This reaction from dreamlight to daylight gives, as always happens, a strange power in dealing with morning and the things of the morning.  Not less is this Hellenist of the Middle Age master of dreams, of sleep and the desire of sleep—­sleep in which no one walks, restorer of childhood to men—­dreams, not like Galahad’s or Guenevere’s, but full of happy, childish wonder as in the earlier world.  It is a world in which the centaur and the ram with the fleece of gold are conceivable.  The song sung always claims to be sung for the first time.  There are hints at a language common to birds and beasts and men.  Everywhere there is an impression of surprise, as of people first waking from the golden age, at fire, snow, wine, the touch of water as one swims, the salt taste of the sea.  And this simplicity at first hand is a strange contrast to the sought-out simplicity of Wordsworth.  Desire here is towards the body of nature for its own sake, not because a soul is divined through it.

And yet it is one of the charming anachronisms of a poet, who, while he handles an ancient subject, never becomes an antiquarian, but animates his [223] subject by keeping it always close to himself, that betweenwhiles we have a sense of English scenery as from an eye well practised under Wordsworth’s influence, as from “the casement half opened on summer-nights,” with the song of the brown bird among the willows, the

        “Noise of bells, such as in moonlit lanes
     Rings from the grey team on the market night.”

Nowhere but in England is there such a “paradise of birds,” the fern-owl, the water-hen, the thrush in a hundred sweet variations, the ger-falcon, the kestrel, the starling, the pea-fowl; birds heard from the field by the townsman down in the streets at dawn; doves everywhere, pink-footed, grey-winged, flitting about the temple, troubled by the temple incense, trapped in the snow.  The sea-touches are not less sharp and firm, surest of effect in places where river and sea, salt and fresh waves, conflict.

In handling a subject of Greek legend, anything in the way of an actual revival must always be impossible.  Such vain antiquarianism in a waste of the poet’s power.  The composite experience of all the ages is part of each one of us:  to deduct from that experience, to obliterate any part of it, to come face to face with the people of a past age, as if the Middle Age, the Renaissance, the eighteenth century had not been, is as impossible as to become a little [224] child, or enter again into the womb and be born.  But though it is not possible to repress a single phase of that humanity, which, because we live and move and have our being in the life of humanity, makes us what we are, it is possible to isolate such a phase, to throw it into relief, to be divided against ourselves in zeal for it; as we may hark back to some choice space of our own individual life.  We cannot truly conceive the age:  we can conceive the element it has contributed to our culture:  we can treat the subjects of the age bringing that into relief.  Such an attitude towards Greece, aspiring to but never actually reaching its way of conceiving life, is what is possible for art.