Or suddenly drifts to one side.
Mr. Flint’s work is always delightful. He has a winning way of taking his reader into his confidence. This, and his love of nature, which he paints with real affection, gains our sympathy at once. It must be admitted that none of Mr. Flint’s seven poems quite equal two of his in the first anthology, London My Beautiful and The Swan. One feels in these two poems a groping quality, as though the poet were not quite satisfied with them himself. As though the first élan with which he adopted the vers libre medium were passing away, and he were beginning to realize that the form has its limitations.
If there is any truth in this, it is evident, however, that Mr. Flint has not yet made up his mind to try anything else. It would be almost a pity if he did, for few vers librists understand the manipulation of cadence as he does. Perhaps the following is the one of these poems which has most of his characteristic charm:
Lunch
Frail beauty,
green, gold and incandescent whiteness,
narcissi, daffodils,
you have brought me Spring and longing,
wistfulness,
in your irradiance.