Each nursing twenty rivers at a birth.

I would like to quote the verses entitled "Shame." Never have I
read anywhere such an anguished cowering before Conscience, a mighty
creature full of eyes within and without, and pointing fingers and
asped tongues, anticipating in secret the blazing condemnation of
the world. And there is "Bessie Bobtail," staggering down the
streets with her reiterated, inarticulate expression of grief,
moving like one of those wretched whom Blake described in a
marvelous phrase as "drunken with woe forgotten"; and there is
"Satan," where the reconcilement of light and darkness in the
twilights of time is perfectly and imaginatively expressed.

The Hill of Vision is a very unequal book. There are many verses
full of power, which move with the free easy motion of the literary
athlete. Others betray awkwardness, and stumble as if the writer
had stepped too suddenly into the sunlight of his power, and was
dazed and bewildered. There is some diffusion of his faculties
in what I feel are byways of his mind, but the main current of
his energies will, I am convinced, urge him on to his inevitable
portrayal of humanity. With writers like Synge and Stephens the
Celtic imagination is leaving its Timanoges, its Ildathachs, its
Many Colored Lands and impersonal moods, and is coming down to
earth intent on vigorous life and individual humanity. I can see
that there are great tales to be told and great songs to be sung,
and I watch the doings of the new-comers with sympathy, all the
while feeling I am somewhat remote from their world, for I belong
to an earlier day, and listen to these robust songs somewhat as a
ghost who hears the cock crow, and knows his hours are over, and
he and his tribe must disappear into tradition.