Then too his form constantly collapses, as though he had no fixed scheme in his mind.  There are many poems which begin with an ample sweep, and suddenly crumble to pieces, as though he were merely tired of them.

Then again there seem to me to be some simply coarse, obscene, unpleasant passages, not of relentless realism but of dull inquisitiveness.  They do not attract or impress; they do not provide a contrast or an emphasis.  They simply lie, like piles of filth, in rooms designed for human habitation.  If it is argued that art may use any materials, I can only fall back upon my belief that such passages are as instinctively repulsive to the artistic sense as strong-smelling cheeses stacked in a library!  There is no moral or ethical law against such a practice; but the aesthetic conscience of humanity instinctively condemns it.  When I examine the literature which has inspired and attracted the minds of humanity, whether trained or untrained, I find that they avoid this hideous intrusion of nastiness; and I am inclined to infer that writers who introduce such episodes, and readers who like them, have some other impulse in view, which is neither the sense of beauty nor the perception of art.  But if Whitman, or anyone else, can convert the world to call this art, and to enjoy it as art, then he will prove that he understands the law of preference better than I do.

But when all this has been said and conceded, there yet remain countless passages of true and vital beauty, exquisite phrases, haunting pictures, glimpses of perfect loveliness.  His poems of comradeship and the open air, his pictures of family life, have often a magical thrill of passion, leaving one rapturous and unsatisfied, believing in the secrets behind the world, and hoping for a touch of like experience.

If I may take one poem as typical of the best that is in Whitman—­ and what a splendid best!—­it shall be “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” from the book called Sea-drift.  I declare that I can never read this poem without profound emotion; it is here that he fully justifies his claim to atmosphere and suggestiveness; the nesting birds, the sea’s edge, with its “liquid rims and wet sands”—­what a magical phrase!—­the angry moan of the breakers under the yellow, drooping moon, the boy with his feet in the water, and the wind in his hair—­this is all beyond criticism.

    Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul)
    Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? 
    For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, now I have
       heard you
    Now in a moment I know what I am for,—­I awake,
    And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer,
       louder and more sorrowful than yours,
    A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
       never to die.

And then he cries to the waves to tell him what they have been whispering all the time.