Some rather prosy poesy, the kind which graces the more peripheral periodicals, deals with conventional feelings in conventional forms. The verse is all faintly fragrant, devotional or elegiac in mood; there are myths, landscapes and interiors (expectedly domestic); dedications to those who have gone, Frost or Rilke; in fact death is a recurrent theme, but then there's love-- ""Your red roses in the jar are too old;/ When they came to my room a week ago, blushing cherubs/""; and finally the external intangibles (good and evil, etc.).... The most that can be said for this kind of sentimental iambic pentameter is that it is within an old-fashioned, fingertip reach of any reader.