“When I read these poems, now, at the present moment, I find myself– reading, you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one and twenty places at once– hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head– all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response), and all I believe certain proof that the poet is alive and kicking. And yet mingling with these cries of delight, of jubilation, I record also, as I read, the repetition in the bass of one word intoned over and over again by some malcontent. At last, then, silencing the others, I say to this malcontent, ‘Well, and what do you want?’ Whereupon he bursts out, rather to my discomfort, ‘Beauty.'”