gy. Some good poets and some good poems have been omitted.
And they have been omitted, in some instances, in favour of inferior work.
Many of us would prefer an anthology of the best poems rather than an
anthology of authors. At the same time, with all its faults, _Georgian
Poetry_ still remains the best guide we possess to the poetic activities
of the time. I am glad to see that the editor includes the work of a woman
in his new volume. This helps to make it more representative than the
previous selections. But there are several other living women who are
better poets, at the lowest estimate, than at least a quarter of the men
who have gained admission.

Mr. W.H. Davies is by now a veteran among the Georgians, and one cannot
easily imagine a presence more welcome in a book of verse. Among poets he
is a bird singing in a hedge. He communicates the same sense of freshness
while he sings. He has also the quick eye of a bird. He is, for all his
fairy music, on the look-out for things that will gratify his appetite. He
looks to the earth rather than the sky, though he is by no means deaf to
the lark that

Raves in his windy heights above a cloud.

At the same time, at his best, he says nothing about his appetite, and
sings in the free spirit of a child at play. His best poems are songs of
innocence. At least, that is the predominant element in them. He warned
the public in a recent book that he is not so innocent as he sounds. But
his genius certainly is. He has written greater poems than any that are
included in the present selection. _Birds_, however, is a beautiful
example of his gift for joy. We need not fear for contemporary poetry
while the hedges contain a poet such as Mr. Davies.

Mr. de la Mare does not sing from a hedge. He is a child of the arts. He
plays an instrument. His music is the music of a lute of which some of the
strings have been broken. It is so extraordinarily sweet, indeed, that one
has to explain him to oneself as the perfect master of an imperfect
instrument. He is at times like Watts's figure of Hope listening to the
faint music of the single string that remains unbroken. There is always
some element of hope, or of some kindred excuse for joy, even in his
deepest melancholy. But it is the joy of a spirit, not of a "super-tramp."
Prospero might have summoned just such a spirit through the air to make
music for him. And Mr. de la Mare's is a spirit perceptible to the ear
rather than to the eye