picture forth the pauses of the journey through
the realm of fancy. It has in it the passion of violet and silver
dreaming, the hue of an endless dawn before the day descends upon the
world. You expect the lute to regain its jaded tune there. You expect
the harp to reverberate once again with the old fervors. You expect
the syrinx to unfold the story of the reed in light song. It contains
the history of all the hushed horizons that can be found over the
edges of a world of materiality. It holds in it always the warm soul
of every digit of the moon. Human passion is for once removed, unless
it be that the mere humanism of motion excites the sense of passion.
You are made to feel the non-essentiality of the stress of the flesh
in the true places of spiritual existence. The life of moments is
carried over and made permanent in fancy, and they endure by the
purity of their presence alone. There is no violence in the work of
Davies. It is the appreciable relation of harmony and counterpoint in
the human heart and mind. It is the logic of rhythmical equation felt
there, almost exclusively. It is the condition of music that art in
the lyrical state has seemed to suggest.

The artistic versatility of Davies is too familiar to comment upon. He
has no distress with mediums. His exceptional sensitivity to substance
and texture gives him the requisite rapport with all species of
mediums to which the artist has access. One might be inclined to think
of him as a virtuoso in pastel possibly, and his paintings in the
medium of oil suggest this sort of richness. He is nevertheless at
home in all ways. All these are issues waved away to my mind, in view
of his acute leaning to the poet that leads the artist away from
problems other than that of Greek rhythmical perfection. It is
essentially a Platonic expression, the desire of the perfect union of
one thing with another. That is its final consummation, so it seems to
me.

REX SLINKARD

"_I doubt not that the passionately wept deaths of young men
are provided for._"--WALT WHITMAN.

We have had our time for regretting the loss of men of genius during
the war. We know the significance of the names of Rupert Brooke,
Edward Thomas, Elroy Flecker on the other side of the sea, to the hope
of England. And on this side of the sea the names of Joyce Kilmer,
Alan Seeger and Victor Chapman have been called out to us for the
poetic spell they cast upon America. All of them in t