I imagined measureless time in a day, And starry space in a wagon-road, And the treasure of all good harvests lay In the single seed that the sower sowed. My garden-wind had driven and havened again All ships that ever had gone to sea, And I saw the glory of all dead men In the shadow that went by the side of me. The West of England looms large in contemporary poetry. A. E. Housman, John Masefield, W. W. Gibson, J. E. Flecker have done their best to celebrate its quiet beauty; and some of the finest work of Mr. Drinkwater is lovingly devoted to these rural scenes. We know how Professor Housman and John Masefield regard Bredon Hill--another tribute to this "calm acclivity, salubrious spot" is paid in Mr. Drinkwater's cheerful song, _At Grafton_. The spirit of his work in general is the spirit of health--take life as it is, and enjoy it. It is the open-air verse of broad, windswept English counties. Its surest claim to distinction lies in its excellent, finished--he is a sound craftsman. But he has not yet shown either sufficient originality or sufficient inspiration to rise from the better class of minor poets. His verse-drama, _The Storm_, which was produced in Birmingham in 1915, shows strong resemblances to the one-act plays of Mr. Gibson and is not otherwise impressive. William Henry Davies, the Welsh poet, exhibits in his half-dozen miniature volumes an extraordinary variety of subjects. Everything is grist. He was born of Welsh parentage in Monmouthshire on the twentieth of April, 1870. He became an American tramp, and practised this interesting profession six years; he made eight or nine trips to England on cattle-ships, working his passage; he walked about England selling pins and needles. He remarks that "he sometimes varied this life by singing hymns in the street." At the age of thirty-four he became a poet, and he insists--not without reason--that he has been one ever since. Readers may be at times reminded of the manner of John Davidson, but after all, Mr. Davies is as independent in his poetry as he used to be on the road. Sometimes his verse is banal--as in the advice _To a Working Man_. But oftener his imagination plays on familiar scenes in town and country with a lambent flame, illuminating and glorifying common objects. He has the heart of the child, and tries to see life from a child's clear eyes. THE TWO FLOCKS Where are you going to now, white sheep, Walking the green hill-side; To join that whiter flock on top, And share their pride? Stay where you are, you silly sheep: When you arrive up there, You'll find that whiter flock on top Clouds in the air! Yet much of his poetry springs from his wide knowledge and experience of life. An original defence of the solitary existence is seen in _Death's Game_, although possibly the grapes are sour. Death can but play one game with me-- If I do live alone; He cannot strike me a foul blow Through a belovèd one.