204
the system of classification of indexing, so I cannot turn up the symptoms of a dying Doultonware 
artist if I want to. But then I don't. 
Marcel Schwob gave me an introduction to William Ernest Henley, who invited me to lunch with him 
in his house near Woking. My sonnet on Rodin's bust of Henley describes the man and the interview 
rather than the sculpture. 
Cloistered seclusion of the galleried pines 
Is mine today; these groves are fit for Pan --- 
O rich with Bacchus frenzy and his wine's 
Atonement for the infinite woes of man! 
And here his mighty and reverend high priest 
Bade me good cheer, an eager acolyte, 
Poured the high wine, unveiled the mystic feast ... 
Roast lamb and an excellent Chablis which had been sent to him by Lord Northcliffe --- thus does 
the poet transfigure conceptions apparently commonplace. 
I was much touched by Henley's kindness in inviting me. I have never lost 
{344} 
the childlike humility which characterized all truly great men. Modesty is its parody. I had to wait 
some little while before he came down. When he did so, he was obviously suffering severe physical 
distress. Like Marcel Schwob himself, he was a martyr to constipation. He told me that the first half 
of every day was a long and painful struggle to overcome the devastating agony of his body. Only 
three weeks later he died. He was engaged in various tremendous literary tasks and yet he could 
give up a day to welcome a young and unknown writer! 
I could not pretend to myself that so great a man could feel any real interest in me. It never 
occurred to me that he might have read anything of mine and thought it promising. I took, and take, 
his action for sheer human kindness. I probably behaved with my usual gaucherie. The presence of 
anyone whom I really respect always awakes my congenital shyness, always overawes me. Henley's 
famous poem (which Frank Harris regards as "the bombast of Antient Pistol") appealed intensely to 
my deepest feeling about man's place in the universe; that he is a Titan overwhelmed by the gods 
but not surrendering. And the form or the poem is superb. It is in line with all the great English 
expressions of the essential English spirit, a certain blindness, brutality and arrogance, no doubt, as 
in "Rule Britannia", "Boadicea", "The Garb of Old Gaul", "The British Grenadiers", "Hearts of Oak", 
"Toll for the Brave", "Ye Mariners of England", et hoc genus omne; but with all that, indomitable 
courage to be, to do and to suffer as fate may demand. 
I never thought much of the rest of Henley's verse, distinguished as it is for vigour and depth of 
observation. It simply does not come within my definition of poetry, which is this: A poem is a series 
of words so arranged that the combination of meaning, rhythm and rime produces the definitely 
magical effect of exalting the soul to divine ecstasy. Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Machen share this 
view. Henley's poem conforms with this criterion. 
I told him what I was doing about Rodin. His view was that the sonnet had been worked out and he 
advised me to try the Shakespearian sonnet or quatorzain. I immediately attempted the form in the 
train that evening and produced the quatorzain on himself from which I have quoted above. I 
recognized at once that the quatorzain was in fact much better suited to my rugged sincerity than 
the suavity of the Italian form, so I composed a number of poems in the new mode. In fact, I fell in 
love with it. I invented improvements by the introduction of anapaests wherever the storm of the 
metre might be maddened to typhoon by so doing, and it may be that history will yet say that 
Clouds without Water, a story told in quatorzains, as Alice in sonnets, is my supreme lyrical 
masterpiece.