Demand of lilies wherefore they are white, Extort her crimson secret from the rose, But ask not of the Muse that she disclose The meaning of the riddle of her might. Somewhat of all things sealed and recondite, Save the enigma of herself, she knows. The master could not tell, with all his lore, Wherefore he sang, or whence the mandate sped; E'en as the linnet sings, so I, he said-- Ah! rather as the imperial nightingale That held in trance the ancient Attic shore, And charms the ages with the notes that o'er All woodland chants immortally prevail! And now from our vain plaudits, greatly fled, He with diviner silence dwells instead, And on no earthly sea, with transient roar, Unto no earthly airs, he trims his sail, But, far beyond our vision and our hail, Is heard for ever and is seen no more. Now it matters not what flaws the austere critic might find with a microscope in those lines. I feel certain that there is no one who would not at this first reading experience that inevitable glow of satisfaction which, in the cultured mind, is the unfailing criterion that the art is good. Whether Mr. Watson is further an original poet, a signal poetic force; whether he is a poet for the mind as much as for the ear, is a further question to be decided by a detailed analysis; but that he is a poet is, I beg leave to think, wholly undeniable. At first sight, has there been anything better in this vein since _Lycidas_? Here, again, is a brief part of a song from Davidson's _Fleet Street Eclogue_ of May Day. I quote these lines in particular, because, unlike most very short passages of this poet, they admit of being disentangled from their setting. They are typical of only one side of a many-sided being, the side which exults in the simple sensuous delights of nature. They are two stanzas from the song of the nightingale as interpreted by Basil:-- The lark from the top of heaven raved Of the sunshine sweet and old; And the whispering branches dipped and laved In the light; and waste and wold Took heart and shone; and the buttercups paved The emerald meads with gold. * * * * * Now it is night, and-- The wind steals down the lawns With a whisper of ecstasy, Of moonlit nights and rosy dawns, And a nest in a hawthorn tree; Of the little mate for whom I wait, Flying across the sea, Through storm and night as sure as fate, Swift-winged with love for me. And again I ask, has there, at first sight, been anything more like Shelley since Shelley's _Cloud_?