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 dor of sound that belongs to the works of Keats and Swinburne; he makes no direct appeal to the ear of his reader. But after repeated readings of his lyrics the first fantastic grotesqueness of effect wears off, leaving at times a fascinatingly pungent quality that is seen finally to be the inevitable medium for the thought that is expressed. His more prosy lyrics should not be viewed as wilful distortions of set and elaborate measures, but should be read as naturally as is consistent with the preservation of their symmetry. Then, as the syncopations, misplaced quantities and compensations outnumber the consonances, the effect will approach that of free verse and prose-poetry. In its rhythmic freedom, and in its forsaking of sweetness of melody for its own sake, Hardy's mature poetry is perhaps analogous to the work of many modern musicians, who are indulging in unheard-of dissonances, and whose rhythmic complexities have broken away from all metronomic restraints.

There seems to be little doubt that the natural and free forms of Oriental poetry have recently made a tremendous impress upon contemporary poets, whose work has heretofore been of strictly geometric patterns, both simple and complex. The unforced cadences of speech are perhaps winning the fight over the old-fashioned artificiality too easily for the health of the art—but there is no danger if the contest is really between the mechanical, straight-edged architecture of man and the unconscious artistry of nature. However that may be, Hardy's sense of form, developed by his earliest profession and applied throughout a long career of prose-writing, did not forsake him when he turned to composition in verse. He