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Inward Companion and other poems by Walter de la Mare (Faber, 8s. 6d.)  

Walter de la Mare’s many admirers need not fear that time has lowered the standard of his work. Mr. de la Mare is still our greatest living lyrical poet and he shows no sign of relinquishing that position.  

It can perhaps be claimed that his poetry no longer always shows the complete simplicity and pure lyricism that marked his earlier work, and while it is true that he is now in manner slightly more “difficult” than before, such occasional sacrifice of some naivety in phrase is adequately compensated for by a deeper content.  

I must admit that when reading Inward Companion I once or twice found myself wishing I could turn a page and come upon a poem that came nearer to the mood of such immortalities as Nod, Silver, Dreams, and, particularly, Farewell. De la Mare has not looked his last on all things lovely by any means, but his regard sometimes has more of the quasi-comic element, a little of the “shall we share a joke” appeal; in every way forgivable, but not the medium for his greatest feelings. He delights us most when there is no suggested personal relationship with his reader, and when he is concerned more with a mood than with a tale. One does not resent the gentle moralities that creep in—how could we when they are couched so delicately, almost so apologetically, and are so worth saying—but such a poem as A Snowdrop makes one feel that this is more what we have expected and what we will always love.  

And there are others in this collection about which one feels just as happy— The Rose, Occluded, The Tower, Slim Cunning Hands, An Angel, to mention but a few. Not all are recent, and a fair number have been published in periodicals; this explains their diversity of mood and matter.  

In a recent review I regretted the unadulterated adulation of Mr. de la Mare by one of his author admirers, but it is easy to appreciate how impossible it is for true poetry-lovers not to respond with delight to such work, and how understandable that some should lapse into unqualified panegyrics. In an age when so many take advantage of the fashion of obscurity and unmusical jig-jags to set themselves up as poets (and who can accuse the poet of emptiness and lack of euphony when he does not aspire, apparently, to anything more?), it is difficult not to receive such rare witness that the true spirit of poetry is still alive, with rather unbalanced shouts of praise.  

Too few poets are left who can convey their horror of the present world-picture in a vein in which bitterness is replaced by sensitive, infinite regret and understanding, and in words that do not share the harsh, discordant note of everyday life and thought. Such a poet, fortunately for us, we have in Walter de la Mare, and the miracle will not easily be forgotten.