rarer quality of the unified vision. He has himself elsewhere proclaimed the symbolic initiation without which no poet may attain his mystic "land of Luthany"; declaring the final seal of this vocation to be that inner, indubitable light by which he perceives that all created things,
Near or far,
Hiddenly
To each other linkèd are,
And thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star.
This mingling of the dainty and the profound is highly characteristic of his own Nature poems. On one page is a fragment like that "To a Snow-flake," of incredible delicacy—on the next, an ode that thunders into sublimity. It is interesting to study in the following stanzas an example of this double manner: the personal appeal to the flower, and the equally subjective, although apparently impersonal, interpretation of the sun's diurnal ministry. The first quoted lines are from a poem, "To Daisies," posthumously published in the Atlantic Monthly.
Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame
Burning, we know your lovely name—
Daisies, that little children pull!
Like all weak things, over the strong
Ye do not know your power for wrong,
And much abuse your feebleness.
Daisies, that little children pull,
As ye are weak, be merciful!
O hide your eyes, they are to me
Beautiful insupportably.
Or be but conscious ye are fair,
And I your loveliness could bear,
But, being fair so without art,
Ye vex the silted memories of my heart!
