On the title page of Christopher Morley's new book, "Inward Ho!" the twentieth century poet has inserted the words of his brother Keats: "Now it appears to me that almost any man may, like the spider, sping from his own inwards his own airy Citadel--the points of leaves and twigs on which the spider begins her work are few, and she fills the air with a beautiful circuiting."
"Inward Ho!" is not poetry but it was written by a poet. In fact Morley thought of the volume as sort of eccentric text book for students and wanted to call it "Preliminary Ejaculations Tending Toward an Understanding of the Meaning of Poetry," but when he wrote that down on the title page it looked too formidable.
"It is not a book of literary critism but," he says, "something much less skilful and much more important--an attempt to probe those disturbances and ecstasies that engender literature."
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