yself in games I said,
'What mean the books? can I win fame
I would be like the faithful dead,
A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"

Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an
Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard.
In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp
hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the
warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave
their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we
must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book
is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity
and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must
fade as surely as they bloom.

The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no
solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the
hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all
we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and
noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the
race. Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief
in the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to
remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its
generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave
hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and
generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps
beyond.

ARTHUR C. BENSON.

DESIDERATO

Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
Whose presence change and chance deny;
If angels turn your soft proud eye
To lines your cynic playmate penned,

Look on them, as you looked on me,
When both were young; when, as we went
Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
On him who loved your staff to be;

And slouch your lazy length again
On cushions fit for aching brow
(Yours always ached, you know), and now

As dainty languishing as then,
Give them but one fastidious look,
And if you see a trace of him
Who humoured you in every whim,

Seek for his heart within his book:
For though there be enough to mark
The man's divergence from the boy,
Yet shines my faith without alloy

For him who led me through that park;