“Charm bootless ’gainst my veering pillared dust
“Which chokes each sluice in vainly watered gardens,
“Dessicates the velvet prudency of roses,
“And leaves green gummy tendrils like to naught
“But ravelled dry and dusty ends of cord”;
and so on for a long, long while. It may be wonderful; I dare say it is.
The last two-thirds of the volume is taken up with short poems arranged in groups addressed to various persons—Tagore, Yeats, and Moore, among them. There is more clarity here. One discerns an autobiographic wistfulness in these stanzas entitled: A Poet in the Spring Regrets Having Wed So Late in Life.
Some things, that we shall never know,
Are eloquent today,
Belittling our experience, though