Whatever else Max Eastman may be- editor, critic, philosopher, politician, he is not a good poet. This collection of his verses, grouped in the five decades from 1900 to 1950, will disappoint those who remember his little book, The Enjoyment of Poetry, with pleasure- who knew him as the friend of Edna St. Vincent Millay- and who thought of him as a passionate thinker. During the '20's he was an ardent admirer of Russia, and he later became an equally firm opponent. But all these enthusiasms and criticisms, while they color his poetry, do not improve it; there is little technique, and not much substance beyond a rather pallid romanticism. The little prose apologies inserted between the poems are better written than the poems themselves, and the volume is at best a triste testament to the confused thinking of our times.