He does not try the only thing which would help him--the submission of his work to the sympathy and judgment of men.

Out of touch with any love save love of his own imaginings, he cannot receive those human impressions which kindle the artist into work, nor answer the cry which comes from mankind, with such eagerness, to genius--"Express for us in clear form that which we vaguely feel.

Make us see and admire and love." Then he ceases even to love song, because, though he can imagine everything, he can do nothing; and deaf to the voices of men, he despises man.

Finally he asks himself, like so many young poets who have followed his way, What is the judgment of the world worth?
Nothing at all, he answers.
With that ultimate folly, the favourite resort of minor poets, Sordello goes altogether wrong.

He pleases nobody, not even himself; spends his time in arguing inside himself why he has not succeeded; and comes to no conclusion, except that total failure is the necessity of the world.