What happens in poetry happens never or always; otherwise, it is no true poetry.  We ought not to believe that it is now actually happening.

Women have absolutely no sense of art, though they may have of poetry.  They have no natural disposition for the sciences, though they may have for philosophy.  They are by no means wanting in power of speculation and intuitive perception of the infinite; they lack only power of abstraction, which is far more easy to be learned.

That is beautiful which is charming and sublime at the same time.

Romantic poetry is a progressive universal poetry.  Its mission is not merely to reunite all the separate categories of poetry, and to bring poetry into contact with philosophy and with rhetoric.  It will, and should, also now mingle and now amalgamate poetry and prose, genius and criticism, artistic poetry and natural poetry; make poetry living and social, and life and society poetic; poetize wit; and fill and saturate the forms of art with sterling material of every kind, and inspire them with the vibrations of humor.  It embraces everything, if only it is poetic—­from the greatest system of art which, in its turn, includes many systems within itself, down to the sigh, the kiss, which the musing child breathes forth in artless song.  It can so be lost in what it represents that it might be supposed that its one and all is the characterization of poetic individuals of every type; and yet no form has thus far arisen which would be equally adapted perfectly to express the author’s mind; so that many artists who desired only to write a romance have more or less described themselves.  Romantic poetry alone can, like the epic, become a mirror of the entire world that surrounds it, and a picture of its age.  And yet, free from all real and ideal interests, it, too, most of all, can soar, mid-way between that which is presented and him who presents, on the wings of poetic reflection; it can ever re-intensify this reflection and multiply it as in an endless series of mirrors.  It is capable of the highest and of the most universal culture—­not merely from within outward, but also from without inward—­since it organizes similarly all parts of that which is destined to become a whole; thus the prospect of an endlessly developing classicism is opened up to it.  Among the arts romantic poetry is what wit is to philosophy, and what society, association, friendship, and love are in life.  Other types of poetry are finished, and can now be completely analyzed.  The romantic type of poetry is still in process of development; indeed, it is its peculiar essence that it can eternally only be in process of development, and that it can never be completed.  It can be exhausted by no theory, and only a divinatory criticism might dare to wish to characterize its ideal.  It alone is infinite, even as it alone is free; and as its first law it recognizes that the arbitrariness of the poet brooks no superior law.  The romantic style of poetry is the only one which is more than a style, and which is, as it were, poetry itself; for in a certain sense all poetry is, or should be, romantic.