" This cosmic extension of the conversion
of men reminds one of the cosmic extension of the Fall conceived by
St. Augustine; and in the _Prometheus_ Shelley has allowed his fancy,
half in symbol, half in glorious physical hyperbole, to carry the warm
contagion of love into the very bowels of the earth, and even the
moon, by reflection, to catch the light of love, and be alive again.
Shelley, we may safely say, did not understand the real constitution
of nature. It was hidden from him by a cloud, all woven of shifting
rainbows and bright tears. Only his emotional haste made it possible
for him to entertain such, opinions as he did entertain; or rather,
it was inevitable that the mechanism of nature, as it is in its
depths, should remain in his pictures only the shadowiest of
backgrounds. His poetry is accordingly a part of the poetry of
illusion; the poetry of truth, if we have the courage to hope for such
a thing, is reserved for far different and yet unborn poets. But it is
only fair to Shelley to remember that the moral being of mankind is as
yet in its childhood; all poets play with images not understood; they
touch on emotions sharply, at random, as in a dream; they suffer each
successive vision, each poignant sentiment, to evaporate into nothing,
or to leave behind only a heart vaguely softened and fatigued, a
gentle languor, or a tearful hope.
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