also fond of
passionfruit or tomatoes. Of these latter he may be no judge whatever.
_Non omnia possumus omnes_ in the criticism of poetry, any more than in
other departments of activity.

There are, for instance, some who have no patience with poetry of the
mystic, half-dreamy kind, but must have their conceptions one and all
definitely realized for them. They cannot away with emotional
arabesques; they must have recognizable and rememberable outlines. There
are others who cannot bring themselves to care for the poetry which
broods upon inanimate nature; their interest centres wholly on the
problems of man; just as there are limited souls who find no delight in
landscapes, and think figure-painting the only field of art. These are
no critics, perhaps never could be critics, of more than the verbal
expression in those uncongenial regions of poesy. To be a true
appreciator of all poetry a man must possess a harmoniously-developed
nature, as full and large and liberal as poetry itself. Let us,
therefore, begin by admitting and allowing for our limitations where we
feel them to exist.

In the first place, we must set about our reading only when we are in
the proper mood of receptivity. Poetry is not science, any more than
painting is photography, or architecture is building in squares and
cubes and circles. To approach the great poetry of "high seriousness"
when we are in a cynical or flippant mood; to snatch glances at a great
drama or epic when we are in a hurry; to begin from the very first line
by examining with a cold-blooded criticism a passionate elegy or fiery
lyric, is to act as if one sat at a concert of unfamiliar music only to
criticise the gestures of the performers or to watch for an occasional
weakness of the second violin. It is almost always open to adult human
beings not to be reading poetry if they are not feeling disposed for it.
I say "almost always" because the "indolent reviewer" is apt to be an
exception. Yet even the indolent reviewer might with advantage often
remind himself that poetry is written for people who want to read it,
and when they want to read it, and that no art pretends to force men
into enjoying it at all times and seasons. Granting, then, that we know
our own personal limitations, and what particular sense our organisation
lacks; granting also that we are reading our poet spontaneously, simply
because the pleasure of poetry is the pleasure we happen to be seeking;
granting, furth