His poem is that of mood, whether of love or other emotion; and we are often sad when we are disenchanted, the veil of his muse’s shrine having fallen. He is a too open singer; his voice sometimes drops even into bathos. Suggestion, the spirit of atmosphere should be properly valued; and we do not attempt to hold back the poet when he flies into the clouds. Iwano’s imagination shows great variety in wealth and colour without depth, like a summer cloud which haunts the mountain peak. Questions in philosophy and reflection are not his own field; but his speculation in thought and passion makes one of ten wonder and gaze. His poems themselves are his personality. His is the poetry of his transition age; will he ever reach the time of realisation? Doubtless his spiritual life will evolve and he will gain intimacy with Nature in time. I think, however, that poetical sureness is more often born than made. It is a pity that he is much troubled with the richness of his own fire and thought, and, in spite of himself, loses his self-consciousness. We cannot find the silence and the odour of time and association in his free and often undisciplined songs. His head never turns back to the twilight, but looks forward to the sunrise and the sky. He has been accused of being an unthinking singer, who scatters his thoughts and wastes his passion on any subject; in fact, he is at home on any subject, his sudden fire and thought rising
