Poetry and individual poets receive grateful
consideration, the seasons are overworked, love rarely fails and
nature never, wine and the Rhine are not forgotten, and the South is
poetized as the land of undying inspiration. Of their kind, and in
their way, Loeben's poems are nearly perfect.[25] There are no
expressions that repel, no verses that jar, no poems that wholly lack
fancy, and there are occasional evidences of the inspiration that
rebounds. It would be presumptuous to ask for a more amiable poem than
"FrUehlingstrost" (46), or for a neater one than "Der NichterhOerte"
(121), or for a more gently roguish one than the triolett[26] entitled
"Frage" (55).
But be his poems never so good, there is no reason why Loeben should
be revived for the general reader. His prose works lack artistic
measure and objective plausibility; his lyrics lack clarity and
virility; his creations in general lack the story-telling property
that holds attention and the human-interest touches that move the
soul. His thirty-nine years were too empty of real experience;[27] his
works are not filled with the matter that endures.
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