Dark against the stars He stands: the cloudy bars Of nebulae, the constellations ring His forehead like a king. The ewes are in the fold: His consciousness is old As his, who in Chaldea long ago Penned his flock, and brooded so. _The Shepherd_ can justly be compared to Sir Richard Lovelace’s _To Lucretia on Going to War_. They have in common the same metallic sweetness. A companion piece in both strength of beauty and lyrical qualities is _The Mother_: The hearthstone broods in shadow, And the dark hills are old, But the child clings to the mother, And the corn springs in the mould. And Dana moves on Luachra, And makes the world anew: The cuckoo’s cry in the meadow, The moon, and the earthly dew. In _The Blind Man at the Fair_ there is a truly masterly imagining of the blind one’s agony. O to be blind! To know the darkness that I know. The stir I hear is the empty wind, The people idly come and go. . . . . . . . . . . Last night the moon of Lammas shined, Rising high and setting low; But light is nothing to the blind— All, all is darkness where they go. In _The Laborer_ he reminds one of Whitman in lyrics. Here he speaks of the open roads, the blue hills, the tranquil skies, and the serene heavens. A beautiful passage from _The Whelk-Gatherer_ reads: Where the dim sea-line Is a wheel unbroken; Where day dawns on water, And night falls on wind, And the fluid elements Quarrel forever. What satire, profusely laden with bitter irony is contained in _The Orangeman_: His faith, ’Sixteen-Ninety; His love, none; his hope, That hell may one day Get the soul of the Pope. . . . . . . . . . . Lives in beauty, with Venus And Psyche in white, And the Trojan Laocoön For his spirit’s delight. Last, but not least, is _The Old Woman_: As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face. As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is the woman With her travail done. Her brood gone from her, And her thought as still As the waters Under the ruined mill. The Reader Critic _Will Levington Comfort, Kingsville, Ontario_: I have just had the January number. I feel as if I had found my companions. You who rejoiced in Caroline Branson and Margaret Swawite will know what one means by finding his companions. And when I came to the line of George Soule’s—“I am the greatest anarchist of you all—” the fact is I had settled for a nap by the fire, and here I am by the machine instead. I am proud of you and glad to be in the world with you all. I am sure you must feel the same about each other—for you must have been very lonely in a world that has lost the art of playing—you who play so well.