Page:A father of women, and other poems, Meynell, 1917.djvu/35

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It is the peculiar characteristic of Mrs. Meynell's poetry that it is itself creative. Its grace and beauty are the flower, not only of her life, but of her contemplation of life. Her very daydreams are lit with the light of day. Her feelings spring from her mind, her thoughts from her heart. There is room in them for a wit that is the weapon of the rarest tenderness. The loveliest poem is lovely for its own sake only. Its own life is all that one need ask of it. But still the question may arise for what sake else it is precious, what of true wisdom, of vision, of the life within? And Mrs. Meynell's books have taken their chosen, quiet, unfaltering way—too lofty a way for ease or weariness or absent-mindedness to follow. She is sure; and now, however the winds of the world may blow, the vane, lit with a westering sun, points always to the East.—Times.

Mrs. Meynell found herself long ago, and was found by all English-speaking lovers of poetry. That her work should undergo transformation was out of the question; but it would not be hers if its recluse and esoteric inspiration had made no response to the appeal of topics that make the staple of England's daily thought. Yet the great national issues are often divined rather than seen as we traverse the subtle avenues of intimate soul-life in which her mystic genius is peculiarly at home. Thus the title-poem, addressed to her sister, Lady Butler, has the air at the outset, of a purely personal commemoration of