But now when he wrote a great deal of his poetry out of his brain alone, he became sensitive to criticism.

For that sort of poetry does not rest on the sure foundation which is given by the consciousness the imagination has of its absolute rightness.

He expresses his needless soreness with plenty of wit in _Pacchiarotto_ and in the _Epilogue_, criticises his critics, and displays his good opinion of his work--no doubt of these later poems, like _The Inn Album_ and the rest--with a little too much of self-congratulation.

"The poets pour us wine," he says, "and mine is strong--the strong wine of the loves and hates and thoughts of man.

But it is not sweet as well, and my critics object.
Were it so, it would be more popular than it is.