'Comfort's catholicity of perception and image, strangely Whitmanesque in range, almost the exact opposite in aesthetic compulsion, continues to evoke that trembling atmospheric accumulative hinting at a cruel, an inexorably serene timelessness. . . Wrey Gardiner scores by aiming at simple bullseyes with precision. Only they are not so simple. And through this contented sadness runs more than the surface bitter-sweet of resignation.'(—Poetry Quarterly.)