Shelter my soul, O my love! My soul is bent low with the pain And the burden of love, like the grace Of a flower that is smitten with rain: O shelter my soul from thy face! But, when all is said, it is the life of her people which inspires this poet most perfectly. In the lighter lyrics one sees the fineness of her touch; and in the love-poems the depth of her passion. But, in the folk-songs, all the qualities of her genius have contributed. Grace and tenderness have been reinforced by an observant eye, broad sympathy and a capacity for thought which reveals itself not so much as a systematic process as an atmosphere, suffusing the poems with gentle pensiveness. And always the artistic method is that of picking out the theme in bright sharp lines, and presenting the idea concretely, through the grouping of picturesque facts. There is a poem called "Street Cries" which is a vivid bit of the life of an Eastern city. First we have early morning, when the workers hurry out, fasting, to their toil; and the cry 'Buy bread, Buy bread' rings down the eager street; then midday, hot and thirsty, when the cry is 'Buy fruit, Buy fruit'; and finally, evening. When twinkling twilight o'er the gay bazaars, Unfurls a sudden canopy of stars, When lutes are strung and fragrant torches lit On white roof-terraces where lovers sit Drinking together of life's poignant sweet, _Buy flowers, buy flowers_, floats down the singing street. Another of these shining pictures will be found in "Nightfall in the City of Hyderabad," Mrs Naidu's own city; and again in the song called "In a Latticed Balcony." But there are several others in which, added to the suggestion of an old civilization and strange customs, there is a haunting sense of things older and stranger still. Of such is this one, called "Indian Weavers." Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay?... Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child. ..... Weavers, weaving solemn and still, Why do you weave in the moonlight chill?... White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud. "_John Presland_" The work of "John Presland" reminds one of the trend of contemporary poetry towards the dramatic form. Out of eight volumes published by this poet, five are fully-wrought plays, and one is a tragic love-story told in duologue. That, of course, is a larger proportion of actual drama than most of these poets give; but if an analysis were made, it would probably be found that the dramatic impulse is strong in the work of nearly all of them.