fine lines and snatches of songs sweet or impassioned (the first two verses of 'To Walt Whitman in America,' or the first verse of 'The Oblation,' for instance, or others from the 'Mater Dolorosa' or 'A Marching Song'). The studied work, set pieces like 'Siena' and 'Tiresias,' have in them the taint of over-deliberation, a taint curiously demonstrable by the exceedingly fine extracts that can (as usual) be made from both. This is once more a case of the extract giving too high a notion of the whole. Verse like
'... Her palace stands
In the mid city, where the strong
Bells turn the sunset air to song,
And the towers throng,'
is very lovely. The quiet insight that we feel in much of the monologue of 'Tiresias' is as pleasant as it is unexpected. Here and there it is like Keats, the Keats of Hyperion:
'I am as Time's self in mine own wearied mind.'
Or again, with a richer and more individual colour:
'Ye forces without form and viewless powers
That have the keys of all our years in hold,
That prophesy too late with tongues of gold,
In a strange speech whose words are perished hours.'
One is set wondering whether verse like this will not after all be able to carry on such a poem unshattered down the stream of time. The final poems have
