uth who speaks the English tongue, for
no other, I dare maintain--nothing by Kipling, or Newbolt, or any other
of our so-called "Imperial singers"--expresses more truly and more
movingly the deep feeling of love and reverence which the very thought
of England evokes in every son of hers, even though it may never have
been his to see her white cliffs rise or to tread her storied ground:

O England, little mother by the sleepless Northern tide,
Having bred so many nations to devotion, trust, and pride,
Very tenderly we turn
With welling hearts that yearn
Still to love you and defend you,--let the sons of men discern
Wherein your right and title, might and majesty, reside.

In concluding this, I greatly fear, lamentably inadequate study, I come
to the collection which follows, and which, as intimated above,
represents the work of Mr. Carman's latest period. I must say at once
that, while I yield to no one in admiration for _Low Tide_ and the
other books of that period, or for the work of the second period, as
represented by the _Songs from Vagabondia_ volumes, I have no
hesitation in declaring that I regard the poet's work of the past few
years with even higher admiration. It may not possess the force and
vigor of the work which preceded it; but anything seemingly missing in
that respect is more than made up for me by increased beauty and
clarity of expression. The mysticism--verging, or more than verging,
at times on symbolism--which marked his earlier poems, and which hung,
as it were, as a veil between them and the reader, has gone, and the
poet's thought or theme now lies clearly before us as in a mirror.
What--to take a verse from the following pages at random--could be more
pellucid, more crystal clear in expression--what indeed, could come
closer to that achieving of the impossible at which every real poet
must aim--than this from "In Gold Lacquer" (page 12)?

Gold are the great trees overhead,
And gold the leaf-strewn grass,
As though a cloth of gold were spread
To let a seraph pass.
And where the pageant should go by,
Meadow and wood and stream,
The world is all of lacquered gold,
Expectant as a dream.

The poet, happily, has fully recovered from the serious illness which
laid him low some two years ago, and which for a time caused his
friends and admirers the gravest concern, and so we may look forward
hopefully to seeing further volumes of verse come from the press