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, 



