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The amazing growth of free verse during the last ten years has surprised no one more than me, and it has convinced me of my lack of prophetic clairvoyance. Never an idolater of Walt Whitman, I have also never been blind to his genius; as he recedes in time his figure grows bigger and bigger, like a man in the moving pictures leaving the screen.
A new stretch of fugue appears with new counter-theme, that begins in long-blown notes of horns. It really is no longer a fugue; it has lapsed into mere smooth-rolling motion underneath a verse of primal tune. And presently another variant of graceful episode brings a delicious lilt, tender, but expressive.
"Tell me," said he, "where did you get that line of verse you quoted last night? The one about this vast city heart all lying still, you know?" "That? Why, that was from Wordsworth's Sonnet on London Bridge, of course," she smiled up at him. "You remember it now, don't you?" "No-o," he disclaimed a trifle dubiously. "I that is, I never was much on poetry, you understand.
And in the other verse we have the other valley, down which the light stream comes: 'The God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope.
"All your own?" she asked with an air of assumed innocent interest, and he did not see the frivolous gleam in her eyes, or notice the touch of aloes on her tongue. "Yes. Yes. I've always written verses more or less I write a good many advertisements in verse," he added cheerfully. "They are very popular.
They wanted to see you before they cast their final vote, that they may examine you carefully and discover if you are worthy to become inhabitants of the Pink Country." "The rose is red, the violet's blue, But Trot is sweeter than the two!" declared the parrot in a loud voice. It was a little verse Cap'n Bill had taught the bird that very morning while Trot was seeing the sun rise.
Dryden was not so much a great poet as a solid thinker, with a splendid mastery of expression, who used his energetic verse as a vehicle for political argument and satire. His first noteworthy poem, Annus Mirabilis, 1667, was a narrative of the public events of the year 1666; namely, the Dutch war and the great fire of London.
Swinburne; in my innumerable gouty-footed lyrics, I followed many masters; in the first draft of The King's Pardon, a tragedy, I was on the trail of no lesser man than John Webster; in the second draft of the same piece, with staggering versatility, I had shifted my allegiance to Congreve, and of course conceived my fable in a less serious vein for it was not Congreve's verse, it was his exquisite prose, that I admired and sought to copy.
The verse was no extraordinary feat, but in the chorus the bass singers had a part calling for marvelous dexterity and tremendous speed. For, while the ladies sang leisurely, "Just keep along the middle of the King's Highway," the gentlemen were expected to get over about four times the space in the same time.
Is it not true that in France the honest people, the people comme il faut, form a total of scarcely three million individuals, namely, our one million of celibates, five hundred thousand honest women, five hundred thousand husbands, and a million of dowagers, of infants and of young girls? Are you then astonished at the famous verse of Boileau?
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