banding, and a web of dreams for lining. He will scent it with the
perfume of "the reddest rose that the singing wind finds sweetest where
it farthest blows," and "will take it at the twilight for his love to
wear." Here we have nothing of the bizarre or the conspicuous, yet in
the six little stanzas of quaintly regular metre there is suggested all
of that world of faery beauty which the eye can glimpse beyond the
leaden clouds of reality; a world which exists because it can be dreamed
of. The poem is "different" in the truest way; it is original because it
conveys beauty originally in an inconspicuous and harmonious vehicle.

But turn now to "Ellsworth to Great Pond" and marvel! True, we still
find the vivid delineation of human feelings, but what a distance we
have travelled! Gone is the young dreamer with his world of moonshine,
for here roars the Maine lumberjack with all the uncouth vigour and rude
natural expressiveness of the living satyr. It is life; primal,
uncovered, and unpolished--the ebullient, shouting vitality of healthy
animalism.

"Drink hard cider, swig hard cider,
Swill hard cider, Boys!
Throw yer spikers, throw yer peavies,
Beller out yer noise!"

We have drifted from the aether of Keats to the earth of Fielding, yet
under the guidance of the same author. Greater proof of Miss Jackson's
absolute objectivity and marvellous imagination could not be produced or
asked.

Yet who shall say that the Jackson pendulum is powerful only at the
extremes of its sweeping arc? In "Workin' Out" we discover a pastoral
love-lyric which for quaintness and graphic humanness could not well be
surpassed. Here the distinctive and spontaneous inventiveness of Miss
Jackson's fancy is displayed with especial vividness. The rural youth,
"workin' out" far from his loved Molly, enumerates the prosaic chores he
can perform with easy heart; but mentions in each case some more poetic
thing which stirs his emotions and gives him loneliness for the absent
fair. He can cut and husk corn, but the golden-rod reminds him of his
Molly's golden hair. He can milk cows, but the gentian reminds him of
his Molly's blue eyes. Aside from their intrinsic ingeniousness, these
images possess an unconscious lesson for the poet who can read it. They
expose with concrete illustrations the fallacy of the so-called "new
poetry," which disregards the natural division between beautiful and
unbeautiful things and rhapsodises as e