My Witness. A Book of Verse

By WILLIAM WINTER. Boston : James R. Osgood & Co.

IN these days, when so many of our poets seem to be so badly bitten by the tarantula of sensationalism that they must needs dance forever in Corybantian measures, rather than sing from the pure inbreathing of the Muse, and when the contortions of the Pythoness are made a substitute for the strength and grace which come from Apollo alone, we welcome every performance in which the natural outweighs the artificial. Attitudinizing is a fault from which some of the best poets of this century are not altogether exempt. All praise to the poets who find new phrases, that are also the fittest phrases ; but none to those who would palm off upon us the affectations and tricks of mere novelty for the sake of being new. Perhaps the sensational school must flourish a good deal longer yet−for the public seem to have a liking for it − before a healthy reaction can take place in the literary world. But the reaction will and must take place sooner or later.

But we must not fall into too ponderous a prelude to our notice of Mr. Winter’s Book of Verse. Mr. Winter has the excellent quality of not overstepping the modesty of nature. He is not afraid of saying a thing simply and naturally. Especially in verse, which reflects so uniformly the writer’s inner moods, the prime requisite is sincerity. The poems are short and unpretentious, and are characterized by a pervading dreaminess and tender melancholy ; graceful, simple in style, and clothed in rhythm for the most part very melodious. They form a subdued, gentle, somewhat monotonous lament over the love, the beauty, and the glory that have passed away, −the burden of a refined, delicate, melancholy temperament, feeling that all that’s bright must fade, and seeing no higher compensation amid life’s mysteries, than final rest and forgetfulness of all. There is not sweep enough of thought or passion, apparently, to drive the poet from this enveloping mood. We accept his volume as the work of one deeply imbued with poetic feeling and fancy, and genuine artist enough to write with care, and express himself simply unaffectedly, and (though there are a few exceptions) with a delicate feeling for the best standards of rhythm.

We are tempted to quote three or four of the poems which strike us most: for example, “ Orgia,” “ Love’s Question,” “ Three Pictures,”and the sweet and pathetic verses on the death of the author’s friend, George Arnold. But we must content ourselves with one, which seems to us, on the whole, the best in the book.

“ AZRAEL.