to him
at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts--in all