Dickson read more deeply and was puzzled. It seemed worse than the
worst of Browning to understand. He found one poem about a garden
entitled "Revue." "Crimson and resonant clangs the dawn," said the
poet. Then he went on to describe noonday:

"Sunflowers, tall Grenadiers, ogle the roses' short-skirted ballet.
The fumes of dark sweet wine hidden in frail petals
Madden the drunkard bees."

This seemed to him an odd way to look at things, and he boggled over
a phrase about an "epicene lily." Then came evening: "The painted
gauze of the stars flutters in a fold of twilight crape," sang
Mr. Heritage; and again, "The moon's pale leprosy sloughs the fields."

Dickson turned to other verses which apparently enshrined the
writer's memory of the trenches. They were largely compounded
of oaths, and rather horrible, lingering lovingly over sights
and smells which every one is aware of, but most people contrive
to forget. He did not like them. Finally he skimmed a poem about a
lady who turned into a bird. The evolution was described with
intimate anatomical details which scared the honest reader.

He kept his eyes on the book, for he did not know what to say.
The trick seemed to be to describe nature in metaphors mostly drawn
from music-halls and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss,
to fall to cursing. He thought it frankly very bad, and he laboured
to find words which would combine politeness and honesty.

"Well?" said the poet.