beauty of their conception in naked truth and splendor, and it
is doubtful whether the alloy of costume, habit, etc., be not
necessary to temper this planetary music to mortal ears.

The harmony in Shelley's nature which made it possible for his
contemporaries to believe him a gross sensualist, and succeeding
generations to believe him an angel, is better expressed by Browning,
who says:

His noblest characteristic I call his simultaneous perception
of Power and Love in the absolute, and of beauty and good in
the concrete, while he throws, from his poet-station between
them both, swifter, subtler and more numerous films for the
connection of each with each than have been thrown by any
modern artificer of whom I have knowledge.[Footnote: Preface
to the letters of Shelley (afterward found spurious).]

Yet Browning, likewise, gives a more illuminating picture of the poetic
nature in his poetry than in his prose.

The peculiar merit of poetry about the poet is that it makes a valuable
supplement to prose criticism. We have been tempted to deny that such
poetry is the highest type of art. It has seemed that poets, when they
are introspective and analytical of their gift, are not in the highest
poetic mood. But when we are on the quest of criticism, instead of
poetry, we are frankly grateful for such verse. It is analytical enough
to be intelligible to us, and still intuitive enough to convince us of
its truthfulness. Wordsworth's _Prelude_ has been condemned in
certain quarters as "a talking about poetry, not poetry itself," but in
part, at least, the _Prelude_ is truly poetry. For this reason it
gives us more valuable ideas about the nature of poetry than does the
_Preface to the Lyrical Ballads_. If it is worth while to analyze
the poetic character at all, then poetry on the poet is invaluable to
us.

Perhaps it is too much for us to decide whether the picture of the poet
at which we have been gazing is worthy to be placed above Plato's
picture of the philosopher. The poet does not contradict Plato's charge
against him. His self-portrait bears out the accusation that he is
unable to see "the divine beauty--pure and clear and unalloyed, not
clogged with the pollutions of mortality, and all the colors and
varieties of human life." [Footnote: _Symposium_, 212.] Plato would
agree with the analysis of the poetic character that Keats once
struggled with, when he exclaimed,

What q