use of such adjectives as white, swift, silver, golden, also detracts from that physical precision which is the glory of English. Yet the choice perfume of these poems haunts the mind. Christian civilisation has in nothing so failed to uphold its Founder's criterions as in censoriousness. Moral disparagement of one sort or another permeates it. "Judge not that ye be not judged" looms from far in the dim and impracticable. Young men are, however, often open-minded and gentle towards sexual licentiousness; it comes easily to them. Allowing for this, I still think that these spare paragraphs, which so poorly represent strophes, are redolent with that temper which not only refrains from censure, but does not judge, though in his case armed with what is called "the best right to." These outworn forms of pagan life are regarded simply and graciously, if a trifle fondly. So to cherish distant things is rare; and their faded colours revive under its kindness, as the dust-scored effacement of some broken shell of a freshly excavated vase might be vivified by a passing shower.
H. D. takes us into another world, the tragic world of those who strive with the Sphinx. Is what we see controlled from the outside, or does the cosmos live? Are we ourselves shaped by inspiration or by the pressure of conditions? And if there are two forces, which will be master in the long run? Passionate minds grapple with this problem; their doubts, their faiths, their despairs are the result. Goethe's Prometheus is the first modern poem that shakes us with these emotions, and declares unending war on all external tyrants, however strong. His maturity could not finish what he had written; the crisis was past, less tragic questions engrossed his attention; but I venture to think that H. D.'s Pygmalion touches as great moments as did his insuppressibly creative Titan whose defiance cries out to Zeus:
