She has new leaves
After her dead flowers,
Like the little almond-tree
Which the frost hurt.
This is sophisticated poetry. How often have I not read that in the
reviews, couched in terms of reproach! Why? Is it to be desired that the
world should not grow? Is it a better art which appeals only to
primitive instincts? The primary needs of satisfying hunger, preserving
life, procreating life, are all very well, but civilized man has further
preoccupations. Mr. Aldington’s is a highly civilized—yes, if you like,
a highly sophisticated, art. A certain mellowness of temper is needed to
thoroughly appreciate it; crude minds do not react to such delicate
stimuli. Admitting that, and admitting it as a feather, not as a rotten
egg, we have in Mr. Aldington a lyrist of unusual achievement and fine
promise.