Well and profoundly has a Danish critic said, in "For Ide og
Virkelighed" ("For the Idea and the Reality"), a Copenhagen
magazine:--
"It may be candidly admitted that the American poet has not the
elegance, special melody, nor _recherche_ aroma of the accepted
poets of Europe or his own country; but his compass and general
harmony are infinitely greater. The sweetness and spice, the poetic
_ennui,_ the tender longings, the exquisite art-finish of those
choice poets are mainly unseen and unmet in him,--perhaps because
he cannot achieve them, more likely because he disdains them. But
there is an electric _living soul_ in his poetry, far more
fermenting and bracing. His wings do not glitter in their movement
from rich and varicolored plumage, nor are his notes those of the
accustomed song-birds; but his flight is the flight of the eagle."
Yes, there is not only the delighting of the ear with the
outpouring of sweetest melody and its lessons, but there is the
delighting of the eye and soul through that soaring and circling in
the vast empyrean of "a strong bird on pinions free,"--lessons of
freedom, power, grace, and spiritual suggestion,--vast,
unparalleled, _formless_ lessons.
It is now upwards of twenty years since Walt Whitman printed (in
1855) his first thin beginning volume of "Leaves of Grass;" and,
holding him to the test which he himself early proclaimed, namely,
"that the proof of the poet shall be sternly deferred till his
country has absorb'd him as affectionately as he has absorb'd it,"
he is yet on trial, yet makes his appeal to an indifferent or to a
scornful audience.
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