s of the imagination
is sure to grow wider and wider. It is expected to embrace the world, to
take part in a universal scheme of pacification, to immortalize imperial
events, to be as public as possible. But surely it is more and more
clearly proved that prose is the suitable medium for such grandiose themes
as these. Within the last year our minds have been galvanized into
collective sympathy by two great sensations of catastrophe, each case
wearing the most thrilling form that tragedy can take in the revolt of
nature against the feverish advances of mankind. I suppose we may consider
the destruction of the _Titanic_ and the loss of Captain Scott's
expedition as two absolutely typical examples of what is thought by
journalists to be fitting material for poetry. Yet by common consent,
these tragic occurrences did not awaken our numerous poets to any really
remarkable effort, lyrical or elegiac. No ode or threnody could equal in
vibrating passion Captain Scott's last testament. These are matters in
which the fullness of a wholly sincere statement in prose does not
require, does not even admit, the introduction of the symbol. The impact
of the sentiments of horror and pity is too sudden and forcible.

My own view is that, whether to its advantage or not, the poetry of the
future is likely to be very much occupied with subjects, and with those
alone, which cannot be expressed in the prose of the best-edited
newspaper. In fact, if I were to say what it is which I think coming poets
will have more and more to be on their guard against, I should define it
as a too rigid determination never to examine subjects which are of
collective interest to the race at large. I dread lest the intense
cultivation of the Ego, in minutest analysis and microscopical observation
of one's self, should become the sole preoccupation of the future poet. I
will not tell you that I dread lest this should be one of his principal
preoccupations, for that would be to give way to a cheery piece of
mid-Victorian hypocrisy which would be unworthy of you and of me alike.
The time is past when intelligent persons ought to warn writers of the
imagination not to cultivate self-analysis, since it is the only safeguard
against the follies of an unbridled romanticism. But although the ivory
tower offers a most valuable retreat, and although the poets may be
strongly recommended to prolong their _villeggiatura_ there, it should not
be the year-long habitation of a