who makes a clean sweep of tradition, and puts everything down
in the most modern words and with the help of the most trivial actual
images.

To what a cumbersome unwieldiness,
And burdensome corpulence my love hath grown,

he will begin a poem on _Love's Diet_. Of love, as the master of hearts,
he declares seriously:

He swallows us and never chaws;
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die;
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

And, in his unwise insistence that every metaphor shall be absolutely
new, he drags medical and alchemical and legal properties into verse
really full of personal passion, producing at times poetry which is a
kind of disease of the intellect, a sick offshoot of science. Like most
poets of powerful individuality, Donne lost precisely where he gained.
That cumulative and crowding and sweeping intellect which builds up his
greatest poems into miniature Escurials of poetry, mountainous and
four-square to all the winds of the world, 'purges' too often the
flowers as well as the weeds out of 'the Muses' garden.' To write poetry
as if it had never been written before is to attempt what the greatest
poets never attempted. There are only two poets in English literature
who thus stand out of the tradition, who are without ancestors, Donne
and Browning. Each seems to have certain qualities almost greater than
the qualities of the greatest; and yet in each some precipitation of
arrogant egoism remains in the crucible, in which the draught has all
but run immortally clear.

Donne's quality of passion is unique in English poetry. It is a rapture
in which the mind is supreme, a reasonable rapture, and yet carried to a
pitch of actual violence. The words themselves rarely count for much, as
they do in Crashaw, for instance, where words turn giddy at the height
of their ascension. The words mean things, and it is the things that
matter. They can be brutal: 'For God's sake, hold your tongue, and let
me love!' as if a long, pre-supposed self-repression gave way suddenly,
in an outburst. 'Love, any devil else but you,' he begins, in his abrupt
leap to the heart of the matter. Or else his exaltation will be grave,
tranquil, measureless in assurance.

All kings, and all their favourites,
All glory of honours, beauties, wits,
The sun itself, which makes time, as they pass,
Is elder by a year now than it was
When thou and I first one anot