essays and reviews, many of which he afterwards collected and published in _A Poet--And Some Others_ (Downe and Cashe). Then, after a prolonged retreat in South Lancashire, he produced the work his friends had long been expecting, the work that many of us believe has given him--or will give him--a high place in English literature. I refer, of course, to _The Golden Garnering_, a volume of lyrics of no great size, but yet packed with poetry of the highest order. Here, at last, we have the true Grigsby, self-confident, matured, in full command of his powers. All that had gone before, his childhood at Channingford, the early struggles at Wolverhampton, the days and nights with his brilliant set in London, the ripeness of later, quieter years, all lead to _The Golden Garnering_; and not in vain, for it is one of the few enduring contributions of this age to letters. In these lyrics of Grigsby’s, one discovers all the best qualities of our older English verse, along with a great deal that is new, being native to the poet. Over and above the beautiful lyrical flow, the sharply etched phrase, the abundant fine imagery, familiar to all lovers of our verse, there is a touch of restless modernity, an increasing burden of thought, that mark the true poet of our own time. Dropping the ‘No Verb’ manner and returning with increased power to the older forms, Grigsby, in this volume, presents us with an extraordinary variety of measures, alike only in their marvellous fitness for each subject and mood. At times, he will move us with exquisite cadences, perfectly wedded to the matter, as in-- ‘Sleep, gentle sleep, I know not whence it comes, Sleep from the dusk of some immortal dream, Clouds to the eyes and hazes o’er the mind....’ At other times, we are roused and delighted by one startling yet just image, as in-- ‘Day, a white pack, chases the black fox, Night, And faster than horse and hound, the fled-away shades....’ Again, the poet will express himself with force and passion, yet seem to be singing a carelessly beautiful song, as, for example, in the oft-quoted ‘Hymn to the Clubmen’-- ‘Men of wrath, your tongues are burning With the angry words unspoken; And all love and beauty spurning, Nature has for you no token....’ Or in the less lyrical but still more forceful and characteristic lines beginning: ‘The dust of noonday shall be cursed To him: and he shall slake his thirst In many a public place....’ And, here and there, we see the poet using the full compass of his instrument, as in the now famous ‘To the Ox,’ and particularly the familiar fourth stanza, beginning: ‘Thou know’st naught of our bitterness, grave beast; No angry Pharisees can frown thee down; For thee, the hills have spread their dewy feast Of agelong green, outlasting road and town....’