This weakening overinsistence on sound does not prevent Aiken from attaining many exquisite effects. Primarily, a lyric poet, he frequently condenses an emotion in a few lines; some of his best moments are these “lapses” into tune. The music of the Morning Song from “Senlin” (in _The Charnel Rose_) is rich with subtleties of rhythm. But it is much more than a lyrical movement. Beneath the flow and flexibility of these lines, there is a delightful whimsicality, an extraordinary summoning of the immensities that loom behind the casual moments of everyday. And in “The Fulfilled Dream,” Aiken can divert the stream of the subconscious, whose vague outlines he reproduces so well, to show the dream in its vivid strength. Besides his varied poetry, Aiken has written a quantity of criticism of contemporary poets, the best of his reviews having been published in _Scepticisms_ (1919), a provocative and valuable series of studies. CHANCE MEETINGS In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive, The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves, In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices, I suddenly face you, Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you, They shine into mine with a sunlit desire, They say an ‘I love you, what star do you live on?’ They smile and then darken, And silent, I answer ‘You too—I have known you,—I love you!—’ And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight To divide us forever. THE FULFILLED DREAM More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed— Great rocks hoisted in air; And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes.... And so he did not mention his dream of falling But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by And the small tree swell beneath him.... He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,— And so went out.... For once, he forgot his pail. Something had changed—but it was not the street— The street was just the same—it was himself. Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, Reading the morning paper....