The reflective predominates over the imaginative in the _Age of Fairygold_, notwithstanding the suggestion of the title. Indeed, there is a subtly pensive note running through the volume, which remains in one’s mind as a characteristic impression when the lighter notes are forgotten. They are not poems of vivid color, imagination, nor passion, though touched with all. They are not incrusted with verbal gems, though the diction is fitting and graceful. They have no daringly inventive metres, though the form is always in harmony with the thought,—in short, the poems of Miss Hall are such as please and satisfy without startling. They are leaves from the book of the heart, and admit us to many a kindred experience. These lines, in which we must take leave of them, carry the wistful, tender, sympathetic note, which distinguishes much of her work: Though true it be these splendid dreams of mine Are but as bubbles little children blow, And that Fate laughs to see them wax and shine, Then holds out her pale finger—and they go: One bitter drop falls with a tear-like gleam,— Still, dreaming is so sweet! Still, let me dream! Though true, to love may be definéd thus: To open wide your safe defenceless hall To some great guest full-armed and dangerous, With power to ravage, to deface it all, A cast at dice, whether or no he will,— Still, loving is so sweet! Let me love still! XVIII ARTHUR UPSON WHEN a volume of verse by Mr. Arthur Upson, entitled _Octaves In An Oxford Garden_, was first brought to my notice by a poet friend with what seemed before reading it a somewhat extravagant comment as to its art, it evoked a certain scepticism as to whether the poet in question would be equally enthusiastic, had he read, marked, learned, and inwardly digested some eighty or more volumes of verse within a given period, thus rendering a more rarely flavored compound necessary to excite anew the poetry-sated appetite; but Mr. Upson’s Octaves proved to be a brew into which had fallen this magic drop, and moments had gone the way of oblivion until the charm was drained. The volume consists of some thirty Octaves written in Wadham Garden at Oxford in the reminiscent month of September; and so do they fix the mood of the place that one marvels at the restfulness, the brooding stillness, the flavor of time and association which Mr. Upson has managed to infuse into his musing, sabbatical lines. One regrets that the term “atmosphere” has become so cheapened, for in the exigent moment when no other will serve as well, he has the depressing consciousness that virtue has gone from the word he must employ. Despite this fact, it is atmosphere, in its most pervasive sense, that imbues Mr. Upson’s Octaves, as the first will attest: