make of ourselves a single and same
totality; to realize in ourselves the idea of humanity as a complete
expression. Hence it comes that the mind is here all in movement,
stretched, hesitating between contrary feelings; whereas it was before
calm and at rest, in harmony with itself, and fully satisfied.

But if the simple poet has the advantage over the sentimental poet on the
score of reality; if he causes really to live that of which the other can
only elicit a vivid instinct, the sentimental poet, in compensation, has
this great advantage over the simple poet: to be in a position to offer
to this instinct a greater object than that given by his rival, and the
only one he could give. All reality, we know, is below the ideal; all
that exists has limits, but thought is infinite. This limitation, to
which everything is subject in sensuous reality, is, therefore, a
disadvantage for the simple poet, while the absolute, unconditional
freedom of the ideal profits the sentimental poet. No doubt the former
accomplishes his object, but this object is limited; the second, I admit,
does not entirely accomplish his, but his object is infinite. Here I
appeal to experience. We pass pleasantly to real life and things from
the frame of mind in which the simple poet has placed us. On the other
hand, the sentimental poet will always disgust us, for a time, with real
life. This is because the infinite character has, in a manner, enlarged
our mind beyond its natural measure, so that nothing it finds in the
world of sense can fill its capacity. We prefer to fall back in
contemplation on ourselves, where we find food for this awakened impulse
towards the ideal world; while, in the simple poet, we only strive to
issue out of ourselves, in search of sensuous objects. Sentimental
poetry is the offspring of retirement and science, and invites to it;
simple poetry is inspired by the spectacle of life, and brings back life.

I have styled simple poetry a gift of nature to show that thought has no
share in it. It is a first jet, a happy inspiration, that needs no
correction, when it turns out well, and which cannot be rectified if ill
turned out. The entire work of the simple genius is accomplished by
feeling; in that is its strength, and in it are its limits. If, then, he
has not felt at once in a poetic manner--that is, in a perfectly human
manner--no art in the world can remedy this defect. Criticism may help
him to see the defect, but can plac