When I first discovered for myself the Celtic Twilight and read the earlier poems of Yeats and others, all was entirely incomprehensible to me. I groped through a mist of blurred meanings, stumbled through lines in which every accent seemed to be in the wrong place.

In contrast to our sinking taste, there has been a revival of interest in verse drama in England, Scotland, and elsewhere. The movement has been slow but sure and, above all, modest in its demands.

Few realise that English poetry is rather like the British constitution, surrounded by pompous precedents and reverences.

It takes us many years to learn that the passion for justice and the welfare of all, once it has been aroused, is the deepest one in moral life.