In the Wood. Since Then. Dusk in the Woods. Paths. The Quest. The Garden of Dreams. The Path to Faery. There are Faeries. The Spirit of the Forest Spring. In a Garden. In the Lane. The Window on the Hill. The Picture. Moly. Poppy and Mandragora. A Road Song. Phantoms. Intimations of the Beautiful. October. Friends. Comradery. Bare Boughs. Days and Days. Autumn Sorrow. The Tree-Toad. The Chipmunk. The Wild Iris. Drouth. Rain. At Sunset. The Leaf-Cricket. The Wind of Winter.
The Owlet. Evening on the Farm. The Locust. The Dead Day. The Old Water-Mill. Argonauts. "The Morn that breaks its Heart of Gold". A Voice on the Wind. Requiem. Lynchers. The Parting. Feud. Ku Klux. Eidolons. The Man Hunt. My Romance. A Maid who died Old. Ballad of Low-Lie-Down. Romance. Amadis and Oriana. The Rosicrucian. The Age of Gold. Beauty and Art. The Sea Spirit. Gargaphie. The Dead Oread. The Faun. The Paphian Venus. Oriental Romance. The Mameluke. The Slave. The Portrait.
The Black Knight. In Arcady. Prototypes. March. Dusk. The Winds. Light and Wind. Enchantment. Abandoned. After Long Grief. Mendicants. The End of Summer. November. The Death of Love. Unanswered. The Swashbuckler. Old Sir John. Uncalled.
When a poet begins writing, and we begin liking his work, we own willingly enough that we have not, and cannot have, got the compass of his talent. We must wait till he has written more, and we have learned to like him more, and even then we should hesitate his definition, from all that he has done, if we did not very commonly qualify ourselves from the latest thing he has done. Between the earliest thing and the latest thing there may have been a hundred different things, and in his swan-long life of a singer there would probably be a hundred yet, and all different. But we take the latest as if it summed him up in motive and range and tendency. Many parts of his work offer themselves in confirmation of our judgment, while those which might impeach it shrink away and hide themselves, and leave us to our precipitation, our catastrophe.
It was surely nothing less than by a catastrophe that I should have been so betrayed in the volumes of Mr. Cawein's verse which reached me last before the volume of his collected poems.... I had read his poetry and loved it from the beginning, and in each successive expression of it, I had delighted in its expanding and maturing beauty. I believe I had not failed to own its compass, and when--