I thought some more about Hecht, hiking the hills yesterday evening (golden light; a few days of dry weather and everything turns brown--brown I love--here). Besides the over-lushness of his lines, and a tendency to sensationalize subjects better treated more sparely (as in Zbigniew Herbert) in my view, there is a question of tone. He loathes many of his objects, as well as many of his subjects. Disgust is a constant theme, but a disgust burnished like a cherished thing. There are other richly decorative poets--Walcott, for one, Milosz for another--but their tone is never filled with Hecht's kind of (self-)disgust.