Spirit of the gust and dew, Herrick had the last of you! Empty are the morning hills. Herrick, he whose hearty airs Still are heard in our dull squares; Herrick of the daffodils! * * * * * Now the pulpit and the mart Make an unquiet thing of Art, For we trade or else we preach; Even the crocus,’stead of song, Serves for text the April long; Thus we set it out of reach. There is heartier food than ambrosia in this stanza. It is true that when we use the crocus for a text we set it out of reach, or, in common phrase, when poetry becomes didactic, Art flees. A dew-fresh song would teach the crocus’ lesson, or many another lesson, without a hint of teaching it, merely by beauty; by the creed of Keats. Pope’s didactic, sententious lines are gone; but Keats, who never pointed a moral in his life, sings on eternally. Miss Reese too is votary to beauty for its own sake; she gives one the flower, and he may extract the nectar for himself. The nectar is always there for one’s distilling into the truth which is the essence of things. She does not herself extract and distil it, for hers is the art of suggestion. Having this creed of song, Miss Reese’s themes are not widely inclusive. They are, however, the universal themes,—love, beauty, reverence, remembrance, joy that has been tempered to cheer, having met pain by the way; for, as we have said, no encounter with pain—and her poems give abundant evidence of such encounter—has been able to subdue the valor of her spirit, or to quench the joy at the springs of her feeling, albeit the buoyant, brimful joy has given place to acquiescent cheer. There is a certain quality in Miss Reese’s poems, a quaintness, an elder grace, that is wholly unique. It is the union of theme, phraseology, and atmosphere. The two former have been considered, but the spirit, after all, is in the last, in that which analysis cannot reach. One selects a poem from _A Quiet Road_ illustrative of this art of correlating Then and Now, making quick the dead in memory and hope, and sets about to analyze it,—when, lo, as if one had prisoned a white butterfly, it escapes, leaving only the dust of its wing in one’s hand! Miss Reese’s poems are not to be analyzed, they are to be felt; that, too, is the creed of her song. Is it difficult to feel these delicate lines called “The Road of Remembrance”?— The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree; The tree is blossoming; Northward the road runs to the sea, And past the House of Spring. The folk go down it unafraid; The still roofs rise before; When you were lad and I was maid, Wide open stood that door. Now, other children crowd the stair, And hunt from room to room; Outside, under the hawthorn fair, We pluck the thorny bloom. Out in the quiet road we stand, Shut in from wharf and mart, The old wind blowing up the land, The old thoughts at our heart.