And yet what is Modernism? It is undefined.
But we moderns are impatient and destructive.
Their free verse was no form at all, yet it made history.
Too much is demanded by the critic, attempted by the poet.
The arts generally have had to recognize Modernism - how should poetry escape?
And how can poetry stand up against its new conditions? Its position is perfectly precarious.
It is a miracle of harmony, of the adaptation of the free inner life to the outward necessity of things.
When critics are waiting to pounce upon poetic style on exactly the same grounds as if it were prose, the poets tremble.
Or he can work it out as a metrical and formal exercise, but he will be disappointed in its content. The New Year's prospect fairly chills his daunting breast.
He can develop sense and style, in the manner of distinguished modern prose, in which event he may be sure that the result will not fall into any objective form.