his hand and go with him, for he is master of his own soul, and you
cannot get a whimper out of him. He likes the storm of things, and
is out for it. He has a perfect craft in recording wild natural
emotions. The verse in this first book has occasional faults, but
as a rule the lines move, driven by that inner energy of emotion
which will sometimes work more metrical wonders than the most
conscious art. The words hiss at you sometimes, as in "The Dancer,"
and again will melt away with the delicacy of fairy bells as in
"The Watcher," or will run like deep river water, as in "The
Whisperer," which in some moods I think is the best poem in the
book until I read "Fossils" or "What Tomas an Buile said in a Pub."
They are too long to print, but I must give myself the pleasure
of quoting the beautiful "Slan Leat," with which he concludes the book,
bidding us, not farewell, but to accompany him on further adventure:

And now, dear heart, the night is closing in,
The lamps are not yet ready, and the gloom
Of this sad winter evening, and the din
The wind makes in the streets fills all the room.
You have listened to my stories--Seumas Beg
Has finished the adventures of his youth,
And no more hopes to find a buried keg
Stuffed to the lid with silver. He, in truth,
And all alas! grew up: but he has found
The path to truer romance, and with you
May easily seek wonders. We are bound
Out to the storm of things, and all is new.
Give me your hand, so, keeping close to me,
Shut tight your eyes, step forward ... where are we?