purpose in the poems is the only answer to
it. They claim no comment. Comment
claims them. Call them not poetry if you
will. They are a window which looks in
upon the most extraordinary nature of modern
times, -- a nature whose susceptibility to
impressions of form through the eye allies
it to classical times; a nature which on the
emotional side belongs to our own day.

Is it a wonder that this man was venerated
with an almost superstitious regard in Italy,
and in the sixteenth century? His creations
were touched with a superhuman beauty
which his contemporaries felt, yet charged
with a profoundly human meaning which
they could not fathom. No one epoch has
held the key to him. There lives not a man
and there never has lived a man who could
say, "I fully understand Michael Angelo's
works." It will be said that the same is
true of all the very greatest artists, and so it
is in a measure. But as to the others, that
truth comes as an afterthought and an admis-
sion. As to Michael Angelo, it is primary
and overwhelming impression. "We are not
sure that we comprehend him," say the cen-
turies as they pass, "but of this we are sure:
Simil ne maggior uom non nacque mai."

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