Wordsworth, the very antithesis to Shelley in his reverent accord with institutions, suits our meditative mood, sustains us with a sound philosophy, and braces us by healthy contact with the Nature he so dearly loved.

But in Wordsworth there is none of Shelley's magnetism.

$What remains of permanent value in Coleridge's poetry--such work as "Christabel", the "Ancient Mariner", or "Kubla Khan"-- is a product of pure artistic fancy, tempered by the author's mysticism.

Keats, true and sacred poet as he was, loved Nature with a somewhat sensuous devotion.

She was for him a mistress rather than a Diotima; nor did he share the prophetic fire which burns in Shelley's verse, quite apart from the direct enunciation of his favourite tenets.