Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.

The book contained a group of lyrics "To French Tunes," which showed that Mrs. Moulton had responded to the fashion for the old French forms of rondel, rondeau, triolet, and so on which in the eighties prevailed among London singers. They showed her facility in manipulating words in metre and were all graceful and delicate; but she was a poet of emotion too genuine and feeling too strong to be at her best in these artificial and constrained measures. She wrote a few in later years, which were included in the volume called "At the Wind's Will," but although they were praised she never cared for them greatly or regarded them as counting for much in her serious work. The book as a whole showed how the natural lyric singer had developed into the fine and subtle artist. The noblest portion of the collection, as in her whole poetic work, was perhaps in the sonnets; but throughout the volume the music of the lines was fuller and freer, the thought deeper, the emotion more compelling than in her earlier work. With this volume Mrs. Moulton took her place at the head of living American poets, or, as an English critic phrased it, "among the true poets of the day."

The voice of the press was one of unanimous praise on both sides of the Atlantic. The privately expressed criticisms of the members of the guild of letters were no less in accord. Mrs. Spofford said of "Waiting Night":

"It is a perfect thing. The wings of flying are all through it. It is fine, and free, and beautiful as the 'Statue and the Bust.' It is high, and sweet, and touching."

Dr. Holmes to Mrs. Moulton

296 Beacon St.,
December 29, 1889.

My dear Mrs. Moulton: I thank you most cordially for sending me your beautiful volume of poems. They tell me that they are breathed from a woman's heart as plainly as the fragrance of a rose reveals its birthplace. I have read nearly all of them—a statement I would not venture to make of most of the volumes I receive, the number of which is legion, and I cannot help feeling flattered that the author of such impassioned poems should have thought well enough of my own productions to honor me with the kind words I find on the blank leaf of a little book that seems to me to hold leaves torn out of the heart's record.

Believe me, dear Mrs. Moulton,

Faithfully yours,