that
Christ did not die--

Like a hero
With an oath on his lips,
Or the refrain from a comic song--
Or a cheerful comment of some kind.

His own verse, however, seems to me to be hardly more in sympathy with the
spirit of Christ than with the spirit of those who mocked him. He is moved
to write by unbelief in the ideals of other people rather than by the
passionate force of ideals of his own. He is a sceptic, not a sufferer.
His work proceeds less from his heart than from his brain. It is a clever
brain, however, and his satirical poems are harshly entertaining and will
infuriate the right people. They may not kill Goliath, but at least they
will annoy Goliath's friends. David's weapon, it should be remembered, was
a sling, with some pebbles from the brook, not a pea-shooter.

The truth is, so far as I can see, Mr. Sitwell has not begun to take
poetry quite seriously. His non-satirical verse is full of bright colour,
but it has the brightness, not of the fields and the flowers, but of
captive birds in an aviary. It is as though Mr. Sitwell had taken poetry
for his hobby. I suspect his Argonauts of being ballet dancers. He enjoys
amusing little decorations--phrases such as "concertina waves" and--

The ocean at a toy shore
Yaps like a Pekinese.

His moonlight owl is surely a pretty creature from the unreality of a
ballet:

An owl, horned wizard of the night,
Flaps through the air so soft and still;
Moaning, it wings its flight
Far from the forest cool,
To find the star-entangled surface of a pool,
Where it may drink its fill
Of stars.

At the same time, here and there are evidences that Mr. Sitwell has felt
as well as fancied. The opening verse of _Pierrot Old_ gives us a real
impression of shadows:

The harvest moon is at its height,
The evening primrose greets its light
With grace and joy: then opens up
The mimic moon within its cup.
Tall trees, as high as Babel tower,
Throw down their shadows to the flower--
Shadows that shiver--seem to see
An ending to infinity.

But there is too much of Pan, the fauns and all those other ballet-dancers
in his verse. Mr. Sitwell's muse wears some pretty costumes. But one
wonders when she will begin to live for something besides clothes.

XXI.--LABOUR OF AUTHORSHIP

Literature maintains an endless quarrel with idle sentences. Twenty years
ago this would have seemed too obvious to bear saying.