Miss Moore is unique, and she never argues. Like peace she is indivisible, and of her verse it can be said that nothing resembles it so much as her prose. Not the least of her accomplishments is that her readers, unprovoked to question her definition of poetry, accept its premises implicitly, without supererogatory judgment or comparisons, because it is their pleasure to do so….

One would like to be able, if only as a reciprocal gesture, to describe Miss Moore's peculiar faculties with the same exactness of detail, founded on the microscopic patience of the eye, with which she delineates the antic physiology of a reindeer, an ostrich, a butterfly, a paper nautilus, or the elaborate pangolin…. (p. 220)

Miss Moore's metrics must be classified sui generis. Few of her poems—the stately title-piece of [What Are Years] is an exception—move on the flood of an internal rhythm...