William Watson's _Odes and Other Poems_ is remarkable for precisely the qualities which have distinguished his work since the time when, in _Wordsworth's Grave_, he first elaborated a manner of his own. That manner has some of the qualities of eighteenth century verse--its sobriety, its strictness, its intellectual and critical interests; and it also has certain of the richer and more emotional elements of the nineteenth century revival of the Elizabethan passion, and splendor. The reader is reminded of Gray, of Wordsworth, of Matthew Arnold, at moments of Keats and of Rossetti. In spite of occasional and unaccountable blemishes, Watson's work is, in the main, the most careful work of any of the younger poets. Nor is it lacking in a poetic impulse. It does not seem to us that this impulse is a very strong one, or one of special originality, but it is there, undoubtedly; and Watson's verse, unlike that of most of the people now writing, justifies its existence. Take, for instance, these opening lines from the ode _To Arthur Christopher Benson_: In that grave shade august That round your Eton clings, To you the centuries must Be visible corporate things And the high Past appear Affably real and near, For all its grandiose airs, caught from the mien of Kings. The new age stands as yet Half built against the sky Open to every threat Of storms that clamor by: Scaffolding veils the walls, And dim dust floats and falls, As, moving to and fro, their tasks the masons ply. But changeless and complete, Rise unperturbed and vast, Above our din and heat, The turrets of the Past, Mute as that city asleep, Lulled with enchantments deep, Far in Arabian dreamland built where all things last.