are not his true followers.
He held that “beauty is truth.” But he held also another article that has been too often left out in the repetition of his poetic creed: he held “truth, beauty,” and he hoped one day to give a clear, full utterance to that higher, holier vision. Perhaps he has, but not to mortal ears.
THE RECOVERY OF JOY
WORDSWORTH’S POETRY
When this essay was written, a good many years ago, there was no available biography of Wordsworth except the two-volume Memoir by Bishop Christopher Wordsworth, the poet’s nephew. It is a solid work of family piety, admiring and admirable; but it must be admitted that it is dull. It is full of matters of no particular consequence, and it leaves out events in the poet’s life and traits in his character which are not only interesting in themselves but also of real importance to a vital understanding of his work.
Even while reading the Memoir, I felt sure that he was not always the tranquil, patient, wise, serenely happy sage that he appeared in his later years,—sure that a joy in peace as deep and strong as his was, could only have been won through sharp conflict,—sure that the smooth portrait drawn by the reverent hand of the bishop did not fully and frankly depict the real man who wrote the deep and moving poetry of Wordsworth.