On this small thing, missing girl and child and leafy tree, Mr. de la Mare's eye has rested.
I am tempted to think that Mr. de la Mare is the kind of poet more likely to grow in England than America.
The haunting beauty of Mr. de la Mare's delicate art springs from an ear of superlative tenderness and sophistication.
As for Mr. de la Mare himself, he is a modest man and keeps behind his songs.
