A disparate collection of mild, rather vague poems written under the spell of Keats, though not under his tutelage, except the injunction: disinterestedness. Someone said that art has decayed to the point that Truth is merely what's interesting, and Beauty merely what is pleasant. These poems were meant to be pleasant. Proust said that when he read a novel, he was keenly aware of the Truths strewn throughout the prose. There are no Truths in these poems.