The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
Poets, in their way, are practical men; they are interested in results.