There is not a trace of cheap sentiment in _Battle_. Even the poems that come nearest to the emotional surface are saved by some specific touch, like the sense of smell, which, as every one knows, is a sharper spur to the memory than any other sensation. Tonight they're sitting by the peat Talking of me, I know-- Grandfather in the ingle-seat, Mother and Meg and Joe. I feel a sudden puff of heat That sets my ears aglow, And smell the reek of burning peat Across the Belgian snow. Browning wrote of Shelley, who had been dead eleven years, _The air seems bright with thy past presence yet._ A similar effect of brightness in life and afterglow in death, seems to have been made on every one who knew him by Rupert Brooke. No young poet of the twentieth century has left such a flaming glory as he. The prefatory poem to Mr. Gibson's _Friends_ (1915-16), beautifully expresses the common feeling: He's gone. I do not understand. I only know That as he turned to go And waved his hand In his young eyes a sudden glory shone: And I was dazzled by a sunset glow, And he was gone. The fine sonnets that follow strengthen the strong colour, and are among the most authentic claims to poetry that their author has set forth. The second one, contrasting the pale glimmer of the London garret with the brilliant apparition of Brooke at the open door, "like sudden April," is poignant in its beauty. The verses in this volume are richer in melody than is customary with Mr. Gibson, yet _The Pessimist_ and _The Ice-Cart_ show that he is as whimsical as ever. He has no end of fun with his fancy. _Livelihood_ (1914-16) takes us back to the bitter pessimism of _Stonefolds_ and _Daily Bread_; only instead of being dialogues, these stories are given in descriptive form, and for the most part in regular pentameter rime. The best of them is _In the Orchestra_, where the poor fiddler in the band at the cheap music-hall plays mechanically every night for his daily bread, while his heart is torn by the vulture of memory. This poem shows a firm grasp of the material; every word adds something to the total impression. Mr. Gibson's constantly repeated pictures of the grinding, soul-crushing labour of the poor seem to say _J'accuse_! Yet he nowhere says it explicitly. He never interrupts his narrative with "My Lords and Gentlemen," nor does he comment, like Hood in _The Song of the Shirt_. Yet the effect of his work is an indictment. Only, whom does he accuse? Is it the government; is it society; is it God?