cradle and its grave; nor less
The future and the past are idle shadows
Of thought's eternal flight--they have no being:
Nought is but that which feels itself to be."

But Shelley was even more deeply and constantly an idealist after the
manner of Plato; for he regarded the good as a magnet (inexplicably
not working for the moment) that draws all life and motion after it;
and he looked on the types and ideals of things as on eternal
realities that subsist, beautiful and untarnished, when the
glimmerings that reveal them to our senses have died away. From the
infinite potentialities of beauty in the abstract, articulate mind
draws certain bright forms--the Platonic ideas--"the gathered rays
which are reality," as Shelley called them: and it is the light of
these ideals cast on objects of sense that lends to these objects some
degree of reality and value, making out of them "lovely apparitions,
dim at first, then radiant ... the progeny immortal of painting,
sculpture, and rapt poesy."

The only kind of idealism that Shelley had nothing to do with is the
kind that prevails in some universities, that Hegelian idealism which
teaches that perfect good is a vicious abstraction, and maintains that
all the evil that has been, is, and ever shall be is indispensable to
make the universe as good as it possibly could be. In this form,
idealism is simply contempt for all ideals, and a hearty adoration of
things as they are; and as such it appeals mightily to the powers that
be, in church and in state; but in that capacity it would have been as
hateful to Shelley as the powers that be always were, and as the
philosophy was that flattered them. For his moral feeling was based on
suffering and horror at what is actual, no less than on love of a
visioned good. His conscience was, to a most unusual degree, at once
elevated and sincere. It was inspired in equal measure by prophecy and
by indignation. He was carried away in turn by enthusiasm for what his
ethereal and fertile fancy pictured as possible, and by detestation of
the reality forced upon him instead. Hence that extraordinary moral
fervour which is the soul of his poetry. His imagination is no playful
undirected kaleidoscope; the images, often so tenuous and
metaphysical, that crowd upon him, are all sparks thrown off at white
heat, embodiments of a fervent, definite, unswerving inspiration. If
we think that the _Cloud_ or the _West Wind_ or the _Witch of the
Atlas