I waited until I finished The Venetian Vespers to write about this entire collection. Since the time I first read Hecht (about six months ago) his verse has become the kind of concentrated comfort to which I return in order to experience an elegant repose.
Two things occur when you read a great poet's good collection. First, you marvel at the easy world of sounds, its endless permutations holding up a world more real and ephemeral than a world tirelessly sustained through excellent (but nevertheless on a different plane) prose. Second, you are quite certain that this particular poet has now exhausted the patterns capable of being produced in formal English. Each great poet momentarily kills the future of his language.
And yet, the patterns reappear. Some other ear listens to the sound of the same pebble, but only after the second ripple has drowned the sharper sound of the first dip.