In Sydney Lea’s poems, purest joy and woe flash amid the mundane, and beauty knows the full range of nature—from the plumed tension of a newborn child twisting away from the ready breast to bright birds lying dead on the winter lawn. Many of these poems are backward looking, savoring the gentle pause at summer’s end, recalling with fledgling hope former victories of spring, seeking in the woeful host of memory something that has held its charge.
