up on the spot. He is the most versatile poet of the present day; and, naturally, he has unconsciously degenerated into every excess. And it seems to me that he always lacks just one touch of distinction. The heart of Nature is sad. Beyond the sounds of the wind and the waves you will be impressed by the loneliness and beauty of silence, which is the dignity of Nature. The real poem should be like it. But it is regrettable in Iwano that his voice often stops at being only a voice, and lacks something which should lie beyond. On the other hand, his buoyancy and exaltation of imagination and swing are the outburst of his own nature, frequently reminding us of the Celtic. (He is the Irish singer of Japan.) The question with him is not how to sing, but how not to sing. He was a poet ardently following after a romantic colour in life and passion when he published his Homei Shishu. I noticed then that his romanticism, too, tottered toward a sad confusion. But I begin to observe a great change in his later work. He is a born poet, and in any circumstances can be trusted as to his genuineness. He is not a bric-a-brac poet whatever, but has yet to learn how to control his poetic impulse, which is his only guide. His mood is so compelling that he is carried on by the force of momentum, and troubled with his own gift. While I know that the gospel of the negative cannot be admired, some sense of limita-
