aspect of the places described. It is an enchanting thing to wander
through a city looking for its _unrelated beauty_, the beauty by which it
captivates the sensuous sense of seeing." [Footnote: Italics mine.]

Nothing could be more gallantly frank than the phrase "unrelated beauty."
For it serves as a touchstone to distinguish between those imagist poems
which leave us satisfied and those which do not. Sometimes, assuredly, the
insulated, unrelated beauty is enough. What delicate reticence there is in
Richard Aldington's "Summer":

"A butterfly,
Black and scarlet,
Spotted with white,
Fans its wings
Over a privet flower.

"A thousand crimson foxgloves,
Tall bloody pikes,
Stand motionless in the gravel quarry;
The wind runs over them.

"A rose film over a pale sky
Fantastically cut by dark chimneys;
Across an old city garden."

The imagination asks no more.

Now read my friend Baker Brownell's "Sunday Afternoon":

"The wind pushes huge bundles