s to his own immediate
apprehension of absolute beauty as he will if he fashions his beliefs
upon another man's stereotyped conception of the absolute good.

Then, too, it is not unlikely that part of the poet's reluctance to
embrace the creed of his contemporaries arises from the fact that he, in
his secret heart, still hankers for his old title of priest. He knows
that it is the imaginative faculty of the poet that has been largely
instrumental in building up every religious system. The system that
holds sway in society is apt to be the one that he himself has just
outgrown; he has, accordingly, an artist's impatience for its
immaturity. There is much truth to the poet's nature in verses entitled
_The Idol Maker Prays_:

Grant thou, that when my art hath made thee known
And others bow, I shall not worship thee,
But as I pray thee now, then let me pray
Some greater god,--like thee to be conceived
Within my soul.
[Footnote: By Arthur Guiterman.]

CHAPTER VII

THE PRAGMATIC ISSUE

No matter how strong our affection for the ingratiating ne'er-do-well,
there are certain charges against the poet which we cannot ignore. It is
a serious thing to have an alleged madman, inebriate, and experimenter
in crime running loose in society. But there comes a time when our
patience with his indefatigable accusers is exhausted. Is not society
going a step too far if, after the poet's positive faults have been
exhausted, it institutes a trial for his sins of omission? Yet so it is.
If the poet succeeds in proving to the satisfaction of the jury that his
influence is innocuous, he must yet hear the gruff decision, "Perhaps,
as you say, you are doing no real harm. But of what possible use are
you? Either become an efficient member of society, or cease to exist."
Must we tamely look on, while the "light, winged, and holy creature," as
Plato called the poet, is harnessed to a truck wagon, and made to
deliver the world's bread and butter? Would that it were more common for
poets openly to defy society's demands for efficiency, as certain
children and malaperts of the poetic world have done! It is pleasant to
hear the naughty advice which that especially impractical poet, Emily
Dickinson, gave to a child: "Be sure to live in vain, dear. I wish I
had." [Footnote: Gamaliel Bradford, _Portraits of American Women_,
p. 248 (Mrs. Bianchi, p. 37).] And one is hardly less pleased to hear
the irrepressible Ezra Pound instruct h