the north of the county, in which he has probably taken part on foot; and in "The Departure of Proserpine," whether conscious or not, a crystallization in verse of an autumnal mood induced by falling leaves and exile and the possible nearness of death.
The second poem in the book was written about a little boy who used to drive cows for some farmer past the poet's door very early every morning, whistling as he went, and who died just before the war. I think that its beautiful and spontaneous simplicity would cost some of our writers gallons of midnight oil.
Of the next, "To a Distant One," who will not hope that when "Fame and other little things are won" its clear and confident prophecy will be happily fulfilled?
Quite perfect, if my judgment is of any value, is the little poem on page 175, "In the Mediterranean—Going to the War."
Another beautiful thing is "Homecoming" on page 192.
"The sheep are coming home in Greece,
Hark the bells on every hill,
Flock by flock and fleece by fleece."
