Moody, too, transvaluates values everywhere. _The Death of Eve_ is an example of it. It is to “The Brute” that he looks for the regeneration of society. Prometheus is a heroic saviour of mankind; rebellion is his virtue, not his sin. Pandora is not a mischievous person who through her curiosity lets out all the troubles on the world, but a divine, wind-like inquirer, the inspiration of Prometheus. The God of judgment-day is himself swept away by the destruction of mankind for the sins of commission. And the insignificance of man compared with what he might be is satirically shown in _The Menagerie_. But let me not create the impression that Moody cannot be delicate. From _Heart’s Wild Flower_: But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears, A little gift God gave my youth,—whose petals dim were fears, Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears. From the gentle poem of motherhood, _The Daguerreotype_: And all is well, for I have seen them plain, The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! Across the blinding gush of these good tears They shine as in the sweet and heavy years When by her bed and chair We children gathered jealously to share The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, Where the sore-stricken body made a clime Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, Holier and more mystical than prayer. Or from _The Moon-Moth_: Mountains and seas, cities and isles and capes, All frail as in a dream and painted like a dream, All swimming with the fairy light that drapes A bubble, when the colors curl and stream And meet and flee asunder. I could deem This earth, this air, my dizzy soul, the sky, Time, knowledge, and the gods Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily Down a great bubble’s rondure, dye on dye, To swell that perilous clinging drop that nods, Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity. Here, surely, is an American poet who speaks in eternal terms of the new inspiration; one who was sane and blazing at the same time; one who in order to be modern did not need to use a poor imitation of Whitman, screech of boiler factories and exalt a somewhat doubtful brand of democracy; one who was uncompromisingly radical without being feverish; above all, one who succeeded in writing the most beautiful verse without going to London to do it. When one is oppressed with the doubt of American possibilities it is a renewal of faith to turn to him. If Whitman is of our soil, Moody is no less so; through these two the best in us has thus far found its individual expression. The temptation to quote is one that should not be resisted. And I can think of no better way to send readers to Moody in the present world crisis than to quote the song of Pandora: