Each speaks in turn, and the poet in his last stanza seems to acknowledge that both are right, but that does not prevent the ode from being a masterpiece.

That would not be possible in prose, but in the poem the poetry carries all before it.
[Illustration: M.Saint-Saens in his Later Years] Why is it that geniuses like Victor Hugo, distinguished minds, thinkers, and profound critics, refuse to see that Art is a special entity which responds to a certain sense?
If Art accommodates itself marvellously, if it accords itself with the precepts of morality and passion, it is nevertheless sufficient unto itself--and in its self-sufficiency lies its heights of greatness.
The first prelude of Sebastian Bach's _Wohltemperirte Klavier_ expresses nothing, and yet that is one of the marvels of music.

The Venus de Milo expresses nothing, and it is one of the marvels of sculpture.
To tell the truth, it is proper to add that in order not to be immoral Art must appeal to those who have a feeling for it.

Where the artist sees only beautiful forms, the gross see only nudity.

I have seen a good man scandalized at the sight of Ingres's _La Source_.
Just as morality has no function to be artistic, so Art has nothing to do with morality.