on, in just the same terms.

London has no feeling for the peace of poets. They are the little
things in the confused maelstrom of human endeavor. Poets are taught
with the whip. They must bleed for their divine idea, or so it was
then. Sometimes it seems as if a change had come, for so many poets
sit in chairs of ease these days. Science produces other kinds of
discomfort, and covers the old misery with a new tapestry of
contrasts. I doubt if many poets are selling matches these days,
living on eleven pence a day. There is still the poet who knows his
cheap lodging. There seems enough of them still for high minds to
crawl into, and yet there is another face to the misery.

Thompson was seraph from the first. You see the very doom burning out
of his boy's eyes in the youthful portrait, and you see the logical
end in that desperate and pitiful mask, the drawing of the last period
in the Meynell Book. His was certainly the severed head, and his feet
were pathetically far away, down on a stony earth. That he should have
forfeited the ordinary ways of ease, is as consistent with his
appearance, as it was necessary to his nature. That he should find
himself on the long march past the stations of the cross, to the very
tree itself, for his poetic purpose, if it is in keeping with
tradition, is not precisely the most inspiring aspect of human
experiences. Human he was not, as we like to think of human, for he
was too early in his career marked for martyr. There is the note of
cricket-time in his earlier life, and how long this attached to the
physical delights of his being cannot be told here. His eyes were
lodged too far in heaven to have kept the delights for long, to have
comprehended all that clogged his impatiently mercurial feet.

"The abashless inquisition of each star" was the scrutiny that
obsessed his ways, the impertinence that he suffered most; for he had
the magnitude of soul that hungered for placement, and the plague of
two masters was on him. Huntress and "Hound" he had to choose between,
beauty and the insatiable Prince; harsh and determined lovers, both of
them, too much craving altogether for an artistic nature. The earth
had no room for him and he did not want heaven so soon. He was not
saint, even though his name followed him even, for recognition.

"Stood bound and helplessly, for Time to shoot his barbed minutes at
me, suffered the trampling hoof of every hour," etc., all this
confided to some childi