_Should and Must._ Perfect in plan, although here in a dismembered and curiously restored condition. _A Friendly Service._ German romanticism, pious and pleasing. _Cradle Song._ Rhyming nonsense, perfectly suited to put one to sleep. _Miller’s Farewell._ To one who can grasp the situation, a priceless thing; but the first stanza requires an emendation. _Abbot Neidhard and His Monks._ A prank of Till Eulenspiegel of the very best sort, and very well told. _The Horrible Marriage._ An extraordinary case; in the ballad-monger’s manner, but admirably handled. _The Excellent Comrade._ Nonsense; but happy the man who can sing it agreeably! _Unrequited Love._ Very good, but tending toward a rather Philistine prose. _The Little Tree._ Full of longing and playfulness, yet full of fervor. _Mésalliance._ Excellent enigmatic fable, but a clearer treatment might have been more pleasing to the reader. With these impromptu characterizations--for how could they be other than impromptu?--we do not intend to anticipate the judgment of any readers of the book, and least of all those readers who by their own lyric enjoyment and the appreciation of a sympathetic heart can get more from the poems themselves than any brief characterizations like ours can ever give them. We should like, however, in conclusion to say something about the value of the collection as a whole. We have been accustomed for years to give the name of “folksongs” to this species of poetry, not because it is really composed by the people or for the people, but because it embraces in itself something so vigorous and wholesome that the healthy stock of the nation understands it, remembers it, appropriates it, and at times propagates it. Poetry of this kind is as true poetry as can possibly exist. It has an incredible charm even for us who stand on a higher plane of culture, just as the sight of young people and the memory of one’s own youth have for old age. Art in them is in conflict with nature; and it is because of their gradual development, their mutual influence, and their striving for form that these songs seem to seek a further perfection when they have already reached their goal. True poetic genius, wherever it appears, is perfect in itself: no matter what imperfections of language, of external technique, or anything else, stand in its way, it possesses the higher inner form which ultimately has everything at its command, and often in an obscure and imperfect medium produces a more striking effect than it can later produce in a more perfect medium. The vivid poetic perception of a limited state or condition gives to what is purely individual a universal significance, finite to be sure, but after all limitless and unrestricted, so that within a small compass we fancy we see the whole world. The promptings of a profound intuition urge the poet to a significant brevity; and what would seem in prose