myself when I had crossed a field safely. I went on, expecting at every turn to see a sentinel step out from the shadow. But he did not appear. And I owe Mrs. Conkling a personal gratitude.
Alliteration should not be relegated utterly to the past, if only technique be not too flagrant. To discard the right word because it beckons alliteration is as forced and affected as to over-indulge the smooth tempter. However, in A Beethoven Andante, "The wood-wind warbled wisely" is a good deal of a mouthful, and might have made even Swinburne recoil. It seems to me that the most finished product of this book is the Symphony of a Mexican Garden, which was printed in the first number of Poetry; one stanza of which is:
What junipers are these, inlaid
With flame of the pomegranate tree?
The god of gardens must have made
This still unrumored place for thee
To rest from immortality
And dream within the splendid shade
Some more elusive symphony
Than orchestra has ever played.
The Little Town, perhaps because nearer the heart of today, invites re-reading:
They do not know you, little town,
Who say that all roads lead to Rome.
I've tramped the broad world up and down,
And every road leads home.
[153]
