210 BIRDS AND POETS 
ting quality in words, apart from and without any 
consideration of constructive form? Under the in- 
fluence of the expansive, creative force that plays 
upon me from these pages, like sunlight or gravita- 
tion, the question of form never comes up, because 
I do not for one moment escape the eye, the source 
from which the power and action emanate. 
I know that Walt Whitman has written many 
passages with reference far more to their position, 
interpretation, and scanning ages hence, than for 
current reading. Much of his material is too near 
us; it needs time. Seen through the vista of long 
years, perhaps centuries, it will assume quite differ- 
ent hues. Perhaps those long lists of trades, tools, 
and occupations would not be so repellent if we 
could read them, as we read Homer’s catalogue of 
the ships, through the retrospect of ages. They are 
justified in the poem aside from their historic value, 
because they are alive and full of action, — panora- 
mas of the whole mechanical and industrial life of 
America, north, east, south, west, — bits of scenery, 
bird’s-eye views, glimpses of moving figures, caught 
as by a flash, characteristic touches in doors and 
out, all passing in quick succession before you. 
They have in the fullest measure what Lessing de- 
mands in poetry, — the quality of ebbing and flowing 
action, as distinct from the dead water of descrip- 
tion; they are thoroughly dramatic, fused, pliant, 
and obedient to the poet’s will. No glamour is 
thrown over them, no wash of sentiment; and if 
they have not the charm of novelty and distance, 
