Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneian pass,
The vast Acroceraunian walls....
He must be an unsympathetic critic (I think) and therefore an incomplete critic, if indeed a critic at all, who feels any real incongruity as in his mind he lets those lines fade off into
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live, etc.;
for as Shelley once assured us, more or less:
Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of—Philistie,
and to anyone who remembers the imaginary horizons of his nursery I dare say the Blessed Isles of Nonsense and the land where the Bong tree grows lie not far from Calypso’s grot, or the house of Circe