The tops are each a shining square Shuttles that steadily press through wooly fabric Drooping blossom, Gas-standards over Spray out jingling tumult Of white-hot rays. Monotonous domes of bowler-hats Vibrate in the heat. Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic, Down the crowded street. The tumult crouches over us, Or suddenly drifts to one side. Mr. Flint’s work is always delightful. He has a winning way of taking his reader into his confidence. This, and his love of nature, which he paints with real affection, gains our sympathy at once. It must be admitted that none of Mr. Flint’s seven poems quite equal two of his in the first anthology, _London My Beautiful_ and _The Swan_. One feels in these two poems a groping quality, as though the poet were not quite satisfied with them himself. As though the first _élan_ with which he adopted the _vers libre_ medium were passing away, and he were beginning to realize that the form has its limitations. If there is any truth in this, it is evident, however, that Mr. Flint has not yet made up his mind to try anything else. It would be almost a pity if he did, for few _vers librists_ understand the manipulation of cadence as he does. Perhaps the following is the one of these poems which has most of his characteristic charm: Lunch Frail beauty, green, gold and incandescent whiteness, narcissi, daffodils, you have brought me Spring and longing, wistfulness, in your irradiance. Therefore, I sit here among the people, dreaming, and my heart aches with all the hawthorn blossom, the bees humming, the light wind upon the poplars, and your warmth and your love and your eyes ... they smile and know me. _Malady_ strikes a stronger note than anything of Mr. Flint’s that I have read before. It is excellent psychology, and steadily, astringently done. It is this constant change and growth which makes the progress of this little group so interesting to watch. Mr. Flint’s work in the first anthology seemed quite successful and finished. He had done what he had done excellently, and he would go on doing it to the end of the chapter. But here we see Mr. Flint, dissatisfied with mere success, daring a wider horizon. From the point of view of adequacy of technique, his poems suffer, as is natural; but the technique is sure to follow the widened thought, before long. _Malady_ and the poem called _Fragment_ show the direction in which Mr. Flint is moving. His next work will be interesting to see.