Page:The Dial (Volume 68).djvu/906
Here is a specimen of his compact orchestration:
"I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blownsback
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
Here is Eliot himself directing the exquisitely and thoroughly built thing:
"His laughter was submarine and profound
Like the old man of the sea's
Hidden under coral islands
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
Dropping from fingers of surf."
To come to our final like, which it must be admitted is also our largest—we like that no however cautiously attempted dissection of Mr. T. S.'s sensitivity begins to touch a few certain lines whereby become big and blundering and totally unskilful our altogether unnecessary fingers:
"The lamp hummed:
'Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,"
At the risk of being jeered for an "uncritical" remark we mention that this is one of the few huge fragilities before which comment is disgusting.
E. E. Cummings