I see them all: flowers of all kind, The sheep and cattle on the leas; The houses up the hills, and trees-- But I am dumb, for she is blind. There is, too, the last stanza of "Facts," a narrative piece which relates the infamous treatment by workhouse officials of an old and dying man: Since Jesus came with mercy and love, 'Tis nineteen hundred years and five: They made that dying man break stones, In faith that Christ is still alive. A hideous scrap of notoriety for A.D. 1905!--and proof enough to convince us of our author's humanity. At the same time, however, it is the fact that there is little sign of intense emotion in this work. One comes near it, perhaps, in a passage in "The Forsaken Dead," where the poet is musing in the burial-place of a deserted settlement, and breaks into wrath at the tyranny which drove the people out: Had they no dreamer who might have remained To sing for them these desolated scenes? One who might on a starvèd body take Strong flights beyond the fiery larks in song, With awful music, passionate with hate? But that is a rare example. Deep emotion is not a feature of Mr Davies' poetry: neither in the poems of life, which might be supposed to awaken it directly; nor, stranger still, in the infrequent love poems; nor in the lyrics of nature. It would be interesting to speculate on this, if there were any use in it--whether it is after all just a sign of excessive feeling, masked by restraint; whether it may be in some way a reaction from a life of too much sensation; or whether it simply means that emotion is nicely balanced by objective power. Perhaps an analysis would determine the question in the direction of a balance of power; but the fact remains that though sensibility has a wide range, though it is quick, acute and tender, it is not intense. It would be unfair, however, to suggest that these earlier volumes are only interesting on the personal side. The pure lyric note is uttered first here: once or twice in a small perfect song, as "The Likeness" and "Parted"; but oftener in a snatch or a broken trill, as He who loves Nature truly, hath His wealth in her kind hands; and it Is in safe trust until his death, Increasing as he uses it. Or a passage from "Music," invoking the memory of childhood: O happy days of childhood, when We taught shy Echo in the glen Words she had never used before-- Ere Age lost heart to summon her. Life's river, with its early rush, Falls into a mysterious hush When nearing the eternal sea: Yet we would not forgetful be, In these deep, silent days so wise, Of shallows making mighty noise When we were young, when we were gay, And never thought Death lived--that day.