Or a fragment from "The Calm," when the poet has been thinking of his "tempestuous past," and contrasts it with his present well-being, and the country joys which he fears will be s.n.a.t.c.hed away again:

But are these pleasant days to keep?

Where shall I be when Summer comes?

When, with a bee's mouth closed, she hums Sounds not to wake, but soft and deep, To make her pretty charges sleep?

The love of Nature which supplies the theme here is a characteristic that persists throughout the subsequent volumes. It recurs more and more frequently, until the autobiographical element is almost eliminated; and just as it is the main motive of the later poetry, so it is its happiest inspiration. It is rather a pagan feeling, taking great joy in the beauty of the material world, revelling in the impressions of sight and scent, sound and taste and touch. It is humane enough to embrace the whole world of animal life; but it seeks no spirit behind the phenomena of Nature, and cares precisely nothing about its more scientific aspect.

Its gay lightsomeness is a charming thing to watch, an amazing thing to think about:

For Lord, how merry now am I!

Tickling with straw the b.u.t.terfly, Where she doth in her clean, white dress, Sit on a green leaf, motionless, To hear Bees hum away the hours.

Or again, from "Leisure," in _Songs of Joy_:

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to see, when woods we pa.s.s, Where squirrels hide their nuts in gra.s.s.

No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

And a "Greeting," from the volume called _Foliage_:

Good morning, Life--and all Things glad and beautiful.

My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend-- His spending has no end.

Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers.

The poet does not claim to be learned in nature lore: indeed he declares in one place that he does not know 'the barley from the oats.' But he has a gift of fancy which often plays about his observation with delightful effect. One could hardly call it by so big a name as imagination: that suggests a height and power of vision which this work does not possess, and which one would not look for in this type of genius. It is a lighter quality, occasionally childlike in its navete, fantastical, graceful, even quaint. It is seen in simile sometimes, as this from _The Soul's Destroyer_, describing the sky:

It was a day of rest in heaven, which seemed A blue gra.s.s field thick dotted with white tents Which Life slept late in, though 'twere holiday.

Or this account of the origin of the Kingfisher, from "Farewell to Poesy":

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep.

Or a fancy about the sound of rain from _Nature Poems_:

I hear leaves drinking rain; I hear rich leaves on top Giving the poor beneath Drop after drop; 'Tis a sweet noise to hear Those green leaves drinking near.

It plays an important part too in the poems upon other favourite themes, on a woman's hair, on her voice, on music. Such are "Sweet Music" and "A Maiden and her Hair" in _Nature Poems_: as well as "The Flood," from which I quote. It will be found in _Songs of Joy_:

I thought my true love slept; Behind her chair I crept And pulled out a long pin; The golden flood came out, She shook it all about, With both our faces in.

Ah! little wren I know Your mossy, small nest now A windy, cold place is: No eye can see my face, Howe'er it watch the place Where I half drown in bliss.

A development of technique in the later work lends ease and precision to the poet's use of his instrument. Little faults of metre and of rhyme are corrected: ba.n.a.lities of phrase and crudities of thought almost disappear, so that the verse acquires a new grace. It gains, too, from a wider variety of form: for the verses may be as short as one foot, or as long as five: and there may be stanzas of only two lines, or anything up to eight. There are even pieces written in the closed couplet and in blank verse. But Mr Davies is by no means an innovator in his art, as so many of his contemporaries are. The variety we have noted is, after all, only a modification of traditional form and not a departure from it; and always as its basis, the almost constant unit is the iamb. Very rarely is any other measure adopted; and so well does the iamb suit the simple and direct nature of this work in thought, word and phrase, that one would not often alter it. One of the perfect examples of its fitness is in "The Battle," from _Nature Poems_:

There was a battle in her face, Between a Lily and a Rose: My Love would have the Lily win And I the Lily lose.

I saw with joy that strife, first one, And then the other uppermost; Until the Rose roused all its blood, And then the Lily lost.

When she's alone, the Lily rules, By her consent, without mistake: But when I come that red Rose leaps To battle for my sake.

Occasionally, however, and especially in the longer poems, the regular recurrence of the iamb is a little monotonous. Then a wish just peeps out that Mr Davies were more venturous: that he had some slight experimental turn, or that he did not stand quite so far aloof from the influences which, within his sight and hearing, are shaping a new kind of poetic expression. But the regret may be put aside. The fresh forms which those others are evolving are valid for them--for life as they conceive it--for the wider range and the more complex nature of the experience out of which they are distilling the poetic essence. For him, however, the lyric mood burns clear and untroubled, kindling directly to the beauty of simple and common things. And instinctively he seeks to embody it in cadence and measure which are sweetly familiar. When some exhilarating touch quickens and lightens his verse with a more tripping measure, as in "The Laughers" (from _Nature Poems_) its gay charm is irresistible.

Mary and Maud have met at the door, Oh, now for a din; I told you so: They're laughing at once with sweet, round mouths, Laughing for what? does anyone know?

Is it known to the bird in the cage, That shrieketh for joy his high top notes, After a silence so long and grave-- What started at once those two sweet throats?

Is it known to the Wind that takes Advantage at once and comes right in?

Is it known to the c.o.c.k in the yard, That crows--the cause of that merry din?

Is it known to the babe that he shouts?

Is it known to the old, purring cat?

Is it known to the dog, that he barks For joy--what Mary and Maud laugh at?

Is it known to themselves? It is not, But beware of their great shining eyes; For Mary and Maud will soon, I swear, Find cause to make far merrier cries.

It is hard to close even a slight study of Mr Davies' work without another glance at his originality. One hesitates to use that word, strained and tortured as it often is to express a dozen different meanings. It might be applied, in one sense or another, to nearly all our contemporary poets, with whom it seems to be an article of artistic faith to avoid like the plague any sign of being derivative. So, although their minds may be steeped in older poetry, they deliberately turn away from its influence, seeking inspiration in life itself. There is no doubt that they are building up a new kind of poetry, with values that sound strange perhaps to the unfamiliar ear, but which bid fair to enlarge the field for the poetic genius and enrich it permanently. But the crux of the question for us at this moment is the fact of effort, the deliberate endeavour which is made by those poets to escape from tradition. No sign of such an effort is visible in Mr Davies' work, and yet it is the most original of them all--the newest, freshest, and most spontaneous.

The reason lies, of course, in the qualities we have already noted. It is not entirely an external matter, as the influence of his career might lead us to believe. That has naturally played its part, making the substance of some of his verse almost unique; and, more important still, guarding him from bookishness and leaving his mind free to receive and convey impressions at first hand. From this come the bracing freshness of his poetry, its navete of language, its apparent artlessness and unconscious charm. But the root of the matter lies deeper than that, mainly I think in the sincerity and simplicity which are the chief qualities of his genius. Both qualities are fundamental and constant, vitalizing the work and having a visible influence upon its form. For, on the one hand, we see that simplicity reflected not only in the thought, and themes, but in the language and the technique of this poetry; while on the other hand there is a loyalty which is absolutely faithful to its own experience and the laws of its own nature.

_Walter De La Mare_

There is one sense in which this poet has never grown up, and we may, if we please, recapture our own childhood as we wander with him through his enchanted garden. And if it be true, as John Masefield says, that "the days that make us happy make us wise," it is blessed wisdom that should be ours at the end of our ramble. For see what a delightful place it is!

Not one of your opulent, gorgeous gardens, with insolently well-groomed lawns and beds that teem with precious nurselings; but a much homelier region, and one of more elusive and delicate charm. Boundaries there are, for order and safe going, but they are hidden away in dancing foliage: and there are leafy paths which seem to wind into infinity, and corners where mystery lurks.

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard;

When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ...

Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

Flowers grow in the sunny s.p.a.ces, and all the wild things that children love--primrose and pimpernel, darnel and thorn;

Teasle and tansy, meadowsweet, Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit; Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells; Clover, burnet, and thyme....

It is mostly a shadowy place however, not chill and gloomy, but arched with slender trees, through whose thin leaf.a.ge slant the warm fingers of the sun, picking out clear, quickly-moving patterns upon the gra.s.s. The air is soft, the light is as mellow as a harvest moon, and the sounds of the outer world are subdued almost to silence. Nothing loud or strenuous disturbs the tranquility: only the remote voices of happy children and friendly beasts and kind old people. Wonder lives here, but not fear; smiles but not laughter; tenderness but not pa.s.sion. And the presiding genius of the spot is the poet's "Sleeping Cupid," sitting in the shade with his bare feet deep in the gra.s.s and the dew slowly gathering upon his curls: a cool and lovesome elf, softly dreaming of beauty in a quiet place.

So one might try to catch into tangible shape the spirit of this poetry, only to realize the impossibility of doing anything of the kind. But mere a.n.a.lysis would be equally futile; for the essence of it is as subtle as air and as fluid as light; and one is finally compelled, in the hope of conveying some impression of the nature of it, to fall back upon comparison. It is a clumsy method however, frequently doing violence to one or both of the poets compared; and even when used discreetly, it often serves only to indicate a more or less obvious point of resemblance. But we must take the risk of that for the moment, and call out of memory the magical effect that is produced upon the mind by the reading of "Kubla Khan," or "Christabel" or "The Ancient Mariner." Very similar to that is the effect of Mr. de la Mare's poetry.