A Study of Poetry — Background and Themes
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Such was the myth in one of its manifold European forms. It deals obviously with a succession of events, with actions easily narratable by means of a "time-art" like poetry. The myth itself is one of fascinating human interest, and if a prose writer like Hawthorne had chosen to tell it in his _Wonder-Book_, we should doubtless speak of it as a "poetic" story. We should mean, in using that adjective, that the myth contained sentiment, imagination, passion, dramatic climax, pathos--the qualities which we commonly associate with poetry--and that Hawthorne, although a prose writer, had such an exquisite sympathy for Greek stories that his handling of the material would be as delicate, and the result possibly as lovely, as if the tale had been told in verse. But if we would realize the full value of Lessing's distinction, we must turn to one of the countless verse renderings of the myth. Here we have a succession of actions, indeed, quite corresponding to those of the prose story. But these images of action, succeeding one another in time, are now evoked by successive musical sounds,--the sounds being, as in prose, arbitrary word-symbols of image and idea,--only that in poetry the sounds have a certain ordered arrangement which heightens the emotional effect of the images evoked. Prose writer and poet might mean to tell precisely the same tale, but in reality they cannot, for one is composing, no matter how cunningly, in the tunes of prose and the other in the tunes of verse. The change in the instrument means an alteration in the mental effect.
Now turn to Lessing's other exemplar of the time-arts, the musician--for musicians as well as poets, painters and sculptors have utilized the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. What can the musician do with the theme? Gluck's opera may serve for answer. He cannot, by the aid of music alone, call up very definite ideas or images. He cannot tell the Orpheus story clearly to one who has never heard it. But to one who already knows the tale, a composer's overture--without stage accessories or singing actors or any "operatic" devices as such--furnishes in its successions and combinations of musical sound, without the use of verbal symbols, a unique pleasurable emotion which strongly and powerfully reinforces the emotions suggested by the Orpheus myth itself. Certain portions of the story, such as those relating to the wondrous harping, can obviously be interpreted better through music than through the medium of any other art.
What can Lessing's "space-arts," sculpture and painting, do with the material furnished by the Orpheus myth? It is clear that they cannot tell the whole story, since they are dealing with "bodies that coexist" rather than with successive actions. They must select some one instant of action only, and preferably the most significant moment of the whole, the parting of husband and wife. In the museum at Naples there is the wonderful Greek treatment of this theme, in sculptured high relief. The sculptor has chosen the moment of parting. Hermes, the messenger of the gods to recall Eurydice, has twined his hand gently around the left hand of the woman. With her right hand she still touches her husband, but the dread instant is upon them all. The sculptor, representing the persons in three dimensions, as far as high relief allows, has sufficiently characterized their faces and figures, and with exquisite sense of rhythm and balance in his composition has fulfilled every requirement of formal beauty that marble affords.
In Sir Frederick Leighton's painting of Orpheus and Eurydice and in many another less famous painter's rendering of the theme, there is likewise the portrayal of an arrested moment. But the painter represents the personages and the background in two dimensions. He can separate his figures more completely than the sculptor, can make their instant of action more "dramatic," can portray certain objects, such as the diaphanous robe of Eurydice as she vanishes into mist, which are beyond the power of the sculptor to represent, and above all he can suggest the color of the objects themselves, the degree of light and shade, the "atmosphere" of the whole, in a fashion unapproachable by the rival arts.
Bliss Perry, a Harvard professor of English literature, opens his study by outlining a "genetic method" that traces poetry through three stages: impression, transforming imagination, and expression. He warns against letting this formula harden into dogma, noting that formulas are "a very small part of one's training in the appreciation of poetry." The excerpts available concentrate on Part II's discussion of the lyric and, in particular, a lengthy analysis of free verse. Perry engages with contemporary critics, quoting Edith Wyatt's assertion that "on an earth where there is nothing to wear but clothes, nothing to eat but food, there is also nothing to read but prose and poetry." He also cites Dr. Patterson's experiments, which found "no psychological meaning to claims for a third genre between regular verse and prose."
The Genetic Method and Its Limits
Perry's preface introduces his "genetic method" as the natural way to approach poetry, yet he immediately cautions against rigid formulas. He states that formulas have "a certain dangerous usefulness for critics and teachers" but are a small part of training in appreciation. This tension between systematic analysis and aesthetic experience runs through the excerpts. Perry acknowledges his debt to Professor R. M. Alden's Introduction to Poetry and English Verse, as well as to Professor Fairchild's Making of Poetry. He also thanks colleagues who read certain chapters in manuscript. The preface thus positions the book as both a classroom text and a work for the general reader, with an appendix and notes suggesting methods and material for students.
Free Verse as a Contested Category
The longest excerpt examines free verse, which Perry calls a "neutral zone" that refuses to be annexed to either prose or verse. He presents opposing views: Edith Wyatt denies any third genre, while Dr. Patterson labels Amy Lowell's work "emotional prose, emphatically phrased" or "spaced prose." Perry notes that typography can deceive the ear, and that "the trained ear must be the only arbiter." He then offers his own taxonomy of four types of free verse: (a) prose disguised by typography, (b) prose rhythms mixed with verse rhythms, (c) verse rhythms predominating with occasional fixed feet, and (d) exclusive use of verse rhythms in new combinations. This classification is grounded in the excerpts' detailed discussion of rhythmic effects.
Walt Whitman as Central Experimenter
Perry devotes particular attention to Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (1855), calling it "the most interesting of all experiments with free verse." He credits Whitman with extraordinary natural rhythmical endowment and "unwearied" technical curiosity. Perry argues that Whitman succeeded in creating a mode of expression "nearer for the most part to recitative than to aria," neither pure declamation nor pure song. He insists that the case for free verse does not stand or fall with Whitman alone, but Whitman's powerful personality exemplifies the broader effort to produce "rhythmic and tonal beauty through new structural devices." The excerpts show Perry balancing admiration for Whitman's achievement with a critical framework that categorizes free verse types.
Readers approaching A Study of Poetry should note that the excerpts represent only a portion of the book's argument, focusing on free verse and the lyric. Perry's method relies heavily on quoted authorities and taxonomic distinctions, but he repeatedly warns against letting systems replace direct appreciation. The book's value lies in its detailed engagement with early twentieth-century poetic theory, particularly the debate over free verse, and in its attempt to bridge classroom instruction and general readership. Those interested in the history of poetics will find Perry a careful, if cautious, guide.
Perry’s study reminds me how Whitman’s looser lines still hum with a patient music, a quiet pulse beneath the page. That same unhurried breath lingers in these old Virginia verses, where history and melody settle together like dust on a familiar shelf. Lays of ancient Virginia, and other poems — Edition Insights holds that gentle weight, a companion to Perry’s theorizing, both whispering of form’s slow unfolding.
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