who have broken away from
the metrical formalities of Swinburne and the older men, and who, of set
purpose, have imposed upon poetry the beauty of a slightly irregular
pulse.

He is typical of his generation, however, not only in his form, but in the
pain of his unbelief (as shown in _Betrayal_), and in that sense of
half-revelation that fills him always with wonder and sometimes with hope.
His poems tell of the visits of strange presences in dream and vacancy. In
_A Vacant Day_, after describing the beauty of a summer moon, with clear
waters flowing under willows, he closes with the verses:

I listened; and my heart was dumb
With praise no language could express;
Longing in vain for him to come
Who had breathed such blessedness.

On this fair world, wherein we pass
So chequered and so brief a stay,
And yearned in spirit to learn, alas!
What kept him still away.

In these poems we have the genius of the beauty of gentleness expressing
itself as it is doing nowhere else just now in verse. Mr. de la Mare's
poetry is not only lovely, but lovable. He has a personal possession--

The skill of words to sweeten despair,

such as will, we are confident, give him a permanent place in English
literature.

(2) THE GROUP

The latest collection of Georgian verse has had a mixed reception. One or
two distinguished critics have written of it in the mood of a challenge to
mortal combat. Men have begun to quarrel over the question whether we are
living in an age of poetic dearth or of poetic plenty--whether the world
is a nest of singing-birds or a cage in which the last canary has been
dead for several years.

All this, I think, is a good sign. It means that poetry is interesting
people sufficiently to make them wish to argue about it. Better a
breeze--even a somewhat excessive breeze--than stagnant air. It is good
both for poets and for the reading public. It prevents the poets from
resting on their wings, as they might be tempted to do by a consistent
calm of praise. It compels them to examine their work more critically.
Anyhow, "fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil," and a reasonable
amount of sharp censure will do a true poet more good than harm. It will
not necessarily injure even his sales. I understand the latest volume of
_Georgian Poetry_ is already in greater demand than its predecessor.

It is a good anthology of the poetry of the last two years without being
an ideal antholo