His case then is more pitiable, his failure more complete, than Eglamor's.

Eglamor could shape something; he had his own enjoyment, and he gave pleasure to men.

Sordello, lured incessantly towards abstract ideals, lost in their contemplation, is smitten, like Aprile, into helplessness by the multitudinousness of the images he sees, refuses to descend into real life and submit to its limitations, is driven into the slothfulness of that dreaming imagination which is powerless to embody its images in the actual song.
Sometimes he tries to express himself, longing for reality.

When he tries he fails, and instead of making failure a step to higher effort, he falls back impatiently on himself, and is lost in himself.

Moreover, he tries always within himself, and with himself for judge.