nant note, so these constantly
recurring rhymes in the work of Blake, coming at the end of very
short lines, convey, as nothing else could do, the child-like quality
of the spirit transfused through them. They are childlike; and yet
they could not have been written by any one but a grown man, and a
man of formidable strength and character.

The psychology of the situation is doubtless the same as that which
we remark in certain very modern artists--the ones whose work is
most of all bewildering to those who, in their utter inability to
become as "little children," are as completely shut out from the
kingdom of art as they are from the kingdom of heaven.

The curious spell which these simple and in some cases infantile
rhymes cast over us, ought to compel the more fanatical adherents of
"free verse" to rearrange their ideas. Those who, without any
prejudice one way or the other, are only anxious to enjoy to the full
every subtle pleasure which the technique of art is able to give,
cannot help finding in the unexpected thrill produced by these sweet,
soft vibrations of verbal melody--like the sound of a golden bell
rung far down under the humming waters--a direct revelation of the
tender, strong soul behind them, for whose hidden passion they find
a voice.

After all, it is in the final impression produced upon our senses and
intellect by a great artist, and not in any particular quality of a
particular work of art, that--unless we are pedantic virtuosos--we
weigh and judge what we have gained. And what we have gained by
William Blake cannot be over-estimated.

His poems seem to associate themselves with a thousand evanescent
memories of days when we have been happy beyond the power of
calamity or disappointment. They associate themselves with those
half-physical, half-spiritual trances--when, suddenly in the outskirts
of a great city perhaps, or on the banks of some inland river, we
have remembered the long line of breaking surf, and the murmurs
and the scents of the sea. They associate themselves with the dreamy
indescribable moments when crossing the wet grass of secluded
misty meadows, passing the drowsy cattle and the large cool early
morning shadows thrown by the trees, we have suddenly come upon
cuckoo flowers or marigolds, every petal of which seems burdened
with a mystery almost intolerably sweet.

Like the delicate pictures of early Italian art, the poems of Blake
indicate and suggest rather than exhaust