At least so I read what he means in a number of poems, when he turns, after an over-wrought piece of analysis, upon himself, and bursts out of his cobwebs into a solution of the question by passion and imagination.

Nevertheless the charm of this merely intellectual play pulled at him continually, and as he could always embroider it with fancy it seemed to him close to imagination; and this belief grew upon him as he got farther away from the warmth and natural truth of youth.

It is the melancholy tendency of some artists, as they feel the weakness of decay, to become scientific; and a fatal temptation it is.

There is one poem of his in which he puts the whole matter clearly and happily, with a curious and suggestive title, "_Transcendentalism_: A Poem in Twelve Books." He speaks to a young poet who will give to men "naked thought, good, true, treasurable stuff, solid matter, without imaginative imagery, without emotion." Thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse.
Boys seek for images and melody, Men must have reason--so, you aim at men.
It is "quite otherwise," Browning tells him, and he illustrates the matter by a story.
Jacob Boehme did not care for plants.

All he cared for was his mysticism.
But one day, as if the magic of poetry had slipped into his soul, he heard all the plants talking, and talking to him; and behold, he loved them and knew what they meant.