The Paradise of memories Grows fainter day by day ... there is no need to cease from life or from aspiration on that account: The power is ours to make or mar Our fate as on the earliest morn, The Darkness and the Radiance are Creatures within the spirit born. Yet, bathed in gloom too long, we might Forget how we imagined light. Not yet are fixed the prison bars; The hidden light the spirit owns If blown to flame would dim the stars And they who rule them from their thrones: And the proud sceptred spirits thence Would bow to pay us reverence. Oh, while the glory sinks within Let us not wait on earth behind, But follow where it flies, and win The glow again, and we may find Beyond the Gateways of the Day Dominion and ancestral sway. While in few or none of these poems is mystic thought absent it is never present at the expense of poetry, and many of the poems find in nature both their occasion and their material. A. E.’s vision is preeminently for the evanescent aspect of things, especially for the colors of the changes that come over earth and firmament. The poem beginning When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; I am one with the twilight’s dream. is typical of his response to the vision of the outer world. The same sturdy sense of actual values that leads Mr. Russell to write prose works on co-operation and nationality, seeing in these matters no less than in religious ecstasy the ground for the free life of man, is evident in the poem _On Behalf of Some Irishmen not Followers of Tradition_. But lest sturdy commonsense be thought a grotesque piece of praise for a poem, let me add that it is a commonsense illuminated by the purest idealism. How close to earth this idealism moves is shown in the little sketch _In Connemara_ describing the peasant girl: With eyes all untroubled she laughs as she passes, Bending beneath the creel with the seaweed brown ... and enmeshing her in the nature mysticism of her race and country. William Morris somewhere speaks of the cultured man as one who is in sympathy with past and present and future—a contrast indeed to much latter-day doctrine—and one is reminded of the phrase by this poet who with such lyrical skill not only embodies all three for us, but knits them together in that unity which alone can bestow on man the values of life which are timeless. LLEWELLYN JONES. The Reader Critic _A Chicago Reader_: