They have seen it through! Theirs is the triumph, And, beneath The carved smile of the Mona Lisa, False teeth Rattle Like machine-guns, In anticipation Of food and platitudes. Les Vieilles Dames Sans Merci! Mr. Sitwell's hatred of war is seldom touched with pity. It is arrogant hatred. There is little emotion in it but that of a young man at war with age. He pictures the dotards of two thousand years ago complaining that Christ did not die-- Like a hero With an oath on his lips, Or the refrain from a comic song-- Or a cheerful comment of some kind. His own verse, however, seems to me to be hardly more in sympathy with the spirit of Christ than with the spirit of those who mocked him. He is moved to write by unbelief in the ideals of other people rather than by the passionate force of ideals of his own. He is a sceptic, not a sufferer. His work proceeds less from his heart than from his brain. It is a clever brain, however, and his satirical poems are harshly entertaining and will infuriate the right people. They may not kill Goliath, but at least they will annoy Goliath's friends. David's weapon, it should be remembered, was a sling, with some pebbles from the brook, not a pea-shooter. The truth is, so far as I can see, Mr. Sitwell has not begun to take poetry quite seriously. His non-satirical verse is full of bright colour, but it has the brightness, not of the fields and the flowers, but of captive birds in an aviary. It is as though Mr. Sitwell had taken poetry for his hobby. I suspect his Argonauts of being ballet dancers. He enjoys amusing little decorations--phrases such as "concertina waves" and-- The ocean at a toy shore Yaps like a Pekinese. His moonlight owl is surely a pretty creature from the unreality of a ballet: An owl, horned wizard of the night, Flaps through the air so soft and still; Moaning, it wings its flight Far from the forest cool, To find the star-entangled surface of a pool, Where it may drink its fill Of stars. At the same time, here and there are evidences that Mr. Sitwell has felt as well as fancied. The opening verse of _Pierrot Old_ gives us a real impression of shadows: The harvest moon is at its height, The evening primrose greets its light With grace and joy: then opens up The mimic moon within its cup. Tall trees, as high as Babel tower, Throw down their shadows to the flower-- Shadows that shiver--seem to see An ending to infinity. But there is too much of Pan, the fauns and all those other ballet-dancers in his verse. Mr. Sitwell's muse wears some pretty costumes. But one wonders when she will begin to live for something besides clothes. XXI.--LABOUR OF AUTHORSHIP