To-night I hear the soft Spring rain that falls Across the gardens, in the falling dusk, The Spring dusk, very slow; And that clear, single-noted bird that calls Insistently, from somewhere in the gloom Of wet Spring leafage, or the scattering bloom Of one tall pear-tree. On, on, on, they go, Those single, sweet, reiterated sounds, Having no passion, similarly free Of laughter, and of memory, and of tears, Poignantly sweet, across the falling rain, They fall upon my ears. The delicate rapture of that will fairly represent most of the nature poetry in these volumes; and it may stand alike for its music and the technical means by which that music is conveyed. It will be seen that there is a close relation between means and end; that the simple language, natural phrasing and controlled freedom of movement, directly subserve the final effect of clear sweetness. A similar adaptation will be found in verse which is written in a sharply contrasted manner. In "Atlantic Rollers," for instance, we have a bigger theme, demanding by its nature a swifter and stronger treatment. And surely the wild energy and sound, the dazzling light and colour of stormy breakers have been almost brought within sight and sound, in the speed and vigour of this poem. There is the opening rush, secretly obedient to a metrical scheme; there is a choice of words which are themselves dynamic; the rapid, cumulative pressure of the verse, with epithets only to help the rising movement until the crest is reached, at say the tenth or twelfth line; and then a slight diminution of speed and force, as a richer style describes the breaking wave. Do you dare face the wind now? Such a wind, Bending the hardy cliff-grass all one way, Hurling the breakers in huge battle-play On these old rocks, whose age leaves Time behind, --The whorls and rockets of the fiery mass Ere earth was earth--shoots over them the spray In furious beauty, then is twisted, wreathed, Dispersed, flung inland, beaten in our face, Until we pant as if we hardly breathed The common air. See how the billows race Landward in white-maned squadrons that are shot With sparks of sunshine. Where they leap in sight First, on the clear horizon, they fleck white The blue profundity; then, as clouds shift, Are grey, and umber, and pale amethyst; Then, great green ramparts in the bay uplift, Perfect a moment, ere they break and fall In fierce white smother on the rocky wall.