When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be? Oh, when this my dust surrenders, Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May those loved and loving faces Please other men. May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine. And as happy children gather Posies once mine. Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight. Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days. We come again upon another manner in the poems of Mr. Robert Nichols. Here an inadequate passage from a long and very lovely piece called _The Sprig of Lime_ will serve to suggest his qualities: Sweet lime that often at the height of noon Diffusing dizzy fragrance from your boughs Tasselled with blossoms more innumerable Than the black bees, the uproar of whose toil Filled your green vaults, winning such metheglyr. As clouds their sappy cells, distil, as once Ye used, your sunniest emanations Towards the window where a woman kneels-- She who within that room in childish hours Lay through the lasting murmur of blanch'd noon Behind the sultry blind, now full, now flat, Drinking anew of every odorous breath, Supremely happy in her ignorance Of Time that hastens hourly and of death Who need not haste. These poems are not realism, but passages of reality imaginatively seized and transfigured by passion; and the same description may be applied to a number of pieces in this book as different from these as these are from one another. If we attempt to map out the whole achievement and promise which the book represents, we must refer to the originality and beauty of rhythm displayed by Mr. John Freeman in such a poem as _The Alde_, which begins: How near I walked to Love, How long, I cannot tell; I was like the Alde that flows Quietly through green level lands, So quietly, it knows Their shape, their greenness, and their shadows well; And then undreamingly for miles it goes And silently, beside the sea. We must refer also to Mr. W. J. Turner's noble and largely conceived, if a little chaotic, poem _Death_; and to Mr. Sassoon's extraordinarily economical and finished pictures of impressions at the front and in England. There is moreover Mr. Brett Young's graceful and delicate talent.