Time, knowledge, and the gods
Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily
Down a great bubble’s rondure, dye on dye,
To swell that perilous clinging drop that nods,
Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity.
Here, surely, is an American poet who speaks in eternal terms of the new inspiration; one who was sane and blazing at the same time; one who in order to be modern did not need to use a poor imitation of Whitman, screech of boiler factories and exalt a somewhat doubtful brand of democracy; one who was uncompromisingly radical without being feverish; above all, one who succeeded in writing the most beautiful verse without going to London to do it. When one is oppressed with the doubt of American possibilities it is a renewal of faith to turn to him. If Whitman is of our soil, Moody is no less so; through these two the best in us has thus far found its individual expression.
The temptation to quote is one that should not be resisted. And I can think of no better way to send readers to Moody in the present world crisis than to quote the song of Pandora:
Of wounds and sore defeat
I made my battle stay;
Wingéd sandals for my feet