Once a year or so one is permitted to find some book which brings a real tingle to that ribbon of the spinal marrow which responds to the vibrations of literature.  Not a bad way to calendar the years is by the really good books they bring one.  Each twelve month the gnomon on the literary sundial is likely to cast some shadow one will not willingly forget.  Thus I mark 1916 as the year that introduced me to William McFee’s “Casuals of the Sea” and Butler’s “Way of All Flesh”; 1915 most of us remember as Rupert Brooke’s year, or the year of the Spoon River Anthology, if you prefer that kind of thing; 1914 I notch as the season when I first got the hang of Bourget and Conrad.  But perhaps best of all, in 1913 I read “Peacock Pie” and “Songs of Childhood,” by Walter de la Mare.

“Peacock Pie” having now been published in this country it is seasonable to kindle an altar fire for this most fanciful and delightful of present-day poets.  It is curious that his work is so little known over here, for his first book, “Songs of Childhood,” was published in England in 1902.  Besides, poetry he has written novels and essays, all shot through with a phosphorescent sparkle of imagination and charm.  He has the knack of “words set in delightful proportion”; and “Peacock Pie” is the most authentic knapsack of fairy gold since the “Child’s Garden of Verses.”

I am tempted to think that Mr. de la Mare is the kind of poet more likely to grow in England than America.  The gracious and fine-spun fabric of his verse, so delicate in music, so quaint and haunting in imaginative simplicity, is the gift of a land and life where rewards and fames are not wholly passed away.  Emily Dickinson and Vachel Lindsay are among our contributors to the songs of gramarye:  but one has only to open “The Congo” side by side with “Peacock Pie” to see how the seductions of ragtime and the clashing crockery of the Poetry Society’s dinners are coarsening the fibres of Mr. Lindsay’s marvellous talent as compared with the dainty horns of elfin that echo in Mr. de la Mare.  And it is a long Pullman ride from Spoon River to the bee-droned gardens where De la Mare’s old women sit and sew.  Over here we have to wait for Barrie or Yeats or Padraic Colum to tell us about the fairies, and Cecil Sharp to drill us in their dances and songs.  The gentry are not native in our hearts, and we might as well admit it.

To say that Mr. de la Mare’s verse is distilled in fairyland suggests perhaps a delicate and absent-minded figure, at a loss in the hurly burly of this world; the kind of poet who loses his rubbers in the subway, drops his glasses in the trolley car, and is found wandering blithely in Central Park while the Women’s Athenaeum of the Tenderloin is waiting four hundred strong for him to lecture.  But Mr. de la Mare is the more modern figure who might readily (I hope I speak without offense) be mistaken for a New York stock broker, or a member of the Boston Chamber of Commerce.  Perhaps he even belongs to the newer order of poets who do not wear rubbers.