"As all sight is but a finer hearing, And all colour but a finer sound, Beauty, but the reach of lyric freedom, Caught and quivering past all music's bound; "Life, that faint sigh whispered from oblivion, Harks and wonders if we may not be Five small wits to carry one great rhythmus, The vast theme of God's new symphony. "As fine sand spread on a disc of silver, At some chord which bids the notes combine, Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse, Shifts and dances into curve and line, "The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote, Was set whirling her assigned sure way, Round this little orb of her ecliptic To some harmony she must obey." The temptation to go on quoting from Mr. Carman's work (which is more varied and touches more chords than most persons--even among those who endeavour to keep in touch with the poetry produced in our day--are aware) has to be resisted, but space must be found for a portion of a recent poem, _A Mountain Gateway_, in which, in beauty and clarity {258} of thought and expression, the poet reaches perhaps his highest point: "I know a vale where I would go one day, When June comes back and all the world once more Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies, A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills, A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart. "On either side the wooded slopes come down, Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness-- That still perfection from the world withdrawn, As if the wood gods had arrested there Immortal beauty in her breathless flight. * * * * * * "And where the road runs in the valley's foot, Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down, Singing and dancing all its youth away Among the boulders and the shallow runs, Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. "There, light of heart and foot-free, I would go Up to my home among the lasting hills, * * * * * * And in my cabin doorway sit me down. Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, While evening passes to absolve the day And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars. "And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn, So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, It well might be, in wisdom and in joy, The seraphs singing at the birth of time The unworn ritual of eternal things."