For those who enjoy tracing literary relationships there is a very attractive problem in regard to the possible indebtedness of Swinburne's The Garden of Proserpine to Delavigne's Les Limbes. Swinburne's poem has long been a favorite, for its subtle cadences have elusive, indefinable melody, and the picture of the dim beauty of Proserpine's realm is a masterpiece of descriptive art. However one may regard the philosophy of languid surrender to extinction, one cannot fail to recognize Swinburne's power in depicting a pallid world where all things are wan, bloomless, and indeterminate.