or its reverberation through imagined scenes, rather than by niceties of style or prosody. All that he means by "a rhythm of ideas" is that the sense of the words should inspire the cadences of their sound; for, of course, in its major structures as well as in line and stanza, rhythm is a sensuous character only applicable to ideas by a metaphor. Poetry is, he thinks, "a marvel of the brain" fundamentally the same in all men; the poet only excels by more perfect organs of perception and expression—a conception in generous contrast to that of the young man, who is so keen on distinguishing his work as to whittle his gift away in the effort to remove all trace of kinship with other minds. On the other hand, only time will show whether Nichols will say a great deal in a manner not sufficiently distinct to live, or will fulfil the promise everywhere apparent in this book.
"On either hand the slender trees
Bow to the caressing breeze,
And shake their shocks of silver light
Against skies marbled greenish-white,
Save where, within a rent of blue,
The tilted slip of moon glints through,
Glittering upon us as we dance
With a soft extravagance
Of limbs as blonde as Autumn boughs
And gold locks floating from moony brows.
While anguished Pan the pipes doth blow
Fond and tremulous and low...."
A good omen! We are reminded of the sweetest music of classical English. It is not easy to imitate; let those who think it is, echo so fine a strain so freshly. Nothing comes of nothing, but out of imitative admiration grow the grand wings of the Muses. However, this Faun's Holiday is a rambling, shapeless poem, though it constantly threatens to be better than it anywhere is. With the anxiety of one who expects to surpass himself Mr Nichols
