Then again, Polonius can get a few things right. Fathers and other comic figures sometimes do. Nature and society alike depend on humanity to flourish. If here Wordsworth sounds a bit like Karl Marx, he simply anticipates another great Romantic. The still, sad music of humanity.
Art depends on one moment, that still moment of active listening.
For Wordsworth, the poles of experience take a touch of polar ice. For Constable, it takes an extra canvas. Certainly, Constable looks back to the traditions of proper fine art. His brand of Romanticism still seeks something polished enough to stand firmly at one remove from nature. However, something else has taken place, something beyond art's traditional role.