O sisters, brothers, help me to arise! Of God’s two-hornéd throne I will lay hold And let him see my eyes; That he may understand what love can be, And raise his curse, and set his children free. But quotations crowd upon me. Most of Moody’s best work bears witness to his glorification of man’s possible personality in rebellion against man’s restrictive conception of society and god. We have had many such rebels; the peculiar significance of Moody lies in the fact that he lacks utterly the triviality of the little radical, and that his is a power which springs from the most heroic in American quality. Of course all this would be worth nothing unless Moody had the authentic utterance of the poet. His fulness of inspiration, combined with his sensitive editing, has left us scarcely a line which should have gone to oblivion. As an example of his magic take three lines from _I Am the Woman_, in which the woman is walking with her lover: But I was mute with passionate prophecies; My heart went veiled and faint in the golden weather, While universe drifted by after still universe. Or the woman’s response to Pandora’s singing in _The Fire-Bringer_: Hark, hark, the pouring music! Never yet The pools below the waterfalls, thy pools, Thy dark pools, O my heart—! Fragmentary, mystic, unrelated with the context; yet who that has heard perfect music can fail to understand that cry? It is indeed this mystic richness, these depths below depths, that make a large part of Moody’s individual fascination. He rarely has the limpid clarity or the soaring simplicity which make the popular lyricist such as Shelley. There is too much grasp of the mind in his work for the large public; only those who have in some degree discovered the beauty of the wide ranges can feel at home in him. One breathes with the strength of great virility,—an able and demanding body, a mind which conquers the heights, and those infinitely subtle and vibrating reaches of spirit which belong especially to the poet.