Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry. - Alfred Austin

Friendship craves
The commerce of the mind, not the exchange
Of emulous feasts that foster sycophants.

One can put up with, indeed more than put up with, a certain amount of technical carelessness in Poetry, provided it be in other respects of a very high order, as not unoften, for instance, in Shakespeare and Byron. But similar blemishes in a picture would be all but fatal to it in the estimation of connoisseurs, since it would be the first thing that struck them in it.

Where in the lily lurks the mind,
Where in the rose discern the soul? More mindless still, stream, pasture, lake;
The mountains yet more heartless seem. […] It is their silence that appals,
Their aspect motionless that awes,
When searching spirit vainly calls
On the effect to bare the Cause.