Quite Rossettian, at least in word-painting of fabrics and jewelry, is Scott’s picture of the drowned lady in his poem _After a Night of Storm_ (from _Beauty and Life_, 1921). It is here quoted, not only to show the Rossettian influence, but also to furnish an example of how Scott works as lovingly and as painstakingly as a lapidary at his technic:— After a night of storm, They found her lovely form They said she was a wondrous thing to see, All dazzling in her bridal dress, A miracle of foam and ivory. Her satin gown was smoothened by the wave, Her rippled ribbons, all her wandering laces Set in their places. Her hands were loosely clasped without a gem, But clad with mitts of silken net. Diamonds in the buckles of her shoon All fairly set, And one great brooch the color of the moon Held her lace shawl. A snood had slipped back from her hair, Her face was piteous, so fair, so fair, And gleaming small Upon her breast there seemed to float A wedding ring, Threaded upon a crimson and green string Around her throat. Surely there is the art of a poet who has lingered long in the studios and ateliers, watching painters, lapidaries, and designers at work on pigments, precious stones, and delicate fabrics! Again, whose influence do we find or feel in certain parts of _Spring on Mattagami_ and _The Anatomy of Melancholy_?—is it the influence of Keats or of Swinburne? It might be either in these lines from _Spring on Mattagami_:— She would let me steal,—not consenting or denying— One strong arm beneath her dusky hair, She would let me bare, not resisting or complying, One sweet breast so sweet and firm and fair; Then with the quick sob of passion’s shy endeavor She would gather close and shudder and swoon away . . . But there is no mistaking the Swinburnian manner of imaginative color and of alliterative and sensuous music in these lines from _The Anatomy of Melancholy_ (from _Beauty and Life_):— Lifted the dragon-guarded lid—and lo! Faint and uncertain, _Frail rose-ghosts of rose-gardens all in blow_ Haunted the room, _The spangled dew, the shell-tints and the moonlight_ Lived in the fume. . . .