She [Davidman] has not yet arrived at an integration of spirit and sensibility and method; but the compulsive power of her feeling cannot but persuade one to foresee a quiet dignity of achievement, provided that she ignore the demands of popular communication which surely her social and economic interests and her recent extra-book publications impressively put upon her.  Though unordered and prolix in her title poem, though haphazard in her incidental pieces, Miss Davidman is obviously a person of very real ability, of serious dedicated intention, and of unquestionable sensitiveness.  She has yet to realize that intensity of feeling does not own automatic consequence of rhythmic tension, that conviction's exaltation has still the need of verbal equivalence, and that hortatory commands require more than that level of performance on which the topical has only the brief life of journalism.  Her problem is much like that of Muriel Rukeyser.  The danger of vitiating the strength of a native gift by undisciplined verbalism is a potent shadow.  One hopes that Miss Davidman will be able to discover the living portions of the past, to which she can turn as to a refreshing source, that she will not be misled by tentative contemporary experiments, the insights of which are inferior in quality to those of her own intuition.