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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Modern British Poetry
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Louis Untermeyer
+
+Release Date: October 6, 2008 [EBook #26785]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN BRITISH POETRY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Starner, Suzanne Lybarger and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  +------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Note:                                        |
+  |                                                            |
+  | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in        |
+  | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of   |
+  | this document.                                             |
+  +------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+MODERN BRITISH
+POETRY
+
+EDITED BY
+LOUIS UNTERMEYER
+
+Author of "_Challenge_," "_Including Horace_,"
+"_Modern American Poetry_," etc.
+
+
+NEW YORK
+
+HARCOURT, BRACE & COMPANY
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.
+
+PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
+THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
+RAHWAY, N. J.
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+
+For permission to reprint the material in this volume, the editor
+wishes, first of all, to acknowledge his debt to those poets whose
+co-operation has been of such assistance not only in finally
+determining upon the choice of their poems, but in collecting dates,
+biographical data, etc. Secondly, he wishes to thank the publishers,
+most of whom are holders of the copyrights. The latter indebtedness is
+specifically acknowledged to:
+
+  DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY and A. P. WATT & SON--
+
+     For "The Return" from _The Five Nations_ and for "An
+     Astrologer's Song" from _Rewards and Fairies_ by Rudyard
+     Kipling. Thanks also are due to Mr. Kipling himself for
+     personal permission to reprint these poems.
+
+  DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY and MARTIN SECKER--
+
+     For the poem from _Collected Poems_ by James Elroy Flecker.
+
+  E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY--
+
+     For the poems from _The Old Huntsman_, _Counter-Attack_ and
+     _Picture Show_ by Siegfried Sassoon.
+
+  FOUR SEAS COMPANY--
+
+     For poems from _War and Love_ by Richard Aldington and _The
+     Mountainy Singer_ by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph
+     Campbell).
+
+  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY--
+
+     For poems from _Peacock Pie_ and _The Listeners_ by Walter
+     de la Mare and _Poems_ by Edward Thomas.
+
+  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--
+
+     For two poems from _Poems, 1908-1919_, by John Drinkwater,
+     both of which are used by permission of, and by special
+     arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized
+     publishers.
+
+  B. W. HUEBSCH--
+
+     For the selections from _Chamber Music_ by James Joyce,
+     _Songs to Save a Soul_ and _Before Dawn_ by Irene
+     Rutherford McLeod, _Amores, Look! We Have Come Through!_,
+     and _New Poems_ by D. H. Lawrence.
+
+  ALFRED A. KNOPF--
+
+     For poems from _The Collected Poems of William H. Davies_,
+     _Fairies and Fusiliers_ by Robert Graves, _The Queen of
+     China and Other Poems_ by Edward Shanks, and _Poems: First
+     Series_ by J. C. Squire.
+
+  JOHN LANE COMPANY--
+
+     For the selections from _Poems_ by G. K. Chesterton,
+     _Ballads and Songs_ by John Davidson, _The Collected Poems
+     of Rupert Brooke_, _Admirals All_ by Henry Newbolt, _Herod_
+     and _Lyrics and Dramas_ by Stephen Phillips, _The Hope of
+     the World and Other Poems_ by William Watson, and _In Cap
+     and Bells_ by Owen Seaman.
+
+  THE LONDON MERCURY--
+
+     For "Going and Staying" by Thomas Hardy and "The House That
+     Was" by Laurence Binyon.
+
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY--
+
+     For the selections from _Fires_ and _Borderlands and
+     Thoroughfares_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, _Poems_ by Ralph
+     Hodgson, the sonnet from _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by
+     John Masefield, and the passage (entitled in this volume
+     "Rounding the Horn") from "Dauber" in _The Story of a
+     Round-House_ by John Masefield.
+
+  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--
+
+     For the title poem from _In Flanders Fields_ by John McCrae.
+
+  THE POETRY BOOKSHOP (England)--
+
+     For two excerpts from _Strange Meetings_ by Harold Monro and
+     for the poems from the biennial anthologies, _Georgian
+     Poetry_.
+
+  CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--
+
+     For the quotations from _Poems_ by William Ernest Henley.
+
+  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY--
+
+     For the poem from _Ardours and Endurances_ by Robert
+     Nichols.
+
+  LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., as the representatives of B. H.
+     BLACKWELL, of Oxford--
+
+     For a poem by Edith Sitwell from _The Mother_.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                   PAGE
+
+INTRODUCTORY                                         xi
+
+THOMAS HARDY (1840-    )
+    In Time of "The Breaking of Nations"              3
+    Going and Staying                                 4
+    The Man He Killed                                 4
+
+ROBERT BRIDGES (1844-    )
+    Winter Nightfall                                  5
+    Nightingales                                      7
+
+ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (1844-1881)
+    Ode                                               8
+
+WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (1849-1903)
+    Invictus                                         10
+    The Blackbird                                    10
+    A Bowl of Roses                                  11
+    Before                                           11
+    Margaritæ Sorori                                 12
+
+ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894)
+    Summer Sun                                       13
+    Winter-Time                                      14
+    Romance                                          15
+    Requiem                                          16
+
+ALICE MEYNELL (1850-    )
+    A Thrush Before Dawn                             16
+
+FIONA MACLEOD (_William Sharp_) (1855-1905)
+    The Valley of Silence                            18
+    The Vision                                       19
+
+OSCAR WILDE (1856-1900)
+    Requiescat                                       20
+    Impression du Matin                              21
+
+JOHN DAVIDSON (1857-1909)
+    A Ballad of Hell                                 22
+    Imagination                                      26
+
+WILLIAM WATSON (1858-    )
+    Ode in May                                       28
+    Estrangement                                     30
+    Song                                             31
+
+FRANCIS THOMPSON (1859-1907)
+    Daisy                                            32
+    To Olivia                                        34
+    An Arab Love-Song                                35
+
+A. E. HOUSMAN (1859-    )
+    Reveillé                                         36
+    When I Was One-and-Twenty                        37
+    With Rue My Heart is Laden                       38
+    To An Athlete Dying Young                        38
+    "Loveliest of Trees"                             39
+
+DOUGLAS HYDE (1860-    )
+    I Shall Not Die for Thee                         40
+
+AMY LEVY (1861-1889)
+    Epitaph                                          42
+    In the Mile End Road                             42
+
+KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (1861-    )
+    Sheep and Lambs                                  43
+    All-Souls                                        44
+
+OWEN SEAMAN (1861-    )
+    To An Old Fogey                                  45
+    Thomas of the Light Heart                        47
+
+HENRY NEWBOLT (1862-    )
+    Drake's Drum                                     49
+
+ARTHUR SYMONS (1865-    )
+    In the Wood of Finvara                           50
+    Modern Beauty                                    51
+
+WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-    )
+    The Lake Isle of Innisfree                       53
+    The Song of the Old Mother                       53
+    The Cap and Bells                                54
+    An Old Song Resung                               55
+
+RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-    )
+    Gunga Din                                        57
+    The Return                                       61
+    The Conundrum of the Workshops                   63
+    An Astrologer's Song                             66
+
+RICHARD LE GALLIENNE (1866-    )
+    A Ballad of London                               69
+    Regret                                           70
+
+LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902)
+    Mystic and Cavalier                              71
+    To a Traveller                                   73
+
+ERNEST DOWSON (1867-1900)
+    To One in Bedlam                                 74
+    You Would Have Understood Me                     75
+
+"A. E." (_George William Russell_) (1867-    )
+    The Great Breath                                 76
+    The Unknown God                                  77
+
+STEPHEN PHILLIPS (1868-1915)
+    Fragment from "Herod"                            78
+    Beautiful Lie the Dead                           78
+    A Dream                                          79
+
+LAURENCE BINYON (1869-    )
+    A Song                                           79
+    The House That Was                               80
+
+ALFRED DOUGLAS (1870-    )
+    The Green River                                  81
+
+T. STURGE MOORE (1870-    )
+    The Dying Swan                                   82
+    Silence Sings                                    82
+
+WILLIAM H. DAVIES (1870-    )
+    Days Too Short                                   84
+    The Moon                                         85
+    The Villain                                      85
+    The Example                                      86
+
+HILAIRE BELLOC (1870-    )
+    The South Country                                87
+
+ANTHONY C. DEANE (1870-    )
+    The Ballad of the _Billycock_                    90
+    A Rustic Song                                    92
+
+J. M. SYNGE (1871-1909)
+    Beg-Innish                                       95
+    A Translation from Petrarch                      96
+    To the Oaks of Glencree                          96
+
+NORA HOPPER CHESSON (1871-1906)
+    A Connaught Lament                               97
+
+EVA GORE-BOOTH (1872-    )
+    The Waves of Breffny                             98
+    Walls                                            99
+
+MOIRA O'NEILL
+    A Broken Song                                    99
+    Beauty's a Flower                               100
+
+JOHN MCCRAE (1872-1918)
+    In Flanders Fields                              101
+
+FORD MADOX HUEFFER (1873-    )
+    Clair de Lune                                   102
+    There Shall Be More Joy                         104
+
+WALTER DE LA MARE (1873-    )
+    The Listeners                                   106
+    An Epitaph                                      107
+    Tired Tim                                       108
+    Old Susan                                       108
+    Nod                                             109
+
+G. K. CHESTERTON (1874-    )
+    Lepanto                                         111
+    A Prayer in Darkness                            118
+    The Donkey                                      119
+
+WILFRID WILSON GIBSON (1878-    )
+    Prelude                                         120
+    The Stone                                       121
+    Sight                                           124
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD (1878-    )
+    A Consecration                                  126
+    Sea-Fever                                       127
+    Rounding the Horn                               128
+    The Choice                                      131
+    Sonnet                                          132
+
+LORD DUNSANY (1878-    )
+    Songs from an Evil Wood                         133
+
+EDWARD THOMAS (1878-1917)
+    If I Should Ever By Chance                      136
+    Tall Nettles                                    137
+    Fifty Faggots                                   137
+    Cock-Crow                                       138
+
+SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN (1879-    )
+    Praise                                          139
+
+RALPH HODGSON
+    Eve                                             140
+    Time, You Old Gipsy Man                         142
+    The Birdcatcher                                 144
+    The Mystery                                     144
+
+HAROLD MONRO (1879-    )
+    The Nightingale Near the House                  145
+    Every Thing                                     146
+    Strange Meetings                                149
+
+T. M. KETTLE (1880-1916)
+    To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God           150
+
+ALFRED NOYES (1880-    )
+    Sherwood                                        151
+    The Barrel-Organ                                154
+    Epilogue                                        161
+
+PADRAIC COLUM (1881-    )
+    The Plougher                                    162
+    An Old Woman of the Roads                       164
+
+JOSEPH CAMPBELL (_Seosamh MacCathmhaoil_) (1881-    )
+    I Am the Mountainy Singer                       165
+    The Old Woman                                   166
+
+JAMES STEPHENS (1882-    )
+    The Shell                                       167
+    What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub               168
+    To the Four Courts, Please                      169
+
+JOHN DRINKWATER (1882-    )
+    Reciprocity                                     170
+    A Town Window                                   170
+
+JAMES JOYCE (1882-    )
+    I Hear an Army                                  171
+
+J. C. SQUIRE (1884-    )
+    A House                                         172
+
+LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE (1884-    )
+    From "Vashti"                                   175
+    Song                                            176
+
+JAMES ELROY FLECKER (1884-1915)
+    The Old Ships                                   178
+
+D. H. LAWRENCE (1885-    )
+    People                                          180
+    Piano                                           180
+
+JOHN FREEMAN (1885-    )
+    Stone Trees                                     181
+
+SHANE LESLIE (1886-    )
+    Fleet Street                                    183
+    The Pater of the Cannon                         183
+
+FRANCES CORNFORD (1886-    )
+    Preëxistence                                    184
+
+ANNA WICKHAM
+    The Singer                                      186
+    Reality                                         186
+    Song                                            187
+
+SIEGFRIED SASSOON (1886-    )
+    To Victory                                      189
+    Dreamers                                        190
+    The Rear-Guard                                  190
+    Thrushes                                        191
+    Aftermath                                       192
+
+RUPERT BROOKE (1887-1915)
+    The Great Lover                                 195
+    Dust                                            198
+    The Soldier                                     200
+
+W. M. LETTS (1887-    )
+    Grandeur                                        201
+    The Spires of Oxford                            203
+
+FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
+    Lochanilaun                                     204
+
+F. S. FLINT
+    London                                          205
+
+EDITH SITWELL
+    The Web of Eros                                 206
+    Interlude                                       207
+
+F. W. HARVEY (1888-    )
+    The Bugler                                      208
+
+T. P. CAMERON WILSON (1889-1918)
+    Sportsmen in Paradise                           209
+
+W. J. TURNER (1889-    )
+    Romance                                         210
+
+PATRICK MACGILL (1890)
+    By-the-Way                                      211
+    Death and the Fairies                           212
+
+FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (1891-1917)
+    An Evening in England                           213
+    Evening Clouds                                  214
+
+IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD (1891-    )
+    "Is Love, then, so Simple"                      215
+    Lone Dog                                        215
+
+RICHARD ALDINGTON (1892-    )
+    Prelude                                         216
+    Images                                          217
+    At the British Museum                           218
+
+EDWARD SHANKS (1892-    )
+    Complaint                                       219
+
+OSBERT SITWELL (1892-    )
+    The Blind Pedlar                                220
+    Progress                                        221
+
+ROBERT NICHOLS (1893-    )
+    Nearer                                          222
+
+CHARLES H. SORLEY (1895-1915)
+    Two Sonnets                                     223
+    To Germany                                      225
+
+ROBERT GRAVES (1895-    )
+    It's a Queer Time                               226
+    A Pinch of Salt                                 227
+    I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?      228
+    The Last Post                                   229
+
+INDEX OF AUTHORS AND POEMS                          231
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTORY
+
+_The New Influences and Tendencies_
+
+
+Mere statistics are untrustworthy; dates are even less dependable.
+But, to avoid hairsplitting, what we call "modern" English literature
+may be said to date from about 1885. A few writers who are decidedly
+"of the period" are, as a matter of strict chronology, somewhat
+earlier. But the chief tendencies may be divided into seven periods.
+They are (1) The decay of Victorianism and the growth of a purely
+decorative art, (2) The rise and decline of the Æsthetic Philosophy,
+(3) The muscular influence of Henley, (4) The Celtic revival in
+Ireland, (5) Rudyard Kipling and the ascendency of mechanism in art,
+(6) John Masefield and the return of the rhymed narrative, (7) The war
+and the appearance of "The Georgians." It may be interesting to trace
+these developments in somewhat greater detail.
+
+
+THE END OF VICTORIANISM
+
+The age commonly called Victorian came to an end about 1885. It was an
+age distinguished by many true idealists and many false ideals. It
+was, in spite of its notable artists, on an entirely different level
+from the epoch which had preceded it. Its poetry was, in the main, not
+universal but parochial; its romanticism was gilt and tinsel; its
+realism was as cheap as its showy glass pendants, red plush, parlor
+chromos and antimacassars. The period was full of a pessimistic
+resignation (the note popularized by Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyám) and a
+kind of cowardice or at least a negation which, refusing to see any
+glamour in the actual world, turned to the Middle Ages, King Arthur,
+the legend of Troy--to the suave surroundings of a dream-world instead
+of the hard contours of actual experience.
+
+At its worst, it was a period of smugness, of placid and pious
+sentimentality--epitomized by the rhymed sermons of Martin Farquhar
+Tupper, whose _Proverbial Philosophy_ was devoured with all its
+cloying and indigestible sweetmeats by thousands. The same tendency is
+apparent, though far less objectionably, in the moralizing lays of
+Lord Thomas Macaulay, in the theatrically emotionalized verses of
+Robert Buchanan, Edwin Arnold and Sir Lewis Morris--even in the lesser
+later work of Alfred Tennyson.
+
+And, without Tupper's emptiness or absurdities, the outworn platitudes
+again find their constant lover in Alfred Austin, Tennyson's successor
+as poet laureate. Austin brought the laureateship, which had been held
+by poets like Ben Jonson, Dryden, Southey and Wordsworth, to an
+incredibly low level; he took the thinning stream of garrulous poetic
+conventionality, reduced it to the merest trickle--and diluted it.
+
+The poets of a generation before this time were fired with such ideas
+as freedom, a deep and burning awe of nature, an insatiable hunger for
+truth in all its forms and manifestations. The characteristic poets of
+the Victorian Era, says Max Plowman, "wrote under the dominance of
+churchliness, of 'sweetness and light,' and a thousand lesser theories
+that have not truth but comfort for their end."
+
+The revolt against this and the tawdriness of the period had already
+begun; the best of Victorianism can be found not in men who were
+typically Victorian, but in pioneers like Browning and writers like
+Swinburne, Rossetti, William Morris, who were completely out of
+sympathy with their time.
+
+But it was Oscar Wilde who led the men of the now famous 'nineties
+toward an æsthetic freedom, to champion a beauty whose existence was
+its "own excuse for being." Wilde's was, in the most outspoken manner,
+the first use of æstheticism as a slogan; the battle-cry of the group
+was actually the now outworn but then revolutionary "Art for Art's
+sake"! And, so sick were people of the shoddy ornaments and drab
+ugliness of the immediate past, that the slogan won. At least,
+temporarily.
+
+
+THE RISE AND DECLINE OF THE ÆSTHETIC PHILOSOPHY
+
+_The Yellow Book_, the organ of a group of young writers and artists,
+appeared (1894-97), representing a reasoned and intellectual reaction,
+mainly suggested and influenced by the French. The group of
+contributors was a peculiarly mixed one with only one thing in common.
+And that was a conscious effort to repudiate the sugary airs and prim
+romantics of the Victorian Era.
+
+Almost the first act of the "new" men was to rouse and outrage their
+immediate predecessors. This end-of-the-century desire to shock,
+which was so strong and natural an impulse, still has a place of its
+own--especially as an antidote, a harsh corrective. Mid-Victorian
+propriety and self-satisfaction crumbled under the swift and energetic
+audacities of the sensational younger authors and artists; the old
+walls fell; the public, once so apathetic to _belles lettres_, was
+more than attentive to every phase of literary experimentation. The
+last decade of the nineteenth century was so tolerant of novelty in
+art and ideas, that it would seem, says Holbrook Jackson in his
+penetrative summary, _The Eighteen-Nineties_, "as though the declining
+century wished to make amends for several decades of artistic
+monotony. It may indeed be something more than a coincidence that
+placed this decade at the close of a century, and _fin de siècle_ may
+have been at once a swan song and a death-bed repentance."
+
+But later on, the movement (if such it may be called), surfeited with
+its own excesses, fell into the mere poses of revolt; it degenerated
+into a half-hearted defense of artificialities.
+
+It scarcely needed W. S. Gilbert (in _Patience_) or Robert Hichens (in
+_The Green Carnation_) to satirize its distorted attitudinizing. It
+strained itself to death; it became its own burlesque of the bizarre,
+an extravaganza of extravagance. "The period" (I am again quoting
+Holbrook Jackson) "was as certainly a period of decadence as it was a
+period of renaissance. The decadence was to be seen in a perverse and
+finicking glorification of the fine arts and mere artistic virtuosity
+on the one hand, and a militant commercial movement on the other....
+The eroticism which became so prevalent in the verse of many of the
+younger poets was minor because it was little more than a pose--not
+because it was erotic.... It was a passing mood which gave the poetry
+of the hour a hothouse fragrance; a perfume faint yet unmistakable and
+strange."
+
+But most of the elegant and disillusioned young men overshot their
+mark. Mere health reasserted itself; an inherent repressed vitality
+sought new channels. Arthur Symons deserted his hectic Muse, Richard
+Le Gallienne abandoned his preciosity, and the group began to
+disintegrate. The æsthetic philosophy was wearing thin; it had already
+begun to fray and reveal its essential shabbiness. Wilde himself
+possessed the three things which he said the English would never
+forgive--youth, power and enthusiasm. But in trying to make an
+exclusive cult of beauty, Wilde had also tried to make it evade
+actuality; he urged that art should not, in any sense, be a part of
+life but an escape from it. "The proper school to learn art in is not
+Life--but Art." And in the same essay ("The Decay of Lying") he wrote,
+"All bad Art comes from returning to Life and Nature, and elevating
+them into ideals." Elsewhere he said, "The first duty in life is to be
+as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has
+discovered."
+
+Such a cynical and decadent philosophy could not go unchallenged. Its
+aristocratic blue-bloodedness was bound to arouse the red blood of
+common reality. This negative attitude received its answer in the work
+of that yea-sayer, W. E. Henley.
+
+
+WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
+
+Henley repudiated this languid æstheticism; he scorned a negative art
+which was out of touch with the world. His was a large and sweeping
+affirmation. He felt that mere existence was glorious; life was
+coarse, difficult, often dangerous and dirty, but splendid at the
+heart. Art, he knew, could not be separated from the dreams and
+hungers of man; it could not flourish only on its own essences or
+technical accomplishments. To live, poetry would have to share the
+fears, angers, hopes and struggles of the prosaic world. And so Henley
+came like a swift salt breeze blowing through a perfumed and
+heavily-screened studio. He sang loudly (sometimes even too loudly) of
+the joy of living and the courage of the "unconquerable soul." He was
+a powerful influence not only as a poet but as a critic and editor. In
+the latter capacity he gathered about him such men as Robert Louis
+Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells, W. B. Yeats, T.
+E. Brown, J. M. Barrie. None of these men were his disciples, but none
+of them came into contact with him without being influenced in some
+way by his sharp and positive personality. A pioneer and something of
+a prophet, he was one of the first to champion the paintings of
+Whistler and to proclaim the genius of the sculptor Rodin.
+
+If at times Henley's verse is imperialistic, over-muscular and
+strident, his noisy moments are redeemed not only by his delicate
+lyrics but by his passionate enthusiasm for nobility in whatever cause
+it was joined. He never disdained the actual world in any of its
+moods--bus-drivers, hospital interiors, scrubwomen, a panting train,
+the squalor of London's alleys, all found a voice in his lines--and
+his later work contains more than a hint of the delight in science and
+machinery which was later to be sounded more fully in the work of
+Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+THE CELTIC REVIVAL AND J. M. SYNGE
+
+In 1889, William Butler Yeats published his _Wanderings of Oisin_; in
+the same year Douglas Hyde, the scholar and folk-lorist, brought out
+his _Book of Gaelic Stories_.
+
+The revival of Gaelic and the renascence of Irish literature may be
+said to date from the publication of those two books. The fundamental
+idea of both men and their followers was the same. It was to create a
+literature which would express the national consciousness of Ireland
+through a purely national art. They began to reflect the strange
+background of dreams, politics, suffering and heroism that is
+immortally Irish. This community of fellowship and aims is to be found
+in the varied but allied work of William Butler Yeats, "A. E." (George
+W. Russell), Moira O'Neill, Lionel Johnson, Katharine Tynan, Padraic
+Colum and others. The first fervor gone, a short period of dullness
+set in. After reanimating the old myths, surcharging the legendary
+heroes with a new significance, it seemed for a while that the
+movement would lose itself in a literary mysticism. But an increasing
+concern with the peasant, the migratory laborer, the tramp, followed;
+an interest that was something of a reaction against the influence of
+Yeats and his mystic otherworldliness. And, in 1904, the Celtic
+Revival reached its height with John Millington Synge, who was not
+only the greatest dramatist of the Irish Theatre, but (to quote such
+contrary critics as George Moore and Harold Williams) "one of the
+greatest dramatists who has written in English." Synge's poetry,
+brusque and all too small in quantity, was a minor occupation with him
+and yet the quality and power of it is unmistakable. Its content is
+never great but the raw vigor in it was to serve as a bold banner--a
+sort of a brilliant Jolly Roger--for the younger men of the following
+period. It was not only this dramatist's brief verses and his
+intensely musical prose but his sharp prefaces that were to exercise
+such an influence.
+
+In the notable introduction to the _Playboy of the Western World_,
+Synge declared, "When I was writing _The Shadow of the Glen_ some
+years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a
+chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that
+let me hear what was being said by the servant girls in the kitchen.
+This matter is, I think, of some importance; for in countries where
+the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and
+living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his
+words--and at the same time to give the reality which is at the root
+of all poetry, in a natural and comprehensive form." This quotation
+explains his idiom, possibly the sharpest-flavored and most vivid in
+modern literature.
+
+As to Synge's poetic power, it is unquestionably greatest in his
+plays. In _The Well of the Saints_, _The Playboy of the Western World_
+and _Riders to the Sea_ there are more poignance, beauty of form and
+richness of language than in any piece of dramatic writing since
+Elizabethan times. Yeats, when he first heard Synge's early one-act
+play, _The Shadow of the Glen_, is said to have exclaimed "Euripides."
+A half year later when Synge read him _Riders to the Sea_, Yeats again
+confined his enthusiasm to a single word:--"Æschylus!" Years have
+shown that Yeats's appreciation was not as exaggerated as many might
+suppose.
+
+But although Synge's poetry was not his major concern, numbering only
+twenty-four original pieces and eighteen translations, it had a
+surprising effect upon his followers. It marked a point of departure,
+a reaction against both the too-polished and over-rhetorical verse of
+his immediate predecessors and the dehumanized mysticism of many of
+his associates. In that memorable preface to his _Poems_ he wrote what
+was a slogan, a manifesto and at the same time a classic _credo_ for
+all that we call the "new" poetry. "I have often thought," it begins,
+"that at the side of poetic diction, which everyone condemns, modern
+verse contains a great deal of poetic material, using 'poetic' in the
+same special sense. The poetry of exaltation will be always the
+highest; but when men lose their poetic feeling for ordinary life and
+cannot write poetry of ordinary things, their exalted poetry is likely
+to lose its strength of exaltation in the way that men cease to build
+beautiful churches when they have lost happiness in building shops....
+Even if we grant that exalted poetry can be kept successfully by
+itself, the strong things of life are needed in poetry also, to show
+that what is exalted or tender is not made by feeble blood."
+
+
+RUDYARD KIPLING
+
+New tendencies are contagious. But they also disclose themselves
+simultaneously in places and people where there has been no point of
+contact. Even before Synge published his proofs of the keen poetry in
+everyday life, Kipling was illuminating, in a totally different
+manner, the wealth of poetic material in things hitherto regarded as
+too commonplace for poetry. Before literary England had quite
+recovered from its surfeit of Victorian priggishness and
+pre-Raphaelite delicacy, Kipling came along with high spirits and a
+great tide of life, sweeping all before him. An obscure Anglo-Indian
+journalist, the publication of his _Barrack-room Ballads_ in 1892
+brought him sudden notice. By 1895 he was internationally famous.
+Brushing over the pallid attempts to revive a pallid past, he rode
+triumphantly on a wave of buoyant and sometimes brutal joy in the
+present. Kipling gloried in the material world; he did more--he
+glorified it. He pierced the coarse exteriors of seemingly prosaic
+things--things like machinery, bridge-building, cockney soldiers,
+slang, steam, the dirty by-products of science (witness "M'Andrews
+Hymn" and "The Bell Buoy")--and uncovered their hidden glamour.
+"Romance is gone," sighed most of his contemporaries,
+
+                "... and all unseen
+    Romance brought up the nine-fifteen."
+
+That sentence (from his poem "The King") contains the key to the
+manner in which the author of _The Five Nations_ helped to rejuvenate
+English verse.
+
+Kipling, with his perception of ordinary people in terms of ordinary
+life, was one of the strongest links between the Wordsworth-Browning
+era and the latest apostles of vigor, beginning with Masefield. There
+are occasional and serious defects in Kipling's work--particularly in
+his more facile poetry; he falls into a journalistic ease that tends
+to turn into jingle; he is fond of a militaristic drum-banging that is
+as blatant as the insularity he condemns. But a burning, if sometimes
+too simple faith, shines through his achievements. His best work
+reveals an intensity that crystallizes into beauty what was originally
+tawdry, that lifts the vulgar and incidental to the place of the
+universal.
+
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+All art is a twofold revivifying--a recreation of subject and a
+reanimating of form. And poetry becomes perennially "new" by returning
+to the old--with a different consciousness, a greater awareness. In
+1911, when art was again searching for novelty, John Masefield created
+something startling and new by going back to 1385 and _The Canterbury
+Pilgrims_. Employing both the Chaucerian model and a form similar to
+the practically forgotten Byronic stanza, Masefield wrote in rapid
+succession, _The Everlasting Mercy_ (1911), _The Widow in the Bye
+Street_ (1912), _Dauber_ (1912), _The Daffodil Fields_ (1913)--four
+astonishing rhymed narratives and four of the most remarkable poems
+of our generation. Expressive of every rugged phase of life, these
+poems, uniting old and new manners, responded to Synge's proclamation
+that "the strong things of life are needed in poetry also ... and it
+may almost be said that before verse can be human again it must be
+brutal."
+
+Masefield brought back to poetry that mixture of beauty and brutality
+which is its most human and enduring quality. He brought back that
+rich and almost vulgar vividness which is the very life-blood of
+Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of Burns, of Villon, of Heine--and of all
+those who were not only great artists but great humanists. As a purely
+descriptive poet, he can take his place with the masters of sea and
+landscape. As an imaginative realist, he showed those who were
+stumbling from one wild eccentricity to another to thrill them, that
+they themselves were wilder, stranger, far more thrilling than
+anything in the world--or out of it. Few things in contemporary poetry
+are as powerful as the regeneration of Saul Kane (in _The Everlasting
+Mercy_) or the story of _Dauber_, the tale of a tragic sea-voyage and
+a dreaming youth who wanted to be a painter. The vigorous description
+of rounding Cape Horn in the latter poem is superbly done, a
+masterpiece in itself. Masefield's later volumes are quieter in tone,
+more measured in technique; there is an almost religious ring to many
+of his Shakespearian sonnets. But the swinging surge is there, a
+passionate strength that leaps through all his work from _Salt Water
+Ballads_ (1902) to _Reynard the Fox_ (1919).
+
+
+"THE GEORGIANS" AND THE YOUNGER MEN
+
+There is no sharp statistical line of demarcation between Masefield
+and the younger men. Although several of them owe much to him, most of
+the younger poets speak in accents of their own. W. W. Gibson had
+already reinforced the "return to actuality" by turning from his first
+preoccupation with shining knights, faultless queens, ladies in
+distress and all the paraphernalia of hackneyed mediæval romances, to
+write about ferrymen, berry-pickers, stone-cutters, farmers, printers,
+circus-men, carpenters--dramatizing (though sometimes theatricalizing)
+the primitive emotions of uncultured and ordinary people in
+_Livelihood_, _Daily Bread_ and _Fires_. This intensity had been
+asking new questions. It found its answers in the war; repressed
+emotionalism discovered a new outlet. One hears its echoes in the
+younger poets like Siegfried Sassoon, with his poignant and unsparing
+poems of conflict; in Robert Graves, who reflects it in a lighter and
+more fantastic vein; in James Stephens, whose wild ingenuities are
+redolent of the soil. And it finds its corresponding opposite in the
+limpid and unperturbed loveliness of Ralph Hodgson; in the ghostly
+magic and the nursery-rhyme whimsicality of Walter de la Mare; in the
+quiet and delicate lyrics of W. H. Davies. Among the others, the
+brilliant G. K. Chesterton, the facile Alfred Noyes, the romantic
+Rupert Brooke (who owes less to Masefield and his immediate
+predecessors than he does to the passionately intellectual Donne), the
+introspective D. H. Lawrence and the versatile J. C. Squire, are
+perhaps best known to American readers.
+
+All of the poets mentioned in the foregoing paragraph (with the
+exception of Noyes) have formed themselves in a loose group called
+"The Georgians," and an anthology of their best work has appeared
+every two years since 1913. Masefield, Lascelles Abercrombie and John
+Drinkwater are also listed among the Georgian poets. When their first
+collection appeared in March, 1913, Henry Newbolt, a critic as well as
+poet, wrote: "These younger poets have no temptation to be false. They
+are not for making something 'pretty,' something up to the standard of
+professional patterns.... They write as grown men walk, each with his
+own unconscious stride and gesture.... In short, they express
+themselves and seem to steer without an effort between the dangers of
+innovation and reminiscence." The secret of this success, and for that
+matter, the success of the greater portion of English poetry, is not
+an exclusive discovery of the Georgian poets. It is their inheritance,
+derived from those predecessors who, "from Wordsworth and Coleridge
+onward, have worked for the assimilation of verse to the manner and
+accent of natural speech." In its adaptability no less than in its
+vigor, modern English poetry is true to its period--and its past.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+This collection is obviously a companion volume to _Modern American
+Poetry_, which, in its restricted compass, attempted to act as an
+introduction to recent native verse. _Modern British Poetry_ covers
+the same period (from about 1870 to 1920), follows the same
+chronological scheme, but it is more amplified and goes into far
+greater detail than its predecessor.
+
+The two volumes, considered together, furnish interesting contrasts;
+they reveal certain similarities and certain strange differences.
+Broadly speaking, modern American verse is sharp, vigorously
+experimental; full of youth and its occasional--and natural--crudities.
+English verse is smoother, more matured and, molded by centuries of
+literature, richer in associations and surer in artistry. Where the
+American output is often rude, extremely varied and uncoördinated (being
+the expression of partly indigenous, partly naturalized and largely
+unassimilated ideas, emotions, and races), the English product is
+formulated, precise and, in spite of its fluctuations, true to its past.
+It goes back to traditions as old as Chaucer (witness the narratives of
+Masefield and Gibson) or tendencies as classic as Drayton, Herrick and
+Blake--as in the frank lyrics of A. E. Housman, the artless lyricism of
+Ralph Hodgson, the naïf wonder of W. H. Davies. And if English poetry
+may be compared to a broad and luxuriating river (while American poetry
+might be described as a sudden rush of unconnected mountain torrents,
+valley streams and city sluices), it will be inspiring to observe how
+its course has been temporarily deflected in the last forty years; how
+it has swung away from one tendency toward another; and how, for all its
+bends and twists, it has lost neither its strength nor its nobility.
+
+L. U.
+
+New York City.
+January, 1920.
+
+
+
+
+MODERN BRITISH POETRY
+
+
+
+
+_Thomas Hardy_
+
+
+Thomas Hardy was born in 1840, and has for years been famous on both
+sides of the Atlantic as a writer of intense and sombre novels. His
+_Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ and _Jude the Obscure_ are possibly his
+best known, although his _Wessex Tales_ and _Life's Little Ironies_
+are no less imposing.
+
+It was not until he was almost sixty, in 1898 to be precise, that
+Hardy abandoned prose and challenged attention as a poet. _The
+Dynasts_, a drama of the Napoleonic Wars, is in three parts, nineteen
+acts and one hundred and thirty scenes, a massive and most amazing
+contribution to contemporary art. It is the apotheosis of Hardy the
+novelist. Lascelles Abercrombie calls this work, which is partly a
+historical play, partly a visionary drama, "the biggest and most
+consistent exhibition of fatalism in literature." While its powerful
+simplicity and tragic impressiveness overshadow his shorter poems,
+many of his terse lyrics reveal the same vigor and impact of a strong
+personality. His collected poems were published by The Macmillan
+Company in 1919 and reveal another phase of one of the greatest living
+writers of English.
+
+
+IN TIME OF "THE BREAKING OF NATIONS"
+
+    Only a man harrowing clods
+      In a slow silent walk,
+    With an old horse that stumbles and nods
+      Half asleep as they stalk.
+
+    Only thin smoke without flame
+      From the heaps of couch grass:
+    Yet this will go onward the same
+      Though Dynasties pass.
+
+    Yonder a maid and her wight
+      Come whispering by;
+    War's annals will fade into night
+      Ere their story die.
+
+
+GOING AND STAYING
+
+    The moving sun-shapes on the spray,
+    The sparkles where the brook was flowing,
+    Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,--
+    These were the things we wished would stay;
+          But they were going.
+
+    Seasons of blankness as of snow,
+    The silent bleed of a world decaying,
+    The moan of multitudes in woe,--
+    These were the things we wished would go;
+          But they were staying.
+
+
+THE MAN HE KILLED
+
+(_From "The Dynasts"_)
+
+       "Had he and I but met
+        By some old ancient inn,
+    We should have sat us down to wet
+        Right many a nipperkin!
+
+       "But ranged as infantry,
+        And staring face to face,
+    I shot at him as he at me,
+        And killed him in his place.
+
+       "I shot him dead because--
+        Because he was my foe,
+    Just so: my foe of course he was;
+        That's clear enough; although
+
+       "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
+        Off-hand like--just as I--
+    Was out of work--had sold his traps--
+        No other reason why.
+
+       "Yes; quaint and curious war is!
+        You shoot a fellow down
+    You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
+        Or help to half-a-crown."
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Bridges_
+
+
+Robert Bridges was born in 1844 and educated at Eton and Corpus
+Christi College, Oxford. After traveling extensively, he studied
+medicine in London and practiced until 1882. Most of his poems, like
+his occasional plays, are classical in tone as well as treatment. He
+was appointed poet laureate in 1913, following Alfred Austin. His
+command of the secrets of rhythm and a subtle versification give his
+lines a firm delicacy and beauty of pattern.
+
+
+WINTER NIGHTFALL
+
+    The day begins to droop,--
+        Its course is done:
+    But nothing tells the place
+        Of the setting sun.
+
+    The hazy darkness deepens,
+        And up the lane
+    You may hear, but cannot see,
+        The homing wain.
+
+    An engine pants and hums
+        In the farm hard by:
+    Its lowering smoke is lost
+        In the lowering sky.
+
+    The soaking branches drip,
+        And all night through
+    The dropping will not cease
+        In the avenue.
+
+    A tall man there in the house
+        Must keep his chair:
+    He knows he will never again
+        Breathe the spring air:
+
+    His heart is worn with work;
+        He is giddy and sick
+    If he rise to go as far
+        As the nearest rick:
+
+    He thinks of his morn of life,
+        His hale, strong years;
+    And braves as he may the night
+        Of darkness and tears.
+
+
+NIGHTINGALES
+
+    Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
+    And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
+              Ye learn your song:
+    Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
+      Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
+              Bloom the year long!
+
+    Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
+    Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
+              A throe of the heart,
+    Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
+      No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
+              For all our art.
+
+    Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
+    We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
+              As night is withdrawn
+    From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
+      Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
+              Welcome the dawn.
+
+
+
+
+_Arthur O'Shaughnessy_
+
+
+The Irish-English singer, Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy, was born
+in London in 1844. He was connected, for a while, with the British
+Museum, and was transferred later to the Department of Natural
+History. His first literary success, _Epic of Women_ (1870), promised
+a brilliant future for the young poet, a promise strengthened by his
+_Music and Moonlight_ (1874). Always delicate in health, his hopes
+were dashed by periods of illness and an early death in London in
+1881.
+
+The poem here reprinted is not only O'Shaughnessy's best, but is,
+because of its perfect blending of music and message, one of the
+immortal classics of our verse.
+
+
+ODE
+
+    We are the music-makers,
+      And we are the dreamers of dreams,
+    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
+      And sitting by desolate streams;
+    World-losers and world-forsakers,
+      On whom the pale moon gleams:
+    Yet we are the movers and shakers
+      Of the world for ever, it seems.
+
+    With wonderful deathless ditties
+    We build up the world's great cities,
+      And out of a fabulous story
+      We fashion an empire's glory:
+    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
+      Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
+    And three with a new song's measure
+      Can trample an empire down.
+
+    We, in the ages lying
+      In the buried past of the earth,
+    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
+      And Babel itself with our mirth;
+    And o'erthrew them with prophesying
+      To the old of the new world's worth;
+    For each age is a dream that is dying,
+      Or one that is coming to birth.
+
+
+
+
+_William Ernest Henley_
+
+
+William Ernest Henley was born in 1849 and was educated at the Grammar
+School of Gloucester. From childhood he was afflicted with a
+tuberculous disease which finally necessitated the amputation of a
+foot. His _Hospital Verses_, those vivid precursors of current free
+verse, were a record of the time when he was at the infirmary at
+Edinburgh; they are sharp with the sights, sensations, even the actual
+smells of the sickroom. In spite (or, more probably, because) of his
+continued poor health, Henley never ceased to worship strength and
+energy; courage and a triumphant belief in a harsh world shine out of
+the athletic _London Voluntaries_ (1892) and the lightest and most
+musical lyrics in _Hawthorn and Lavender_ (1898).
+
+The bulk of Henley's poetry is not great in volume. He has himself
+explained the small quantity of his work in a Preface to his _Poems_,
+first published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1898. "A principal
+reason," he says, "is that, after spending the better part of my life
+in the pursuit of poetry, I found myself (about 1877) so utterly
+unmarketable that I had to own myself beaten in art, and to indict
+myself to journalism for the next ten years." Later on, he began to
+write again--"old dusty sheaves were dragged to light; the work of
+selection and correction was begun; I burned much; I found that,
+after all, the lyrical instinct had slept--not died."
+
+After a brilliant and varied career (see Preface), devoted mostly to
+journalism, Henley died in 1903.
+
+
+INVICTUS
+
+    Out of the night that covers me,
+      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
+    I thank whatever gods may be
+      For my unconquerable soul.
+
+    In the fell clutch of circumstance
+      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
+    Under the bludgeonings of chance
+      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
+
+    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
+      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
+    And yet the menace of the years
+      Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
+
+    It matters not how strait the gate,
+      How charged with punishments the scroll,
+    I am the master of my fate:
+      I am the captain of my soul.
+
+
+THE BLACKBIRD
+
+    The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
+        The lark's is a clarion call,
+    And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
+        But I love him best of all.
+
+    For his song is all of the joy of life,
+      And we in the mad, spring weather,
+    We two have listened till he sang
+      Our hearts and lips together.
+
+
+A BOWL OF ROSES
+
+    It was a bowl of roses:
+        There in the light they lay,
+    Languishing, glorying, glowing
+        Their life away.
+
+    And the soul of them rose like a presence,
+        Into me crept and grew,
+    And filled me with something--some one--
+        O, was it you?
+
+
+BEFORE
+
+    Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.
+    A little while, and at a leap I storm
+    The thick sweet mystery of chloroform,
+    The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
+    The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
+    No innocent child, to think of as I near
+    The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
+    Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.
+
+    Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick,
+    And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
+    My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
+    Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready
+    But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
+    You carry Cæsar and his fortunes--Steady!
+
+
+MARGARITÆ SORORI
+
+    A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
+    And from the west,
+    Where the sun, his day's work ended,
+    Lingers as in content,
+    There falls on the old, grey city
+    An influence luminous and serene,
+    A shining peace.
+
+    The smoke ascends
+    In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
+    Shine, and are changed. In the valley
+    Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
+    Closing his benediction,
+    Sinks, and the darkening air
+    Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
+    Night with her train of stars
+    And her great gift of sleep.
+
+    So be my passing!
+    My task accomplished and the long day done,
+    My wages taken, and in my heart
+    Some late lark singing,
+    Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
+    The sundown splendid and serene,
+    Death.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Louis Stevenson_
+
+
+Robert Louis Stevenson was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He was at first
+trained to be a lighthouse engineer, following the profession of his
+family. However, he studied law instead; was admitted to the bar in
+1875; and abandoned law for literature a few years later.
+
+Though primarily a novelist, Stevenson has left one immortal book of
+poetry which is equally at home in the nursery and the library: _A
+Child's Garden of Verses_ (first published in 1885) is second only to
+Mother Goose's own collection in its lyrical simplicity and universal
+appeal. _Underwoods_ (1887) and _Ballads_ (1890) comprise his entire
+poetic output. As a genial essayist, he is not unworthy to be ranked
+with Charles Lamb. As a romancer, his fame rests securely on
+_Kidnapped_, the unfinished masterpiece, _Weir of Hermiston_, and that
+eternal classic of youth, _Treasure Island_.
+
+Stevenson died after a long and dogged fight with his illness, in the
+Samoan Islands in 1894.
+
+
+SUMMER SUN
+
+    Great is the sun, and wide he goes
+    Through empty heaven without repose;
+    And in the blue and glowing days
+    More thick than rain he showers his rays.
+
+    Though closer still the blinds we pull
+    To keep the shady parlour cool,
+    Yet he will find a chink or two
+    To slip his golden fingers through.
+
+    The dusty attic, spider-clad,
+    He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
+    And through the broken edge of tiles
+    Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
+
+    Meantime his golden face around
+    He bares to all the garden ground,
+    And sheds a warm and glittering look
+    Among the ivy's inmost nook.
+
+    Above the hills, along the blue,
+    Round the bright air with footing true,
+    To please the child, to paint the rose,
+    The gardener of the World, he goes.
+
+
+WINTER-TIME
+
+    Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
+    A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
+    Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
+    A blood-red orange, sets again.
+
+    Before the stars have left the skies,
+    At morning in the dark I rise;
+    And shivering in my nakedness,
+    By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
+
+    Close by the jolly fire I sit
+    To warm my frozen bones a bit;
+    Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
+    The colder countries round the door.
+
+    When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
+    Me in my comforter and cap;
+    The cold wind burns my face, and blows
+    Its frosty pepper up my nose.
+
+    Black are my steps on silver sod;
+    Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
+    And tree and house, and hill and lake,
+    Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+    I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
+    Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
+    I will make a palace fit for you and me,
+    Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
+
+    I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
+    Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
+    And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
+    In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
+
+    And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
+    The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
+    That only I remember, that only you admire,
+    Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
+
+
+REQUIEM
+
+    Under the wide and starry sky
+      Dig the grave and let me lie:
+    Glad did I live and gladly die,
+      And I laid me down with a will.
+
+    This be the verse you 'grave for me:
+      _Here he lies where he long'd to be;
+    Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
+      And the hunter home from the hill._
+
+
+
+
+_Alice Meynell_
+
+
+Alice Meynell was born in London in 1850. She was educated at home and
+spent a great part of her childhood in Italy. She has written little,
+but that little is on an extremely high plane; her verses are simple,
+pensive and always distinguished. The best of her work is in _Poems_
+(1903).
+
+
+A THRUSH BEFORE DAWN
+
+    A voice peals in this end of night
+      A phrase of notes resembling stars,
+    Single and spiritual notes of light.
+      What call they at my window-bars?
+        The South, the past, the day to be,
+        An ancient infelicity.
+
+    Darkling, deliberate, what sings
+      This wonderful one, alone, at peace?
+    What wilder things than song, what things
+      Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece,
+        Dearer than Italy, untold
+        Delight, and freshness centuries old?
+
+    And first first-loves, a multitude,
+      The exaltation of their pain;
+    Ancestral childhood long renewed;
+      And midnights of invisible rain;
+        And gardens, gardens, night and day,
+        Gardens and childhood all the way.
+
+    What Middle Ages passionate,
+      O passionless voice! What distant bells
+    Lodged in the hills, what palace state
+      Illyrian! For it speaks, it tells,
+        Without desire, without dismay,
+        Some morrow and some yesterday.
+
+    All-natural things! But more--Whence came
+      This yet remoter mystery?
+    How do these starry notes proclaim
+      A graver still divinity?
+        This hope, this sanctity of fear?
+        _O innocent throat! O human ear!_
+
+
+
+
+_Fiona Macleod_
+
+(_William Sharp_)
+
+
+William Sharp was born at Garthland Place, Scotland, in 1855. He wrote
+several volumes of biography and criticism, published a book of plays
+greatly influenced by Maeterlinck (_Vistas_) and was editor of "The
+Canterbury Poets" series.
+
+His feminine _alter ego_, Fiona Macleod, was a far different
+personality. Sharp actually believed himself possessed of another
+spirit; under the spell of this other self, he wrote several volumes
+of Celtic tales, beautiful tragic romances and no little unusual
+poetry. Of the prose stories written by Fiona Macleod, the most
+barbaric and vivid are those collected in _The Sin-Eater and Other
+Tales_; the longer _Pharais, A Romance of the Isles_, is scarcely less
+unique.
+
+In the ten years, 1882-1891, William Sharp published four volumes of
+rather undistinguished verse. In 1896 _From the Hills of Dream_
+appeared over the signature of Fiona Macleod; _The Hour of Beauty_, an
+even more distinctive collection, followed shortly. Both poetry and
+prose were always the result of two sharply differentiated moods
+constantly fluctuating; the emotional mood was that of Fiona Macleod,
+the intellectual and, it must be admitted the more arresting, was that
+of William Sharp.
+
+He died in 1905.
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF SILENCE
+
+    In the secret Valley of Silence
+          No breath doth fall;
+    No wind stirs in the branches;
+          No bird doth call:
+          As on a white wall
+            A breathless lizard is still,
+          So silence lies on the valley
+            Breathlessly still.
+
+    In the dusk-grown heart of the valley
+          An altar rises white:
+    No rapt priest bends in awe
+          Before its silent light:
+          But sometimes a flight
+            Of breathless words of prayer
+          White-wing'd enclose the altar,
+            Eddies of prayer.
+
+
+THE VISION
+
+    In a fair place
+      Of whin and grass,
+      I heard feet pass
+      Where no one was.
+
+    I saw a face
+      Bloom like a flower--
+      Nay, as the rainbow-shower
+      Of a tempestuous hour.
+
+    It was not man, or woman:
+    It was not human:
+      But, beautiful and wild,
+      Terribly undefiled,
+      I knew an unborn child.
+
+
+
+
+_Oscar Wilde_
+
+
+Oscar Wilde was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1856, and even as an
+undergraduate at Oxford he was marked for a brilliant career. When he
+was a trifle over 21 years of age, he won the Newdigate Prize with his
+poem _Ravenna_.
+
+Giving himself almost entirely to prose, he speedily became known as a
+writer of brilliant epigrammatic essays and even more brilliant
+paradoxical plays such as _An Ideal Husband_ and _The Importance of
+Being Earnest_. His aphorisms and flippancies were quoted everywhere;
+his fame as a wit was only surpassed by his notoriety as an æsthete.
+(See Preface.)
+
+Most of his poems in prose (such as _The Happy Prince_, _The Birthday
+of the Infanta_ and _The Fisherman and His Soul_) are more imaginative
+and richly colored than his verse; but in one long poem, _The Ballad
+of Reading Gaol_ (1898), he sounded his deepest, simplest and most
+enduring note. Prison was, in many ways, a regeneration for Wilde. It
+not only produced _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ but made possible his
+most poignant piece of writing, _De Profundis_, only a small part of
+which has been published. _Salomé_, which has made the author's name a
+household word, was originally written in French in 1892 and later
+translated into English by Lord Alfred Douglas, accompanied by the
+famous illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. More recently this heated
+drama, based on the story of Herod and Herodias, was made into an
+opera by Richard Strauss.
+
+Wilde's society plays, flashing and cynical, were the forerunners of
+Bernard Shaw's audacious and far more searching ironies. One sees the
+origin of a whole school of drama in such epigrams as "The history of
+woman is the history of the worst form of tyranny the world has ever
+known: the tyranny of the weak over the strong. It is the only tyranny
+that lasts." Or "There is only one thing in the world worse than being
+talked about, and that is not being talked about."
+
+Wilde died at Paris, November 30, 1900.
+
+
+REQUIESCAT
+
+    Tread lightly, she is near
+        Under the snow,
+    Speak gently, she can hear
+        The daisies grow.
+
+    All her bright golden hair
+        Tarnished with rust,
+    She that was young and fair
+        Fallen to dust.
+
+    Lily-like, white as snow,
+        She hardly knew
+    She was a woman, so
+        Sweetly she grew.
+
+    Coffin-board, heavy stone,
+        Lie on her breast;
+    I vex my heart alone,
+        She is at rest.
+
+    Peace, peace; she cannot hear
+        Lyre or sonnet;
+    All my life's buried here,
+        Heap earth upon it.
+
+
+IMPRESSION DU MATIN
+
+    The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
+      Changed to a harmony in grey;
+      A barge with ochre-coloured hay
+    Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
+
+    The yellow fog came creeping down
+      The bridges, till the houses' walls
+      Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's
+    Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.
+
+    Then suddenly arose the clang
+      Of waking life; the streets were stirred
+      With country waggons; and a bird
+    Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
+
+    But one pale woman all alone,
+      The daylight kissing her wan hair,
+      Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,
+    With lips of flame and heart of stone.
+
+
+
+
+_John Davidson_
+
+
+John Davidson was born at Barrhead, Renfrewshire, in 1857. His
+_Ballads and Songs_ (1895) and _New Ballads_ (1897) attained a sudden
+but too short-lived popularity, and his great promise was quenched by
+an apathetic public and by his own growing disillusion and despair.
+His sombre yet direct poetry never tired of repeating his favorite
+theme: "Man is but the Universe grown conscious."
+
+Davidson died by his own hand in 1909.
+
+
+A BALLAD OF HELL
+
+    'A letter from my love to-day!
+      Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!'
+    She struck a happy tear away,
+      And broke the crimson seal.
+
+    'My love, there is no help on earth,
+      No help in heaven; the dead-man's bell
+    Must toll our wedding; our first hearth
+      Must be the well-paved floor of hell.'
+
+    The colour died from out her face,
+      Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;
+    She cast dread looks about the place,
+      Then clenched her teeth and read right on.
+
+    'I may not pass the prison door;
+      Here must I rot from day to day,
+    Unless I wed whom I abhor,
+      My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
+
+    'At midnight with my dagger keen,
+      I'll take my life; it must be so.
+    Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,
+      For weal and woe.'
+
+    She laughed although her face was wan,
+      She girded on her golden belt,
+    She took her jewelled ivory fan,
+      And at her glowing missal knelt.
+
+    Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said:
+      She broke her fan, her belt untied;
+    With leather girt herself instead,
+      And stuck a dagger at her side.
+
+    She waited, shuddering in her room,
+      Till sleep had fallen on all the house.
+    She never flinched; she faced her doom:
+      They two must sin to keep their vows.
+
+    Then out into the night she went,
+      And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;
+    Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,
+      And caught a happy memory.
+
+    She fell, and lay a minute's space;
+      She tore the sward in her distress;
+    The dewy grass refreshed her face;
+      She rose and ran with lifted dress.
+
+    She started like a morn-caught ghost
+      Once when the moon came out and stood
+    To watch; the naked road she crossed,
+      And dived into the murmuring wood.
+
+    The branches snatched her streaming cloak;
+      A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!
+    She hurried to the trysting-oak--
+      Right well she knew the way.
+
+    Without a pause she bared her breast,
+      And drove her dagger home and fell,
+    And lay like one that takes her rest,
+      And died and wakened up in hell.
+
+    She bathed her spirit in the flame,
+      And near the centre took her post;
+    From all sides to her ears there came
+      The dreary anguish of the lost.
+
+    The devil started at her side,
+      Comely, and tall, and black as jet.
+    'I am young Malespina's bride;
+      Has he come hither yet?'
+
+    'My poppet, welcome to your bed.'
+      'Is Malespina here?'
+    'Not he! To-morrow he must wed
+      His cousin Blanche, my dear!'
+
+    'You lie, he died with me to-night.'
+      'Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.'
+    'My dear, I never lie outright.'
+      'We died at midnight, he and I.'
+
+    The devil went. Without a groan
+      She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,
+    Took root in hell's midst all alone,
+      And waited for him there.
+
+    She dared to make herself at home
+      Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.
+    The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,
+      Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
+
+    How long she stayed I cannot tell;
+      But when she felt his perfidy,
+    She marched across the floor of hell;
+      And all the damned stood up to see.
+
+    The devil stopped her at the brink:
+      She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!'
+    'My dear, you have gone mad, I think.'
+      'I was betrayed: I will not stay.'
+
+    Across the weltering deep she ran;
+      A stranger thing was never seen:
+    The damned stood silent to a man;
+      They saw the great gulf set between.
+
+    To her it seemed a meadow fair;
+      And flowers sprang up about her feet
+    She entered heaven; she climbed the stair
+      And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
+
+    Seraphs and saints with one great voice
+      Welcomed that soul that knew not fear.
+    Amazed to find it could rejoice,
+      Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.
+
+
+IMAGINATION
+
+(_From "New Year's Eve"_)
+
+    There is a dish to hold the sea,
+      A brazier to contain the sun,
+    A compass for the galaxy,
+      A voice to wake the dead and done!
+
+    That minister of ministers,
+      Imagination, gathers up
+    The undiscovered Universe,
+      Like jewels in a jasper cup.
+
+    Its flame can mingle north and south;
+      Its accent with the thunder strive;
+    The ruddy sentence of its mouth
+      Can make the ancient dead alive.
+
+    The mart of power, the fount of will,
+      The form and mould of every star,
+    The source and bound of good and ill,
+      The key of all the things that are,
+
+    Imagination, new and strange
+      In every age, can turn the year;
+    Can shift the poles and lightly change
+      The mood of men, the world's career.
+
+
+
+
+_William Watson_
+
+
+William Watson was born at Burley-in-Wharfedale, Yorkshire, August 2,
+1858. He achieved his first wide success through his long and eloquent
+poems on Wordsworth, Shelley, and Tennyson--poems that attempted, and
+sometimes successfully, to combine the manners of these masters. _The
+Hope of the World_ (1897) contains some of his most characteristic
+verse.
+
+It was understood that he would be appointed poet laureate upon the
+death of Alfred Austin. But some of his radical and semi-political
+poems are supposed to have displeased the powers at Court, and the
+honor went to Robert Bridges. His best work, which is notable for its
+dignity and moulded imagination, may be found in _Selected Poems_,
+published in 1903 by John Lane Co.
+
+
+ODE IN MAY[1]
+
+    Let me go forth, and share
+    The overflowing Sun
+    With one wise friend, or one
+    Better than wise, being fair,
+    Where the pewit wheels and dips
+    On heights of bracken and ling,
+    And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
+    Tingles with the Spring.
+
+    What is so sweet and dear
+    As a prosperous morn in May,
+    The confident prime of the day,
+    And the dauntless youth of the year,
+    When nothing that asks for bliss,
+    Asking aright, is denied,
+    And half of the world a bridegroom is,
+    And half of the world a bride?
+
+    The Song of Mingling flows,
+    Grave, ceremonial, pure,
+    As once, from lips that endure,
+    The cosmic descant rose,
+    When the temporal lord of life,
+    Going his golden way,
+    Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
+    That long had said him nay.
+
+    For of old the Sun, our sire,
+    Came wooing the mother of men,
+    Earth, that was virginal then,
+    Vestal fire to his fire.
+    Silent her bosom and coy,
+    But the strong god sued and pressed;
+    And born of their starry nuptial joy
+    Are all that drink of her breast.
+
+    And the triumph of him that begot,
+    And the travail of her that bore,
+    Behold, they are evermore
+    As warp and weft in our lot.
+    We are children of splendour and flame,
+    Of shuddering, also, and tears.
+    Magnificent out of the dust we came,
+    And abject from the Spheres.
+
+    O bright irresistible lord,
+    We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,
+    And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
+    Whence first was the seed outpoured.
+    To thee as our Father we bow,
+    Forbidden thy Father to see,
+    Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
+    Art greater and older than we.
+
+    Thou art but as a word of his speech,
+    Thou art but as a wave of his hand;
+    Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
+    'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
+    Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
+    Or a moment's mood of his soul:
+    Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir
+    That chant the chant of the Whole.
+
+
+ESTRANGEMENT[2]
+
+    So, without overt breach, we fall apart,
+    Tacitly sunder--neither you nor I
+    Conscious of one intelligible Why,
+    And both, from severance, winning equal smart.
+    So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,
+    Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,
+    I seem to see an alien shade pass by,
+    A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.
+
+    Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,
+    From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn
+    That June on her triumphal progress goes
+    Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him
+    She is a legend emptied of concern,
+    And idle is the rumour of the rose.
+
+
+SONG
+
+    April, April,
+    Laugh thy girlish laughter;
+    Then, the moment after,
+    Weep thy girlish tears,
+    April, that mine ears
+    Like a lover greetest,
+    If I tell thee, sweetest,
+    All my hopes and fears.
+    April, April,
+    Laugh thy golden laughter,
+    But, the moment after,
+    Weep thy golden tears!
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] From _The Hope of the World_ by William Watson. Copyright, 1897,
+by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+[2] From _The Hope of the World_ by William Watson. Copyright, 1897,
+by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Thompson_
+
+
+Born in 1859 at Preston, Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's
+College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of
+earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop,
+medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond;
+there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of
+London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up
+everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to
+which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately
+thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its
+purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore,
+the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem,
+which is unfortunately too long to quote, "It is one of the very few
+_great_ odes of which our language can boast."
+
+Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood
+in November, 1907.
+
+
+DAISY
+
+    Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
+        Six foot out of the turf,
+    And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
+        O breath of the distant surf!--
+
+    The hills look over on the South,
+        And southward dreams the sea;
+    And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
+        Came innocence and she.
+
+    Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
+        Red for the gatherer springs;
+    Two children did we stray and talk
+        Wise, idle, childish things.
+
+    She listened with big-lipped surprise,
+        Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
+    Her skin was like a grape whose veins
+        Run snow instead of wine.
+
+    She knew not those sweet words she spake,
+        Nor knew her own sweet way;
+    But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
+        Thronged in whose throat all day.
+
+    Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
+        On the turf and on the spray;
+    But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
+        Was the Daisy-flower that day!
+
+    Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
+        She gave me tokens three:--
+    A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
+        And a wild raspberry.
+
+    A berry red, a guileless look,
+        A still word,--strings of sand!
+    And yet they made my wild, wild heart
+        Fly down to her little hand.
+
+    For standing artless as the air,
+        And candid as the skies,
+    She took the berries with her hand,
+        And the love with her sweet eyes.
+
+    The fairest things have fleetest end,
+        Their scent survives their close:
+    But the rose's scent is bitterness
+        To him that loved the rose.
+
+    She looked a little wistfully,
+        Then went her sunshine way:--
+    The sea's eye had a mist on it,
+        And the leaves fell from the day.
+
+    She went her unremembering way,
+        She went and left in me
+    The pang of all the partings gone,
+        And partings yet to be.
+
+    She left me marvelling why my soul
+        Was sad that she was glad;
+    At all the sadness in the sweet,
+        The sweetness in the sad.
+
+    Still, still I seemed to see her, still
+        Look up with soft replies,
+    And take the berries with her hand,
+        And the love with her lovely eyes.
+
+    Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
+        That is not paid with moan,
+    For we are born in other's pain,
+        And perish in our own.
+
+
+TO OLIVIA
+
+    I fear to love thee, Sweet, because
+    Love's the ambassador of loss;
+    White flake of childhood, clinging so
+    To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow
+    At tenderest touch will shrink and go.
+    Love me not, delightful child.
+    My heart, by many snares beguiled,
+    Has grown timorous and wild.
+    It would fear thee not at all,
+    Wert thou not so harmless-small.
+    Because thy arrows, not yet dire,
+    Are still unbarbed with destined fire,
+    I fear thee more than hadst thou stood
+    Full-panoplied in womanhood.
+
+
+AN ARAB LOVE-SONG
+
+    The hunchèd camels of the night[3]
+    Trouble the bright
+    And silver waters of the moon.
+    The Maiden of the Morn will soon
+    Through Heaven stray and sing,
+    Star gathering.
+
+    Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
+    Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
+    And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
+
+    Leave thy father, leave thy mother
+    And thy brother;
+    Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
+    Am I not thy father and thy brother,
+    And thy mother?
+    And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black
+    tents
+    Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[3] (Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)
+
+
+
+
+_A. E. Housman_
+
+
+A. E. Housman was born March 26, 1859, and, after a classical
+education, he was, for ten years, a Higher Division Clerk in H. M.
+Patent Office. Later in life, he became a teacher.
+
+Housman has published only one volume of original verse, but that
+volume (_A Shropshire Lad_) is known wherever modern English poetry is
+read. Originally published in 1896, when Housman was almost 37, it is
+evident that many of these lyrics were written when the poet was much
+younger. Echoing the frank pessimism of Hardy and the harder cynicism
+of Heine, Housman struck a lighter and more buoyant note. Underneath
+his dark ironies, there is a rustic humor that has many subtle
+variations. From a melodic standpoint, _A Shropshire Lad_ is a
+collection of exquisite, haunting and almost perfect songs.
+
+Housman has been a professor of Latin since 1892 and, besides his
+immortal set of lyrics, has edited Juvenal and the books of Manilius.
+
+
+REVEILLÉ
+
+    Wake: the silver dusk returning
+      Up the beach of darkness brims,
+    And the ship of sunrise burning
+      Strands upon the eastern rims.
+
+    Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
+      Trampled to the floor it spanned,
+    And the tent of night in tatters
+      Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
+
+    Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
+      Hear the drums of morning play;
+    Hark, the empty highways crying
+      "Who'll beyond the hills away?"
+
+    Towns and countries woo together,
+      Forelands beacon, belfries call;
+    Never lad that trod on leather
+      Lived to feast his heart with all.
+
+    Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
+      Sunlit pallets never thrive;
+    Morns abed and daylight slumber
+      Were not meant for man alive.
+
+    Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
+      Breath's a ware that will not keep.
+    Up, lad: when the journey's over
+      There'll be time enough to sleep.
+
+
+WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY
+
+    When I was one-and-twenty
+      I heard a wise man say,
+    "Give crowns and pounds and guineas
+      But not your heart away;
+    Give pearls away and rubies
+      But keep your fancy free."
+    But I was one-and-twenty,
+      No use to talk to me.
+
+    When I was one-and-twenty
+      I heard him say again,
+    "The heart out of the bosom
+      Was never given in vain;
+    'Tis paid with sighs a-plenty
+      And sold for endless rue."
+    And I am two-and-twenty,
+      And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
+
+
+WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN
+
+    With rue my heart is laden
+      For golden friends I had,
+    For many a rose-lipt maiden
+      And many a lightfoot lad.
+
+    By brooks too broad for leaping
+      The lightfoot boys are laid;
+    The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
+      In fields where roses fade.
+
+
+TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG
+
+    The time you won your town the race
+    We chaired you through the market-place;
+    Man and boy stood cheering by,
+    And home we brought you shoulder-high.
+
+    To-day, the road all runners come,
+    Shoulder-high we bring you home,
+    And set you at your threshold down,
+    Townsman of a stiller town.
+
+    Smart lad, to slip betimes away
+    From fields where glory does not stay,
+    And early though the laurel grows
+    It withers quicker than the rose.
+
+    Eyes the shady night has shut
+    Cannot see the record cut,
+    And silence sounds no worse than cheers
+    After earth has stopped the ears:
+
+    Now you will not swell the rout
+    Of lads that wore their honours out,
+    Runners whom renown outran
+    And the name died before the man.
+
+    So set, before its echoes fade,
+    The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
+    And hold to the low lintel up
+    The still-defended challenge-cup.
+
+    And round that early-laurelled head
+    Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
+    And find unwithered on its curls
+    The garland briefer than a girl's.
+
+
+"LOVELIEST OF TREES"
+
+    Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
+    Is hung with bloom along the bough,
+    And stands about the woodland ride
+    Wearing white for Eastertide.
+
+    Now, of my threescore years and ten,
+    Twenty will not come again,
+    And take from seventy springs a score,
+    It only leaves me fifty more.
+
+    And since to look at things in bloom
+    Fifty springs are little room,
+    About the woodlands I will go
+    To see the cherry hung with snow.
+
+
+
+
+_Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+Doctor Douglas Hyde was born in Roscommon County, Ireland in, as
+nearly as can be ascertained, 1860. One of the most brilliant Irish
+scholars of his day, he has worked indefatigably for the cause of his
+native letters. He has written a comprehensive history of Irish
+literature; has compiled, edited and translated into English the _Love
+Songs of Connaught_; is President of The Irish National Literary
+Society; and is the author of innumerable poems in Gaelic--far more
+than he ever wrote in English. His collections of Irish folk-lore and
+poetry were among the most notable contributions to the Celtic
+revival; they were (see Preface), to a large extent, responsible for
+it. Since 1909 he has been Professor of Modern Irish in University
+College, Dublin.
+
+The poem which is here quoted is one of his many brilliant and
+reanimating translations. In its music and its peculiar rhyme-scheme,
+it reproduces the peculiar flavor as well as the meter of the West
+Irish original.
+
+
+I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
+
+    For thee, I shall not die,
+      Woman of high fame and name;
+    Foolish men thou mayest slay
+      I and they are not the same.
+
+    Why should I expire
+      For the fire of an eye,
+    Slender waist or swan-like limb,
+      Is't for them that I should die?
+
+    The round breasts, the fresh skin,
+      Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
+    Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
+      Please God, not I, for any such.
+
+    The golden hair, the forehead thin,
+      The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
+    The rounded heel, the languid tone,--
+      Fools alone find death from these.
+
+    Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
+      Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;
+    Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
+      I shall not die for thee.
+
+    Woman, graceful as the swan,
+      A wise man did nurture me.
+    Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
+      I shall not die for ye.
+
+
+
+
+_Amy Levy_
+
+
+Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham, in 1861. A
+fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity with the sorrows of
+her race. She wrote one novel, _Reuben Sachs_, and two volumes of
+poetry--the more distinctive of the two being half-pathetically and
+half-ironically entitled _A Minor Poet_ (1884). After several years of
+brooding introspection, she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of
+28.
+
+
+EPITAPH
+
+(_On a commonplace person who died in bed_)
+
+    This is the end of him, here he lies:
+    The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
+    The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
+    This is the end of him, this is best.
+    He will never lie on his couch awake,
+    Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.
+    Never again will he smile and smile
+    When his heart is breaking all the while.
+    He will never stretch out his hands in vain
+    Groping and groping--never again.
+    Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,
+    Never pretend that the stone is bread;
+    Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true,
+    Weighing and noting the long hours through.
+    Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs;
+    This is the end of him, here he lies.
+
+
+IN THE MILE END ROAD
+
+    How like her! But 'tis she herself,
+        Comes up the crowded street,
+    How little did I think, the morn,
+        My only love to meet!
+
+    Who else that motion and that mien?
+        Whose else that airy tread?
+    For one strange moment I forgot
+        My only love was dead.
+
+
+
+
+_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated at the
+Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married Henry Hinkson, a
+lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is largely actuated by
+religious themes, and much of her verse is devotional and yet
+distinctive. In _New Poems_ (1911) she is at her best; graceful,
+meditative and with occasional notes of deep pathos.
+
+
+SHEEP AND LAMBS
+
+    All in the April morning,
+      April airs were abroad;
+    The sheep with their little lambs
+      Pass'd me by on the road.
+
+    The sheep with their little lambs
+      Pass'd me by on the road;
+    All in an April evening
+      I thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+    The lambs were weary, and crying
+      With a weak human cry;
+    I thought on the Lamb of God
+      Going meekly to die.
+
+    Up in the blue, blue mountains
+      Dewy pastures are sweet:
+    Rest for the little bodies,
+      Rest for the little feet.
+
+    Rest for the Lamb of God
+      Up on the hill-top green;
+    Only a cross of shame
+      Two stark crosses between.
+
+    All in the April evening,
+      April airs were abroad;
+    I saw the sheep with their lambs,
+      And thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+
+ALL-SOULS
+
+    The door of Heaven is on the latch
+      To-night, and many a one is fain
+    To go home for one's night's watch
+      With his love again.
+
+    Oh, where the father and mother sit
+      There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
+    Like pitter-patter of little feet
+      That come no more.
+
+    Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
+      Their tears are heavier than the clay,
+    But who is this at the threshold
+      So young and gay?
+
+    They are come from the land o' the young,
+      They have forgotten how to weep;
+    Words of comfort on the tongue,
+      And a kiss to keep.
+
+    They sit down and they stay awhile,
+      Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
+    At morn they steal forth with a smile
+      And a long look back.
+
+
+
+
+_Owen Seaman_
+
+
+One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was
+born in 1861. After receiving a classical education, he became
+Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906
+he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in
+that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of
+light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a
+generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in
+his _In Cap and Bells_ (1902) and _The Battle of the Bays_ (1892).
+
+
+TO AN OLD FOGEY
+
+(_Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out_)
+
+    O frankly bald and obviously stout!
+      And so you find that Christmas as a fête
+    Dispassionately viewed, is getting out
+                  Of date.
+
+    The studied festal air is overdone;
+      The humour of it grows a little thin;
+    You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun
+                  Comes in.
+
+    Visions of very heavy meals arise
+      That tend to make your organism shiver;
+    Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise
+                  The liver;
+
+    Those pies at which you annually wince,
+      Hearing the tale how happy months will follow
+    Proportioned to the total mass of mince
+                  You swallow.
+
+    Visions of youth whose reverence is scant,
+      Who with the brutal _verve_ of boyhood's prime
+    Insist on being taken to the pant-
+                 -omime.
+
+    Of infants, sitting up extremely late,
+      Who run you on toboggans down the stair;
+    Or make you fetch a rug and simulate
+                  A bear.
+
+    This takes your faultless trousers at the knees,
+      The other hurts them rather more behind;
+    And both effect a fracture in your ease
+                  Of mind.
+
+    My good dyspeptic, this will never do;
+      Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!
+    Yet once I well believe that even you
+                  Were young.
+
+    Time was when you devoured, like other boys,
+      Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen;
+    With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys
+                  Of men.
+
+    Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull
+      The fiery raisin with profound delight;
+    When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful
+                  And right.
+
+    Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago
+      He won the treasure of eternal youth;
+    _Yours_ is the dotage--if you want to know
+                  The truth.
+
+    Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:--
+      Make others' happiness this once your own;
+    All else may pass: that joy can never be
+                  Outgrown!
+
+
+THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART
+
+    Facing the guns, he jokes as well
+      As any Judge upon the Bench;
+    Between the crash of shell and shell
+      His laughter rings along the trench;
+    He seems immensely tickled by a
+    Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria."
+
+    He whistles down the day-long road,
+      And, when the chilly shadows fall
+    And heavier hangs the weary load,
+      Is he down-hearted? Not at all.
+    'Tis then he takes a light and airy
+    View of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]
+
+    His songs are not exactly hymns;
+      He never learned them in the choir;
+    And yet they brace his dragging limbs
+      Although they miss the sacred fire;
+    Although his choice and cherished gems
+    Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."
+
+    He takes to fighting as a game;
+      He does no talking, through his hat,
+    Of holy missions; all the same
+      He has his faith--be sure of that;
+    He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,
+    Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[4] "_It's a long way to Tipperary_," the most popular song of the
+Allied armies during the World's War.
+
+
+
+
+_Henry Newbolt_
+
+
+Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work was frankly
+imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add to the Arthurian
+legends with a drama in blank verse entitled _Mordred_ (1895). It was
+not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he struck his own note. With
+the publication of _Admirals All_ (1897) his fame was widespread. The
+popularity of his lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of
+Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of
+rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.
+
+In 1898 Newbolt published _The Island Race_, which contains about
+thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet,
+Newbolt has written many essays and his critical volume, _A New Study
+of English Poetry_ (1917), is a collection of articles that are both
+analytical and alive.
+
+
+DRAKE'S DRUM
+
+    Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
+    Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+    Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
+        Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,
+    An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'
+        He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
+
+    Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),
+    Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,
+    "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
+        Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
+    If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
+        An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."
+
+    Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),
+    Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+    Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
+        Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
+    Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',
+        They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.
+
+
+
+
+_Arthur Symons_
+
+
+Born in 1865, Arthur Symons' first few publications revealed an
+intellectual rather than an emotional passion. Those volumes were full
+of the artifice of the period, but Symons's technical skill and
+frequent analysis often saved the poems from complete decadence. His
+later books are less imitative; the influence of Verlaine and
+Baudelaire is not so apparent; the sophistication is less cynical, the
+sensuousness more restrained. His various collections of essays and
+stories reflect the same peculiar blend of rich intellectuality and
+perfumed romanticism that one finds in his most characteristic poems.
+
+Of his many volumes in prose, _Spiritual Adventures_ (1905), while
+obviously influenced by Walter Pater, is by far the most original; a
+truly unique volume of psychological short stories. The best of his
+poetry up to 1902 was collected in two volumes, _Poems_, published by
+John Lane Co. _The Fool of the World_ appeared in 1907.
+
+
+IN THE WOOD OF FINVARA
+
+    I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears;
+    Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,
+    A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
+
+    I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire;
+    Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire
+    Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
+
+    I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood;
+    Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,
+    I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.
+
+    Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,
+    I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,
+    And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.
+
+
+MODERN BEAUTY
+
+    I am the torch, she saith, and what to me
+    If the moth die of me? I am the flame
+    Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see
+    Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame,
+    But live with that clear light of perfect fire
+    Which is to men the death of their desire.
+
+    I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen
+    Troy burn, and the most loving knight lie dead.
+    The world has been my mirror, time has been
+    My breath upon the glass; and men have said,
+    Age after age, in rapture and despair,
+    Love's poor few words, before my image there.
+
+    I live, and am immortal; in my eyes
+    The sorrow of the world, and on my lips
+    The joy of life, mingle to make me wise;
+    Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:
+    Who is there still lives for beauty? Still am I
+    The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?
+
+
+
+
+_William Butler Yeats_
+
+
+Born at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1865, the son of John B. Yeats, the
+Irish artist, the greater part of William Butler Yeats' childhood was
+spent in Sligo. Here he became imbued with the power and richness of
+native folk-lore; he drank in the racy quality through the quaint
+fairy stories and old wives' tales of the Irish peasantry. (Later he
+published a collection of these same stories.)
+
+It was in the activities of a "Young Ireland" society that Yeats
+became identified with the new spirit; he dreamed of a national poetry
+that would be written in English and yet would be definitely Irish. In
+a few years he became one of the leaders in the Celtic revival. He
+worked incessantly for the cause, both as propagandist and playwright;
+and, though his mysticism at times seemed the product of a cult rather
+than a Celt, his symbolic dramas were acknowledged to be full of a
+haunting, other-world spirituality. (See Preface.) _The Hour Glass_
+(1904), his second volume of "Plays for an Irish Theatre," includes
+his best one-act dramas with the exception of his unforgettable _The
+Land of Heart's Desire_ (1894). _The Wind Among the Reeds_ (1899)
+contains several of his most beautiful and characteristic poems.
+
+Others who followed Yeats have intensified the Irish drama; they have
+established a closer contact between the peasant and poet. No one,
+however, has had so great a part in the shaping of modern drama in
+Ireland as Yeats. His _Deirdre_ (1907), a beautiful retelling of the
+great Gaelic legend, is far more dramatic than the earlier plays; it
+is particularly interesting to read with Synge's more idiomatic play
+on the same theme, _Deirdre of the Sorrows_.
+
+The poems of Yeats which are quoted here reveal him in his most lyric
+and musical vein.
+
+
+THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
+
+    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
+    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
+    Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
+          And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
+
+    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
+    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
+    There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
+          And evening full of the linnet's wings.
+
+    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
+    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
+    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
+          I hear it in the deep heart's core.
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER
+
+    I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
+    Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow.
+    And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep,
+    Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
+    But the young lie long and dream in their bed
+    Of the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red,
+    And their day goes over in idleness,
+    And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress.
+    While I must work, because I am old
+    And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
+
+
+THE CAP AND BELLS
+
+    A Queen was beloved by a jester,
+      And once when the owls grew still
+    He made his soul go upward
+      And stand on her window sill.
+
+    In a long and straight blue garment,
+      It talked before morn was white,
+    And it had grown wise by thinking
+      Of a footfall hushed and light.
+
+    But the young queen would not listen;
+      She rose in her pale nightgown,
+    She drew in the brightening casement
+      And pushed the brass bolt down.
+
+    He bade his heart go to her,
+      When the bats cried out no more,
+    In a red and quivering garment
+      It sang to her through the door.
+
+    The tongue of it sweet with dreaming
+      Of a flutter of flower-like hair,
+    But she took up her fan from the table
+      And waved it off on the air.
+
+    'I've cap and bells,' he pondered,
+      'I will send them to her and die.'
+    And as soon as the morn had whitened
+      He left them where she went by.
+
+    She laid them upon her bosom,
+      Under a cloud of her hair,
+    And her red lips sang them a love song.
+      The stars grew out of the air.
+
+    She opened her door and her window,
+      And the heart and the soul came through,
+    To her right hand came the red one,
+      To her left hand came the blue.
+
+    They set up a noise like crickets,
+      A chattering wise and sweet,
+    And her hair was a folded flower,
+      And the quiet of love her feet.
+
+
+AN OLD SONG RESUNG
+
+    Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
+    She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
+    She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
+    But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
+
+    In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
+    And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
+    She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
+    But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
+
+
+
+
+_Rudyard Kipling_
+
+
+Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling, the author
+of a dozen contemporary classics, was educated in England. He
+returned, however, to India and took a position on the staff of "The
+Lahore Civil and Military Gazette," writing for the Indian press until
+about 1890, when he went to England, where he has lived ever since,
+with the exception of a short sojourn in America.
+
+Even while he was still in India he achieved a popular as well as a
+literary success with his dramatic and skilful tales, sketches and
+ballads of Anglo-Indian life.
+
+_Soldiers Three_ (1888) was the first of six collections of short
+stories brought out in "Wheeler's Railway Library." They were followed
+by the far more sensitive and searching _Plain Tales from the Hills_,
+_Under the Deodars_ and _The Phantom 'Rikshaw_, which contains two of
+the best and most convincing ghost-stories in recent literature.
+
+These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling's extraordinary
+talents. As a writer of children's stories, he has few living equals.
+_Wee Willie Winkie_, which contains that stirring and heroic fragment
+"Drums of the Fore and Aft," is only a trifle less notable than his
+more obviously juvenile collections. _Just-So Stories_ and the two
+_Jungle Books_ (prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics
+for young people of all ages. _Kim_, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown
+up, is a more mature masterpiece.
+
+Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the most
+vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of romance surges
+under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up the tang of a
+countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray, the rude sentiment of
+ruder natures, the snapping of a banner, the lurch and rumble of the
+sea. His poetry is woven of the stuff of myths; but it never loses its
+hold on actualities. Kipling himself in his poem "The Benefactors"
+(from _The Years Between_ [1919]) writes:
+
+    Ah! What avails the classic bent
+      And what the cultured word,
+    Against the undoctored incident
+      That actually occurred?
+
+Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems
+have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volume _Inclusive
+Edition_ (1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student's library.
+This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war,
+has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At
+his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of
+imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex.
+
+
+GUNGA DIN
+
+    You may talk o' gin an' beer
+    When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
+    An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
+    But if it comes to slaughter
+    You will do your work on water,
+    An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it
+    Now in Injia's sunny clime,
+    Where I used to spend my time
+    A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
+    Of all them black-faced crew
+    The finest man I knew
+    Was our regimental _bhisti_,[5] Gunga Din.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
+        Hi! _slippy hitherao!_
+        Water, get it! _Panee lao!_[6]
+        You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
+
+    The uniform 'e wore
+    Was nothin' much before,
+    An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
+    For a twisty piece o' rag
+    An' a goatskin water-bag
+    Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
+    When the sweatin' troop-train lay
+    In a sidin' through the day,
+    Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
+    We shouted "_Harry By!_"[7]
+    Till our throats were bricky-dry,
+    Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
+        You put some _juldees_[8] in it,
+        Or I'll _marrow_[9] you this minute,
+        If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
+
+    'E would dot an' carry one
+    Till the longest day was done,
+    An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
+    If we charged or broke or cut,
+    You could bet your bloomin' nut,
+    'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
+    With 'is _mussick_[10] on 'is back,
+    'E would skip with our attack,
+    An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
+    An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
+    'E was white, clear white, inside
+    When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!"
+        With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
+        When the cartridges ran out,
+        You could 'ear the front-files shout:
+        "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
+
+    I sha'n't forgit the night
+    When I dropped be'ind the fight
+    With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
+    I was chokin' mad with thirst,
+    An' the man that spied me first
+    Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
+    'E lifted up my 'ead,
+    An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
+    An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water--green;
+    It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
+    But of all the drinks I've drunk,
+    I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
+        'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
+        For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
+
+    'E carried me away
+    To where a _dooli_ lay,
+    An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
+    'E put me safe inside,
+    An' just before 'e died:
+    "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
+    So I'll meet 'im later on
+    In the place where 'e is gone--
+    Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
+    'E'll be squattin' on the coals
+    Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
+    An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
+
+        Din! Din! Din!
+        You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
+        Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
+        By the livin' Gawd that made you,
+        You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
+
+
+THE RETURN[11]
+
+    Peace is declared, and I return
+      To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;
+    Things 'ave transpired which made me learn
+      The size and meanin' of the game.
+    I did no more than others did,
+      I don't know where the change began;
+    I started as a average kid,
+      I finished as a thinkin' man.
+
+    _If England was what England seems
+      An not the England of our dreams,
+    But only putty, brass, an' paint,
+      'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!_ But she ain't!
+
+    Before my gappin' mouth could speak
+      I 'eard it in my comrade's tone;
+    I saw it on my neighbour's cheek
+      Before I felt it flush my own.
+    An' last it come to me--not pride,
+      Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
+    (If such a term may be applied),
+      The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
+
+    Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,
+      Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
+    Mountains that never let you near,
+      An' stars to all eternity;
+    An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills
+      The 'ollows of the wilderness,
+    When the wind worries through the 'ills--
+      These may 'ave taught me more or less.
+
+    Towns without people, ten times took,
+      An' ten times left an' burned at last;
+    An' starvin' dogs that come to look
+      For owners when a column passed;
+    An' quiet, 'omesick talks between
+      Men, met by night, you never knew
+    Until--'is face--by shellfire seen--
+      Once--an' struck off. They taught me, too.
+
+    The day's lay-out--the mornin' sun
+      Beneath your 'at-brim as you sight;
+    The dinner-'ush from noon till one,
+      An' the full roar that lasts till night;
+    An' the pore dead that look so old
+      An' was so young an hour ago,
+    An' legs tied down before they're cold--
+      These are the things which make you know.
+
+    Also Time runnin' into years--
+      A thousand Places left be'ind--
+    An' Men from both two 'emispheres
+      Discussin' things of every kind;
+    So much more near than I 'ad known,
+      So much more great than I 'ad guessed--
+    An' me, like all the rest, alone--
+      But reachin' out to all the rest!
+
+    So 'ath it come to me--not pride,
+      Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
+    (If such a term may be applied),
+      The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
+    But now, discharged, I fall away
+      To do with little things again....
+    Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,
+      Look after me in Thamesfontein!
+
+    _If England was what England seems
+      An' not the England of our dreams,
+    But only putty, brass, an' paint,
+      'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!_ But she ain't!
+
+
+THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
+
+    When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's
+        green and gold,
+    Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with
+        a stick in the mold;
+    And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was
+        joy to his mighty heart,
+    Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty,
+        but is it Art?"
+
+    Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion
+        his work anew--
+    The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most
+        dread review;
+    And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was
+        a glorious gain
+    When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of
+        the branded Cain.
+
+    They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the
+        stars apart,
+    Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking,
+        but is it Art?"
+    The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle
+        derrick swung,
+    While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in
+        an alien tongue.
+
+    They fought and they talked in the north and the south,
+        they talked and they fought in the west,
+    Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor
+        Red Clay had rest--
+    Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove
+        was preened to start,
+    And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but
+        is it Art?"
+
+    The tale is old as the Eden Tree--as new as the new-cut
+        tooth--
+    For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is
+        master of Art and Truth;
+    And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of
+        his dying heart,
+    The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it,
+        but was it Art?"
+
+    We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape
+        of a surplice-peg,
+    We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk
+        of an addled egg,
+    We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse
+        is drawn by the cart;
+    But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever,
+        but is it Art?"
+
+    When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-
+        room's green and gold,
+    The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their
+        pens in the mold--
+    They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves,
+        and the ink and the anguish start
+    When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty,
+        but is it art?"
+
+    Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four
+        great rivers flow,
+    And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it
+        long ago,
+    And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly
+        scurry through,
+    By the favor of God we might know as much--as our
+        father Adam knew.
+
+
+AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG[12]
+
+    To the Heavens above us
+      O look and behold
+    The Planets that love us
+      All harnessed in gold!
+    What chariots, what horses
+      Against us shall bide
+    While the Stars in their courses
+      Do fight on our side?
+
+    All thought, all desires,
+      That are under the sun,
+    Are one with their fires,
+      As we also are one:
+    All matter, all spirit,
+      All fashion, all frame,
+    Receive and inherit
+      Their strength from the same.
+
+    (Oh, man that deniest
+      All power save thine own,
+    Their power in the highest
+      Is mightily shown.
+    Not less in the lowest
+      That power is made clear.
+    Oh, man, if thou knowest,
+      What treasure is here!)
+
+    Earth quakes in her throes
+      And we wonder for why!
+    But the blind planet knows
+      When her ruler is nigh;
+    And, attuned since Creation
+      To perfect accord,
+    She thrills in her station
+      And yearns to her Lord.
+
+    The waters have risen,
+      The springs are unbound--
+    The floods break their prison,
+      And ravin around.
+    No rampart withstands 'em,
+      Their fury will last,
+    Till the Sign that commands 'em
+      Sinks low or swings past.
+
+    Through abysses unproven
+      And gulfs beyond thought,
+    Our portion is woven,
+      Our burden is brought.
+    Yet They that prepare it,
+      Whose Nature we share,
+    Make us who must bear is
+      Well able to bear.
+
+    Though terrors o'ertake us
+      We'll not be afraid.
+    No power can unmake us
+      Save that which has made.
+    Nor yet beyond reason
+      Or hope shall we fall--
+    All things have their season,
+      And Mercy crowns all!
+
+    Then, doubt not, ye fearful--
+      The Eternal is King--
+    Up, heart, and be cheerful,
+      And lustily sing:--
+    _What chariots, what horses
+      Against us shall bide
+    While the Stars in their courses
+      Do fight on our side?_
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[5] The _bhisti_, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is
+often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also
+appreciated by the men.
+
+[6] Bring water swiftly.
+
+[7] Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"
+
+[8] Speed.
+
+[9] Hit you.
+
+[10] Water-skin.
+
+[11] From _The Five Nations_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by
+Doubleday, Page & Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
+
+[12] From _Rewards and Fairies_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by
+Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
+
+
+
+
+_Richard Le Gallienne_
+
+
+Richard Le Gallienne, who, in spite of his long residence in the
+United States, must be considered an English poet, was born at
+Liverpool in 1866. He entered on a business career soon after leaving
+Liverpool College, but gave up commercial life to become a man of
+letters after five or six years.
+
+His early work was strongly influenced by the artificialities of the
+æsthetic movement (see Preface); the indebtedness to Oscar Wilde is
+especially evident. A little later Keats was the dominant influence,
+and _English Poems_ (1892) betray how deep were Le Gallienne's
+admirations. His more recent poems in _The Lonely Dancer_ (1913) show
+a keener individuality and a finer lyrical passion. His prose fancies
+are well known--particularly _The Book Bills of Narcissus_ and the
+charming and high-spirited fantasia, _The Quest of the Golden Girl_.
+
+Le Gallienne came to America about 1905 and has lived ever since in
+Rowayton, Conn., and New York City.
+
+
+A BALLAD OF LONDON
+
+    Ah, London! London! our delight,
+    Great flower that opens but at night,
+    Great City of the midnight sun,
+    Whose day begins when day is done.
+
+    Lamp after lamp against the sky
+    Opens a sudden beaming eye,
+    Leaping alight on either hand,
+    The iron lilies of the Strand.
+
+    Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,
+    With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;
+    The streets are full of lights and loves,
+    Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.
+
+    The human moths about the light
+    Dash and cling close in dazed delight,
+    And burn and laugh, the world and wife,
+    For this is London, this is life!
+
+    Upon thy petals butterflies,
+    But at thy root, some say, there lies,
+    A world of weeping trodden things,
+    Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
+
+    From out corruption of their woe
+    Springs this bright flower that charms us so,
+    Men die and rot deep out of sight
+    To keep this jungle-flower bright.
+
+    Paris and London, World-Flowers twain
+    Wherewith the World-Tree blooms again,
+    Since Time hath gathered Babylon,
+    And withered Rome still withers on.
+
+    Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,
+    How bright they shone upon the tree!
+    But Time hath gathered, both are gone,
+    And no man sails to Babylon.
+
+
+REGRET
+
+    One asked of regret,
+      And I made reply:
+    To have held the bird,
+      And let it fly;
+    To have seen the star
+      For a moment nigh,
+    And lost it
+      Through a slothful eye;
+    To have plucked the flower
+      And cast it by;
+    To have one only hope--
+      To die.
+
+
+
+
+_Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+Born in 1867, Lionel Johnson received a classical education at Oxford,
+and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies in Greek and
+Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with the modern Irish
+poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth; Johnson, having been
+converted to Catholicism in 1891, became imbued with Catholic and,
+later, with Irish traditions. His verse, while sometimes strained and
+over-decorated, is chastely designed, rich and, like that of the
+Cavalier poets of the seventeenth century, mystically devotional.
+_Poems_ (1895) contains his best work. Johnson died in 1902.
+
+
+MYSTIC AND CAVALIER
+
+    Go from me: I am one of those who fall.
+    What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,
+    In my sad company? Before the end,
+              Go from me, dear my friend!
+
+    Yours are the victories of light: your feet
+    Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:
+    But after warfare in a mourning gloom,
+              I rest in clouds of doom.
+
+    Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?
+    Is it the common light of the pure skies,
+    Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:
+              Though the end be not yet.
+
+    When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,
+    And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;
+    When I too joy, a man like other men:
+              Yet, am I like them, then?
+
+    And in the battle, when the horsemen sweep
+    Against a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:
+    Who ever sought that sudden calm, if I
+              Sought not? yet could not die!
+
+    Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:
+    Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?
+    Only the mists, only the weeping clouds,
+              Dimness and airy shrouds.
+
+    Beneath, what angels are at work? What powers
+    Prepare the secret of the fatal hours?
+    See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:
+              When comes the calling word?
+
+    The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,
+    Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.
+    When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,
+              My spirit may have sleep.
+
+    O rich and sounding voices of the air!
+    Interpreters and prophets of despair:
+    Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,
+              To make with you mine home.
+
+
+TO A TRAVELLER
+
+    The mountains, and the lonely death at last
+    Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend!
+    The wandering over, and the labour passed,
+        Thou art indeed at rest:
+        Earth gave thee of her best,
+        That labour and this end.
+
+    Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou:
+    Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways,
+    Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now
+        Upon earth's kindly breast
+        Thou art indeed at rest:
+        Thou, and thine arduous days.
+
+    Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night
+    Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down
+    His glory over thee, O heart of might!
+        Earth gives thee perfect rest:
+        Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:
+        Earth, whom the vast stars crown.
+
+
+
+
+_Ernest Dowson_
+
+
+Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867. His
+great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's "Waring"), who was at one
+time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson, practically an invalid all
+his life, was reckless with himself and, as disease weakened him more
+and more, hid himself in miserable surroundings; for almost two years
+he lived in sordid supper-houses known as "cabmen's shelters." He
+literally drank himself to death.
+
+His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape from a
+reality too big and brutal for him. His passionate lyric, "I have been
+faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion," a triumph of despair and
+disillusion, is an outburst in which Dowson epitomized himself--"One
+of the greatest lyrical poems of our time," writes Arthur Symons, "in
+it he has for once said everything, and he has said it to an
+intoxicating and perhaps immortal music."
+
+Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern minor poets.
+His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted by a strong and
+merciless environment.
+
+
+TO ONE IN BEDLAM
+
+    With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
+    Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
+    Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line
+    His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.
+
+    Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
+    With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
+    Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,
+    And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
+
+    O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
+    Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
+    Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
+    All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
+    Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
+    The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
+
+
+YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD ME
+
+    You would have understood me, had you waited;
+      I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:
+    Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated
+            Always to disagree.
+
+    What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:
+      Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.
+    Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,
+            Shall I reproach you, dead?
+
+    Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
+      All the old anger, setting us apart:
+    Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
+            Always, I held your heart.
+
+    I have met other women who were tender,
+      As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
+    Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender,
+            I who had found you fair?
+
+    Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
+      I had fought death for you, better than he:
+    But from the very first, dear! we were fated
+            Always to disagree.
+
+    Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
+      Love that in life was not to be our part:
+    On your low lying mound between the roses,
+            Sadly I cast my heart.
+
+    I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
+      Death and the darkness give you unto me;
+    Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
+            Hardly can disagree.
+
+
+
+
+"_A. E._"
+
+(_George William Russell_)
+
+
+At Durgan, a tiny town in the north of Ireland, George William Russell
+was born in 1867. He moved to Dublin when he was 10 years old and, as
+a young man, helped to form the group that gave rise to the Irish
+Renascence--the group of which William Butler Yeats, Doctor Douglas
+Hyde, Katharine Tynan and Lady Gregory were brilliant members. Besides
+being a splendid mystical poet, "A. E." is a painter of note, a fiery
+patriot, a distinguished sociologist, a public speaker, a student of
+economics and one of the heads of the Irish Agricultural Association.
+
+The best of his poetry is in _Homeward Songs by the Way_ (1894) and
+_The Earth Breath and Other Poems_. Yeats has spoken of these poems as
+"revealing in all things a kind of scented flame consuming them from
+within."
+
+
+THE GREAT BREATH
+
+    Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
+    Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
+    There where the ether like a diamond glows,
+            Its petals fade away.
+
+    A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
+    Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
+    The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere
+            The breath of Beauty blows.
+
+    I saw how all the trembling ages past,
+    Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
+    Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
+            And knows herself in death.
+
+
+THE UNKNOWN GOD
+
+    Far up the dim twilight fluttered
+      Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
+    The lights danced over the mountains,
+      Star after star they came.
+
+    The lights grew thicker unheeded,
+      For silent and still were we;
+    Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
+      Our eyes could never see.
+
+
+
+
+_Stephen Phillips_
+
+
+Born in 1868, Stephen Phillips is best known as the author of _Herod_
+(1900), _Paola and Francesca_ (1899), and _Ulysses_ (1902); a poetic
+playwright who succeeded in reviving, for a brief interval, the blank
+verse drama on the modern stage. Hailed at first with extravagant and
+almost incredible praise, Phillips lived to see his most popular
+dramas discarded and his new ones, such as _Pietro of Siena_ (1910),
+unproduced and unnoticed.
+
+Phillips failed to "restore" poetic drama because he was, first of
+all, a lyric rather than a dramatic poet. In spite of certain moments
+of rhetorical splendor, his scenes are spectacular instead of
+emotional; his inspiration is too often derived from other models. He
+died in 1915.
+
+
+FRAGMENT FROM "HEROD"
+
+    _Herod speaks_:
+    I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold
+    To be a counter-glory to the Sun.
+    There shall the eagle blindly dash himself,
+    There the first beam shall strike, and there the moon
+    Shall aim all night her argent archery;
+    And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars,
+    The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon;
+    Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell,
+    And flashings upon faces without hope.--
+    And I will think in gold and dream in silver,
+    Imagine in marble and conceive in bronze,
+    Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nations
+    And stammering tribes from undiscovered lands,
+    Allure the living God out of the bliss,
+    And all the streaming seraphim from heaven.
+
+
+BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD
+
+    Beautiful lie the dead;
+      Clear comes each feature;
+    Satisfied not to be,
+      Strangely contented.
+
+    Like ships, the anchor dropped,
+      Furled every sail is;
+    Mirrored with all their masts
+      In a deep water.
+
+
+A DREAM
+
+    My dead love came to me, and said:
+      'God gives me one hour's rest,
+    To spend with thee on earth again:
+      How shall we spend it best?'
+
+    'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
+      We quarrelled, as of old:
+    But, when I turned to make my peace,
+      That one short hour was told.
+
+
+
+
+_Laurence Binyon_
+
+
+Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster, August 10, 1869, a cousin of
+Stephen Phillips; in _Primavera_ (1890) their early poems appeared
+together. Binyon's subsequent volumes showed little distinction until
+he published _London Visions_, which, in an enlarged edition in 1908,
+revealed a gift of characterization and a turn of speech in surprising
+contrast to his previous academic _Lyrical Poems_ (1894). His _Odes_
+(1901) contains his ripest work; two poems in particular, "The
+Threshold" and "The Bacchanal of Alexander," are glowing and unusually
+spontaneous.
+
+Binyon's power has continued to grow; age has given his verse a new
+sharpness. "The House That Was," one of his most recent poems,
+appeared in _The London Mercury_, November, 1919.
+
+
+A SONG
+
+    For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,
+    There is no measure upon earth.
+    Nay, they wither, root and stem,
+    If an end be set to them.
+
+    Overbrim and overflow,
+    If your own heart you would know;
+    For the spirit born to bless
+    Lives but in its own excess.
+
+
+THE HOUSE THAT WAS
+
+    Of the old house, only a few crumbled
+      Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,
+    Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!
+      Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock
+    What once was firelit floor and private charm
+      Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading
+    At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,
+      And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.
+
+    Of the old garden, only a stray shining
+      Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,
+    Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!
+      But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers
+    By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts
+      Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,
+    The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,
+      Older than many a generation of men.
+
+
+
+
+_Alfred Douglas_
+
+
+Lord Alfred Douglas was born in 1870 and educated at Magdalen College,
+Oxford. He was the editor of _The Academy_ from 1907 to 1910 and was
+at one time the intimate friend of Oscar Wilde. One of the minor
+poets of "the eighteen-nineties," several of his poems rise above his
+own affectations and the end-of-the-century decadence. _The City of
+the Soul_ (1899) and _Sonnets_ (1900) contain his most graceful
+writing.
+
+
+THE GREEN RIVER
+
+    I know a green grass path that leaves the field
+        And, like a running river, winds along
+        Into a leafy wood, where is no throng
+    Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield
+    Their music to the moon. The place is sealed,
+        An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,
+        And all the unravished silences belong
+    To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.
+
+    So is my soul become a silent place....
+        Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night
+            To find some voice of music manifold.
+    Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
+        Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delight
+            That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
+
+
+
+
+_T. Sturge Moore_
+
+
+Thomas Sturge Moore was born March 4, 1870. He is well known not only
+as an author, but as a critic and wood-engraver. As an artist, he has
+achieved no little distinction and has designed the covers for the
+poetry of W. B. Yeats and others. As a poet, the greater portion of
+his verse is severely classical in tone, academic in expression but,
+of its kind, distinctive and intimate. Among his many volumes, the
+most outstanding are _The Vinedresser and Other Poems_ (1899), _A
+Sicilian Idyll_ (1911) and _The Sea Is Kind_ (1914).
+
+
+THE DYING SWAN
+
+    O silver-throated Swan
+    Struck, struck! A golden dart
+    Clean through thy breast has gone
+    Home to thy heart.
+    Thrill, thrill, O silver throat!
+    O silver trumpet, pour
+    Love for defiance back
+    On him who smote!
+    And brim, brim o'er
+    With love; and ruby-dye thy track
+    Down thy last living reach
+    Of river, sail the golden light--
+    Enter the sun's heart--even teach
+    O wondrous-gifted Pain, teach Thou
+    The God of love, let him learn how!
+
+
+SILENCE SINGS
+
+    So faint, no ear is sure it hears,
+    So faint and far;
+    So vast that very near appears
+    My voice, both here and in each star
+    Unmeasured leagues do bridge between;
+    Like that which on a face is seen
+    Where secrets are;
+    Sweeping, like veils of lofty balm,
+    Tresses unbound
+    O'er desert sand, o'er ocean calm,
+    I am wherever is not sound;
+    And, goddess of the truthful face,
+    My beauty doth instil its grace
+    That joy abound.
+
+
+
+
+_William H. Davies_
+
+
+According to his own biography, William H. Davies was born in a
+public-house called Church House at Newport, in the County of
+Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents. He was, until Bernard
+Shaw "discovered" him, a cattleman, a berry-picker, a panhandler--in
+short, a vagabond. In a preface to Davies' second book, _The
+Autobiography of a Super-Tramp_ (1906), Shaw describes how the
+manuscript came into his hands:
+
+"In the year 1905 I received by post a volume of poems by one William
+H. Davies, whose address was The Farm House, Kensington, S. E. I was
+surprised to learn that there was still a farmhouse left in
+Kensington; for I did not then suspect that the Farm House, like the
+Shepherdess Walks and Nightingale Lane and Whetstone Parks of Bethnal
+Green and Holborn, is so called nowadays in irony, and is, in fact, a
+doss-house, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's lodging,
+for, at most, sixpence.... The author, as far as I could guess, had
+walked into a printer's or stationer's shop; handed in his manuscript;
+and ordered his book as he might have ordered a pair of boots. It was
+marked 'price, half a crown.' An accompanying letter asked me very
+civilly if I required a half-crown book of verses; and if so, would I
+please send the author the half crown: if not, would I return the
+book. This was attractively simple and sensible. I opened the book,
+and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had read three lines I
+perceived that the author was a real poet. His work was not in the
+least strenuous or modern; there was indeed no sign of his ever having
+read anything otherwise than as a child reads.... Here, I saw, was a
+genuine innocent, writing odds and ends of verse about odds and ends
+of things; living quite out of the world in which such things are
+usually done, and knowing no better (or rather no worse) than to get
+his book made by the appropriate craftsman and hawk it round like any
+other ware."
+
+It is more than likely that Davies' first notoriety as a tramp-poet
+who had ridden the rails in the United States and had had his right
+foot cut off by a train in Canada, obscured his merits as a genuine
+singer. Even his early _The Soul's Destroyer_ (1907) revealed that
+simplicity which is as _naïf_ as it is strange. The volumes that
+followed are more clearly melodious, more like the visionary wonder of
+Blake, more artistically artless.
+
+With the exception of "The Villain," which has not yet appeared in
+book form, the following poems are taken from _The Collected Poems of
+W. H. Davies_ (1916) with the permission of the publisher, Alfred A.
+Knopf.
+
+
+DAYS TOO SHORT
+
+    When primroses are out in Spring,
+      And small, blue violets come between;
+      When merry birds sing on boughs green,
+    And rills, as soon as born, must sing;
+
+    When butterflies will make side-leaps,
+      As though escaped from Nature's hand
+      Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand
+    Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;
+
+    When small clouds are so silvery white
+      Each seems a broken rimmèd moon--
+      When such things are, this world too soon,
+    For me, doth wear the veil of Night.
+
+
+THE MOON
+
+    Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
+      Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
+    Thy beauty makes me like the child
+      That cries aloud to own thy light:
+    The little child that lifts each arm
+    To press thee to her bosom warm.
+
+    Though there are birds that sing this night
+      With thy white beams across their throats,
+    Let my deep silence speak for me
+      More than for them their sweetest notes:
+    Who worships thee till music fails,
+    Is greater than thy nightingales.
+
+
+THE VILLAIN
+
+    While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
+      That beamed where'er they looked;
+    And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
+      Excited, while they sucked;
+    While every bird enjoyed his song,
+    Without one thought of harm or wrong--
+    I turned my head and saw the wind,
+      Not far from where I stood,
+    Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
+      Into a dark and lonely wood.
+
+
+THE EXAMPLE
+
+    Here's an example from
+      A Butterfly;
+    That on a rough, hard rock
+      Happy can lie;
+    Friendless and all alone
+    On this unsweetened stone.
+
+    Now let my bed be hard,
+      No care take I;
+    I'll make my joy like this
+      Small Butterfly;
+    Whose happy heart has power
+    To make a stone a flower.
+
+
+
+
+_Hilaire Belloc_
+
+
+Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman,
+an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat,
+a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After
+leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French
+Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French
+citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and
+in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South
+Salford.
+
+As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written
+three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_,
+sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path
+to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book
+which has passed through many editions. His historical studies and
+biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are
+classics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging.
+His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide
+variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are
+refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt
+liquor or his beloved Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a
+fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and
+persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual
+kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.
+
+
+THE SOUTH COUNTRY
+
+    When I am living in the Midlands
+      That are sodden and unkind,
+    I light my lamp in the evening:
+      My work is left behind;
+    And the great hills of the South Country
+      Come back into my mind.
+
+    The great hills of the South Country
+      They stand along the sea;
+    And it's there walking in the high woods
+      That I could wish to be,
+    And the men that were boys when I was a boy
+      Walking along with me.
+
+    The men that live in North England
+      I saw them for a day:
+    Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
+      Their skies are fast and grey;
+    From their castle-walls a man may see
+      The mountains far away.
+
+    The men that live in West England
+      They see the Severn strong,
+    A-rolling on rough water brown
+      Light aspen leaves along.
+    They have the secret of the Rocks,
+      And the oldest kind of song.
+
+    But the men that live in the South Country
+      Are the kindest and most wise,
+    They get their laughter from the loud surf,
+      And the faith in their happy eyes
+    Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
+      When over the sea she flies;
+    The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
+      She blesses us with surprise.
+
+    I never get between the pines
+      But I smell the Sussex air;
+    Nor I never come on a belt of sand
+      But my home is there.
+    And along the sky the line of the Downs
+      So noble and so bare.
+
+    A lost thing could I never find,
+      Nor a broken thing mend:
+    And I fear I shall be all alone
+      When I get towards the end.
+    Who will there be to comfort me
+      Or who will be my friend?
+
+    I will gather and carefully make my friends
+      Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
+    They watch the stars from silent folds,
+      They stiffly plough the field.
+    By them and the God of the South Country
+      My poor soul shall be healed.
+
+    If I ever become a rich man,
+      Or if ever I grow to be old,
+    I will build a house with deep thatch
+      To shelter me from the cold,
+    And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
+      And the story of Sussex told.
+
+    I will hold my house in the high wood
+      Within a walk of the sea,
+    And the men that were boys when I was a boy
+      Shall sit and drink with me.
+
+
+
+
+_Anthony C. Deane_
+
+
+Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian prizeman in
+1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been Vicar of All Saints,
+Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His long list of light verse and
+essays includes several excellent parodies, the most delightful being
+found in his _New Rhymes for Old_ (1901).
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE _BILLYCOCK_
+
+    It was the good ship _Billycock_, with thirteen men aboard,
+      Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,--
+    A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted
+      To navigate a battleship in prose.
+
+    It was the good ship _Billycock_ put out from Plymouth Sound,
+      While lustily the gallant heroes cheered,
+    And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,
+      Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.
+
+    But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,
+      A dozen ships of France around her lay,
+    (Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty),
+      And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.
+
+    Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy:
+      "Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great,
+    And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice is
+      That you and France had better arbitrate!"
+
+    "Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest,
+      "Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong;
+    Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writer
+      No suitable material for song?"
+
+    "Nay--is the shorthand-writer here?--I tell you, one and all,
+      I mean to do my duty, as I ought;
+    With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action
+      And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.
+
+    And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,
+      Describing all the fight in epic style)
+    When the _Billycock_ was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing
+      (Or twenty, as above) in single file!
+
+    Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,
+      The memory of that historic day,
+    And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion
+      The _Billycock_ in Salamander Bay!
+
+    _P.S._--I've lately noticed that the critics--who, I think,
+      In praising _my_ productions are remiss--
+    Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,
+      By patriotic ditties such as this,
+
+    For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,
+      Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet--
+    Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle,
+      And there you have your masterpiece complete!
+
+    Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse
+      To languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?
+    The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy--
+      I mean to take to writing it myself!
+
+
+A RUSTIC SONG
+
+    Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe
+      O' rustic volk, I be;
+    And writin' gennelmen dü descroibe
+      The doin's o' such as we;
+    I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,
+      I can't tell 'oes from trowels,
+    But 'ear me mix ma consonants,
+      An' moodle oop all ma vowels!
+
+    I talks in a wunnerful dialect
+      That vew can hunderstand,
+    'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,
+      With a dash o' the Oirish brand;
+    Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speech
+      I picks from Cockney spots,
+    And when releegious truths I teach,
+      Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!
+
+    In most of the bukes, 'twas once the case
+      I 'adn't got much to do,
+    I blessed the 'eroine's purty face,
+      An' I seëd the 'ero through;
+    But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!
+      A power o' bukes there be
+    Which from the start to the very last page
+      Entoirely deal with me!
+
+    The wit or the point o' what I spakes
+      Ye've got to find if ye can;
+    A wunnerful difference spellin' makes
+      In the 'ands of a competent man!
+    I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,
+      I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels,
+    But I does ma wark, if ma consonants
+      Be properly mixed with ma vowels!
+
+
+
+
+_J. M. Synge_
+
+
+The most brilliant star of the Celtic revival was born at Rathfarnham,
+near Dublin, in 1871. As a child in Wicklow, he was already fascinated
+by the strange idioms and the rhythmic speech he heard there, a native
+utterance which was his greatest delight and which was to be rich
+material for his greatest work. He did not use this folk-language
+merely as he heard it. He was an artist first and last, and as an
+artist he bent and shaped the rough material, selecting with great
+fastidiousness, so that in his plays every speech is, as he himself
+declared all good speech should be, "as fully flavored as a nut or
+apple." Even in _The Tinker's Wedding_ (1907), possibly the least
+important of his plays, one is arrested by snatches like:
+
+     "That's a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if sleep's
+     a grand thing, it's a grand thing to be waking up a day the
+     like of this, when there's a warm sun in it, and a kind air,
+     and you'll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the
+     top of the hill."
+
+For some time, Synge's career was uncertain. He went to Germany half
+intending to become a professional musician. There he studied the
+theory of music, perfecting himself meanwhile in Gaelic and Hebrew,
+winning prizes in both of these languages. Yeats found him in France
+in 1898 and advised him to go to the Aran Islands, to live there as if
+he were one of the people. "Express a life," said Yeats, "that has
+never found expression." Synge went. He became part of the life of
+Aran, living upon salt fish and eggs, talking Irish for the most part
+but listening also to that beautiful English which, to quote Yeats
+again, "has grown up in Irish-speaking districts and takes its
+vocabulary from the time of Malory and of the translators of the
+Bible, but its idiom and vivid metaphor from Irish." The result of
+this close contact was five of the greatest poetic prose dramas not
+only of his own generation, but of several generations preceding it.
+(See Preface.)
+
+In _Riders to the Sea_ (1903), _The Well of the Saints_ (1905), and
+_The Playboy of the Western World_ (1907) we have a richness of
+imagery, a new language startling in its vigor, a wildness and passion
+that contrast strangely with the suave mysticism and delicate
+spirituality of his associates in the Irish Theatre.
+
+Synge's _Poems and Translations_ (1910), a volume which was not issued
+until after his death, contains not only his few hard and earthy
+verses, but also Synge's theory of poetry. The translations, which
+have been rendered in a highly intensified prose, are as racy as
+anything in his plays; his versions of Villon and Petrarch are
+remarkable for their adherence to the original and still radiate the
+poet's own personality.
+
+Synge died, just as he was beginning to attain fame, at a private
+hospital in Dublin March 24, 1909.
+
+
+BEG-INNISH
+
+    Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude
+    To dance in Beg-Innish,[13]
+    And when the lads (they're in Dunquin)
+    Have sold their crabs and fish,
+    Wave fawny shawls and call them in,
+    And call the little girls who spin,
+    And seven weavers from Dunquin,
+    To dance in Beg-Innish.
+
+    I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean,
+    Where nets are laid to dry,
+    I've silken strings would draw a dance
+    From girls are lame or shy;
+    Four strings I've brought from Spain and France
+    To make your long men skip and prance,
+    Till stars look out to see the dance
+    Where nets are laid to dry.
+
+    We'll have no priest or peeler in
+    To dance in Beg-Innish;
+    But we'll have drink from M'riarty Jim
+    Rowed round while gannets fish,
+    A keg with porter to the brim,
+    That every lad may have his whim,
+    Till we up sails with M'riarty Jim
+    And sail from Beg-Innish.
+
+
+A TRANSLATION FROM PETRARCH
+
+(_He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth_)
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her, and
+is holding that face away from me, where I was finding peace from
+great sadness.
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are after taking her, and
+shutting her in with greediness, the Heavens that do push their bolt
+against so many.
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that have got her sweet
+company, that I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am bearing
+against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me
+with a word.
+
+
+TO THE OAKS OF GLENCREE
+
+    My arms are round you, and I lean
+    Against you, while the lark
+    Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
+    Shadows are on your bark.
+
+    There'll come a season when you'll stretch
+    Black boards to cover me;
+    Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
+    With worms eternally.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[13] (The accent is on the last syllable.)
+
+
+
+
+_Nora Hopper Chesson_
+
+
+Nora Hopper was born in Exeter on January 2, 1871, and married W. H.
+Chesson, a well-known writer, in 1901. Although the Irish element in
+her work is acquired and incidental, there is a distinct if somewhat
+fitful race consciousness in _Ballads in Prose_ (1894) and _Under
+Quickened Boughs_ (1896). She died suddenly April 14, 1906.
+
+
+A CONNAUGHT LAMENT
+
+    I will arise and go hence to the west,
+    And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
+    But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall
+    Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!
+
+    My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!
+    I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:
+    Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow
+    The heart in my breast is, that beats so low.
+
+    Because of the words your lips have spoken,
+    (O dear black head that I must not follow)
+    My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
+    As ice on the water my heart is broken.
+
+    O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,
+    The swallow goes south with you: I go west
+    Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
+    I am the poppy and you the sickle;
+    My heart is broken within my breast.
+
+
+
+
+_Eva Gore-Booth_
+
+
+Eva Gore-Booth, the second daughter of Sir Henry Gore-Booth and the
+sister of Countess Marcievicz, was born in Sligo, Ireland, in 1872.
+She first appeared in "A. E."'s anthology, _New Songs_, in which so
+many of the modern Irish poets first came forward.
+
+Her initial volume, _Poems_ (1898), showed practically no
+distinction--not even the customary "promise." But _The One and the
+Many_ (1904) and _The Sorrowful Princess_ (1907) revealed the gift of
+the Celtic singer who is half mystic, half minstrel. Primarily
+philosophic, her verse often turns to lyrics as haunting as the two
+examples here reprinted.
+
+
+THE WAVES OF BREFFNY
+
+    The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
+      And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,
+    But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me
+      And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
+
+    A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,
+      And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:
+    But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
+      And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
+
+    The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
+      Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;
+    But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
+      And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
+
+
+WALLS
+
+    Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,
+    The sea thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,
+    The lofty rose, the low-grown aconite,
+    The gliding river and the stream that brawls
+    Down the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls--
+    All these are equal in the equal light--
+    All waters mirror the one Infinite.
+
+    God made a garden, it was men built walls;
+    But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;
+    Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,
+    Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,
+    Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake
+    And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,
+    But all things give themselves, yet none may take.
+
+
+
+
+_Moira O'Neill_
+
+
+Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of
+only twenty-five lyrics, _Songs from the Glens of Antrim_ (1900),
+simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best
+of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; melodious without
+falling into the tinkle of most "popular" sentimental verse.
+
+
+A BROKEN SONG
+
+    '_Where am I from?_' From the green hills of Erin.
+    '_Have I no song then?_' My songs are all sung.
+    '_What o' my love?_' 'Tis alone I am farin'.
+    Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.
+
+    '_If she was tall?_' Like a king's own daughter.
+    '_If she was fair?_' Like a mornin' o' May.
+    When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,
+    When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.
+
+    '_Where did she dwell?_' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.
+    '_Who loved her best?_' There's no one now will know.
+    '_Where is she gone?_' Och, why would I be tellin'!
+    Where she is gone there I can never go.
+
+
+BEAUTY'S A FLOWER
+
+           _Youth's for an hour,
+            Beauty's a flower,
+            But love is the jewel that wins the world._
+
+    Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,
+    Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;
+    In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,
+    I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
+
+    Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,
+    There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song;
+    For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,
+    An' Mary--God be good to her!--is all I love in life.
+
+           _Youth's for an hour,
+            Beauty's a flower,
+            But love is the jewel that wins the world._
+
+
+
+
+_John McCrae_
+
+
+John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was
+graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his
+studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining
+the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a
+lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge
+of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during
+the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January,
+1918, his volume _In Flanders Fields_ (1919) appearing posthumously.
+
+Few who read the title poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read
+poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of
+the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms.
+
+
+IN FLANDERS FIELDS
+
+    In Flanders fields the poppies blow
+    Between the crosses, row on row,
+      That mark our place; and in the sky
+      The larks, still bravely singing, fly
+    Scarce heard amid the guns below.
+
+    We are the Dead. Short days ago
+    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
+      Loved and were loved, and now we lie
+            In Flanders fields.
+
+    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
+    To you from failing hands we throw
+      The torch; be yours to hold it high.
+      If ye break faith with us who die
+    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
+            In Flanders fields.
+
+
+
+
+_Ford Madox Hueffer_
+
+
+Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873 and is best known as the author of
+many novels, two of which, _Romance_ and _The Inheritors_, were
+written in collaboration with Joseph Conrad. He has written also
+several critical studies, those on Rossetti and Henry James being the
+most notable. His _On Heaven and Other Poems_ appeared in 1916.
+
+
+CLAIR DE LUNE
+
+    I
+
+    I should like to imagine
+    A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
+
+    For, it is possible
+    To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:
+    To see the black perspective of long avenues
+    All silent.
+    The white strips of sky
+    At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:
+    The white strips of sky
+    Above, diminishing--
+    The silence and blackness of the avenue
+    Enclosed by immensities of space
+    Spreading away
+    Over No Man's Land....
+
+    For a minute ...
+    For ten ...
+    There will be no star shells
+    But the untroubled stars,
+    There will be no _Very_ light
+    But the light of the quiet moon
+    Like a swan.
+    And silence....
+
+    Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams
+    "_Wukka Wukka_" will go the machine-guns,
+    And, far away to the left
+    _Wukka Wukka_.
+    And sharply,
+    _Wuk_ ... _Wuk_ ... and then silence
+    For a space in the clear of the moon.
+
+    II
+
+    I should like to imagine
+    A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble
+    Will be silent....
+
+    Do you remember, my dear,
+    Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,
+    Looking over to Flatholme
+    We sat ... Long ago!...
+    And the things that you told me ...
+    Little things in the clear of the moon,
+    The little, sad things of a life....
+
+    We shall do it again
+    Full surely,
+    Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.
+    Then, far away to the right
+    Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble
+    _Wukka-wukka!_
+    And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,
+    _Wukka-wuk!..._
+
+    I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?
+    As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"
+    In the dark of the moon,
+    Going over....
+
+
+"THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY ..."
+
+    The little angels of Heaven
+    Each wear a long white dress,
+    And in the tall arcadings
+    Play ball and play at chess;
+
+    With never a soil on their garments,
+    Not a sigh the whole day long,
+    Not a bitter note in their pleasure,
+    Not a bitter note in their song.
+
+    But they shall know keener pleasure,
+    And they shall know joy more rare--
+    Keener, keener pleasure
+    When you, my dear, come there.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    The little angels of Heaven
+    Each wear a long white gown,
+    And they lean over the ramparts
+    Waiting and looking down.
+
+
+
+
+_Walter De la Mare_
+
+
+The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary poetry,
+Walter De la Mare, was born in 1873. Although he did not begin to
+bring out his work in book form until he was over 30, he is, as Harold
+Williams has written, "the singer of a young and romantic world, a
+singer even for children, understanding and perceiving as a child." De
+la Mare paints simple scenes of miniature loveliness; he uses
+thin-spun fragments of fairy-like delicacy and achieves a grace that
+is remarkable in its universality. "In a few words, seemingly artless
+and unsought" (to quote Williams again), "he can express a pathos or a
+hope as wide as man's life."
+
+De la Mare is an astonishing joiner of words; in _Peacock Pie_ (1913)
+he surprises us again and again by transforming what began as a
+child's nonsense-rhyme into a suddenly thrilling snatch of music. A
+score of times he takes things as casual as the feeding of chickens or
+the swallowing of physic, berry-picking, eating, hair-cutting--and
+turns them into magic. These poems read like lyrics of William
+Shakespeare rendered by Mother Goose. The trick of revealing the
+ordinary in whimsical colors, of catching the commonplace off its
+guard, is the first of De la Mare's two magics.
+
+This poet's second gift is his sense of the supernatural, of the
+fantastic other-world that lies on the edges of our consciousness.
+_The Listeners_ (1912) is a book that, like all the best of De la
+Mare, is full of half-heard whispers; moonlight and mystery seem
+soaked in the lines, and a cool wind from Nowhere blows over them.
+That most magical of modern verses, "The Listeners," and the brief
+music of "An Epitaph" are two fine examples among many. In the first
+of these poems there is an uncanny splendor. What we have here is the
+effect, the thrill, the overtones of a ghost story rather than the
+narrative itself--the less than half-told adventure of some new Childe
+Roland heroically challenging a heedless universe. Never have silence
+and black night been reproduced more creepily, nor has the symbolism
+of man's courage facing the cryptic riddle of life been more memorably
+expressed.
+
+De la Mare's chief distinction, however, lies not so much in what he
+says as in how he says it; he can even take outworn words like
+"thridding," "athwart," "amaranthine" and make them live again in a
+poetry that is of no time and of all time. He writes, it has been
+said, as much for antiquity as for posterity; he is a poet who is
+distinctively in the world and yet not wholly of it.
+
+
+THE LISTENERS
+
+    'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
+      Knocking on the moonlit door;
+    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
+      Of the forest's ferny floor.
+    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
+      Above the Traveller's head:
+    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
+      'Is there anybody there?' he said.
+    But no one descended to the Traveller;
+      No head from the leaf-fringed sill
+    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
+      Where he stood perplexed and still.
+    But only a host of phantom listeners
+      That dwelt in the lone house then
+    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
+      To that voice from the world of men:
+    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
+      That goes down to the empty hall,
+    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
+      By the lonely Traveller's call.
+    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
+      Their stillness answering his cry,
+    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
+      'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
+    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
+      Louder, and lifted his head:--
+    'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
+      That I kept my word,' he said.
+    Never the least stir made the listeners,
+      Though every word he spake
+    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
+      From the one man left awake:
+    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
+      And the sound of iron on stone,
+    And how the silence surged softly backward,
+      When the plunging hoofs were gone.
+
+
+AN EPITAPH
+
+    Here lies a most beautiful lady,
+    Light of step and heart was she;
+    I think she was the most beautiful lady
+    That ever was in the West Country.
+
+    But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
+    However rare--rare it be;
+    And when I crumble, who will remember
+    This lady of the West Country?
+
+
+TIRED TIM
+
+    Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
+    He lags the long bright morning through,
+    Ever so tired of nothing to do;
+    He moons and mopes the livelong day,
+    Nothing to think about, nothing to say;
+    Up to bed with his candle to creep,
+    Too tired to yawn; too tired to sleep:
+    Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
+
+
+OLD SUSAN
+
+    When Susan's work was done, she'd sit
+    With one fat guttering candle lit,
+    And window opened wide to win
+    The sweet night air to enter in;
+    There, with a thumb to keep her place
+    She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.
+    Her mild eyes gliding very slow
+    Across the letters to and fro,
+    While wagged the guttering candle flame
+    In the wind that through the window came.
+    And sometimes in the silence she
+    Would mumble a sentence audibly,
+    Or shake her head as if to say,
+    'You silly souls, to act this way!'
+    And never a sound from night I'd hear,
+    Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;
+    Or her old shuffling thumb should turn
+    Another page; and rapt and stern,
+    Through her great glasses bent on me
+    She'd glance into reality;
+    And shake her round old silvery head,
+    With--'You!--I thought you was in bed!'--
+    Only to tilt her book again,
+    And rooted in Romance remain.
+
+
+NOD
+
+    Softly along the road of evening,
+        In a twilight dim with rose,
+    Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
+        Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
+
+    His drowsy flock streams on before him,
+        Their fleeces charged with gold,
+    To where the sun's last beam leans low
+        On Nod the shepherd's fold.
+
+    The hedge is quick and green with briar,
+        From their sand the conies creep;
+    And all the birds that fly in heaven
+        Flock singing home to sleep.
+
+    His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
+        Yet, when night's shadows fall,
+    His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
+        Misses not one of all.
+
+    His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
+        The waters of no-more-pain;
+    His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
+        "Rest, rest, and rest again."
+
+
+
+
+_G. K. Chesterton_
+
+
+This brilliant journalist, novelist, essayist, publicist and lyricist,
+Gilbert Keith Chesterton, was born at Campden Hill, Kensington, in
+1874, and began his literary life by reviewing books on art for
+various magazines. He is best known as a writer of flashing,
+paradoxical essays on anything and everything, like _Tremendous
+Trifles_ (1909), _Varied Types_ (1905), and _All Things Considered_
+(1910). But he is also a stimulating critic; a keen appraiser, as in
+his volume _Heretics_ (1905) and his analytical studies of Robert
+Browning, Charles Dickens, and George Bernard Shaw; a writer of
+strange and grotesque romances like _The Napoleon of Notting Hill_
+(1906), _The Man Who Was Thursday_ (1908), which Chesterton himself
+has subtitled "A Nightmare," and _The Flying Inn_ (1914); the author
+of several books of fantastic short stories, ranging from the wildly
+whimsical narratives in _The Club of Queer Trades_ (1905) to that
+amazing sequence _The Innocence of Father Brown_ (1911)--which is a
+series of religious detective stories!
+
+Besides being the creator of all of these, Chesterton finds time to be
+a prolific if sometimes too acrobatic newspaperman, a lay preacher in
+disguise (witness _Orthodoxy_ [1908], _What's Wrong with the World?_
+[1910], _The Ball and the Cross_ [1909]), a pamphleteer, and a poet.
+His first volume of verse, _The Wild Knight and Other Poems_ (1900), a
+collection of quaintly-flavored and affirmative verses, was followed
+by _The Ballad of the White Horse_ (1911), one long poem which, in
+spite of Chesterton's ever-present didactic sermonizing, is possibly
+the most stirring creation he has achieved. This poem has the swing,
+the vigor, the spontaneity, and, above all, the ageless simplicity of
+the true narrative ballad.
+
+Scarcely less notable is the ringing "Lepanto" from his later _Poems_
+(1915) which, anticipating the banging, clanging verses of Vachel
+Lindsay's "The Congo," is one of the finest of modern chants. It is
+interesting to see how the syllables beat, as though on brass; it is
+thrilling to feel how, in one's pulses, the armies sing, the feet
+tramp, the drums snarl, and all the tides of marching crusaders roll
+out of lines like:
+
+    "Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
+    Don John of Austria is going to the war;
+    Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
+    In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold;
+    Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
+    Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes...."
+
+Chesterton, the prose-paradoxer, is a delightful product of a
+skeptical age. But it is Chesterton the poet who is more likely to
+outlive it.
+
+
+LEPANTO[14]
+
+    White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
+    And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
+    There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
+    It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
+    It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
+    For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
+    They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
+    They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
+    And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
+    And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
+    The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
+    The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
+    From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
+    And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
+
+    Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
+    Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
+    Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
+    The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
+    The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
+    That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
+    In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
+    Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
+    Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
+    Don John of Austria is going to the war,
+    Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
+    In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
+    Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
+    Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
+    Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
+    Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
+    Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
+    Love-light of Spain--hurrah!
+    Death-light of Africa!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is riding to the sea.
+
+    Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
+    (_Don John of Austria is going to the war._)
+    He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
+    His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
+    He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
+    And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
+    And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
+    Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
+    Giants and the Genii,
+    Multiplex of wing and eye,
+    Whose strong obedience broke the sky
+    When Solomon was king.
+
+    They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
+    From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
+    They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
+    Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
+    On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
+    Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
+    They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
+    They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
+    And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
+    And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
+    And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
+    For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
+    We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
+    Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
+    But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
+    The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
+    It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
+    It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
+    It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
+    Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
+    For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
+    (_Don John of Austria is going to the war._)
+    Sudden and still--hurrah!
+    Bolt from Iberia!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is gone by Alcalar.
+
+    St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
+    (_Don John of Austria is girt and going forth._)
+    Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
+    And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
+    He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
+    The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
+    The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
+    And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
+    And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
+    And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
+    And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
+    But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
+    Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
+    Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
+    Trumpet that sayeth _ha_!
+        _Domino gloria!_
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is shouting to the ships.
+
+    King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
+    (_Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck._)
+    The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
+    And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
+    He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
+    He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
+    And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
+    Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
+    And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
+    But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
+    Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
+    Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
+    Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
+    Gun upon gun, hurrah!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Has loosed the cannonade.
+
+    The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
+    (_Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke._)
+    The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
+    The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
+    He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
+    The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
+    They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
+    They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
+    And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
+    And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
+    Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
+    Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
+    They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
+    The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
+    They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
+    Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
+    And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
+    Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
+    And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
+    (_But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!_)
+    Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
+    Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
+    Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
+    Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
+    Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
+    White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
+    _Vivat Hispania!_
+    _Domino Gloria!_
+    Don John of Austria
+    Has set his people free!
+
+    Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
+    (_Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath._)
+    And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
+    Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
+    And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
+    (_But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade._)
+
+
+A PRAYER IN DARKNESS
+
+    This much, O heaven--if I should brood or rave,
+      Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
+      Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
+    Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
+
+    If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
+      Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
+      In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
+    The shining silence of the scorn of God.
+
+    Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
+      If I must travail in a night of wrath,
+      Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
+    Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
+
+    Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
+      Thought it beat brightly, even on--Calvary:
+      And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
+    Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.
+
+
+THE DONKEY
+
+    "The tattered outlaw of the earth,
+      Of ancient crooked will;
+     Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
+      I keep my secret still.
+
+    "Fools! For I also had my hour;
+      One far fierce hour and sweet:
+     There was a shout about my ears,
+      And palms before my feet."
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[14] From _Poems_ by G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co.
+and reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_
+
+
+Born at Hexam in 1878, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson has published almost a
+dozen books of verse--the first four or five (see Preface) being
+imitative in manner and sentimentally romantic in tone. With _The
+Stonefolds_ (1907) and _Daily Bread_ (1910), Gibson executed a
+complete right-about-face and, with dramatic brevity, wrote a series
+of poems mirroring the dreams, pursuits and fears of common humanity.
+_Fires_ (1912) marks an advance in technique and power. And though in
+_Livelihood_ (1917) Gibson seems to be theatricalizing and merely
+exploiting his working-people, his later lyrics recapture the veracity
+of such memorable poems as "The Old Man," "The Blind Rower," and "The
+Machine." _Hill-Tracks_ (1918) attempts to capture the beauty of
+village-names and the glamour of the English countryside.
+
+
+PRELUDE
+
+    As one, at midnight, wakened by the call
+    Of golden-plovers in their seaward flight,
+    Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fall
+    Through tingling silence of the frosty night--
+    Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,
+    And then, in fancy, faring with the flock
+    Far over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,
+    Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;
+    And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drowned
+    Within the mightier music of the deep,
+    No more remembers the sweet piping sound
+    That startled him from dull, undreaming sleep;
+    So I, first waking from oblivion, heard,
+    With heart that kindled to the call of song,
+    The voice of young life, fluting like a bird,
+    And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long,
+    Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight,
+    I caught the stormy summons of the sea,
+    And dared the restless deeps that, day and night,
+    Surge with the life-song of humanity.
+
+
+THE STONE[15]
+
+    "And will you cut a stone for him,
+    To set above his head?
+    And will you cut a stone for him--
+    A stone for him?" she said.
+
+    Three days before, a splintered rock
+    Had struck her lover dead--
+    Had struck him in the quarry dead,
+    Where, careless of the warning call,
+    He loitered, while the shot was fired--
+    A lively stripling, brave and tall,
+    And sure of all his heart desired ...
+    A flash, a shock,
+    A rumbling fall ...
+    And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
+    A lifeless heap, with face of clay;
+    And still as any stone he lay,
+    With eyes that saw the end of all.
+
+    I went to break the news to her;
+    And I could hear my own heart beat
+    With dread of what my lips might say
+    But, some poor fool had sped before;
+    And flinging wide her father's door,
+    Had blurted out the news to her,
+    Had struck her lover dead for her,
+    Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
+    Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
+    And dropped it at her feet:
+    Then hurried on his witless way,
+    Scarce knowing she had heard.
+
+    And when I came, she stood, alone
+    A woman, turned to stone:
+    And, though no word at all she said,
+    I knew that all was known.
+
+    Because her heart was dead,
+    She did not sigh nor moan,
+    His mother wept:
+    She could not weep.
+    Her lover slept:
+    She could not sleep.
+    Three days, three nights,
+    She did not stir:
+    Three days, three nights,
+    Were one to her,
+    Who never closed her eyes
+    From sunset to sunrise,
+    From dawn to evenfall:
+    Her tearless, staring eyes,
+    That seeing naught, saw all.
+
+    The fourth night when I came from work,
+    I found her at my door.
+    "And will you cut a stone for him?"
+    She said: and spoke no more:
+    But followed me, as I went in,
+    And sank upon a chair;
+    And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
+    With still, unseeing stare.
+    And, as she waited patiently,
+    I could not bear to feel
+    Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
+    Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
+    Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
+    And curdled the warm blood in me,
+    Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
+    And pierced my marrow like cold steel.
+
+    And so I rose, and sought a stone;
+    And cut it, smooth and square:
+    And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
+    Beside me, in her chair.
+    Night after night, by candlelight,
+    I cut her lover's name:
+    Night after night, so still and white,
+    And like a ghost she came;
+    And sat beside me in her chair;
+    And watched with eyes aflame.
+
+    She eyed each stroke;
+    And hardly stirred:
+    She never spoke
+    A single word:
+    And not a sound or murmur broke
+    The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.
+
+    With still eyes ever on my hands,
+    With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
+    My wincing, overwearied hands,
+    She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
+    And silent, indrawn breath:
+    And every stroke my chisel cut,
+    Death cut still deeper in her heart:
+    The two of us were chiselling,
+    Together, I and death.
+
+    And when at length the job was done,
+    And I had laid the mallet by,
+    As if, at last, her peace were won,
+    She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,
+    Passed slowly through the open door:
+    And never crossed my threshold more.
+
+    Next night I laboured late, alone,
+    To cut her name upon the stone.
+
+
+SIGHT[16]
+
+    By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyes
+    On colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire--
+    Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire,
+    Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,
+    And apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.
+
+    And as I lingered, lost in divine delight,
+    My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sight
+    And all youth's lively senses keen and quick ...
+    When suddenly, behind me in the night,
+    I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[15] From _Fires_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1912, by The
+Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+[16] From _Borderlands and Thoroughfares_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.
+Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of
+the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_John Masefield_
+
+
+John Masefield was born June 1, 1878, in Ledbury, Hertfordshire. He
+was the son of a lawyer but, being of a restless disposition, he took
+to the sea at an early age and became a wanderer for several years. At
+one time, in 1895, to be exact, he worked for a few months as a sort
+of third assistant barkeeper and dish-washer in Luke O'Connor's
+saloon, the Columbia Hotel, in New York City. The place is still there
+on the corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues.
+
+The results of his wanderings showed in his early works, _Salt-Water
+Ballads_ (1902), _Ballads_ (1903), frank and often crude poems of
+sailors written in their own dialect, and _A Mainsail Haul_ (1905), a
+collection of short nautical stories. In these books Masefield
+possibly overemphasized passion and brutality but, underneath the
+violence, he captured that highly-colored realism which is the poetry
+of life.
+
+It was not until he published _The Everlasting Mercy_ (1911) that he
+became famous. Followed quickly by those remarkable long narrative
+poems, _The Widow in the Bye Street_ (1912), _Dauber_ (1912), and _The
+Daffodil Fields_ (1913), there is in all of these that peculiar blend
+of physical exulting and spiritual exaltation that is so striking, and
+so typical of Masefield. Their very rudeness is lifted to a plane of
+religious intensity. (See Preface.) Pictorially, Masefield is even
+more forceful. The finest moment in _The Widow in the Bye Street_ is
+the portrayal of the mother alone in her cottage; the public-house
+scene and the passage describing the birds following the plough are
+the most intense touches in _The Everlasting Mercy_. Nothing more
+vigorous and thrilling than the description of the storm at sea in
+_Dauber_ has appeared in current literature.
+
+The war, in which Masefield served with the Red Cross in France and on
+the Gallipoli peninsula (of which campaign he wrote a study for the
+government), softened his style; _Good Friday and Other Poems_ (1916)
+is as restrained and dignified a collection as that of any of his
+contemporaries. _Reynard the Fox_ (1919) is the best of his new manner
+with a return of the old vivacity.
+
+Masefield has also written several novels of which _Multitude and
+Solitude_ (1909) is the most outstanding; half a dozen plays, ranging
+from the classical solemnity of _Pompey the Great_ to the hot and racy
+_Tragedy of Nan_; and one of the freshest, most creative critiques of
+_Shakespeare_ (1911) in the last generation.
+
+
+A CONSECRATION
+
+    Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers
+    Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,--
+    Rather the scorned--the rejected--the men hemmed in with the spears;
+
+    The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,
+    Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.
+    The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.
+
+    Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,
+    Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,
+    But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.
+
+    Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,
+    The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,
+    The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.
+
+    The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
+    The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,
+    The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.
+
+    Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,
+    The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;--
+    Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!
+
+    Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;
+    Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.
+    Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold--
+    Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.
+
+                                                   AMEN.
+
+
+SEA-FEVER
+
+    I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
+    And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
+    And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
+    And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
+
+    I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
+    Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
+    And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
+    And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.
+
+    I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
+    To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's
+        like a whetted knife;
+    And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
+    And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
+
+
+ROUNDING THE HORN
+
+(_From "Dauber"_)[17]
+
+    Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"
+    The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:
+    Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,
+    And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.
+    Down clattered flying kites and staysails; some
+    Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,
+    And from the south-west came the end of the world....
+
+    "Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid
+    Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling
+    Sick at the mighty space of air displayed
+    Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.
+    A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.
+    He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.
+    A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
+
+    The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.
+    He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,
+    Clammy with natural terror to the shoes
+    While idiotic promptings came and went.
+    Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;
+    He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,
+    "Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.
+
+    Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl;
+    The sky went out, the waters disappeared.
+    He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl
+    The ship upon her side. The darkness speared
+    At her with wind; she staggered, she careered;
+    Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go,
+    He saw her yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
+
+    Whirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold--
+    Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,
+    Which whiffled out men's tears, defeated, took hold,
+    Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.
+    The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.
+    The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's sound
+    Had devilish malice at having got her downed.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    How long the gale had blown he could not tell,
+    Only the world had changed, his life had died.
+    A moment now was everlasting hell.
+    Nature an onslaught from the weather side,
+    A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,
+    Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail
+    Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail....
+
+    "Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"
+    The Dauber followed where he led; below
+    He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck
+    Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.
+    He saw the streamers of the rigging blow
+    Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast,
+    Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.
+
+    Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,
+    Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,
+    An utter bridle given to utter vice,
+    Limitless power mad with endless rage
+    Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age.
+    He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,
+    Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,
+
+    Told long ago--long, long ago--long since
+    Heard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed--
+    There where the basest beggar was a prince.
+    To him in torment where the tempest screamed,
+    Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed
+    Things that a man could know; soul, body, brain,
+    Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
+
+
+THE CHOICE
+
+    The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;
+    Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.
+    The sack of many-peopled towns
+    Is all their dream:
+    The way they take
+    Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
+    And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,
+    A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.
+
+    The Merchants reckon up their gold,
+    Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories:
+    The profits of their treasures sold
+    They tell and sum;
+    Their foremen drive
+    Their servants, starved to half-alive,
+    Whose labours do but make the earth a hive
+    Of stinking glories; a tale, a dream.
+
+    The Priests are singing in their stalls,
+    Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours;
+    Yet God is as the sparrow falls,
+    The ivy drifts;
+    The votive urns
+    Are all left void when Fortune turns,
+    The god is but a marble for the kerns
+    To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.
+
+    O Beauty, let me know again
+    The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,
+    The one star risen.
+    So shall I pass into the feast
+    Not touched by King, Merchant, or Priest;
+    Know the red spirit of the beast,
+    Be the green grain;
+    Escape from prison.
+
+
+SONNET[18]
+
+    Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought
+    Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides
+    How Summer's royal progress shall be wrought,
+    By secret stir which in each plant abides?
+    Does rocking daffodil consent that she,
+    The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?
+    Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree
+    To hold her pride before the rattle burst?
+    And in the hedge what quick agreement goes,
+    When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay,
+    That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose,
+    Before the flower be on the bramble spray?
+    Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,
+    And each consent a lucky gasp for life?
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[17] From _The Story of a Round-House_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
+1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
+publishers.
+
+[18] From _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
+1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
+publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Lord Dunsany_
+
+
+Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, was born July 24,
+1878, and was educated at Eton and Sandhurst. He is best known as an
+author of fantastic fairy tales and even more fantastic plays. _The
+Gods of the Mountain_ (1911) and _The Golden Doom_ (1912) are highly
+dramatic and intensely poetic. _A Night at an Inn_ (1916) is that
+peculiar novelty, an eerie and poetical melodrama.
+
+Dunsany's prime quality is a romantic and highly colored imagination
+which is rich in symbolism. After the World War, in which the
+playwright served as captain in the Royal Innis-killing Fusiliers,
+Dunsany visited America and revised the reissue of his early tales and
+prose poems collected in his _The Book of Wonder_.
+
+
+SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD
+
+    I
+
+    There is no wrath in the stars,
+      They do not rage in the sky;
+    I look from the evil wood
+      And find myself wondering why.
+
+    Why do they not scream out
+      And grapple star against star,
+    Seeking for blood in the wood
+      As all things round me are?
+
+    They do not glare like the sky
+      Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
+    But they shine softly on
+      In their sacred solitude.
+
+    To their high, happy haunts
+      Silence from us has flown,
+    She whom we loved of old
+      And know it now she is gone.
+
+    When will she come again,
+      Though for one second only?
+    She whom we loved is gone
+      And the whole world is lonely.
+
+    And the elder giants come
+      Sometimes, tramping from far
+    Through the weird and flickering light
+      Made by an earthly star.
+
+    And the giant with his club,
+      And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
+    And the elder giants from far,
+      They are all the children of Death.
+
+    They are all abroad to-night
+      And are breaking the hills with their brood,--
+    And the birds are all asleep
+      Even in Plug Street Wood!
+
+    II
+
+    Somewhere lost in the haze
+      The sun goes down in the cold,
+    And birds in this evil wood
+      Chirrup home as of old;
+
+    Chirrup, stir and are still,
+      On the high twigs frozen and thin.
+    There is no more noise of them now,
+      And the long night sets in.
+
+    Of all the wonderful things
+      That I have seen in the wood
+    I marvel most at the birds
+      And their wonderful quietude.
+
+    For a giant smites with his club
+      All day the tops of the hill,
+    Sometimes he rests at night,
+      Oftener he beats them still.
+
+    And a dwarf with a grim black mane
+      Raps with repeated rage
+    All night in the valley below
+      On the wooden walls of his cage.
+
+    III
+
+    I met with Death in his country,
+      With his scythe and his hollow eye,
+    Walking the roads of Belgium.
+      I looked and he passed me by.
+
+    Since he passed me by in Plug Street,
+      In the wood of the evil name,
+    I shall not now lie with the heroes,
+      I shall not share their fame;
+
+    I shall never be as they are,
+      A name in the lands of the Free,
+    Since I looked on Death in Flanders
+      And he did not look at me.
+
+
+
+
+_Edward Thomas_
+
+
+Edward Thomas, one of the little-known but most individual of modern
+English poets, was born in 1878. For many years before he turned to
+verse, Thomas had a large following as a critic and author of travel
+books, biographies, pot-boilers. Hating his hack-work, yet unable to
+get free of it, he had so repressed his creative ability that he had
+grown doubtful concerning his own power. It needed something foreign
+to stir and animate what was native in him. So when Robert Frost, the
+New England poet, went abroad in 1912 for two years and became an
+intimate of Thomas's, the English critic began to write poetry.
+Loving, like Frost, the _minutiæ_ of existence, the quaint and casual
+turn of ordinary life, he caught the magic of the English countryside
+in its unpoeticized quietude. Many of his poems are full of a slow,
+sad contemplation of life and a reflection of its brave futility. It
+is not disillusion exactly; it is rather an absence of illusion.
+_Poems_ (1917), dedicated to Robert Frost, is full of Thomas's
+fidelity to little things, things as unglorified as the unfreezing of
+the "rock-like mud," a child's path, a list of quaint-sounding
+villages, birds' nests uncovered by the autumn wind, dusty
+nettles--the lines glow with a deep and almost abject reverence for
+the soil.
+
+Thomas was killed at Arras, at an observatory outpost, on Easter
+Monday, 1917.
+
+
+IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE
+
+    If I should ever by chance grow rich
+    I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+    Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,
+    And let them all to my elder daughter.
+    The rent I shall ask of her will be only
+    Each year's first violets, white and lonely,
+    The first primroses and orchises--
+    She must find them before I do, that is.
+    But if she finds a blossom on furze
+    Without rent they shall all for ever be hers,
+    Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+    Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,--
+    I shall give them all to my elder daughter.
+
+
+TALL NETTLES
+
+    Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
+    These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
+    Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
+    Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
+
+    This corner of the farmyard I like most:
+    As well as any bloom upon a flower
+    I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
+    Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
+
+
+FIFTY FAGGOTS
+
+    There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots
+    That once were underwood of hazel and ash
+    In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge
+    Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone
+    Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next Spring
+    A blackbird or a robin will nest there,
+    Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain
+    Whatever is for ever to a bird.
+    This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,
+    'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:
+    Better they will never warm me, though they must
+    Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done
+    The war will have ended, many other things
+    Have ended, maybe, that I can no more
+    Foresee or more control than robin and wren.
+
+
+COCK-CROW
+
+    Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
+    To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,--
+    Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
+    Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
+    And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
+    Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
+    Each facing each as in a coat of arms:--
+    The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.
+
+
+
+
+_Seumas O'Sullivan_
+
+
+James Starkey was born in Dublin in 1879. Writing under the pseudonym
+of Seumas O'Sullivan, he contributed a great variety of prose and
+verse to various Irish papers. His reputation as a poet began with
+his appearance in _New Songs_, edited by George Russell ("A. E.").
+Later, he published _The Twilight People_ (1905), _The Earth Lover_
+(1909), and _Poems_ (1912).
+
+
+PRAISE
+
+    Dear, they are praising your beauty,
+    The grass and the sky:
+    The sky in a silence of wonder,
+    The grass in a sigh.
+
+    I too would sing for your praising,
+    Dearest, had I
+    Speech as the whispering grass,
+    Or the silent sky.
+
+    These have an art for the praising
+    Beauty so high.
+    Sweet, you are praised in a silence,
+    Sung in a sigh.
+
+
+
+
+_Ralph Hodgson_
+
+
+This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879. One of the
+most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain
+his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare and timeless
+songs as his. It is difficult to think of any anthology of English
+poetry compiled after 1917 that could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor,"
+and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One
+succumbs to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is the
+oldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and still more
+surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious sinner nor the
+Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's candid lines, any young, English
+country girl--filling her basket, regarding the world and the serpent
+itself with a mild and childlike wonder.
+
+Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that
+goes out to
+
+            "an idle rainbow
+    No less than laboring seas,"
+
+were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by
+_Flying Fame_.
+
+
+EVE
+
+    Eve, with her basket, was
+    Deep in the bells and grass,
+    Wading in bells and grass
+    Up to her knees.
+    Picking a dish of sweet
+    Berries and plums to eat,
+    Down in the bells and grass
+    Under the trees.
+
+    Mute as a mouse in a
+    Corner the cobra lay,
+    Curled round a bough of the
+    Cinnamon tall....
+    Now to get even and
+    Humble proud heaven and
+    Now was the moment or
+    Never at all.
+
+    "Eva!" Each syllable
+    Light as a flower fell,
+    "Eva!" he whispered the
+    Wondering maid,
+    Soft as a bubble sung
+    Out of a linnet's lung,
+    Soft and most silverly
+    "Eva!" he said.
+
+    Picture that orchard sprite;
+    Eve, with her body white,
+    Supple and smooth to her
+    Slim finger tips;
+    Wondering, listening,
+    Listening, wondering,
+    Eve with a berry
+    Half-way to her lips.
+
+    Oh, had our simple Eve
+    Seen through the make-believe!
+    Had she but known the
+    Pretender he was!
+    Out of the boughs he came,
+    Whispering still her name,
+    Tumbling in twenty rings
+    Into the grass.
+
+    Here was the strangest pair
+    In the world anywhere,
+    Eve in the bells and grass
+    Kneeling, and he
+    Telling his story low....
+    Singing birds saw them go
+    Down the dark path to
+    The Blasphemous Tree.
+
+    Oh, what a clatter when
+    Titmouse and Jenny Wren
+    Saw him successful and
+    Taking his leave!
+    How the birds rated him,
+    How they all hated him!
+    How they all pitied
+    Poor motherless Eve!
+
+    Picture her crying
+    Outside in the lane,
+    Eve, with no dish of sweet
+    Berries and plums to eat,
+    Haunting the gate of the
+    Orchard in vain....
+    Picture the lewd delight
+    Under the hill to-night--
+    "Eva!" the toast goes round,
+    "Eva!" again.
+
+
+TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN
+
+    Time, you old gipsy man,
+      Will you not stay,
+    Put up your caravan
+      Just for one day?
+
+    All things I'll give you
+    Will you be my guest,
+    Bells for your jennet
+    Of silver the best,
+    Goldsmiths shall beat you
+    A great golden ring,
+    Peacocks shall bow to you,
+    Little boys sing,
+    Oh, and sweet girls will
+    Festoon you with may.
+    Time, you old gipsy,
+    Why hasten away?
+
+    Last week in Babylon,
+    Last night in Rome,
+    Morning, and in the crush
+    Under Paul's dome;
+    Under Paul's dial
+    You tighten your rein--
+    Only a moment,
+    And off once again;
+    Off to some city
+    Now blind in the womb,
+    Off to another
+    Ere that's in the tomb.
+
+    Time, you old gipsy man,
+      Will you not stay,
+    Put up your caravan
+      Just for one day?
+
+
+THE BIRDCATCHER
+
+    When flighting time is on, I go
+    With clap-net and decoy,
+    A-fowling after goldfinches
+    And other birds of joy;
+
+    I lurk among the thickets of
+    The Heart where they are bred,
+    And catch the twittering beauties as
+    They fly into my Head.
+
+
+THE MYSTERY
+
+    He came and took me by the hand
+      Up to a red rose tree,
+    He kept His meaning to Himself
+      But gave a rose to me.
+
+    I did not pray Him to lay bare
+      The mystery to me,
+    Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
+      And His own face to see.
+
+
+
+
+_Harold Monro_
+
+
+The publisher of the various anthologies of Georgian Poetry, Harold
+Monro, was born in Brussels in 1879. He describes himself as "author,
+publisher, editor and book-seller." Monro founded The Poetry Bookshop
+in London in 1912, a unique establishment having as its object a
+practical relation between poetry and the public, and keeping in stock
+nothing but poetry, the drama, and books connected with these
+subjects. His quarterly _Poetry and Drama_ (discontinued during the
+war and revived in 1919 as _The Monthly Chapbook_), was in a sense the
+organ of the younger men; and his shop, in which he has lived for the
+last seven years except while he was in the army, became a genuine
+literary center.
+
+Of Monro's books, the two most important are _Strange Meetings_ (1917)
+and _Children of Love_ (1919). "The Nightingale Near the House," one
+of the loveliest of his poems, is also one of his latest and has not
+yet appeared in any of his volumes.
+
+
+THE NIGHTINGALE NEAR THE HOUSE
+
+    Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:
+    It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond
+    Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
+        Stares. And you sing, you sing.
+
+    That star-enchanted song falls through the air
+    From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,
+    Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;
+        And all the night you sing.
+
+    My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee
+    As all night long I listen, and my brain
+    Receives your song; then loses it again
+        In moonlight on the lawn.
+
+    Now is your voice a marble high and white,
+    Then like a mist on fields of paradise,
+    Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,
+        Then breaks, and it is dawn.
+
+
+EVERY THING
+
+    Since man has been articulate,
+    Mechanical, improvidently wise,
+    (Servant of Fate),
+    He has not understood the little cries
+    And foreign conversations of the small
+    Delightful creatures that have followed him
+    Not far behind;
+    Has failed to hear the sympathetic call
+    Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
+    Reposeful Teraphim
+    Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
+    He sat on, or the Door he entered through:
+    He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
+    What is he coming to?
+
+    But you should listen to the talk of these.
+    Honest they are, and patient they have kept;
+    Served him without his Thank you or his Please ...
+    I often heard
+    The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,
+    Murmuring, before I slept.
+    The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
+    Then bowed,
+    And in a smoky argument
+    Into the darkness went.
+
+    The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:--
+    "Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know
+    Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
+    He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh,
+    I wonder why I squander my desire
+    Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire."
+
+    Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
+    Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
+    Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;
+    Without a woman's hand
+    To patronize and coax and flatter me,
+    I understand
+    The lean and poise of gravitable land."
+    It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,
+    Twisted itself convulsively about,
+    Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,
+    It stares and grins at me.
+
+    The old impetuous Gas above my head
+    Begins irascibly to flare and fret,
+    Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
+    Reminding me I ought to go to bed.
+
+    The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door
+    Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
+    Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
+    Down from the chimney, half a pound of Soot
+    Tumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.
+    The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
+
+    A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
+    Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
+    My independent Pencil, while I write,
+    Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
+    Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
+    Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
+    Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
+    Ticking of ordinary work again.
+
+    You do well to remind me, and I praise
+    Your strangely individual foreign ways.
+    You call me from myself to recognize
+    Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
+    I want your dear acquaintances, although
+    I pass you arrogantly over, throw
+    Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
+    My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.
+
+    Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
+    You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
+    Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,
+    Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.
+    It well becomes our mutual happiness
+    To go toward the same end more or less.
+    There is not much dissimilarity,
+    Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
+    Between the purposes of you and me,
+    And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.
+
+
+STRANGE MEETINGS
+
+    If suddenly a clod of earth should rise,
+    And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,
+    How one would tremble, and in what surprise
+    Gasp: "Can you move?"
+
+    I see men walking, and I always feel:
+    "Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?"
+    I can't learn how to know men, or conceal
+    How strange they are to me.
+
+
+
+
+_T. M. Kettle_
+
+
+Thomas M. Kettle was born at Artane County, Dublin, in 1880 and was
+educated at University College, where he won the Gold Medal for
+Oratory. His extraordinary faculty for grasping an intricate problem
+and crystallizing it in an epigram, or scoring his adversaries with
+one bright flash, was apparent even then. He was admitted to the bar
+in 1905 but soon abandoned the law to devote himself to journalism,
+which, because of his remarkable style, never remained journalism in
+his hands. In 1906 he entered politics; in 1910 he was re-elected for
+East Tyrone. Even his bitterest opponents conceded that Tom Kettle (as
+he was called by friend and enemy) was the most honorable of fighters;
+they acknowledged his honesty, courage and devotion to the cause of a
+United Ireland--and respected his penetrating wit. He once spoke of a
+Mr. Healy as "a brilliant calamity" and satirized a long-winded
+speaker by saying, "Mr. Long knows a sentence should have a beginning,
+but he quite forgets it should also have an end."
+
+"An Irish torch-bearer" (so E. B. Osborn calls him), Kettle fell in
+action at Ginchy, leading his Fusiliers in September, 1916. The
+uplifted poem to his daughter was written shortly before his death.
+
+
+TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, THE GIFT OF GOD
+
+    In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
+    To beauty proud as was your mother's prime,
+    In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
+    You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
+    And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
+    To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme
+    And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
+    And some decry it in a knowing tone.
+    So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
+    And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
+    Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
+    Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,--
+    But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,
+    And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
+
+
+
+
+_Alfred Noyes_
+
+
+Alfred Noyes was born at Staffordshire, September 16, 1880. He is one
+of the few contemporary poets who have been fortunate enough to write
+a kind of poetry that is not only saleable but popular with many
+classes of people.
+
+His first book, _The Loom of Years_ (1902), was published when he was
+only 22 years old, and _Poems_ (1904) intensified the promise of his
+first publication. Swinburne, grown old and living in retirement, was
+so struck with Noyes's talent that he had the young poet out to read
+to him. Unfortunately, Noyes has not developed his gifts as deeply as
+his admirers have hoped. His poetry, extremely straightforward and
+rhythmical, has often degenerated into cheap sentimentalities and
+cheaper tirades; it has frequently attempted to express programs and
+profundities far beyond Noyes's power.
+
+What is most appealing about his best verse is its ease and
+heartiness; this singer's gift lies in the almost personal bond
+established between the poet and his public. People have such a good
+time reading his vivacious lines because Noyes had such a good time
+writing them. Rhyme in a thumping rhythm seems to be not merely his
+trade but his morning exercise. Noyes's own relish filled and
+quickened glees and catches like _Forty Singing Seamen_ (1907), the
+lusty choruses in _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (1913), and the
+genuinely inspired nonsense of the earlier _Forest of Wild Thyme_
+(1905).
+
+The least popular work of Noyes is, as a unified product, his most
+remarkable performance. It is an epic in twelve books of blank verse,
+_Drake_ (1908), a glowing pageant of the sea and England's drama upon
+it. It is a spirited echo of the maritime Elizabethans; a vivid and
+orchestral work interspersed with splendid lyric passages and brisk
+songs. The companion volume, an attempted reconstruction of the
+literary phase of the same period, is less successful; but these
+_Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (which introduce Shakespeare, Marlowe,
+Drayton, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and other immortals) are alive and
+colorful, if somewhat too insistently rollicking and smoothly lilting.
+
+His eight volumes were assembled in 1913 and published in two books of
+_Collected Poems_ (Frederick A. Stokes Company).
+
+
+SHERWOOD
+
+    Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
+    Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake;
+    Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,
+    Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
+
+    Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves
+    Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,
+    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:
+    All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon;
+    Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist
+    Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.
+
+    Merry, merry England is waking as of old,
+    With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:
+    For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Love is in the greenwood building him a house
+    Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs;
+    Love it in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies;
+    And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.
+
+    Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep:
+    Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?
+    Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,
+    Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
+    Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
+    And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.
+
+    Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together
+    With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather;
+    The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;
+    All the heart of England hid in every rose
+    Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,
+    Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?
+
+    Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old
+    And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold,
+    Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,
+    _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_
+
+    Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen
+    All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men;
+    Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;
+
+    Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash
+    Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash;
+    The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly;
+    And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.
+
+    _Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves
+    Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves:
+    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+
+    THE BARREL-ORGAN
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
+      And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
+    And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
+      That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
+    And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
+      In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
+
+    And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,
+      And trolling out a fond familiar tune,
+    And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,
+      And now it's prattling softly to the moon.
+    And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore
+      Of human joys and wonders and regrets;
+    To remember and to recompense the music evermore
+      For what the cold machinery forgets ...
+
+          Yes; as the music changes,
+            Like a prismatic glass,
+          It takes the light and ranges
+            Through all the moods that pass;
+          Dissects the common carnival
+            Of passions and regrets,
+          And gives the world a glimpse of all
+            The colours it forgets.
+
+          And there _La Traviata_ sighs
+            Another sadder song;
+          And there _Il Trovatore_ cries
+            A tale of deeper wrong;
+          And bolder knights to battle go
+            With sword and shield and lance,
+          Than ever here on earth below
+            Have whirled into--a dance!--
+
+    Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
+      Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+
+    The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
+      The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)
+    And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's
+          a blaze of sky
+      The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.
+
+    The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there
+      At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
+    The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo
+      And golden-eyed _tu-whit, tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London.
+
+    For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard
+      At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
+    And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out
+      You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:--
+
+    _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!)_
+
+    And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,
+      In the city as the sun sinks low;
+    And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet
+    Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,
+    And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,
+    Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+    Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote _Il Trovatore_ did you dream
+      Of the City when the sun sinks low,
+    Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream
+    On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
+    To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
+    As _A che la morte_ parodies the world's eternal theme
+      And pulses with the sunset-glow?
+
+    There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,
+    There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone,
+    And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:
+    They are crammed and jammed in busses and--they're each of them alone
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+    There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red
+    As he sees a loafer watching him and--there he turns his head
+    And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
+    For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led
+      Through the land where the dead dreams go ...
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet
+    Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet
+    Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet
+    Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+          So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,
+            What have you to say
+          When you meet the garland girls
+            Tripping on their way?
+          All around my gala hat
+            I wear a wreath of roses
+          (A long and lonely year it is
+            I've waited for the May!)
+          If any one should ask you,
+            The reason why I wear it is--
+          My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.
+
+    And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady
+      (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_)
+    Buy a bunch of violets for the lady;
+      While the sky burns blue above:
+
+    On the other side the street you'll find it shady
+      (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_)
+    But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,
+      And tell her she's your own true love.
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;
+    And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
+    And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete
+    In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,
+      As it dies into the sunset glow;
+
+    And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
+      That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,
+    And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
+      In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
+
+          And there, as the music changes,
+            The song runs round again;
+          Once more it turns and ranges
+            Through all its joy and pain:
+          Dissects the common carnival
+            Of passions and regrets;
+          And the wheeling world remembers all
+            The wheeling song forgets.
+
+          Once more _La Traviata_ sighs
+            Another sadder song:
+          Once more _Il Trovatore_ cries
+            A tale of deeper wrong;
+          Once more the knights to battle go
+            With sword and shield and lance
+          Till once, once more, the shattered foe
+            Has whirled into--a dance!
+
+    _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland,
+    Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)_
+
+
+EPILOGUE
+
+(_From "The Flower of Old Japan"_)
+
+    Carol, every violet has
+    Heaven for a looking-glass!
+
+    Every little valley lies
+    Under many-clouded skies;
+    Every little cottage stands
+    Girt about with boundless lands.
+    Every little glimmering pond
+    Claims the mighty shores beyond--
+    Shores no seamen ever hailed,
+    Seas no ship has ever sailed.
+
+    All the shores when day is done
+    Fade into the setting sun,
+    So the story tries to teach
+    More than can be told in speech.
+
+    Beauty is a fading flower,
+    Truth is but a wizard's tower,
+    Where a solemn death-bell tolls,
+    And a forest round it rolls.
+
+    We have come by curious ways
+    To the light that holds the days;
+    We have sought in haunts of fear
+    For that all-enfolding sphere:
+    And lo! it was not far, but near.
+    We have found, O foolish-fond,
+    The shore that has no shore beyond.
+
+    Deep in every heart it lies
+    With its untranscended skies;
+    For what heaven should bend above
+    Hearts that own the heaven of love?
+
+    Carol, Carol, we have come
+    Back to heaven, back to home.
+
+
+
+
+_Padraic Colum_
+
+
+Padraic Colum was born at Longford, Ireland (in the same county as
+Oliver Goldsmith), December 8, 1881, and was educated at the local
+schools. At 20 he was a member of a group that created the Irish
+National Theatre, afterwards called The Abbey Theatre.
+
+Colum began as a dramatist with _Broken Soil_ (1904), _The Land_
+(1905), _Thomas Muskerry_ (1910), and this early dramatic influence
+has colored much of his work, his best poetry being in the form of
+dramatic lyrics. _Wild Earth_, his most notable collection of verse,
+first appeared in 1909, and an amplified edition of it was published
+in America in 1916.
+
+
+THE PLOUGHER
+
+    Sunset and silence! A man: around him earth savage,
+          earth broken;
+    Beside him two horses--a plough!
+
+    Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn man
+          there in the sunset,
+    And the Plough that is twin to the Sword, that is founder
+          of cities!
+
+    "Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-breaker! Can'st hear?
+      There are ages between us.
+    "Is it praying you are as you stand there alone in the
+          sunset?
+
+    "Surely our sky-born gods can be naught to you, earth
+          child and earth master?
+    "Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan, or Dana?
+
+    "Yet, why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your
+          brutes where they stumble?
+    "Has Dana numbed pain of the child-bed, or Wotan put
+          hands to your plough?
+
+    "What matter your foolish reply! O, man, standing
+          lone and bowed earthward,
+    "Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the
+          night-giving God."
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend
+          with the savage;
+    The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, a head's breadth
+          only above them.
+
+    A head's breadth? Ay, but therein is hell's depth, and
+          the height up to heaven,
+    And the thrones of the gods and their halls, their chariots,
+          purples, and splendors.
+
+
+AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS
+
+    O, to have a little house!
+    To own the hearth and stool and all!
+    The heaped up sods upon the fire,
+    The pile of turf against the wall!
+
+    To have a clock with weights and chains
+    And pendulum swinging up and down!
+    A dresser filled with shining delph,
+    Speckled and white and blue and brown!
+
+    I could be busy all the day
+    Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
+    And fixing on their shelf again
+    My white and blue and speckled store!
+
+    I could be quiet there at night
+    Beside the fire and by myself,
+    Sure of a bed and loth to leave
+    The ticking clock and the shining delph!
+
+    Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
+    And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
+    And tired I am of bog and road,
+    And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
+
+    And I am praying to God on high,
+    And I am praying Him night and day,
+    For a little house--a house of my own--
+    Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
+
+
+
+
+_Joseph Campbell_
+
+(_Seosamh MacCathmhaoil_)
+
+
+Joseph Campbell was born in Belfast in 1881, and is not only a poet
+but an artist; he made all the illustrations for _The Rushlight_
+(1906), a volume of his own poems. Writing under the Gaelic form of
+his name, he has published half a dozen books of verse, the most
+striking of which is _The Mountainy Singer_, first published in Dublin
+in 1909.
+
+
+I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
+
+    I am the mountainy singer--
+    The voice of the peasant's dream,
+    The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,
+    The leap of the fish in the stream.
+
+    Quiet and love I sing--
+    The carn on the mountain crest,
+    The _cailin_ in her lover's arms,
+    The child at its mother's breast.
+
+    Beauty and peace I sing--
+    The fire on the open hearth,
+    The _cailleach_ spinning at her wheel,
+    The plough in the broken earth.
+
+    Travail and pain I sing--
+    The bride on the childing bed,
+    The dark man laboring at his rhymes,
+    The eye in the lambing shed.
+
+    Sorrow and death I sing--
+    The canker come on the corn,
+    The fisher lost in the mountain loch,
+    The cry at the mouth of morn.
+
+    No other life I sing,
+    For I am sprung of the stock
+    That broke the hilly land for bread,
+    And built the nest in the rock!
+
+
+THE OLD WOMAN
+
+    As a white candle
+      In a holy place,
+    So is the beauty
+      Of an aged face.
+
+    As the spent radiance
+      Of the winter sun,
+    So is a woman
+      With her travail done,
+
+    Her brood gone from her,
+      And her thoughts as still
+    As the waters
+      Under a ruined mill.
+
+
+
+
+_James Stephens_
+
+
+This unique personality was born in Dublin in February, 1882. Stephens
+was discovered in an office and saved from clerical slavery by George
+Russell ("A. E."). Always a poet, Stephens's most poetic moments are
+in his highly-colored prose. And yet, although the finest of his
+novels, _The Crock of Gold_ (1912), contains more wild phantasy and
+quaint imagery than all his volumes of verse, his _Insurrections_
+(1909) and _The Hill of Vision_ (1912) reveal a rebellious spirit that
+is at once hotly ironic and coolly whimsical.
+
+Stephens's outstanding characteristic is his delightful blend of
+incongruities--he combines in his verse the grotesque, the buoyant and
+the profound. No fresher or more brightly vigorous imagination has
+come out of Ireland since J. M. Synge.
+
+
+THE SHELL
+
+    And then I pressed the shell
+    Close to my ear
+    And listened well,
+    And straightway like a bell
+    Came low and clear
+    The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,
+    Whipped by an icy breeze
+    Upon a shore
+    Wind-swept and desolate.
+    It was a sunless strand that never bore
+    The footprint of a man,
+    Nor felt the weight
+    Since time began
+    Of any human quality or stir
+    Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
+    And in the hush of waters was the sound
+    Of pebbles rolling round,
+    For ever rolling with a hollow sound.
+    And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
+    Swish to and fro
+    Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
+    There was no day,
+    Nor ever came a night
+    Setting the stars alight
+    To wonder at the moon:
+    Was twilight only and the frightened croon,
+    Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
+    And waves that journeyed blind--
+    And then I loosed my ear ... O, it was sweet
+    To hear a cart go jolting down the street.
+
+
+    WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB
+
+    I saw God. Do you doubt it?
+      Do you dare to doubt it?
+    I saw the Almighty Man. His hand
+    Was resting on a mountain, and
+    He looked upon the World and all about it:
+    I saw him plainer than you see me now,
+      You mustn't doubt it.
+
+    He was not satisfied;
+      His look was all dissatisfied.
+    His beard swung on a wind far out of sight
+    Behind the world's curve, and there was light
+    Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed,
+    "That star went always wrong, and from the start
+      I was dissatisfied."
+
+    He lifted up His hand--
+      I say He heaved a dreadful hand
+    Over the spinning Earth. Then I said, "Stay,
+    You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;
+    And I will never move from where I stand."
+    He said, "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"
+      And stayed His hand.
+
+
+TO THE FOUR COURTS, PLEASE
+
+    The driver rubbed at his nettly chin
+    With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black,
+    And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in,
+    And puffed out again and hung down slack:
+    One fang shone through his lop-sided smile,
+    In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile.
+
+    And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked,
+    And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old,
+    And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked
+    It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold
+    Its big, skinny head up--then I stepped in,
+    And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin.
+
+    God help the horse and the driver too,
+    And the people and beasts who have never a friend,
+    For the driver easily might have been you,
+    And the horse be me by a different end.
+    And nobody knows how their days will cease,
+    And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace.
+
+
+
+
+_John Drinkwater_
+
+
+Primarily a poetic dramatist, John Drinkwater, born in 1882, is best
+known as the author of _Abraham Lincoln--A Play_ (1919) founded on
+Lord Charnwood's masterly and analytical biography. He has published
+several volumes of poems, most of them meditative and elegiac in mood.
+
+The best of his verses have been collected in _Poems, 1908-19_, and
+the two here reprinted are used by permission, and by special
+arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers.
+
+
+RECIPROCITY
+
+    I do not think that skies and meadows are
+    Moral, or that the fixture of a star
+    Comes of a quiet spirit, or that trees
+    Have wisdom in their windless silences.
+    Yet these are things invested in my mood
+    With constancy, and peace, and fortitude;
+    That in my troubled season I can cry
+    Upon the wide composure of the sky,
+    And envy fields, and wish that I might be
+    As little daunted as a star or tree.
+
+
+A TOWN WINDOW
+
+    Beyond my window in the night
+      Is but a drab inglorious street,
+    Yet there the frost and clean starlight
+      As over Warwick woods are sweet.
+
+    Under the grey drift of the town
+      The crocus works among the mould
+    As eagerly as those that crown
+      The Warwick spring in flame and gold.
+
+    And when the tramway down the hill
+      Across the cobbles moans and rings,
+    There is about my window-sill
+      The tumult of a thousand wings.
+
+
+
+
+_James Joyce_
+
+
+James Joyce was born at Dublin, February 2, 1882, and educated in
+Ireland. He is best known as a highly sensitive and strikingly
+original writer of prose, his most celebrated works being _Dubliners_
+(1914) and the novel, _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_
+(1916). His one volume of verse, _Chamber Music_, was published in
+this country in 1918.
+
+
+I HEAR AN ARMY
+
+    I hear an army charging upon the land,
+      And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
+    Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
+      Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.
+
+    They cry unto the night their battle-name:
+      I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
+    They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
+      Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.
+
+    They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
+      They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
+    My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
+      My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
+
+
+
+
+_J. C. Squire_
+
+
+Jack Collings Squire was born April 2, 1884, at Plymouth, of Devonian
+ancestry. He was educated at Blundell's and Cambridge University, and
+became known first as a remarkably adroit parodist. His _Imaginary
+Speeches_ (1912) and _Tricks of the Trade_ (1917) are amusing parodies
+and, what is more, excellent criticism. He edited _The New Statesman_
+for a while and founded _The London Mercury_ (a monthly of which he is
+editor) in November, 1919. Under the pseudonym "Solomon Eagle" he
+wrote a page of literary criticism every week for six years, many of
+these papers being collected in his volume, _Books in General_ (1919).
+
+His original poetry is intellectual but simple, sometimes metaphysical
+and always interesting technically in its fluent and variable rhythms.
+A collection of his best verse up to 1919 was published under the
+title, _Poems: First Series_.
+
+
+A HOUSE
+
+    Now very quietly, and rather mournfully,
+      In clouds of hyacinth the sun retires,
+    And all the stubble-fields that were so warm to him
+      Keep but in memory their borrowed fires.
+
+    And I, the traveller, break, still unsatisfied,
+      From that faint exquisite celestial strand,
+    And turn and see again the only dwelling-place
+      In this wide wilderness of darkening land.
+
+    The house, that house, O now what change has come to it.
+      Its crude red-brick façade, its roof of slate;
+    What imperceptible swift hand has given it
+      A new, a wonderful, a queenly state?
+
+    No hand has altered it, that parallelogram,
+      So inharmonious, so ill-arranged;
+    That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was;
+      No, it is not that any line has changed.
+
+    Only that loneliness is now accentuate
+      And, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave,
+    This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again,
+      And all man's energies seem very brave.
+
+    And this mean edifice, which some dull architect
+      Built for an ignorant earth-turning hind,
+    Takes on the quality of that magnificent
+      Unshakable dauntlessness of human kind.
+
+    Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be,
+      Yet imperturbable that house will rest,
+    Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny,
+      Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast.
+
+    Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniac
+      May howl their menaces, and hail descend:
+    Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly,
+      Not even scornfully, and wait the end.
+
+    And all a universe of nameless messengers
+      From unknown distances may whisper fear,
+    And it will imitate immortal permanence,
+      And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.
+
+    It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too,
+      When there is none to watch, no alien eyes
+    To watch its ugliness assume a majesty
+      From this great solitude of evening skies.
+
+    So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around,
+      While life remains to it prepared to outface
+    Whatever awful unconjectured mysteries
+      May hide and wait for it in time and space.
+
+
+
+
+_Lascelles Abercrombie_
+
+
+Lascelles Abercrombie was born in 1884. Like Masefield, he gained his
+reputation rapidly; totally unknown until 1909, upon the publication
+of _Interludes and Poems_, he was recognized as one of the greatest
+metaphysical poets of his period. _Emblems of Love_ (1912), the ripest
+collection of his blank verse dialogues, justified the enthusiasm of
+his admirers.
+
+Many of Abercrombie's poems, the best of which are too long to quote,
+are founded on scriptural themes, but his blank verse is not biblical
+either in mood or manner. It is the undercurrent rather than the
+surface of his verse which moves with a strong religious conviction.
+Abercrombie's images are daring and brilliant; his lines, sometimes
+too closely packed, glow with a dazzling intensity that is warmly
+spiritual and fervently human.
+
+
+FROM "VASHTI"
+
+    What thing shall be held up to woman's beauty?
+    Where are the bounds of it? Yea, what is all
+    The world, but an awning scaffolded amid
+    The waste perilous Eternity, to lodge
+    This Heaven-wander'd princess, woman's beauty?
+    The East and West kneel down to thee, the North
+    And South; and all for thee their shoulders bear
+    The load of fourfold space. As yellow morn
+    Runs on the slippery waves of the spread sea,
+    Thy feet are on the griefs and joys of men
+    That sheen to be thy causey. Out of tears
+    Indeed, and blitheness, murder and lust and love,
+    Whatever has been passionate in clay,
+    Thy flesh was tempered. Behold in thy body
+    The yearnings of all men measured and told,
+    Insatiate endless agonies of desire
+    Given thy flesh, the meaning of thy shape!
+    What beauty is there, but thou makest it?
+    How is earth good to look on, woods and fields,
+    The season's garden, and the courageous hills,
+    All this green raft of earth moored in the seas?
+    The manner of the sun to ride the air,
+    The stars God has imagined for the night?
+    What's this behind them, that we cannot near,
+    Secret still on the point of being blabbed,
+    The ghost in the world that flies from being named?
+    Where do they get their beauty from, all these?
+    They do but glaze a lantern lit for man,
+    And woman's beauty is the flame therein.
+
+
+SONG
+
+(_From "Judith"_)
+
+    Balkis was in her marble town,
+    And shadow over the world came down.
+    Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,
+    That all day dazzled eyes to tears,
+    Turned from being white-golden flame,
+    And like the deep-sea blue became.
+    Balkis into her garden went;
+    Her spirit was in discontent
+    Like a torch in restless air.
+    Joylessly she wandered there,
+    And saw her city's azure white
+    Lying under the great night,
+    Beautiful as the memory
+    Of a worshipping world would be
+    In the mind of a god, in the hour
+    When he must kill his outward power;
+    And, coming to a pool where trees
+    Grew in double greeneries,
+    Saw herself, as she went by
+    The water, walking beautifully,
+    And saw the stars shine in the glance
+    Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance
+    Passing, pale and wonderful,
+    Across the night that filled the pool.
+    And cruel was the grief that played
+    With the queen's spirit; and she said:
+    "What do I here, reigning alone?
+    For to be unloved is to be alone.
+    There is no man in all my land
+    Dare my longing understand;
+    The whole folk like a peasant bows
+    Lest its look should meet my brows
+    And be harmed by this beauty of mine.
+    I burn their brains as I were sign
+    Of God's beautiful anger sent
+    To master them with punishment
+    Of beauty that must pour distress
+    On hearts grown dark with ugliness.
+    But it is I am the punisht one.
+    Is there no man, is there none,
+    In whom my beauty will but move
+    The lust of a delighted love;
+    In whom some spirit of God so thrives
+    That we may wed our lonely lives.
+    Is there no man, is there none?"--
+    She said, "I will go to Solomon."
+
+
+
+
+_James Elroy Flecker_
+
+
+Another remarkable poet whose early death was a blow to English
+literature, James Elroy Flecker, was born in London, November 5, 1884.
+Possibly due to his low vitality, Flecker found little to interest him
+but a classical reaction against realism in verse, a delight in verbal
+craftsmanship, and a passion for technical perfection--especially the
+deliberate technique of the French Parnassians whom he worshipped.
+Flecker was opposed to any art that was emotional or that "taught"
+anything. "The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the soul
+of man, but to make it worth saving."
+
+The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more personal and
+romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed him at Davos Platz,
+Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him from an Olympian disinterest
+to a deep concern with life and death. He passionately denied that he
+was weary of living "as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting
+higher flights of song when his singing ceased altogether.
+
+His two colorful volumes are _The Golden Journey to Samarkand_ (1913)
+and _The Old Ships_ (1915).
+
+
+THE OLD SHIPS
+
+    I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
+    Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
+    With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
+    For Famagusta and the hidden sun
+    That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
+    And all those ships were certainly so old--
+    Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
+    Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
+    The pirate Genoese
+    Hell-raked them till they rolled
+    Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
+    But now through friendly seas they softly run,
+    Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
+    Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
+
+    But I have seen,
+    Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
+    And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,
+    A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
+    And, wonder's breath indrawn,
+    Thought I--who knows--who knows--but in that same
+    (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
+    --Stern painted brighter blue--)
+    That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
+    (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
+    From Troy's doom-crimson shore,
+    And with great lies about his wooden horse
+    Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
+
+    It was so old a ship--who knows, who knows?
+    --And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
+    To see the mast burst open with a rose,
+    And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
+
+
+
+
+_D. H. Lawrence_
+
+
+David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most
+psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging
+from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism,
+is seen even in his prose works--particularly in his short stories,
+_The Prussian Officer_ (1917), his analytical _Sons and Lovers_
+(1913), and the rhapsodic novel, _The Rainbow_ (1915).
+
+As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions; his
+passion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, which
+sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But within his
+range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most notable volumes of
+poetry are _Amores_ (1916), _Look! We Have Come Through!_ (1918), and
+_New Poems_ (1920).
+
+
+PEOPLE
+
+    The great gold apples of light
+    Hang from the street's long bough
+        Dripping their light
+    On the faces that drift below,
+    On the faces that drift and blow
+    Down the night-time, out of sight
+        In the wind's sad sough.
+
+    The ripeness of these apples of night
+    Distilling over me
+        Makes sickening the white
+    Ghost-flux of faces that hie
+    Them endlessly, endlessly by
+    Without meaning or reason why
+        They ever should be.
+
+
+PIANO
+
+    Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
+    Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
+    A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the
+          tingling strings
+    And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who
+          smiles as she sings.
+
+    In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
+    Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
+    To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
+    And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
+
+    So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
+    With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
+    Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
+    Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
+
+
+
+
+_John Freeman_
+
+
+John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes of
+pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive are _Stone
+Trees_ (1916) and _Memories of Childhood_ (1919).
+
+
+STONE TREES
+
+    Last night a sword-light in the sky
+    Flashed a swift terror on the dark.
+    In that sharp light the fields did lie
+    Naked and stone-like; each tree stood
+    Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.
+          Far off the wood
+    With darkness ridged the riven dark.
+
+    And cows astonished stared with fear,
+    And sheep crept to the knees of cows,
+    And conies to their burrows slid,
+    And rooks were still in rigid boughs,
+    And all things else were still or hid.
+          From all the wood
+    Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.
+
+    In that cold trance the earth was held
+    It seemed an age, or time was nought.
+    Sure never from that stone-like field
+    Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill
+    Grey granite trees was music wrought.
+          In all the wood
+    Even the tall poplar hung stone still.
+
+    It seemed an age, or time was none ...
+    Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep
+    And shivered, and the trees of stone
+    Bent and sighed in the gusty wind,
+    And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.
+          Far off the wood
+    Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.
+
+    From all the wood came no brave bird,
+    No song broke through the close-fall'n night,
+    Nor any sound from cowering herd:
+    Only a dog's long lonely howl
+    When from the window poured pale light.
+          And from the wood
+    The hoot came ghostly of the owl.
+
+
+
+
+_Shane Leslie_
+
+
+Shane Leslie, the only surviving son of Sir John Leslie, was born at
+Swan Park, Monaghan, Ireland, in 1886 and was educated at Eton and the
+University of Paris. He worked for a time among the Irish poor and was
+deeply interested in the Celtic revival. During the greater part of a
+year he lectured in the United States, marrying an American, Marjorie
+Ide.
+
+Leslie has been editor of _The Dublin Review_ since 1916. He is the
+author of several volumes on Irish political matters as well as _The
+End of a Chapter_ and _Verses in Peace and War_.
+
+
+FLEET STREET
+
+    I never see the newsboys run
+      Amid the whirling street,
+      With swift untiring feet,
+    To cry the latest venture done,
+    But I expect one day to hear
+      Them cry the crack of doom
+      And risings from the tomb,
+    With great Archangel Michael near;
+    And see them running from the Fleet
+      As messengers of God,
+      With Heaven's tidings shod
+    About their brave unwearied feet.
+
+
+THE PATER OF THE CANNON
+
+    Father of the thunder,
+      Flinger of the flame,
+    Searing stars asunder,
+      _Hallowed be Thy Name!_
+
+    By the sweet-sung quiring
+      Sister bullets hum,
+    By our fiercest firing,
+      _May Thy Kingdom come!_
+
+    By Thy strong apostle
+      Of the Maxim gun,
+    By his pentecostal
+      Flame, _Thy Will be done!_
+
+    Give us, Lord, good feeding
+      To Thy battles sped--
+    Flesh, white grained and bleeding,
+      _Give for daily bread!_
+
+
+
+
+_Frances Cornford_
+
+
+The daughter of Francis Darwin, third son of Charles Darwin, Mrs.
+Frances Macdonald Cornford, whose husband is a Fellow and Lecturer of
+Trinity College, was born in 1886. She has published three volumes of
+unaffected lyrical verse, the most recent of which, _Spring Morning_,
+was brought out by The Poetry Bookshop in 1915.
+
+
+PREËXISTENCE
+
+    I laid me down upon the shore
+      And dreamed a little space;
+    I heard the great waves break and roar;
+      The sun was on my face.
+
+    My idle hands and fingers brown
+      Played with the pebbles grey;
+    The waves came up, the waves went down,
+      Most thundering and gay.
+
+    The pebbles, they were smooth and round
+      And warm upon my hands,
+    Like little people I had found
+      Sitting among the sands.
+
+    The grains of sand so shining-small
+      Soft through my fingers ran;
+    The sun shone down upon it all,
+      And so my dream began:
+
+    How all of this had been before,
+      How ages far away
+    I lay on some forgotten shore
+      As here I lie to-day.
+
+    The waves came shining up the sands,
+      As here to-day they shine;
+    And in my pre-pelasgian hands
+      The sand was warm and fine.
+
+    I have forgotten whence I came,
+      Or what my home might be,
+    Or by what strange and savage name
+      I called that thundering sea.
+
+    I only know the sun shone down
+      As still it shines to-day,
+    And in my fingers long and brown
+      The little pebbles lay.
+
+
+
+
+_Anna Wickham_
+
+
+Anna Wickham, one of the most individual of the younger women-poets,
+has published two distinctive volumes, _The Contemplative Quarry_
+(1915) and _The Man with a Hammer_ (1916).
+
+
+THE SINGER
+
+    If I had peace to sit and sing,
+    Then I could make a lovely thing;
+    But I am stung with goads and whips,
+    So I build songs like iron ships.
+
+    Let it be something for my song,
+    If it is sometimes swift and strong.
+
+
+REALITY
+
+    Only a starveling singer seeks
+    The stuff of songs among the Greeks.
+    Juno is old,
+    Jove's loves are cold;
+    Tales over-told.
+    By a new risen Attic stream
+    A mortal singer dreamed a dream.
+    Fixed he not Fancy's habitation,
+    Nor set in bonds Imagination.
+    There are new waters, and a new Humanity.
+    For all old myths give us the dream to be.
+    We are outwearied with Persephone;
+    Rather than her, we'll sing Reality.
+
+
+SONG
+
+    I was so chill, and overworn, and sad,
+    To be a lady was the only joy I had.
+    I walked the street as silent as a mouse,
+    Buying fine clothes, and fittings for the house.
+
+    But since I saw my love
+    I wear a simple dress,
+    And happily I move
+    Forgetting weariness.
+
+
+
+
+_Siegfried Sassoon_
+
+
+Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, the poet whom Masefield hailed as "one of
+England's most brilliant rising stars," was born September 8, 1886. He
+was educated at Marlborough and Clare College, Cambridge, and was a
+captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. He fought three times in France,
+once in Palestine, winning the Military Cross for bringing in wounded
+on the battlefield.
+
+His poetry divides itself sharply in two moods--the lyric and the
+ironic. His early lilting poems were without significance or
+individuality. But with _The Old Huntsman_ (1917) Sassoon found his
+own idiom, and became one of the leading younger poets upon the
+appearance of this striking volume. The first poem, a long monologue
+evidently inspired by Masefield, gave little evidence of what was to
+come. Immediately following it, however, came a series of war poems,
+undisguised in their tragedy and bitterness. Every line of these
+quivering stanzas bore the mark of a sensitive and outraged nature;
+there was scarcely a phrase that did not protest against the
+"glorification" and false glamour of war.
+
+_Counter-Attack_ appeared in 1918. In this volume Sassoon turned
+entirely from an ordered loveliness to the gigantic brutality of war.
+At heart a lyric idealist, the bloody years intensified and twisted
+his tenderness till what was stubborn and satiric in him forced its
+way to the top. In _Counter-Attack_ Sassoon found his angry outlet.
+Most of these poems are choked with passion; many of them are torn
+out, roots and all, from the very core of an intense conviction; they
+rush on, not so much because of the poet's art but almost in spite of
+it. A suave utterance, a neatly-joined structure would be out of place
+and even inexcusable in poems like "The Rear-Guard," "To Any Dead
+Officer," "Does It Matter?"--verses that are composed of love, fever
+and indignation.
+
+Can Sassoon see nothing glorious or uplifting in war? His friend,
+Robert Nichols, another poet and soldier, speaks for him in a preface.
+"Let no one ever," Nichols quotes Sassoon as saying, "from henceforth
+say one word in any way countenancing war. It is dangerous even to
+speak of how here and there the individual may gain some hardship of
+soul by it. For war is hell, and those who institute it are criminals.
+Were there even anything to say for it, it should not be said; for its
+spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages...." Nichols
+adds his approval to these sentences, saying, "For myself, this is the
+truth. War does not ennoble, it degrades."
+
+Early in 1920 Sassoon visited America. At the same time he brought out
+his _Picture Show_ (1920), a vigorous answer to those who feared that
+Sassoon had "written himself out" or had begun to burn away in his own
+fire. Had Rupert Brooke lived, he might have written many of these
+lacerated but somehow exalted lines. Sassoon's three volumes are the
+most vital and unsparing records of the war we have had. They
+synthesize in poetry what Barbusse's _Under Fire_ spreads out in
+panoramic prose.
+
+
+TO VICTORY
+
+    Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,
+    Not in the woeful crimson of men slain,
+    But shining as a garden; come with the streaming
+    Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.
+
+    I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,
+    Radiance through living roses, spires of green,
+    Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood,
+    Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.
+
+    I am not sad; only I long for lustre,--
+    Tired of the greys and browns and leafless ash.
+    I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers,
+    Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.
+
+    Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,
+    Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;
+    Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness,
+    When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted voice.
+
+
+DREAMERS
+
+    Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,
+      Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
+    In the great hour of destiny they stand,
+      Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
+    Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
+      Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
+    Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
+      They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
+
+    I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
+      And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
+    Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
+      And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
+    Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
+      And going to the office in the train.
+
+
+THE REAR-GUARD
+
+    Groping along the tunnel, step by step,
+    He winked his prying torch with patching glare
+    From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
+
+    Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,
+    A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;
+    And he, exploring fifty feet below
+    The rosy gloom of battle overhead.
+
+    Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lie
+    Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,
+    And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.
+    "I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.
+    "God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)
+    "Get up and guide me through this stinking place."
+    Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,
+    And flashed his beam across the livid face
+    Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
+    Agony dying hard ten days before;
+    And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.
+    Alone he staggered on until he found
+    Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair
+    To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
+    Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
+    At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,
+    He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,
+    Unloading hell behind him step by step.
+
+
+THRUSHES
+
+    Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,
+    Whose voices make the emptiness of light
+    A windy palace. Quavering from the brim
+    Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,
+    They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing
+    Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof
+    Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;
+    Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;
+    Who hears the cry of God in everything,
+    And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
+
+
+AFTERMATH
+
+    _Have you forgotten yet?..._
+    For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
+    Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:
+    And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
+    Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man
+          reprieved to go,
+    Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
+    _But the past is just the same,--and War's a bloody game....
+    Have you forgotten yet?...
+    Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._
+
+    Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,--
+    The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled
+          sandbags on parapets?
+    Do you remember the rats; and the stench
+    Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,--
+    And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
+    Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"
+
+    Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,--
+    And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
+    As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
+    Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
+    With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey
+    Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
+
+    _Have you forgotten yet?...
+    Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll
+          never forget._
+
+
+
+
+_Rupert Brooke_
+
+
+Possibly the most famous of the Georgians, Rupert Brooke, was born at
+Rugby in August, 1887, his father being assistant master at the
+school. As a youth, Brooke was keenly interested in all forms of
+athletics; playing cricket, football, tennis, and swimming as well as
+most professionals. He was six feet tall, his finely molded head
+topped with a crown of loose hair of lively brown; "a golden young
+Apollo," said Edward Thomas. Another friend of his wrote, "to look at,
+he was part of the youth of the world. He was one of the handsomest
+Englishmen of his time." His beauty overstressed somewhat his
+naturally romantic disposition; his early poems are a blend of
+delight in the splendor of actuality and disillusion in a loveliness
+that dies. The shadow of John Donne lies over his pages.
+
+This occasional cynicism was purged, when after several years of
+travel (he had been to Germany, Italy and Honolulu) the war came,
+turning Brooke away from
+
+      "A world grown old and cold and weary ...
+    And half men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
+      And all the little emptiness of love."
+
+Brooke enlisted with a relief that was like a rebirth; he sought a new
+energy in the struggle "where the worst friend and enemy is but
+Death." After seeing service in Belgium, 1914, he spent the following
+winter in a training-camp in Dorsetshire and sailed with the British
+Mediterranean Expeditionary Force in February, 1915, to take part in
+the unfortunate Dardenelles Campaign.
+
+Brooke never reached his destination. He died of blood-poison at
+Skyros, April 23, 1915. His early death was one of England's great
+literary losses; Lascelles Abercrombie, W. W. Gibson (with both of
+whom he had been associated on the quarterly, _New Numbers_), Walter
+De la Mare, the Hon. Winston Spencer Churchill, and a host of others
+united to pay tribute to the most brilliant and passionate of the
+younger poets.
+
+Brooke's sonnet-sequence, _1914_ (from which "The Soldier" is taken),
+which, with prophetic irony, appeared a few weeks before his death,
+contains the accents of immortality. And "The Old Vicarage,
+Grantchester" (unfortunately too long to reprint in this volume), is
+fully as characteristic of the lighter and more playful side of
+Brooke's temperament. Both these phases are combined in "The Great
+Lover," of which Abercrombie has written, "It is life he loves, and
+not in any abstract sense, but all the infinite little familiar
+details of life, remembered and catalogued with delightful zest."
+
+
+THE GREAT LOVER[19]
+
+    I have been so great a lover: filled my days
+    So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
+    The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
+    Desire illimitable, and still content,
+    And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
+    For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
+    Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
+    Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
+    Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
+    My night shall be remembered for a star
+    That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
+    Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
+    Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
+    High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
+    The inenarrable godhead of delight?
+    Love is a flame;--we have beaconed the world's night.
+    A city:--and we have built it, these and I.
+    An emperor:--we have taught the world to die.
+    So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
+    And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
+    And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
+    Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
+    And set them as a banner, that men may know,
+    To dare the generations, burn, and blow
+    Out on; the wind of Time, shining and streaming....
+    These I have loved:
+          White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
+    Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
+    Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
+    Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
+    Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
+    And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
+    And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
+    Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
+    Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
+    Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
+    Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
+    Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
+    Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
+    The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
+    The good smell of old clothes; and other such--
+    The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
+    Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
+    About dead leaves and last year's ferns....
+                                        Dear names,
+    And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;
+    Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
+    Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:
+    Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
+    Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
+    Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
+    That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
+    And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
+    Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
+    Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
+    And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
+    And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;--
+    All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.
+    Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
+    Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
+    To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
+    They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
+    Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
+    And sacramented covenant to the dust.
+    --Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
+    And give what's left of love again, and make
+    New friends, now strangers....
+                                  But the best I've known,
+    Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
+    About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
+    Of living men, and dies.
+                                  Nothing remains.
+
+    O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
+    This one last gift I give: that after men
+    Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed
+    Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."
+
+
+DUST[20]
+
+    When the white flame in us is gone,
+      And we that lost the world's delight
+    Stiffen in darkness, left alone
+      To crumble in our separate night;
+
+    When your swift hair is quiet in death,
+      And through the lips corruption thrust
+    Has stilled the labour of my breath--
+      When we are dust, when we are dust!--
+
+    Not dead, not undesirous yet,
+      Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
+    We'll ride the air, and shine and flit,
+      Around the places where we died,
+
+    And dance as dust before the sun,
+      And light of foot, and unconfined,
+    Hurry from road to road, and run
+      About the errands of the wind.
+
+    And every mote, on earth or air,
+      Will speed and gleam, down later days,
+    And like a secret pilgrim fare
+      By eager and invisible ways,
+
+    Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
+      Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
+    One mote of all the dust that's I
+      Shall meet one atom that was you.
+
+    Then in some garden hushed from wind,
+      Warm in a sunset's afterglow,
+    The lovers in the flowers will find
+      A sweet and strange unquiet grow
+
+    Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
+      So high a beauty in the air,
+    And such a light, and such a quiring,
+      And such a radiant ecstasy there,
+
+    They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
+      Or out of earth, or in the height,
+    Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
+      Or two that pass, in light, to light,
+
+    Out of the garden higher, higher ...
+      But in that instant they shall learn
+    The shattering fury of our fire,
+      And the weak passionless hearts will burn
+
+    And faint in that amazing glow,
+      Until the darkness close above;
+    And they will know--poor fools, they'll know!--
+      One moment, what it is to love.
+
+
+THE SOLDIER[21]
+
+    If I should die, think only this of me;
+      That there's some corner of a foreign field
+    That is for ever England. There shall be
+      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
+    A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
+      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
+    A body of England's breathing English air,
+      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
+
+    And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
+      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
+        Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
+    Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
+      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
+        In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[19] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+[20] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+[21] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+
+
+
+_Winifred M. Letts_
+
+
+Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work
+concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in
+her immediate surroundings. Her _Songs from Leinster_ (1913) is her
+most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple
+people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door
+sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure
+and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic
+kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books
+for children, a later volume of _Poems of the War_ and, during the
+conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.
+
+
+GRANDEUR
+
+    Poor Mary Byrne is dead,
+      An' all the world may see
+    Where she lies upon her bed
+      Just as fine as quality.
+
+    She lies there still and white,
+      With candles either hand
+    That'll guard her through the night:
+      Sure she never was so grand.
+
+    She holds her rosary,
+      Her hands clasped on her breast.
+    Just as dacint as can be
+      In the habit she's been dressed.
+
+    In life her hands were red
+      With every sort of toil,
+    But they're white now she is dead,
+      An' they've sorra mark of soil.
+
+    The neighbours come and go,
+      They kneel to say a prayer,
+    I wish herself could know
+      Of the way she's lyin' there.
+
+    It was work from morn till night,
+      And hard she earned her bread:
+    But I'm thinking she's a right
+      To be aisy now she's dead.
+
+    When other girls were gay,
+      At wedding or at fair,
+    She'd be toiling all the day,
+      Not a minyit could she spare.
+
+    An' no one missed her face,
+      Or sought her in a crowd,
+    But to-day they throng the place
+      Just to see her in her shroud.
+
+    The creature in her life
+      Drew trouble with each breath;
+    She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"--
+      But she's lovely in her death.
+
+    I wish the dead could see
+      The splendour of a wake,
+    For it's proud herself would be
+      Of the keening that they make.
+
+    Och! little Mary Byrne,
+      You welcome every guest,
+    Is it now you take your turn
+      To be merry with the rest?
+
+    I'm thinking you'd be glad,
+      Though the angels make your bed,
+    Could you see the care we've had
+      To respect you--now you're dead.
+
+
+THE SPIRES OF OXFORD
+
+    I saw the spires of Oxford
+      As I was passing by,
+    The grey spires of Oxford
+      Against the pearl-grey sky.
+    My heart was with the Oxford men
+      Who went abroad to die.
+
+    The years go fast in Oxford,
+      The golden years and gay,
+    The hoary Colleges look down
+      On careless boys at play.
+    But when the bugles sounded war
+      They put their games away.
+
+    They left the peaceful river,
+      The cricket-field, the quad,
+    The shaven lawns of Oxford,
+      To seek a bloody sod--
+    They gave their merry youth away
+      For country and for God.
+
+    God rest you, happy gentlemen,
+      Who laid your good lives down,
+    Who took the khaki and the gun
+      Instead of cap and gown.
+    God bring you to a fairer place
+      Than even Oxford town.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Brett Young_
+
+
+Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet, and who has
+been called, by _The Manchester Guardian_, "one of the promising
+evangelists of contemporary poetry," has written much that is both
+graceful and grave. There is music and a message in his lines that
+seem to have as their motto: "Trust in the true and fiery spirit of
+Man." Best known as a writer of prose, his most prominent works are
+_Marching on Tanga_ and _The Crescent Moon_.
+
+Brett Young's _Five Degrees South_ (1917) and his _Poems 1916-18_
+(1919) contain the best of his verse.
+
+
+LOCHANILAUN
+
+    This is the image of my last content:
+    My soul shall be a little lonely lake,
+    So hidden that no shadow of man may break
+    The folding of its mountain battlement;
+    Only the beautiful and innocent
+    Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake
+    Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake
+    Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.
+    For there shall be no terror in the night
+    When stars that I have loved are born in me,
+    And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;
+    But this shall be the end of my delight:--
+    That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see
+    Your image in the mirrored beauty there.
+
+
+
+
+_F. S. Flint_
+
+
+Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry, F. S. Flint has
+published several volumes of original imagist poems, besides having
+translated works of Verhaeren and Jean de Bosschere.
+
+
+LONDON
+
+    London, my beautiful,
+    it is not the sunset
+    nor the pale green sky
+    shimmering through the curtain
+    of the silver birch,
+    nor the quietness;
+    it is not the hopping
+    of birds
+    upon the lawn,
+    nor the darkness
+    stealing over all things
+    that moves me.
+
+    But as the moon creeps slowly
+    over the tree-tops
+    among the stars,
+    I think of her
+    and the glow her passing
+    sheds on men.
+
+    London, my beautiful,
+    I will climb
+    into the branches
+    to the moonlit tree-tops,
+    that my blood may be cooled
+    by the wind.
+
+
+
+
+_Edith Sitwell_
+
+
+Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is the sister
+of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In 1914 she came to
+London and has devoted herself to literature ever since, having edited
+the various anthologies of _Wheels_ since 1916. Her first book, _The
+Mother and Other Poems_ (1915), contains some of her best work,
+although _Clowns' Houses_ (1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a
+sharper turn of mind.
+
+
+THE WEB OF EROS
+
+    Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
+    The fire and splendour of the ancient world;
+    The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair;
+    The songs that turned to gold the evening air
+    When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.
+    The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.
+    The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth;
+    The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth
+    To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower
+    That came to Danaë in her brazen tower....
+    Within your magic web of hair lies furled
+    The fire and splendour of the ancient world.
+
+
+INTERLUDE
+
+    Amid this hot green glowing gloom
+    A word falls with a raindrop's boom....
+
+    Like baskets of ripe fruit in air
+    The bird-songs seem, suspended where
+
+    Those goldfinches--the ripe warm lights
+    Peck slyly at them--take quick flights.
+
+    My feet are feathered like a bird
+    Among the shadows scarcely heard;
+
+    I bring you branches green with dew
+    And fruits that you may crown anew
+
+    Your whirring waspish-gilded hair
+    Amid this cornucopia--
+
+    Until your warm lips bear the stains
+    And bird-blood leap within your veins.
+
+
+
+
+_F. W. Harvey_
+
+
+Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German
+prison camp at Gütersloh when he wrote _The Bugler_, one of the
+isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse
+is haphazard and journalistic, although _Gloucestershire Friends_
+contains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry.
+
+
+THE BUGLER
+
+    God dreamed a man;
+    Then, having firmly shut
+    Life like a precious metal in his fist
+    Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
+    Our various divinity and sin.
+    For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,
+    And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut
+    Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
+    Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
+    Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast
+    That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
+    Did with it--simply nothing. (Here again
+    Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
+    Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
+    Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
+
+    For me, I do but bear within my hand
+    (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)
+    A simple bugle such as may awaken
+    With one high morning note a drowsing man:
+    That wheresoe'er within my motherland
+    That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide
+    Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,
+    Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.
+
+
+
+
+_T. P. Cameron Wilson_
+
+
+"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was
+educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several
+articles under the pseudonym _Tipuca_, a euphonic combination of the
+first three initials of his name.
+
+When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead,
+Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a
+captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23,
+1918, at the age of 29.
+
+
+SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE
+
+    They left the fury of the fight,
+      And they were very tired.
+    The gates of Heaven were open quite,
+      Unguarded and unwired.
+    There was no sound of any gun,
+      The land was still and green;
+    Wide hills lay silent in the sun,
+      Blue valleys slept between.
+
+    They saw far-off a little wood
+      Stand up against the sky.
+    Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;
+      Some lazy cows went by ...
+    There were some rooks sailed overhead,
+      And once a church-bell pealed.
+    "_God! but it's England_," someone said,
+      "_And there's a cricket-field!_"
+
+
+
+
+_W. J. Turner_
+
+
+W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his
+appearance in _Georgian Poetry 1916-17_, has written no few delicate
+and fanciful poems. _The Hunter_ (1916) and _The Dark Wind_ (1918)
+both contain many verses as moving and musical as his splendid lines
+on "Death," a poem which is unfortunately too long to quote.
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+    When I was but thirteen or so
+      I went into a golden land,
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Took me by the hand.
+
+    My father died, my brother too,
+      They passed like fleeting dreams,
+    I stood where Popocatapetl
+      In the sunlight gleams.
+
+    I dimly heard the master's voice
+      And boys far-off at play,--
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Had stolen me away.
+
+    I walked in a great golden dream
+      To and fro from school--
+    Shining Popocatapetl
+      The dusty streets did rule.
+
+    I walked home with a gold dark boy
+      And never a word I'd say,
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Had taken my speech away.
+
+    I gazed entranced upon his face
+      Fairer than any flower--
+    O shining Popocatapetl
+      It was thy magic hour:
+
+    The houses, people, traffic seemed
+      Thin fading dreams by day;
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
+      They had stolen my soul away!
+
+
+
+
+_Patrick MacGill_
+
+
+Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of
+poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he
+worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming
+one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer
+from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his
+bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote
+several vivid novels (_The Rat Pit_ is an unforgettable document) and
+the tragedy-crammed _Songs of the Dead End_. He joined the editorial
+staff of _The Daily Express_ in 1911; was in the British army during
+the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his _Soldier Songs_
+during the conflict.
+
+
+BY-THE-WAY
+
+    These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which
+    I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch,
+    On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.
+
+    Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go,
+    Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so,
+    For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!
+
+    Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,
+    Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies,
+    Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.
+
+    Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes,
+    Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,
+    Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.
+
+    These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,
+    Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put,
+    Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.
+
+
+DEATH AND THE FAIRIES
+
+    Before I joined the Army
+      I lived in Donegal,
+    Where every night the Fairies
+      Would hold their carnival.
+
+    But now I'm out in Flanders,
+      Where men like wheat-ears fall,
+    And it's Death and not the Fairies
+      Who is holding carnival.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Ledwidge_
+
+
+Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891.
+His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a
+miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in
+hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal
+on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26
+years.
+
+Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of
+color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.
+
+
+AN EVENING IN ENGLAND
+
+    From its blue vase the rose of evening drops;
+    Upon the streams its petals float away.
+    The hills all blue with distance hide their tops
+    In the dim silence falling on the grey.
+    A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray
+    Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom;
+    A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.
+
+    Night tells her rosary of stars full soon,
+    They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.
+    Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon
+    Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease
+    From all her changes which have stirred the seas.
+    Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.
+    I and a marsh bird only make a wail.
+
+
+EVENING CLOUDS
+
+    A little flock of clouds go down to rest
+    In some blue corner off the moon's highway,
+    With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West
+    To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array,
+    Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons
+    Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made
+    A little England full of lovely noons,
+    Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.
+
+    Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22]
+    Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,
+    What he loved most; for late I roamed a while
+    Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed;
+    And they remember him with beauty caught
+    From old desires of Oriental Spring
+    Heard in his heart with singing overwrought;
+    And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page
+194.)
+
+
+
+
+_Irene Rutherford McLeod_
+
+
+Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three
+volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may
+be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918).
+The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Sélincourt, to whom she was
+married in 1919.
+
+
+"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"
+
+    Is love, then, so simple my dear?
+      The opening of a door,
+    And seeing all things clear?
+      I did not know before.
+
+    I had thought it unrest and desire
+      Soaring only to fall,
+    Annihilation and fire:
+      It is not so at all.
+
+    I feel no desperate will,
+      But I think I understand
+    Many things, as I sit quite still,
+      With Eternity in my hand.
+
+
+LONE DOG
+
+    I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
+    I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
+    I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
+    I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
+
+    I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
+    A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
+    Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
+    But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.
+
+    Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
+    Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
+    O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
+    Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
+
+
+
+
+_Richard Aldington_
+
+
+Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover
+College and London University. His first poems were published in
+England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and
+"H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of
+the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines
+put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_
+(1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in
+pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic
+but warmer and more humanly searching.
+
+
+PRELUDE
+
+    How could I love you more?
+    I would give up
+    Even that beauty I have loved too well
+    That I might love you better.
+
+    Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give--
+    I can but give you of my flesh and strength,
+    I can but give you these few passing days
+    And passionate words that, since our speech began,
+    All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.
+
+    I try to think of some one lovely gift
+    No lover yet in all the world has found;
+    I think: If the cold sombre gods
+    Were hot with love as I am
+    Could they not endow you with a star
+    And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?
+    Could they not give you all things that I lack?
+
+    You should have loved a god; I am but dust.
+    Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.
+
+
+IMAGES
+
+    I
+
+    Like a gondola of green scented fruits
+    Drifting along the dank canals of Venice,
+    You, O exquisite one,
+    Have entered into my desolate city.
+
+    II
+
+    The blue smoke leaps
+    Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
+    So my love leaps forth toward you,
+    Vanishes and is renewed.
+
+    III
+
+    A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky
+    When the sunset is faint vermilion
+    In the mist among the tree-boughs
+    Art thou to me, my beloved.
+
+    IV
+
+    A young beech tree on the edge of the forest
+    Stands still in the evening,
+    Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air
+    And seems to fear the stars--
+    So are you still and so tremble.
+
+    V
+
+    The red deer are high on the mountain,
+    They are beyond the last pine trees.
+    And my desires have run with them.
+
+    VI
+
+    The flower which the wind has shaken
+    Is soon filled again with rain;
+    So does my heart fill slowly with tears,
+    O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,
+    Until you return.
+
+
+AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM
+
+    I turn the page and read:
+    "I dream of silent verses where the rhyme
+    Glides noiseless as an oar."
+    The heavy musty air, the black desks,
+    The bent heads and the rustling noises
+    In the great dome
+    Vanish ...
+    And
+    The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,
+    The boat drifts over the lake shallows,
+    The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,
+    The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,
+    And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle
+    About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....
+
+
+
+
+_Edward Shanks_
+
+
+Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity
+College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and _belles lettres_ for
+several years for various English publications, and is at present
+assistant editor of _The London Mercury_. His _The Queen of China and
+Other Poems_ appeared late in 1919.
+
+
+COMPLAINT
+
+    When in the mines of dark and silent thought
+    Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there,
+    With heavy labour to the surface brought
+    That lie and mock me in the brighter air,
+    Poor ores from starvèd lodes of poverty,
+    Unfit for working or to be refined,
+    That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye,
+    I turn away from that base cave, the mind.
+    Yet had I but the power to crush the stone
+    There are strange metals hid in flakes therein,
+    Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone,
+    That only cunning, toilsome chemists win.
+    All this I know, and yet my chemistry
+    Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.
+
+
+
+
+_Osbert Sitwell_
+
+
+Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George
+Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became
+an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for
+various periods from 1914 to 1917.
+
+His first contributions appeared in _Wheels_ (an annual anthology of a
+few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and
+disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is
+strengthened by a reading of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_ (1920), where
+Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though
+his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against
+smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry
+has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.
+
+
+THE BLIND PEDLAR
+
+    I stand alone through each long day
+    Upon these pavers; cannot see
+    The wares spread out upon this tray
+    --For God has taken sight from me!
+
+    Many a time I've cursed the night
+    When I was born. My peering eyes
+    Have sought for but one ray of light
+    To pierce the darkness. When the skies
+
+    Rain down their first sweet April showers
+    On budding branches; when the morn
+    Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
+    I've cursed the night when I was born.
+
+    But now I thank God, and am glad
+    For what I cannot see this day
+    --The young men cripples, old, and sad,
+    With faces burnt and torn away;
+
+    Or those who, growing rich and old,
+    Have battened on the slaughter,
+    Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
+    Are creased in purple laughter!
+
+
+PROGRESS
+
+    The city's heat is like a leaden pall--
+    Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air
+    Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare
+    Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall
+    Black houses crush the creeping beggars down,
+    Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,
+    Of silver bodies bathing in a pool;
+    Or trees that whisper in some far, small town
+    Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold
+    Was merely metal, not a grave of mould
+    In which men bury all that's fine and fair.
+    When they could chase the jewelled butterfly
+    Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh
+    For all the future held so rich and rare;
+    When, though they knew it not, their baby cries
+    Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Nichols_
+
+
+Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first
+volume, _Invocations_ (1915), was published while he was at the front,
+Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at
+Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant
+in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by shell shock,
+visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. His _Ardours and
+Endurances_ (1917) is the most representative work of this poet,
+although his new volume, _The Flower of Flame_ (1920), shows a steady
+advance in power.
+
+
+NEARER
+
+    Nearer and ever nearer ...
+    My body, tired but tense,
+    Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure
+    And tremulous confidence.
+
+    Arms to have and to use them
+    And a soul to be made
+    Worthy, if not worthy;
+    If afraid, unafraid.
+
+    To endure for a little,
+    To endure and have done:
+    Men I love about me,
+    Over me the sun!
+
+    And should at last suddenly
+    Fly the speeding death,
+    The four great quarters of heaven
+    Receive this little breath.
+
+
+
+
+_Charles Hamilton Sorley_
+
+
+Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the
+younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at
+Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing
+his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the
+Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an
+immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In
+August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13,
+1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.
+
+Sorley left but one book, _Marlborough and Other Poems_. The verse
+contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired
+Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint,
+tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a boy of 20, distinguish his
+poetry.
+
+
+TWO SONNETS
+
+    I
+
+    Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.
+    Poets have whitened at your high renown.
+    We stand among the many millions who
+    Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.
+
+    You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried
+    To live as of your presence unaware.
+    But now in every road on every side
+    We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.
+
+    I think it like that signpost in my land
+    Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go
+    Upward, into the hills, on the right hand,
+    Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,
+    A homeless land and friendless, but a land
+    I did not know and that I wished to know.
+
+    II
+
+    Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
+    Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
+    A merciful putting away of what has been.
+
+    And this we know: Death is not Life effete,
+    Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen
+    So marvellous things know well the end not yet.
+
+    Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:
+    Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,
+    "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"
+    But a big blot has hid each yesterday
+    So poor, so manifestly incomplete.
+    And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,
+    Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet
+    And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.
+
+
+TO GERMANY
+
+    You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
+    And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
+    But gropers both, through fields of thought confined,
+    We stumble and we do not understand.
+    You only saw your future bigly planned,
+    And we the tapering paths of our own mind,
+    And in each other's dearest ways we stand,
+    And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
+
+    When it is peace, then we may view again
+    With new-won eyes each other's truer form
+    And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm
+    We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
+    When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
+    The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Graves_
+
+
+Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming
+musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sassoon and
+Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers who, roused by the war
+and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant
+new hymns of hate. Like Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm
+of fury and blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but,
+fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is
+violent, Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter, Graves is almost
+blithe.
+
+An unconquerable gayety rises from his _Fairies and Fusiliers_ (1917),
+a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. In _Country
+Sentiment_ (1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity.
+But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads
+and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.
+
+
+IT'S A QUEER TIME
+
+    It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
+    When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
+
+    One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
+    Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:
+    The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast--
+    No time to think--leave all--and off you go ...
+    To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
+    To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime--
+    Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"
+    When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
+    You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
+    And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay
+    In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
+    Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
+    You're back in the old sailor suit again.
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out--
+    A great roar--the trench shakes and falls about--
+    You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... _hullo_!
+    Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
+    Hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench--
+    Getting her pinafore all over grime.
+    Funny! because she died ten years ago!
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
+    Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,
+    You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
+    Even good Christians don't like passing straight
+    From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
+    To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
+    Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...
+            It's a queer time.
+
+
+A PINCH OF SALT
+
+    When a dream is born in you
+      With a sudden clamorous pain,
+    When you know the dream is true
+      And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
+    O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
+    You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
+
+    Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
+      Flirting the feathers of his tail.
+    When you seize at the salt-box,
+      Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
+    Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
+    They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
+
+    Poet, never chase the dream.
+      Laugh yourself, and turn away.
+    Mask your hunger; let it seem
+      Small matter if he come or stay;
+    But when he nestles in your hand at last,
+    Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
+
+
+I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?
+
+    Look at my knees,
+    That island rising from the steamy seas!
+    The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands
+    Are boats and barges anchored to the sands,
+    With mighty cliffs all round;
+    They're full of wine and riches from far lands....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+    I can make caves,
+    By lifting up the island and huge waves
+    And storms, and then with head and ears well under
+    Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder,
+    A bull-of-Bashan sound.
+    The seas run high and the boats split asunder....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+    The thin soap slips
+    And slithers like a shark under the ships.
+    My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect
+    Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked.
+    The soap slides round and round;
+    He's biting the old sailors, I expect....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+
+THE LAST POST
+
+    The bugler sent a call of high romance--
+    "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.
+    On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:
+    "God, if it's _this_ for me next time in France,
+    O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
+    Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
+    Dead in a row with other broken ones,
+    Lying so stiff and still under the sky--
+    Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..."
+    The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
+    Was blood about his head as he stood there.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX
+
+
+_Names of Authors are in Capitals. Titles of Poems are in Italics._
+
+ABERCROMBIE, LASCELLES, xxiv, 174-177
+
+"A. E.," xvii, 76-77
+
+_Aftermath_, 192
+
+ALDINGTON, RICHARD, 216-219
+
+_All-Souls_, 44
+
+_An Athlete Dying Young, To_, 38
+
+_An Old Fogey, To_, 45
+
+_Arab Love-Song, An_, 35
+
+_Astrologer's Song, An_, 66
+
+_At the British Museum_, 218
+
+_A Traveller, To_, 72
+
+AUSTIN, ALFRED, xii, 5, 27
+
+
+_Ballad of Hell, A_, 22
+
+_Ballad of London, A_, 69
+
+_Ballad of the Billycock, The_, 90
+
+_Barrel-Organ, The_, 154
+
+_Beautiful Lie the Dead_, 78
+
+_Beauty's a Flower_, 100
+
+_Before_, 11
+
+_Beg-Innish_, 95
+
+BELLOC, HILAIRE, 86-89
+
+BINYON, LAURENCE, 79-80
+
+_Birdcatcher, The_, 144
+
+_Blackbird, The_, 10
+
+_Blind Pedlar, The_, 220
+
+_Bowl of Roses, A_, 11
+
+BRIDGES, ROBERT, 5-7
+
+_Broken Song, A_, 99
+
+BROOKE, RUPERT, xxiii, 193-200
+
+_Bugler, The_, 208
+
+_By-the-Way_, 211
+
+
+CAMPBELL, JOSEPH, 165-166
+
+_Cap and Bells, The_, 54
+
+CHESSON, NORA (_see Nora Hopper_)
+
+CHESTERTON, G. K., xxiii, 110-119
+
+_Choice, The_, 131
+
+_Clair de Lune_, 102
+
+_Cock-Crow_, 138
+
+COLUM, PADRAIC, xvii, 162-165
+
+_Complaint_, 219
+
+_Connaught Lament, A_, 97
+
+_Consecration, A_, 126
+
+_Conundrum of the Workshops, The_, 63
+
+CORNFORD, FRANCES, 184-186
+
+
+_Daisy_,32
+
+_Dauber_, xxii, 128
+
+DAVIDSON, JOHN, 22-27
+
+DAVIES, W. H., xxiii, xxv, 83-86
+
+_Days Too Short_, 84
+
+DEANE, ANTHONY C., 89-93
+
+_Death and the Fairies_, 212
+
+DE LA MARE, WALTER, xxiii, 105-110
+
+_Donkey, The_, 119
+
+DOUGLAS, ALFRED, 80-81
+
+DOWSON, ERNEST, 73-76
+
+_Drake's Drum_, 49
+
+_Dream, A_, 79
+
+_Dreamers_, 190
+
+DRINKWATER, JOHN, xxiv, 170-171
+
+DUNSANY, EDWARD LORD, 133-136
+
+_Dust_,198
+
+_Dying-Swan, The_, 82
+
+
+_Epilogue_, 161
+
+_Epitaph_, 42
+
+_Epitaph, An_, 107
+
+_Estrangement_, 30
+
+_Eve_, 140
+
+_Evening Clouds_, 214
+
+_Evening in England, An_, 213
+
+_Everlasting Mercy, The_, xxii
+
+_Every Thing_, 146
+
+_Example, The_, 86
+
+
+_Fifty Faggots_,137
+
+FLECKER, JAMES ELROY, 178-179
+
+_Fleet Street_, 183
+
+FLINT, F. S., 205-206
+
+FREEMAN, JOHN, 181-182
+
+
+GEORGIANS, THE, xi, xxiii-xxiv
+
+_Germany, To_, 225
+
+GIBSON, W. W., xxiii, xxv, 119-125
+
+GILBERT, W. S., xiv
+
+_Going and Staying_, 4
+
+GORE-BOOTH, EVA, 98-99
+
+_Grandeur_, 201
+
+GRAVES, ROBERT, xxiii, 225-229
+
+_Great Breath, The_, 76
+
+_Great Lover, The_, 195
+
+_Green River, The_, 81
+
+_Gunga Din_, 57
+
+
+HARDY, THOMAS, xvi, 3-4
+
+HARVEY, F. W., 208
+
+HENLEY, W. E., xi, xv-xvii, 9-13
+
+_"Herod," Fragment from_, 78
+
+HINKSON, KATHARINE TYNAN, xvii, 43-45
+
+HODGSON, RALPH, xxiii, xxv, 139-144
+
+HOPPER, NORA, 97
+
+_House, A_, 172
+
+_House that Was, The_, 80
+
+HOUSMAN, A. E., xxv, 36-40
+
+HUEFFER, F. M., 102-105
+
+HYDE, DOUGLAS, xvii, 40-41
+
+
+_I am the Mountainy Singer_, 165
+
+_I Hear an Army_, 171
+
+_I Shall not Die for Thee_, 40
+
+_I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?_, 228
+
+_If I Should Ever Grow Rich_, 136
+
+_Images_, 217
+
+_Imagination_, 26
+
+_Impression du Matin_, 21
+
+_In Flanders Fields_, 101
+
+_Interlude_, 207
+
+_In the Mile End Road_, 42
+
+_In the Wood of Finvara_, 50
+
+_In Time of "The Breaking of Nations_," 3
+
+_Invictus_, 10
+
+"_Is Love, then, so simple_," 215
+
+_It's a Queer Time_, 226
+
+
+JACKSON, HOLBROOK, xiv-xv
+
+JOHNSON, LIONEL, xvii, 71-73
+
+JOYCE, JAMES, 171
+
+KETTLE, T. M., 149-150
+
+KIPLING, RUDYARD, xi, xx-xxi, 56-68
+
+_Lake Isle of Innisfree, The_, 53
+
+_Last Post, The_, 229
+
+LAWRENCE, D. H., xxiii, 179-181
+
+LEDWIDGE, FRANCIS, 213-214
+
+LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD, xv, 68-70
+
+_Lepanto_, 111
+
+LESLIE, SHANE, 183-184
+
+LETTS, W. M., 200-204
+
+LEVY, AMY, 41-43
+
+_Listeners, The_, 106
+
+_Lochanilaun_, 204
+
+_London_, 205
+
+_Lone Dog_, 215
+
+"_Loveliest of Trees_," 39
+
+
+MACCATHMHAOIL, SEOSAMH (_see Joseph Campbell_)
+
+MACGILL, PATRICK, 211-213
+
+MACLEOD, FIONA, 18-19
+
+MCLEOD, IRENE R., 215-216
+
+MCCRAE, JOHN, 101
+
+_Man He Killed, The_, 4
+
+_Margaritæ Sorori_, 12
+
+MASEFIELD, JOHN, xi, xxi-xxii, xxv, 125-132
+
+MEYNELL, ALICE, 16-17
+
+_Modern Beauty_, 51
+
+MONRO, HAROLD, 144-149
+
+_Moon, The_, 85
+
+MOORE, GEORGE, xviii
+
+MOORE, T. STURGE, 81-83
+
+_My Daughter Betty, To_, 150
+
+_Mystery, The_, 144
+
+_Mystic and Cavalier_, 71
+
+
+_Nearer_, 222
+
+NEWBOLT, HENRY, xxiv, 49-50
+
+NICHOLS, ROBERT, 222-223, 225
+
+_Nightingale near the House, The_, 145
+
+_Nightingales_, 7
+
+_Nod_, 109
+
+NOYES, ALFRED, xxiii, 150-162
+
+
+_Oaks of Glencree, To the_, 96
+
+_Ode_, 8
+
+_Ode in May_, 28
+
+_Old Ships, The_, 178
+
+_Old Song Resung, An_, 55
+
+_Old Susan_, 108
+
+_Old Woman, The_, 166
+
+_Old Woman of the Roads, An_, 164
+
+_Olivia, To_, 34
+
+_One in Bedlam, To_, 74
+
+O'NEILL, MOIRA, xvii, 99-100
+
+O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR, 8-9
+
+O'SULLIVAN, SEUMAS, 138-139
+
+
+_Pater of the Cannon, The_, 183
+
+_People_, 180
+
+PHILLIPS, STEPHEN, 77-79
+
+_Piano_, 180
+
+_Pinch of Salt, A_, 227
+
+_Plougher The_, 162
+
+_Praise_, 139
+
+_Prayer in Darkness, A_, 118
+
+_Preëxistence_, 184
+
+_Prelude_, 120
+
+_Prelude_, 216
+
+_Progress_, 221
+
+
+_Reality_, 186
+
+_Rear-Guard, The_, 190
+
+_Reciprocity_, 170
+
+_Regret_, 70
+
+_Requiem_, 16
+
+_Requiescat_, 20
+
+_Return, The_, 61
+
+_Reveillé_, 36
+
+_Romance_, 15
+
+_Romance_, 210
+
+_Rounding the Horn_, 128
+
+RUSSELL, GEORGE W. (_see "A. E."_)
+
+_Rustic Song, A_, 92
+
+
+SASSOON, SIEGFRIED, xxiii, 187-193, 225
+
+SEAMAN, OWEN, 45-48
+
+_Sea-Fever_, 127
+
+SHANKS, EDWARD, 219-220
+
+SHARP, WILLIAM (_see Fiona MacLeod_)
+
+SHAW, G. B., 20, 83
+
+_Sheep and Lambs_, 43
+
+_Shell, The_, 167
+
+_Sherwood_, 151
+
+_Sight_, 124
+
+_Silence Sings_, 82
+
+_Singer, The_, 186
+
+SITWELL, EDITH, 206-207
+
+SITWELL, OSBERT, 220-222
+
+_Soldier, The_, 200
+
+_Song_, 31
+
+_Song_, 187
+
+_Song, A_, 79
+
+_Song_ (_from "Judith"_), 176
+
+_Song of the Old Mother, The_, 53
+
+_Songs from an Evil Wood_, 133
+
+_Sonnet_,132
+
+SORLEY, CHARLES HAMILTON, 223-225
+
+_South Country, The_, 87
+
+_Spires of Oxford, The_, 203
+
+_Sportsmen in Paradise_, 209
+
+SQUIRE, J. C., xxiv, 172-174
+
+STEPHENS, JAMES, xxiii, 167-169
+
+STEVENSON, R. L., xvi, 13-16
+
+_Stone, The_, 121
+
+_Stone Trees_, 181
+
+_Strange Meetings_, 149
+
+_Summer Sun_, 13
+
+SYMONS, ARTHUR, xv, 50-51
+
+SYNGE, J. M., xviii-xx, xxii, 93-96
+
+
+_Tall Nettles_, 137
+
+TENNYSON, ALFRED, xii, 49
+
+"_There Shall be more Joy_," 104
+
+THOMAS, EDWARD, 136-138
+
+_Thomas of the Light Heart_, 47
+
+THOMPSON, FRANCIS, 31-35
+
+_Thrush before Dawn, A_, 16
+
+_Thrushes_, 191
+
+_Time, You old Gipsy Man_, 142
+
+_Tired Tim_, 108
+
+_To The Four Courts, Please_, 169
+
+_Town Window, A_, 170
+
+_Translation from Petrarch, A_, 96
+
+TUPPER, MARTIN F., xii
+
+TURNER, W. J., 210-211
+
+_Two Sonnets_, 223
+
+TYNAN, KATHARINE (HINKSON), xvii, 43-45
+
+
+_Unknown God, The_, 77
+
+
+_Valley of Silence, The_, 18
+
+_"Vashti," From_, 175
+
+VICTORIANS, THE, xi-xiii, xx
+
+_Victory, To_, 189
+
+_Villain, The_, 85
+
+_Vision, The_, 19
+
+
+_Walls_, 99
+
+WATSON, WILLIAM, 27-31
+
+_Waves of Breffny, The_, 98
+
+_Web of Eros, The_, 206
+
+_What Tomas an Buile Said_, 168
+
+_When I Was One-and-Twenty_, 37
+
+WICKHAM, ANNA, 186-187
+
+WILDE, OSCAR, xiii-xv, 19-22, 68
+
+WILLIAMS, HAROLD, xviii, 105
+
+WILSON, T. P. C., 209
+
+_Winter Nightfall_, 5
+
+_Winter-Time_, 14
+
+_With Rue my Heart is Laden_, 38
+
+
+YEATS, W. B., xvi, xvii-xix, 52-56, 94
+
+YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT, 204
+
+_You Would Have Understood Me_, 75
+
+  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Notes:                                         |
+  |                                                              |
+  | Page xv: artistocratic amended to aristocratic               |
+  | Page 21: _s_ added to St. Paul's                             |
+  | Page 40: Collge amended to College                           |
+  | Page 71: sevententh amended to seventeenth                   |
+  | Page 84: naif amended to naïf                                |
+  | Page 184: PREÉXISTENCE amended to PREËXISTENCE (as per poem  |
+  | title in the Table of Contents)                              |
+  | Page 147: double quotes inside double quotes amended to      |
+  | single quotes                                                |
+  | Page 209: comma added after "someone said"                   |
+  | Page 233: comma added after _Nightingales_                   |
+  | Page 234: Comma added after _Winter Nightfall_.              |
+  | _State The_ amended to _Stone, The_                          |
+  |                                                              |
+  | Hyphenation has been retained as is.                         |
+  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Modern British Poetry
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Louis Untermeyer
+
+Release Date: October 6, 2008 [EBook #26785]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN BRITISH POETRY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Starner, Suzanne Lybarger and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<div class='transnote'>
+<h3>Transcriber's Note:</h3>
+
+<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this text. For a
+complete list, please see <a href="#Transcribers_Notes">the bottom of this document</a>.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<h1>MODERN BRITISH<br />
+POETRY</h1>
+
+<h3>EDITED BY</h3>
+
+<h2>LOUIS UNTERMEYER</h2>
+
+
+<h4>Author of "<i>Challenge</i>," "<i>Including Horace</i>,"<br />
+"<i>Modern American Poetry</i>," etc.</h4>
+
+
+<h3>NEW YORK<br />
+HARCOURT, BRACE &amp; COMPANY</h3>
+
+<p class='frontend1'>
+COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY<br />
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.
+</p>
+
+<p class='frontend2'>
+PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY<br />
+THE QUINN &amp; BODEN COMPANY<br />
+RAHWAY, N. J.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p>For permission to reprint the material in this volume,
+the editor wishes, first of all, to acknowledge his debt to
+those poets whose co-operation has been of such assistance
+not only in finally determining upon the choice of their
+poems, but in collecting dates, biographical data, etc.
+Secondly, he wishes to thank the publishers, most of
+whom are holders of the copyrights. The latter indebtedness
+is specifically acknowledged to:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p><span class="smcap">Doubleday, Page &amp; Company</span> and <span class="smcap">A. P. Watt &amp; Son</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For "The Return" from <i>The Five Nations</i> and for "An
+Astrologer's Song" from <i>Rewards and Fairies</i> by Rudyard
+Kipling. Thanks also are due to Mr. Kipling himself for
+personal permission to reprint these poems.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Doubleday, Page &amp; Company</span> and <span class="smcap">Martin Secker</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the poem from <i>Collected Poems</i> by James Elroy Flecker.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">E. P. Dutton &amp; Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the poems from <i>The Old Huntsman</i>, <i>Counter-Attack</i> and
+<i>Picture Show</i> by Siegfried Sassoon.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Four Seas Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For poems from <i>War and Love</i> by Richard Aldington and
+<i>The Mountainy Singer</i> by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph
+Campbell).</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Henry Holt and Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For poems from <i>Peacock Pie</i> and <i>The Listeners</i> by Walter
+de la Mare and <i>Poems</i> by Edward Thomas.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Houghton Mifflin Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For two poems from <i>Poems, 1908-1919</i>, by John Drinkwater,
+both of which are used by permission of, and by special
+arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized
+publishers.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">B. W. Huebsch</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the selections from <i>Chamber Music</i> by James Joyce,
+<i>Songs to Save a Soul</i> and <i>Before Dawn</i> by Irene Rutherford
+McLeod, <i>Amores, Look! We Have Come Through!</i>,
+and <i>New Poems</i> by D. H. Lawrence.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Alfred A. Knopf</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For poems from <i>The Collected Poems of William H.
+Davies</i>, <i>Fairies and Fusiliers</i> by Robert Graves, <i>The Queen
+of China and Other Poems</i> by Edward Shanks, and <i>Poems:
+First Series</i> by J. C. Squire.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">John Lane Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the selections from <i>Poems</i> by G. K. Chesterton, <i>Ballads
+and Songs</i> by John Davidson, <i>The Collected Poems of
+Rupert Brooke</i>, <i>Admirals All</i> by Henry Newbolt, <i>Herod</i>
+and <i>Lyrics and Dramas</i> by Stephen Phillips, <i>The Hope of
+the World and Other Poems</i> by William Watson, and <i>In
+Cap and Bells</i> by Owen Seaman.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The London Mercury</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For "Going and Staying" by Thomas Hardy and "The
+House That Was" by Laurence Binyon.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Macmillan Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the selections from <i>Fires</i> and <i>Borderlands and Thoroughfares</i>
+by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, <i>Poems</i> by Ralph
+Hodgson, the sonnet from <i>Good Friday and Other Poems</i>
+by John Masefield, and the passage (entitled in this volume
+"Rounding the Horn") from "Dauber" in <i>The Story of
+a Round-House</i> by John Masefield.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">G. P. Putnam's Sons</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the title poem from <i>In Flanders Fields</i> by John
+McCrae.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Poetry Bookshop</span> (England)&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For two excerpts from <i>Strange Meetings</i> by Harold Monro
+and for the poems from the biennial anthologies, <i>Georgian
+Poetry</i>.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Charles Scribner's Sons</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the quotations from <i>Poems</i> by William Ernest Henley.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Frederick A. Stokes Company</span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For the poem from <i>Ardours and Endurances</i> by Robert
+Nichols.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Longmans, Green &amp; Co.</span>, as the representatives of <span class="smcap">B. H.
+Blackwell</span>, of Oxford&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class='frontend3'>For a poem by Edith Sitwell from <i>The Mother</i>.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class='center'>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="toc">
+<tr><td align='left'></td><td align='right'><span class='smcap'>page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Introductory</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Thomas Hardy</span> (1840-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IN_TIME_OF_THE_BREAKING_OF_NATIONS">In Time of "The Breaking of Nations"</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#GOING_AND_STAYING">Going and Staying</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_MAN_HE_KILLED">The Man He Killed</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Robert Bridges</span> (1844-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WINTER_NIGHTFALL">Winter Nightfall</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#NIGHTINGALES">Nightingales</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Arthur O'Shaughnessy</span> (1844-1881)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ODE">Ode</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">William Ernest Henley</span> (1849-1903)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#INVICTUS">Invictus</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BLACKBIRD">The Blackbird</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_BOWL_OF_ROSES">A Bowl of Roses</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#BEFORE">Before</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#MARGARITAElig_SORORI">Margarit&aelig; Sorori</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span> (1850-1894)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SUMMER_SUN">Summer Sun</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WINTER-TIME">Winter-Time</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ROMANCE">Romance</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#REQUIEM">Requiem</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Alice Meynell</span> (1850-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_THRUSH_BEFORE_DAWN">A Thrush Before Dawn</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Fiona MacLeod</span> (<i>William Sharp</i>) (1855-1905)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_VALLEY_OF_SILENCE">The Valley of Silence</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_VISION">The Vision</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span> (1856-1900)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#REQUIESCAT">Requiescat</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IMPRESSION_DU_MATIN">Impression du Matin</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John Davidson</span> (1857-1909)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_BALLAD_OF_HELL">A Ballad of Hell</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IMAGINATION">Imagination</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">William Watson</span> (1858-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td><td><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ODE_IN_MAY">Ode in May</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ESTRANGEMENT">Estrangement</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SONG">Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Francis Thompson</span> (1859-1907)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DAISY">Daisy</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_OLIVIA">To Olivia</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_ARAB_LOVE-SONG">An Arab Love-Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A. E. Housman</span> (1859-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#REVEILLE">Reveill&eacute;</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WHEN_I_WAS_ONE-AND-TWENTY">When I Was One-and-Twenty</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WITH_RUE_MY_HEART_IS_LADEN">With Rue My Heart is Laden</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_AN_ATHLETE_DYING_YOUNG">To An Athlete Dying Young</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#LOVELIEST_OF_TREES">"Loveliest of Trees"</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Douglas Hyde</span> (1860-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE">I Shall Not Die for Thee</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Amy Levy</span> (1861-1889)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#EPITAPH">Epitaph</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IN_THE_MILE_END_ROAD">In the Mile End Road</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Katharine Tynan Hinkson</span> (1861-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SHEEP_AND_LAMBS">Sheep and Lambs</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ALL-SOULS">All-Souls</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Owen Seaman</span> (1861-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_AN_OLD_FOGEY">To An Old Fogey</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THOMAS_OF_THE_LIGHT_HEART">Thomas of the Light Heart</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Henry Newbolt</span> (1862-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DRAKES_DRUM">Drake's Drum</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Arthur Symons</span> (1865-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IN_THE_WOOD_OF_FINVARA">In the Wood of Finvara</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#MODERN_BEAUTY">Modern Beauty</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">William Butler Yeats</span> (1865-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_LAKE_ISLE_OF_INNISFREE">The Lake Isle of Innisfree</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SONG_OF_THE_OLD_MOTHER">The Song of the Old Mother</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_CAP_AND_BELLS">The Cap and Bells</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_OLD_SONG_RESUNG">An Old Song Resung</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span> (1865-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#GUNGA_DIN">Gunga Din</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_RETURN">The Return</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_CONUNDRUM_OF_THE_WORKSHOPS">The Conundrum of the Workshops</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_ASTROLOGERS_SONG">An Astrologer's Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Richard Le Gallienne</span> (1866-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td><td align='right'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_BALLAD_OF_LONDON">A Ballad of London</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#REGRET">Regret</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lionel Johnson</span> (1867-1902)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#MYSTIC_AND_CAVALIER">Mystic and Cavalier</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_A_TRAVELLER">To a Traveller</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ernest Dowson</span> (1867-1900)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_ONE_IN_BEDLAM">To One in Bedlam</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#YOU_WOULD_HAVE_UNDERSTOOD_ME">You Would Have Understood Me</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>"A. E." (<i>George William Russell</i>) (1867-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_GREAT_BREATH">The Great Breath</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_UNKNOWN_GOD">The Unknown God</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Stephen Phillips</span> (1868-1915)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#FRAGMENT_FROM_HEROD">Fragment from "Herod"</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#BEAUTIFUL_LIE_THE_DEAD">Beautiful Lie the Dead</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_DREAM">A Dream</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Laurence Binyon</span> (1869-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_SONG">A Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_HOUSE_THAT_WAS">The House That Was</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Alfred Douglas</span> (1870-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_GREEN_RIVER">The Green River</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">T. Sturge Moore</span> (1870-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_DYING_SWAN">The Dying Swan</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SILENCE_SINGS">Silence Sings</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">William H. Davies</span> (1870-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DAYS_TOO_SHORT">Days Too Short</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_MOON">The Moon</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_VILLAIN">The Villain</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_EXAMPLE">The Example</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Hilaire Belloc</span> (1870-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SOUTH_COUNTRY">The South Country</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Anthony C. Deane</span> (1870-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_BILLYCOCK">The Ballad of the <i>Billycock</i></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_RUSTIC_SONG">A Rustic Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">J. M. Synge</span> (1871-1909)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#BEG-INNISH">Beg-Innish</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_TRANSLATION_FROM_PETRARCH">A Translation from Petrarch</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_THE_OAKS_OF_GLENCREE">To the Oaks of Glencree</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Nora Hopper Chesson</span> (1871-1906)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_CONNAUGHT_LAMENT">A Connaught Lament</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Eva Gore-Booth</span> (1872-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td><td align='right'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_WAVES_OF_BREFFNY">The Waves of Breffny</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WALLS">Walls</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Moira O'Neill</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_BROKEN_SONG">A Broken Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#BEAUTYS_A_FLOWER">Beauty's a Flower</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John McCrae</span> (1872-1918)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IN_FLANDERS_FIELDS">In Flanders Fields</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ford Madox Hueffer</span> (1873-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#CLAIR_DE_LUNE">Clair de Lune</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THERE_SHALL_BE_MORE_JOY">There Shall Be More Joy</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Walter De la Mare</span> (1873-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_LISTENERS">The Listeners</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_EPITAPH">An Epitaph</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TIRED_TIM">Tired Tim</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#OLD_SUSAN">Old Susan</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#NOD">Nod</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">G. K. Chesterton</span> (1874-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#LEPANTO">Lepanto</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_PRAYER_IN_DARKNESS">A Prayer in Darkness</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_DONKEY">The Donkey</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</span> (1878-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PRELUDE">Prelude</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_STONE">The Stone</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SIGHT">Sight</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John Masefield</span> (1878-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_CONSECRATION">A Consecration</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SEA-FEVER">Sea-Fever</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ROUNDING_THE_HORN">Rounding the Horn</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_CHOICE">The Choice</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SONNET">Sonnet</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lord Dunsany</span> (1878-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SONGS_FROM_AN_EVIL_WOOD">Songs from an Evil Wood</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Edward Thomas</span> (1878-1917)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IF_I_SHOULD_EVER_BY_CHANCE">If I Should Ever By Chance</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TALL_NETTLES">Tall Nettles</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#FIFTY_FAGGOTS">Fifty Faggots</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#COCK-CROW">Cock-Crow</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Seumas O'Sullivan</span> (1879-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PRAISE">Praise</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ralph Hodgson</span></td><td align='right'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#EVE">Eve</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TIME_YOU_OLD_GIPSY_MAN">Time, You Old Gipsy Man</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BIRDCATCHER">The Birdcatcher</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_MYSTERY">The Mystery</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Harold Monro</span> (1879-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_NIGHTINGALE_NEAR_THE_HOUSE">The Nightingale Near the House</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#EVERY_THING">Every Thing</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#STRANGE_MEETINGS">Strange Meetings</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">T. M. Kettle</span> (1880-1916)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_MY_DAUGHTER_BETTY_THE_GIFT_OF_GOD">To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Alfred Noyes</span> (1880-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SHERWOOD">Sherwood</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BARREL-ORGAN">The Barrel-Organ</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#EPILOGUE">Epilogue</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Padraic Colum</span> (1881-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_PLOUGHER">The Plougher</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_OLD_WOMAN_OF_THE_ROADS">An Old Woman of the Roads</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Joseph Campbell</span> (<i>Seosamh MacCathmhaoil</i>) (1881-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#I_AM_THE_MOUNTAINY_SINGER">I Am the Mountainy Singer</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_OLD_WOMAN">The Old Woman</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">James Stephens</span> (1882-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SHELL">The Shell</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#WHAT_TOMAS_AN_BUILE_SAID_IN_A_PUB">What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_THE_FOUR_COURTS_PLEASE">To the Four Courts, Please</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John Drinkwater</span> (1882-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#RECIPROCITY">Reciprocity</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_TOWN_WINDOW">A Town Window</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">James Joyce</span> (1882-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#I_HEAR_AN_ARMY">I Hear an Army</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">J. C. Squire</span> (1884-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_HOUSE">A House</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lascelles Abercrombie</span> (1884-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#FROM_VASHTI">From "Vashti"</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SONG3">Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">James Elroy Flecker</span> (1884-1915)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_OLD_SHIPS">The Old Ships</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">D. H. Lawrence</span> (1885-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PEOPLE">People</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PIANO">Piano</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John Freeman</span> (1885-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td><td align='right'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#STONE_TREES">Stone Trees</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Shane Leslie</span> (1886-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#FLEET_STREET">Fleet Street</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_PATER_OF_THE_CANNON">The Pater of the Cannon</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Frances Cornford</span> (1886-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PREEXISTENCE">Pre&euml;xistence</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Anna Wickham</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SINGER">The Singer</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#REALITY">Reality</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SONG2">Song</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Siegfried Sassoon</span> (1886-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_VICTORY">To Victory</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DREAMERS">Dreamers</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_REAR-GUARD">The Rear-Guard</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THRUSHES">Thrushes</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AFTERMATH">Aftermath</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Rupert Brooke</span> (1887-1915)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_GREAT_LOVER">The Great Lover</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DUST">Dust</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SOLDIER">The Soldier</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">W. M. Letts</span> (1887-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#GRANDEUR">Grandeur</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_SPIRES_OF_OXFORD">The Spires of Oxford</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Francis Brett Young</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#LOCHANILAUN">Lochanilaun</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">F. S. Flint</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#LONDON">London</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Edith Sitwell</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_WEB_OF_EROS">The Web of Eros</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#INTERLUDE">Interlude</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">F. W. Harvey</span> (1888-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BUGLER">The Bugler</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">T. P. Cameron Wilson</span> (1889-1918)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#SPORTSMEN_IN_PARADISE">Sportsmen in Paradise</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">W. J. Turner</span> (1889-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ROMANCE2">Romance</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Patrick MacGill</span> (1890)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#BY-THE-WAY">By-the-Way</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#DEATH_AND_THE_FAIRIES">Death and the Fairies</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_212">212</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Francis Ledwidge</span> (1891-1917)</td><td align='right'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AN_EVENING_IN_ENGLAND">An Evening in England</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#EVENING_CLOUDS">Evening Clouds</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Irene Rutherford McLeod</span> (1891-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IS_LOVE_THEN_SO_SIMPLE">"Is Love, then, so Simple"</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#LONE_DOG">Lone Dog</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Richard Aldington</span> (1892-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PRELUDE2">Prelude</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_216">216</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#IMAGES">Images</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#AT_THE_BRITISH_MUSEUM">At the British Museum</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Edward Shanks</span> (1892-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#COMPLAINT">Complaint</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Osbert Sitwell</span> (1892-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_BLIND_PEDLAR">The Blind Pedlar</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#PROGRESS">Progress</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Robert Nichols</span> (1893-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#NEARER">Nearer</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Charles H. Sorley</span> (1895-1915)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TWO_SONNETS">Two Sonnets</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#TO_GERMANY">To Germany</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Robert Graves</span> (1895-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;)</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#ITS_A_QUEER_TIME">It's a Queer Time</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_226">226</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#A_PINCH_OF_SALT">A Pinch of Salt</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#I_WONDER_WHAT_IT_FEELS_LIKE_TO_BE_DROWNED">I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'><a href="#THE_LAST_POST">The Last Post</a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Index of Authors and Poems</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr>
+</table></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p>
+<h2>INTRODUCTORY</h2>
+
+
+<h3><i>The New Influences and Tendencies</i></h3>
+
+<p>Mere statistics are untrustworthy; dates are even less
+dependable. But, to avoid hairsplitting, what we call
+"modern" English literature may be said to date from
+about 1885. A few writers who are decidedly "of the
+period" are, as a matter of strict chronology, somewhat
+earlier. But the chief tendencies may be divided into
+seven periods. They are (1) The decay of Victorianism
+and the growth of a purely decorative art, (2) The rise
+and decline of the &AElig;sthetic Philosophy, (3) The muscular
+influence of Henley, (4) The Celtic revival in Ireland,
+(5) Rudyard Kipling and the ascendency of
+mechanism in art, (6) John Masefield and the return of
+the rhymed narrative, (7) The war and the appearance
+of "The Georgians." It may be interesting to trace
+these developments in somewhat greater detail.</p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>the end of victorianism</span></h3>
+
+<p>The age commonly called Victorian came to an end
+about 1885. It was an age distinguished by many true
+idealists and many false ideals. It was, in spite of its
+notable artists, on an entirely different level from the
+epoch which had preceded it. Its poetry was, in the main,
+not universal but parochial; its romanticism was gilt
+and tinsel; its realism was as cheap as its showy glass<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span>
+pendants, red plush, parlor chromos and antimacassars.
+The period was full of a pessimistic resignation (the note
+popularized by Fitzgerald's Omar Khayy&aacute;m) and a kind
+of cowardice or at least a negation which, refusing to see
+any glamour in the actual world, turned to the Middle
+Ages, King Arthur, the legend of Troy&mdash;to the suave
+surroundings of a dream-world instead of the hard contours
+of actual experience.</p>
+
+<p>At its worst, it was a period of smugness, of placid and
+pious sentimentality&mdash;epitomized by the rhymed sermons
+of Martin Farquhar Tupper, whose <i>Proverbial Philosophy</i>
+was devoured with all its cloying and indigestible sweetmeats
+by thousands. The same tendency is apparent,
+though far less objectionably, in the moralizing lays of
+Lord Thomas Macaulay, in the theatrically emotionalized
+verses of Robert Buchanan, Edwin Arnold and Sir Lewis
+Morris&mdash;even in the lesser later work of Alfred Tennyson.</p>
+
+<p>And, without Tupper's emptiness or absurdities, the
+outworn platitudes again find their constant lover in
+Alfred Austin, Tennyson's successor as poet laureate.
+Austin brought the laureateship, which had been held by
+poets like Ben Jonson, Dryden, Southey and Wordsworth,
+to an incredibly low level; he took the thinning stream
+of garrulous poetic conventionality, reduced it to the
+merest trickle&mdash;and diluted it.</p>
+
+<p>The poets of a generation before this time were fired
+with such ideas as freedom, a deep and burning awe of
+nature, an insatiable hunger for truth in all its forms and
+manifestations. The characteristic poets of the Victorian<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span>
+Era, says Max Plowman, "wrote under the dominance of
+churchliness, of 'sweetness and light,' and a thousand
+lesser theories that have not truth but comfort for their
+end."</p>
+
+<p>The revolt against this and the tawdriness of the period
+had already begun; the best of Victorianism can be found
+not in men who were typically Victorian, but in pioneers
+like Browning and writers like Swinburne, Rossetti,
+William Morris, who were completely out of sympathy
+with their time.</p>
+
+<p>But it was Oscar Wilde who led the men of the now
+famous 'nineties toward an &aelig;sthetic freedom, to champion
+a beauty whose existence was its "own excuse for being."
+Wilde's was, in the most outspoken manner, the first use
+of &aelig;stheticism as a slogan; the battle-cry of the group was
+actually the now outworn but then revolutionary "Art
+for Art's sake"! And, so sick were people of the shoddy
+ornaments and drab ugliness of the immediate past, that
+the slogan won. At least, temporarily.</p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>the rise and decline of the &aelig;sthetic philosophy</span></h3>
+
+<p><i>The Yellow Book</i>, the organ of a group of young
+writers and artists, appeared (1894-97), representing a
+reasoned and intellectual reaction, mainly suggested and
+influenced by the French. The group of contributors was
+a peculiarly mixed one with only one thing in common.
+And that was a conscious effort to repudiate the sugary
+airs and prim romantics of the Victorian Era.</p>
+
+<p>Almost the first act of the "new" men was to rouse
+and outrage their immediate predecessors. This end-of-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[xiv]</a></span>the-century
+desire to shock, which was so strong and
+natural an impulse, still has a place of its own&mdash;especially
+as an antidote, a harsh corrective. Mid-Victorian propriety
+and self-satisfaction crumbled under the swift and
+energetic audacities of the sensational younger authors
+and artists; the old walls fell; the public, once so apathetic
+to <i>belles lettres</i>, was more than attentive to every phase
+of literary experimentation. The last decade of the nineteenth
+century was so tolerant of novelty in art and
+ideas, that it would seem, says Holbrook Jackson in his
+penetrative summary, <i>The Eighteen-Nineties</i>, "as though
+the declining century wished to make amends for several
+decades of artistic monotony. It may indeed be something
+more than a coincidence that placed this decade at the
+close of a century, and <i>fin de si&egrave;cle</i> may have been at
+once a swan song and a death-bed repentance."</p>
+
+<p>But later on, the movement (if such it may be called),
+surfeited with its own excesses, fell into the mere poses
+of revolt; it degenerated into a half-hearted defense of
+artificialities.</p>
+
+<p>It scarcely needed W. S. Gilbert (in <i>Patience</i>) or
+Robert Hichens (in <i>The Green Carnation</i>) to satirize
+its distorted attitudinizing. It strained itself to death;
+it became its own burlesque of the bizarre, an extravaganza
+of extravagance. "The period" (I am again quoting
+Holbrook Jackson) "was as certainly a period of
+decadence as it was a period of renaissance. The decadence
+was to be seen in a perverse and finicking glorification
+of the fine arts and mere artistic virtuosity on the
+one hand, and a militant commercial movement on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span>
+other.... The eroticism which became so prevalent
+in the verse of many of the younger poets was minor
+because it was little more than a pose&mdash;not because it
+was erotic.... It was a passing mood which gave the
+poetry of the hour a hothouse fragrance; a perfume faint
+yet unmistakable and strange."</p>
+
+<p>But most of the elegant and disillusioned young men
+overshot their mark. Mere health reasserted itself; an
+inherent repressed vitality sought new channels. Arthur
+Symons deserted his hectic Muse, Richard Le Gallienne
+abandoned his preciosity, and the group began to disintegrate.
+The &aelig;sthetic philosophy was wearing thin; it
+had already begun to fray and reveal its essential shabbiness.
+Wilde himself possessed the three things which
+he said the English would never forgive&mdash;youth, power
+and enthusiasm. But in trying to make an exclusive cult
+of beauty, Wilde had also tried to make it evade actuality;
+he urged that art should not, in any sense, be a part of
+life but an escape from it. "The proper school to learn
+art in is not Life&mdash;but Art." And in the same essay
+("The Decay of Lying") he wrote, "All bad Art
+comes from returning to Life and Nature, and elevating
+them into ideals." Elsewhere he said, "The first duty
+in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second
+duty is no one has discovered."</p>
+
+<p>Such a cynical and decadent philosophy could not go
+unchallenged. Its aristocratic blue-bloodedness was
+bound to arouse the red blood of common reality. This
+negative attitude received its answer in the work of that
+yea-sayer, W. E. Henley.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[xvi]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>william ernest henley</span></h3>
+
+<p>Henley repudiated this languid &aelig;stheticism; he scorned
+a negative art which was out of touch with the world.
+His was a large and sweeping affirmation. He felt that
+mere existence was glorious; life was coarse, difficult, often
+dangerous and dirty, but splendid at the heart. Art, he
+knew, could not be separated from the dreams and hungers
+of man; it could not flourish only on its own essences or
+technical accomplishments. To live, poetry would have to
+share the fears, angers, hopes and struggles of the prosaic
+world. And so Henley came like a swift salt breeze
+blowing through a perfumed and heavily-screened studio.
+He sang loudly (sometimes even too loudly) of the joy
+of living and the courage of the "unconquerable soul."
+He was a powerful influence not only as a poet but as a
+critic and editor. In the latter capacity he gathered about
+him such men as Robert Louis Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling,
+Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells, W. B. Yeats, T. E.
+Brown, J. M. Barrie. None of these men were his disciples,
+but none of them came into contact with him
+without being influenced in some way by his sharp and
+positive personality. A pioneer and something of a
+prophet, he was one of the first to champion the paintings
+of Whistler and to proclaim the genius of the sculptor
+Rodin.</p>
+
+<p>If at times Henley's verse is imperialistic, over-muscular
+and strident, his noisy moments are redeemed not only
+by his delicate lyrics but by his passionate enthusiasm for
+nobility in whatever cause it was joined. He never dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[xvii]</a></span>dained
+the actual world in any of its moods&mdash;bus-drivers,
+hospital interiors, scrubwomen, a panting train, the
+squalor of London's alleys, all found a voice in his lines&mdash;and
+his later work contains more than a hint of the
+delight in science and machinery which was later to be
+sounded more fully in the work of Rudyard Kipling.</p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>the celtic revival and j. m. synge</span></h3>
+
+<p>In 1889, William Butler Yeats published his <i>Wanderings
+of Oisin</i>; in the same year Douglas Hyde, the
+scholar and folk-lorist, brought out his <i>Book of Gaelic
+Stories</i>.</p>
+
+<p>The revival of Gaelic and the renascence of Irish literature
+may be said to date from the publication of those two
+books. The fundamental idea of both men and their followers
+was the same. It was to create a literature which
+would express the national consciousness of Ireland
+through a purely national art. They began to reflect the
+strange background of dreams, politics, suffering and heroism
+that is immortally Irish. This community of fellowship
+and aims is to be found in the varied but allied work
+of William Butler Yeats, "A. E." (George W. Russell),
+Moira O'Neill, Lionel Johnson, Katharine Tynan,
+Padraic Colum and others. The first fervor gone, a
+short period of dullness set in. After reanimating the old
+myths, surcharging the legendary heroes with a new significance,
+it seemed for a while that the movement would
+lose itself in a literary mysticism. But an increasing
+concern with the peasant, the migratory laborer, the
+tramp, followed; an interest that was something of a re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</a></span>action
+against the influence of Yeats and his mystic otherworldliness.
+And, in 1904, the Celtic Revival reached its
+height with John Millington Synge, who was not only
+the greatest dramatist of the Irish Theatre, but (to quote
+such contrary critics as George Moore and Harold
+Williams) "one of the greatest dramatists who has
+written in English." Synge's poetry, brusque and all too
+small in quantity, was a minor occupation with him and
+yet the quality and power of it is unmistakable. Its
+content is never great but the raw vigor in it was to
+serve as a bold banner&mdash;a sort of a brilliant Jolly Roger&mdash;for
+the younger men of the following period. It was
+not only this dramatist's brief verses and his intensely
+musical prose but his sharp prefaces that were to exercise
+such an influence.</p>
+
+<p>In the notable introduction to the <i>Playboy of the Western
+World</i>, Synge declared, "When I was writing <i>The
+Shadow of the Glen</i> some years ago, I got more aid than
+any learning could have given me from a chink in the
+floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that
+let me hear what was being said by the servant girls in
+the kitchen. This matter is, I think, of some importance;
+for in countries where the imagination of the people, and
+the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible
+for a writer to be rich and copious in his words&mdash;and at
+the same time to give the reality which is at the root of
+all poetry, in a natural and comprehensive form." This
+quotation explains his idiom, possibly the sharpest-flavored
+and most vivid in modern literature.</p>
+
+<p>As to Synge's poetic power, it is unquestionably great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[xix]</a></span>est
+in his plays. In <i>The Well of the Saints</i>, <i>The Playboy
+of the Western World</i> and <i>Riders to the Sea</i> there are
+more poignance, beauty of form and richness of language
+than in any piece of dramatic writing since Elizabethan
+times. Yeats, when he first heard Synge's early one-act
+play, <i>The Shadow of the Glen</i>, is said to have exclaimed
+"Euripides." A half year later when Synge read him
+<i>Riders to the Sea</i>, Yeats again confined his enthusiasm to
+a single word:&mdash;"&AElig;schylus!" Years have shown that
+Yeats's appreciation was not as exaggerated as many might
+suppose.</p>
+
+<p>But although Synge's poetry was not his major concern,
+numbering only twenty-four original pieces and
+eighteen translations, it had a surprising effect upon his
+followers. It marked a point of departure, a reaction
+against both the too-polished and over-rhetorical verse of
+his immediate predecessors and the dehumanized mysticism
+of many of his associates. In that memorable preface to
+his <i>Poems</i> he wrote what was a slogan, a manifesto and
+at the same time a classic <i>credo</i> for all that we call the
+"new" poetry. "I have often thought," it begins, "that
+at the side of poetic diction, which everyone condemns,
+modern verse contains a great deal of poetic material,
+using 'poetic' in the same special sense. The poetry of
+exaltation will be always the highest; but when men lose
+their poetic feeling for ordinary life and cannot write
+poetry of ordinary things, their exalted poetry is likely to
+lose its strength of exaltation in the way that men cease
+to build beautiful churches when they have lost happiness
+in building shops.... Even if we grant that exalted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx">[xx]</a></span>
+poetry can be kept successfully by itself, the strong things
+of life are needed in poetry also, to show that what is
+exalted or tender is not made by feeble blood."</p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>rudyard kipling</span></h3>
+
+<p>New tendencies are contagious. But they also disclose
+themselves simultaneously in places and people where
+there has been no point of contact. Even before Synge
+published his proofs of the keen poetry in everyday life,
+Kipling was illuminating, in a totally different manner,
+the wealth of poetic material in things hitherto regarded
+as too commonplace for poetry. Before literary England
+had quite recovered from its surfeit of Victorian priggishness
+and pre-Raphaelite delicacy, Kipling came along with
+high spirits and a great tide of life, sweeping all before
+him. An obscure Anglo-Indian journalist, the publication
+of his <i>Barrack-room Ballads</i> in 1892 brought him sudden
+notice. By 1895 he was internationally famous. Brushing
+over the pallid attempts to revive a pallid past, he
+rode triumphantly on a wave of buoyant and sometimes
+brutal joy in the present. Kipling gloried in the material
+world; he did more&mdash;he glorified it. He pierced the
+coarse exteriors of seemingly prosaic things&mdash;things like
+machinery, bridge-building, cockney soldiers, slang, steam,
+the dirty by-products of science (witness "M'Andrews
+Hymn" and "The Bell Buoy")&mdash;and uncovered their
+hidden glamour. "Romance is gone," sighed most of his
+contemporaries,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i6">"... and all unseen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Romance brought up the nine-fifteen."<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xxi" id="Page_xxi">[xxi]</a></span></div></div>
+
+<p>That sentence (from his poem "The King") contains
+the key to the manner in which the author of <i>The Five
+Nations</i> helped to rejuvenate English verse.</p>
+
+<p>Kipling, with his perception of ordinary people in terms
+of ordinary life, was one of the strongest links between
+the Wordsworth-Browning era and the latest apostles of
+vigor, beginning with Masefield. There are occasional
+and serious defects in Kipling's work&mdash;particularly in his
+more facile poetry; he falls into a journalistic ease that
+tends to turn into jingle; he is fond of a militaristic drum-banging
+that is as blatant as the insularity he condemns.
+But a burning, if sometimes too simple faith, shines
+through his achievements. His best work reveals an intensity
+that crystallizes into beauty what was originally
+tawdry, that lifts the vulgar and incidental to the place
+of the universal.</p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>john masefield</span></h3>
+
+<p>All art is a twofold revivifying&mdash;a recreation of subject
+and a reanimating of form. And poetry becomes perennially
+"new" by returning to the old&mdash;with a different
+consciousness, a greater awareness. In 1911, when art was
+again searching for novelty, John Masefield created something
+startling and new by going back to 1385 and <i>The
+Canterbury Pilgrims</i>. Employing both the Chaucerian
+model and a form similar to the practically forgotten
+Byronic stanza, Masefield wrote in rapid succession, <i>The
+Everlasting Mercy</i> (1911), <i>The Widow in the Bye
+Street</i> (1912), <i>Dauber</i> (1912), <i>The Daffodil Fields</i>
+(1913)&mdash;four astonishing rhymed narratives and four<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xxii" id="Page_xxii">[xxii]</a></span>
+of the most remarkable poems of our generation. Expressive
+of every rugged phase of life, these poems, uniting
+old and new manners, responded to Synge's proclamation
+that "the strong things of life are needed in poetry
+also ... and it may almost be said that before verse
+can be human again it must be brutal."</p>
+
+<p>Masefield brought back to poetry that mixture of
+beauty and brutality which is its most human and enduring
+quality. He brought back that rich and almost
+vulgar vividness which is the very life-blood of Chaucer,
+of Shakespeare, of Burns, of Villon, of Heine&mdash;and of
+all those who were not only great artists but great
+humanists. As a purely descriptive poet, he can take his
+place with the masters of sea and landscape. As an imaginative
+realist, he showed those who were stumbling from
+one wild eccentricity to another to thrill them, that they
+themselves were wilder, stranger, far more thrilling than
+anything in the world&mdash;or out of it. Few things in contemporary
+poetry are as powerful as the regeneration of
+Saul Kane (in <i>The Everlasting Mercy</i>) or the story of
+<i>Dauber</i>, the tale of a tragic sea-voyage and a dreaming
+youth who wanted to be a painter. The vigorous description
+of rounding Cape Horn in the latter poem is superbly
+done, a masterpiece in itself. Masefield's later volumes
+are quieter in tone, more measured in technique; there
+is an almost religious ring to many of his Shakespearian
+sonnets. But the swinging surge is there, a passionate
+strength that leaps through all his work from <i>Salt Water
+Ballads</i> (1902) to <i>Reynard the Fox</i> (1919).<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xxiii" id="Page_xxiii">[xxiii]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><span class='smcap'>"the georgians" and the younger men</span></h3>
+
+<p>There is no sharp statistical line of demarcation between
+Masefield and the younger men. Although several
+of them owe much to him, most of the younger poets
+speak in accents of their own. W. W. Gibson had
+already reinforced the "return to actuality" by turning
+from his first preoccupation with shining knights, faultless
+queens, ladies in distress and all the paraphernalia of
+hackneyed medi&aelig;val romances, to write about ferrymen,
+berry-pickers, stone-cutters, farmers, printers, circus-men,
+carpenters&mdash;dramatizing (though sometimes theatricalizing)
+the primitive emotions of uncultured and ordinary
+people in <i>Livelihood</i>, <i>Daily Bread</i> and <i>Fires</i>. This intensity
+had been asking new questions. It found its
+answers in the war; repressed emotionalism discovered a
+new outlet. One hears its echoes in the younger poets
+like Siegfried Sassoon, with his poignant and unsparing
+poems of conflict; in Robert Graves, who reflects it
+in a lighter and more fantastic vein; in James Stephens,
+whose wild ingenuities are redolent of the soil. And it
+finds its corresponding opposite in the limpid and unperturbed
+loveliness of Ralph Hodgson; in the ghostly
+magic and the nursery-rhyme whimsicality of Walter
+de la Mare; in the quiet and delicate lyrics of W. H.
+Davies. Among the others, the brilliant G. K. Chesterton,
+the facile Alfred Noyes, the romantic Rupert Brooke
+(who owes less to Masefield and his immediate predecessors
+than he does to the passionately intellectual Donne),
+the introspective D. H. Lawrence and the versatile J. C.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xxiv" id="Page_xxiv">[xxiv]</a></span>
+Squire, are perhaps best known to American readers.</p>
+
+<p>All of the poets mentioned in the foregoing paragraph
+(with the exception of Noyes) have formed themselves in
+a loose group called "The Georgians," and an anthology
+of their best work has appeared every two years since
+1913. Masefield, Lascelles Abercrombie and John Drinkwater
+are also listed among the Georgian poets. When
+their first collection appeared in March, 1913, Henry
+Newbolt, a critic as well as poet, wrote: "These younger
+poets have no temptation to be false. They are not for
+making something 'pretty,' something up to the standard
+of professional patterns.... They write as grown
+men walk, each with his own unconscious stride and gesture....
+In short, they express themselves and seem
+to steer without an effort between the dangers of innovation
+and reminiscence." The secret of this success, and
+for that matter, the success of the greater portion of
+English poetry, is not an exclusive discovery of the
+Georgian poets. It is their inheritance, derived from
+those predecessors who, "from Wordsworth and Coleridge
+onward, have worked for the assimilation of verse
+to the manner and accent of natural speech." In its
+adaptability no less than in its vigor, modern English
+poetry is true to its period&mdash;and its past.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>This collection is obviously a companion volume to
+<i>Modern American Poetry</i>, which, in its restricted compass,
+attempted to act as an introduction to recent native
+verse. <i>Modern British Poetry</i> covers the same period
+(from about 1870 to 1920), follows the same chrono<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xxv" id="Page_xxv">[xxv]</a></span>logical
+scheme, but it is more amplified and goes into far
+greater detail than its predecessor.</p>
+
+<p>The two volumes, considered together, furnish interesting
+contrasts; they reveal certain similarities and certain
+strange differences. Broadly speaking, modern
+American verse is sharp, vigorously experimental; full of
+youth and its occasional&mdash;and natural&mdash;crudities. English
+verse is smoother, more matured and, molded by
+centuries of literature, richer in associations and surer
+in artistry. Where the American output is often rude,
+extremely varied and unco&ouml;rdinated (being the expression
+of partly indigenous, partly naturalized and largely unassimilated
+ideas, emotions, and races), the English product
+is formulated, precise and, in spite of its fluctuations,
+true to its past. It goes back to traditions as old as
+Chaucer (witness the narratives of Masefield and
+Gibson) or tendencies as classic as Drayton, Herrick and
+Blake&mdash;as in the frank lyrics of A. E. Housman, the
+artless lyricism of Ralph Hodgson, the na&iuml;f wonder of
+W. H. Davies. And if English poetry may be compared
+to a broad and luxuriating river (while American
+poetry might be described as a sudden rush of unconnected
+mountain torrents, valley streams and city sluices),
+it will be inspiring to observe how its course has been
+temporarily deflected in the last forty years; how it has
+swung away from one tendency toward another; and
+how, for all its bends and twists, it has lost neither its
+strength nor its nobility.</p>
+
+<p class='right'>L. U.</p>
+
+<p>New York City.<br />
+January, 1920.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h1>MODERN BRITISH POETRY</h1>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Thomas Hardy</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Thomas Hardy was born in 1840, and has for years been
+famous on both sides of the Atlantic as a writer of intense and
+sombre novels. His <i>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</i> and <i>Jude the
+Obscure</i> are possibly his best known, although his <i>Wessex Tales</i>
+and <i>Life's Little Ironies</i> are no less imposing.</p>
+
+<p>It was not until he was almost sixty, in 1898 to be precise,
+that Hardy abandoned prose and challenged attention as a poet.
+<i>The Dynasts</i>, a drama of the Napoleonic Wars, is in three
+parts, nineteen acts and one hundred and thirty scenes, a
+massive and most amazing contribution to contemporary art.
+It is the apotheosis of Hardy the novelist. Lascelles Abercrombie
+calls this work, which is partly a historical play, partly
+a visionary drama, "the biggest and most consistent exhibition
+of fatalism in literature." While its powerful simplicity and
+tragic impressiveness overshadow his shorter poems, many of
+his terse lyrics reveal the same vigor and impact of a strong
+personality. His collected poems were published by The Macmillan
+Company in 1919 and reveal another phase of one of
+the greatest living writers of English.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IN_TIME_OF_THE_BREAKING_OF_NATIONS" id="IN_TIME_OF_THE_BREAKING_OF_NATIONS"></a>IN TIME OF "THE BREAKING OF NATIONS"</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only a man harrowing clods<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In a slow silent walk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With an old horse that stumbles and nods<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Half asleep as they stalk.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only thin smoke without flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the heaps of couch grass:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet this will go onward the same<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Dynasties pass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yonder a maid and her wight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Come whispering by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">War's annals will fade into night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere their story die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="GOING_AND_STAYING" id="GOING_AND_STAYING"></a>GOING AND STAYING</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The moving sun-shapes on the spray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sparkles where the brook was flowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These were the things we wished would stay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But they were going.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seasons of blankness as of snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silent bleed of a world decaying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The moan of multitudes in woe,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These were the things we wished would go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But they were staying.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_MAN_HE_KILLED" id="THE_MAN_HE_KILLED"></a>THE MAN HE KILLED<br />
+(<i>From "The Dynasts"</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"Had he and I but met<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By some old ancient inn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We should have sat us down to wet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Right many a nipperkin!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"But ranged as infantry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And staring face to face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shot at him as he at me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And killed him in his place.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"I shot him dead because&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Because he was my foe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just so: my foe of course he was;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's clear enough; although<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Off-hand like&mdash;just as I&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was out of work&mdash;had sold his traps&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No other reason why.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"Yes; quaint and curious war is!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You shoot a fellow down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'd treat, if met where any bar is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or help to half-a-crown."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Robert Bridges</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Robert Bridges was born in 1844 and educated at Eton and
+Corpus Christi College, Oxford. After traveling extensively,
+he studied medicine in London and practiced until 1882. Most
+of his poems, like his occasional plays, are classical in tone as
+well as treatment. He was appointed poet laureate in 1913,
+following Alfred Austin. His command of the secrets of rhythm
+and a subtle versification give his lines a firm delicacy and
+beauty of pattern.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="WINTER_NIGHTFALL" id="WINTER_NIGHTFALL"></a>WINTER NIGHTFALL</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The day begins to droop,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Its course is done:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But nothing tells the place<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of the setting sun.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hazy darkness deepens,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And up the lane<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You may hear, but cannot see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The homing wain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An engine pants and hums<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the farm hard by:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its lowering smoke is lost<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the lowering sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The soaking branches drip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all night through<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dropping will not cease<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the avenue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A tall man there in the house<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Must keep his chair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knows he will never again<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Breathe the spring air:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His heart is worn with work;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He is giddy and sick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If he rise to go as far<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As the nearest rick:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He thinks of his morn of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His hale, strong years;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And braves as he may the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of darkness and tears.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="NIGHTINGALES" id="NIGHTINGALES"></a>NIGHTINGALES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Ye learn your song:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Bloom the year long!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">A throe of the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">For all our art.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">As night is withdrawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dream, while the innumerable choir of day<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Welcome the dawn.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Arthur O'Shaughnessy</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>The Irish-English singer, Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy,
+was born in London in 1844. He was connected, for a
+while, with the British Museum, and was transferred later to
+the Department of Natural History. His first literary success,
+<i>Epic of Women</i> (1870), promised a brilliant future for the
+young poet, a promise strengthened by his <i>Music and Moonlight</i>
+(1874). Always delicate in health, his hopes were dashed by
+periods of illness and an early death in London in 1881.</p>
+
+<p>The poem here reprinted is not only O'Shaughnessy's best, but
+is, because of its perfect blending of music and message, one
+of the immortal classics of our verse.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ODE" id="ODE"></a>ODE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We are the music-makers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we are the dreamers of dreams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wandering by lone sea-breakers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sitting by desolate streams;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">World-losers and world-forsakers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On whom the pale moon gleams:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet we are the movers and shakers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the world for ever, it seems.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With wonderful deathless ditties<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We build up the world's great cities,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And out of a fabulous story<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We fashion an empire's glory:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One man with a dream, at pleasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall go forth and conquer a crown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And three with a new song's measure<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Can trample an empire down.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We, in the ages lying<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the buried past of the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Built Nineveh with our sighing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Babel itself with our mirth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'erthrew them with prophesying<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the old of the new world's worth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For each age is a dream that is dying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or one that is coming to birth.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>William Ernest Henley</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>William Ernest Henley was born in 1849 and was educated
+at the Grammar School of Gloucester. From childhood he was
+afflicted with a tuberculous disease which finally necessitated
+the amputation of a foot. His <i>Hospital Verses</i>, those vivid
+precursors of current free verse, were a record of the time
+when he was at the infirmary at Edinburgh; they are sharp
+with the sights, sensations, even the actual smells of the sickroom.
+In spite (or, more probably, because) of his continued
+poor health, Henley never ceased to worship strength and
+energy; courage and a triumphant belief in a harsh world
+shine out of the athletic <i>London Voluntaries</i> (1892) and the
+lightest and most musical lyrics in <i>Hawthorn and Lavender</i>
+(1898).</p>
+
+<p>The bulk of Henley's poetry is not great in volume. He has
+himself explained the small quantity of his work in a Preface
+to his <i>Poems</i>, first published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1898.
+"A principal reason," he says, "is that, after spending the
+better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry, I found myself
+(about 1877) so utterly unmarketable that I had to own myself
+beaten in art, and to indict myself to journalism for the next
+ten years." Later on, he began to write again&mdash;"old dusty
+sheaves were dragged to light; the work of selection and cor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>rection
+was begun; I burned much; I found that, after all, the
+lyrical instinct had slept&mdash;not died."</p>
+
+<p>After a brilliant and varied career (see Preface), devoted
+mostly to journalism, Henley died in 1903.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="INVICTUS" id="INVICTUS"></a>INVICTUS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out of the night that covers me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Black as the Pit from pole to pole,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I thank whatever gods may be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For my unconquerable soul.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In the fell clutch of circumstance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have not winced nor cried aloud.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the bludgeonings of chance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My head is bloody, but unbowed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beyond this place of wrath and tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looms but the Horror of the shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet the menace of the years<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It matters not how strait the gate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How charged with punishments the scroll,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am the master of my fate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I am the captain of my soul.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_BLACKBIRD" id="THE_BLACKBIRD"></a>THE BLACKBIRD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The nightingale has a lyre of gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The lark's is a clarion call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But I love him best of all.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For his song is all of the joy of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And we in the mad, spring weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We two have listened till he sang<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our hearts and lips together.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_BOWL_OF_ROSES" id="A_BOWL_OF_ROSES"></a>A BOWL OF ROSES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was a bowl of roses:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There in the light they lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Languishing, glorying, glowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their life away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the soul of them rose like a presence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Into me crept and grew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And filled me with something&mdash;some one&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O, was it you?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="BEFORE" id="BEFORE"></a>BEFORE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Behold me waiting&mdash;waiting for the knife.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A little while, and at a leap I storm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The thick sweet mystery of chloroform,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gods are good to me: I have no wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No innocent child, to think of as I near<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You carry C&aelig;sar and his fortunes&mdash;Steady!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="MARGARITAElig_SORORI" id="MARGARITAElig_SORORI"></a>MARGARIT&AElig; SORORI</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from the west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the sun, his day's work ended,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lingers as in content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There falls on the old, grey city<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An influence luminous and serene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A shining peace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The smoke ascends<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shine, and are changed. In the valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closing his benediction,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sinks, and the darkening air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night with her train of stars<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her great gift of sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So be my passing!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My task accomplished and the long day done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My wages taken, and in my heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some late lark singing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let me be gathered to the quiet west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sundown splendid and serene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Robert Louis Stevenson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Robert Louis Stevenson was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He
+was at first trained to be a lighthouse engineer, following the
+profession of his family. However, he studied law instead;
+was admitted to the bar in 1875; and abandoned law for
+literature a few years later.</p>
+
+<p>Though primarily a novelist, Stevenson has left one immortal
+book of poetry which is equally at home in the nursery and
+the library: <i>A Child's Garden of Verses</i> (first published in
+1885) is second only to Mother Goose's own collection in its
+lyrical simplicity and universal appeal. <i>Underwoods</i> (1887)
+and <i>Ballads</i> (1890) comprise his entire poetic output. As a
+genial essayist, he is not unworthy to be ranked with Charles
+Lamb. As a romancer, his fame rests securely on <i>Kidnapped</i>,
+the unfinished masterpiece, <i>Weir of Hermiston</i>, and that eternal
+classic of youth, <i>Treasure Island</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Stevenson died after a long and dogged fight with his illness,
+in the Samoan Islands in 1894.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SUMMER_SUN" id="SUMMER_SUN"></a>SUMMER SUN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Great is the sun, and wide he goes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through empty heaven without repose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the blue and glowing days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More thick than rain he showers his rays.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though closer still the blinds we pull<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To keep the shady parlour cool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet he will find a chink or two<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To slip his golden fingers through.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The dusty attic, spider-clad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And through the broken edge of tiles<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Meantime his golden face around<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bares to all the garden ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sheds a warm and glittering look<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the ivy's inmost nook.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Above the hills, along the blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the bright air with footing true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To please the child, to paint the rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gardener of the World, he goes.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="WINTER-TIME" id="WINTER-TIME"></a>WINTER-TIME</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blinks but an hour or two; and then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A blood-red orange, sets again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Before the stars have left the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At morning in the dark I rise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shivering in my nakedness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the cold candle, bathe and dress.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Close by the jolly fire I sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To warm my frozen bones a bit;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or with a reindeer-sled, explore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The colder countries round the door.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When to go out, my nurse doth wrap<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me in my comforter and cap;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cold wind burns my face, and blows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its frosty pepper up my nose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Black are my steps on silver sod;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tree and house, and hill and lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are frosted like a wedding-cake.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ROMANCE" id="ROMANCE"></a>ROMANCE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will make you brooches and toys for your delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will make a palace fit for you and me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And this shall be for music when no one else is near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That only I remember, that only you admire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="REQUIEM" id="REQUIEM"></a>REQUIEM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Under the wide and starry sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave and let me lie:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Glad did I live and gladly die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I laid me down with a will.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This be the verse you 'grave for me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Here he lies where he long'd to be;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Home is the sailor, home from the sea,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And the hunter home from the hill.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Alice Meynell</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Alice Meynell was born in London in 1850. She was educated
+at home and spent a great part of her childhood in Italy.
+She has written little, but that little is on an extremely high
+plane; her verses are simple, pensive and always distinguished.
+The best of her work is in <i>Poems</i> (1903).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_THRUSH_BEFORE_DAWN" id="A_THRUSH_BEFORE_DAWN"></a>A THRUSH BEFORE DAWN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A voice peals in this end of night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A phrase of notes resembling stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Single and spiritual notes of light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What call they at my window-bars?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The South, the past, the day to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An ancient infelicity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Darkling, deliberate, what sings<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This wonderful one, alone, at peace?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What wilder things than song, what things<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dearer than Italy, untold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Delight, and freshness centuries old?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And first first-loves, a multitude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The exaltation of their pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ancestral childhood long renewed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And midnights of invisible rain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And gardens, gardens, night and day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gardens and childhood all the way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What Middle Ages passionate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O passionless voice! What distant bells<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lodged in the hills, what palace state<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Illyrian! For it speaks, it tells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Without desire, without dismay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Some morrow and some yesterday.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All-natural things! But more&mdash;Whence came<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This yet remoter mystery?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How do these starry notes proclaim<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A graver still divinity?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">This hope, this sanctity of fear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>O innocent throat! O human ear!</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Fiona Macleod</i><br />
+(<i>William Sharp</i>)</h2>
+
+
+<p>William Sharp was born at Garthland Place, Scotland, in
+1855. He wrote several volumes of biography and criticism,
+published a book of plays greatly influenced by Maeterlinck
+(<i>Vistas</i>) and was editor of "The Canterbury Poets" series.</p>
+
+<p>His feminine <i>alter ego</i>, Fiona Macleod, was a far different
+personality. Sharp actually believed himself possessed of another
+spirit; under the spell of this other self, he wrote several
+volumes of Celtic tales, beautiful tragic romances and no little
+unusual poetry. Of the prose stories written by Fiona Macleod,
+the most barbaric and vivid are those collected in <i>The Sin-Eater
+and Other Tales</i>; the longer <i>Pharais, A Romance of the Isles</i>,
+is scarcely less unique.</p>
+
+<p>In the ten years, 1882-1891, William Sharp published four
+volumes of rather undistinguished verse. In 1896 <i>From the
+Hills of Dream</i> appeared over the signature of Fiona Macleod;
+<i>The Hour of Beauty</i>, an even more distinctive collection, followed
+shortly. Both poetry and prose were always the result
+of two sharply differentiated moods constantly fluctuating; the
+emotional mood was that of Fiona Macleod, the intellectual
+and, it must be admitted the more arresting, was that of William
+Sharp.</p>
+
+<p>He died in 1905.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_VALLEY_OF_SILENCE" id="THE_VALLEY_OF_SILENCE"></a>THE VALLEY OF SILENCE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In the secret Valley of Silence<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No breath doth fall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No wind stirs in the branches;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No bird doth call:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As on a white wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A breathless lizard is still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So silence lies on the valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Breathlessly still.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In the dusk-grown heart of the valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">An altar rises white:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No rapt priest bends in awe<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Before its silent light:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But sometimes a flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of breathless words of prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">White-wing'd enclose the altar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Eddies of prayer.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_VISION" id="THE_VISION"></a>THE VISION</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In a fair place<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of whin and grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I heard feet pass<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where no one was.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw a face<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bloom like a flower&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nay, as the rainbow-shower<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a tempestuous hour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was not man, or woman:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was not human:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, beautiful and wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Terribly undefiled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I knew an unborn child.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Oscar Wilde</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Oscar Wilde was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1856, and even
+as an undergraduate at Oxford he was marked for a brilliant
+career. When he was a trifle over 21 years of age, he won the
+Newdigate Prize with his poem <i>Ravenna</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Giving himself almost entirely to prose, he speedily became
+known as a writer of brilliant epigrammatic essays and even
+more brilliant paradoxical plays such as <i>An Ideal Husband</i> and
+<i>The Importance of Being Earnest</i>. His aphorisms and flippancies
+were quoted everywhere; his fame as a wit was only
+surpassed by his notoriety as an &aelig;sthete. (See Preface.)</p>
+
+<p>Most of his poems in prose (such as <i>The Happy Prince</i>, <i>The
+Birthday of the Infanta</i> and <i>The Fisherman and His Soul</i>)
+are more imaginative and richly colored than his verse; but
+in one long poem, <i>The Ballad of Reading Gaol</i> (1898), he
+sounded his deepest, simplest and most enduring note. Prison
+was, in many ways, a regeneration for Wilde. It not only
+produced <i>The Ballad of Reading Gaol</i> but made possible his
+most poignant piece of writing, <i>De Profundis</i>, only a small
+part of which has been published. <i>Salom&eacute;</i>, which has made
+the author's name a household word, was originally written in
+French in 1892 and later translated into English by Lord
+Alfred Douglas, accompanied by the famous illustrations by
+Aubrey Beardsley. More recently this heated drama, based
+on the story of Herod and Herodias, was made into an opera
+by Richard Strauss.</p>
+
+<p>Wilde's society plays, flashing and cynical, were the forerunners
+of Bernard Shaw's audacious and far more searching
+ironies. One sees the origin of a whole school of drama in
+such epigrams as "The history of woman is the history of the
+worst form of tyranny the world has ever known: the tyranny
+of the weak over the strong. It is the only tyranny that lasts."
+Or "There is only one thing in the world worse than being
+talked about, and that is not being talked about."</p>
+
+<p>Wilde died at Paris, November 30, 1900.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="REQUIESCAT" id="REQUIESCAT"></a>REQUIESCAT</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tread lightly, she is near<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under the snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Speak gently, she can hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The daisies grow.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All her bright golden hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tarnished with rust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She that was young and fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fallen to dust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lily-like, white as snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She hardly knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was a woman, so<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweetly she grew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Coffin-board, heavy stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lie on her breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I vex my heart alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She is at rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Peace, peace; she cannot hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lyre or sonnet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All my life's buried here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heap earth upon it.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IMPRESSION_DU_MATIN" id="IMPRESSION_DU_MATIN"></a>IMPRESSION DU MATIN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Thames nocturne of blue and gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Changed to a harmony in grey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A barge with ochre-coloured hay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The yellow fog came creeping down<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bridges, till the houses' walls<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then suddenly arose the clang<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of waking life; the streets were stirred<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With country waggons; and a bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But one pale woman all alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The daylight kissing her wan hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With lips of flame and heart of stone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>John Davidson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>John Davidson was born at Barrhead, Renfrewshire, in 1857.
+His <i>Ballads and Songs</i> (1895) and <i>New Ballads</i> (1897) attained
+a sudden but too short-lived popularity, and his great
+promise was quenched by an apathetic public and by his own
+growing disillusion and despair. His sombre yet direct poetry
+never tired of repeating his favorite theme: "Man is but the
+Universe grown conscious."</p>
+
+<p>Davidson died by his own hand in 1909.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_BALLAD_OF_HELL" id="A_BALLAD_OF_HELL"></a>A BALLAD OF HELL</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'A letter from my love to-day!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She struck a happy tear away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And broke the crimson seal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'My love, there is no help on earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No help in heaven; the dead-man's bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must toll our wedding; our first hearth<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Must be the well-paved floor of hell.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The colour died from out her face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She cast dread looks about the place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then clenched her teeth and read right on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I may not pass the prison door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here must I rot from day to day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unless I wed whom I abhor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'At midnight with my dagger keen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'll take my life; it must be so.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For weal and woe.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She laughed although her face was wan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She girded on her golden belt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She took her jewelled ivory fan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And at her glowing missal knelt.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She broke her fan, her belt untied;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With leather girt herself instead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And stuck a dagger at her side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She waited, shuddering in her room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till sleep had fallen on all the house.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She never flinched; she faced her doom:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They two must sin to keep their vows.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then out into the night she went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And caught a happy memory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She fell, and lay a minute's space;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She tore the sward in her distress;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dewy grass refreshed her face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She rose and ran with lifted dress.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She started like a morn-caught ghost<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Once when the moon came out and stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To watch; the naked road she crossed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dived into the murmuring wood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The branches snatched her streaming cloak;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She hurried to the trysting-oak&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Right well she knew the way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Without a pause she bared her breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And drove her dagger home and fell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lay like one that takes her rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And died and wakened up in hell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She bathed her spirit in the flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And near the centre took her post;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From all sides to her ears there came<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The dreary anguish of the lost.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The devil started at her side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Comely, and tall, and black as jet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'I am young Malespina's bride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Has he come hither yet?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'My poppet, welcome to your bed.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Is Malespina here?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Not he! To-morrow he must wed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His cousin Blanche, my dear!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'You lie, he died with me to-night.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'My dear, I never lie outright.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'We died at midnight, he and I.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The devil went. Without a groan<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Took root in hell's midst all alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And waited for him there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She dared to make herself at home<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scentless and silent, shrouded her.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How long she stayed I cannot tell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But when she felt his perfidy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She marched across the floor of hell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all the damned stood up to see.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The devil stopped her at the brink:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'My dear, you have gone mad, I think.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'I was betrayed: I will not stay.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Across the weltering deep she ran;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A stranger thing was never seen:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The damned stood silent to a man;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They saw the great gulf set between.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To her it seemed a meadow fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And flowers sprang up about her feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She entered heaven; she climbed the stair<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And knelt down at the mercy-seat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seraphs and saints with one great voice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Welcomed that soul that knew not fear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amazed to find it could rejoice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IMAGINATION" id="IMAGINATION"></a>IMAGINATION<br />
+(<i>From "New Year's Eve"</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There is a dish to hold the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A brazier to contain the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A compass for the galaxy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A voice to wake the dead and done!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That minister of ministers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Imagination, gathers up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The undiscovered Universe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like jewels in a jasper cup.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Its flame can mingle north and south;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its accent with the thunder strive;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ruddy sentence of its mouth<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Can make the ancient dead alive.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The mart of power, the fount of will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The form and mould of every star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The source and bound of good and ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The key of all the things that are,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Imagination, new and strange<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In every age, can turn the year;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can shift the poles and lightly change<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mood of men, the world's career.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>William Watson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>William Watson was born at Burley-in-Wharfedale, Yorkshire,
+August 2, 1858. He achieved his first wide success
+through his long and eloquent poems on Wordsworth, Shelley,
+and Tennyson&mdash;poems that attempted, and sometimes successfully,
+to combine the manners of these masters. <i>The Hope of
+the World</i> (1897) contains some of his most characteristic verse.</p>
+
+<p>It was understood that he would be appointed poet laureate
+upon the death of Alfred Austin. But some of his radical and
+semi-political poems are supposed to have displeased the pow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>ers
+at Court, and the honor went to Robert Bridges. His best
+work, which is notable for its dignity and moulded imagination,
+may be found in <i>Selected Poems</i>, published in 1903 by
+John Lane Co.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ODE_IN_MAY" id="ODE_IN_MAY"></a>ODE IN MAY<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let me go forth, and share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The overflowing Sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With one wise friend, or one<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Better than wise, being fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the pewit wheels and dips<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On heights of bracken and ling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tingles with the Spring.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What is so sweet and dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a prosperous morn in May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The confident prime of the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the dauntless youth of the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When nothing that asks for bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Asking aright, is denied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And half of the world a bridegroom is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And half of the world a bride?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Song of Mingling flows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grave, ceremonial, pure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As once, from lips that endure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cosmic descant rose,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the temporal lord of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going his golden way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had taken a wondrous maid to wife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That long had said him nay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For of old the Sun, our sire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came wooing the mother of men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Earth, that was virginal then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vestal fire to his fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silent her bosom and coy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the strong god sued and pressed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And born of their starry nuptial joy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are all that drink of her breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the triumph of him that begot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the travail of her that bore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold, they are evermore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As warp and weft in our lot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We are children of splendour and flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of shuddering, also, and tears.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Magnificent out of the dust we came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And abject from the Spheres.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O bright irresistible lord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whence first was the seed outpoured.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To thee as our Father we bow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forbidden thy Father to see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who is older and greater than thou, as thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Art greater and older than we.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou art but as a word of his speech,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art but as a wave of his hand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art brief as a glitter of sand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art less than a spark of his fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a moment's mood of his soul:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That chant the chant of the Whole.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ESTRANGEMENT" id="ESTRANGEMENT"></a>ESTRANGEMENT<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So, without overt breach, we fall apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tacitly sunder&mdash;neither you nor I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Conscious of one intelligible Why,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And both, from severance, winning equal smart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I seem to see an alien shade pass by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That June on her triumphal progress goes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is a legend emptied of concern,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And idle is the rumour of the rose.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="SONG" id="SONG"></a>SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">April, April,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Laugh thy girlish laughter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, the moment after,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weep thy girlish tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">April, that mine ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a lover greetest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I tell thee, sweetest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All my hopes and fears.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">April, April,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Laugh thy golden laughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, the moment after,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weep thy golden tears!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class='footnotes'><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> From <i>The Hope of the World</i> by William Watson. Copyright,
+1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of
+the publishers.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> From <i>The Hope of the World</i> by William Watson. Copyright,
+1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of
+the publishers.</p></div></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Francis Thompson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born in 1859 at Preston, Francis Thompson was educated at
+Owen's College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of
+strange ways of earning a living. He was, at various times,
+assistant in a boot-shop, medical student, collector for a book
+seller and homeless vagabond; there was a period in his life
+when he sold matches on the streets of London. He was
+discovered in terrible poverty (having given up everything except
+poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to which
+he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately
+thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen
+at its purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven."
+Coventry Patmore, the distinguished poet of an earlier period,
+says of the latter poem, which is unfortunately too long to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
+quote, "It is one of the very few <i>great</i> odes of which our
+language can boast."</p>
+
+<p>Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St.
+John's Wood in November, 1907.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="DAISY" id="DAISY"></a>DAISY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where the thistle lifts a purple crown<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Six foot out of the turf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the harebell shakes on the windy hill&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O breath of the distant surf!&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hills look over on the South,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And southward dreams the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with the sea-breeze hand in hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Came innocence and she.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Red for the gatherer springs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two children did we stray and talk<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wise, idle, childish things.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She listened with big-lipped surprise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her skin was like a grape whose veins<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Run snow instead of wine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She knew not those sweet words she spake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor knew her own sweet way;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there's never a bird, so sweet a song<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thronged in whose throat all day.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, there were flowers in Storrington<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the turf and on the spray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was the Daisy-flower that day!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She gave me tokens three:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A look, a word of her winsome mouth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And a wild raspberry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A berry red, a guileless look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A still word,&mdash;strings of sand!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet they made my wild, wild heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fly down to her little hand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For standing artless as the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And candid as the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She took the berries with her hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the love with her sweet eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The fairest things have fleetest end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their scent survives their close:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the rose's scent is bitterness<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To him that loved the rose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She looked a little wistfully,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then went her sunshine way:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sea's eye had a mist on it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the leaves fell from the day.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She went her unremembering way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She went and left in me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pang of all the partings gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And partings yet to be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She left me marvelling why my soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was sad that she was glad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At all the sadness in the sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sweetness in the sad.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still, still I seemed to see her, still<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Look up with soft replies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And take the berries with her hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the love with her lovely eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nothing begins, and nothing ends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That is not paid with moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we are born in other's pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And perish in our own.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_OLIVIA" id="TO_OLIVIA"></a>TO OLIVIA</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I fear to love thee, Sweet, because<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love's the ambassador of loss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White flake of childhood, clinging so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At tenderest touch will shrink and go.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love me not, delightful child.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart, by many snares beguiled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has grown timorous and wild.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It would fear thee not at all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wert thou not so harmless-small.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Because thy arrows, not yet dire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are still unbarbed with destined fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fear thee more than hadst thou stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full-panoplied in womanhood.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_ARAB_LOVE-SONG" id="AN_ARAB_LOVE-SONG"></a>AN ARAB LOVE-SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hunch&egrave;d camels of the night<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trouble the bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And silver waters of the moon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Maiden of the Morn will soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through Heaven stray and sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Star gathering.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Leave thy father, leave thy mother<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thy brother;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Am I not thy father and thy brother,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thy mother?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou&mdash;what needest with thy tribe's black<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">tents<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> (Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>A. E. Housman</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>A. E. Housman was born March 26, 1859, and, after a classical
+education, he was, for ten years, a Higher Division Clerk
+in H. M. Patent Office. Later in life, he became a teacher.</p>
+
+<p>Housman has published only one volume of original verse,
+but that volume (<i>A Shropshire Lad</i>) is known wherever modern
+English poetry is read. Originally published in 1896, when
+Housman was almost 37, it is evident that many of these lyrics
+were written when the poet was much younger. Echoing the
+frank pessimism of Hardy and the harder cynicism of Heine,
+Housman struck a lighter and more buoyant note. Underneath
+his dark ironies, there is a rustic humor that has many subtle
+variations. From a melodic standpoint, <i>A Shropshire Lad</i> is a
+collection of exquisite, haunting and almost perfect songs.</p>
+
+<p>Housman has been a professor of Latin since 1892 and, besides
+his immortal set of lyrics, has edited Juvenal and the
+books of Manilius.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="REVEILLE" id="REVEILLE"></a>REVEILL&Eacute;</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wake: the silver dusk returning<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Up the beach of darkness brims,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the ship of sunrise burning<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Strands upon the eastern rims.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trampled to the floor it spanned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the tent of night in tatters<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Straws the sky-pavilioned land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hear the drums of morning play;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hark, the empty highways crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Who'll beyond the hills away?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Towns and countries woo together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forelands beacon, belfries call;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never lad that trod on leather<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lived to feast his heart with all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sunlit pallets never thrive;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Morns abed and daylight slumber<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were not meant for man alive.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Breath's a ware that will not keep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up, lad: when the journey's over<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There'll be time enough to sleep.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="WHEN_I_WAS_ONE-AND-TWENTY" id="WHEN_I_WAS_ONE-AND-TWENTY"></a>WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I was one-and-twenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I heard a wise man say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Give crowns and pounds and guineas<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But not your heart away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give pearls away and rubies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But keep your fancy free."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I was one-and-twenty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No use to talk to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I was one-and-twenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I heard him say again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"The heart out of the bosom<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was never given in vain;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis paid with sighs a-plenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sold for endless rue."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I am two-and-twenty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="WITH_RUE_MY_HEART_IS_LADEN" id="WITH_RUE_MY_HEART_IS_LADEN"></a>WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With rue my heart is laden<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For golden friends I had,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For many a rose-lipt maiden<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And many a lightfoot lad.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By brooks too broad for leaping<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lightfoot boys are laid;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rose-lipt girls are sleeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In fields where roses fade.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_AN_ATHLETE_DYING_YOUNG" id="TO_AN_ATHLETE_DYING_YOUNG"></a>TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The time you won your town the race<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We chaired you through the market-place;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Man and boy stood cheering by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And home we brought you shoulder-high.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To-day, the road all runners come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shoulder-high we bring you home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And set you at your threshold down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Townsman of a stiller town.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Smart lad, to slip betimes away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From fields where glory does not stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And early though the laurel grows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It withers quicker than the rose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eyes the shady night has shut<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cannot see the record cut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And silence sounds no worse than cheers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After earth has stopped the ears:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now you will not swell the rout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of lads that wore their honours out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Runners whom renown outran<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the name died before the man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So set, before its echoes fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fleet foot on the sill of shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hold to the low lintel up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The still-defended challenge-cup.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And round that early-laurelled head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And find unwithered on its curls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The garland briefer than a girl's.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="LOVELIEST_OF_TREES" id="LOVELIEST_OF_TREES"></a>"LOVELIEST OF TREES"</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Loveliest of trees, the cherry now<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is hung with bloom along the bough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stands about the woodland ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wearing white for Eastertide.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now, of my threescore years and ten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Twenty will not come again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And take from seventy springs a score,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It only leaves me fifty more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And since to look at things in bloom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fifty springs are little room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About the woodlands I will go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see the cherry hung with snow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Douglas Hyde</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Doctor Douglas Hyde was born in Roscommon County, Ireland
+in, as nearly as can be ascertained, 1860. One of the
+most brilliant Irish scholars of his day, he has worked indefatigably
+for the cause of his native letters. He has written a
+comprehensive history of Irish literature; has compiled, edited
+and translated into English the <i>Love Songs of Connaught</i>; is
+President of The Irish National Literary Society; and is the
+author of innumerable poems in Gaelic&mdash;far more than he ever
+wrote in English. His collections of Irish folk-lore and poetry
+were among the most notable contributions to the Celtic revival;
+they were (see Preface), to a large extent, responsible for it.
+Since 1909 he has been Professor of Modern Irish in University
+College, Dublin.</p>
+
+<p>The poem which is here quoted is one of his many brilliant
+and reanimating translations. In its music and its peculiar
+rhyme-scheme, it reproduces the peculiar flavor as well as the
+meter of the West Irish original.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE" id="I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE"></a>I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For thee, I shall not die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woman of high fame and name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Foolish men thou mayest slay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I and they are not the same.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why should I expire<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the fire of an eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slender waist or swan-like limb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is't for them that I should die?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The round breasts, the fresh skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Please God, not I, for any such.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The golden hair, the forehead thin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The chaste mien, the gracious ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rounded heel, the languid tone,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fools alone find death from these.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy white neck, thy blue eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shall not die for thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Woman, graceful as the swan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A wise man did nurture me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little palm, white neck, bright eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shall not die for ye.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Amy Levy</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham,
+in 1861. A fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity
+with the sorrows of her race. She wrote one novel, <i>Reuben</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
+<i>Sachs</i>, and two volumes of poetry&mdash;the more distinctive of the
+two being half-pathetically and half-ironically entitled <i>A Minor
+Poet</i> (1884). After several years of brooding introspection,
+she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of 28.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="EPITAPH" id="EPITAPH"></a>EPITAPH<br />
+(<i>On a commonplace person who died in bed</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This is the end of him, here he lies:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This is the end of him, this is best.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He will never lie on his couch awake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never again will he smile and smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When his heart is breaking all the while.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He will never stretch out his hands in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Groping and groping&mdash;never again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never pretend that the stone is bread;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weighing and noting the long hours through.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This is the end of him, here he lies.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IN_THE_MILE_END_ROAD" id="IN_THE_MILE_END_ROAD"></a>IN THE MILE END ROAD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How like her! But 'tis she herself,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Comes up the crowded street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How little did I think, the morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My only love to meet!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who else that motion and that mien?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose else that airy tread?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For one strange moment I forgot<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My only love was dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated
+at the Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married
+Henry Hinkson, a lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is
+largely actuated by religious themes, and much of her verse is
+devotional and yet distinctive. In <i>New Poems</i> (1911) she is
+at her best; graceful, meditative and with occasional notes of
+deep pathos.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SHEEP_AND_LAMBS" id="SHEEP_AND_LAMBS"></a>SHEEP AND LAMBS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All in the April morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">April airs were abroad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sheep with their little lambs<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pass'd me by on the road.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The sheep with their little lambs<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pass'd me by on the road;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All in an April evening<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I thought on the Lamb of God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The lambs were weary, and crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a weak human cry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I thought on the Lamb of God<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Going meekly to die.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Up in the blue, blue mountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dewy pastures are sweet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rest for the little bodies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rest for the little feet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rest for the Lamb of God<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Up on the hill-top green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only a cross of shame<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Two stark crosses between.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All in the April evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">April airs were abroad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw the sheep with their lambs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And thought on the Lamb of God.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ALL-SOULS" id="ALL-SOULS"></a>ALL-SOULS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The door of Heaven is on the latch<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To-night, and many a one is fain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To go home for one's night's watch<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With his love again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, where the father and mother sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's a drift of dead leaves at the door<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like pitter-patter of little feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That come no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Their thoughts are in the night and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their tears are heavier than the clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But who is this at the threshold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So young and gay?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They are come from the land o' the young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They have forgotten how to weep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Words of comfort on the tongue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a kiss to keep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They sit down and they stay awhile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kisses and comfort none shall lack;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At morn they steal forth with a smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a long look back.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Owen Seaman</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman,
+was born in 1861. After receiving a classical education,
+he became Professor of Literature and began to write for
+Punch in 1894. In 1906 he was made editor of that internationally
+famous weekly, remaining in that capacity ever since.
+He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of light verse and as a
+parodist, his agile work has delighted a generation of admirers.
+Some of his most adroit lines may be found in his <i>In Cap
+and Bells</i> (1902) and <i>The Battle of the Bays</i> (1892).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_AN_OLD_FOGEY" id="TO_AN_OLD_FOGEY"></a>TO AN OLD FOGEY<br />
+(<i>Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O frankly bald and obviously stout!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And so you find that Christmas as a f&ecirc;te<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dispassionately viewed, is getting out<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Of date.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The studied festal air is overdone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The humour of it grows a little thin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Comes in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Visions of very heavy meals arise<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That tend to make your organism shiver;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The liver;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Those pies at which you annually wince,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hearing the tale how happy months will follow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Proportioned to the total mass of mince<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">You swallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Visions of youth whose reverence is scant,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who with the brutal <i>verve</i> of boyhood's prime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Insist on being taken to the pant-<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">-omime.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of infants, sitting up extremely late,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who run you on toboggans down the stair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or make you fetch a rug and simulate<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">A bear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This takes your faultless trousers at the knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The other hurts them rather more behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And both effect a fracture in your ease<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Of mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My good dyspeptic, this will never do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet once I well believe that even you<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Were young.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time was when you devoured, like other boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Of men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The fiery raisin with profound delight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And right.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He won the treasure of eternal youth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Yours</i> is the dotage&mdash;if you want to know<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The truth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Make others' happiness this once your own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All else may pass: that joy can never be<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Outgrown!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THOMAS_OF_THE_LIGHT_HEART" id="THOMAS_OF_THE_LIGHT_HEART"></a>THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Facing the guns, he jokes as well<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As any Judge upon the Bench;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Between the crash of shell and shell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His laughter rings along the trench;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He seems immensely tickled by a<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He whistles down the day-long road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, when the chilly shadows fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And heavier hangs the weary load,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is he down-hearted? Not at all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis then he takes a light and airy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">View of the tedious route to Tipperary.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His songs are not exactly hymns;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He never learned them in the choir;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet they brace his dragging limbs<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Although they miss the sacred fire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Although his choice and cherished gems<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He takes to fighting as a game;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He does no talking, through his hat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of holy missions; all the same<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He has his faith&mdash;be sure of that;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> "<i>It's a long way to Tipperary</i>," the most popular song of the Allied armies during the World's War.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Henry Newbolt</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work
+was frankly imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add
+to the Arthurian legends with a drama in blank verse entitled
+<i>Mordred</i> (1895). It was not until he wrote his sea-ballads
+that he struck his own note. With the publication of <i>Admirals
+All</i> (1897) his fame was widespread. The popularity of his
+lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of Newbolt's
+verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of rhythm,
+the vigorous swing of his stanzas.</p>
+
+<p>In 1898 Newbolt published <i>The Island Race</i>, which contains
+about thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides
+being a poet, Newbolt has written many essays and his critical
+volume, <i>A New Study of English Poetry</i> (1917), is a collection
+of articles that are both analytical and alive.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="DRAKES_DRUM" id="DRAKES_DRUM"></a>DRAKE'S DRUM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Arthur Symons</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born in 1865, Arthur Symons' first few publications revealed
+an intellectual rather than an emotional passion. Those volumes
+were full of the artifice of the period, but Symons's technical
+skill and frequent analysis often saved the poems from
+complete decadence. His later books are less imitative; the
+influence of Verlaine and Baudelaire is not so apparent; the
+sophistication is less cynical, the sensuousness more restrained.
+His various collections of essays and stories reflect the same
+peculiar blend of rich intellectuality and perfumed romanticism
+that one finds in his most characteristic poems.</p>
+
+<p>Of his many volumes in prose, <i>Spiritual Adventures</i> (1905),
+while obviously influenced by Walter Pater, is by far the most
+original; a truly unique volume of psychological short stories.
+The best of his poetry up to 1902 was collected in two volumes,
+<i>Poems</i>, published by John Lane Co. <i>The Fool of the World</i>
+appeared in 1907.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IN_THE_WOOD_OF_FINVARA" id="IN_THE_WOOD_OF_FINVARA"></a>IN THE WOOD OF FINVARA</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="MODERN_BEAUTY" id="MODERN_BEAUTY"></a>MODERN BEAUTY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am the torch, she saith, and what to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If the moth die of me? I am the flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But live with that clear light of perfect fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which is to men the death of their desire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Troy burn, and the most loving knight lie dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world has been my mirror, time has been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My breath upon the glass; and men have said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age after age, in rapture and despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love's poor few words, before my image there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I live, and am immortal; in my eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sorrow of the world, and on my lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The joy of life, mingle to make me wise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who is there still lives for beauty? Still am I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>William Butler Yeats</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1865, the son of John B.
+Yeats, the Irish artist, the greater part of William Butler
+Yeats' childhood was spent in Sligo. Here he became imbued
+with the power and richness of native folk-lore; he drank in the
+racy quality through the quaint fairy stories and old wives'
+tales of the Irish peasantry. (Later he published a collection
+of these same stories.)</p>
+
+<p>It was in the activities of a "Young Ireland" society that
+Yeats became identified with the new spirit; he dreamed of a
+national poetry that would be written in English and yet would
+be definitely Irish. In a few years he became one of the
+leaders in the Celtic revival. He worked incessantly for the
+cause, both as propagandist and playwright; and, though his
+mysticism at times seemed the product of a cult rather than a
+Celt, his symbolic dramas were acknowledged to be full of a
+haunting, other-world spirituality. (See Preface.) <i>The Hour
+Glass</i> (1904), his second volume of "Plays for an Irish
+Theatre," includes his best one-act dramas with the exception
+of his unforgettable <i>The Land of Heart's Desire</i> (1894). <i>The
+Wind Among the Reeds</i> (1899) contains several of his most
+beautiful and characteristic poems.</p>
+
+<p>Others who followed Yeats have intensified the Irish drama;
+they have established a closer contact between the peasant and
+poet. No one, however, has had so great a part in the shaping
+of modern drama in Ireland as Yeats. His <i>Deirdre</i> (1907), a
+beautiful retelling of the great Gaelic legend, is far more dramatic
+than the earlier plays; it is particularly interesting to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
+read with Synge's more idiomatic play on the same theme,
+<i>Deirdre of the Sorrows</i>.</p>
+
+<p>The poems of Yeats which are quoted here reveal him in
+his most lyric and musical vein.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_LAKE_ISLE_OF_INNISFREE" id="THE_LAKE_ISLE_OF_INNISFREE"></a>THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And live alone in the bee-loud glade.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And evening full of the linnet's wings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I hear it in the deep heart's core.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SONG_OF_THE_OLD_MOTHER" id="THE_SONG_OF_THE_OLD_MOTHER"></a>THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the young lie long and dream in their bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And their day goes over in idleness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While I must work, because I am old<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_CAP_AND_BELLS" id="THE_CAP_AND_BELLS"></a>THE CAP AND BELLS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A Queen was beloved by a jester,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And once when the owls grew still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He made his soul go upward<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And stand on her window sill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In a long and straight blue garment,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It talked before morn was white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it had grown wise by thinking<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a footfall hushed and light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But the young queen would not listen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She rose in her pale nightgown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She drew in the brightening casement<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pushed the brass bolt down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He bade his heart go to her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the bats cried out no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a red and quivering garment<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It sang to her through the door.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The tongue of it sweet with dreaming<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a flutter of flower-like hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she took up her fan from the table<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And waved it off on the air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I've cap and bells,' he pondered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'I will send them to her and die.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as soon as the morn had whitened<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He left them where she went by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She laid them upon her bosom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Under a cloud of her hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her red lips sang them a love song.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The stars grew out of the air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She opened her door and her window,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the heart and the soul came through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her right hand came the red one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To her left hand came the blue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They set up a noise like crickets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A chattering wise and sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her hair was a folded flower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the quiet of love her feet.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_OLD_SONG_RESUNG" id="AN_OLD_SONG_RESUNG"></a>AN OLD SONG RESUNG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In a field by the river my love and I did stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Rudyard Kipling</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling,
+the author of a dozen contemporary classics, was educated in
+England. He returned, however, to India and took a position
+on the staff of "The Lahore Civil and Military Gazette,"
+writing for the Indian press until about 1890, when he went to
+England, where he has lived ever since, with the exception of
+a short sojourn in America.</p>
+
+<p>Even while he was still in India he achieved a popular as
+well as a literary success with his dramatic and skilful tales,
+sketches and ballads of Anglo-Indian life.</p>
+
+<p><i>Soldiers Three</i> (1888) was the first of six collections of short
+stories brought out in "Wheeler's Railway Library." They
+were followed by the far more sensitive and searching <i>Plain
+Tales from the Hills</i>, <i>Under the Deodars</i> and <i>The Phantom
+'Rikshaw</i>, which contains two of the best and most convincing
+ghost-stories in recent literature.</p>
+
+<p>These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling's extraordinary
+talents. As a writer of children's stories, he has
+few living equals. <i>Wee Willie Winkie</i>, which contains that
+stirring and heroic fragment "Drums of the Fore and Aft," is
+only a trifle less notable than his more obviously juvenile collections.
+<i>Just-So Stories</i> and the two <i>Jungle Books</i> (prose
+interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics for young people
+of all ages. <i>Kim</i>, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown up,
+is a more mature masterpiece.</p>
+
+<p>Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the
+most vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of
+romance surges under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up
+the tang of a countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray,
+the rude sentiment of ruder natures, the snapping of a banner,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
+the lurch and rumble of the sea. His poetry is woven of the
+stuff of myths; but it never loses its hold on actualities. Kipling
+himself in his poem "The Benefactors" (from <i>The Years
+Between</i> [1919]) writes:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! What avails the classic bent<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And what the cultured word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the undoctored incident<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That actually occurred?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His
+varied poems have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volume
+<i>Inclusive Edition</i> (1885-1918), an indispensable part of
+any student's library. This gifted and prolific creator, whose
+work was affected by the war, has frequently lapsed into bombast
+and a journalistic imperialism. At his best he is unforgettable,
+standing mountain-high above his host of imitators.
+His home is at Burwash, Sussex.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="GUNGA_DIN" id="GUNGA_DIN"></a>GUNGA DIN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You may talk o' gin an' beer<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're quartered safe out 'ere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But if it comes to slaughter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You will do your work on water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now in Injia's sunny clime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where I used to spend my time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all them black-faced crew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The finest man I knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was our regimental <i>bhisti</i>,<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> Gunga Din.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It was "Din! Din! Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hi! <i>slippy hitherao!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Water, get it! <i>Panee lao!</i><a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a><br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The uniform 'e wore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was nothin' much before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a twisty piece o' rag<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a goatskin water-bag<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the sweatin' troop-train lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a sidin' through the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shouted "<i>Harry By!</i>"<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till our throats were bricky-dry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It was "Din! Din! Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You put some <i>juldees</i><a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> in it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or I'll <i>marrow</i><a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> you this minute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'E would dot an' carry one<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the longest day was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If we charged or broke or cut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You could bet your bloomin' nut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With 'is <i>mussick</i><a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> on 'is back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E would skip with our attack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E was white, clear white, inside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It was "Din! Din! Din!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When the cartridges ran out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You could 'ear the front-files shout:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I sha'n't forgit the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I dropped be'ind the fight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I was chokin' mad with thirst,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the man that spied me first<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E lifted up my 'ead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' 'e plugged me where I bled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water&mdash;green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was crawlin' an' it stunk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But of all the drinks I've drunk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It was "Din! Din! Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'E carried me away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To where a <i>dooli</i> lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E put me safe inside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' just before 'e died:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I'll meet 'im later on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the place where 'e is gone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where it's always double drill and no canteen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'E'll be squattin' on the coals<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Givin' drink to pore damned souls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Din! Din! Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the livin' Gawd that made you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_RETURN" id="THE_RETURN"></a>THE RETURN<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Peace is declared, and I return<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Things 'ave transpired which made me learn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The size and meanin' of the game.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I did no more than others did,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I don't know where the change began;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I started as a average kid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I finished as a thinkin' man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>If England was what England seems</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>An not the England of our dreams,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>But only putty, brass, an' paint,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!</i> But she ain't!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Before my gappin' mouth could speak<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I 'eard it in my comrade's tone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw it on my neighbour's cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before I felt it flush my own.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' last it come to me&mdash;not pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(If such a term may be applied),<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The makin's of a bloomin' soul.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mountains that never let you near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' stars to all eternity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The 'ollows of the wilderness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the wind worries through the 'ills&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">These may 'ave taught me more or less.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Towns without people, ten times took,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' ten times left an' burned at last;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' starvin' dogs that come to look<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For owners when a column passed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' quiet, 'omesick talks between<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Men, met by night, you never knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until&mdash;'is face&mdash;by shellfire seen&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Once&mdash;an' struck off. They taught me, too.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The day's lay-out&mdash;the mornin' sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beneath your 'at-brim as you sight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dinner-'ush from noon till one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' the full roar that lasts till night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the pore dead that look so old<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' was so young an hour ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' legs tied down before they're cold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">These are the things which make you know.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Also Time runnin' into years&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A thousand Places left be'ind&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' Men from both two 'emispheres<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Discussin' things of every kind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So much more near than I 'ad known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So much more great than I 'ad guessed&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' me, like all the rest, alone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But reachin' out to all the rest!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So 'ath it come to me&mdash;not pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(If such a term may be applied),<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The makin's of a bloomin' soul.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now, discharged, I fall away<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To do with little things again....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Look after me in Thamesfontein!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>If England was what England seems</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>An' not the England of our dreams,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>But only putty, brass, an' paint,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!</i> But she ain't!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_CONUNDRUM_OF_THE_WORKSHOPS" id="THE_CONUNDRUM_OF_THE_WORKSHOPS"></a>THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he left his lore to the use of his sons&mdash;and that was a glorious gain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The tale is old as the Eden Tree&mdash;as new as the new-cut tooth&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-room's green and gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it art?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the favor of God we might know as much&mdash;as our father Adam knew.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_ASTROLOGERS_SONG" id="AN_ASTROLOGERS_SONG"></a>AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To the Heavens above us<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O look and behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Planets that love us<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All harnessed in gold!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What chariots, what horses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Against us shall bide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the Stars in their courses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Do fight on our side?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All thought, all desires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That are under the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are one with their fires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As we also are one:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All matter, all spirit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All fashion, all frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Receive and inherit<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their strength from the same.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">(Oh, man that deniest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All power save thine own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their power in the highest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is mightily shown.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not less in the lowest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That power is made clear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, man, if thou knowest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What treasure is here!)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth quakes in her throes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we wonder for why!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the blind planet knows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When her ruler is nigh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, attuned since Creation<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To perfect accord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She thrills in her station<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And yearns to her Lord.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The waters have risen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The springs are unbound&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The floods break their prison,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And ravin around.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No rampart withstands 'em,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their fury will last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the Sign that commands 'em<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sinks low or swings past.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Through abysses unproven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gulfs beyond thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our portion is woven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our burden is brought.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet They that prepare it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose Nature we share,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make us who must bear is<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Well able to bear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though terrors o'ertake us<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We'll not be afraid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No power can unmake us<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Save that which has made.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor yet beyond reason<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or hope shall we fall&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All things have their season,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Mercy crowns all!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, doubt not, ye fearful&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Eternal is King&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up, heart, and be cheerful,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And lustily sing:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>What chariots, what horses</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Against us shall bide</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>While the Stars in their courses</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Do fight on our side?</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class='footnotes'><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> The <i>bhisti</i>, or water-carrier, attached to regiments
+in India, is often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He
+is also appreciated by the men.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Bring water swiftly.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Speed.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Hit you.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Water-skin.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> From <i>The Five Nations</i> by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright
+by Doubleday, Page &amp; Co. and A. P. Watt &amp; Son.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> From <i>Rewards and Fairies</i> by Rudyard Kipling.
+Copyright by Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt &amp; Son.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Richard Le Gallienne</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Richard Le Gallienne, who, in spite of his long residence in
+the United States, must be considered an English poet, was born
+at Liverpool in 1866. He entered on a business career soon
+after leaving Liverpool College, but gave up commercial life
+to become a man of letters after five or six years.</p>
+
+<p>His early work was strongly influenced by the artificialities
+of the &aelig;sthetic movement (see Preface); the indebtedness to
+Oscar Wilde is especially evident. A little later Keats was the
+dominant influence, and <i>English Poems</i> (1892) betray how deep
+were Le Gallienne's admirations. His more recent poems in
+<i>The Lonely Dancer</i> (1913) show a keener individuality and a
+finer lyrical passion. His prose fancies are well known&mdash;par<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>ticularly
+<i>The Book Bills of Narcissus</i> and the charming and
+high-spirited fantasia, <i>The Quest of the Golden Girl</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Le Gallienne came to America about 1905 and has lived ever
+since in Rowayton, Conn., and New York City.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_BALLAD_OF_LONDON" id="A_BALLAD_OF_LONDON"></a>A BALLAD OF LONDON</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, London! London! our delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great flower that opens but at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great City of the midnight sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose day begins when day is done.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lamp after lamp against the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Opens a sudden beaming eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leaping alight on either hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The iron lilies of the Strand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The streets are full of lights and loves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The human moths about the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dash and cling close in dazed delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And burn and laugh, the world and wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For this is London, this is life!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Upon thy petals butterflies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But at thy root, some say, there lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A world of weeping trodden things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From out corruption of their woe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Springs this bright flower that charms us so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men die and rot deep out of sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To keep this jungle-flower bright.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Paris and London, World-Flowers twain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherewith the World-Tree blooms again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since Time hath gathered Babylon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And withered Rome still withers on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How bright they shone upon the tree!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Time hath gathered, both are gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And no man sails to Babylon.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="REGRET" id="REGRET"></a>REGRET</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One asked of regret,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I made reply:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have held the bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And let it fly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have seen the star<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a moment nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lost it<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through a slothful eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have plucked the flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And cast it by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have one only hope&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Lionel Johnson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born in 1867, Lionel Johnson received a classical education
+at Oxford, and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies
+in Greek and Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with
+the modern Irish poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth;
+Johnson, having been converted to Catholicism in 1891, became
+imbued with Catholic and, later, with Irish traditions. His
+verse, while sometimes strained and over-decorated, is chastely
+designed, rich and, like that of the Cavalier poets of the seventeenth
+century, mystically devotional. <i>Poems</i> (1895) contains his
+best work. Johnson died in 1902.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="MYSTIC_AND_CAVALIER" id="MYSTIC_AND_CAVALIER"></a>MYSTIC AND CAVALIER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Go from me: I am one of those who fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In my sad company? Before the end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Go from me, dear my friend!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yours are the victories of light: your feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But after warfare in a mourning gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I rest in clouds of doom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is it the common light of the pure skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though the end be not yet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I too joy, a man like other men:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Yet, am I like them, then?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And in the battle, when the horsemen sweep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who ever sought that sudden calm, if I<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sought not? yet could not die!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the mists, only the weeping clouds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Dimness and airy shrouds.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beneath, what angels are at work? What powers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prepare the secret of the fatal hours?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When comes the calling word?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My spirit may have sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O rich and sounding voices of the air!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Interpreters and prophets of despair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To make with you mine home.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="TO_A_TRAVELLER" id="TO_A_TRAVELLER"></a>TO A TRAVELLER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The mountains, and the lonely death at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wandering over, and the labour passed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou art indeed at rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Earth gave thee of her best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That labour and this end.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon earth's kindly breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou art indeed at rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou, and thine arduous days.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His glory over thee, O heart of might!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Earth gives thee perfect rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Earth, whom the vast stars crown.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Ernest Dowson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867.
+His great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's "Waring"),
+who was at one time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson,
+practically an invalid all his life, was reckless with himself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
+and, as disease weakened him more and more, hid himself in
+miserable surroundings; for almost two years he lived in sordid
+supper-houses known as "cabmen's shelters." He literally
+drank himself to death.</p>
+
+<p>His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape
+from a reality too big and brutal for him. His passionate lyric,
+"I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion," a
+triumph of despair and disillusion, is an outburst in which
+Dowson epitomized himself&mdash;"One of the greatest lyrical poems
+of our time," writes Arthur Symons, "in it he has for once said
+everything, and he has said it to an intoxicating and perhaps
+immortal music."</p>
+
+<p>Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern
+minor poets. His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted
+by a strong and merciless environment.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_ONE_IN_BEDLAM" id="TO_ONE_IN_BEDLAM"></a>TO ONE IN BEDLAM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="YOU_WOULD_HAVE_UNDERSTOOD_ME" id="YOU_WOULD_HAVE_UNDERSTOOD_ME"></a>YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD ME</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You would have understood me, had you waited;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Always to disagree.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall I reproach you, dead?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All the old anger, setting us apart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Always, I held your heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have met other women who were tender,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I who had found you fair?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I had fought death for you, better than he:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But from the very first, dear! we were fated<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Always to disagree.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Love that in life was not to be our part:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On your low lying mound between the roses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sadly I cast my heart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Death and the darkness give you unto me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hardly can disagree.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>"<i>A. E.</i>"<br />
+(<i>George William Russell</i>)</h2>
+
+
+<p>At Durgan, a tiny town in the north of Ireland, George
+William Russell was born in 1867. He moved to Dublin when
+he was 10 years old and, as a young man, helped to form
+the group that gave rise to the Irish Renascence&mdash;the group of
+which William Butler Yeats, Doctor Douglas Hyde, Katharine
+Tynan and Lady Gregory were brilliant members. Besides
+being a splendid mystical poet, "A. E." is a painter of note,
+a fiery patriot, a distinguished sociologist, a public speaker, a
+student of economics and one of the heads of the Irish Agricultural
+Association.</p>
+
+<p>The best of his poetry is in <i>Homeward Songs by the Way</i>
+(1894) and <i>The Earth Breath and Other Poems</i>. Yeats has
+spoken of these poems as "revealing in all things a kind of
+scented flame consuming them from within."</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_GREAT_BREATH" id="THE_GREAT_BREATH"></a>THE GREAT BREATH</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Withers once more the old blue flower of day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There where the ether like a diamond glows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Its petals fade away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great deep thrills&mdash;for through it everywhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The breath of Beauty blows.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw how all the trembling ages past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And knows herself in death.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_UNKNOWN_GOD" id="THE_UNKNOWN_GOD"></a>THE UNKNOWN GOD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Far up the dim twilight fluttered<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Moth-wings of vapour and flame:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lights danced over the mountains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Star after star they came.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The lights grew thicker unheeded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For silent and still were we;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our hearts were drunk with a beauty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our eyes could never see.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Stephen Phillips</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born in 1868, Stephen Phillips is best known as the author of
+<i>Herod</i> (1900), <i>Paola and Francesca</i> (1899), and <i>Ulysses</i>
+(1902); a poetic playwright who succeeded in reviving, for a
+brief interval, the blank verse drama on the modern stage.
+Hailed at first with extravagant and almost incredible praise,
+Phillips lived to see his most popular dramas discarded and
+his new ones, such as <i>Pietro of Siena</i> (1910), unproduced and
+unnoticed.</p>
+
+<p>Phillips failed to "restore" poetic drama because he was,
+first of all, a lyric rather than a dramatic poet. In spite of
+certain moments of rhetorical splendor, his scenes are spectacular
+instead of emotional; his inspiration is too often derived
+from other models. He died in 1915.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="FRAGMENT_FROM_HEROD" id="FRAGMENT_FROM_HEROD"></a>FRAGMENT FROM "HEROD"</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Herod speaks</i>:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be a counter-glory to the Sun.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There shall the eagle blindly dash himself,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There the first beam shall strike, and there the moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall aim all night her argent archery;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flashings upon faces without hope.&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I will think in gold and dream in silver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Imagine in marble and conceive in bronze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nations<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stammering tribes from undiscovered lands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Allure the living God out of the bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the streaming seraphim from heaven.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="BEAUTIFUL_LIE_THE_DEAD" id="BEAUTIFUL_LIE_THE_DEAD"></a>BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beautiful lie the dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Clear comes each feature;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Satisfied not to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Strangely contented.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like ships, the anchor dropped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Furled every sail is;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mirrored with all their masts<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In a deep water.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_DREAM" id="A_DREAM"></a>A DREAM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My dead love came to me, and said:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'God gives me one hour's rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To spend with thee on earth again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How shall we spend it best?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Why, as of old,' I said; and so<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We quarrelled, as of old:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, when I turned to make my peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That one short hour was told.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Laurence Binyon</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster, August 10, 1869, a
+cousin of Stephen Phillips; in <i>Primavera</i> (1890) their early
+poems appeared together. Binyon's subsequent volumes showed
+little distinction until he published <i>London Visions</i>, which, in an
+enlarged edition in 1908, revealed a gift of characterization
+and a turn of speech in surprising contrast to his previous
+academic <i>Lyrical Poems</i> (1894). His <i>Odes</i> (1901) contains his
+ripest work; two poems in particular, "The Threshold" and
+"The Bacchanal of Alexander," are glowing and unusually
+spontaneous.</p>
+
+<p>Binyon's power has continued to grow; age has given his
+verse a new sharpness. "The House That Was," one of his
+most recent poems, appeared in <i>The London Mercury</i>, November,
+1919.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_SONG" id="A_SONG"></a>A SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is no measure upon earth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nay, they wither, root and stem,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If an end be set to them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Overbrim and overflow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If your own heart you would know;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the spirit born to bless<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lives but in its own excess.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_HOUSE_THAT_WAS" id="THE_HOUSE_THAT_WAS"></a>THE HOUSE THAT WAS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of the old house, only a few crumbled<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What once was firelit floor and private charm<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of the old garden, only a stray shining<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Older than many a generation of men.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Alfred Douglas</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Lord Alfred Douglas was born in 1870 and educated at
+Magdalen College, Oxford. He was the editor of <i>The Academy</i>
+from 1907 to 1910 and was at one time the intimate friend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
+of Oscar Wilde. One of the minor poets of "the eighteen-nineties,"
+several of his poems rise above his own affectations and
+the end-of-the-century decadence. <i>The City of the Soul</i> (1899)
+and <i>Sonnets</i> (1900) contain his most graceful writing.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_GREEN_RIVER" id="THE_GREEN_RIVER"></a>THE GREEN RIVER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I know a green grass path that leaves the field<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, like a running river, winds along<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Into a leafy wood, where is no throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their music to the moon. The place is sealed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all the unravished silences belong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So is my soul become a silent place....<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To find some voice of music manifold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>T. Sturge Moore</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Thomas Sturge Moore was born March 4, 1870. He is well
+known not only as an author, but as a critic and wood-engraver.
+As an artist, he has achieved no little distinction and
+has designed the covers for the poetry of W. B. Yeats and
+others. As a poet, the greater portion of his verse is severely
+classical in tone, academic in expression but, of its kind, dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>tinctive
+and intimate. Among his many volumes, the most
+outstanding are <i>The Vinedresser and Other Poems</i> (1899), <i>A
+Sicilian Idyll</i> (1911) and <i>The Sea Is Kind</i> (1914).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_DYING_SWAN" id="THE_DYING_SWAN"></a>THE DYING SWAN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O silver-throated Swan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Struck, struck! A golden dart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clean through thy breast has gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Home to thy heart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thrill, thrill, O silver throat!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O silver trumpet, pour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love for defiance back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On him who smote!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And brim, brim o'er<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With love; and ruby-dye thy track<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down thy last living reach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of river, sail the golden light&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enter the sun's heart&mdash;even teach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O wondrous-gifted Pain, teach Thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The God of love, let him learn how!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SILENCE_SINGS" id="SILENCE_SINGS"></a>SILENCE SINGS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So faint, no ear is sure it hears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So faint and far;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So vast that very near appears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My voice, both here and in each star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unmeasured leagues do bridge between;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like that which on a face is seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where secrets are;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweeping, like veils of lofty balm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tresses unbound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er desert sand, o'er ocean calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am wherever is not sound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, goddess of the truthful face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My beauty doth instil its grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That joy abound.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>William H. Davies</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>According to his own biography, William H. Davies was
+born in a public-house called Church House at Newport, in
+the County of Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents.
+He was, until Bernard Shaw "discovered" him, a cattleman, a
+berry-picker, a panhandler&mdash;in short, a vagabond. In a preface
+to Davies' second book, <i>The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp</i>
+(1906), Shaw describes how the manuscript came into his
+hands:</p>
+
+<p>"In the year 1905 I received by post a volume of poems
+by one William H. Davies, whose address was The Farm
+House, Kensington, S. E. I was surprised to learn that there
+was still a farmhouse left in Kensington; for I did not then
+suspect that the Farm House, like the Shepherdess Walks and
+Nightingale Lane and Whetstone Parks of Bethnal Green and
+Holborn, is so called nowadays in irony, and is, in fact, a
+doss-house, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's
+lodging, for, at most, sixpence.... The author, as far as I
+could guess, had walked into a printer's or stationer's shop;
+handed in his manuscript; and ordered his book as he might
+have ordered a pair of boots. It was marked 'price, half a
+crown.' An accompanying letter asked me very civilly if I
+required a half-crown book of verses; and if so, would I
+please send the author the half crown: if not, would I return
+the book. This was attractively simple and sensible. I opened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
+the book, and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had
+read three lines I perceived that the author was a real poet.
+His work was not in the least strenuous or modern; there was
+indeed no sign of his ever having read anything otherwise than
+as a child reads.... Here, I saw, was a genuine innocent,
+writing odds and ends of verse about odds and ends of things;
+living quite out of the world in which such things are usually
+done, and knowing no better (or rather no worse) than to get
+his book made by the appropriate craftsman and hawk it round
+like any other ware."</p>
+
+<p>It is more than likely that Davies' first notoriety as a tramp-poet
+who had ridden the rails in the United States and had
+had his right foot cut off by a train in Canada, obscured his
+merits as a genuine singer. Even his early <i>The Soul's Destroyer</i>
+(1907) revealed that simplicity which is as <i>na&iuml;f</i> as it is
+strange. The volumes that followed are more clearly melodious,
+more like the visionary wonder of Blake, more artistically
+artless.</p>
+
+<p>With the exception of "The Villain," which has not yet appeared
+in book form, the following poems are taken from <i>The
+Collected Poems of W. H. Davies</i> (1916) with the permission
+of the publisher, Alfred A. Knopf.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="DAYS_TOO_SHORT" id="DAYS_TOO_SHORT"></a>DAYS TOO SHORT</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When primroses are out in Spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And small, blue violets come between;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When merry birds sing on boughs green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rills, as soon as born, must sing;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When butterflies will make side-leaps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As though escaped from Nature's hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When small clouds are so silvery white<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each seems a broken rimm&egrave;d moon&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When such things are, this world too soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For me, doth wear the veil of Night.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_MOON" id="THE_MOON"></a>THE MOON</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy beauty makes me like the child<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That cries aloud to own thy light:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little child that lifts each arm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To press thee to her bosom warm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though there are birds that sing this night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With thy white beams across their throats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let my deep silence speak for me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">More than for them their sweetest notes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who worships thee till music fails,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is greater than thy nightingales.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_VILLAIN" id="THE_VILLAIN"></a>THE VILLAIN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While joy gave clouds the light of stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That beamed where'er they looked;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And calves and lambs had tottering knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Excited, while they sucked;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While every bird enjoyed his song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without one thought of harm or wrong&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I turned my head and saw the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not far from where I stood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dragging the corn by her golden hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Into a dark and lonely wood.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_EXAMPLE" id="THE_EXAMPLE"></a>THE EXAMPLE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here's an example from<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A Butterfly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That on a rough, hard rock<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Happy can lie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Friendless and all alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On this unsweetened stone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now let my bed be hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No care take I;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll make my joy like this<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Small Butterfly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose happy heart has power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make a stone a flower.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Hilaire Belloc</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an
+Englishman, an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a
+satirist, a democrat, a novelist, and a practical journalist,"
+was born July 27, 1870. After leaving school he served as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
+driver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle,
+being at that time a French citizen. He was naturalized
+as a British subject somewhat later, and in 1906 he entered
+the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South Salford.</p>
+
+<p>As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has
+written three satirical novels, one of which, <i>Mr. Clutterbuck's
+Election</i>, sharply exposes British newspapers and underground
+politics. His <i>Path to Rome</i> (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful
+travel book which has passed through many editions.
+His historical studies and biographies of <i>Robespierre</i> and <i>Marie
+Antoinette</i> (1909) are classics of their kind. As a poet he is
+only somewhat less engaging. His <i>Verses</i> (1910) is a rather
+brief collection of poems on a wide variety of themes. Although
+his humorous and burlesque stanzas are refreshing, Belloc is
+most himself when he writes either of malt liquor or his beloved
+Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a fine romanticism,
+"The South Country" is the most pictorial and persuasive
+of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual
+kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SOUTH_COUNTRY" id="THE_SOUTH_COUNTRY"></a>THE SOUTH COUNTRY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I am living in the Midlands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That are sodden and unkind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I light my lamp in the evening:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My work is left behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the great hills of the South Country<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Come back into my mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The great hills of the South Country<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They stand along the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's there walking in the high woods<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I could wish to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Walking along with me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The men that live in North England<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw them for a day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their skies are fast and grey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From their castle-walls a man may see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mountains far away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The men that live in West England<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They see the Severn strong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-rolling on rough water brown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Light aspen leaves along.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They have the secret of the Rocks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the oldest kind of song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But the men that live in the South Country<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are the kindest and most wise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They get their laughter from the loud surf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the faith in their happy eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes surely from our Sister the Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When over the sea she flies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She blesses us with surprise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I never get between the pines<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I smell the Sussex air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor I never come on a belt of sand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But my home is there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And along the sky the line of the Downs<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So noble and so bare.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A lost thing could I never find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor a broken thing mend:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I fear I shall be all alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When I get towards the end.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who will there be to comfort me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or who will be my friend?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will gather and carefully make my friends<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the men of the Sussex Weald;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They watch the stars from silent folds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They stiffly plough the field.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By them and the God of the South Country<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My poor soul shall be healed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I ever become a rich man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or if ever I grow to be old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will build a house with deep thatch<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To shelter me from the cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there shall the Sussex songs be sung<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the story of Sussex told.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will hold my house in the high wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Within a walk of the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall sit and drink with me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Anthony C. Deane</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian
+prizeman in 1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been
+Vicar of All Saints, Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His long<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
+list of light verse and essays includes several excellent parodies,
+the most delightful being found in his <i>New Rhymes for
+Old</i> (1901).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_BILLYCOCK" id="THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_BILLYCOCK"></a>THE BALLAD OF THE <i>BILLYCOCK</i></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was the good ship <i>Billycock</i>, with thirteen men aboard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To navigate a battleship in prose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was the good ship <i>Billycock</i> put out from Plymouth Sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While lustily the gallant heroes cheered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A dozen ships of France around her lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty),<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice is<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That you and France had better arbitrate!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No suitable material for song?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Nay&mdash;is the shorthand-writer here?&mdash;I tell you, one and all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I mean to do my duty, as I ought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Describing all the fight in epic style)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the <i>Billycock</i> was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Or twenty, as above) in single file!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The memory of that historic day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The <i>Billycock</i> in Salamander Bay!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>P.S.</i>&mdash;I've lately noticed that the critics&mdash;who, I think,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In praising <i>my</i> productions are remiss&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By patriotic ditties such as this,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there you have your masterpiece complete!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I mean to take to writing it myself!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_RUSTIC_SONG" id="A_RUSTIC_SONG"></a>A RUSTIC SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O' rustic volk, I be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And writin' gennelmen d&uuml; descroibe<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The doin's o' such as we;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I can't tell 'oes from trowels,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But 'ear me mix ma consonants,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' moodle oop all ma vowels!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I talks in a wunnerful dialect<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That vew can hunderstand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a dash o' the Oirish brand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speech<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I picks from Cockney spots,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when releegious truths I teach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In most of the bukes, 'twas once the case<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I 'adn't got much to do,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I blessed the 'eroine's purty face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' I se&euml;d the 'ero through;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A power o' bukes there be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which from the start to the very last page<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Entoirely deal with me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The wit or the point o' what I spakes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ye've got to find if ye can;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wunnerful difference spellin' makes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the 'ands of a competent man!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I does ma wark, if ma consonants<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be properly mixed with ma vowels!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>J. M. Synge</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>The most brilliant star of the Celtic revival was born at
+Rathfarnham, near Dublin, in 1871. As a child in Wicklow,
+he was already fascinated by the strange idioms and the rhythmic
+speech he heard there, a native utterance which was his
+greatest delight and which was to be rich material for his greatest
+work. He did not use this folk-language merely as he
+heard it. He was an artist first and last, and as an artist
+he bent and shaped the rough material, selecting with great
+fastidiousness, so that in his plays every speech is, as he himself
+declared all good speech should be, "as fully flavored as a
+nut or apple." Even in <i>The Tinker's Wedding</i> (1907), pos<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>sibly
+the least important of his plays, one is arrested by
+snatches like:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>"That's a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if
+sleep's a grand thing, it's a grand thing to be waking up
+a day the like of this, when there's a warm sun in it, and
+a kind air, and you'll hear the cuckoos singing and crying
+out on the top of the hill."</p></div>
+
+<p>For some time, Synge's career was uncertain. He went to
+Germany half intending to become a professional musician.
+There he studied the theory of music, perfecting himself meanwhile
+in Gaelic and Hebrew, winning prizes in both of these
+languages. Yeats found him in France in 1898 and advised
+him to go to the Aran Islands, to live there as if he were one
+of the people. "Express a life," said Yeats, "that has never
+found expression." Synge went. He became part of the life
+of Aran, living upon salt fish and eggs, talking Irish for the
+most part but listening also to that beautiful English which,
+to quote Yeats again, "has grown up in Irish-speaking districts
+and takes its vocabulary from the time of Malory and of
+the translators of the Bible, but its idiom and vivid metaphor
+from Irish." The result of this close contact was five of the
+greatest poetic prose dramas not only of his own generation,
+but of several generations preceding it. (See Preface.)</p>
+
+<p>In <i>Riders to the Sea</i> (1903), <i>The Well of the Saints</i> (1905),
+and <i>The Playboy of the Western World</i> (1907) we have a
+richness of imagery, a new language startling in its vigor, a
+wildness and passion that contrast strangely with the suave
+mysticism and delicate spirituality of his associates in the Irish
+Theatre.</p>
+
+<p>Synge's <i>Poems and Translations</i> (1910), a volume which was
+not issued until after his death, contains not only his few hard
+and earthy verses, but also Synge's theory of poetry. The
+translations, which have been rendered in a highly intensified
+prose, are as racy as anything in his plays; his versions of
+Villon and Petrarch are remarkable for their adherence to the
+original and still radiate the poet's own personality.</p>
+
+<p>Synge died, just as he was beginning to attain fame, at a
+private hospital in Dublin March 24, 1909.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="BEG-INNISH" id="BEG-INNISH"></a>BEG-INNISH</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dance in Beg-Innish,<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when the lads (they're in Dunquin)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have sold their crabs and fish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wave fawny shawls and call them in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And call the little girls who spin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seven weavers from Dunquin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dance in Beg-Innish.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where nets are laid to dry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've silken strings would draw a dance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From girls are lame or shy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Four strings I've brought from Spain and France<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make your long men skip and prance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till stars look out to see the dance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where nets are laid to dry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We'll have no priest or peeler in<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dance in Beg-Innish;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we'll have drink from M'riarty Jim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rowed round while gannets fish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A keg with porter to the brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That every lad may have his whim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till we up sails with M'riarty Jim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sail from Beg-Innish.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_TRANSLATION_FROM_PETRARCH" id="A_TRANSLATION_FROM_PETRARCH"></a>A TRANSLATION FROM PETRARCH</h3>
+
+<div class='blockquot2'><p>(<i>He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth</i>)</p>
+
+<p>What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms
+about her, and is holding that face away from me, where
+I was finding peace from great sadness.</p>
+
+<p>What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are
+after taking her, and shutting her in with greediness, the
+Heavens that do push their bolt against so many.</p>
+
+<p>What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that
+have got her sweet company, that I am always seeking;
+and what a grudge I am bearing against Death, that is
+standing in her two eyes, and will not call me with a
+word.</p></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_THE_OAKS_OF_GLENCREE" id="TO_THE_OAKS_OF_GLENCREE"></a>TO THE OAKS OF GLENCREE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My arms are round you, and I lean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against you, while the lark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sings over us, and golden lights, and green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shadows are on your bark.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There'll come a season when you'll stretch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Black boards to cover me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With worms eternally.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> (The accent is on the last syllable.)</p>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Nora Hopper Chesson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Nora Hopper was born in Exeter on January 2, 1871, and
+married W. H. Chesson, a well-known writer, in 1901. Although
+the Irish element in her work is acquired and incidental,
+there is a distinct if somewhat fitful race consciousness in <i>Ballads
+in Prose</i> (1894) and <i>Under Quickened Boughs</i> (1896).
+She died suddenly April 14, 1906.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_CONNAUGHT_LAMENT" id="A_CONNAUGHT_LAMENT"></a>A CONNAUGHT LAMENT</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will arise and go hence to the west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heart in my breast is, that beats so low.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Because of the words your lips have spoken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(O dear black head that I must not follow)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As ice on the water my heart is broken.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The swallow goes south with you: I go west<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am the poppy and you the sickle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart is broken within my breast.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Eva Gore-Booth</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Eva Gore-Booth, the second daughter of Sir Henry Gore-Booth
+and the sister of Countess Marcievicz, was born in Sligo,
+Ireland, in 1872. She first appeared in "A. E."'s anthology,
+<i>New Songs</i>, in which so many of the modern Irish poets first
+came forward.</p>
+
+<p>Her initial volume, <i>Poems</i> (1898), showed practically no distinction&mdash;not
+even the customary "promise." But <i>The One and
+the Many</i> (1904) and <i>The Sorrowful Princess</i> (1907) revealed
+the gift of the Celtic singer who is half mystic, half minstrel.
+Primarily philosophic, her verse often turns to lyrics as haunting
+as the two examples here reprinted.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_WAVES_OF_BREFFNY" id="THE_WAVES_OF_BREFFNY"></a>THE WAVES OF BREFFNY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WALLS" id="WALLS"></a>WALLS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sea thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lofty rose, the low-grown aconite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gliding river and the stream that brawls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All these are equal in the equal light&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All waters mirror the one Infinite.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">God made a garden, it was men built walls;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But all things give themselves, yet none may take.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Moira O'Neill</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection
+of only twenty-five lyrics, <i>Songs from the Glens of Antrim</i>
+(1900), simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom
+she sings. The best of her poetry is dramatic without being
+theatrical; melodious without falling into the tinkle of most
+"popular" sentimental verse.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_BROKEN_SONG" id="A_BROKEN_SONG"></a>A BROKEN SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'<i>Where am I from?</i>' From the green hills of Erin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'<i>Have I no song then?</i>' My songs are all sung.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'<i>What o' my love?</i>' 'Tis alone I am farin'.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'<i>If she was tall?</i>' Like a king's own daughter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'<i>If she was fair?</i>' Like a mornin' o' May.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'<i>Where did she dwell?</i>' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'<i>Who loved her best?</i>' There's no one now will know.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'<i>Where is she gone?</i>' Och, why would I be tellin'!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where she is gone there I can never go.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="BEAUTYS_A_FLOWER" id="BEAUTYS_A_FLOWER"></a>BEAUTY'S A FLOWER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4"><i>Youth's for an hour,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Beauty's a flower,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>But love is the jewel that wins the world.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' Mary&mdash;God be good to her!&mdash;is all I love in life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4"><i>Youth's for an hour,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Beauty's a flower,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>But love is the jewel that wins the world.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>John McCrae</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872.
+He was graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He
+finished his studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned
+to Canada, joining the staff of the Medical School of McGill
+University. He was a lieutenant of artillery in South Africa
+(1899-1900) and was in charge of the Medical Division of the
+McGill Canadian General Hospital during the World War.
+After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January, 1918,
+his volume <i>In Flanders Fields</i> (1919) appearing posthumously.</p>
+
+<p>Few who read the title poem of his book, possibly the most
+widely-read poem produced by the war, realize that it is a
+perfect rondeau, one of the loveliest (and strictest) of the
+French forms.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IN_FLANDERS_FIELDS" id="IN_FLANDERS_FIELDS"></a>IN FLANDERS FIELDS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In Flanders fields the poppies blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Between the crosses, row on row,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That mark our place; and in the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We are the Dead. Short days ago<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Loved and were loved, and now we lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In Flanders fields.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take up our quarrel with the foe:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To you from failing hands we throw<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The torch; be yours to hold it high.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If ye break faith with us who die<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In Flanders fields.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Ford Madox Hueffer</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873 and is best known as
+the author of many novels, two of which, <i>Romance</i> and <i>The
+Inheritors</i>, were written in collaboration with Joseph Conrad.
+He has written also several critical studies, those on Rossetti
+and Henry James being the most notable. His <i>On Heaven and
+Other Poems</i> appeared in 1916.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="CLAIR_DE_LUNE" id="CLAIR_DE_LUNE"></a>CLAIR DE LUNE</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I should like to imagine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For, it is possible<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see the black perspective of long avenues<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All silent.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The white strips of sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The white strips of sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Above, diminishing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silence and blackness of the avenue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enclosed by immensities of space<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spreading away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over No Man's Land....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For a minute ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ten ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There will be no star shells<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the untroubled stars,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There will be no <i>Very</i> light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the light of the quiet moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a swan.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And silence....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Wukka Wukka</i>" will go the machine-guns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, far away to the left<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Wukka Wukka</i>.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sharply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Wuk</i> ... <i>Wuk</i> ... and then silence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a space in the clear of the moon.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I should like to imagine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will be silent....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Do you remember, my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looking over to Flatholme<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We sat ... Long ago!...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the things that you told me ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little things in the clear of the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little, sad things of a life....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We shall do it again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full surely,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, far away to the right<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Wukka-wukka!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Wukka-wuk!...</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the dark of the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going over....<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THERE_SHALL_BE_MORE_JOY" id="THERE_SHALL_BE_MORE_JOY"></a>"THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY ..."</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The little angels of Heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each wear a long white dress,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the tall arcadings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Play ball and play at chess;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With never a soil on their garments,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a sigh the whole day long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a bitter note in their pleasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a bitter note in their song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But they shall know keener pleasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they shall know joy more rare&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Keener, keener pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you, my dear, come there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The little angels of Heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each wear a long white gown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they lean over the ramparts<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Waiting and looking down.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Walter De la Mare</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary
+poetry, Walter De la Mare, was born in 1873. Although
+he did not begin to bring out his work in book form
+until he was over 30, he is, as Harold Williams has written,
+"the singer of a young and romantic world, a singer even for
+children, understanding and perceiving as a child." De la
+Mare paints simple scenes of miniature loveliness; he uses
+thin-spun fragments of fairy-like delicacy and achieves a grace
+that is remarkable in its universality. "In a few words, seemingly
+artless and unsought" (to quote Williams again), "he
+can express a pathos or a hope as wide as man's life."</p>
+
+<p>De la Mare is an astonishing joiner of words; in <i>Peacock
+Pie</i> (1913) he surprises us again and again by transforming
+what began as a child's nonsense-rhyme into a suddenly thrilling
+snatch of music. A score of times he takes things as casual
+as the feeding of chickens or the swallowing of physic, berry-picking,
+eating, hair-cutting&mdash;and turns them into magic. These
+poems read like lyrics of William Shakespeare rendered by
+Mother Goose. The trick of revealing the ordinary in whimsical
+colors, of catching the commonplace off its guard, is the
+first of De la Mare's two magics.</p>
+
+<p>This poet's second gift is his sense of the supernatural, of the
+fantastic other-world that lies on the edges of our consciousness.
+<i>The Listeners</i> (1912) is a book that, like all the best of
+De la Mare, is full of half-heard whispers; moonlight and
+mystery seem soaked in the lines, and a cool wind from Nowhere
+blows over them. That most magical of modern verses,
+"The Listeners," and the brief music of "An Epitaph" are
+two fine examples among many. In the first of these poems<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
+there is an uncanny splendor. What we have here is the effect,
+the thrill, the overtones of a ghost story rather than the narrative
+itself&mdash;the less than half-told adventure of some new
+Childe Roland heroically challenging a heedless universe.
+Never have silence and black night been reproduced more
+creepily, nor has the symbolism of man's courage facing the
+cryptic riddle of life been more memorably expressed.</p>
+
+<p>De la Mare's chief distinction, however, lies not so much
+in what he says as in how he says it; he can even take outworn
+words like "thridding," "athwart," "amaranthine" and
+make them live again in a poetry that is of no time and of
+all time. He writes, it has been said, as much for antiquity as
+for posterity; he is a poet who is distinctively in the world
+and yet not wholly of it.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_LISTENERS" id="THE_LISTENERS"></a>THE LISTENERS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Knocking on the moonlit door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his horse in the silence champed the grasses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the forest's ferny floor.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a bird flew up out of the turret,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Above the Traveller's head:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he smote upon the door again a second time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Is there anybody there?' he said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But no one descended to the Traveller;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No head from the leaf-fringed sill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where he stood perplexed and still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But only a host of phantom listeners<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That dwelt in the lone house then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To that voice from the world of men:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That goes down to the empty hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the lonely Traveller's call.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he felt in his heart their strangeness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their stillness answering his cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Neath the starred and leafy sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he suddenly smote on the door, even<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Louder, and lifted his head:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tell them I came, and no one answered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I kept my word,' he said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never the least stir made the listeners,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though every word he spake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the one man left awake:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the sound of iron on stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And how the silence surged softly backward,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the plunging hoofs were gone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_EPITAPH" id="AN_EPITAPH"></a>AN EPITAPH</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here lies a most beautiful lady,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light of step and heart was she;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I think she was the most beautiful lady<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ever was in the West Country.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">However rare&mdash;rare it be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when I crumble, who will remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This lady of the West Country?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TIRED_TIM" id="TIRED_TIM"></a>TIRED TIM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He lags the long bright morning through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ever so tired of nothing to do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He moons and mopes the livelong day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nothing to think about, nothing to say;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up to bed with his candle to creep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too tired to yawn; too tired to sleep:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="OLD_SUSAN" id="OLD_SUSAN"></a>OLD SUSAN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Susan's work was done, she'd sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With one fat guttering candle lit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And window opened wide to win<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweet night air to enter in;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, with a thumb to keep her place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her mild eyes gliding very slow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the letters to and fro,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While wagged the guttering candle flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the wind that through the window came.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sometimes in the silence she<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would mumble a sentence audibly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or shake her head as if to say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'You silly souls, to act this way!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never a sound from night I'd hear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or her old shuffling thumb should turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Another page; and rapt and stern,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through her great glasses bent on me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'd glance into reality;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shake her round old silvery head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With&mdash;'You!&mdash;I thought you was in bed!'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only to tilt her book again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rooted in Romance remain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="NOD" id="NOD"></a>NOD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Softly along the road of evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In a twilight dim with rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His drowsy flock streams on before him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their fleeces charged with gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To where the sun's last beam leans low<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On Nod the shepherd's fold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hedge is quick and green with briar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From their sand the conies creep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the birds that fly in heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Flock singing home to sleep.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet, when night's shadows fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Misses not one of all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The waters of no-more-pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Rest, rest, and rest again."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>G. K. Chesterton</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>This brilliant journalist, novelist, essayist, publicist and lyricist,
+Gilbert Keith Chesterton, was born at Campden Hill,
+Kensington, in 1874, and began his literary life by reviewing
+books on art for various magazines. He is best known as a
+writer of flashing, paradoxical essays on anything and everything,
+like <i>Tremendous Trifles</i> (1909), <i>Varied Types</i> (1905),
+and <i>All Things Considered</i> (1910). But he is also a stimulating
+critic; a keen appraiser, as in his volume <i>Heretics</i> (1905)
+and his analytical studies of Robert Browning, Charles Dickens,
+and George Bernard Shaw; a writer of strange and grotesque
+romances like <i>The Napoleon of Notting Hill</i> (1906),
+<i>The Man Who Was Thursday</i> (1908), which Chesterton himself
+has subtitled "A Nightmare," and <i>The Flying Inn</i> (1914);
+the author of several books of fantastic short stories, ranging
+from the wildly whimsical narratives in <i>The Club of Queer
+Trades</i> (1905) to that amazing sequence <i>The Innocence of
+Father Brown</i> (1911)&mdash;which is a series of religious detective
+stories!</p>
+
+<p>Besides being the creator of all of these, Chesterton finds
+time to be a prolific if sometimes too acrobatic newspaperman,
+a lay preacher in disguise (witness <i>Orthodoxy</i> [1908], <i>What's
+Wrong with the World?</i> [1910], <i>The Ball and the Cross</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
+[1909]), a pamphleteer, and a poet. His first volume of verse,
+<i>The Wild Knight and Other Poems</i> (1900), a collection of
+quaintly-flavored and affirmative verses, was followed by <i>The
+Ballad of the White Horse</i> (1911), one long poem which, in
+spite of Chesterton's ever-present didactic sermonizing, is possibly
+the most stirring creation he has achieved. This poem
+has the swing, the vigor, the spontaneity, and, above all, the
+ageless simplicity of the true narrative ballad.</p>
+
+<p>Scarcely less notable is the ringing "Lepanto" from his later
+<i>Poems</i> (1915) which, anticipating the banging, clanging verses
+of Vachel Lindsay's "The Congo," is one of the finest of modern
+chants. It is interesting to see how the syllables beat, as
+though on brass; it is thrilling to feel how, in one's pulses, the
+armies sing, the feet tramp, the drums snarl, and all the tides
+of marching crusaders roll out of lines like:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria is going to the war;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes...."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Chesterton, the prose-paradoxer, is a delightful product of a
+skeptical age. But it is Chesterton the poet who is more likely
+to outlive it.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="LEPANTO" id="LEPANTO"></a>LEPANTO<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That once went singing southward when all the world was young.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria is going to the war,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love-light of Spain&mdash;hurrah!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death-light of Africa!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is riding to the sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria is going to the war.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Giants and the Genii,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Multiplex of wing and eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose strong obedience broke the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Solomon was king.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voice that shook our palaces&mdash;four hundred years ago:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria is going to the war.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sudden and still&mdash;hurrah!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bolt from Iberia!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is gone by Alcalar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trumpet that sayeth <i>ha</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Domino gloria!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is shouting to the ships.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gun upon gun, ha! ha!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gun upon gun, hurrah!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has loosed the cannonade.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Vivat Hispania!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Domino Gloria!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don John of Austria<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has set his people free!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(<i>But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_PRAYER_IN_DARKNESS" id="A_PRAYER_IN_DARKNESS"></a>A PRAYER IN DARKNESS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This much, O heaven&mdash;if I should brood or rave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pity me not; but let the world be fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shining silence of the scorn of God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If I must travail in a night of wrath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thought it beat brightly, even on&mdash;Calvary:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_DONKEY" id="THE_DONKEY"></a>THE DONKEY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"The tattered outlaw of the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of ancient crooked will;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I keep my secret still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Fools! For I also had my hour;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One far fierce hour and sweet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was a shout about my ears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And palms before my feet."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> From <i>Poems</i> by G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John
+Lane Co. and reprinted by permission of the publishers.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born at Hexam in 1878, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson has published
+almost a dozen books of verse&mdash;the first four or five (see
+Preface) being imitative in manner and sentimentally romantic
+in tone. With <i>The Stonefolds</i> (1907) and <i>Daily Bread</i> (1910),
+Gibson executed a complete right-about-face and, with dramatic
+brevity, wrote a series of poems mirroring the dreams,
+pursuits and fears of common humanity. <i>Fires</i> (1912) marks
+an advance in technique and power. And though in <i>Livelihood</i>
+(1917) Gibson seems to be theatricalizing and merely
+exploiting his working-people, his later lyrics recapture the
+veracity of such memorable poems as "The Old Man," "The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
+Blind Rower," and "The Machine." <i>Hill-Tracks</i> (1918) attempts
+to capture the beauty of village-names and the glamour
+of the English countryside.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PRELUDE" id="PRELUDE"></a>PRELUDE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As one, at midnight, wakened by the call<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of golden-plovers in their seaward flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through tingling silence of the frosty night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then, in fancy, faring with the flock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drowned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within the mightier music of the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more remembers the sweet piping sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That startled him from dull, undreaming sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I, first waking from oblivion, heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With heart that kindled to the call of song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voice of young life, fluting like a bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I caught the stormy summons of the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dared the restless deeps that, day and night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Surge with the life-song of humanity.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_STONE" id="THE_STONE"></a>THE STONE<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"And will you cut a stone for him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To set above his head?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And will you cut a stone for him&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stone for him?" she said.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Three days before, a splintered rock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had struck her lover dead&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had struck him in the quarry dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where, careless of the warning call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loitered, while the shot was fired&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lively stripling, brave and tall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sure of all his heart desired ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A flash, a shock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rumbling fall ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, broken 'neath the broken rock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lifeless heap, with face of clay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still as any stone he lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With eyes that saw the end of all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I went to break the news to her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I could hear my own heart beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With dread of what my lips might say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, some poor fool had sped before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flinging wide her father's door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had blurted out the news to her,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had struck her lover dead for her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dropped it at her feet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then hurried on his witless way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce knowing she had heard.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when I came, she stood, alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A woman, turned to stone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, though no word at all she said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I knew that all was known.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Because her heart was dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She did not sigh nor moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mother wept:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She could not weep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her lover slept:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She could not sleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three days, three nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She did not stir:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three days, three nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were one to her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who never closed her eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From sunset to sunrise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From dawn to evenfall:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her tearless, staring eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That seeing naught, saw all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The fourth night when I came from work,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I found her at my door.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"And will you cut a stone for him?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She said: and spoke no more:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But followed me, as I went in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sank upon a chair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fixed her grey eyes on my face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With still, unseeing stare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, as she waited patiently,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I could not bear to feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those still, grey eyes that followed me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those eyes that sucked the breath from me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And curdled the warm blood in me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those eyes that cut me to the bone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pierced my marrow like cold steel.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And so I rose, and sought a stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cut it, smooth and square:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, as I worked, she sat and watched,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside me, in her chair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night after night, by candlelight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I cut her lover's name:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night after night, so still and white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like a ghost she came;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sat beside me in her chair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And watched with eyes aflame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She eyed each stroke;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hardly stirred:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She never spoke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A single word:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not a sound or murmur broke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With still eyes ever on my hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My wincing, overwearied hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She watched, with bloodless lips apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And silent, indrawn breath:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every stroke my chisel cut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death cut still deeper in her heart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The two of us were chiselling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Together, I and death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when at length the job was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I had laid the mallet by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if, at last, her peace were won,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Passed slowly through the open door:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never crossed my threshold more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Next night I laboured late, alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To cut her name upon the stone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SIGHT" id="SIGHT"></a>SIGHT<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And as I lingered, lost in divine delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all youth's lively senses keen and quick ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When suddenly, behind me in the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class='footnotes'><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> From <i>Fires</i> by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1912, by
+The Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> From <i>Borderlands and Thoroughfares</i> by Wilfrid Wilson
+Gibson. Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted
+by permission of the publishers.</p></div></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>John Masefield</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>John Masefield was born June 1, 1878, in Ledbury, Hertfordshire.
+He was the son of a lawyer but, being of a restless disposition,
+he took to the sea at an early age and became a
+wanderer for several years. At one time, in 1895, to be exact,
+he worked for a few months as a sort of third assistant barkeeper
+and dish-washer in Luke O'Connor's saloon, the Columbia
+Hotel, in New York City. The place is still there on the
+corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues.</p>
+
+<p>The results of his wanderings showed in his early works,
+<i>Salt-Water Ballads</i> (1902), <i>Ballads</i> (1903), frank and often
+crude poems of sailors written in their own dialect, and <i>A
+Mainsail Haul</i> (1905), a collection of short nautical stories. In
+these books Masefield possibly overemphasized passion and
+brutality but, underneath the violence, he captured that highly-colored
+realism which is the poetry of life.</p>
+
+<p>It was not until he published <i>The Everlasting Mercy</i> (1911)
+that he became famous. Followed quickly by those remarkable
+long narrative poems, <i>The Widow in the Bye Street</i> (1912),
+<i>Dauber</i> (1912), and <i>The Daffodil Fields</i> (1913), there is in all
+of these that peculiar blend of physical exulting and spiritual
+exaltation that is so striking, and so typical of Masefield.
+Their very rudeness is lifted to a plane of religious intensity.
+(See Preface.) Pictorially, Masefield is even more forceful.
+The finest moment in <i>The Widow in the Bye Street</i> is the por<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>trayal
+of the mother alone in her cottage; the public-house
+scene and the passage describing the birds following the plough
+are the most intense touches in <i>The Everlasting Mercy</i>. Nothing
+more vigorous and thrilling than the description of the
+storm at sea in <i>Dauber</i> has appeared in current literature.</p>
+
+<p>The war, in which Masefield served with the Red Cross in
+France and on the Gallipoli peninsula (of which campaign he
+wrote a study for the government), softened his style; <i>Good
+Friday and Other Poems</i> (1916) is as restrained and dignified
+a collection as that of any of his contemporaries. <i>Reynard the
+Fox</i> (1919) is the best of his new manner with a return of the
+old vivacity.</p>
+
+<p>Masefield has also written several novels of which <i>Multitude
+and Solitude</i> (1909) is the most outstanding; half a dozen
+plays, ranging from the classical solemnity of <i>Pompey the
+Great</i> to the hot and racy <i>Tragedy of Nan</i>; and one of the
+freshest, most creative critiques of <i>Shakespeare</i> (1911) in the
+last generation.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_CONSECRATION" id="A_CONSECRATION"></a>A CONSECRATION</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rather the scorned&mdash;the rejected&mdash;the men hemmed in with the spears;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i36"><span class="smcap">Amen</span>.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SEA-FEVER" id="SEA-FEVER"></a>SEA-FEVER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ROUNDING_THE_HORN" id="ROUNDING_THE_HORN"></a>ROUNDING THE HORN<br />
+(<i>From "Dauber"</i>)<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down clattered flying kites and staysails; some<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from the south-west came the end of the world....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sick at the mighty space of air displayed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clammy with natural terror to the shoes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While idiotic promptings came and went.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Darkness came down&mdash;half darkness&mdash;in a whirl;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sky went out, the waters disappeared.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ship upon her side. The darkness speared<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At her with wind; she staggered, she careered;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw her yard tilt downwards. Then the snow<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whirled all about&mdash;dense, multitudinous, cold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which whiffled out men's tears, defeated, took hold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had devilish malice at having got her downed.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How long the gale had blown he could not tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the world had changed, his life had died.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A moment now was everlasting hell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nature an onslaught from the weather side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Dauber followed where he led; below<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the streamers of the rigging blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An utter bridle given to utter vice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Limitless power mad with endless rage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Told long ago&mdash;long, long ago&mdash;long since<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heard of in other lives&mdash;imagined, dreamed&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There where the basest beggar was a prince.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To him in torment where the tempest screamed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Things that a man could know; soul, body, brain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_CHOICE" id="THE_CHOICE"></a>THE CHOICE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sack of many-peopled towns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is all their dream:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The way they take<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leaves but a ruin in the brake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Merchants reckon up their gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The profits of their treasures sold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They tell and sum;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their foremen drive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their servants, starved to half-alive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose labours do but make the earth a hive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of stinking glories; a tale, a dream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Priests are singing in their stalls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet God is as the sparrow falls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ivy drifts;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The votive urns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are all left void when Fortune turns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The god is but a marble for the kerns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Beauty, let me know again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The one star risen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So shall I pass into the feast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not touched by King, Merchant, or Priest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Know the red spirit of the beast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be the green grain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Escape from prison.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SONNET" id="SONNET"></a>SONNET<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How Summer's royal progress shall be wrought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By secret stir which in each plant abides?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does rocking daffodil consent that she,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hold her pride before the rattle burst?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the hedge what quick agreement goes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before the flower be on the bramble spray?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And each consent a lucky gasp for life?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class='footnotes'><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> From <i>The Story of a Round-House</i> by John Masefield.
+Copyright, 1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> From <i>Good Friday and Other Poems</i> by John Masefield. Copyright, 1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by
+permission of the publishers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Lord Dunsany</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, was
+born July 24, 1878, and was educated at Eton and Sandhurst.
+He is best known as an author of fantastic fairy tales and even
+more fantastic plays. <i>The Gods of the Mountain</i> (1911) and
+<i>The Golden Doom</i> (1912) are highly dramatic and intensely
+poetic. <i>A Night at an Inn</i> (1916) is that peculiar novelty, an
+eerie and poetical melodrama.</p>
+
+<p>Dunsany's prime quality is a romantic and highly colored
+imagination which is rich in symbolism. After the World War,
+in which the playwright served as captain in the Royal Innis-killing
+Fusiliers, Dunsany visited America and revised the reissue
+of his early tales and prose poems collected in his <i>The
+Book of Wonder</i>.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SONGS_FROM_AN_EVIL_WOOD" id="SONGS_FROM_AN_EVIL_WOOD"></a>SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There is no wrath in the stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They do not rage in the sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I look from the evil wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And find myself wondering why.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why do they not scream out<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And grapple star against star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seeking for blood in the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As all things round me are?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They do not glare like the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or flash like the deeps of the wood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But they shine softly on<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In their sacred solitude.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To their high, happy haunts<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Silence from us has flown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She whom we loved of old<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And know it now she is gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When will she come again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though for one second only?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She whom we loved is gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the whole world is lonely.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the elder giants come<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sometimes, tramping from far<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the weird and flickering light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Made by an earthly star.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the giant with his club,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the dwarf with rage in his breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the elder giants from far,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are all the children of Death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They are all abroad to-night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And are breaking the hills with their brood,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the birds are all asleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Even in Plug Street Wood!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Somewhere lost in the haze<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sun goes down in the cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And birds in this evil wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chirrup home as of old;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Chirrup, stir and are still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the high twigs frozen and thin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is no more noise of them now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the long night sets in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of all the wonderful things<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I have seen in the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I marvel most at the birds<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And their wonderful quietude.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For a giant smites with his club<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All day the tops of the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes he rests at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oftener he beats them still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And a dwarf with a grim black mane<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Raps with repeated rage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All night in the valley below<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the wooden walls of his cage.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I met with Death in his country,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With his scythe and his hollow eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Walking the roads of Belgium.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I looked and he passed me by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since he passed me by in Plug Street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the wood of the evil name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shall not now lie with the heroes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shall not share their fame;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I shall never be as they are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A name in the lands of the Free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since I looked on Death in Flanders<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he did not look at me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Edward Thomas</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Edward Thomas, one of the little-known but most individual
+of modern English poets, was born in 1878. For many years
+before he turned to verse, Thomas had a large following as a
+critic and author of travel books, biographies, pot-boilers.
+Hating his hack-work, yet unable to get free of it, he had so
+repressed his creative ability that he had grown doubtful concerning
+his own power. It needed something foreign to stir
+and animate what was native in him. So when Robert Frost,
+the New England poet, went abroad in 1912 for two years and
+became an intimate of Thomas's, the English critic began to
+write poetry. Loving, like Frost, the <i>minuti&aelig;</i> of existence, the
+quaint and casual turn of ordinary life, he caught the magic
+of the English countryside in its unpoeticized quietude. Many
+of his poems are full of a slow, sad contemplation of life and
+a reflection of its brave futility. It is not disillusion exactly;
+it is rather an absence of illusion. <i>Poems</i> (1917), dedicated to
+Robert Frost, is full of Thomas's fidelity to little things, things
+as unglorified as the unfreezing of the "rock-like mud," a
+child's path, a list of quaint-sounding villages, birds' nests
+uncovered by the autumn wind, dusty nettles&mdash;the lines glow
+with a deep and almost abject reverence for the soil.</p>
+
+<p>Thomas was killed at Arras, at an observatory outpost, on
+Easter Monday, 1917.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IF_I_SHOULD_EVER_BY_CHANCE" id="IF_I_SHOULD_EVER_BY_CHANCE"></a>IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I should ever by chance grow rich<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let them all to my elder daughter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rent I shall ask of her will be only<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each year's first violets, white and lonely,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The first primroses and orchises&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She must find them before I do, that is.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But if she finds a blossom on furze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without rent they shall all for ever be hers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shall give them all to my elder daughter.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TALL_NETTLES" id="TALL_NETTLES"></a>TALL NETTLES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tall nettles cover up, as they have done<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This corner of the farmyard I like most:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As well as any bloom upon a flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I like the dust on the nettles, never lost<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="FIFTY_FAGGOTS" id="FIFTY_FAGGOTS"></a>FIFTY FAGGOTS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That once were underwood of hazel and ash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A blackbird or a robin will nest there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever is for ever to a bird.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Better they will never warm me, though they must<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The war will have ended, many other things<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have ended, maybe, that I can no more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Foresee or more control than robin and wren.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="COCK-CROW" id="COCK-CROW"></a>COCK-CROW</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the night, two cocks together crow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each facing each as in a coat of arms:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Seumas O'Sullivan</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>James Starkey was born in Dublin in 1879. Writing under
+the pseudonym of Seumas O'Sullivan, he contributed a great
+variety of prose and verse to various Irish papers. His repu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>tation
+as a poet began with his appearance in <i>New Songs</i>,
+edited by George Russell ("A. E."). Later, he published <i>The
+Twilight People</i> (1905), <i>The Earth Lover</i> (1909), and <i>Poems</i> (1912).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PRAISE" id="PRAISE"></a>PRAISE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dear, they are praising your beauty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grass and the sky:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sky in a silence of wonder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grass in a sigh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I too would sing for your praising,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dearest, had I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Speech as the whispering grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the silent sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">These have an art for the praising<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beauty so high.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet, you are praised in a silence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sung in a sigh.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Ralph Hodgson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879.
+One of the most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph
+Hodgson will retain his freshness as long as there are lovers
+of such rare and timeless songs as his. It is difficult to think
+of any anthology of English poetry compiled after 1917 that
+could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor," and that memorable
+snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One succumbs
+to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
+oldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and
+still more surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious
+sinner nor the Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's
+candid lines, any young, English country girl&mdash;filling her
+basket, regarding the world and the serpent itself with a mild
+and childlike wonder.</p>
+
+<p>Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a
+love that goes out to</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">"an idle rainbow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No less than laboring seas,"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed
+by <i>Flying Fame</i>.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="EVE" id="EVE"></a>EVE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eve, with her basket, was<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deep in the bells and grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wading in bells and grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up to her knees.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Picking a dish of sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Berries and plums to eat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in the bells and grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the trees.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mute as a mouse in a<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Corner the cobra lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Curled round a bough of the<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cinnamon tall....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now to get even and<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Humble proud heaven and<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now was the moment or<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never at all.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Eva!" Each syllable<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light as a flower fell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Eva!" he whispered the<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wondering maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft as a bubble sung<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of a linnet's lung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft and most silverly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Eva!" he said.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Picture that orchard sprite;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eve, with her body white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Supple and smooth to her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slim finger tips;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wondering, listening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Listening, wondering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eve with a berry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Half-way to her lips.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, had our simple Eve<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seen through the make-believe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had she but known the<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pretender he was!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the boughs he came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whispering still her name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tumbling in twenty rings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the grass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here was the strangest pair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the world anywhere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eve in the bells and grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kneeling, and he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Telling his story low....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Singing birds saw them go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the dark path to<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Blasphemous Tree.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, what a clatter when<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Titmouse and Jenny Wren<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saw him successful and<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Taking his leave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How the birds rated him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How they all hated him!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How they all pitied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor motherless Eve!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Picture her crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Outside in the lane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eve, with no dish of sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Berries and plums to eat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Haunting the gate of the<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Orchard in vain....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Picture the lewd delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the hill to-night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Eva!" the toast goes round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Eva!" again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TIME_YOU_OLD_GIPSY_MAN" id="TIME_YOU_OLD_GIPSY_MAN"></a>TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time, you old gipsy man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will you not stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Put up your caravan<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just for one day?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All things I'll give you<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will you be my guest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bells for your jennet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of silver the best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Goldsmiths shall beat you<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A great golden ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Peacocks shall bow to you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little boys sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, and sweet girls will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Festoon you with may.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time, you old gipsy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why hasten away?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Last week in Babylon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Last night in Rome,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Morning, and in the crush<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under Paul's dome;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under Paul's dial<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You tighten your rein&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only a moment,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And off once again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Off to some city<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now blind in the womb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Off to another<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere that's in the tomb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time, you old gipsy man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will you not stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Put up your caravan<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just for one day?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_BIRDCATCHER" id="THE_BIRDCATCHER"></a>THE BIRDCATCHER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When flighting time is on, I go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With clap-net and decoy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-fowling after goldfinches<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And other birds of joy;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I lurk among the thickets of<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Heart where they are bred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And catch the twittering beauties as<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They fly into my Head.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_MYSTERY" id="THE_MYSTERY"></a>THE MYSTERY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He came and took me by the hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Up to a red rose tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He kept His meaning to Himself<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But gave a rose to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I did not pray Him to lay bare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mystery to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And His own face to see.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Harold Monro</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>The publisher of the various anthologies of Georgian Poetry,
+Harold Monro, was born in Brussels in 1879. He describes
+himself as "author, publisher, editor and book-seller." Monro<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
+founded The Poetry Bookshop in London in 1912, a unique
+establishment having as its object a practical relation between
+poetry and the public, and keeping in stock nothing but poetry,
+the drama, and books connected with these subjects. His quarterly
+<i>Poetry and Drama</i> (discontinued during the war and revived
+in 1919 as <i>The Monthly Chapbook</i>), was in a sense the
+organ of the younger men; and his shop, in which he has lived
+for the last seven years except while he was in the army,
+became a genuine literary center.</p>
+
+<p>Of Monro's books, the two most important are <i>Strange Meetings</i>
+(1917) and <i>Children of Love</i> (1919). "The Nightingale
+Near the House," one of the loveliest of his poems, is also one
+of his latest and has not yet appeared in any of his volumes.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_NIGHTINGALE_NEAR_THE_HOUSE" id="THE_NIGHTINGALE_NEAR_THE_HOUSE"></a>THE NIGHTINGALE NEAR THE HOUSE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stares. And you sing, you sing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That star-enchanted song falls through the air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all the night you sing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As all night long I listen, and my brain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Receives your song; then loses it again<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In moonlight on the lawn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now is your voice a marble high and white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then like a mist on fields of paradise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then breaks, and it is dawn.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="EVERY_THING" id="EVERY_THING"></a>EVERY THING</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since man has been articulate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mechanical, improvidently wise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Servant of Fate),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He has not understood the little cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And foreign conversations of the small<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Delightful creatures that have followed him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not far behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has failed to hear the sympathetic call<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reposeful Teraphim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of his domestic happiness; the Stool<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sat on, or the Door he entered through:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What is he coming to?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But you should listen to the talk of these.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Honest they are, and patient they have kept;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Served him without his Thank you or his Please ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I often heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Murmuring, before I slept.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then bowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in a smoky argument<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the darkness went.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why; and he always says I boil too slow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wonder why I squander my desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now the old Copper Basin suddenly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without a woman's hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To patronize and coax and flatter me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I understand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lean and poise of gravitable land."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Twisted itself convulsively about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It stares and grins at me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The old impetuous Gas above my head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Begins irascibly to flare and fret,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wheezing into its epileptic jet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reminding me I ought to go to bed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down from the chimney, half a pound of Soot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Putty cracks against the window-pane.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A piece of Paper in the basket shoves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My independent Pencil, while I write,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stirs all its body and begins to rock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Warning the waiting presence of the Night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ticking of ordinary work again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You do well to remind me, and I praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your strangely individual foreign ways.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You call me from myself to recognize<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Companionship in your unselfish eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I want your dear acquaintances, although<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I pass you arrogantly over, throw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your lovely sounds, and squander them along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It well becomes our mutual happiness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To go toward the same end more or less.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is not much dissimilarity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Between the purposes of you and me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="STRANGE_MEETINGS" id="STRANGE_MEETINGS"></a>STRANGE MEETINGS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If suddenly a clod of earth should rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How one would tremble, and in what surprise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gasp: "Can you move?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see men walking, and I always feel:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can't learn how to know men, or conceal<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How strange they are to me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>T. M. Kettle</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Thomas M. Kettle was born at Artane County, Dublin, in
+1880 and was educated at University College, where he won
+the Gold Medal for Oratory. His extraordinary faculty for
+grasping an intricate problem and crystallizing it in an epigram,
+or scoring his adversaries with one bright flash, was
+apparent even then. He was admitted to the bar in 1905 but
+soon abandoned the law to devote himself to journalism, which,
+because of his remarkable style, never remained journalism
+in his hands. In 1906 he entered politics; in 1910 he was
+re-elected for East Tyrone. Even his bitterest opponents conceded
+that Tom Kettle (as he was called by friend and enemy)
+was the most honorable of fighters; they acknowledged his
+honesty, courage and devotion to the cause of a United Ireland&mdash;and
+respected his penetrating wit. He once spoke of a Mr.
+Healy as "a brilliant calamity" and satirized a long-winded
+speaker by saying, "Mr. Long knows a sentence should have a
+beginning, but he quite forgets it should also have an end."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"An Irish torch-bearer" (so E. B. Osborn calls him), Kettle
+fell in action at Ginchy, leading his Fusiliers in September,
+1916. The uplifted poem to his daughter was written shortly
+before his death.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_MY_DAUGHTER_BETTY_THE_GIFT_OF_GOD" id="TO_MY_DAUGHTER_BETTY_THE_GIFT_OF_GOD"></a>TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, THE GIFT OF GOD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To beauty proud as was your mother's prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In that desired, delayed, incredible time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the dear heart that was your baby throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And reason: some will call the thing sublime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some decry it in a knowing tone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for the secret Scripture of the poor.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Alfred Noyes</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Alfred Noyes was born at Staffordshire, September 16, 1880.
+He is one of the few contemporary poets who have been fortunate
+enough to write a kind of poetry that is not only saleable
+but popular with many classes of people.</p>
+
+<p>His first book, <i>The Loom of Years</i> (1902), was published
+when he was only 22 years old, and <i>Poems</i> (1904) intensified
+the promise of his first publication. Swinburne, grown old and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
+living in retirement, was so struck with Noyes's talent that he
+had the young poet out to read to him. Unfortunately, Noyes
+has not developed his gifts as deeply as his admirers have
+hoped. His poetry, extremely straightforward and rhythmical,
+has often degenerated into cheap sentimentalities and cheaper
+tirades; it has frequently attempted to express programs and
+profundities far beyond Noyes's power.</p>
+
+<p>What is most appealing about his best verse is its ease and
+heartiness; this singer's gift lies in the almost personal bond
+established between the poet and his public. People have such
+a good time reading his vivacious lines because Noyes had such
+a good time writing them. Rhyme in a thumping rhythm seems
+to be not merely his trade but his morning exercise. Noyes's
+own relish filled and quickened glees and catches like <i>Forty
+Singing Seamen</i> (1907), the lusty choruses in <i>Tales of the
+Mermaid Tavern</i> (1913), and the genuinely inspired nonsense
+of the earlier <i>Forest of Wild Thyme</i> (1905).</p>
+
+<p>The least popular work of Noyes is, as a unified product,
+his most remarkable performance. It is an epic in twelve
+books of blank verse, <i>Drake</i> (1908), a glowing pageant of the
+sea and England's drama upon it. It is a spirited echo of the
+maritime Elizabethans; a vivid and orchestral work interspersed
+with splendid lyric passages and brisk songs. The
+companion volume, an attempted reconstruction of the literary
+phase of the same period, is less successful; but these <i>Tales
+of the Mermaid Tavern</i> (which introduce Shakespeare, Marlowe,
+Drayton, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and other immortals) are
+alive and colorful, if somewhat too insistently rollicking and
+smoothly lilting.</p>
+
+<p>His eight volumes were assembled in 1913 and published in
+two books of <i>Collected Poems</i> (Frederick A. Stokes Company).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SHERWOOD" id="SHERWOOD"></a>SHERWOOD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Merry, merry England is waking as of old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love is in the greenwood building him a house<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love it in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the heart of England hid in every rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rings the <i>Follow! Follow!</i> and the boughs begin to crash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Robin! Robin! Robin!</i> All his merry thieves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_BARREL-ORGAN" id="THE_BARREL-ORGAN"></a>THE BARREL-ORGAN</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the City as the sun sinks low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they've given it a glory and a part to play again<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the Symphony that rules the day and night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And trolling out a fond familiar tune,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And now it's prattling softly to the moon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of human joys and wonders and regrets;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To remember and to recompense the music evermore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For what the cold machinery forgets ...<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">Yes; as the music changes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Like a prismatic glass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">It takes the light and ranges<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Through all the moods that pass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Dissects the common carnival<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Of passions and regrets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And gives the world a glimpse of all<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The colours it forgets.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">And there <i>La Traviata</i> sighs<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Another sadder song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And there <i>Il Trovatore</i> cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">A tale of deeper wrong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And bolder knights to battle go<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">With sword and shield and lance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Than ever here on earth below<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Have whirled into&mdash;a dance!&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And golden-eyed <i>tu-whit, tu-whoo</i> of owls that ogle London.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!)</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the city as the sun sinks low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the land where the dead dreams go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote <i>Il Trovatore</i> did you dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the City when the sun sinks low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As <i>A che la morte</i> parodies the world's eternal theme<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pulses with the sunset-glow?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the City as the sun sinks low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are crammed and jammed in busses and&mdash;they're each of them alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the land where the dead dreams go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the City as the sun sinks low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he sees a loafer watching him and&mdash;there he turns his head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the land where the dead dreams go ...<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the City as the sun sinks low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the land where the dead dreams go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">What have you to say<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">When you meet the garland girls<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tripping on their way?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i5">All around my gala hat<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">I wear a wreath of roses<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">(A long and lonely year it is<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">I've waited for the May!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">If any one should ask you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The reason why I wear it is&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(<i>It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Buy a bunch of violets for the lady;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the sky burns blue above:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On the other side the street you'll find it shady<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(<i>It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!</i>)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tell her she's your own true love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As it dies into the sunset glow;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they've given it a glory and a part to play again<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the Symphony that rules the day and night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">And there, as the music changes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The song runs round again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Once more it turns and ranges<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Through all its joy and pain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Dissects the common carnival<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Of passions and regrets;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And the wheeling world remembers all<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">The wheeling song forgets.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">Once more <i>La Traviata</i> sighs<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Another sadder song:<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Once more <i>Il Trovatore</i> cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">A tale of deeper wrong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Once more the knights to battle go<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">With sword and shield and lance<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Till once, once more, the shattered foe<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Has whirled into&mdash;a dance!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE<br />
+(<i>From "The Flower of Old Japan"</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Carol, every violet has<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven for a looking-glass!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Every little valley lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under many-clouded skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every little cottage stands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Girt about with boundless lands.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every little glimmering pond<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Claims the mighty shores beyond&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shores no seamen ever hailed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seas no ship has ever sailed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All the shores when day is done<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fade into the setting sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So the story tries to teach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More than can be told in speech.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beauty is a fading flower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Truth is but a wizard's tower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a solemn death-bell tolls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a forest round it rolls.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We have come by curious ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the light that holds the days;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have sought in haunts of fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For that all-enfolding sphere:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lo! it was not far, but near.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have found, O foolish-fond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shore that has no shore beyond.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Deep in every heart it lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With its untranscended skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For what heaven should bend above<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hearts that own the heaven of love?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Carol, Carol, we have come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back to heaven, back to home.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Padraic Colum</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Padraic Colum was born at Longford, Ireland (in the same
+county as Oliver Goldsmith), December 8, 1881, and was educated
+at the local schools. At 20 he was a member of a group
+that created the Irish National Theatre, afterwards called The
+Abbey Theatre.</p>
+
+<p>Colum began as a dramatist with <i>Broken Soil</i> (1904), <i>The
+Land</i> (1905), <i>Thomas Muskerry</i> (1910), and this early dramatic
+influence has colored much of his work, his best poetry being
+in the form of dramatic lyrics. <i>Wild Earth</i>, his most notable
+collection of verse, first appeared in 1909, and an amplified edition
+of it was published in America in 1916.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_PLOUGHER" id="THE_PLOUGHER"></a>THE PLOUGHER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sunset and silence! A man: around him earth savage, earth broken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside him two horses&mdash;a plough!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn man there in the sunset,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Plough that is twin to the Sword, that is founder of cities!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-breaker! Can'st hear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There are ages between us.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Is it praying you are as you stand there alone in the sunset?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Surely our sky-born gods can be naught to you, earth child and earth master?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan, or Dana?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Yet, why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your brutes where they stumble?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Has Dana numbed pain of the child-bed, or Wotan put hands to your plough?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"What matter your foolish reply! O, man, standing lone and bowed earthward,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-giving God."<br /></span>
+</div>
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the savage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, a head's breadth only above them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A head's breadth? Ay, but therein is hell's depth, and the height up to heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the thrones of the gods and their halls, their chariots, purples, and splendors.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_OLD_WOMAN_OF_THE_ROADS" id="AN_OLD_WOMAN_OF_THE_ROADS"></a>AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O, to have a little house!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To own the hearth and stool and all!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heaped up sods upon the fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pile of turf against the wall!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To have a clock with weights and chains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pendulum swinging up and down!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dresser filled with shining delph,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Speckled and white and blue and brown!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I could be busy all the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fixing on their shelf again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My white and blue and speckled store!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I could be quiet there at night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside the fire and by myself,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sure of a bed and loth to leave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ticking clock and the shining delph!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And roads where there's never a house nor bush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tired I am of bog and road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And I am praying to God on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I am praying Him night and day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a little house&mdash;a house of my own&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the wind's and the rain's way.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Joseph Campbell</i><br />
+(<i>Seosamh MacCathmhaoil</i>)</h2>
+
+
+<p>Joseph Campbell was born in Belfast in 1881, and is not
+only a poet but an artist; he made all the illustrations for <i>The
+Rushlight</i> (1906), a volume of his own poems. Writing under
+the Gaelic form of his name, he has published half a dozen
+books of verse, the most striking of which is <i>The Mountainy
+Singer</i>, first published in Dublin in 1909.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="I_AM_THE_MOUNTAINY_SINGER" id="I_AM_THE_MOUNTAINY_SINGER"></a>I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am the mountainy singer&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voice of the peasant's dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The leap of the fish in the stream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Quiet and love I sing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The carn on the mountain crest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The <i>cailin</i> in her lover's arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The child at its mother's breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beauty and peace I sing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fire on the open hearth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The <i>cailleach</i> spinning at her wheel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The plough in the broken earth.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Travail and pain I sing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bride on the childing bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dark man laboring at his rhymes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The eye in the lambing shed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sorrow and death I sing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The canker come on the corn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fisher lost in the mountain loch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cry at the mouth of morn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No other life I sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I am sprung of the stock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That broke the hilly land for bread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And built the nest in the rock!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_OLD_WOMAN" id="THE_OLD_WOMAN"></a>THE OLD WOMAN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As a white candle<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In a holy place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So is the beauty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of an aged face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As the spent radiance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the winter sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So is a woman<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With her travail done,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her brood gone from her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And her thoughts as still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the waters<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Under a ruined mill.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>James Stephens</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>This unique personality was born in Dublin in February,
+1882. Stephens was discovered in an office and saved from
+clerical slavery by George Russell ("A. E."). Always a poet,
+Stephens's most poetic moments are in his highly-colored prose.
+And yet, although the finest of his novels, <i>The Crock of Gold</i>
+(1912), contains more wild phantasy and quaint imagery than
+all his volumes of verse, his <i>Insurrections</i> (1909) and <i>The Hill
+of Vision</i> (1912) reveal a rebellious spirit that is at once hotly
+ironic and coolly whimsical.</p>
+
+<p>Stephens's outstanding characteristic is his delightful blend of
+incongruities&mdash;he combines in his verse the grotesque, the
+buoyant and the profound. No fresher or more brightly vigorous
+imagination has come out of Ireland since J. M. Synge.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SHELL" id="THE_SHELL"></a>THE SHELL</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then I pressed the shell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close to my ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And listened well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And straightway like a bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came low and clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whipped by an icy breeze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon a shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wind-swept and desolate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was a sunless strand that never bore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The footprint of a man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor felt the weight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since time began<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of any human quality or stir<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the hush of waters was the sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of pebbles rolling round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ever rolling with a hollow sound.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swish to and fro<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was no day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor ever came a night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Setting the stars alight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wonder at the moon:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was twilight only and the frightened croon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waves that journeyed blind&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then I loosed my ear ... O, it was sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hear a cart go jolting down the street.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="WHAT_TOMAS_AN_BUILE_SAID_IN_A_PUB" id="WHAT_TOMAS_AN_BUILE_SAID_IN_A_PUB"></a>WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw God. Do you doubt it?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Do you dare to doubt it?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw the Almighty Man. His hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was resting on a mountain, and<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looked upon the World and all about it:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw him plainer than you see me now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You mustn't doubt it.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was not satisfied;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His look was all dissatisfied.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His beard swung on a wind far out of sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behind the world's curve, and there was light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"That star went always wrong, and from the start<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I was dissatisfied."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He lifted up His hand&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I say He heaved a dreadful hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the spinning Earth. Then I said, "Stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I will never move from where I stand."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And stayed His hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_THE_FOUR_COURTS_PLEASE" id="TO_THE_FOUR_COURTS_PLEASE"></a>TO THE FOUR COURTS, PLEASE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The driver rubbed at his nettly chin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And puffed out again and hung down slack:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One fang shone through his lop-sided smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its big, skinny head up&mdash;then I stepped in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">God help the horse and the driver too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the people and beasts who have never a friend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the driver easily might have been you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the horse be me by a different end.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nobody knows how their days will cease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>John Drinkwater</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Primarily a poetic dramatist, John Drinkwater, born in 1882,
+is best known as the author of <i>Abraham Lincoln&mdash;A Play</i>
+(1919) founded on Lord Charnwood's masterly and analytical
+biography. He has published several volumes of poems, most
+of them meditative and elegiac in mood.</p>
+
+<p>The best of his verses have been collected in <i>Poems, 1908-19</i>,
+and the two here reprinted are used by permission, and
+by special arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, the
+authorized publishers.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="RECIPROCITY" id="RECIPROCITY"></a>RECIPROCITY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I do not think that skies and meadows are<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moral, or that the fixture of a star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes of a quiet spirit, or that trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have wisdom in their windless silences.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet these are things invested in my mood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With constancy, and peace, and fortitude;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That in my troubled season I can cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the wide composure of the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And envy fields, and wish that I might be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As little daunted as a star or tree.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_TOWN_WINDOW" id="A_TOWN_WINDOW"></a>A TOWN WINDOW</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beyond my window in the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is but a drab inglorious street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet there the frost and clean starlight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As over Warwick woods are sweet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Under the grey drift of the town<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The crocus works among the mould<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As eagerly as those that crown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Warwick spring in flame and gold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when the tramway down the hill<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Across the cobbles moans and rings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is about my window-sill<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The tumult of a thousand wings.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>James Joyce</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>James Joyce was born at Dublin, February 2, 1882, and educated
+in Ireland. He is best known as a highly sensitive and
+strikingly original writer of prose, his most celebrated works
+being <i>Dubliners</i> (1914) and the novel, <i>A Portrait of the Artist
+as a Young Man</i> (1916). His one volume of verse, <i>Chamber
+Music</i>, was published in this country in 1918.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="I_HEAR_AN_ARMY" id="I_HEAR_AN_ARMY"></a>I HEAR AN ARMY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I hear an army charging upon the land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They cry unto the night their battle-name:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>J. C. Squire</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Jack Collings Squire was born April 2, 1884, at Plymouth, of
+Devonian ancestry. He was educated at Blundell's and Cambridge
+University, and became known first as a remarkably
+adroit parodist. His <i>Imaginary Speeches</i> (1912) and <i>Tricks
+of the Trade</i> (1917) are amusing parodies and, what is more,
+excellent criticism. He edited <i>The New Statesman</i> for a while
+and founded <i>The London Mercury</i> (a monthly of which he is
+editor) in November, 1919. Under the pseudonym "Solomon
+Eagle" he wrote a page of literary criticism every week for
+six years, many of these papers being collected in his volume,
+<i>Books in General</i> (1919).</p>
+
+<p>His original poetry is intellectual but simple, sometimes
+metaphysical and always interesting technically in its fluent and
+variable rhythms. A collection of his best verse up to 1919
+was published under the title, <i>Poems: First Series</i>.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_HOUSE" id="A_HOUSE"></a>A HOUSE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now very quietly, and rather mournfully,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In clouds of hyacinth the sun retires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the stubble-fields that were so warm to him<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Keep but in memory their borrowed fires.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And I, the traveller, break, still unsatisfied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From that faint exquisite celestial strand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turn and see again the only dwelling-place<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In this wide wilderness of darkening land.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The house, that house, O now what change has come to it.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its crude red-brick fa&ccedil;ade, its roof of slate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What imperceptible swift hand has given it<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A new, a wonderful, a queenly state?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No hand has altered it, that parallelogram,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So inharmonious, so ill-arranged;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No, it is not that any line has changed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only that loneliness is now accentuate<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all man's energies seem very brave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And this mean edifice, which some dull architect<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Built for an ignorant earth-turning hind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Takes on the quality of that magnificent<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unshakable dauntlessness of human kind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet imperturbable that house will rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniac<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May howl their menaces, and hail descend:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not even scornfully, and wait the end.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And all a universe of nameless messengers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From unknown distances may whisper fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it will imitate immortal permanence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When there is none to watch, no alien eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To watch its ugliness assume a majesty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From this great solitude of evening skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While life remains to it prepared to outface<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever awful unconjectured mysteries<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May hide and wait for it in time and space.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Lascelles Abercrombie</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Lascelles Abercrombie was born in 1884. Like Masefield, he
+gained his reputation rapidly; totally unknown until 1909, upon
+the publication of <i>Interludes and Poems</i>, he was recognized as
+one of the greatest metaphysical poets of his period. <i>Emblems
+of Love</i> (1912), the ripest collection of his blank verse dialogues,
+justified the enthusiasm of his admirers.</p>
+
+<p>Many of Abercrombie's poems, the best of which are too long
+to quote, are founded on scriptural themes, but his blank verse
+is not biblical either in mood or manner. It is the undercurrent
+rather than the surface of his verse which moves with a
+strong religious conviction. Abercrombie's images are daring
+and brilliant; his lines, sometimes too closely packed, glow
+with a dazzling intensity that is warmly spiritual and fervently
+human.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="FROM_VASHTI" id="FROM_VASHTI"></a>FROM "VASHTI"</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What thing shall be held up to woman's beauty?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where are the bounds of it? Yea, what is all<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world, but an awning scaffolded amid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waste perilous Eternity, to lodge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This Heaven-wander'd princess, woman's beauty?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The East and West kneel down to thee, the North<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And South; and all for thee their shoulders bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The load of fourfold space. As yellow morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Runs on the slippery waves of the spread sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy feet are on the griefs and joys of men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sheen to be thy causey. Out of tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Indeed, and blitheness, murder and lust and love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever has been passionate in clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy flesh was tempered. Behold in thy body<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The yearnings of all men measured and told,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Insatiate endless agonies of desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Given thy flesh, the meaning of thy shape!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What beauty is there, but thou makest it?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How is earth good to look on, woods and fields,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The season's garden, and the courageous hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All this green raft of earth moored in the seas?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The manner of the sun to ride the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stars God has imagined for the night?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What's this behind them, that we cannot near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Secret still on the point of being blabbed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ghost in the world that flies from being named?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where do they get their beauty from, all these?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They do but glaze a lantern lit for man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And woman's beauty is the flame therein.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SONG3" id="SONG3"></a>SONG<br />
+(<i>From "Judith"</i>)</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Balkis was in her marble town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shadow over the world came down.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That all day dazzled eyes to tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turned from being white-golden flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like the deep-sea blue became.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Balkis into her garden went;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her spirit was in discontent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a torch in restless air.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joylessly she wandered there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And saw her city's azure white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lying under the great night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beautiful as the memory<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a worshipping world would be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the mind of a god, in the hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he must kill his outward power;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, coming to a pool where trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grew in double greeneries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saw herself, as she went by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The water, walking beautifully,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And saw the stars shine in the glance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Passing, pale and wonderful,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the night that filled the pool.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cruel was the grief that played<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the queen's spirit; and she said:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"What do I here, reigning alone?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For to be unloved is to be alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is no man in all my land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dare my longing understand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whole folk like a peasant bows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest its look should meet my brows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be harmed by this beauty of mine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I burn their brains as I were sign<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of God's beautiful anger sent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To master them with punishment<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of beauty that must pour distress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On hearts grown dark with ugliness.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But it is I am the punisht one.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is there no man, is there none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In whom my beauty will but move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lust of a delighted love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In whom some spirit of God so thrives<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That we may wed our lonely lives.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is there no man, is there none?"&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She said, "I will go to Solomon."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>James Elroy Flecker</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Another remarkable poet whose early death was a blow to
+English literature, James Elroy Flecker, was born in London,
+November 5, 1884. Possibly due to his low vitality, Flecker
+found little to interest him but a classical reaction against
+realism in verse, a delight in verbal craftsmanship, and a passion
+for technical perfection&mdash;especially the deliberate technique
+of the French Parnassians whom he worshipped. Flecker was
+opposed to any art that was emotional or that "taught" anything.
+"The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the
+soul of man, but to make it worth saving."</p>
+
+<p>The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more
+personal and romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed
+him at Davos Platz, Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him
+from an Olympian disinterest to a deep concern with life and
+death. He passionately denied that he was weary of living
+"as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting higher flights
+of song when his singing ceased altogether.</p>
+
+<p>His two colorful volumes are <i>The Golden Journey to
+Samarkand</i> (1913) and <i>The Old Ships</i> (1915).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_OLD_SHIPS" id="THE_OLD_SHIPS"></a>THE OLD SHIPS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Famagusta and the hidden sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all those ships were certainly so old&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pirate Genoese<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hell-raked them till they rolled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now through friendly seas they softly run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But I have seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A drowsy ship of some yet older day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, wonder's breath indrawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thought I&mdash;who knows&mdash;who knows&mdash;but in that same<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Stern painted brighter blue&mdash;)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That talkative, bald-headed seaman came<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Troy's doom-crimson shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with great lies about his wooden horse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was so old a ship&mdash;who knows, who knows?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see the mast burst open with a rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the whole deck put on its leaves again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>D. H. Lawrence</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most
+psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity,
+ranging from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost
+frenzied mysticism, is seen even in his prose works&mdash;particularly
+in his short stories, <i>The Prussian Officer</i> (1917), his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
+analytical <i>Sons and Lovers</i> (1913), and the rhapsodic novel,
+<i>The Rainbow</i> (1915).</p>
+
+<p>As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions;
+his passion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms,
+which sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But
+within his range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most
+notable volumes of poetry are <i>Amores</i> (1916), <i>Look! We Have
+Come Through!</i> (1918), and <i>New Poems</i> (1920).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PEOPLE" id="PEOPLE"></a>PEOPLE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The great gold apples of light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hang from the street's long bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dripping their light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the faces that drift below,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the faces that drift and blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the night-time, out of sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the wind's sad sough.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The ripeness of these apples of night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Distilling over me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Makes sickening the white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ghost-flux of faces that hie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Them endlessly, endlessly by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without meaning or reason why<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They ever should be.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PIANO" id="PIANO"></a>PIANO</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>John Freeman</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes
+of pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive are
+<i>Stone Trees</i> (1916) and <i>Memories of Childhood</i> (1919).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="STONE_TREES" id="STONE_TREES"></a>STONE TREES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Last night a sword-light in the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flashed a swift terror on the dark.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In that sharp light the fields did lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Naked and stone-like; each tree stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far off the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With darkness ridged the riven dark.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And cows astonished stared with fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sheep crept to the knees of cows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And conies to their burrows slid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rooks were still in rigid boughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all things else were still or hid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From all the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In that cold trance the earth was held<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It seemed an age, or time was nought.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sure never from that stone-like field<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grey granite trees was music wrought.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In all the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even the tall poplar hung stone still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It seemed an age, or time was none ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shivered, and the trees of stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bent and sighed in the gusty wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far off the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From all the wood came no brave bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No song broke through the close-fall'n night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor any sound from cowering herd:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only a dog's long lonely howl<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When from the window poured pale light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And from the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hoot came ghostly of the owl.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>Shane Leslie</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Shane Leslie, the only surviving son of Sir John Leslie, was
+born at Swan Park, Monaghan, Ireland, in 1886 and was educated
+at Eton and the University of Paris. He worked for a
+time among the Irish poor and was deeply interested in the
+Celtic revival. During the greater part of a year he lectured
+in the United States, marrying an American, Marjorie Ide.</p>
+
+<p>Leslie has been editor of <i>The Dublin Review</i> since 1916. He
+is the author of several volumes on Irish political matters as
+well as <i>The End of a Chapter</i> and <i>Verses in Peace and War</i>.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="FLEET_STREET" id="FLEET_STREET"></a>FLEET STREET</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I never see the newsboys run<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Amid the whirling street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With swift untiring feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To cry the latest venture done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I expect one day to hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Them cry the crack of doom<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And risings from the tomb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With great Archangel Michael near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see them running from the Fleet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As messengers of God,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With Heaven's tidings shod<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About their brave unwearied feet.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_PATER_OF_THE_CANNON" id="THE_PATER_OF_THE_CANNON"></a>THE PATER OF THE CANNON</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Father of the thunder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flinger of the flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Searing stars asunder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Hallowed be Thy Name!</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By the sweet-sung quiring<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sister bullets hum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By our fiercest firing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>May Thy Kingdom come!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By Thy strong apostle<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the Maxim gun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By his pentecostal<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flame, <i>Thy Will be done!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Give us, Lord, good feeding<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To Thy battles sped&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flesh, white grained and bleeding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Give for daily bread!</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Frances Cornford</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>The daughter of Francis Darwin, third son of Charles Darwin,
+Mrs. Frances Macdonald Cornford, whose husband is a
+Fellow and Lecturer of Trinity College, was born in 1886. She
+has published three volumes of unaffected lyrical verse, the
+most recent of which, <i>Spring Morning</i>, was brought out by
+The Poetry Bookshop in 1915.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PREEXISTENCE" id="PREEXISTENCE"></a>PRE&Euml;XISTENCE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I laid me down upon the shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dreamed a little space;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard the great waves break and roar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sun was on my face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My idle hands and fingers brown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Played with the pebbles grey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waves came up, the waves went down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Most thundering and gay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The pebbles, they were smooth and round<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And warm upon my hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like little people I had found<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sitting among the sands.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The grains of sand so shining-small<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Soft through my fingers ran;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun shone down upon it all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And so my dream began:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How all of this had been before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How ages far away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I lay on some forgotten shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As here I lie to-day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The waves came shining up the sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As here to-day they shine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in my pre-pelasgian hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sand was warm and fine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have forgotten whence I came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or what my home might be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or by what strange and savage name<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I called that thundering sea.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I only know the sun shone down<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As still it shines to-day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in my fingers long and brown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The little pebbles lay.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Anna Wickham</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Anna Wickham, one of the most individual of the younger
+women-poets, has published two distinctive volumes, <i>The Contemplative
+Quarry</i> (1915) and <i>The Man with a Hammer</i> (1916).</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SINGER" id="THE_SINGER"></a>THE SINGER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I had peace to sit and sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then I could make a lovely thing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I am stung with goads and whips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I build songs like iron ships.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let it be something for my song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If it is sometimes swift and strong.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="REALITY" id="REALITY"></a>REALITY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only a starveling singer seeks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stuff of songs among the Greeks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Juno is old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jove's loves are cold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tales over-told.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By a new risen Attic stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mortal singer dreamed a dream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fixed he not Fancy's habitation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor set in bonds Imagination.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There are new waters, and a new Humanity.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For all old myths give us the dream to be.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We are outwearied with Persephone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rather than her, we'll sing Reality.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SONG2" id="SONG2"></a>SONG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I was so chill, and overworn, and sad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be a lady was the only joy I had.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I walked the street as silent as a mouse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Buying fine clothes, and fittings for the house.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But since I saw my love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wear a simple dress,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And happily I move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forgetting weariness.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Siegfried Sassoon</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, the poet whom Masefield hailed
+as "one of England's most brilliant rising stars," was born
+September 8, 1886. He was educated at Marlborough and
+Clare College, Cambridge, and was a captain in the Royal
+Welsh Fusiliers. He fought three times in France, once in
+Palestine, winning the Military Cross for bringing in wounded
+on the battlefield.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>His poetry divides itself sharply in two moods&mdash;the lyric
+and the ironic. His early lilting poems were without significance
+or individuality. But with <i>The Old Huntsman</i> (1917)
+Sassoon found his own idiom, and became one of the leading
+younger poets upon the appearance of this striking volume.
+The first poem, a long monologue evidently inspired by Masefield,
+gave little evidence of what was to come. Immediately
+following it, however, came a series of war poems, undisguised
+in their tragedy and bitterness. Every line of these
+quivering stanzas bore the mark of a sensitive and outraged
+nature; there was scarcely a phrase that did not protest against
+the "glorification" and false glamour of war.</p>
+
+<p><i>Counter-Attack</i> appeared in 1918. In this volume Sassoon
+turned entirely from an ordered loveliness to the gigantic brutality
+of war. At heart a lyric idealist, the bloody years intensified
+and twisted his tenderness till what was stubborn and
+satiric in him forced its way to the top. In <i>Counter-Attack</i>
+Sassoon found his angry outlet. Most of these poems are
+choked with passion; many of them are torn out, roots and all,
+from the very core of an intense conviction; they rush on, not
+so much because of the poet's art but almost in spite of it. A
+suave utterance, a neatly-joined structure would be out of
+place and even inexcusable in poems like "The Rear-Guard,"
+"To Any Dead Officer," "Does It Matter?"&mdash;verses that are
+composed of love, fever and indignation.</p>
+
+<p>Can Sassoon see nothing glorious or uplifting in war? His
+friend, Robert Nichols, another poet and soldier, speaks for him
+in a preface. "Let no one ever," Nichols quotes Sassoon as
+saying, "from henceforth say one word in any way countenancing
+war. It is dangerous even to speak of how here and there
+the individual may gain some hardship of soul by it. For war
+is hell, and those who institute it are criminals. Were there
+even anything to say for it, it should not be said; for its
+spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages...."
+Nichols adds his approval to these sentences, saying, "For
+myself, this is the truth. War does not ennoble, it degrades."</p>
+
+<p>Early in 1920 Sassoon visited America. At the same time
+he brought out his <i>Picture Show</i> (1920), a vigorous answer to
+those who feared that Sassoon had "written himself out" or
+had begun to burn away in his own fire. Had Rupert Brooke<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
+lived, he might have written many of these lacerated but somehow
+exalted lines. Sassoon's three volumes are the most vital
+and unsparing records of the war we have had. They synthesize
+in poetry what Barbusse's <i>Under Fire</i> spreads out in
+panoramic prose.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TO_VICTORY" id="TO_VICTORY"></a>TO VICTORY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not in the woeful crimson of men slain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But shining as a garden; come with the streaming<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Radiance through living roses, spires of green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am not sad; only I long for lustre,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tired of the greys and browns and leafless ash.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted voice.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="DREAMERS" id="DREAMERS"></a>DREAMERS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the great hour of destiny they stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And mocked by hopeless longing to regain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And going to the office in the train.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_REAR-GUARD" id="THE_REAR-GUARD"></a>THE REAR-GUARD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Groping along the tunnel, step by step,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He winked his prying torch with patching glare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he, exploring fifty feet below<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rosy gloom of battle overhead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flashed his beam across the livid face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Agony dying hard ten days before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alone he staggered on until he found<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the dazed, muttering creatures underground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unloading hell behind him step by step.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THRUSHES" id="THRUSHES"></a>THRUSHES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose voices make the emptiness of light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A windy palace. Quavering from the brim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who hears the cry of God in everything,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AFTERMATH" id="AFTERMATH"></a>AFTERMATH</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Have you forgotten yet?...</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>But the past is just the same,&mdash;and War's a bloody game....</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Have you forgotten yet?...</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do you remember the rats; and the stench<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Have you forgotten yet?...</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Rupert Brooke</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Possibly the most famous of the Georgians, Rupert Brooke,
+was born at Rugby in August, 1887, his father being assistant
+master at the school. As a youth, Brooke was keenly interested
+in all forms of athletics; playing cricket, football, tennis, and
+swimming as well as most professionals. He was six feet tall,
+his finely molded head topped with a crown of loose hair of
+lively brown; "a golden young Apollo," said Edward Thomas.
+Another friend of his wrote, "to look at, he was part of the
+youth of the world. He was one of the handsomest Englishmen
+of his time." His beauty overstressed somewhat his naturally<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
+romantic disposition; his early poems are a blend of delight in
+the splendor of actuality and disillusion in a loveliness that
+dies. The shadow of John Donne lies over his pages.</p>
+
+<p>This occasional cynicism was purged, when after several
+years of travel (he had been to Germany, Italy and Honolulu)
+the war came, turning Brooke away from</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">"A world grown old and cold and weary ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And half men, and their dirty songs and dreary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all the little emptiness of love."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Brooke enlisted with a relief that was like a rebirth; he
+sought a new energy in the struggle "where the worst friend
+and enemy is but Death." After seeing service in Belgium,
+1914, he spent the following winter in a training-camp in
+Dorsetshire and sailed with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary
+Force in February, 1915, to take part in the unfortunate
+Dardenelles Campaign.</p>
+
+<p>Brooke never reached his destination. He died of blood-poison
+at Skyros, April 23, 1915. His early death was one of
+England's great literary losses; Lascelles Abercrombie, W. W.
+Gibson (with both of whom he had been associated on the
+quarterly, <i>New Numbers</i>), Walter De la Mare, the Hon.
+Winston Spencer Churchill, and a host of others united to pay
+tribute to the most brilliant and passionate of the younger poets.</p>
+
+<p>Brooke's sonnet-sequence, <i>1914</i> (from which "The Soldier"
+is taken), which, with prophetic irony, appeared a few weeks
+before his death, contains the accents of immortality. And
+"The Old Vicarage, Grantchester" (unfortunately too long
+to reprint in this volume), is fully as characteristic of the lighter
+and more playful side of Brooke's temperament. Both these
+phases are combined in "The Great Lover," of which Abercrombie
+has written, "It is life he loves, and not in any abstract
+sense, but all the infinite little familiar details of life,
+remembered and catalogued with delightful zest."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_GREAT_LOVER" id="THE_GREAT_LOVER"></a>THE GREAT LOVER<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have been so great a lover: filled my days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Desire illimitable, and still content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our hearts at random down the dark of life.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My night shall be remembered for a star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That outshone all the suns of all men's days.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall I not crown them with immortal praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The inenarrable godhead of delight?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love is a flame;&mdash;we have beaconed the world's night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A city:&mdash;and we have built it, these and I.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An emperor:&mdash;we have taught the world to die.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the high cause of Love's magnificence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And set them as a banner, that men may know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dare the generations, burn, and blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out on; the wind of Time, shining and streaming....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These I have loved:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The benison of hot water; furs to touch;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The good smell of old clothes; and other such&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About dead leaves and last year's ferns....<br /></span>
+<span class="i14">Dear names,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever passes not, in the great hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hold them with me through the gate of Death.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sacramented covenant to the dust.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And give what's left of love again, and make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">New friends, now strangers....<br /></span>
+<span class="i14">But the best I've known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About the winds of the world, and fades from brains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of living men, and dies.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14">Nothing remains.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O dear my loves, O faithless, once again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This one last gift I give: that after men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="DUST" id="DUST"></a>DUST<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the white flame in us is gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we that lost the world's delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiffen in darkness, left alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To crumble in our separate night;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When your swift hair is quiet in death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And through the lips corruption thrust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has stilled the labour of my breath&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When we are dust, when we are dust!&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not dead, not undesirous yet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still sentient, still unsatisfied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll ride the air, and shine and flit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around the places where we died,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And dance as dust before the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And light of foot, and unconfined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hurry from road to road, and run<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">About the errands of the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And every mote, on earth or air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will speed and gleam, down later days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like a secret pilgrim fare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By eager and invisible ways,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till, beyond thinking, out of view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One mote of all the dust that's I<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall meet one atom that was you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then in some garden hushed from wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Warm in a sunset's afterglow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lovers in the flowers will find<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sweet and strange unquiet grow<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Upon the peace; and, past desiring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So high a beauty in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And such a light, and such a quiring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And such a radiant ecstasy there,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or out of earth, or in the height,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or two that pass, in light, to light,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out of the garden higher, higher ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But in that instant they shall learn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shattering fury of our fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the weak passionless hearts will burn<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And faint in that amazing glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Until the darkness close above;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they will know&mdash;poor fools, they'll know!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One moment, what it is to love.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_SOLDIER" id="THE_SOLDIER"></a>THE SOLDIER<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I should die, think only this of me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That there's some corner of a foreign field<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That is for ever England. There shall be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A body of England's breathing English air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And think, this heart, all evil shed away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A pulse in the eternal mind, no less<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class='footnotes'><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> From <i>The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke</i>. Copyright,
+1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> From <i>The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke</i>. Copyright,
+1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> From <i>The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke</i>. Copyright,
+1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Winifred M. Letts</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early
+work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos
+found in her immediate surroundings. Her <i>Songs from Leinster</i>
+(1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of
+the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has
+called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly
+effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
+of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes.
+She has also written three novels, five books for children, a
+later volume of <i>Poems of the War</i> and, during the conflict,
+served as a nurse at various base hospitals.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="GRANDEUR" id="GRANDEUR"></a>GRANDEUR</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Poor Mary Byrne is dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' all the world may see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where she lies upon her bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just as fine as quality.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She lies there still and white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With candles either hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That'll guard her through the night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sure she never was so grand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She holds her rosary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her hands clasped on her breast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just as dacint as can be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the habit she's been dressed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In life her hands were red<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With every sort of toil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But they're white now she is dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' they've sorra mark of soil.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The neighbours come and go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They kneel to say a prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wish herself could know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the way she's lyin' there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was work from morn till night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hard she earned her bread:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I'm thinking she's a right<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To be aisy now she's dead.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When other girls were gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At wedding or at fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'd be toiling all the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not a minyit could she spare.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An' no one missed her face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or sought her in a crowd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But to-day they throng the place<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just to see her in her shroud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The creature in her life<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Drew trouble with each breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But she's lovely in her death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish the dead could see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The splendour of a wake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For it's proud herself would be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the keening that they make.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Och! little Mary Byrne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You welcome every guest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is it now you take your turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To be merry with the rest?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm thinking you'd be glad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though the angels make your bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could you see the care we've had<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To respect you&mdash;now you're dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SPIRES_OF_OXFORD" id="THE_SPIRES_OF_OXFORD"></a>THE SPIRES OF OXFORD</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw the spires of Oxford<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I was passing by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grey spires of Oxford<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Against the pearl-grey sky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart was with the Oxford men<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who went abroad to die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The years go fast in Oxford,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The golden years and gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hoary Colleges look down<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On careless boys at play.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when the bugles sounded war<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They put their games away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They left the peaceful river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cricket-field, the quad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shaven lawns of Oxford,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To seek a bloody sod&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They gave their merry youth away<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For country and for God.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">God rest you, happy gentlemen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who laid your good lives down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who took the khaki and the gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Instead of cap and gown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">God bring you to a fairer place<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than even Oxford town.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Francis Brett Young</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet,
+and who has been called, by <i>The Manchester Guardian</i>, "one
+of the promising evangelists of contemporary poetry," has
+written much that is both graceful and grave. There is music
+and a message in his lines that seem to have as their motto:
+"Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man." Best known as a
+writer of prose, his most prominent works are <i>Marching on
+Tanga</i> and <i>The Crescent Moon</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Brett Young's <i>Five Degrees South</i> (1917) and his <i>Poems
+1916-18</i> (1919) contain the best of his verse.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="LOCHANILAUN" id="LOCHANILAUN"></a>LOCHANILAUN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This is the image of my last content:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My soul shall be a little lonely lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So hidden that no shadow of man may break<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The folding of its mountain battlement;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the beautiful and innocent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there shall be no terror in the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When stars that I have loved are born in me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But this shall be the end of my delight:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your image in the mirrored beauty there.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>F. S. Flint</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry,
+F. S. Flint has published several volumes of original imagist
+poems, besides having translated works of Verhaeren and
+Jean de Bosschere.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="LONDON" id="LONDON"></a>LONDON</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">London, my beautiful,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">it is not the sunset<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">nor the pale green sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">shimmering through the curtain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">of the silver birch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">nor the quietness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">it is not the hopping<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">of birds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">upon the lawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">nor the darkness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">stealing over all things<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">that moves me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But as the moon creeps slowly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">over the tree-tops<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">among the stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I think of her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">and the glow her passing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">sheds on men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">London, my beautiful,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will climb<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">into the branches<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">to the moonlit tree-tops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">that my blood may be cooled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">by the wind.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Edith Sitwell</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is
+the sister of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In
+1914 she came to London and has devoted herself to literature
+ever since, having edited the various anthologies of <i>Wheels</i>
+since 1916. Her first book, <i>The Mother and Other Poems</i>
+(1915), contains some of her best work, although <i>Clowns'
+Houses</i> (1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a sharper
+turn of mind.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_WEB_OF_EROS" id="THE_WEB_OF_EROS"></a>THE WEB OF EROS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Within your magic web of hair, lies furled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fire and splendour of the ancient world;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The songs that turned to gold the evening air<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The m&aelig;nad fire of spring on the cold earth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the soul Ph&#339;nix; and the star-bright shower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That came to Dana&euml; in her brazen tower....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within your magic web of hair lies furled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fire and splendour of the ancient world.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="INTERLUDE" id="INTERLUDE"></a>INTERLUDE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Amid this hot green glowing gloom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A word falls with a raindrop's boom....<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like baskets of ripe fruit in air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bird-songs seem, suspended where<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Those goldfinches&mdash;the ripe warm lights<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Peck slyly at them&mdash;take quick flights.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My feet are feathered like a bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the shadows scarcely heard;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I bring you branches green with dew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fruits that you may crown anew<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Your whirring waspish-gilded hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amid this cornucopia&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Until your warm lips bear the stains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bird-blood leap within your veins.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>F. W. Harvey</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was
+in the German prison camp at G&uuml;tersloh when he wrote <i>The
+Bugler</i>, one of the isolated great poems written during the war.
+Much of his other verse is haphazard and journalistic, although
+<i>Gloucestershire Friends</i> contains several lines that glow with
+the colors of poetry.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_BUGLER" id="THE_BUGLER"></a>THE BUGLER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">God dreamed a man;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, having firmly shut<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life like a precious metal in his fist<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our various divinity and sin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And others&mdash;dreaming empires&mdash;straightway cut<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did with it&mdash;simply nothing. (Here again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For me, I do but bear within my hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A simple bugle such as may awaken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With one high morning note a drowsing man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That wheresoe'er within my motherland<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>T. P. Cameron Wilson</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in
+1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one
+novel besides several articles under the pseudonym <i>Tipuca</i>, a
+euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name.</p>
+
+<p>When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at
+Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict,
+he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a
+machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="SPORTSMEN_IN_PARADISE" id="SPORTSMEN_IN_PARADISE"></a>SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They left the fury of the fight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they were very tired.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gates of Heaven were open quite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unguarded and unwired.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was no sound of any gun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The land was still and green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wide hills lay silent in the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blue valleys slept between.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They saw far-off a little wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stand up against the sky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some lazy cows went by ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There were some rooks sailed overhead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And once a church-bell pealed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>God! but it's England</i>," someone said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>And there's a cricket-field!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p>
+<h2><i>W. J. Turner</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known
+until his appearance in <i>Georgian Poetry 1916-17</i>, has written
+no few delicate and fanciful poems. <i>The Hunter</i> (1916)
+and <i>The Dark Wind</i> (1918) both contain many verses as moving
+and musical as his splendid lines on "Death," a poem
+which is unfortunately too long to quote.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ROMANCE2" id="ROMANCE2"></a>ROMANCE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I was but thirteen or so<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I went into a golden land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chimborazo, Cotopaxi<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Took me by the hand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My father died, my brother too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They passed like fleeting dreams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I stood where Popocatapetl<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the sunlight gleams.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I dimly heard the master's voice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And boys far-off at play,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chimborazo, Cotopaxi<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had stolen me away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I walked in a great golden dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To and fro from school&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shining Popocatapetl<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The dusty streets did rule.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I walked home with a gold dark boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And never a word I'd say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chimborazo, Cotopaxi<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had taken my speech away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I gazed entranced upon his face<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fairer than any flower&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O shining Popocatapetl<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It was thy magic hour:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The houses, people, traffic seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thin fading dreams by day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They had stolen my soul away!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Patrick MacGill</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the
+son of poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12
+and 19, he worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and
+navvy, becoming one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers"
+who cross each summer from Ireland to Scotland to help
+gather in the crops. Out of his bitter experiences and the evils
+of modern industrial life, he wrote several vivid novels (<i>The
+Rat Pit</i> is an unforgettable document) and the tragedy-crammed
+<i>Songs of the Dead End</i>. He joined the editorial staff of <i>The
+Daily Express</i> in 1911; was in the British army during the
+war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his <i>Soldier
+Songs</i> during the conflict.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="BY-THE-WAY" id="BY-THE-WAY"></a>BY-THE-WAY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="DEATH_AND_THE_FAIRIES" id="DEATH_AND_THE_FAIRIES"></a>DEATH AND THE FAIRIES</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Before I joined the Army<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I lived in Donegal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where every night the Fairies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would hold their carnival.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But now I'm out in Flanders,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where men like wheat-ears fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's Death and not the Fairies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who is holding carnival.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Francis Ledwidge</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland,
+in 1891. His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at
+various times, a miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger,
+an experimenter in hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He
+served as a lance-corporal on the Flanders front and was
+killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26 years.</p>
+
+<p>Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are
+full of color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AN_EVENING_IN_ENGLAND" id="AN_EVENING_IN_ENGLAND"></a>AN EVENING IN ENGLAND</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From its blue vase the rose of evening drops;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the streams its petals float away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hills all blue with distance hide their tops<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the dim silence falling on the grey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Night tells her rosary of stars full soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From all her changes which have stirred the seas.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I and a marsh bird only make a wail.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="EVENING_CLOUDS" id="EVENING_CLOUDS"></a>EVENING CLOUDS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A little flock of clouds go down to rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In some blue corner off the moon's highway,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A little England full of lovely noons,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What he loved most; for late I roamed a while<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they remember him with beauty caught<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From old desires of Oriental Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heard in his heart with singing overwrought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Irene Rutherford McLeod</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written
+three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best
+of which may be found in <i>Songs to Save a Soul</i> (1915) and
+<i>Before Dawn</i> (1918). The latter volume is dedicated to A.
+de S&eacute;lincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IS_LOVE_THEN_SO_SIMPLE" id="IS_LOVE_THEN_SO_SIMPLE"></a>"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Is love, then, so simple my dear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The opening of a door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seeing all things clear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I did not know before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I had thought it unrest and desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Soaring only to fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Annihilation and fire:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It is not so at all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I feel no desperate will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I think I understand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many things, as I sit quite still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With Eternity in my hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="LONE_DOG" id="LONE_DOG"></a>LONE DOG</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Richard Aldington</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated
+at Dover College and London University. His first poems
+were published in England in 1909; <i>Images Old and New</i> appeared
+in 1915. Aldington and "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his
+American wife) are conceded to be two of the foremost imagist
+poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines put to shame
+their scores of imitators. Aldington's <i>War and Love</i> (1918),
+from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in
+pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously
+artistic but warmer and more humanly searching.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PRELUDE2" id="PRELUDE2"></a>PRELUDE</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How could I love you more?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I would give up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even that beauty I have loved too well<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I might love you better.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can but give you of my flesh and strength,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can but give you these few passing days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And passionate words that, since our speech began,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I try to think of some one lovely gift<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No lover yet in all the world has found;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I think: If the cold sombre gods<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were hot with love as I am<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could they not endow you with a star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could they not give you all things that I lack?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You should have loved a god; I am but dust.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="IMAGES" id="IMAGES"></a>IMAGES</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like a gondola of green scented fruits<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drifting along the dank canals of Venice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You, O exquisite one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have entered into my desolate city.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>II</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The blue smoke leaps<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So my love leaps forth toward you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vanishes and is renewed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>III</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the sunset is faint vermilion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the mist among the tree-boughs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Art thou to me, my beloved.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>IV</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A young beech tree on the edge of the forest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stands still in the evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seems to fear the stars&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So are you still and so tremble.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>V</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The red deer are high on the mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are beyond the last pine trees.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my desires have run with them.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>VI</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The flower which the wind has shaken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is soon filled again with rain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So does my heart fill slowly with tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until you return.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="AT_THE_BRITISH_MUSEUM" id="AT_THE_BRITISH_MUSEUM"></a>AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I turn the page and read:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I dream of silent verses where the rhyme<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Glides noiseless as an oar."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heavy musty air, the black desks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bent heads and the rustling noises<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the great dome<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vanish ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The boat drifts over the lake shallows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Edward Shanks</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at
+Trinity College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and <i>belles
+lettres</i> for several years for various English publications, and is
+at present assistant editor of <i>The London Mercury</i>. His <i>The
+Queen of China and Other Poems</i> appeared late in 1919.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="COMPLAINT" id="COMPLAINT"></a>COMPLAINT</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When in the mines of dark and silent thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With heavy labour to the surface brought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lie and mock me in the brighter air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor ores from starv&egrave;d lodes of poverty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unfit for working or to be refined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I turn away from that base cave, the mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet had I but the power to crush the stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There are strange metals hid in flakes therein,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That only cunning, toilsome chemists win.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All this I know, and yet my chemistry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Osbert Sitwell</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of
+Sir George Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated
+at Eton and became an officer in the Grenadier Guards,
+with whom he served in France for various periods from 1914
+to 1917.</p>
+
+<p>His first contributions appeared in <i>Wheels</i> (an annual
+anthology of a few of the younger radical writers, edited by
+his sister) and disclosed an ironic and strongly individual
+touch. That impression is strengthened by a reading of
+<i>Argonaut and Juggernaut</i> (1920), where Sitwell's cleverness
+and satire are fused. His most remarkable though his least
+brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against
+smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional
+poetry has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_BLIND_PEDLAR" id="THE_BLIND_PEDLAR"></a>THE BLIND PEDLAR</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I stand alone through each long day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon these pavers; cannot see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wares spread out upon this tray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;For God has taken sight from me!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Many a time I've cursed the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I was born. My peering eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have sought for but one ray of light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To pierce the darkness. When the skies<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rain down their first sweet April showers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On budding branches; when the morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've cursed the night when I was born.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But now I thank God, and am glad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For what I cannot see this day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The young men cripples, old, and sad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With faces burnt and torn away;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or those who, growing rich and old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have battened on the slaughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are creased in purple laughter!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="PROGRESS" id="PROGRESS"></a>PROGRESS</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The city's heat is like a leaden pall&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Black houses crush the creeping beggars down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of silver bodies bathing in a pool;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or trees that whisper in some far, small town<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was merely metal, not a grave of mould<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which men bury all that's fine and fair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When they could chase the jewelled butterfly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For all the future held so rich and rare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, though they knew it not, their baby cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Robert Nichols</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His
+first volume, <i>Invocations</i> (1915), was published while he was
+at the front, Nichols having joined the army while he was still
+an undergraduate at Trinity College, Oxford. After serving
+one year as second lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, he
+was incapacitated by shell shock, visiting America in 1918-19
+as a lecturer. His <i>Ardours and Endurances</i> (1917) is the most
+representative work of this poet, although his new volume,
+<i>The Flower of Flame</i> (1920), shows a steady advance in
+power.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="NEARER" id="NEARER"></a>NEARER</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nearer and ever nearer ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My body, tired but tense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tremulous confidence.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Arms to have and to use them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a soul to be made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Worthy, if not worthy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If afraid, unafraid.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To endure for a little,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To endure and have done:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men I love about me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over me the sun!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And should at last suddenly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fly the speeding death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The four great quarters of heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Receive this little breath.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Charles Hamilton Sorley</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than
+any of the younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May,
+1895. He studied at Marlborough College and University
+College, Oxford. He was finishing his studies abroad and was
+on a walking-tour along the banks of the Moselle when the
+war came. Sorley returned home to receive an immediate commission
+in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In August,
+1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October
+13, 1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.</p>
+
+<p>Sorley left but one book, <i>Marlborough and Other Poems</i>. The
+verse contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although
+he admired Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness
+was his aim. Restraint, tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a
+boy of 20, distinguish his poetry.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="TWO_SONNETS" id="TWO_SONNETS"></a>TWO SONNETS</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poets have whitened at your high renown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We stand among the many millions who<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live as of your presence unaware.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now in every road on every side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I think it like that signpost in my land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upward, into the hills, on the right hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A homeless land and friendless, but a land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I did not know and that I wished to know.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<h4>II</h4>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A merciful putting away of what has been.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And this we know: Death is not Life effete,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So marvellous things know well the end not yet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But a big blot has hid each yesterday<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So poor, so manifestly incomplete.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="TO_GERMANY" id="TO_GERMANY"></a>TO GERMANY</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And no man claimed the conquest of your land.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But gropers both, through fields of thought confined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We stumble and we do not understand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You only saw your future bigly planned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we the tapering paths of our own mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in each other's dearest ways we stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When it is peace, then we may view again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With new-won eyes each other's truer form<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The darkness and the thunder and the rain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><i>Robert Graves</i></h2>
+
+
+<p>Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three
+rhyming musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried
+Sassoon and Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers
+who, roused by the war and giving himself to his country,
+refused to glorify warfare or chant new hymns of hate. Like
+Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm of fury and
+blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but, fortified
+by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is violent,
+Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter, Graves is
+almost blithe.</p>
+
+<p>An unconquerable gayety rises from his <i>Fairies and Fusiliers</i>
+(1917), a surprising and healing humor that is warmly indi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>vidual.
+In <i>Country Sentiment</i> (1919) Graves turns to a fresh
+and more serious simplicity. But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath
+the most archaic of his ballads and a quaintly original
+turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.</p>
+
+
+<h3><a name="ITS_A_QUEER_TIME" id="ITS_A_QUEER_TIME"></a>IT'S A QUEER TIME</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It's hard to know if you're alive or dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When steel and fire go roaring through your head.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One moment you'll be crouching at your gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No time to think&mdash;leave all&mdash;and off you go ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">It's a queer time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When somehow something gives and your feet drag.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You're back in the old sailor suit again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">It's a queer time.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A great roar&mdash;the trench shakes and falls about&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... <i>hullo</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hanky to nose&mdash;that lyddite makes a stench&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Getting her pinafore all over grime.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Funny! because she died ten years ago!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">It's a queer time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The trouble is, things happen much too quick;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even good Christians don't like passing straight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">It's a queer time.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="A_PINCH_OF_SALT" id="A_PINCH_OF_SALT"></a>A PINCH OF SALT</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When a dream is born in you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a sudden clamorous pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you know the dream is true<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dreams are like a bird that mocks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flirting the feathers of his tail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you seize at the salt-box,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Over the hedge you'll see him sail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Poet, never chase the dream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Laugh yourself, and turn away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mask your hunger; let it seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Small matter if he come or stay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when he nestles in your hand at last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="I_WONDER_WHAT_IT_FEELS_LIKE_TO_BE_DROWNED" id="I_WONDER_WHAT_IT_FEELS_LIKE_TO_BE_DROWNED"></a>I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Look at my knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That island rising from the steamy seas!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are boats and barges anchored to the sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With mighty cliffs all round;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They're full of wine and riches from far lands....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I can make caves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By lifting up the island and huge waves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And storms, and then with head and ears well under<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bull-of-Bashan sound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The seas run high and the boats split asunder....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The thin soap slips<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And slithers like a shark under the ships.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My toes are on the soap-dish&mdash;that's the effect<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The soap slides round and round;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He's biting the old sailors, I expect....<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3><a name="THE_LAST_POST" id="THE_LAST_POST"></a>THE LAST POST</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The bugler sent a call of high romance&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"God, if it's <i>this</i> for me next time in France,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O spare the phantom bugle as I lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dead in a row with other broken ones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lying so stiff and still under the sky&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The music ceased, and the red sunset flare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was blood about his head as he stood there.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p>
+<h2>INDEX</h2>
+
+
+<p>
+<i>Names of Authors are in Capitals. Titles of Poems are in Italics.</i><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Abercrombie, Lascelles</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiv">xxiv</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174-177</a><br />
+<br />
+"<span class="smcap">A. E.</span>," <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76-77</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Aftermath</i>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Aldington, Richard</span>, <a href="#Page_216">216-219</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>All-Souls</i>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>An Athlete Dying Young, To</i>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>An Old Fogey, To</i>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Arab Love-Song, An</i>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Astrologer's Song, An</i>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>At the British Museum</i>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>A Traveller, To</i>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Austin, Alfred</span>, <a href="#Page_xii">xii</a>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Ballad of Hell, A</i>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Ballad of London, A</i>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Ballad of the Billycock, The</i>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Barrel-Organ, The</i>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Beautiful Lie the Dead</i>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Beauty's a Flower</i>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Before</i>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Beg-Innish</i>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Belloc, Hilaire</span>, <a href="#Page_86">86-89</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Binyon, Laurence</span>, <a href="#Page_79">79-80</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Birdcatcher, The</i>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Blackbird, The</i>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Blind Pedlar, The</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Bowl of Roses, A</i>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Bridges, Robert</span>, <a href="#Page_5">5-7</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Broken Song, A</i>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Brooke, Rupert</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193-200</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Bugler, The</i>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>By-the-Way</i>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Campbell, Joseph</span>, <a href="#Page_165">165-166</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Cap and Bells, The</i>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Chesson, Nora</span> (<i>see Nora Hopper</i>)<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Chesterton, G. K.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110-119</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Choice, The</i>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Clair de Lune</i>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Cock-Crow</i>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Colum, Padraic</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162-165</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Complaint</i>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Connaught Lament, A</i>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Consecration, A</i>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Conundrum of the Workshops, The</i>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Cornford, Frances</span>, <a href="#Page_184">184-186</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Daisy</i>,<a href="#Page_32">32</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Dauber</i>, <a href="#Page_xxii">xxii</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Davidson, John</span>, <a href="#Page_22">22-27</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Davies, W. H.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_xxv">xxv</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83-86</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Days Too Short</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Deane, Anthony C.</span>, <a href="#Page_89">89-93</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Death and the Fairies</i>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">De la Mare, Walter</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105-110</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Donkey, The</i>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Douglas, Alfred</span>, <a href="#Page_80">80-81</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Dowson, Ernest</span>, <a href="#Page_73">73-76</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Drake's Drum</i>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Dream, A</i>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Dreamers</i>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span><span class="smcap">Drinkwater, John</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiv">xxiv</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170-171</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Dunsany, Edward Lord</span>, <a href="#Page_133">133-136</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Dust</i>,<a href="#Page_198">198</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Dying-Swan, The</i>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Epilogue</i>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Epitaph</i>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Epitaph, An</i>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Estrangement</i>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Eve</i>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Evening Clouds</i>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Evening in England, An</i>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Everlasting Mercy, The</i>, <a href="#Page_xxii">xxii</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Every Thing</i>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Example, The</i>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Fifty Faggots</i>,<a href="#Page_137">137</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Flecker, James Elroy</span>, <a href="#Page_178">178-179</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Fleet Street</i>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Flint, F. S.</span>, <a href="#Page_205">205-206</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Freeman, John</span>, <a href="#Page_181">181-182</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Georgians, The</span>, <a href="#Page_xi">xi</a>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii-xxiv</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Germany, To</i>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Gibson, W. W.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_xxv">xxv</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119-125</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Gilbert, W. S.</span>, xiv<br />
+<br />
+<i>Going and Staying</i>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Gore-Booth, Eva</span>, <a href="#Page_98">98-99</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Grandeur</i>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Graves, Robert</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225-229</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Great Breath, The</i>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Great Lover, The</i>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Green River, The</i>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Gunga Din</i>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hardy, Thomas</span>, <a href="#Page_xvi">xvi</a>, <a href="#Page_3">3-4</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Harvey, F. W.</span>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Henley, W. E.</span>, <a href="#Page_xi">xi</a>, <a href="#Page_xv">xv-xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9-13</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>"Herod," Fragment from</i>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hinkson, Katharine Tynan</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43-45</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hodgson, Ralph</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_xxv">xxv</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139-144</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hopper, Nora</span>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>House, A</i>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>House that Was, The</i>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Housman, A. E.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxv">xxv</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36-40</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hueffer, F. M.</span>, <a href="#Page_102">102-105</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Hyde, Douglas</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40-41</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>I am the Mountainy Singer</i>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>I Hear an Army</i>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>I Shall not Die for Thee</i>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?</i>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>If I Should Ever Grow Rich</i>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Images</i>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Imagination</i>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Impression du Matin</i>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>In Flanders Fields</i>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Interlude</i>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>In the Mile End Road</i>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>In the Wood of Finvara</i>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>In Time of "The Breaking of Nations</i>," <a href="#Page_3">3</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Invictus</i>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a><br />
+<br />
+"<i>Is Love, then, so simple</i>," <a href="#Page_215">215</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>It's a Queer Time</i>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Jackson, Holbrook</span>, <a href="#Page_xiv">xiv-xv</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Johnson, Lionel</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71-73</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Joyce, James</span>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Kettle, T. M.</span>, <a href="#Page_149">149-150</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Kipling, Rudyard</span>, <a href="#Page_xi">xi</a>, <a href="#Page_xx">xx-xxi</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56-68</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Lake Isle of Innisfree, The</i>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Last Post, The</i>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Lawrence, D. H.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179-181</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Ledwidge, Francis</span>, <a href="#Page_213">213-214</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Le Gallienne, Richard</span>, <a href="#Page_xv">xv</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68-70</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Lepanto</i>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span><span class="smcap">Leslie, Shane</span>, <a href="#Page_183">183-184</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Letts, W. M.</span>, <a href="#Page_200">200-204</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Levy, Amy</span>, <a href="#Page_41">41-43</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Listeners, The</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Lochanilaun</i>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>London</i>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Lone Dog</i>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a><br />
+<br />
+"<i>Loveliest of Trees</i>," <a href="#Page_39">39</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">MacCathmhaoil, Seosamh</span> (<i>see Joseph Campbell</i>)<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">MacGill, Patrick</span>, <a href="#Page_211">211-213</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Macleod, Fiona</span>, <a href="#Page_18">18-19</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">McLeod, Irene R.</span>, <a href="#Page_215">215-216</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">McCrae, John</span>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Man He Killed, The</i>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Margarit&aelig; Sorori</i>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Masefield, John</span>, <a href="#Page_xi">xi</a>, <a href="#Page_xxi">xxi-xxii</a>, <a href="#Page_xxv">xxv</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125-132</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Meynell, Alice</span>, <a href="#Page_16">16-17</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Modern Beauty</i>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Monro, Harold</span>, <a href="#Page_144">144-149</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Moon, The</i>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Moore, George</span>, <a href="#Page_xviii">xviii</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Moore, T. Sturge</span>, <a href="#Page_81">81-83</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>My Daughter Betty, To</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Mystery, The</i>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Mystic and Cavalier</i>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Nearer</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Newbolt, Henry</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiv">xxiv</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49-50</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Nichols, Robert</span>, <a href="#Page_222">222-223</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Nightingale near the House, The</i>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Nightingales</i>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Nod</i>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Noyes, Alfred</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150-162</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Oaks of Glencree, To the</i>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Ode</i>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Ode in May</i>, <a href="#Page_28">28</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Old Ships, The</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Old Song Resung, An</i>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Old Susan</i>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Old Woman, The</i>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Old Woman of the Roads, An</i>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Olivia, To</i>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>One in Bedlam, To</i>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">O'Neill, Moira</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99-100</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">O'Shaughnessy, Arthur</span>, <a href="#Page_8">8-9</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">O'Sullivan, Seumas</span>, <a href="#Page_138">138-139</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Pater of the Cannon, The</i>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>People</i>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Phillips, Stephen</span>, <a href="#Page_77">77-79</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Piano</i>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Pinch of Salt, A</i>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Plougher The</i>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Praise</i>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Prayer in Darkness, A</i>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Pre&euml;xistence</i>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Prelude</i>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Prelude</i>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Progress</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Reality</i>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Rear-Guard, The</i>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Reciprocity</i>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Regret</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Requiem</i>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Requiescat</i>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Return, The</i>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Reveill&eacute;</i>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Romance</i>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Romance</i>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Rounding the Horn</i>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Russell, George W.</span> (<i>see "A. E."</i>)<br />
+<br />
+<i>Rustic Song, A</i>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sassoon, Siegfried</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187-193</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Seaman, Owen</span>, <a href="#Page_45">45-48</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Sea-Fever</i>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Shanks, Edward</span>, <a href="#Page_219">219-220</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sharp, William</span> (<i>see Fiona MacLeod</i>)<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Shaw, G. B.</span>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Sheep and Lambs</i>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Shell, The</i>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Sherwood</i>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span><i>Sight</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Silence Sings</i>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Singer, The</i>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sitwell, Edith</span>, <a href="#Page_206">206-207</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sitwell, Osbert</span>, <a href="#Page_220">220-222</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Soldier, The</i>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Song</i>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Song</i>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Song, A</i>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Song</i> (<i>from "Judith"</i>), <a href="#Page_176">176</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Song of the Old Mother, The</i>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Songs from an Evil Wood</i>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Sonnet</i>,<a href="#Page_132">132</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sorley, Charles Hamilton</span>, <a href="#Page_223">223-225</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>South Country, The</i>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Spires of Oxford, The</i>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Sportsmen in Paradise</i>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Squire, J. C.</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiv">xxiv</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172-174</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Stephens, James</span>, <a href="#Page_xxiii">xxiii</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167-169</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Stevenson, R. L.</span>, <a href="#Page_xvi">xvi</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13-16</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Stone, The</i>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Stone Trees</i>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Strange Meetings</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Summer Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Symons, Arthur</span>, <a href="#Page_xv">xv</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50-51</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Synge, J. M.</span>, <a href="#Page_xviii">xviii-xx</a>, <a href="#Page_xxii">xxii</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93-96</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Tall Nettles</i>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Tennyson, Alfred</span>, <a href="#Page_xii">xii</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a><br />
+<br />
+"<i>There Shall be more Joy</i>," <a href="#Page_104">104</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Thomas, Edward</span>, <a href="#Page_136">136-138</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Thomas of the Light Heart</i>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Thompson, Francis</span>, <a href="#Page_31">31-35</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Thrush before Dawn, A</i>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Thrushes</i>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Time, You old Gipsy Man</i>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Tired Tim</i>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>To The Four Courts, Please</i>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Town Window, A</i>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Translation from Petrarch, A</i>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Tupper, Martin F.</span>, <a href="#Page_xii">xii</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Turner</span>, W. J., <a href="#Page_210">210-211</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Two Sonnets</i>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Tynan, Katharine (Hinkson)</span>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43-45</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Unknown God, The</i>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Valley of Silence, The</i>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>"Vashti," From</i>, <a href="#Page_175">175</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Victorians, The</span>, <a href="#Page_xi">xi-xiii</a>, <a href="#Page_xx">xx</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Victory, To</i>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Villain, The</i>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Vision, The</i>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<i>Walls</i>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Watson, William</span>, <a href="#Page_27">27-31</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Waves of Breffny, The</i>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Web of Eros, The</i>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>What Tomas an Buile Said</i>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>When I Was One-and-Twenty</i>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Wickham, Anna</span>, <a href="#Page_186">186-187</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Wilde, Oscar</span>, <a href="#Page_xiii">xiii-xv</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19-22</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Williams, Harold</span>, <a href="#Page_xviii">xviii</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Wilson</span>, T. P. C., <a href="#Page_209">209</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Winter Nightfall</i>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>Winter-Time</i>, <a href="#Page_14">14</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>With Rue my Heart is Laden</i>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Yeats</span>, W. B., <a href="#Page_xvi">xvi</a>, <a href="#Page_xvii">xvii-xix</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52-56</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Young, Francis Brett</span>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a><br />
+<br />
+<i>You Would Have Understood Me</i>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a><br />
+</p>
+
+
+<div class='transnote'><h3><a name="Transcribers_Notes" id="Transcribers_Notes"></a>Transcriber's Notes:</h3>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_xv">xv</a>: artistocratic amended to aristocratic</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_21">21</a>: <i>s</i> added to St. Paul's</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_40">40</a>: Collge amended to College</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_71">71</a>: sevententh amended to seventeenth</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_84">84</a>: naif amended to na&iuml;f</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_184">184</a>: PRE&Eacute;XISTENCE amended to PRE&Euml;XISTENCE (as per poem
+title in the Table of Contents)</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_147">147</a>: double quotes inside double quotes amended to
+single quotes</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_209">209</a>: comma added after "someone said"</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_233">233</a>: comma added after <i>Nightingales</i></p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_234">234</a>: Comma added after <i>Winter Nightfall</i>.
+<i>State The</i> amended to <i>Stone, The</i></p>
+
+<p>Hyphenation has been retained as is.</p></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
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@@ -0,0 +1,9354 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Modern British Poetry
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Louis Untermeyer
+
+Release Date: October 6, 2008 [EBook #26785]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN BRITISH POETRY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Starner, Suzanne Lybarger and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  +------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Note:                                        |
+  |                                                            |
+  | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in        |
+  | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of   |
+  | this document.                                             |
+  +------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+MODERN BRITISH
+POETRY
+
+EDITED BY
+LOUIS UNTERMEYER
+
+Author of "_Challenge_," "_Including Horace_,"
+"_Modern American Poetry_," etc.
+
+
+NEW YORK
+
+HARCOURT, BRACE & COMPANY
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.
+
+PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
+THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
+RAHWAY, N. J.
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+
+For permission to reprint the material in this volume, the editor
+wishes, first of all, to acknowledge his debt to those poets whose
+co-operation has been of such assistance not only in finally
+determining upon the choice of their poems, but in collecting dates,
+biographical data, etc. Secondly, he wishes to thank the publishers,
+most of whom are holders of the copyrights. The latter indebtedness is
+specifically acknowledged to:
+
+  DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY and A. P. WATT & SON--
+
+     For "The Return" from _The Five Nations_ and for "An
+     Astrologer's Song" from _Rewards and Fairies_ by Rudyard
+     Kipling. Thanks also are due to Mr. Kipling himself for
+     personal permission to reprint these poems.
+
+  DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY and MARTIN SECKER--
+
+     For the poem from _Collected Poems_ by James Elroy Flecker.
+
+  E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY--
+
+     For the poems from _The Old Huntsman_, _Counter-Attack_ and
+     _Picture Show_ by Siegfried Sassoon.
+
+  FOUR SEAS COMPANY--
+
+     For poems from _War and Love_ by Richard Aldington and _The
+     Mountainy Singer_ by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph
+     Campbell).
+
+  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY--
+
+     For poems from _Peacock Pie_ and _The Listeners_ by Walter
+     de la Mare and _Poems_ by Edward Thomas.
+
+  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--
+
+     For two poems from _Poems, 1908-1919_, by John Drinkwater,
+     both of which are used by permission of, and by special
+     arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized
+     publishers.
+
+  B. W. HUEBSCH--
+
+     For the selections from _Chamber Music_ by James Joyce,
+     _Songs to Save a Soul_ and _Before Dawn_ by Irene
+     Rutherford McLeod, _Amores, Look! We Have Come Through!_,
+     and _New Poems_ by D. H. Lawrence.
+
+  ALFRED A. KNOPF--
+
+     For poems from _The Collected Poems of William H. Davies_,
+     _Fairies and Fusiliers_ by Robert Graves, _The Queen of
+     China and Other Poems_ by Edward Shanks, and _Poems: First
+     Series_ by J. C. Squire.
+
+  JOHN LANE COMPANY--
+
+     For the selections from _Poems_ by G. K. Chesterton,
+     _Ballads and Songs_ by John Davidson, _The Collected Poems
+     of Rupert Brooke_, _Admirals All_ by Henry Newbolt, _Herod_
+     and _Lyrics and Dramas_ by Stephen Phillips, _The Hope of
+     the World and Other Poems_ by William Watson, and _In Cap
+     and Bells_ by Owen Seaman.
+
+  THE LONDON MERCURY--
+
+     For "Going and Staying" by Thomas Hardy and "The House That
+     Was" by Laurence Binyon.
+
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY--
+
+     For the selections from _Fires_ and _Borderlands and
+     Thoroughfares_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, _Poems_ by Ralph
+     Hodgson, the sonnet from _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by
+     John Masefield, and the passage (entitled in this volume
+     "Rounding the Horn") from "Dauber" in _The Story of a
+     Round-House_ by John Masefield.
+
+  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--
+
+     For the title poem from _In Flanders Fields_ by John McCrae.
+
+  THE POETRY BOOKSHOP (England)--
+
+     For two excerpts from _Strange Meetings_ by Harold Monro and
+     for the poems from the biennial anthologies, _Georgian
+     Poetry_.
+
+  CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--
+
+     For the quotations from _Poems_ by William Ernest Henley.
+
+  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY--
+
+     For the poem from _Ardours and Endurances_ by Robert
+     Nichols.
+
+  LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., as the representatives of B. H.
+     BLACKWELL, of Oxford--
+
+     For a poem by Edith Sitwell from _The Mother_.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                   PAGE
+
+INTRODUCTORY                                         xi
+
+THOMAS HARDY (1840-    )
+    In Time of "The Breaking of Nations"              3
+    Going and Staying                                 4
+    The Man He Killed                                 4
+
+ROBERT BRIDGES (1844-    )
+    Winter Nightfall                                  5
+    Nightingales                                      7
+
+ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (1844-1881)
+    Ode                                               8
+
+WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (1849-1903)
+    Invictus                                         10
+    The Blackbird                                    10
+    A Bowl of Roses                                  11
+    Before                                           11
+    Margaritae Sorori                                 12
+
+ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894)
+    Summer Sun                                       13
+    Winter-Time                                      14
+    Romance                                          15
+    Requiem                                          16
+
+ALICE MEYNELL (1850-    )
+    A Thrush Before Dawn                             16
+
+FIONA MACLEOD (_William Sharp_) (1855-1905)
+    The Valley of Silence                            18
+    The Vision                                       19
+
+OSCAR WILDE (1856-1900)
+    Requiescat                                       20
+    Impression du Matin                              21
+
+JOHN DAVIDSON (1857-1909)
+    A Ballad of Hell                                 22
+    Imagination                                      26
+
+WILLIAM WATSON (1858-    )
+    Ode in May                                       28
+    Estrangement                                     30
+    Song                                             31
+
+FRANCIS THOMPSON (1859-1907)
+    Daisy                                            32
+    To Olivia                                        34
+    An Arab Love-Song                                35
+
+A. E. HOUSMAN (1859-    )
+    Reveille                                         36
+    When I Was One-and-Twenty                        37
+    With Rue My Heart is Laden                       38
+    To An Athlete Dying Young                        38
+    "Loveliest of Trees"                             39
+
+DOUGLAS HYDE (1860-    )
+    I Shall Not Die for Thee                         40
+
+AMY LEVY (1861-1889)
+    Epitaph                                          42
+    In the Mile End Road                             42
+
+KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (1861-    )
+    Sheep and Lambs                                  43
+    All-Souls                                        44
+
+OWEN SEAMAN (1861-    )
+    To An Old Fogey                                  45
+    Thomas of the Light Heart                        47
+
+HENRY NEWBOLT (1862-    )
+    Drake's Drum                                     49
+
+ARTHUR SYMONS (1865-    )
+    In the Wood of Finvara                           50
+    Modern Beauty                                    51
+
+WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-    )
+    The Lake Isle of Innisfree                       53
+    The Song of the Old Mother                       53
+    The Cap and Bells                                54
+    An Old Song Resung                               55
+
+RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-    )
+    Gunga Din                                        57
+    The Return                                       61
+    The Conundrum of the Workshops                   63
+    An Astrologer's Song                             66
+
+RICHARD LE GALLIENNE (1866-    )
+    A Ballad of London                               69
+    Regret                                           70
+
+LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902)
+    Mystic and Cavalier                              71
+    To a Traveller                                   73
+
+ERNEST DOWSON (1867-1900)
+    To One in Bedlam                                 74
+    You Would Have Understood Me                     75
+
+"A. E." (_George William Russell_) (1867-    )
+    The Great Breath                                 76
+    The Unknown God                                  77
+
+STEPHEN PHILLIPS (1868-1915)
+    Fragment from "Herod"                            78
+    Beautiful Lie the Dead                           78
+    A Dream                                          79
+
+LAURENCE BINYON (1869-    )
+    A Song                                           79
+    The House That Was                               80
+
+ALFRED DOUGLAS (1870-    )
+    The Green River                                  81
+
+T. STURGE MOORE (1870-    )
+    The Dying Swan                                   82
+    Silence Sings                                    82
+
+WILLIAM H. DAVIES (1870-    )
+    Days Too Short                                   84
+    The Moon                                         85
+    The Villain                                      85
+    The Example                                      86
+
+HILAIRE BELLOC (1870-    )
+    The South Country                                87
+
+ANTHONY C. DEANE (1870-    )
+    The Ballad of the _Billycock_                    90
+    A Rustic Song                                    92
+
+J. M. SYNGE (1871-1909)
+    Beg-Innish                                       95
+    A Translation from Petrarch                      96
+    To the Oaks of Glencree                          96
+
+NORA HOPPER CHESSON (1871-1906)
+    A Connaught Lament                               97
+
+EVA GORE-BOOTH (1872-    )
+    The Waves of Breffny                             98
+    Walls                                            99
+
+MOIRA O'NEILL
+    A Broken Song                                    99
+    Beauty's a Flower                               100
+
+JOHN MCCRAE (1872-1918)
+    In Flanders Fields                              101
+
+FORD MADOX HUEFFER (1873-    )
+    Clair de Lune                                   102
+    There Shall Be More Joy                         104
+
+WALTER DE LA MARE (1873-    )
+    The Listeners                                   106
+    An Epitaph                                      107
+    Tired Tim                                       108
+    Old Susan                                       108
+    Nod                                             109
+
+G. K. CHESTERTON (1874-    )
+    Lepanto                                         111
+    A Prayer in Darkness                            118
+    The Donkey                                      119
+
+WILFRID WILSON GIBSON (1878-    )
+    Prelude                                         120
+    The Stone                                       121
+    Sight                                           124
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD (1878-    )
+    A Consecration                                  126
+    Sea-Fever                                       127
+    Rounding the Horn                               128
+    The Choice                                      131
+    Sonnet                                          132
+
+LORD DUNSANY (1878-    )
+    Songs from an Evil Wood                         133
+
+EDWARD THOMAS (1878-1917)
+    If I Should Ever By Chance                      136
+    Tall Nettles                                    137
+    Fifty Faggots                                   137
+    Cock-Crow                                       138
+
+SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN (1879-    )
+    Praise                                          139
+
+RALPH HODGSON
+    Eve                                             140
+    Time, You Old Gipsy Man                         142
+    The Birdcatcher                                 144
+    The Mystery                                     144
+
+HAROLD MONRO (1879-    )
+    The Nightingale Near the House                  145
+    Every Thing                                     146
+    Strange Meetings                                149
+
+T. M. KETTLE (1880-1916)
+    To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God           150
+
+ALFRED NOYES (1880-    )
+    Sherwood                                        151
+    The Barrel-Organ                                154
+    Epilogue                                        161
+
+PADRAIC COLUM (1881-    )
+    The Plougher                                    162
+    An Old Woman of the Roads                       164
+
+JOSEPH CAMPBELL (_Seosamh MacCathmhaoil_) (1881-    )
+    I Am the Mountainy Singer                       165
+    The Old Woman                                   166
+
+JAMES STEPHENS (1882-    )
+    The Shell                                       167
+    What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub               168
+    To the Four Courts, Please                      169
+
+JOHN DRINKWATER (1882-    )
+    Reciprocity                                     170
+    A Town Window                                   170
+
+JAMES JOYCE (1882-    )
+    I Hear an Army                                  171
+
+J. C. SQUIRE (1884-    )
+    A House                                         172
+
+LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE (1884-    )
+    From "Vashti"                                   175
+    Song                                            176
+
+JAMES ELROY FLECKER (1884-1915)
+    The Old Ships                                   178
+
+D. H. LAWRENCE (1885-    )
+    People                                          180
+    Piano                                           180
+
+JOHN FREEMAN (1885-    )
+    Stone Trees                                     181
+
+SHANE LESLIE (1886-    )
+    Fleet Street                                    183
+    The Pater of the Cannon                         183
+
+FRANCES CORNFORD (1886-    )
+    Preexistence                                    184
+
+ANNA WICKHAM
+    The Singer                                      186
+    Reality                                         186
+    Song                                            187
+
+SIEGFRIED SASSOON (1886-    )
+    To Victory                                      189
+    Dreamers                                        190
+    The Rear-Guard                                  190
+    Thrushes                                        191
+    Aftermath                                       192
+
+RUPERT BROOKE (1887-1915)
+    The Great Lover                                 195
+    Dust                                            198
+    The Soldier                                     200
+
+W. M. LETTS (1887-    )
+    Grandeur                                        201
+    The Spires of Oxford                            203
+
+FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
+    Lochanilaun                                     204
+
+F. S. FLINT
+    London                                          205
+
+EDITH SITWELL
+    The Web of Eros                                 206
+    Interlude                                       207
+
+F. W. HARVEY (1888-    )
+    The Bugler                                      208
+
+T. P. CAMERON WILSON (1889-1918)
+    Sportsmen in Paradise                           209
+
+W. J. TURNER (1889-    )
+    Romance                                         210
+
+PATRICK MACGILL (1890)
+    By-the-Way                                      211
+    Death and the Fairies                           212
+
+FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (1891-1917)
+    An Evening in England                           213
+    Evening Clouds                                  214
+
+IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD (1891-    )
+    "Is Love, then, so Simple"                      215
+    Lone Dog                                        215
+
+RICHARD ALDINGTON (1892-    )
+    Prelude                                         216
+    Images                                          217
+    At the British Museum                           218
+
+EDWARD SHANKS (1892-    )
+    Complaint                                       219
+
+OSBERT SITWELL (1892-    )
+    The Blind Pedlar                                220
+    Progress                                        221
+
+ROBERT NICHOLS (1893-    )
+    Nearer                                          222
+
+CHARLES H. SORLEY (1895-1915)
+    Two Sonnets                                     223
+    To Germany                                      225
+
+ROBERT GRAVES (1895-    )
+    It's a Queer Time                               226
+    A Pinch of Salt                                 227
+    I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?      228
+    The Last Post                                   229
+
+INDEX OF AUTHORS AND POEMS                          231
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTORY
+
+_The New Influences and Tendencies_
+
+
+Mere statistics are untrustworthy; dates are even less dependable.
+But, to avoid hairsplitting, what we call "modern" English literature
+may be said to date from about 1885. A few writers who are decidedly
+"of the period" are, as a matter of strict chronology, somewhat
+earlier. But the chief tendencies may be divided into seven periods.
+They are (1) The decay of Victorianism and the growth of a purely
+decorative art, (2) The rise and decline of the AEsthetic Philosophy,
+(3) The muscular influence of Henley, (4) The Celtic revival in
+Ireland, (5) Rudyard Kipling and the ascendency of mechanism in art,
+(6) John Masefield and the return of the rhymed narrative, (7) The war
+and the appearance of "The Georgians." It may be interesting to trace
+these developments in somewhat greater detail.
+
+
+THE END OF VICTORIANISM
+
+The age commonly called Victorian came to an end about 1885. It was an
+age distinguished by many true idealists and many false ideals. It
+was, in spite of its notable artists, on an entirely different level
+from the epoch which had preceded it. Its poetry was, in the main, not
+universal but parochial; its romanticism was gilt and tinsel; its
+realism was as cheap as its showy glass pendants, red plush, parlor
+chromos and antimacassars. The period was full of a pessimistic
+resignation (the note popularized by Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyam) and a
+kind of cowardice or at least a negation which, refusing to see any
+glamour in the actual world, turned to the Middle Ages, King Arthur,
+the legend of Troy--to the suave surroundings of a dream-world instead
+of the hard contours of actual experience.
+
+At its worst, it was a period of smugness, of placid and pious
+sentimentality--epitomized by the rhymed sermons of Martin Farquhar
+Tupper, whose _Proverbial Philosophy_ was devoured with all its
+cloying and indigestible sweetmeats by thousands. The same tendency is
+apparent, though far less objectionably, in the moralizing lays of
+Lord Thomas Macaulay, in the theatrically emotionalized verses of
+Robert Buchanan, Edwin Arnold and Sir Lewis Morris--even in the lesser
+later work of Alfred Tennyson.
+
+And, without Tupper's emptiness or absurdities, the outworn platitudes
+again find their constant lover in Alfred Austin, Tennyson's successor
+as poet laureate. Austin brought the laureateship, which had been held
+by poets like Ben Jonson, Dryden, Southey and Wordsworth, to an
+incredibly low level; he took the thinning stream of garrulous poetic
+conventionality, reduced it to the merest trickle--and diluted it.
+
+The poets of a generation before this time were fired with such ideas
+as freedom, a deep and burning awe of nature, an insatiable hunger for
+truth in all its forms and manifestations. The characteristic poets of
+the Victorian Era, says Max Plowman, "wrote under the dominance of
+churchliness, of 'sweetness and light,' and a thousand lesser theories
+that have not truth but comfort for their end."
+
+The revolt against this and the tawdriness of the period had already
+begun; the best of Victorianism can be found not in men who were
+typically Victorian, but in pioneers like Browning and writers like
+Swinburne, Rossetti, William Morris, who were completely out of
+sympathy with their time.
+
+But it was Oscar Wilde who led the men of the now famous 'nineties
+toward an aesthetic freedom, to champion a beauty whose existence was
+its "own excuse for being." Wilde's was, in the most outspoken manner,
+the first use of aestheticism as a slogan; the battle-cry of the group
+was actually the now outworn but then revolutionary "Art for Art's
+sake"! And, so sick were people of the shoddy ornaments and drab
+ugliness of the immediate past, that the slogan won. At least,
+temporarily.
+
+
+THE RISE AND DECLINE OF THE AESTHETIC PHILOSOPHY
+
+_The Yellow Book_, the organ of a group of young writers and artists,
+appeared (1894-97), representing a reasoned and intellectual reaction,
+mainly suggested and influenced by the French. The group of
+contributors was a peculiarly mixed one with only one thing in common.
+And that was a conscious effort to repudiate the sugary airs and prim
+romantics of the Victorian Era.
+
+Almost the first act of the "new" men was to rouse and outrage their
+immediate predecessors. This end-of-the-century desire to shock,
+which was so strong and natural an impulse, still has a place of its
+own--especially as an antidote, a harsh corrective. Mid-Victorian
+propriety and self-satisfaction crumbled under the swift and energetic
+audacities of the sensational younger authors and artists; the old
+walls fell; the public, once so apathetic to _belles lettres_, was
+more than attentive to every phase of literary experimentation. The
+last decade of the nineteenth century was so tolerant of novelty in
+art and ideas, that it would seem, says Holbrook Jackson in his
+penetrative summary, _The Eighteen-Nineties_, "as though the declining
+century wished to make amends for several decades of artistic
+monotony. It may indeed be something more than a coincidence that
+placed this decade at the close of a century, and _fin de siecle_ may
+have been at once a swan song and a death-bed repentance."
+
+But later on, the movement (if such it may be called), surfeited with
+its own excesses, fell into the mere poses of revolt; it degenerated
+into a half-hearted defense of artificialities.
+
+It scarcely needed W. S. Gilbert (in _Patience_) or Robert Hichens (in
+_The Green Carnation_) to satirize its distorted attitudinizing. It
+strained itself to death; it became its own burlesque of the bizarre,
+an extravaganza of extravagance. "The period" (I am again quoting
+Holbrook Jackson) "was as certainly a period of decadence as it was a
+period of renaissance. The decadence was to be seen in a perverse and
+finicking glorification of the fine arts and mere artistic virtuosity
+on the one hand, and a militant commercial movement on the other....
+The eroticism which became so prevalent in the verse of many of the
+younger poets was minor because it was little more than a pose--not
+because it was erotic.... It was a passing mood which gave the poetry
+of the hour a hothouse fragrance; a perfume faint yet unmistakable and
+strange."
+
+But most of the elegant and disillusioned young men overshot their
+mark. Mere health reasserted itself; an inherent repressed vitality
+sought new channels. Arthur Symons deserted his hectic Muse, Richard
+Le Gallienne abandoned his preciosity, and the group began to
+disintegrate. The aesthetic philosophy was wearing thin; it had already
+begun to fray and reveal its essential shabbiness. Wilde himself
+possessed the three things which he said the English would never
+forgive--youth, power and enthusiasm. But in trying to make an
+exclusive cult of beauty, Wilde had also tried to make it evade
+actuality; he urged that art should not, in any sense, be a part of
+life but an escape from it. "The proper school to learn art in is not
+Life--but Art." And in the same essay ("The Decay of Lying") he wrote,
+"All bad Art comes from returning to Life and Nature, and elevating
+them into ideals." Elsewhere he said, "The first duty in life is to be
+as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has
+discovered."
+
+Such a cynical and decadent philosophy could not go unchallenged. Its
+aristocratic blue-bloodedness was bound to arouse the red blood of
+common reality. This negative attitude received its answer in the work
+of that yea-sayer, W. E. Henley.
+
+
+WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
+
+Henley repudiated this languid aestheticism; he scorned a negative art
+which was out of touch with the world. His was a large and sweeping
+affirmation. He felt that mere existence was glorious; life was
+coarse, difficult, often dangerous and dirty, but splendid at the
+heart. Art, he knew, could not be separated from the dreams and
+hungers of man; it could not flourish only on its own essences or
+technical accomplishments. To live, poetry would have to share the
+fears, angers, hopes and struggles of the prosaic world. And so Henley
+came like a swift salt breeze blowing through a perfumed and
+heavily-screened studio. He sang loudly (sometimes even too loudly) of
+the joy of living and the courage of the "unconquerable soul." He was
+a powerful influence not only as a poet but as a critic and editor. In
+the latter capacity he gathered about him such men as Robert Louis
+Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells, W. B. Yeats, T.
+E. Brown, J. M. Barrie. None of these men were his disciples, but none
+of them came into contact with him without being influenced in some
+way by his sharp and positive personality. A pioneer and something of
+a prophet, he was one of the first to champion the paintings of
+Whistler and to proclaim the genius of the sculptor Rodin.
+
+If at times Henley's verse is imperialistic, over-muscular and
+strident, his noisy moments are redeemed not only by his delicate
+lyrics but by his passionate enthusiasm for nobility in whatever cause
+it was joined. He never disdained the actual world in any of its
+moods--bus-drivers, hospital interiors, scrubwomen, a panting train,
+the squalor of London's alleys, all found a voice in his lines--and
+his later work contains more than a hint of the delight in science and
+machinery which was later to be sounded more fully in the work of
+Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+THE CELTIC REVIVAL AND J. M. SYNGE
+
+In 1889, William Butler Yeats published his _Wanderings of Oisin_; in
+the same year Douglas Hyde, the scholar and folk-lorist, brought out
+his _Book of Gaelic Stories_.
+
+The revival of Gaelic and the renascence of Irish literature may be
+said to date from the publication of those two books. The fundamental
+idea of both men and their followers was the same. It was to create a
+literature which would express the national consciousness of Ireland
+through a purely national art. They began to reflect the strange
+background of dreams, politics, suffering and heroism that is
+immortally Irish. This community of fellowship and aims is to be found
+in the varied but allied work of William Butler Yeats, "A. E." (George
+W. Russell), Moira O'Neill, Lionel Johnson, Katharine Tynan, Padraic
+Colum and others. The first fervor gone, a short period of dullness
+set in. After reanimating the old myths, surcharging the legendary
+heroes with a new significance, it seemed for a while that the
+movement would lose itself in a literary mysticism. But an increasing
+concern with the peasant, the migratory laborer, the tramp, followed;
+an interest that was something of a reaction against the influence of
+Yeats and his mystic otherworldliness. And, in 1904, the Celtic
+Revival reached its height with John Millington Synge, who was not
+only the greatest dramatist of the Irish Theatre, but (to quote such
+contrary critics as George Moore and Harold Williams) "one of the
+greatest dramatists who has written in English." Synge's poetry,
+brusque and all too small in quantity, was a minor occupation with him
+and yet the quality and power of it is unmistakable. Its content is
+never great but the raw vigor in it was to serve as a bold banner--a
+sort of a brilliant Jolly Roger--for the younger men of the following
+period. It was not only this dramatist's brief verses and his
+intensely musical prose but his sharp prefaces that were to exercise
+such an influence.
+
+In the notable introduction to the _Playboy of the Western World_,
+Synge declared, "When I was writing _The Shadow of the Glen_ some
+years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a
+chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that
+let me hear what was being said by the servant girls in the kitchen.
+This matter is, I think, of some importance; for in countries where
+the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and
+living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his
+words--and at the same time to give the reality which is at the root
+of all poetry, in a natural and comprehensive form." This quotation
+explains his idiom, possibly the sharpest-flavored and most vivid in
+modern literature.
+
+As to Synge's poetic power, it is unquestionably greatest in his
+plays. In _The Well of the Saints_, _The Playboy of the Western World_
+and _Riders to the Sea_ there are more poignance, beauty of form and
+richness of language than in any piece of dramatic writing since
+Elizabethan times. Yeats, when he first heard Synge's early one-act
+play, _The Shadow of the Glen_, is said to have exclaimed "Euripides."
+A half year later when Synge read him _Riders to the Sea_, Yeats again
+confined his enthusiasm to a single word:--"AEschylus!" Years have
+shown that Yeats's appreciation was not as exaggerated as many might
+suppose.
+
+But although Synge's poetry was not his major concern, numbering only
+twenty-four original pieces and eighteen translations, it had a
+surprising effect upon his followers. It marked a point of departure,
+a reaction against both the too-polished and over-rhetorical verse of
+his immediate predecessors and the dehumanized mysticism of many of
+his associates. In that memorable preface to his _Poems_ he wrote what
+was a slogan, a manifesto and at the same time a classic _credo_ for
+all that we call the "new" poetry. "I have often thought," it begins,
+"that at the side of poetic diction, which everyone condemns, modern
+verse contains a great deal of poetic material, using 'poetic' in the
+same special sense. The poetry of exaltation will be always the
+highest; but when men lose their poetic feeling for ordinary life and
+cannot write poetry of ordinary things, their exalted poetry is likely
+to lose its strength of exaltation in the way that men cease to build
+beautiful churches when they have lost happiness in building shops....
+Even if we grant that exalted poetry can be kept successfully by
+itself, the strong things of life are needed in poetry also, to show
+that what is exalted or tender is not made by feeble blood."
+
+
+RUDYARD KIPLING
+
+New tendencies are contagious. But they also disclose themselves
+simultaneously in places and people where there has been no point of
+contact. Even before Synge published his proofs of the keen poetry in
+everyday life, Kipling was illuminating, in a totally different
+manner, the wealth of poetic material in things hitherto regarded as
+too commonplace for poetry. Before literary England had quite
+recovered from its surfeit of Victorian priggishness and
+pre-Raphaelite delicacy, Kipling came along with high spirits and a
+great tide of life, sweeping all before him. An obscure Anglo-Indian
+journalist, the publication of his _Barrack-room Ballads_ in 1892
+brought him sudden notice. By 1895 he was internationally famous.
+Brushing over the pallid attempts to revive a pallid past, he rode
+triumphantly on a wave of buoyant and sometimes brutal joy in the
+present. Kipling gloried in the material world; he did more--he
+glorified it. He pierced the coarse exteriors of seemingly prosaic
+things--things like machinery, bridge-building, cockney soldiers,
+slang, steam, the dirty by-products of science (witness "M'Andrews
+Hymn" and "The Bell Buoy")--and uncovered their hidden glamour.
+"Romance is gone," sighed most of his contemporaries,
+
+                "... and all unseen
+    Romance brought up the nine-fifteen."
+
+That sentence (from his poem "The King") contains the key to the
+manner in which the author of _The Five Nations_ helped to rejuvenate
+English verse.
+
+Kipling, with his perception of ordinary people in terms of ordinary
+life, was one of the strongest links between the Wordsworth-Browning
+era and the latest apostles of vigor, beginning with Masefield. There
+are occasional and serious defects in Kipling's work--particularly in
+his more facile poetry; he falls into a journalistic ease that tends
+to turn into jingle; he is fond of a militaristic drum-banging that is
+as blatant as the insularity he condemns. But a burning, if sometimes
+too simple faith, shines through his achievements. His best work
+reveals an intensity that crystallizes into beauty what was originally
+tawdry, that lifts the vulgar and incidental to the place of the
+universal.
+
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+All art is a twofold revivifying--a recreation of subject and a
+reanimating of form. And poetry becomes perennially "new" by returning
+to the old--with a different consciousness, a greater awareness. In
+1911, when art was again searching for novelty, John Masefield created
+something startling and new by going back to 1385 and _The Canterbury
+Pilgrims_. Employing both the Chaucerian model and a form similar to
+the practically forgotten Byronic stanza, Masefield wrote in rapid
+succession, _The Everlasting Mercy_ (1911), _The Widow in the Bye
+Street_ (1912), _Dauber_ (1912), _The Daffodil Fields_ (1913)--four
+astonishing rhymed narratives and four of the most remarkable poems
+of our generation. Expressive of every rugged phase of life, these
+poems, uniting old and new manners, responded to Synge's proclamation
+that "the strong things of life are needed in poetry also ... and it
+may almost be said that before verse can be human again it must be
+brutal."
+
+Masefield brought back to poetry that mixture of beauty and brutality
+which is its most human and enduring quality. He brought back that
+rich and almost vulgar vividness which is the very life-blood of
+Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of Burns, of Villon, of Heine--and of all
+those who were not only great artists but great humanists. As a purely
+descriptive poet, he can take his place with the masters of sea and
+landscape. As an imaginative realist, he showed those who were
+stumbling from one wild eccentricity to another to thrill them, that
+they themselves were wilder, stranger, far more thrilling than
+anything in the world--or out of it. Few things in contemporary poetry
+are as powerful as the regeneration of Saul Kane (in _The Everlasting
+Mercy_) or the story of _Dauber_, the tale of a tragic sea-voyage and
+a dreaming youth who wanted to be a painter. The vigorous description
+of rounding Cape Horn in the latter poem is superbly done, a
+masterpiece in itself. Masefield's later volumes are quieter in tone,
+more measured in technique; there is an almost religious ring to many
+of his Shakespearian sonnets. But the swinging surge is there, a
+passionate strength that leaps through all his work from _Salt Water
+Ballads_ (1902) to _Reynard the Fox_ (1919).
+
+
+"THE GEORGIANS" AND THE YOUNGER MEN
+
+There is no sharp statistical line of demarcation between Masefield
+and the younger men. Although several of them owe much to him, most of
+the younger poets speak in accents of their own. W. W. Gibson had
+already reinforced the "return to actuality" by turning from his first
+preoccupation with shining knights, faultless queens, ladies in
+distress and all the paraphernalia of hackneyed mediaeval romances, to
+write about ferrymen, berry-pickers, stone-cutters, farmers, printers,
+circus-men, carpenters--dramatizing (though sometimes theatricalizing)
+the primitive emotions of uncultured and ordinary people in
+_Livelihood_, _Daily Bread_ and _Fires_. This intensity had been
+asking new questions. It found its answers in the war; repressed
+emotionalism discovered a new outlet. One hears its echoes in the
+younger poets like Siegfried Sassoon, with his poignant and unsparing
+poems of conflict; in Robert Graves, who reflects it in a lighter and
+more fantastic vein; in James Stephens, whose wild ingenuities are
+redolent of the soil. And it finds its corresponding opposite in the
+limpid and unperturbed loveliness of Ralph Hodgson; in the ghostly
+magic and the nursery-rhyme whimsicality of Walter de la Mare; in the
+quiet and delicate lyrics of W. H. Davies. Among the others, the
+brilliant G. K. Chesterton, the facile Alfred Noyes, the romantic
+Rupert Brooke (who owes less to Masefield and his immediate
+predecessors than he does to the passionately intellectual Donne), the
+introspective D. H. Lawrence and the versatile J. C. Squire, are
+perhaps best known to American readers.
+
+All of the poets mentioned in the foregoing paragraph (with the
+exception of Noyes) have formed themselves in a loose group called
+"The Georgians," and an anthology of their best work has appeared
+every two years since 1913. Masefield, Lascelles Abercrombie and John
+Drinkwater are also listed among the Georgian poets. When their first
+collection appeared in March, 1913, Henry Newbolt, a critic as well as
+poet, wrote: "These younger poets have no temptation to be false. They
+are not for making something 'pretty,' something up to the standard of
+professional patterns.... They write as grown men walk, each with his
+own unconscious stride and gesture.... In short, they express
+themselves and seem to steer without an effort between the dangers of
+innovation and reminiscence." The secret of this success, and for that
+matter, the success of the greater portion of English poetry, is not
+an exclusive discovery of the Georgian poets. It is their inheritance,
+derived from those predecessors who, "from Wordsworth and Coleridge
+onward, have worked for the assimilation of verse to the manner and
+accent of natural speech." In its adaptability no less than in its
+vigor, modern English poetry is true to its period--and its past.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+This collection is obviously a companion volume to _Modern American
+Poetry_, which, in its restricted compass, attempted to act as an
+introduction to recent native verse. _Modern British Poetry_ covers
+the same period (from about 1870 to 1920), follows the same
+chronological scheme, but it is more amplified and goes into far
+greater detail than its predecessor.
+
+The two volumes, considered together, furnish interesting contrasts;
+they reveal certain similarities and certain strange differences.
+Broadly speaking, modern American verse is sharp, vigorously
+experimental; full of youth and its occasional--and natural--crudities.
+English verse is smoother, more matured and, molded by centuries of
+literature, richer in associations and surer in artistry. Where the
+American output is often rude, extremely varied and uncoordinated (being
+the expression of partly indigenous, partly naturalized and largely
+unassimilated ideas, emotions, and races), the English product is
+formulated, precise and, in spite of its fluctuations, true to its past.
+It goes back to traditions as old as Chaucer (witness the narratives of
+Masefield and Gibson) or tendencies as classic as Drayton, Herrick and
+Blake--as in the frank lyrics of A. E. Housman, the artless lyricism of
+Ralph Hodgson, the naif wonder of W. H. Davies. And if English poetry
+may be compared to a broad and luxuriating river (while American poetry
+might be described as a sudden rush of unconnected mountain torrents,
+valley streams and city sluices), it will be inspiring to observe how
+its course has been temporarily deflected in the last forty years; how
+it has swung away from one tendency toward another; and how, for all its
+bends and twists, it has lost neither its strength nor its nobility.
+
+L. U.
+
+New York City.
+January, 1920.
+
+
+
+
+MODERN BRITISH POETRY
+
+
+
+
+_Thomas Hardy_
+
+
+Thomas Hardy was born in 1840, and has for years been famous on both
+sides of the Atlantic as a writer of intense and sombre novels. His
+_Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ and _Jude the Obscure_ are possibly his
+best known, although his _Wessex Tales_ and _Life's Little Ironies_
+are no less imposing.
+
+It was not until he was almost sixty, in 1898 to be precise, that
+Hardy abandoned prose and challenged attention as a poet. _The
+Dynasts_, a drama of the Napoleonic Wars, is in three parts, nineteen
+acts and one hundred and thirty scenes, a massive and most amazing
+contribution to contemporary art. It is the apotheosis of Hardy the
+novelist. Lascelles Abercrombie calls this work, which is partly a
+historical play, partly a visionary drama, "the biggest and most
+consistent exhibition of fatalism in literature." While its powerful
+simplicity and tragic impressiveness overshadow his shorter poems,
+many of his terse lyrics reveal the same vigor and impact of a strong
+personality. His collected poems were published by The Macmillan
+Company in 1919 and reveal another phase of one of the greatest living
+writers of English.
+
+
+IN TIME OF "THE BREAKING OF NATIONS"
+
+    Only a man harrowing clods
+      In a slow silent walk,
+    With an old horse that stumbles and nods
+      Half asleep as they stalk.
+
+    Only thin smoke without flame
+      From the heaps of couch grass:
+    Yet this will go onward the same
+      Though Dynasties pass.
+
+    Yonder a maid and her wight
+      Come whispering by;
+    War's annals will fade into night
+      Ere their story die.
+
+
+GOING AND STAYING
+
+    The moving sun-shapes on the spray,
+    The sparkles where the brook was flowing,
+    Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,--
+    These were the things we wished would stay;
+          But they were going.
+
+    Seasons of blankness as of snow,
+    The silent bleed of a world decaying,
+    The moan of multitudes in woe,--
+    These were the things we wished would go;
+          But they were staying.
+
+
+THE MAN HE KILLED
+
+(_From "The Dynasts"_)
+
+       "Had he and I but met
+        By some old ancient inn,
+    We should have sat us down to wet
+        Right many a nipperkin!
+
+       "But ranged as infantry,
+        And staring face to face,
+    I shot at him as he at me,
+        And killed him in his place.
+
+       "I shot him dead because--
+        Because he was my foe,
+    Just so: my foe of course he was;
+        That's clear enough; although
+
+       "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
+        Off-hand like--just as I--
+    Was out of work--had sold his traps--
+        No other reason why.
+
+       "Yes; quaint and curious war is!
+        You shoot a fellow down
+    You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
+        Or help to half-a-crown."
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Bridges_
+
+
+Robert Bridges was born in 1844 and educated at Eton and Corpus
+Christi College, Oxford. After traveling extensively, he studied
+medicine in London and practiced until 1882. Most of his poems, like
+his occasional plays, are classical in tone as well as treatment. He
+was appointed poet laureate in 1913, following Alfred Austin. His
+command of the secrets of rhythm and a subtle versification give his
+lines a firm delicacy and beauty of pattern.
+
+
+WINTER NIGHTFALL
+
+    The day begins to droop,--
+        Its course is done:
+    But nothing tells the place
+        Of the setting sun.
+
+    The hazy darkness deepens,
+        And up the lane
+    You may hear, but cannot see,
+        The homing wain.
+
+    An engine pants and hums
+        In the farm hard by:
+    Its lowering smoke is lost
+        In the lowering sky.
+
+    The soaking branches drip,
+        And all night through
+    The dropping will not cease
+        In the avenue.
+
+    A tall man there in the house
+        Must keep his chair:
+    He knows he will never again
+        Breathe the spring air:
+
+    His heart is worn with work;
+        He is giddy and sick
+    If he rise to go as far
+        As the nearest rick:
+
+    He thinks of his morn of life,
+        His hale, strong years;
+    And braves as he may the night
+        Of darkness and tears.
+
+
+NIGHTINGALES
+
+    Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
+    And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
+              Ye learn your song:
+    Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
+      Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
+              Bloom the year long!
+
+    Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
+    Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
+              A throe of the heart,
+    Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
+      No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
+              For all our art.
+
+    Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
+    We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
+              As night is withdrawn
+    From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
+      Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
+              Welcome the dawn.
+
+
+
+
+_Arthur O'Shaughnessy_
+
+
+The Irish-English singer, Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy, was born
+in London in 1844. He was connected, for a while, with the British
+Museum, and was transferred later to the Department of Natural
+History. His first literary success, _Epic of Women_ (1870), promised
+a brilliant future for the young poet, a promise strengthened by his
+_Music and Moonlight_ (1874). Always delicate in health, his hopes
+were dashed by periods of illness and an early death in London in
+1881.
+
+The poem here reprinted is not only O'Shaughnessy's best, but is,
+because of its perfect blending of music and message, one of the
+immortal classics of our verse.
+
+
+ODE
+
+    We are the music-makers,
+      And we are the dreamers of dreams,
+    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
+      And sitting by desolate streams;
+    World-losers and world-forsakers,
+      On whom the pale moon gleams:
+    Yet we are the movers and shakers
+      Of the world for ever, it seems.
+
+    With wonderful deathless ditties
+    We build up the world's great cities,
+      And out of a fabulous story
+      We fashion an empire's glory:
+    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
+      Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
+    And three with a new song's measure
+      Can trample an empire down.
+
+    We, in the ages lying
+      In the buried past of the earth,
+    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
+      And Babel itself with our mirth;
+    And o'erthrew them with prophesying
+      To the old of the new world's worth;
+    For each age is a dream that is dying,
+      Or one that is coming to birth.
+
+
+
+
+_William Ernest Henley_
+
+
+William Ernest Henley was born in 1849 and was educated at the Grammar
+School of Gloucester. From childhood he was afflicted with a
+tuberculous disease which finally necessitated the amputation of a
+foot. His _Hospital Verses_, those vivid precursors of current free
+verse, were a record of the time when he was at the infirmary at
+Edinburgh; they are sharp with the sights, sensations, even the actual
+smells of the sickroom. In spite (or, more probably, because) of his
+continued poor health, Henley never ceased to worship strength and
+energy; courage and a triumphant belief in a harsh world shine out of
+the athletic _London Voluntaries_ (1892) and the lightest and most
+musical lyrics in _Hawthorn and Lavender_ (1898).
+
+The bulk of Henley's poetry is not great in volume. He has himself
+explained the small quantity of his work in a Preface to his _Poems_,
+first published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1898. "A principal
+reason," he says, "is that, after spending the better part of my life
+in the pursuit of poetry, I found myself (about 1877) so utterly
+unmarketable that I had to own myself beaten in art, and to indict
+myself to journalism for the next ten years." Later on, he began to
+write again--"old dusty sheaves were dragged to light; the work of
+selection and correction was begun; I burned much; I found that,
+after all, the lyrical instinct had slept--not died."
+
+After a brilliant and varied career (see Preface), devoted mostly to
+journalism, Henley died in 1903.
+
+
+INVICTUS
+
+    Out of the night that covers me,
+      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
+    I thank whatever gods may be
+      For my unconquerable soul.
+
+    In the fell clutch of circumstance
+      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
+    Under the bludgeonings of chance
+      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
+
+    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
+      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
+    And yet the menace of the years
+      Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
+
+    It matters not how strait the gate,
+      How charged with punishments the scroll,
+    I am the master of my fate:
+      I am the captain of my soul.
+
+
+THE BLACKBIRD
+
+    The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
+        The lark's is a clarion call,
+    And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
+        But I love him best of all.
+
+    For his song is all of the joy of life,
+      And we in the mad, spring weather,
+    We two have listened till he sang
+      Our hearts and lips together.
+
+
+A BOWL OF ROSES
+
+    It was a bowl of roses:
+        There in the light they lay,
+    Languishing, glorying, glowing
+        Their life away.
+
+    And the soul of them rose like a presence,
+        Into me crept and grew,
+    And filled me with something--some one--
+        O, was it you?
+
+
+BEFORE
+
+    Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.
+    A little while, and at a leap I storm
+    The thick sweet mystery of chloroform,
+    The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
+    The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
+    No innocent child, to think of as I near
+    The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
+    Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.
+
+    Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick,
+    And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
+    My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
+    Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready
+    But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
+    You carry Caesar and his fortunes--Steady!
+
+
+MARGARITAE SORORI
+
+    A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
+    And from the west,
+    Where the sun, his day's work ended,
+    Lingers as in content,
+    There falls on the old, grey city
+    An influence luminous and serene,
+    A shining peace.
+
+    The smoke ascends
+    In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
+    Shine, and are changed. In the valley
+    Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
+    Closing his benediction,
+    Sinks, and the darkening air
+    Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
+    Night with her train of stars
+    And her great gift of sleep.
+
+    So be my passing!
+    My task accomplished and the long day done,
+    My wages taken, and in my heart
+    Some late lark singing,
+    Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
+    The sundown splendid and serene,
+    Death.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Louis Stevenson_
+
+
+Robert Louis Stevenson was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He was at first
+trained to be a lighthouse engineer, following the profession of his
+family. However, he studied law instead; was admitted to the bar in
+1875; and abandoned law for literature a few years later.
+
+Though primarily a novelist, Stevenson has left one immortal book of
+poetry which is equally at home in the nursery and the library: _A
+Child's Garden of Verses_ (first published in 1885) is second only to
+Mother Goose's own collection in its lyrical simplicity and universal
+appeal. _Underwoods_ (1887) and _Ballads_ (1890) comprise his entire
+poetic output. As a genial essayist, he is not unworthy to be ranked
+with Charles Lamb. As a romancer, his fame rests securely on
+_Kidnapped_, the unfinished masterpiece, _Weir of Hermiston_, and that
+eternal classic of youth, _Treasure Island_.
+
+Stevenson died after a long and dogged fight with his illness, in the
+Samoan Islands in 1894.
+
+
+SUMMER SUN
+
+    Great is the sun, and wide he goes
+    Through empty heaven without repose;
+    And in the blue and glowing days
+    More thick than rain he showers his rays.
+
+    Though closer still the blinds we pull
+    To keep the shady parlour cool,
+    Yet he will find a chink or two
+    To slip his golden fingers through.
+
+    The dusty attic, spider-clad,
+    He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
+    And through the broken edge of tiles
+    Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
+
+    Meantime his golden face around
+    He bares to all the garden ground,
+    And sheds a warm and glittering look
+    Among the ivy's inmost nook.
+
+    Above the hills, along the blue,
+    Round the bright air with footing true,
+    To please the child, to paint the rose,
+    The gardener of the World, he goes.
+
+
+WINTER-TIME
+
+    Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
+    A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
+    Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
+    A blood-red orange, sets again.
+
+    Before the stars have left the skies,
+    At morning in the dark I rise;
+    And shivering in my nakedness,
+    By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
+
+    Close by the jolly fire I sit
+    To warm my frozen bones a bit;
+    Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
+    The colder countries round the door.
+
+    When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
+    Me in my comforter and cap;
+    The cold wind burns my face, and blows
+    Its frosty pepper up my nose.
+
+    Black are my steps on silver sod;
+    Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
+    And tree and house, and hill and lake,
+    Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+    I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
+    Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
+    I will make a palace fit for you and me,
+    Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
+
+    I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
+    Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
+    And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
+    In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
+
+    And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
+    The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
+    That only I remember, that only you admire,
+    Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
+
+
+REQUIEM
+
+    Under the wide and starry sky
+      Dig the grave and let me lie:
+    Glad did I live and gladly die,
+      And I laid me down with a will.
+
+    This be the verse you 'grave for me:
+      _Here he lies where he long'd to be;
+    Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
+      And the hunter home from the hill._
+
+
+
+
+_Alice Meynell_
+
+
+Alice Meynell was born in London in 1850. She was educated at home and
+spent a great part of her childhood in Italy. She has written little,
+but that little is on an extremely high plane; her verses are simple,
+pensive and always distinguished. The best of her work is in _Poems_
+(1903).
+
+
+A THRUSH BEFORE DAWN
+
+    A voice peals in this end of night
+      A phrase of notes resembling stars,
+    Single and spiritual notes of light.
+      What call they at my window-bars?
+        The South, the past, the day to be,
+        An ancient infelicity.
+
+    Darkling, deliberate, what sings
+      This wonderful one, alone, at peace?
+    What wilder things than song, what things
+      Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece,
+        Dearer than Italy, untold
+        Delight, and freshness centuries old?
+
+    And first first-loves, a multitude,
+      The exaltation of their pain;
+    Ancestral childhood long renewed;
+      And midnights of invisible rain;
+        And gardens, gardens, night and day,
+        Gardens and childhood all the way.
+
+    What Middle Ages passionate,
+      O passionless voice! What distant bells
+    Lodged in the hills, what palace state
+      Illyrian! For it speaks, it tells,
+        Without desire, without dismay,
+        Some morrow and some yesterday.
+
+    All-natural things! But more--Whence came
+      This yet remoter mystery?
+    How do these starry notes proclaim
+      A graver still divinity?
+        This hope, this sanctity of fear?
+        _O innocent throat! O human ear!_
+
+
+
+
+_Fiona Macleod_
+
+(_William Sharp_)
+
+
+William Sharp was born at Garthland Place, Scotland, in 1855. He wrote
+several volumes of biography and criticism, published a book of plays
+greatly influenced by Maeterlinck (_Vistas_) and was editor of "The
+Canterbury Poets" series.
+
+His feminine _alter ego_, Fiona Macleod, was a far different
+personality. Sharp actually believed himself possessed of another
+spirit; under the spell of this other self, he wrote several volumes
+of Celtic tales, beautiful tragic romances and no little unusual
+poetry. Of the prose stories written by Fiona Macleod, the most
+barbaric and vivid are those collected in _The Sin-Eater and Other
+Tales_; the longer _Pharais, A Romance of the Isles_, is scarcely less
+unique.
+
+In the ten years, 1882-1891, William Sharp published four volumes of
+rather undistinguished verse. In 1896 _From the Hills of Dream_
+appeared over the signature of Fiona Macleod; _The Hour of Beauty_, an
+even more distinctive collection, followed shortly. Both poetry and
+prose were always the result of two sharply differentiated moods
+constantly fluctuating; the emotional mood was that of Fiona Macleod,
+the intellectual and, it must be admitted the more arresting, was that
+of William Sharp.
+
+He died in 1905.
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF SILENCE
+
+    In the secret Valley of Silence
+          No breath doth fall;
+    No wind stirs in the branches;
+          No bird doth call:
+          As on a white wall
+            A breathless lizard is still,
+          So silence lies on the valley
+            Breathlessly still.
+
+    In the dusk-grown heart of the valley
+          An altar rises white:
+    No rapt priest bends in awe
+          Before its silent light:
+          But sometimes a flight
+            Of breathless words of prayer
+          White-wing'd enclose the altar,
+            Eddies of prayer.
+
+
+THE VISION
+
+    In a fair place
+      Of whin and grass,
+      I heard feet pass
+      Where no one was.
+
+    I saw a face
+      Bloom like a flower--
+      Nay, as the rainbow-shower
+      Of a tempestuous hour.
+
+    It was not man, or woman:
+    It was not human:
+      But, beautiful and wild,
+      Terribly undefiled,
+      I knew an unborn child.
+
+
+
+
+_Oscar Wilde_
+
+
+Oscar Wilde was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1856, and even as an
+undergraduate at Oxford he was marked for a brilliant career. When he
+was a trifle over 21 years of age, he won the Newdigate Prize with his
+poem _Ravenna_.
+
+Giving himself almost entirely to prose, he speedily became known as a
+writer of brilliant epigrammatic essays and even more brilliant
+paradoxical plays such as _An Ideal Husband_ and _The Importance of
+Being Earnest_. His aphorisms and flippancies were quoted everywhere;
+his fame as a wit was only surpassed by his notoriety as an aesthete.
+(See Preface.)
+
+Most of his poems in prose (such as _The Happy Prince_, _The Birthday
+of the Infanta_ and _The Fisherman and His Soul_) are more imaginative
+and richly colored than his verse; but in one long poem, _The Ballad
+of Reading Gaol_ (1898), he sounded his deepest, simplest and most
+enduring note. Prison was, in many ways, a regeneration for Wilde. It
+not only produced _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ but made possible his
+most poignant piece of writing, _De Profundis_, only a small part of
+which has been published. _Salome_, which has made the author's name a
+household word, was originally written in French in 1892 and later
+translated into English by Lord Alfred Douglas, accompanied by the
+famous illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. More recently this heated
+drama, based on the story of Herod and Herodias, was made into an
+opera by Richard Strauss.
+
+Wilde's society plays, flashing and cynical, were the forerunners of
+Bernard Shaw's audacious and far more searching ironies. One sees the
+origin of a whole school of drama in such epigrams as "The history of
+woman is the history of the worst form of tyranny the world has ever
+known: the tyranny of the weak over the strong. It is the only tyranny
+that lasts." Or "There is only one thing in the world worse than being
+talked about, and that is not being talked about."
+
+Wilde died at Paris, November 30, 1900.
+
+
+REQUIESCAT
+
+    Tread lightly, she is near
+        Under the snow,
+    Speak gently, she can hear
+        The daisies grow.
+
+    All her bright golden hair
+        Tarnished with rust,
+    She that was young and fair
+        Fallen to dust.
+
+    Lily-like, white as snow,
+        She hardly knew
+    She was a woman, so
+        Sweetly she grew.
+
+    Coffin-board, heavy stone,
+        Lie on her breast;
+    I vex my heart alone,
+        She is at rest.
+
+    Peace, peace; she cannot hear
+        Lyre or sonnet;
+    All my life's buried here,
+        Heap earth upon it.
+
+
+IMPRESSION DU MATIN
+
+    The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
+      Changed to a harmony in grey;
+      A barge with ochre-coloured hay
+    Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
+
+    The yellow fog came creeping down
+      The bridges, till the houses' walls
+      Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's
+    Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.
+
+    Then suddenly arose the clang
+      Of waking life; the streets were stirred
+      With country waggons; and a bird
+    Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
+
+    But one pale woman all alone,
+      The daylight kissing her wan hair,
+      Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,
+    With lips of flame and heart of stone.
+
+
+
+
+_John Davidson_
+
+
+John Davidson was born at Barrhead, Renfrewshire, in 1857. His
+_Ballads and Songs_ (1895) and _New Ballads_ (1897) attained a sudden
+but too short-lived popularity, and his great promise was quenched by
+an apathetic public and by his own growing disillusion and despair.
+His sombre yet direct poetry never tired of repeating his favorite
+theme: "Man is but the Universe grown conscious."
+
+Davidson died by his own hand in 1909.
+
+
+A BALLAD OF HELL
+
+    'A letter from my love to-day!
+      Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!'
+    She struck a happy tear away,
+      And broke the crimson seal.
+
+    'My love, there is no help on earth,
+      No help in heaven; the dead-man's bell
+    Must toll our wedding; our first hearth
+      Must be the well-paved floor of hell.'
+
+    The colour died from out her face,
+      Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;
+    She cast dread looks about the place,
+      Then clenched her teeth and read right on.
+
+    'I may not pass the prison door;
+      Here must I rot from day to day,
+    Unless I wed whom I abhor,
+      My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
+
+    'At midnight with my dagger keen,
+      I'll take my life; it must be so.
+    Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,
+      For weal and woe.'
+
+    She laughed although her face was wan,
+      She girded on her golden belt,
+    She took her jewelled ivory fan,
+      And at her glowing missal knelt.
+
+    Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said:
+      She broke her fan, her belt untied;
+    With leather girt herself instead,
+      And stuck a dagger at her side.
+
+    She waited, shuddering in her room,
+      Till sleep had fallen on all the house.
+    She never flinched; she faced her doom:
+      They two must sin to keep their vows.
+
+    Then out into the night she went,
+      And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;
+    Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,
+      And caught a happy memory.
+
+    She fell, and lay a minute's space;
+      She tore the sward in her distress;
+    The dewy grass refreshed her face;
+      She rose and ran with lifted dress.
+
+    She started like a morn-caught ghost
+      Once when the moon came out and stood
+    To watch; the naked road she crossed,
+      And dived into the murmuring wood.
+
+    The branches snatched her streaming cloak;
+      A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!
+    She hurried to the trysting-oak--
+      Right well she knew the way.
+
+    Without a pause she bared her breast,
+      And drove her dagger home and fell,
+    And lay like one that takes her rest,
+      And died and wakened up in hell.
+
+    She bathed her spirit in the flame,
+      And near the centre took her post;
+    From all sides to her ears there came
+      The dreary anguish of the lost.
+
+    The devil started at her side,
+      Comely, and tall, and black as jet.
+    'I am young Malespina's bride;
+      Has he come hither yet?'
+
+    'My poppet, welcome to your bed.'
+      'Is Malespina here?'
+    'Not he! To-morrow he must wed
+      His cousin Blanche, my dear!'
+
+    'You lie, he died with me to-night.'
+      'Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.'
+    'My dear, I never lie outright.'
+      'We died at midnight, he and I.'
+
+    The devil went. Without a groan
+      She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,
+    Took root in hell's midst all alone,
+      And waited for him there.
+
+    She dared to make herself at home
+      Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.
+    The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,
+      Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
+
+    How long she stayed I cannot tell;
+      But when she felt his perfidy,
+    She marched across the floor of hell;
+      And all the damned stood up to see.
+
+    The devil stopped her at the brink:
+      She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!'
+    'My dear, you have gone mad, I think.'
+      'I was betrayed: I will not stay.'
+
+    Across the weltering deep she ran;
+      A stranger thing was never seen:
+    The damned stood silent to a man;
+      They saw the great gulf set between.
+
+    To her it seemed a meadow fair;
+      And flowers sprang up about her feet
+    She entered heaven; she climbed the stair
+      And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
+
+    Seraphs and saints with one great voice
+      Welcomed that soul that knew not fear.
+    Amazed to find it could rejoice,
+      Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.
+
+
+IMAGINATION
+
+(_From "New Year's Eve"_)
+
+    There is a dish to hold the sea,
+      A brazier to contain the sun,
+    A compass for the galaxy,
+      A voice to wake the dead and done!
+
+    That minister of ministers,
+      Imagination, gathers up
+    The undiscovered Universe,
+      Like jewels in a jasper cup.
+
+    Its flame can mingle north and south;
+      Its accent with the thunder strive;
+    The ruddy sentence of its mouth
+      Can make the ancient dead alive.
+
+    The mart of power, the fount of will,
+      The form and mould of every star,
+    The source and bound of good and ill,
+      The key of all the things that are,
+
+    Imagination, new and strange
+      In every age, can turn the year;
+    Can shift the poles and lightly change
+      The mood of men, the world's career.
+
+
+
+
+_William Watson_
+
+
+William Watson was born at Burley-in-Wharfedale, Yorkshire, August 2,
+1858. He achieved his first wide success through his long and eloquent
+poems on Wordsworth, Shelley, and Tennyson--poems that attempted, and
+sometimes successfully, to combine the manners of these masters. _The
+Hope of the World_ (1897) contains some of his most characteristic
+verse.
+
+It was understood that he would be appointed poet laureate upon the
+death of Alfred Austin. But some of his radical and semi-political
+poems are supposed to have displeased the powers at Court, and the
+honor went to Robert Bridges. His best work, which is notable for its
+dignity and moulded imagination, may be found in _Selected Poems_,
+published in 1903 by John Lane Co.
+
+
+ODE IN MAY[1]
+
+    Let me go forth, and share
+    The overflowing Sun
+    With one wise friend, or one
+    Better than wise, being fair,
+    Where the pewit wheels and dips
+    On heights of bracken and ling,
+    And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
+    Tingles with the Spring.
+
+    What is so sweet and dear
+    As a prosperous morn in May,
+    The confident prime of the day,
+    And the dauntless youth of the year,
+    When nothing that asks for bliss,
+    Asking aright, is denied,
+    And half of the world a bridegroom is,
+    And half of the world a bride?
+
+    The Song of Mingling flows,
+    Grave, ceremonial, pure,
+    As once, from lips that endure,
+    The cosmic descant rose,
+    When the temporal lord of life,
+    Going his golden way,
+    Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
+    That long had said him nay.
+
+    For of old the Sun, our sire,
+    Came wooing the mother of men,
+    Earth, that was virginal then,
+    Vestal fire to his fire.
+    Silent her bosom and coy,
+    But the strong god sued and pressed;
+    And born of their starry nuptial joy
+    Are all that drink of her breast.
+
+    And the triumph of him that begot,
+    And the travail of her that bore,
+    Behold, they are evermore
+    As warp and weft in our lot.
+    We are children of splendour and flame,
+    Of shuddering, also, and tears.
+    Magnificent out of the dust we came,
+    And abject from the Spheres.
+
+    O bright irresistible lord,
+    We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,
+    And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
+    Whence first was the seed outpoured.
+    To thee as our Father we bow,
+    Forbidden thy Father to see,
+    Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
+    Art greater and older than we.
+
+    Thou art but as a word of his speech,
+    Thou art but as a wave of his hand;
+    Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
+    'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
+    Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
+    Or a moment's mood of his soul:
+    Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir
+    That chant the chant of the Whole.
+
+
+ESTRANGEMENT[2]
+
+    So, without overt breach, we fall apart,
+    Tacitly sunder--neither you nor I
+    Conscious of one intelligible Why,
+    And both, from severance, winning equal smart.
+    So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,
+    Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,
+    I seem to see an alien shade pass by,
+    A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.
+
+    Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,
+    From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn
+    That June on her triumphal progress goes
+    Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him
+    She is a legend emptied of concern,
+    And idle is the rumour of the rose.
+
+
+SONG
+
+    April, April,
+    Laugh thy girlish laughter;
+    Then, the moment after,
+    Weep thy girlish tears,
+    April, that mine ears
+    Like a lover greetest,
+    If I tell thee, sweetest,
+    All my hopes and fears.
+    April, April,
+    Laugh thy golden laughter,
+    But, the moment after,
+    Weep thy golden tears!
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] From _The Hope of the World_ by William Watson. Copyright, 1897,
+by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+[2] From _The Hope of the World_ by William Watson. Copyright, 1897,
+by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Thompson_
+
+
+Born in 1859 at Preston, Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's
+College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of
+earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop,
+medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond;
+there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of
+London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up
+everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to
+which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately
+thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its
+purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore,
+the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem,
+which is unfortunately too long to quote, "It is one of the very few
+_great_ odes of which our language can boast."
+
+Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood
+in November, 1907.
+
+
+DAISY
+
+    Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
+        Six foot out of the turf,
+    And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
+        O breath of the distant surf!--
+
+    The hills look over on the South,
+        And southward dreams the sea;
+    And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
+        Came innocence and she.
+
+    Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
+        Red for the gatherer springs;
+    Two children did we stray and talk
+        Wise, idle, childish things.
+
+    She listened with big-lipped surprise,
+        Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
+    Her skin was like a grape whose veins
+        Run snow instead of wine.
+
+    She knew not those sweet words she spake,
+        Nor knew her own sweet way;
+    But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
+        Thronged in whose throat all day.
+
+    Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
+        On the turf and on the spray;
+    But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
+        Was the Daisy-flower that day!
+
+    Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
+        She gave me tokens three:--
+    A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
+        And a wild raspberry.
+
+    A berry red, a guileless look,
+        A still word,--strings of sand!
+    And yet they made my wild, wild heart
+        Fly down to her little hand.
+
+    For standing artless as the air,
+        And candid as the skies,
+    She took the berries with her hand,
+        And the love with her sweet eyes.
+
+    The fairest things have fleetest end,
+        Their scent survives their close:
+    But the rose's scent is bitterness
+        To him that loved the rose.
+
+    She looked a little wistfully,
+        Then went her sunshine way:--
+    The sea's eye had a mist on it,
+        And the leaves fell from the day.
+
+    She went her unremembering way,
+        She went and left in me
+    The pang of all the partings gone,
+        And partings yet to be.
+
+    She left me marvelling why my soul
+        Was sad that she was glad;
+    At all the sadness in the sweet,
+        The sweetness in the sad.
+
+    Still, still I seemed to see her, still
+        Look up with soft replies,
+    And take the berries with her hand,
+        And the love with her lovely eyes.
+
+    Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
+        That is not paid with moan,
+    For we are born in other's pain,
+        And perish in our own.
+
+
+TO OLIVIA
+
+    I fear to love thee, Sweet, because
+    Love's the ambassador of loss;
+    White flake of childhood, clinging so
+    To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow
+    At tenderest touch will shrink and go.
+    Love me not, delightful child.
+    My heart, by many snares beguiled,
+    Has grown timorous and wild.
+    It would fear thee not at all,
+    Wert thou not so harmless-small.
+    Because thy arrows, not yet dire,
+    Are still unbarbed with destined fire,
+    I fear thee more than hadst thou stood
+    Full-panoplied in womanhood.
+
+
+AN ARAB LOVE-SONG
+
+    The hunched camels of the night[3]
+    Trouble the bright
+    And silver waters of the moon.
+    The Maiden of the Morn will soon
+    Through Heaven stray and sing,
+    Star gathering.
+
+    Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
+    Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
+    And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
+
+    Leave thy father, leave thy mother
+    And thy brother;
+    Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
+    Am I not thy father and thy brother,
+    And thy mother?
+    And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black
+    tents
+    Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[3] (Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)
+
+
+
+
+_A. E. Housman_
+
+
+A. E. Housman was born March 26, 1859, and, after a classical
+education, he was, for ten years, a Higher Division Clerk in H. M.
+Patent Office. Later in life, he became a teacher.
+
+Housman has published only one volume of original verse, but that
+volume (_A Shropshire Lad_) is known wherever modern English poetry is
+read. Originally published in 1896, when Housman was almost 37, it is
+evident that many of these lyrics were written when the poet was much
+younger. Echoing the frank pessimism of Hardy and the harder cynicism
+of Heine, Housman struck a lighter and more buoyant note. Underneath
+his dark ironies, there is a rustic humor that has many subtle
+variations. From a melodic standpoint, _A Shropshire Lad_ is a
+collection of exquisite, haunting and almost perfect songs.
+
+Housman has been a professor of Latin since 1892 and, besides his
+immortal set of lyrics, has edited Juvenal and the books of Manilius.
+
+
+REVEILLE
+
+    Wake: the silver dusk returning
+      Up the beach of darkness brims,
+    And the ship of sunrise burning
+      Strands upon the eastern rims.
+
+    Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
+      Trampled to the floor it spanned,
+    And the tent of night in tatters
+      Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
+
+    Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
+      Hear the drums of morning play;
+    Hark, the empty highways crying
+      "Who'll beyond the hills away?"
+
+    Towns and countries woo together,
+      Forelands beacon, belfries call;
+    Never lad that trod on leather
+      Lived to feast his heart with all.
+
+    Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
+      Sunlit pallets never thrive;
+    Morns abed and daylight slumber
+      Were not meant for man alive.
+
+    Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
+      Breath's a ware that will not keep.
+    Up, lad: when the journey's over
+      There'll be time enough to sleep.
+
+
+WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY
+
+    When I was one-and-twenty
+      I heard a wise man say,
+    "Give crowns and pounds and guineas
+      But not your heart away;
+    Give pearls away and rubies
+      But keep your fancy free."
+    But I was one-and-twenty,
+      No use to talk to me.
+
+    When I was one-and-twenty
+      I heard him say again,
+    "The heart out of the bosom
+      Was never given in vain;
+    'Tis paid with sighs a-plenty
+      And sold for endless rue."
+    And I am two-and-twenty,
+      And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
+
+
+WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN
+
+    With rue my heart is laden
+      For golden friends I had,
+    For many a rose-lipt maiden
+      And many a lightfoot lad.
+
+    By brooks too broad for leaping
+      The lightfoot boys are laid;
+    The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
+      In fields where roses fade.
+
+
+TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG
+
+    The time you won your town the race
+    We chaired you through the market-place;
+    Man and boy stood cheering by,
+    And home we brought you shoulder-high.
+
+    To-day, the road all runners come,
+    Shoulder-high we bring you home,
+    And set you at your threshold down,
+    Townsman of a stiller town.
+
+    Smart lad, to slip betimes away
+    From fields where glory does not stay,
+    And early though the laurel grows
+    It withers quicker than the rose.
+
+    Eyes the shady night has shut
+    Cannot see the record cut,
+    And silence sounds no worse than cheers
+    After earth has stopped the ears:
+
+    Now you will not swell the rout
+    Of lads that wore their honours out,
+    Runners whom renown outran
+    And the name died before the man.
+
+    So set, before its echoes fade,
+    The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
+    And hold to the low lintel up
+    The still-defended challenge-cup.
+
+    And round that early-laurelled head
+    Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
+    And find unwithered on its curls
+    The garland briefer than a girl's.
+
+
+"LOVELIEST OF TREES"
+
+    Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
+    Is hung with bloom along the bough,
+    And stands about the woodland ride
+    Wearing white for Eastertide.
+
+    Now, of my threescore years and ten,
+    Twenty will not come again,
+    And take from seventy springs a score,
+    It only leaves me fifty more.
+
+    And since to look at things in bloom
+    Fifty springs are little room,
+    About the woodlands I will go
+    To see the cherry hung with snow.
+
+
+
+
+_Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+Doctor Douglas Hyde was born in Roscommon County, Ireland in, as
+nearly as can be ascertained, 1860. One of the most brilliant Irish
+scholars of his day, he has worked indefatigably for the cause of his
+native letters. He has written a comprehensive history of Irish
+literature; has compiled, edited and translated into English the _Love
+Songs of Connaught_; is President of The Irish National Literary
+Society; and is the author of innumerable poems in Gaelic--far more
+than he ever wrote in English. His collections of Irish folk-lore and
+poetry were among the most notable contributions to the Celtic
+revival; they were (see Preface), to a large extent, responsible for
+it. Since 1909 he has been Professor of Modern Irish in University
+College, Dublin.
+
+The poem which is here quoted is one of his many brilliant and
+reanimating translations. In its music and its peculiar rhyme-scheme,
+it reproduces the peculiar flavor as well as the meter of the West
+Irish original.
+
+
+I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
+
+    For thee, I shall not die,
+      Woman of high fame and name;
+    Foolish men thou mayest slay
+      I and they are not the same.
+
+    Why should I expire
+      For the fire of an eye,
+    Slender waist or swan-like limb,
+      Is't for them that I should die?
+
+    The round breasts, the fresh skin,
+      Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
+    Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
+      Please God, not I, for any such.
+
+    The golden hair, the forehead thin,
+      The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
+    The rounded heel, the languid tone,--
+      Fools alone find death from these.
+
+    Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
+      Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;
+    Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
+      I shall not die for thee.
+
+    Woman, graceful as the swan,
+      A wise man did nurture me.
+    Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
+      I shall not die for ye.
+
+
+
+
+_Amy Levy_
+
+
+Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham, in 1861. A
+fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity with the sorrows of
+her race. She wrote one novel, _Reuben Sachs_, and two volumes of
+poetry--the more distinctive of the two being half-pathetically and
+half-ironically entitled _A Minor Poet_ (1884). After several years of
+brooding introspection, she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of
+28.
+
+
+EPITAPH
+
+(_On a commonplace person who died in bed_)
+
+    This is the end of him, here he lies:
+    The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
+    The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
+    This is the end of him, this is best.
+    He will never lie on his couch awake,
+    Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.
+    Never again will he smile and smile
+    When his heart is breaking all the while.
+    He will never stretch out his hands in vain
+    Groping and groping--never again.
+    Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,
+    Never pretend that the stone is bread;
+    Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true,
+    Weighing and noting the long hours through.
+    Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs;
+    This is the end of him, here he lies.
+
+
+IN THE MILE END ROAD
+
+    How like her! But 'tis she herself,
+        Comes up the crowded street,
+    How little did I think, the morn,
+        My only love to meet!
+
+    Who else that motion and that mien?
+        Whose else that airy tread?
+    For one strange moment I forgot
+        My only love was dead.
+
+
+
+
+_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated at the
+Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married Henry Hinkson, a
+lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is largely actuated by
+religious themes, and much of her verse is devotional and yet
+distinctive. In _New Poems_ (1911) she is at her best; graceful,
+meditative and with occasional notes of deep pathos.
+
+
+SHEEP AND LAMBS
+
+    All in the April morning,
+      April airs were abroad;
+    The sheep with their little lambs
+      Pass'd me by on the road.
+
+    The sheep with their little lambs
+      Pass'd me by on the road;
+    All in an April evening
+      I thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+    The lambs were weary, and crying
+      With a weak human cry;
+    I thought on the Lamb of God
+      Going meekly to die.
+
+    Up in the blue, blue mountains
+      Dewy pastures are sweet:
+    Rest for the little bodies,
+      Rest for the little feet.
+
+    Rest for the Lamb of God
+      Up on the hill-top green;
+    Only a cross of shame
+      Two stark crosses between.
+
+    All in the April evening,
+      April airs were abroad;
+    I saw the sheep with their lambs,
+      And thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+
+ALL-SOULS
+
+    The door of Heaven is on the latch
+      To-night, and many a one is fain
+    To go home for one's night's watch
+      With his love again.
+
+    Oh, where the father and mother sit
+      There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
+    Like pitter-patter of little feet
+      That come no more.
+
+    Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
+      Their tears are heavier than the clay,
+    But who is this at the threshold
+      So young and gay?
+
+    They are come from the land o' the young,
+      They have forgotten how to weep;
+    Words of comfort on the tongue,
+      And a kiss to keep.
+
+    They sit down and they stay awhile,
+      Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
+    At morn they steal forth with a smile
+      And a long look back.
+
+
+
+
+_Owen Seaman_
+
+
+One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was
+born in 1861. After receiving a classical education, he became
+Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906
+he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in
+that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of
+light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a
+generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in
+his _In Cap and Bells_ (1902) and _The Battle of the Bays_ (1892).
+
+
+TO AN OLD FOGEY
+
+(_Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out_)
+
+    O frankly bald and obviously stout!
+      And so you find that Christmas as a fete
+    Dispassionately viewed, is getting out
+                  Of date.
+
+    The studied festal air is overdone;
+      The humour of it grows a little thin;
+    You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun
+                  Comes in.
+
+    Visions of very heavy meals arise
+      That tend to make your organism shiver;
+    Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise
+                  The liver;
+
+    Those pies at which you annually wince,
+      Hearing the tale how happy months will follow
+    Proportioned to the total mass of mince
+                  You swallow.
+
+    Visions of youth whose reverence is scant,
+      Who with the brutal _verve_ of boyhood's prime
+    Insist on being taken to the pant-
+                 -omime.
+
+    Of infants, sitting up extremely late,
+      Who run you on toboggans down the stair;
+    Or make you fetch a rug and simulate
+                  A bear.
+
+    This takes your faultless trousers at the knees,
+      The other hurts them rather more behind;
+    And both effect a fracture in your ease
+                  Of mind.
+
+    My good dyspeptic, this will never do;
+      Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!
+    Yet once I well believe that even you
+                  Were young.
+
+    Time was when you devoured, like other boys,
+      Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen;
+    With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys
+                  Of men.
+
+    Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull
+      The fiery raisin with profound delight;
+    When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful
+                  And right.
+
+    Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago
+      He won the treasure of eternal youth;
+    _Yours_ is the dotage--if you want to know
+                  The truth.
+
+    Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:--
+      Make others' happiness this once your own;
+    All else may pass: that joy can never be
+                  Outgrown!
+
+
+THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART
+
+    Facing the guns, he jokes as well
+      As any Judge upon the Bench;
+    Between the crash of shell and shell
+      His laughter rings along the trench;
+    He seems immensely tickled by a
+    Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria."
+
+    He whistles down the day-long road,
+      And, when the chilly shadows fall
+    And heavier hangs the weary load,
+      Is he down-hearted? Not at all.
+    'Tis then he takes a light and airy
+    View of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]
+
+    His songs are not exactly hymns;
+      He never learned them in the choir;
+    And yet they brace his dragging limbs
+      Although they miss the sacred fire;
+    Although his choice and cherished gems
+    Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."
+
+    He takes to fighting as a game;
+      He does no talking, through his hat,
+    Of holy missions; all the same
+      He has his faith--be sure of that;
+    He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,
+    Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[4] "_It's a long way to Tipperary_," the most popular song of the
+Allied armies during the World's War.
+
+
+
+
+_Henry Newbolt_
+
+
+Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work was frankly
+imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add to the Arthurian
+legends with a drama in blank verse entitled _Mordred_ (1895). It was
+not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he struck his own note. With
+the publication of _Admirals All_ (1897) his fame was widespread. The
+popularity of his lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of
+Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of
+rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.
+
+In 1898 Newbolt published _The Island Race_, which contains about
+thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet,
+Newbolt has written many essays and his critical volume, _A New Study
+of English Poetry_ (1917), is a collection of articles that are both
+analytical and alive.
+
+
+DRAKE'S DRUM
+
+    Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
+    Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+    Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
+        Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,
+    An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'
+        He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
+
+    Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),
+    Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,
+    "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
+        Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
+    If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
+        An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."
+
+    Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
+        (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),
+    Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
+        An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+    Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
+        Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
+    Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',
+        They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.
+
+
+
+
+_Arthur Symons_
+
+
+Born in 1865, Arthur Symons' first few publications revealed an
+intellectual rather than an emotional passion. Those volumes were full
+of the artifice of the period, but Symons's technical skill and
+frequent analysis often saved the poems from complete decadence. His
+later books are less imitative; the influence of Verlaine and
+Baudelaire is not so apparent; the sophistication is less cynical, the
+sensuousness more restrained. His various collections of essays and
+stories reflect the same peculiar blend of rich intellectuality and
+perfumed romanticism that one finds in his most characteristic poems.
+
+Of his many volumes in prose, _Spiritual Adventures_ (1905), while
+obviously influenced by Walter Pater, is by far the most original; a
+truly unique volume of psychological short stories. The best of his
+poetry up to 1902 was collected in two volumes, _Poems_, published by
+John Lane Co. _The Fool of the World_ appeared in 1907.
+
+
+IN THE WOOD OF FINVARA
+
+    I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears;
+    Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,
+    A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
+
+    I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire;
+    Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire
+    Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
+
+    I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood;
+    Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,
+    I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.
+
+    Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,
+    I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,
+    And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.
+
+
+MODERN BEAUTY
+
+    I am the torch, she saith, and what to me
+    If the moth die of me? I am the flame
+    Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see
+    Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame,
+    But live with that clear light of perfect fire
+    Which is to men the death of their desire.
+
+    I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen
+    Troy burn, and the most loving knight lie dead.
+    The world has been my mirror, time has been
+    My breath upon the glass; and men have said,
+    Age after age, in rapture and despair,
+    Love's poor few words, before my image there.
+
+    I live, and am immortal; in my eyes
+    The sorrow of the world, and on my lips
+    The joy of life, mingle to make me wise;
+    Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:
+    Who is there still lives for beauty? Still am I
+    The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?
+
+
+
+
+_William Butler Yeats_
+
+
+Born at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1865, the son of John B. Yeats, the
+Irish artist, the greater part of William Butler Yeats' childhood was
+spent in Sligo. Here he became imbued with the power and richness of
+native folk-lore; he drank in the racy quality through the quaint
+fairy stories and old wives' tales of the Irish peasantry. (Later he
+published a collection of these same stories.)
+
+It was in the activities of a "Young Ireland" society that Yeats
+became identified with the new spirit; he dreamed of a national poetry
+that would be written in English and yet would be definitely Irish. In
+a few years he became one of the leaders in the Celtic revival. He
+worked incessantly for the cause, both as propagandist and playwright;
+and, though his mysticism at times seemed the product of a cult rather
+than a Celt, his symbolic dramas were acknowledged to be full of a
+haunting, other-world spirituality. (See Preface.) _The Hour Glass_
+(1904), his second volume of "Plays for an Irish Theatre," includes
+his best one-act dramas with the exception of his unforgettable _The
+Land of Heart's Desire_ (1894). _The Wind Among the Reeds_ (1899)
+contains several of his most beautiful and characteristic poems.
+
+Others who followed Yeats have intensified the Irish drama; they have
+established a closer contact between the peasant and poet. No one,
+however, has had so great a part in the shaping of modern drama in
+Ireland as Yeats. His _Deirdre_ (1907), a beautiful retelling of the
+great Gaelic legend, is far more dramatic than the earlier plays; it
+is particularly interesting to read with Synge's more idiomatic play
+on the same theme, _Deirdre of the Sorrows_.
+
+The poems of Yeats which are quoted here reveal him in his most lyric
+and musical vein.
+
+
+THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
+
+    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
+    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
+    Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
+          And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
+
+    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
+    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
+    There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
+          And evening full of the linnet's wings.
+
+    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
+    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
+    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
+          I hear it in the deep heart's core.
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER
+
+    I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
+    Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow.
+    And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep,
+    Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
+    But the young lie long and dream in their bed
+    Of the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red,
+    And their day goes over in idleness,
+    And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress.
+    While I must work, because I am old
+    And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
+
+
+THE CAP AND BELLS
+
+    A Queen was beloved by a jester,
+      And once when the owls grew still
+    He made his soul go upward
+      And stand on her window sill.
+
+    In a long and straight blue garment,
+      It talked before morn was white,
+    And it had grown wise by thinking
+      Of a footfall hushed and light.
+
+    But the young queen would not listen;
+      She rose in her pale nightgown,
+    She drew in the brightening casement
+      And pushed the brass bolt down.
+
+    He bade his heart go to her,
+      When the bats cried out no more,
+    In a red and quivering garment
+      It sang to her through the door.
+
+    The tongue of it sweet with dreaming
+      Of a flutter of flower-like hair,
+    But she took up her fan from the table
+      And waved it off on the air.
+
+    'I've cap and bells,' he pondered,
+      'I will send them to her and die.'
+    And as soon as the morn had whitened
+      He left them where she went by.
+
+    She laid them upon her bosom,
+      Under a cloud of her hair,
+    And her red lips sang them a love song.
+      The stars grew out of the air.
+
+    She opened her door and her window,
+      And the heart and the soul came through,
+    To her right hand came the red one,
+      To her left hand came the blue.
+
+    They set up a noise like crickets,
+      A chattering wise and sweet,
+    And her hair was a folded flower,
+      And the quiet of love her feet.
+
+
+AN OLD SONG RESUNG
+
+    Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
+    She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
+    She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
+    But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
+
+    In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
+    And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
+    She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
+    But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
+
+
+
+
+_Rudyard Kipling_
+
+
+Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling, the author
+of a dozen contemporary classics, was educated in England. He
+returned, however, to India and took a position on the staff of "The
+Lahore Civil and Military Gazette," writing for the Indian press until
+about 1890, when he went to England, where he has lived ever since,
+with the exception of a short sojourn in America.
+
+Even while he was still in India he achieved a popular as well as a
+literary success with his dramatic and skilful tales, sketches and
+ballads of Anglo-Indian life.
+
+_Soldiers Three_ (1888) was the first of six collections of short
+stories brought out in "Wheeler's Railway Library." They were followed
+by the far more sensitive and searching _Plain Tales from the Hills_,
+_Under the Deodars_ and _The Phantom 'Rikshaw_, which contains two of
+the best and most convincing ghost-stories in recent literature.
+
+These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling's extraordinary
+talents. As a writer of children's stories, he has few living equals.
+_Wee Willie Winkie_, which contains that stirring and heroic fragment
+"Drums of the Fore and Aft," is only a trifle less notable than his
+more obviously juvenile collections. _Just-So Stories_ and the two
+_Jungle Books_ (prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics
+for young people of all ages. _Kim_, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown
+up, is a more mature masterpiece.
+
+Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the most
+vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of romance surges
+under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up the tang of a
+countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray, the rude sentiment of
+ruder natures, the snapping of a banner, the lurch and rumble of the
+sea. His poetry is woven of the stuff of myths; but it never loses its
+hold on actualities. Kipling himself in his poem "The Benefactors"
+(from _The Years Between_ [1919]) writes:
+
+    Ah! What avails the classic bent
+      And what the cultured word,
+    Against the undoctored incident
+      That actually occurred?
+
+Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems
+have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volume _Inclusive
+Edition_ (1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student's library.
+This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war,
+has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At
+his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of
+imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex.
+
+
+GUNGA DIN
+
+    You may talk o' gin an' beer
+    When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
+    An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
+    But if it comes to slaughter
+    You will do your work on water,
+    An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it
+    Now in Injia's sunny clime,
+    Where I used to spend my time
+    A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
+    Of all them black-faced crew
+    The finest man I knew
+    Was our regimental _bhisti_,[5] Gunga Din.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
+        Hi! _slippy hitherao!_
+        Water, get it! _Panee lao!_[6]
+        You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
+
+    The uniform 'e wore
+    Was nothin' much before,
+    An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
+    For a twisty piece o' rag
+    An' a goatskin water-bag
+    Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
+    When the sweatin' troop-train lay
+    In a sidin' through the day,
+    Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
+    We shouted "_Harry By!_"[7]
+    Till our throats were bricky-dry,
+    Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
+        You put some _juldees_[8] in it,
+        Or I'll _marrow_[9] you this minute,
+        If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
+
+    'E would dot an' carry one
+    Till the longest day was done,
+    An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
+    If we charged or broke or cut,
+    You could bet your bloomin' nut,
+    'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
+    With 'is _mussick_[10] on 'is back,
+    'E would skip with our attack,
+    An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
+    An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
+    'E was white, clear white, inside
+    When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!"
+        With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
+        When the cartridges ran out,
+        You could 'ear the front-files shout:
+        "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
+
+    I sha'n't forgit the night
+    When I dropped be'ind the fight
+    With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
+    I was chokin' mad with thirst,
+    An' the man that spied me first
+    Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
+    'E lifted up my 'ead,
+    An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
+    An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water--green;
+    It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
+    But of all the drinks I've drunk,
+    I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
+
+        It was "Din! Din! Din!
+        'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
+        'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
+        For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
+
+    'E carried me away
+    To where a _dooli_ lay,
+    An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
+    'E put me safe inside,
+    An' just before 'e died:
+    "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
+    So I'll meet 'im later on
+    In the place where 'e is gone--
+    Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
+    'E'll be squattin' on the coals
+    Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
+    An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
+
+        Din! Din! Din!
+        You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
+        Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
+        By the livin' Gawd that made you,
+        You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
+
+
+THE RETURN[11]
+
+    Peace is declared, and I return
+      To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;
+    Things 'ave transpired which made me learn
+      The size and meanin' of the game.
+    I did no more than others did,
+      I don't know where the change began;
+    I started as a average kid,
+      I finished as a thinkin' man.
+
+    _If England was what England seems
+      An not the England of our dreams,
+    But only putty, brass, an' paint,
+      'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!_ But she ain't!
+
+    Before my gappin' mouth could speak
+      I 'eard it in my comrade's tone;
+    I saw it on my neighbour's cheek
+      Before I felt it flush my own.
+    An' last it come to me--not pride,
+      Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
+    (If such a term may be applied),
+      The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
+
+    Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,
+      Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
+    Mountains that never let you near,
+      An' stars to all eternity;
+    An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills
+      The 'ollows of the wilderness,
+    When the wind worries through the 'ills--
+      These may 'ave taught me more or less.
+
+    Towns without people, ten times took,
+      An' ten times left an' burned at last;
+    An' starvin' dogs that come to look
+      For owners when a column passed;
+    An' quiet, 'omesick talks between
+      Men, met by night, you never knew
+    Until--'is face--by shellfire seen--
+      Once--an' struck off. They taught me, too.
+
+    The day's lay-out--the mornin' sun
+      Beneath your 'at-brim as you sight;
+    The dinner-'ush from noon till one,
+      An' the full roar that lasts till night;
+    An' the pore dead that look so old
+      An' was so young an hour ago,
+    An' legs tied down before they're cold--
+      These are the things which make you know.
+
+    Also Time runnin' into years--
+      A thousand Places left be'ind--
+    An' Men from both two 'emispheres
+      Discussin' things of every kind;
+    So much more near than I 'ad known,
+      So much more great than I 'ad guessed--
+    An' me, like all the rest, alone--
+      But reachin' out to all the rest!
+
+    So 'ath it come to me--not pride,
+      Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
+    (If such a term may be applied),
+      The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
+    But now, discharged, I fall away
+      To do with little things again....
+    Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,
+      Look after me in Thamesfontein!
+
+    _If England was what England seems
+      An' not the England of our dreams,
+    But only putty, brass, an' paint,
+      'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!_ But she ain't!
+
+
+THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
+
+    When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's
+        green and gold,
+    Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with
+        a stick in the mold;
+    And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was
+        joy to his mighty heart,
+    Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty,
+        but is it Art?"
+
+    Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion
+        his work anew--
+    The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most
+        dread review;
+    And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was
+        a glorious gain
+    When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of
+        the branded Cain.
+
+    They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the
+        stars apart,
+    Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking,
+        but is it Art?"
+    The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle
+        derrick swung,
+    While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in
+        an alien tongue.
+
+    They fought and they talked in the north and the south,
+        they talked and they fought in the west,
+    Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor
+        Red Clay had rest--
+    Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove
+        was preened to start,
+    And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but
+        is it Art?"
+
+    The tale is old as the Eden Tree--as new as the new-cut
+        tooth--
+    For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is
+        master of Art and Truth;
+    And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of
+        his dying heart,
+    The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it,
+        but was it Art?"
+
+    We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape
+        of a surplice-peg,
+    We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk
+        of an addled egg,
+    We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse
+        is drawn by the cart;
+    But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever,
+        but is it Art?"
+
+    When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-
+        room's green and gold,
+    The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their
+        pens in the mold--
+    They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves,
+        and the ink and the anguish start
+    When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty,
+        but is it art?"
+
+    Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four
+        great rivers flow,
+    And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it
+        long ago,
+    And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly
+        scurry through,
+    By the favor of God we might know as much--as our
+        father Adam knew.
+
+
+AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG[12]
+
+    To the Heavens above us
+      O look and behold
+    The Planets that love us
+      All harnessed in gold!
+    What chariots, what horses
+      Against us shall bide
+    While the Stars in their courses
+      Do fight on our side?
+
+    All thought, all desires,
+      That are under the sun,
+    Are one with their fires,
+      As we also are one:
+    All matter, all spirit,
+      All fashion, all frame,
+    Receive and inherit
+      Their strength from the same.
+
+    (Oh, man that deniest
+      All power save thine own,
+    Their power in the highest
+      Is mightily shown.
+    Not less in the lowest
+      That power is made clear.
+    Oh, man, if thou knowest,
+      What treasure is here!)
+
+    Earth quakes in her throes
+      And we wonder for why!
+    But the blind planet knows
+      When her ruler is nigh;
+    And, attuned since Creation
+      To perfect accord,
+    She thrills in her station
+      And yearns to her Lord.
+
+    The waters have risen,
+      The springs are unbound--
+    The floods break their prison,
+      And ravin around.
+    No rampart withstands 'em,
+      Their fury will last,
+    Till the Sign that commands 'em
+      Sinks low or swings past.
+
+    Through abysses unproven
+      And gulfs beyond thought,
+    Our portion is woven,
+      Our burden is brought.
+    Yet They that prepare it,
+      Whose Nature we share,
+    Make us who must bear is
+      Well able to bear.
+
+    Though terrors o'ertake us
+      We'll not be afraid.
+    No power can unmake us
+      Save that which has made.
+    Nor yet beyond reason
+      Or hope shall we fall--
+    All things have their season,
+      And Mercy crowns all!
+
+    Then, doubt not, ye fearful--
+      The Eternal is King--
+    Up, heart, and be cheerful,
+      And lustily sing:--
+    _What chariots, what horses
+      Against us shall bide
+    While the Stars in their courses
+      Do fight on our side?_
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[5] The _bhisti_, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is
+often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also
+appreciated by the men.
+
+[6] Bring water swiftly.
+
+[7] Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"
+
+[8] Speed.
+
+[9] Hit you.
+
+[10] Water-skin.
+
+[11] From _The Five Nations_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by
+Doubleday, Page & Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
+
+[12] From _Rewards and Fairies_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by
+Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
+
+
+
+
+_Richard Le Gallienne_
+
+
+Richard Le Gallienne, who, in spite of his long residence in the
+United States, must be considered an English poet, was born at
+Liverpool in 1866. He entered on a business career soon after leaving
+Liverpool College, but gave up commercial life to become a man of
+letters after five or six years.
+
+His early work was strongly influenced by the artificialities of the
+aesthetic movement (see Preface); the indebtedness to Oscar Wilde is
+especially evident. A little later Keats was the dominant influence,
+and _English Poems_ (1892) betray how deep were Le Gallienne's
+admirations. His more recent poems in _The Lonely Dancer_ (1913) show
+a keener individuality and a finer lyrical passion. His prose fancies
+are well known--particularly _The Book Bills of Narcissus_ and the
+charming and high-spirited fantasia, _The Quest of the Golden Girl_.
+
+Le Gallienne came to America about 1905 and has lived ever since in
+Rowayton, Conn., and New York City.
+
+
+A BALLAD OF LONDON
+
+    Ah, London! London! our delight,
+    Great flower that opens but at night,
+    Great City of the midnight sun,
+    Whose day begins when day is done.
+
+    Lamp after lamp against the sky
+    Opens a sudden beaming eye,
+    Leaping alight on either hand,
+    The iron lilies of the Strand.
+
+    Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,
+    With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;
+    The streets are full of lights and loves,
+    Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.
+
+    The human moths about the light
+    Dash and cling close in dazed delight,
+    And burn and laugh, the world and wife,
+    For this is London, this is life!
+
+    Upon thy petals butterflies,
+    But at thy root, some say, there lies,
+    A world of weeping trodden things,
+    Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
+
+    From out corruption of their woe
+    Springs this bright flower that charms us so,
+    Men die and rot deep out of sight
+    To keep this jungle-flower bright.
+
+    Paris and London, World-Flowers twain
+    Wherewith the World-Tree blooms again,
+    Since Time hath gathered Babylon,
+    And withered Rome still withers on.
+
+    Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,
+    How bright they shone upon the tree!
+    But Time hath gathered, both are gone,
+    And no man sails to Babylon.
+
+
+REGRET
+
+    One asked of regret,
+      And I made reply:
+    To have held the bird,
+      And let it fly;
+    To have seen the star
+      For a moment nigh,
+    And lost it
+      Through a slothful eye;
+    To have plucked the flower
+      And cast it by;
+    To have one only hope--
+      To die.
+
+
+
+
+_Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+Born in 1867, Lionel Johnson received a classical education at Oxford,
+and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies in Greek and
+Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with the modern Irish
+poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth; Johnson, having been
+converted to Catholicism in 1891, became imbued with Catholic and,
+later, with Irish traditions. His verse, while sometimes strained and
+over-decorated, is chastely designed, rich and, like that of the
+Cavalier poets of the seventeenth century, mystically devotional.
+_Poems_ (1895) contains his best work. Johnson died in 1902.
+
+
+MYSTIC AND CAVALIER
+
+    Go from me: I am one of those who fall.
+    What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,
+    In my sad company? Before the end,
+              Go from me, dear my friend!
+
+    Yours are the victories of light: your feet
+    Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:
+    But after warfare in a mourning gloom,
+              I rest in clouds of doom.
+
+    Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?
+    Is it the common light of the pure skies,
+    Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:
+              Though the end be not yet.
+
+    When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,
+    And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;
+    When I too joy, a man like other men:
+              Yet, am I like them, then?
+
+    And in the battle, when the horsemen sweep
+    Against a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:
+    Who ever sought that sudden calm, if I
+              Sought not? yet could not die!
+
+    Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:
+    Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?
+    Only the mists, only the weeping clouds,
+              Dimness and airy shrouds.
+
+    Beneath, what angels are at work? What powers
+    Prepare the secret of the fatal hours?
+    See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:
+              When comes the calling word?
+
+    The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,
+    Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.
+    When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,
+              My spirit may have sleep.
+
+    O rich and sounding voices of the air!
+    Interpreters and prophets of despair:
+    Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,
+              To make with you mine home.
+
+
+TO A TRAVELLER
+
+    The mountains, and the lonely death at last
+    Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend!
+    The wandering over, and the labour passed,
+        Thou art indeed at rest:
+        Earth gave thee of her best,
+        That labour and this end.
+
+    Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou:
+    Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways,
+    Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now
+        Upon earth's kindly breast
+        Thou art indeed at rest:
+        Thou, and thine arduous days.
+
+    Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night
+    Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down
+    His glory over thee, O heart of might!
+        Earth gives thee perfect rest:
+        Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:
+        Earth, whom the vast stars crown.
+
+
+
+
+_Ernest Dowson_
+
+
+Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867. His
+great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's "Waring"), who was at one
+time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson, practically an invalid all
+his life, was reckless with himself and, as disease weakened him more
+and more, hid himself in miserable surroundings; for almost two years
+he lived in sordid supper-houses known as "cabmen's shelters." He
+literally drank himself to death.
+
+His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape from a
+reality too big and brutal for him. His passionate lyric, "I have been
+faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion," a triumph of despair and
+disillusion, is an outburst in which Dowson epitomized himself--"One
+of the greatest lyrical poems of our time," writes Arthur Symons, "in
+it he has for once said everything, and he has said it to an
+intoxicating and perhaps immortal music."
+
+Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern minor poets.
+His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted by a strong and
+merciless environment.
+
+
+TO ONE IN BEDLAM
+
+    With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
+    Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
+    Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line
+    His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.
+
+    Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
+    With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
+    Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,
+    And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
+
+    O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
+    Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
+    Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
+    All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
+    Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
+    The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
+
+
+YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD ME
+
+    You would have understood me, had you waited;
+      I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:
+    Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated
+            Always to disagree.
+
+    What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:
+      Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.
+    Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,
+            Shall I reproach you, dead?
+
+    Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
+      All the old anger, setting us apart:
+    Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
+            Always, I held your heart.
+
+    I have met other women who were tender,
+      As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
+    Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender,
+            I who had found you fair?
+
+    Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
+      I had fought death for you, better than he:
+    But from the very first, dear! we were fated
+            Always to disagree.
+
+    Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
+      Love that in life was not to be our part:
+    On your low lying mound between the roses,
+            Sadly I cast my heart.
+
+    I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
+      Death and the darkness give you unto me;
+    Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
+            Hardly can disagree.
+
+
+
+
+"_A. E._"
+
+(_George William Russell_)
+
+
+At Durgan, a tiny town in the north of Ireland, George William Russell
+was born in 1867. He moved to Dublin when he was 10 years old and, as
+a young man, helped to form the group that gave rise to the Irish
+Renascence--the group of which William Butler Yeats, Doctor Douglas
+Hyde, Katharine Tynan and Lady Gregory were brilliant members. Besides
+being a splendid mystical poet, "A. E." is a painter of note, a fiery
+patriot, a distinguished sociologist, a public speaker, a student of
+economics and one of the heads of the Irish Agricultural Association.
+
+The best of his poetry is in _Homeward Songs by the Way_ (1894) and
+_The Earth Breath and Other Poems_. Yeats has spoken of these poems as
+"revealing in all things a kind of scented flame consuming them from
+within."
+
+
+THE GREAT BREATH
+
+    Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
+    Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
+    There where the ether like a diamond glows,
+            Its petals fade away.
+
+    A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
+    Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
+    The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere
+            The breath of Beauty blows.
+
+    I saw how all the trembling ages past,
+    Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
+    Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
+            And knows herself in death.
+
+
+THE UNKNOWN GOD
+
+    Far up the dim twilight fluttered
+      Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
+    The lights danced over the mountains,
+      Star after star they came.
+
+    The lights grew thicker unheeded,
+      For silent and still were we;
+    Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
+      Our eyes could never see.
+
+
+
+
+_Stephen Phillips_
+
+
+Born in 1868, Stephen Phillips is best known as the author of _Herod_
+(1900), _Paola and Francesca_ (1899), and _Ulysses_ (1902); a poetic
+playwright who succeeded in reviving, for a brief interval, the blank
+verse drama on the modern stage. Hailed at first with extravagant and
+almost incredible praise, Phillips lived to see his most popular
+dramas discarded and his new ones, such as _Pietro of Siena_ (1910),
+unproduced and unnoticed.
+
+Phillips failed to "restore" poetic drama because he was, first of
+all, a lyric rather than a dramatic poet. In spite of certain moments
+of rhetorical splendor, his scenes are spectacular instead of
+emotional; his inspiration is too often derived from other models. He
+died in 1915.
+
+
+FRAGMENT FROM "HEROD"
+
+    _Herod speaks_:
+    I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold
+    To be a counter-glory to the Sun.
+    There shall the eagle blindly dash himself,
+    There the first beam shall strike, and there the moon
+    Shall aim all night her argent archery;
+    And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars,
+    The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon;
+    Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell,
+    And flashings upon faces without hope.--
+    And I will think in gold and dream in silver,
+    Imagine in marble and conceive in bronze,
+    Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nations
+    And stammering tribes from undiscovered lands,
+    Allure the living God out of the bliss,
+    And all the streaming seraphim from heaven.
+
+
+BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD
+
+    Beautiful lie the dead;
+      Clear comes each feature;
+    Satisfied not to be,
+      Strangely contented.
+
+    Like ships, the anchor dropped,
+      Furled every sail is;
+    Mirrored with all their masts
+      In a deep water.
+
+
+A DREAM
+
+    My dead love came to me, and said:
+      'God gives me one hour's rest,
+    To spend with thee on earth again:
+      How shall we spend it best?'
+
+    'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
+      We quarrelled, as of old:
+    But, when I turned to make my peace,
+      That one short hour was told.
+
+
+
+
+_Laurence Binyon_
+
+
+Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster, August 10, 1869, a cousin of
+Stephen Phillips; in _Primavera_ (1890) their early poems appeared
+together. Binyon's subsequent volumes showed little distinction until
+he published _London Visions_, which, in an enlarged edition in 1908,
+revealed a gift of characterization and a turn of speech in surprising
+contrast to his previous academic _Lyrical Poems_ (1894). His _Odes_
+(1901) contains his ripest work; two poems in particular, "The
+Threshold" and "The Bacchanal of Alexander," are glowing and unusually
+spontaneous.
+
+Binyon's power has continued to grow; age has given his verse a new
+sharpness. "The House That Was," one of his most recent poems,
+appeared in _The London Mercury_, November, 1919.
+
+
+A SONG
+
+    For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,
+    There is no measure upon earth.
+    Nay, they wither, root and stem,
+    If an end be set to them.
+
+    Overbrim and overflow,
+    If your own heart you would know;
+    For the spirit born to bless
+    Lives but in its own excess.
+
+
+THE HOUSE THAT WAS
+
+    Of the old house, only a few crumbled
+      Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,
+    Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!
+      Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock
+    What once was firelit floor and private charm
+      Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading
+    At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,
+      And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.
+
+    Of the old garden, only a stray shining
+      Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,
+    Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!
+      But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers
+    By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts
+      Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,
+    The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,
+      Older than many a generation of men.
+
+
+
+
+_Alfred Douglas_
+
+
+Lord Alfred Douglas was born in 1870 and educated at Magdalen College,
+Oxford. He was the editor of _The Academy_ from 1907 to 1910 and was
+at one time the intimate friend of Oscar Wilde. One of the minor
+poets of "the eighteen-nineties," several of his poems rise above his
+own affectations and the end-of-the-century decadence. _The City of
+the Soul_ (1899) and _Sonnets_ (1900) contain his most graceful
+writing.
+
+
+THE GREEN RIVER
+
+    I know a green grass path that leaves the field
+        And, like a running river, winds along
+        Into a leafy wood, where is no throng
+    Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield
+    Their music to the moon. The place is sealed,
+        An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,
+        And all the unravished silences belong
+    To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.
+
+    So is my soul become a silent place....
+        Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night
+            To find some voice of music manifold.
+    Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
+        Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delight
+            That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
+
+
+
+
+_T. Sturge Moore_
+
+
+Thomas Sturge Moore was born March 4, 1870. He is well known not only
+as an author, but as a critic and wood-engraver. As an artist, he has
+achieved no little distinction and has designed the covers for the
+poetry of W. B. Yeats and others. As a poet, the greater portion of
+his verse is severely classical in tone, academic in expression but,
+of its kind, distinctive and intimate. Among his many volumes, the
+most outstanding are _The Vinedresser and Other Poems_ (1899), _A
+Sicilian Idyll_ (1911) and _The Sea Is Kind_ (1914).
+
+
+THE DYING SWAN
+
+    O silver-throated Swan
+    Struck, struck! A golden dart
+    Clean through thy breast has gone
+    Home to thy heart.
+    Thrill, thrill, O silver throat!
+    O silver trumpet, pour
+    Love for defiance back
+    On him who smote!
+    And brim, brim o'er
+    With love; and ruby-dye thy track
+    Down thy last living reach
+    Of river, sail the golden light--
+    Enter the sun's heart--even teach
+    O wondrous-gifted Pain, teach Thou
+    The God of love, let him learn how!
+
+
+SILENCE SINGS
+
+    So faint, no ear is sure it hears,
+    So faint and far;
+    So vast that very near appears
+    My voice, both here and in each star
+    Unmeasured leagues do bridge between;
+    Like that which on a face is seen
+    Where secrets are;
+    Sweeping, like veils of lofty balm,
+    Tresses unbound
+    O'er desert sand, o'er ocean calm,
+    I am wherever is not sound;
+    And, goddess of the truthful face,
+    My beauty doth instil its grace
+    That joy abound.
+
+
+
+
+_William H. Davies_
+
+
+According to his own biography, William H. Davies was born in a
+public-house called Church House at Newport, in the County of
+Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents. He was, until Bernard
+Shaw "discovered" him, a cattleman, a berry-picker, a panhandler--in
+short, a vagabond. In a preface to Davies' second book, _The
+Autobiography of a Super-Tramp_ (1906), Shaw describes how the
+manuscript came into his hands:
+
+"In the year 1905 I received by post a volume of poems by one William
+H. Davies, whose address was The Farm House, Kensington, S. E. I was
+surprised to learn that there was still a farmhouse left in
+Kensington; for I did not then suspect that the Farm House, like the
+Shepherdess Walks and Nightingale Lane and Whetstone Parks of Bethnal
+Green and Holborn, is so called nowadays in irony, and is, in fact, a
+doss-house, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's lodging,
+for, at most, sixpence.... The author, as far as I could guess, had
+walked into a printer's or stationer's shop; handed in his manuscript;
+and ordered his book as he might have ordered a pair of boots. It was
+marked 'price, half a crown.' An accompanying letter asked me very
+civilly if I required a half-crown book of verses; and if so, would I
+please send the author the half crown: if not, would I return the
+book. This was attractively simple and sensible. I opened the book,
+and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had read three lines I
+perceived that the author was a real poet. His work was not in the
+least strenuous or modern; there was indeed no sign of his ever having
+read anything otherwise than as a child reads.... Here, I saw, was a
+genuine innocent, writing odds and ends of verse about odds and ends
+of things; living quite out of the world in which such things are
+usually done, and knowing no better (or rather no worse) than to get
+his book made by the appropriate craftsman and hawk it round like any
+other ware."
+
+It is more than likely that Davies' first notoriety as a tramp-poet
+who had ridden the rails in the United States and had had his right
+foot cut off by a train in Canada, obscured his merits as a genuine
+singer. Even his early _The Soul's Destroyer_ (1907) revealed that
+simplicity which is as _naif_ as it is strange. The volumes that
+followed are more clearly melodious, more like the visionary wonder of
+Blake, more artistically artless.
+
+With the exception of "The Villain," which has not yet appeared in
+book form, the following poems are taken from _The Collected Poems of
+W. H. Davies_ (1916) with the permission of the publisher, Alfred A.
+Knopf.
+
+
+DAYS TOO SHORT
+
+    When primroses are out in Spring,
+      And small, blue violets come between;
+      When merry birds sing on boughs green,
+    And rills, as soon as born, must sing;
+
+    When butterflies will make side-leaps,
+      As though escaped from Nature's hand
+      Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand
+    Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;
+
+    When small clouds are so silvery white
+      Each seems a broken rimmed moon--
+      When such things are, this world too soon,
+    For me, doth wear the veil of Night.
+
+
+THE MOON
+
+    Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
+      Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
+    Thy beauty makes me like the child
+      That cries aloud to own thy light:
+    The little child that lifts each arm
+    To press thee to her bosom warm.
+
+    Though there are birds that sing this night
+      With thy white beams across their throats,
+    Let my deep silence speak for me
+      More than for them their sweetest notes:
+    Who worships thee till music fails,
+    Is greater than thy nightingales.
+
+
+THE VILLAIN
+
+    While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
+      That beamed where'er they looked;
+    And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
+      Excited, while they sucked;
+    While every bird enjoyed his song,
+    Without one thought of harm or wrong--
+    I turned my head and saw the wind,
+      Not far from where I stood,
+    Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
+      Into a dark and lonely wood.
+
+
+THE EXAMPLE
+
+    Here's an example from
+      A Butterfly;
+    That on a rough, hard rock
+      Happy can lie;
+    Friendless and all alone
+    On this unsweetened stone.
+
+    Now let my bed be hard,
+      No care take I;
+    I'll make my joy like this
+      Small Butterfly;
+    Whose happy heart has power
+    To make a stone a flower.
+
+
+
+
+_Hilaire Belloc_
+
+
+Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman,
+an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat,
+a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After
+leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French
+Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French
+citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and
+in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South
+Salford.
+
+As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written
+three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_,
+sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path
+to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book
+which has passed through many editions. His historical studies and
+biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are
+classics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging.
+His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide
+variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are
+refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt
+liquor or his beloved Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a
+fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and
+persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual
+kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.
+
+
+THE SOUTH COUNTRY
+
+    When I am living in the Midlands
+      That are sodden and unkind,
+    I light my lamp in the evening:
+      My work is left behind;
+    And the great hills of the South Country
+      Come back into my mind.
+
+    The great hills of the South Country
+      They stand along the sea;
+    And it's there walking in the high woods
+      That I could wish to be,
+    And the men that were boys when I was a boy
+      Walking along with me.
+
+    The men that live in North England
+      I saw them for a day:
+    Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
+      Their skies are fast and grey;
+    From their castle-walls a man may see
+      The mountains far away.
+
+    The men that live in West England
+      They see the Severn strong,
+    A-rolling on rough water brown
+      Light aspen leaves along.
+    They have the secret of the Rocks,
+      And the oldest kind of song.
+
+    But the men that live in the South Country
+      Are the kindest and most wise,
+    They get their laughter from the loud surf,
+      And the faith in their happy eyes
+    Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
+      When over the sea she flies;
+    The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
+      She blesses us with surprise.
+
+    I never get between the pines
+      But I smell the Sussex air;
+    Nor I never come on a belt of sand
+      But my home is there.
+    And along the sky the line of the Downs
+      So noble and so bare.
+
+    A lost thing could I never find,
+      Nor a broken thing mend:
+    And I fear I shall be all alone
+      When I get towards the end.
+    Who will there be to comfort me
+      Or who will be my friend?
+
+    I will gather and carefully make my friends
+      Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
+    They watch the stars from silent folds,
+      They stiffly plough the field.
+    By them and the God of the South Country
+      My poor soul shall be healed.
+
+    If I ever become a rich man,
+      Or if ever I grow to be old,
+    I will build a house with deep thatch
+      To shelter me from the cold,
+    And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
+      And the story of Sussex told.
+
+    I will hold my house in the high wood
+      Within a walk of the sea,
+    And the men that were boys when I was a boy
+      Shall sit and drink with me.
+
+
+
+
+_Anthony C. Deane_
+
+
+Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian prizeman in
+1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been Vicar of All Saints,
+Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His long list of light verse and
+essays includes several excellent parodies, the most delightful being
+found in his _New Rhymes for Old_ (1901).
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE _BILLYCOCK_
+
+    It was the good ship _Billycock_, with thirteen men aboard,
+      Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,--
+    A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted
+      To navigate a battleship in prose.
+
+    It was the good ship _Billycock_ put out from Plymouth Sound,
+      While lustily the gallant heroes cheered,
+    And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,
+      Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.
+
+    But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,
+      A dozen ships of France around her lay,
+    (Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty),
+      And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.
+
+    Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy:
+      "Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great,
+    And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice is
+      That you and France had better arbitrate!"
+
+    "Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest,
+      "Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong;
+    Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writer
+      No suitable material for song?"
+
+    "Nay--is the shorthand-writer here?--I tell you, one and all,
+      I mean to do my duty, as I ought;
+    With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action
+      And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.
+
+    And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,
+      Describing all the fight in epic style)
+    When the _Billycock_ was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing
+      (Or twenty, as above) in single file!
+
+    Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,
+      The memory of that historic day,
+    And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion
+      The _Billycock_ in Salamander Bay!
+
+    _P.S._--I've lately noticed that the critics--who, I think,
+      In praising _my_ productions are remiss--
+    Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,
+      By patriotic ditties such as this,
+
+    For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,
+      Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet--
+    Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle,
+      And there you have your masterpiece complete!
+
+    Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse
+      To languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?
+    The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy--
+      I mean to take to writing it myself!
+
+
+A RUSTIC SONG
+
+    Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe
+      O' rustic volk, I be;
+    And writin' gennelmen due descroibe
+      The doin's o' such as we;
+    I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,
+      I can't tell 'oes from trowels,
+    But 'ear me mix ma consonants,
+      An' moodle oop all ma vowels!
+
+    I talks in a wunnerful dialect
+      That vew can hunderstand,
+    'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,
+      With a dash o' the Oirish brand;
+    Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speech
+      I picks from Cockney spots,
+    And when releegious truths I teach,
+      Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!
+
+    In most of the bukes, 'twas once the case
+      I 'adn't got much to do,
+    I blessed the 'eroine's purty face,
+      An' I seed the 'ero through;
+    But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!
+      A power o' bukes there be
+    Which from the start to the very last page
+      Entoirely deal with me!
+
+    The wit or the point o' what I spakes
+      Ye've got to find if ye can;
+    A wunnerful difference spellin' makes
+      In the 'ands of a competent man!
+    I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,
+      I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels,
+    But I does ma wark, if ma consonants
+      Be properly mixed with ma vowels!
+
+
+
+
+_J. M. Synge_
+
+
+The most brilliant star of the Celtic revival was born at Rathfarnham,
+near Dublin, in 1871. As a child in Wicklow, he was already fascinated
+by the strange idioms and the rhythmic speech he heard there, a native
+utterance which was his greatest delight and which was to be rich
+material for his greatest work. He did not use this folk-language
+merely as he heard it. He was an artist first and last, and as an
+artist he bent and shaped the rough material, selecting with great
+fastidiousness, so that in his plays every speech is, as he himself
+declared all good speech should be, "as fully flavored as a nut or
+apple." Even in _The Tinker's Wedding_ (1907), possibly the least
+important of his plays, one is arrested by snatches like:
+
+     "That's a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if sleep's
+     a grand thing, it's a grand thing to be waking up a day the
+     like of this, when there's a warm sun in it, and a kind air,
+     and you'll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the
+     top of the hill."
+
+For some time, Synge's career was uncertain. He went to Germany half
+intending to become a professional musician. There he studied the
+theory of music, perfecting himself meanwhile in Gaelic and Hebrew,
+winning prizes in both of these languages. Yeats found him in France
+in 1898 and advised him to go to the Aran Islands, to live there as if
+he were one of the people. "Express a life," said Yeats, "that has
+never found expression." Synge went. He became part of the life of
+Aran, living upon salt fish and eggs, talking Irish for the most part
+but listening also to that beautiful English which, to quote Yeats
+again, "has grown up in Irish-speaking districts and takes its
+vocabulary from the time of Malory and of the translators of the
+Bible, but its idiom and vivid metaphor from Irish." The result of
+this close contact was five of the greatest poetic prose dramas not
+only of his own generation, but of several generations preceding it.
+(See Preface.)
+
+In _Riders to the Sea_ (1903), _The Well of the Saints_ (1905), and
+_The Playboy of the Western World_ (1907) we have a richness of
+imagery, a new language startling in its vigor, a wildness and passion
+that contrast strangely with the suave mysticism and delicate
+spirituality of his associates in the Irish Theatre.
+
+Synge's _Poems and Translations_ (1910), a volume which was not issued
+until after his death, contains not only his few hard and earthy
+verses, but also Synge's theory of poetry. The translations, which
+have been rendered in a highly intensified prose, are as racy as
+anything in his plays; his versions of Villon and Petrarch are
+remarkable for their adherence to the original and still radiate the
+poet's own personality.
+
+Synge died, just as he was beginning to attain fame, at a private
+hospital in Dublin March 24, 1909.
+
+
+BEG-INNISH
+
+    Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude
+    To dance in Beg-Innish,[13]
+    And when the lads (they're in Dunquin)
+    Have sold their crabs and fish,
+    Wave fawny shawls and call them in,
+    And call the little girls who spin,
+    And seven weavers from Dunquin,
+    To dance in Beg-Innish.
+
+    I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean,
+    Where nets are laid to dry,
+    I've silken strings would draw a dance
+    From girls are lame or shy;
+    Four strings I've brought from Spain and France
+    To make your long men skip and prance,
+    Till stars look out to see the dance
+    Where nets are laid to dry.
+
+    We'll have no priest or peeler in
+    To dance in Beg-Innish;
+    But we'll have drink from M'riarty Jim
+    Rowed round while gannets fish,
+    A keg with porter to the brim,
+    That every lad may have his whim,
+    Till we up sails with M'riarty Jim
+    And sail from Beg-Innish.
+
+
+A TRANSLATION FROM PETRARCH
+
+(_He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth_)
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her, and
+is holding that face away from me, where I was finding peace from
+great sadness.
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are after taking her, and
+shutting her in with greediness, the Heavens that do push their bolt
+against so many.
+
+What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that have got her sweet
+company, that I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am bearing
+against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me
+with a word.
+
+
+TO THE OAKS OF GLENCREE
+
+    My arms are round you, and I lean
+    Against you, while the lark
+    Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
+    Shadows are on your bark.
+
+    There'll come a season when you'll stretch
+    Black boards to cover me;
+    Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
+    With worms eternally.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[13] (The accent is on the last syllable.)
+
+
+
+
+_Nora Hopper Chesson_
+
+
+Nora Hopper was born in Exeter on January 2, 1871, and married W. H.
+Chesson, a well-known writer, in 1901. Although the Irish element in
+her work is acquired and incidental, there is a distinct if somewhat
+fitful race consciousness in _Ballads in Prose_ (1894) and _Under
+Quickened Boughs_ (1896). She died suddenly April 14, 1906.
+
+
+A CONNAUGHT LAMENT
+
+    I will arise and go hence to the west,
+    And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
+    But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall
+    Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!
+
+    My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!
+    I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:
+    Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow
+    The heart in my breast is, that beats so low.
+
+    Because of the words your lips have spoken,
+    (O dear black head that I must not follow)
+    My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
+    As ice on the water my heart is broken.
+
+    O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,
+    The swallow goes south with you: I go west
+    Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
+    I am the poppy and you the sickle;
+    My heart is broken within my breast.
+
+
+
+
+_Eva Gore-Booth_
+
+
+Eva Gore-Booth, the second daughter of Sir Henry Gore-Booth and the
+sister of Countess Marcievicz, was born in Sligo, Ireland, in 1872.
+She first appeared in "A. E."'s anthology, _New Songs_, in which so
+many of the modern Irish poets first came forward.
+
+Her initial volume, _Poems_ (1898), showed practically no
+distinction--not even the customary "promise." But _The One and the
+Many_ (1904) and _The Sorrowful Princess_ (1907) revealed the gift of
+the Celtic singer who is half mystic, half minstrel. Primarily
+philosophic, her verse often turns to lyrics as haunting as the two
+examples here reprinted.
+
+
+THE WAVES OF BREFFNY
+
+    The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
+      And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,
+    But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me
+      And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
+
+    A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,
+      And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:
+    But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
+      And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
+
+    The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
+      Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;
+    But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
+      And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
+
+
+WALLS
+
+    Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,
+    The sea thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,
+    The lofty rose, the low-grown aconite,
+    The gliding river and the stream that brawls
+    Down the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls--
+    All these are equal in the equal light--
+    All waters mirror the one Infinite.
+
+    God made a garden, it was men built walls;
+    But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;
+    Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,
+    Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,
+    Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake
+    And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,
+    But all things give themselves, yet none may take.
+
+
+
+
+_Moira O'Neill_
+
+
+Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of
+only twenty-five lyrics, _Songs from the Glens of Antrim_ (1900),
+simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best
+of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; melodious without
+falling into the tinkle of most "popular" sentimental verse.
+
+
+A BROKEN SONG
+
+    '_Where am I from?_' From the green hills of Erin.
+    '_Have I no song then?_' My songs are all sung.
+    '_What o' my love?_' 'Tis alone I am farin'.
+    Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.
+
+    '_If she was tall?_' Like a king's own daughter.
+    '_If she was fair?_' Like a mornin' o' May.
+    When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,
+    When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.
+
+    '_Where did she dwell?_' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.
+    '_Who loved her best?_' There's no one now will know.
+    '_Where is she gone?_' Och, why would I be tellin'!
+    Where she is gone there I can never go.
+
+
+BEAUTY'S A FLOWER
+
+           _Youth's for an hour,
+            Beauty's a flower,
+            But love is the jewel that wins the world._
+
+    Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,
+    Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;
+    In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,
+    I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
+
+    Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,
+    There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song;
+    For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,
+    An' Mary--God be good to her!--is all I love in life.
+
+           _Youth's for an hour,
+            Beauty's a flower,
+            But love is the jewel that wins the world._
+
+
+
+
+_John McCrae_
+
+
+John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was
+graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his
+studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining
+the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a
+lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge
+of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during
+the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January,
+1918, his volume _In Flanders Fields_ (1919) appearing posthumously.
+
+Few who read the title poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read
+poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of
+the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms.
+
+
+IN FLANDERS FIELDS
+
+    In Flanders fields the poppies blow
+    Between the crosses, row on row,
+      That mark our place; and in the sky
+      The larks, still bravely singing, fly
+    Scarce heard amid the guns below.
+
+    We are the Dead. Short days ago
+    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
+      Loved and were loved, and now we lie
+            In Flanders fields.
+
+    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
+    To you from failing hands we throw
+      The torch; be yours to hold it high.
+      If ye break faith with us who die
+    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
+            In Flanders fields.
+
+
+
+
+_Ford Madox Hueffer_
+
+
+Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873 and is best known as the author of
+many novels, two of which, _Romance_ and _The Inheritors_, were
+written in collaboration with Joseph Conrad. He has written also
+several critical studies, those on Rossetti and Henry James being the
+most notable. His _On Heaven and Other Poems_ appeared in 1916.
+
+
+CLAIR DE LUNE
+
+    I
+
+    I should like to imagine
+    A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
+
+    For, it is possible
+    To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:
+    To see the black perspective of long avenues
+    All silent.
+    The white strips of sky
+    At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:
+    The white strips of sky
+    Above, diminishing--
+    The silence and blackness of the avenue
+    Enclosed by immensities of space
+    Spreading away
+    Over No Man's Land....
+
+    For a minute ...
+    For ten ...
+    There will be no star shells
+    But the untroubled stars,
+    There will be no _Very_ light
+    But the light of the quiet moon
+    Like a swan.
+    And silence....
+
+    Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams
+    "_Wukka Wukka_" will go the machine-guns,
+    And, far away to the left
+    _Wukka Wukka_.
+    And sharply,
+    _Wuk_ ... _Wuk_ ... and then silence
+    For a space in the clear of the moon.
+
+    II
+
+    I should like to imagine
+    A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble
+    Will be silent....
+
+    Do you remember, my dear,
+    Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,
+    Looking over to Flatholme
+    We sat ... Long ago!...
+    And the things that you told me ...
+    Little things in the clear of the moon,
+    The little, sad things of a life....
+
+    We shall do it again
+    Full surely,
+    Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.
+    Then, far away to the right
+    Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble
+    _Wukka-wukka!_
+    And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,
+    _Wukka-wuk!..._
+
+    I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?
+    As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"
+    In the dark of the moon,
+    Going over....
+
+
+"THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY ..."
+
+    The little angels of Heaven
+    Each wear a long white dress,
+    And in the tall arcadings
+    Play ball and play at chess;
+
+    With never a soil on their garments,
+    Not a sigh the whole day long,
+    Not a bitter note in their pleasure,
+    Not a bitter note in their song.
+
+    But they shall know keener pleasure,
+    And they shall know joy more rare--
+    Keener, keener pleasure
+    When you, my dear, come there.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    The little angels of Heaven
+    Each wear a long white gown,
+    And they lean over the ramparts
+    Waiting and looking down.
+
+
+
+
+_Walter De la Mare_
+
+
+The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary poetry,
+Walter De la Mare, was born in 1873. Although he did not begin to
+bring out his work in book form until he was over 30, he is, as Harold
+Williams has written, "the singer of a young and romantic world, a
+singer even for children, understanding and perceiving as a child." De
+la Mare paints simple scenes of miniature loveliness; he uses
+thin-spun fragments of fairy-like delicacy and achieves a grace that
+is remarkable in its universality. "In a few words, seemingly artless
+and unsought" (to quote Williams again), "he can express a pathos or a
+hope as wide as man's life."
+
+De la Mare is an astonishing joiner of words; in _Peacock Pie_ (1913)
+he surprises us again and again by transforming what began as a
+child's nonsense-rhyme into a suddenly thrilling snatch of music. A
+score of times he takes things as casual as the feeding of chickens or
+the swallowing of physic, berry-picking, eating, hair-cutting--and
+turns them into magic. These poems read like lyrics of William
+Shakespeare rendered by Mother Goose. The trick of revealing the
+ordinary in whimsical colors, of catching the commonplace off its
+guard, is the first of De la Mare's two magics.
+
+This poet's second gift is his sense of the supernatural, of the
+fantastic other-world that lies on the edges of our consciousness.
+_The Listeners_ (1912) is a book that, like all the best of De la
+Mare, is full of half-heard whispers; moonlight and mystery seem
+soaked in the lines, and a cool wind from Nowhere blows over them.
+That most magical of modern verses, "The Listeners," and the brief
+music of "An Epitaph" are two fine examples among many. In the first
+of these poems there is an uncanny splendor. What we have here is the
+effect, the thrill, the overtones of a ghost story rather than the
+narrative itself--the less than half-told adventure of some new Childe
+Roland heroically challenging a heedless universe. Never have silence
+and black night been reproduced more creepily, nor has the symbolism
+of man's courage facing the cryptic riddle of life been more memorably
+expressed.
+
+De la Mare's chief distinction, however, lies not so much in what he
+says as in how he says it; he can even take outworn words like
+"thridding," "athwart," "amaranthine" and make them live again in a
+poetry that is of no time and of all time. He writes, it has been
+said, as much for antiquity as for posterity; he is a poet who is
+distinctively in the world and yet not wholly of it.
+
+
+THE LISTENERS
+
+    'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
+      Knocking on the moonlit door;
+    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
+      Of the forest's ferny floor.
+    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
+      Above the Traveller's head:
+    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
+      'Is there anybody there?' he said.
+    But no one descended to the Traveller;
+      No head from the leaf-fringed sill
+    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
+      Where he stood perplexed and still.
+    But only a host of phantom listeners
+      That dwelt in the lone house then
+    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
+      To that voice from the world of men:
+    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
+      That goes down to the empty hall,
+    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
+      By the lonely Traveller's call.
+    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
+      Their stillness answering his cry,
+    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
+      'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
+    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
+      Louder, and lifted his head:--
+    'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
+      That I kept my word,' he said.
+    Never the least stir made the listeners,
+      Though every word he spake
+    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
+      From the one man left awake:
+    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
+      And the sound of iron on stone,
+    And how the silence surged softly backward,
+      When the plunging hoofs were gone.
+
+
+AN EPITAPH
+
+    Here lies a most beautiful lady,
+    Light of step and heart was she;
+    I think she was the most beautiful lady
+    That ever was in the West Country.
+
+    But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
+    However rare--rare it be;
+    And when I crumble, who will remember
+    This lady of the West Country?
+
+
+TIRED TIM
+
+    Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
+    He lags the long bright morning through,
+    Ever so tired of nothing to do;
+    He moons and mopes the livelong day,
+    Nothing to think about, nothing to say;
+    Up to bed with his candle to creep,
+    Too tired to yawn; too tired to sleep:
+    Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
+
+
+OLD SUSAN
+
+    When Susan's work was done, she'd sit
+    With one fat guttering candle lit,
+    And window opened wide to win
+    The sweet night air to enter in;
+    There, with a thumb to keep her place
+    She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.
+    Her mild eyes gliding very slow
+    Across the letters to and fro,
+    While wagged the guttering candle flame
+    In the wind that through the window came.
+    And sometimes in the silence she
+    Would mumble a sentence audibly,
+    Or shake her head as if to say,
+    'You silly souls, to act this way!'
+    And never a sound from night I'd hear,
+    Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;
+    Or her old shuffling thumb should turn
+    Another page; and rapt and stern,
+    Through her great glasses bent on me
+    She'd glance into reality;
+    And shake her round old silvery head,
+    With--'You!--I thought you was in bed!'--
+    Only to tilt her book again,
+    And rooted in Romance remain.
+
+
+NOD
+
+    Softly along the road of evening,
+        In a twilight dim with rose,
+    Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
+        Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
+
+    His drowsy flock streams on before him,
+        Their fleeces charged with gold,
+    To where the sun's last beam leans low
+        On Nod the shepherd's fold.
+
+    The hedge is quick and green with briar,
+        From their sand the conies creep;
+    And all the birds that fly in heaven
+        Flock singing home to sleep.
+
+    His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
+        Yet, when night's shadows fall,
+    His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
+        Misses not one of all.
+
+    His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
+        The waters of no-more-pain;
+    His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
+        "Rest, rest, and rest again."
+
+
+
+
+_G. K. Chesterton_
+
+
+This brilliant journalist, novelist, essayist, publicist and lyricist,
+Gilbert Keith Chesterton, was born at Campden Hill, Kensington, in
+1874, and began his literary life by reviewing books on art for
+various magazines. He is best known as a writer of flashing,
+paradoxical essays on anything and everything, like _Tremendous
+Trifles_ (1909), _Varied Types_ (1905), and _All Things Considered_
+(1910). But he is also a stimulating critic; a keen appraiser, as in
+his volume _Heretics_ (1905) and his analytical studies of Robert
+Browning, Charles Dickens, and George Bernard Shaw; a writer of
+strange and grotesque romances like _The Napoleon of Notting Hill_
+(1906), _The Man Who Was Thursday_ (1908), which Chesterton himself
+has subtitled "A Nightmare," and _The Flying Inn_ (1914); the author
+of several books of fantastic short stories, ranging from the wildly
+whimsical narratives in _The Club of Queer Trades_ (1905) to that
+amazing sequence _The Innocence of Father Brown_ (1911)--which is a
+series of religious detective stories!
+
+Besides being the creator of all of these, Chesterton finds time to be
+a prolific if sometimes too acrobatic newspaperman, a lay preacher in
+disguise (witness _Orthodoxy_ [1908], _What's Wrong with the World?_
+[1910], _The Ball and the Cross_ [1909]), a pamphleteer, and a poet.
+His first volume of verse, _The Wild Knight and Other Poems_ (1900), a
+collection of quaintly-flavored and affirmative verses, was followed
+by _The Ballad of the White Horse_ (1911), one long poem which, in
+spite of Chesterton's ever-present didactic sermonizing, is possibly
+the most stirring creation he has achieved. This poem has the swing,
+the vigor, the spontaneity, and, above all, the ageless simplicity of
+the true narrative ballad.
+
+Scarcely less notable is the ringing "Lepanto" from his later _Poems_
+(1915) which, anticipating the banging, clanging verses of Vachel
+Lindsay's "The Congo," is one of the finest of modern chants. It is
+interesting to see how the syllables beat, as though on brass; it is
+thrilling to feel how, in one's pulses, the armies sing, the feet
+tramp, the drums snarl, and all the tides of marching crusaders roll
+out of lines like:
+
+    "Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
+    Don John of Austria is going to the war;
+    Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
+    In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold;
+    Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
+    Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes...."
+
+Chesterton, the prose-paradoxer, is a delightful product of a
+skeptical age. But it is Chesterton the poet who is more likely to
+outlive it.
+
+
+LEPANTO[14]
+
+    White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
+    And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
+    There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
+    It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
+    It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
+    For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
+    They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
+    They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
+    And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
+    And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
+    The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
+    The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
+    From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
+    And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
+
+    Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
+    Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
+    Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
+    The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
+    The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
+    That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
+    In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
+    Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
+    Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
+    Don John of Austria is going to the war,
+    Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
+    In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
+    Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
+    Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
+    Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
+    Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
+    Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
+    Love-light of Spain--hurrah!
+    Death-light of Africa!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is riding to the sea.
+
+    Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
+    (_Don John of Austria is going to the war._)
+    He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
+    His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
+    He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
+    And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
+    And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
+    Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
+    Giants and the Genii,
+    Multiplex of wing and eye,
+    Whose strong obedience broke the sky
+    When Solomon was king.
+
+    They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
+    From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
+    They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
+    Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
+    On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
+    Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
+    They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
+    They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
+    And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
+    And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
+    And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
+    For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
+    We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
+    Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
+    But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
+    The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
+    It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
+    It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
+    It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
+    Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
+    For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
+    (_Don John of Austria is going to the war._)
+    Sudden and still--hurrah!
+    Bolt from Iberia!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is gone by Alcalar.
+
+    St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
+    (_Don John of Austria is girt and going forth._)
+    Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
+    And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
+    He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
+    The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
+    The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
+    And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
+    And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
+    And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
+    And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
+    But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
+    Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
+    Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
+    Trumpet that sayeth _ha_!
+        _Domino gloria!_
+    Don John of Austria
+    Is shouting to the ships.
+
+    King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
+    (_Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck._)
+    The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
+    And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
+    He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
+    He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
+    And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
+    Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
+    And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
+    But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
+    Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
+    Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
+    Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
+    Gun upon gun, hurrah!
+    Don John of Austria
+    Has loosed the cannonade.
+
+    The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
+    (_Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke._)
+    The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
+    The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
+    He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
+    The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
+    They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
+    They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
+    And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
+    And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
+    Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
+    Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
+    They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
+    The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
+    They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
+    Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
+    And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
+    Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
+    And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
+    (_But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!_)
+    Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
+    Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
+    Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
+    Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
+    Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
+    White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
+    _Vivat Hispania!_
+    _Domino Gloria!_
+    Don John of Austria
+    Has set his people free!
+
+    Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
+    (_Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath._)
+    And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
+    Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
+    And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
+    (_But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade._)
+
+
+A PRAYER IN DARKNESS
+
+    This much, O heaven--if I should brood or rave,
+      Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
+      Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
+    Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
+
+    If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
+      Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
+      In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
+    The shining silence of the scorn of God.
+
+    Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
+      If I must travail in a night of wrath,
+      Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
+    Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
+
+    Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
+      Thought it beat brightly, even on--Calvary:
+      And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
+    Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.
+
+
+THE DONKEY
+
+    "The tattered outlaw of the earth,
+      Of ancient crooked will;
+     Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
+      I keep my secret still.
+
+    "Fools! For I also had my hour;
+      One far fierce hour and sweet:
+     There was a shout about my ears,
+      And palms before my feet."
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[14] From _Poems_ by G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co.
+and reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_
+
+
+Born at Hexam in 1878, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson has published almost a
+dozen books of verse--the first four or five (see Preface) being
+imitative in manner and sentimentally romantic in tone. With _The
+Stonefolds_ (1907) and _Daily Bread_ (1910), Gibson executed a
+complete right-about-face and, with dramatic brevity, wrote a series
+of poems mirroring the dreams, pursuits and fears of common humanity.
+_Fires_ (1912) marks an advance in technique and power. And though in
+_Livelihood_ (1917) Gibson seems to be theatricalizing and merely
+exploiting his working-people, his later lyrics recapture the veracity
+of such memorable poems as "The Old Man," "The Blind Rower," and "The
+Machine." _Hill-Tracks_ (1918) attempts to capture the beauty of
+village-names and the glamour of the English countryside.
+
+
+PRELUDE
+
+    As one, at midnight, wakened by the call
+    Of golden-plovers in their seaward flight,
+    Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fall
+    Through tingling silence of the frosty night--
+    Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,
+    And then, in fancy, faring with the flock
+    Far over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,
+    Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;
+    And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drowned
+    Within the mightier music of the deep,
+    No more remembers the sweet piping sound
+    That startled him from dull, undreaming sleep;
+    So I, first waking from oblivion, heard,
+    With heart that kindled to the call of song,
+    The voice of young life, fluting like a bird,
+    And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long,
+    Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight,
+    I caught the stormy summons of the sea,
+    And dared the restless deeps that, day and night,
+    Surge with the life-song of humanity.
+
+
+THE STONE[15]
+
+    "And will you cut a stone for him,
+    To set above his head?
+    And will you cut a stone for him--
+    A stone for him?" she said.
+
+    Three days before, a splintered rock
+    Had struck her lover dead--
+    Had struck him in the quarry dead,
+    Where, careless of the warning call,
+    He loitered, while the shot was fired--
+    A lively stripling, brave and tall,
+    And sure of all his heart desired ...
+    A flash, a shock,
+    A rumbling fall ...
+    And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
+    A lifeless heap, with face of clay;
+    And still as any stone he lay,
+    With eyes that saw the end of all.
+
+    I went to break the news to her;
+    And I could hear my own heart beat
+    With dread of what my lips might say
+    But, some poor fool had sped before;
+    And flinging wide her father's door,
+    Had blurted out the news to her,
+    Had struck her lover dead for her,
+    Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
+    Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
+    And dropped it at her feet:
+    Then hurried on his witless way,
+    Scarce knowing she had heard.
+
+    And when I came, she stood, alone
+    A woman, turned to stone:
+    And, though no word at all she said,
+    I knew that all was known.
+
+    Because her heart was dead,
+    She did not sigh nor moan,
+    His mother wept:
+    She could not weep.
+    Her lover slept:
+    She could not sleep.
+    Three days, three nights,
+    She did not stir:
+    Three days, three nights,
+    Were one to her,
+    Who never closed her eyes
+    From sunset to sunrise,
+    From dawn to evenfall:
+    Her tearless, staring eyes,
+    That seeing naught, saw all.
+
+    The fourth night when I came from work,
+    I found her at my door.
+    "And will you cut a stone for him?"
+    She said: and spoke no more:
+    But followed me, as I went in,
+    And sank upon a chair;
+    And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
+    With still, unseeing stare.
+    And, as she waited patiently,
+    I could not bear to feel
+    Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
+    Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
+    Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
+    And curdled the warm blood in me,
+    Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
+    And pierced my marrow like cold steel.
+
+    And so I rose, and sought a stone;
+    And cut it, smooth and square:
+    And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
+    Beside me, in her chair.
+    Night after night, by candlelight,
+    I cut her lover's name:
+    Night after night, so still and white,
+    And like a ghost she came;
+    And sat beside me in her chair;
+    And watched with eyes aflame.
+
+    She eyed each stroke;
+    And hardly stirred:
+    She never spoke
+    A single word:
+    And not a sound or murmur broke
+    The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.
+
+    With still eyes ever on my hands,
+    With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
+    My wincing, overwearied hands,
+    She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
+    And silent, indrawn breath:
+    And every stroke my chisel cut,
+    Death cut still deeper in her heart:
+    The two of us were chiselling,
+    Together, I and death.
+
+    And when at length the job was done,
+    And I had laid the mallet by,
+    As if, at last, her peace were won,
+    She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,
+    Passed slowly through the open door:
+    And never crossed my threshold more.
+
+    Next night I laboured late, alone,
+    To cut her name upon the stone.
+
+
+SIGHT[16]
+
+    By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyes
+    On colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire--
+    Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire,
+    Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,
+    And apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.
+
+    And as I lingered, lost in divine delight,
+    My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sight
+    And all youth's lively senses keen and quick ...
+    When suddenly, behind me in the night,
+    I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[15] From _Fires_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1912, by The
+Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
+
+[16] From _Borderlands and Thoroughfares_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.
+Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of
+the publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_John Masefield_
+
+
+John Masefield was born June 1, 1878, in Ledbury, Hertfordshire. He
+was the son of a lawyer but, being of a restless disposition, he took
+to the sea at an early age and became a wanderer for several years. At
+one time, in 1895, to be exact, he worked for a few months as a sort
+of third assistant barkeeper and dish-washer in Luke O'Connor's
+saloon, the Columbia Hotel, in New York City. The place is still there
+on the corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues.
+
+The results of his wanderings showed in his early works, _Salt-Water
+Ballads_ (1902), _Ballads_ (1903), frank and often crude poems of
+sailors written in their own dialect, and _A Mainsail Haul_ (1905), a
+collection of short nautical stories. In these books Masefield
+possibly overemphasized passion and brutality but, underneath the
+violence, he captured that highly-colored realism which is the poetry
+of life.
+
+It was not until he published _The Everlasting Mercy_ (1911) that he
+became famous. Followed quickly by those remarkable long narrative
+poems, _The Widow in the Bye Street_ (1912), _Dauber_ (1912), and _The
+Daffodil Fields_ (1913), there is in all of these that peculiar blend
+of physical exulting and spiritual exaltation that is so striking, and
+so typical of Masefield. Their very rudeness is lifted to a plane of
+religious intensity. (See Preface.) Pictorially, Masefield is even
+more forceful. The finest moment in _The Widow in the Bye Street_ is
+the portrayal of the mother alone in her cottage; the public-house
+scene and the passage describing the birds following the plough are
+the most intense touches in _The Everlasting Mercy_. Nothing more
+vigorous and thrilling than the description of the storm at sea in
+_Dauber_ has appeared in current literature.
+
+The war, in which Masefield served with the Red Cross in France and on
+the Gallipoli peninsula (of which campaign he wrote a study for the
+government), softened his style; _Good Friday and Other Poems_ (1916)
+is as restrained and dignified a collection as that of any of his
+contemporaries. _Reynard the Fox_ (1919) is the best of his new manner
+with a return of the old vivacity.
+
+Masefield has also written several novels of which _Multitude and
+Solitude_ (1909) is the most outstanding; half a dozen plays, ranging
+from the classical solemnity of _Pompey the Great_ to the hot and racy
+_Tragedy of Nan_; and one of the freshest, most creative critiques of
+_Shakespeare_ (1911) in the last generation.
+
+
+A CONSECRATION
+
+    Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers
+    Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,--
+    Rather the scorned--the rejected--the men hemmed in with the spears;
+
+    The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,
+    Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.
+    The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.
+
+    Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,
+    Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,
+    But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.
+
+    Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,
+    The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,
+    The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.
+
+    The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
+    The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,
+    The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.
+
+    Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,
+    The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;--
+    Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!
+
+    Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;
+    Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.
+    Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold--
+    Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.
+
+                                                   AMEN.
+
+
+SEA-FEVER
+
+    I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
+    And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
+    And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
+    And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
+
+    I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
+    Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
+    And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
+    And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.
+
+    I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
+    To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's
+        like a whetted knife;
+    And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
+    And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
+
+
+ROUNDING THE HORN
+
+(_From "Dauber"_)[17]
+
+    Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"
+    The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:
+    Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,
+    And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.
+    Down clattered flying kites and staysails; some
+    Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,
+    And from the south-west came the end of the world....
+
+    "Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid
+    Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling
+    Sick at the mighty space of air displayed
+    Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.
+    A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.
+    He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.
+    A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
+
+    The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.
+    He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,
+    Clammy with natural terror to the shoes
+    While idiotic promptings came and went.
+    Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;
+    He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,
+    "Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.
+
+    Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl;
+    The sky went out, the waters disappeared.
+    He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl
+    The ship upon her side. The darkness speared
+    At her with wind; she staggered, she careered;
+    Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go,
+    He saw her yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
+
+    Whirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold--
+    Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,
+    Which whiffled out men's tears, defeated, took hold,
+    Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.
+    The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.
+    The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's sound
+    Had devilish malice at having got her downed.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    How long the gale had blown he could not tell,
+    Only the world had changed, his life had died.
+    A moment now was everlasting hell.
+    Nature an onslaught from the weather side,
+    A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,
+    Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail
+    Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail....
+
+    "Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"
+    The Dauber followed where he led; below
+    He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck
+    Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.
+    He saw the streamers of the rigging blow
+    Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast,
+    Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.
+
+    Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,
+    Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,
+    An utter bridle given to utter vice,
+    Limitless power mad with endless rage
+    Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age.
+    He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,
+    Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,
+
+    Told long ago--long, long ago--long since
+    Heard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed--
+    There where the basest beggar was a prince.
+    To him in torment where the tempest screamed,
+    Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed
+    Things that a man could know; soul, body, brain,
+    Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
+
+
+THE CHOICE
+
+    The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;
+    Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.
+    The sack of many-peopled towns
+    Is all their dream:
+    The way they take
+    Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
+    And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,
+    A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.
+
+    The Merchants reckon up their gold,
+    Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories:
+    The profits of their treasures sold
+    They tell and sum;
+    Their foremen drive
+    Their servants, starved to half-alive,
+    Whose labours do but make the earth a hive
+    Of stinking glories; a tale, a dream.
+
+    The Priests are singing in their stalls,
+    Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours;
+    Yet God is as the sparrow falls,
+    The ivy drifts;
+    The votive urns
+    Are all left void when Fortune turns,
+    The god is but a marble for the kerns
+    To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.
+
+    O Beauty, let me know again
+    The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,
+    The one star risen.
+    So shall I pass into the feast
+    Not touched by King, Merchant, or Priest;
+    Know the red spirit of the beast,
+    Be the green grain;
+    Escape from prison.
+
+
+SONNET[18]
+
+    Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought
+    Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides
+    How Summer's royal progress shall be wrought,
+    By secret stir which in each plant abides?
+    Does rocking daffodil consent that she,
+    The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?
+    Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree
+    To hold her pride before the rattle burst?
+    And in the hedge what quick agreement goes,
+    When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay,
+    That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose,
+    Before the flower be on the bramble spray?
+    Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,
+    And each consent a lucky gasp for life?
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[17] From _The Story of a Round-House_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
+1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
+publishers.
+
+[18] From _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
+1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
+publishers.
+
+
+
+
+_Lord Dunsany_
+
+
+Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, was born July 24,
+1878, and was educated at Eton and Sandhurst. He is best known as an
+author of fantastic fairy tales and even more fantastic plays. _The
+Gods of the Mountain_ (1911) and _The Golden Doom_ (1912) are highly
+dramatic and intensely poetic. _A Night at an Inn_ (1916) is that
+peculiar novelty, an eerie and poetical melodrama.
+
+Dunsany's prime quality is a romantic and highly colored imagination
+which is rich in symbolism. After the World War, in which the
+playwright served as captain in the Royal Innis-killing Fusiliers,
+Dunsany visited America and revised the reissue of his early tales and
+prose poems collected in his _The Book of Wonder_.
+
+
+SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD
+
+    I
+
+    There is no wrath in the stars,
+      They do not rage in the sky;
+    I look from the evil wood
+      And find myself wondering why.
+
+    Why do they not scream out
+      And grapple star against star,
+    Seeking for blood in the wood
+      As all things round me are?
+
+    They do not glare like the sky
+      Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
+    But they shine softly on
+      In their sacred solitude.
+
+    To their high, happy haunts
+      Silence from us has flown,
+    She whom we loved of old
+      And know it now she is gone.
+
+    When will she come again,
+      Though for one second only?
+    She whom we loved is gone
+      And the whole world is lonely.
+
+    And the elder giants come
+      Sometimes, tramping from far
+    Through the weird and flickering light
+      Made by an earthly star.
+
+    And the giant with his club,
+      And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
+    And the elder giants from far,
+      They are all the children of Death.
+
+    They are all abroad to-night
+      And are breaking the hills with their brood,--
+    And the birds are all asleep
+      Even in Plug Street Wood!
+
+    II
+
+    Somewhere lost in the haze
+      The sun goes down in the cold,
+    And birds in this evil wood
+      Chirrup home as of old;
+
+    Chirrup, stir and are still,
+      On the high twigs frozen and thin.
+    There is no more noise of them now,
+      And the long night sets in.
+
+    Of all the wonderful things
+      That I have seen in the wood
+    I marvel most at the birds
+      And their wonderful quietude.
+
+    For a giant smites with his club
+      All day the tops of the hill,
+    Sometimes he rests at night,
+      Oftener he beats them still.
+
+    And a dwarf with a grim black mane
+      Raps with repeated rage
+    All night in the valley below
+      On the wooden walls of his cage.
+
+    III
+
+    I met with Death in his country,
+      With his scythe and his hollow eye,
+    Walking the roads of Belgium.
+      I looked and he passed me by.
+
+    Since he passed me by in Plug Street,
+      In the wood of the evil name,
+    I shall not now lie with the heroes,
+      I shall not share their fame;
+
+    I shall never be as they are,
+      A name in the lands of the Free,
+    Since I looked on Death in Flanders
+      And he did not look at me.
+
+
+
+
+_Edward Thomas_
+
+
+Edward Thomas, one of the little-known but most individual of modern
+English poets, was born in 1878. For many years before he turned to
+verse, Thomas had a large following as a critic and author of travel
+books, biographies, pot-boilers. Hating his hack-work, yet unable to
+get free of it, he had so repressed his creative ability that he had
+grown doubtful concerning his own power. It needed something foreign
+to stir and animate what was native in him. So when Robert Frost, the
+New England poet, went abroad in 1912 for two years and became an
+intimate of Thomas's, the English critic began to write poetry.
+Loving, like Frost, the _minutiae_ of existence, the quaint and casual
+turn of ordinary life, he caught the magic of the English countryside
+in its unpoeticized quietude. Many of his poems are full of a slow,
+sad contemplation of life and a reflection of its brave futility. It
+is not disillusion exactly; it is rather an absence of illusion.
+_Poems_ (1917), dedicated to Robert Frost, is full of Thomas's
+fidelity to little things, things as unglorified as the unfreezing of
+the "rock-like mud," a child's path, a list of quaint-sounding
+villages, birds' nests uncovered by the autumn wind, dusty
+nettles--the lines glow with a deep and almost abject reverence for
+the soil.
+
+Thomas was killed at Arras, at an observatory outpost, on Easter
+Monday, 1917.
+
+
+IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE
+
+    If I should ever by chance grow rich
+    I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+    Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,
+    And let them all to my elder daughter.
+    The rent I shall ask of her will be only
+    Each year's first violets, white and lonely,
+    The first primroses and orchises--
+    She must find them before I do, that is.
+    But if she finds a blossom on furze
+    Without rent they shall all for ever be hers,
+    Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+    Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,--
+    I shall give them all to my elder daughter.
+
+
+TALL NETTLES
+
+    Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
+    These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
+    Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
+    Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
+
+    This corner of the farmyard I like most:
+    As well as any bloom upon a flower
+    I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
+    Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
+
+
+FIFTY FAGGOTS
+
+    There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots
+    That once were underwood of hazel and ash
+    In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge
+    Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone
+    Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next Spring
+    A blackbird or a robin will nest there,
+    Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain
+    Whatever is for ever to a bird.
+    This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,
+    'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:
+    Better they will never warm me, though they must
+    Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done
+    The war will have ended, many other things
+    Have ended, maybe, that I can no more
+    Foresee or more control than robin and wren.
+
+
+COCK-CROW
+
+    Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
+    To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,--
+    Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
+    Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
+    And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
+    Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
+    Each facing each as in a coat of arms:--
+    The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.
+
+
+
+
+_Seumas O'Sullivan_
+
+
+James Starkey was born in Dublin in 1879. Writing under the pseudonym
+of Seumas O'Sullivan, he contributed a great variety of prose and
+verse to various Irish papers. His reputation as a poet began with
+his appearance in _New Songs_, edited by George Russell ("A. E.").
+Later, he published _The Twilight People_ (1905), _The Earth Lover_
+(1909), and _Poems_ (1912).
+
+
+PRAISE
+
+    Dear, they are praising your beauty,
+    The grass and the sky:
+    The sky in a silence of wonder,
+    The grass in a sigh.
+
+    I too would sing for your praising,
+    Dearest, had I
+    Speech as the whispering grass,
+    Or the silent sky.
+
+    These have an art for the praising
+    Beauty so high.
+    Sweet, you are praised in a silence,
+    Sung in a sigh.
+
+
+
+
+_Ralph Hodgson_
+
+
+This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879. One of the
+most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain
+his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare and timeless
+songs as his. It is difficult to think of any anthology of English
+poetry compiled after 1917 that could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor,"
+and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One
+succumbs to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is the
+oldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and still more
+surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious sinner nor the
+Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's candid lines, any young, English
+country girl--filling her basket, regarding the world and the serpent
+itself with a mild and childlike wonder.
+
+Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that
+goes out to
+
+            "an idle rainbow
+    No less than laboring seas,"
+
+were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by
+_Flying Fame_.
+
+
+EVE
+
+    Eve, with her basket, was
+    Deep in the bells and grass,
+    Wading in bells and grass
+    Up to her knees.
+    Picking a dish of sweet
+    Berries and plums to eat,
+    Down in the bells and grass
+    Under the trees.
+
+    Mute as a mouse in a
+    Corner the cobra lay,
+    Curled round a bough of the
+    Cinnamon tall....
+    Now to get even and
+    Humble proud heaven and
+    Now was the moment or
+    Never at all.
+
+    "Eva!" Each syllable
+    Light as a flower fell,
+    "Eva!" he whispered the
+    Wondering maid,
+    Soft as a bubble sung
+    Out of a linnet's lung,
+    Soft and most silverly
+    "Eva!" he said.
+
+    Picture that orchard sprite;
+    Eve, with her body white,
+    Supple and smooth to her
+    Slim finger tips;
+    Wondering, listening,
+    Listening, wondering,
+    Eve with a berry
+    Half-way to her lips.
+
+    Oh, had our simple Eve
+    Seen through the make-believe!
+    Had she but known the
+    Pretender he was!
+    Out of the boughs he came,
+    Whispering still her name,
+    Tumbling in twenty rings
+    Into the grass.
+
+    Here was the strangest pair
+    In the world anywhere,
+    Eve in the bells and grass
+    Kneeling, and he
+    Telling his story low....
+    Singing birds saw them go
+    Down the dark path to
+    The Blasphemous Tree.
+
+    Oh, what a clatter when
+    Titmouse and Jenny Wren
+    Saw him successful and
+    Taking his leave!
+    How the birds rated him,
+    How they all hated him!
+    How they all pitied
+    Poor motherless Eve!
+
+    Picture her crying
+    Outside in the lane,
+    Eve, with no dish of sweet
+    Berries and plums to eat,
+    Haunting the gate of the
+    Orchard in vain....
+    Picture the lewd delight
+    Under the hill to-night--
+    "Eva!" the toast goes round,
+    "Eva!" again.
+
+
+TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN
+
+    Time, you old gipsy man,
+      Will you not stay,
+    Put up your caravan
+      Just for one day?
+
+    All things I'll give you
+    Will you be my guest,
+    Bells for your jennet
+    Of silver the best,
+    Goldsmiths shall beat you
+    A great golden ring,
+    Peacocks shall bow to you,
+    Little boys sing,
+    Oh, and sweet girls will
+    Festoon you with may.
+    Time, you old gipsy,
+    Why hasten away?
+
+    Last week in Babylon,
+    Last night in Rome,
+    Morning, and in the crush
+    Under Paul's dome;
+    Under Paul's dial
+    You tighten your rein--
+    Only a moment,
+    And off once again;
+    Off to some city
+    Now blind in the womb,
+    Off to another
+    Ere that's in the tomb.
+
+    Time, you old gipsy man,
+      Will you not stay,
+    Put up your caravan
+      Just for one day?
+
+
+THE BIRDCATCHER
+
+    When flighting time is on, I go
+    With clap-net and decoy,
+    A-fowling after goldfinches
+    And other birds of joy;
+
+    I lurk among the thickets of
+    The Heart where they are bred,
+    And catch the twittering beauties as
+    They fly into my Head.
+
+
+THE MYSTERY
+
+    He came and took me by the hand
+      Up to a red rose tree,
+    He kept His meaning to Himself
+      But gave a rose to me.
+
+    I did not pray Him to lay bare
+      The mystery to me,
+    Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
+      And His own face to see.
+
+
+
+
+_Harold Monro_
+
+
+The publisher of the various anthologies of Georgian Poetry, Harold
+Monro, was born in Brussels in 1879. He describes himself as "author,
+publisher, editor and book-seller." Monro founded The Poetry Bookshop
+in London in 1912, a unique establishment having as its object a
+practical relation between poetry and the public, and keeping in stock
+nothing but poetry, the drama, and books connected with these
+subjects. His quarterly _Poetry and Drama_ (discontinued during the
+war and revived in 1919 as _The Monthly Chapbook_), was in a sense the
+organ of the younger men; and his shop, in which he has lived for the
+last seven years except while he was in the army, became a genuine
+literary center.
+
+Of Monro's books, the two most important are _Strange Meetings_ (1917)
+and _Children of Love_ (1919). "The Nightingale Near the House," one
+of the loveliest of his poems, is also one of his latest and has not
+yet appeared in any of his volumes.
+
+
+THE NIGHTINGALE NEAR THE HOUSE
+
+    Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:
+    It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond
+    Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
+        Stares. And you sing, you sing.
+
+    That star-enchanted song falls through the air
+    From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,
+    Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;
+        And all the night you sing.
+
+    My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee
+    As all night long I listen, and my brain
+    Receives your song; then loses it again
+        In moonlight on the lawn.
+
+    Now is your voice a marble high and white,
+    Then like a mist on fields of paradise,
+    Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,
+        Then breaks, and it is dawn.
+
+
+EVERY THING
+
+    Since man has been articulate,
+    Mechanical, improvidently wise,
+    (Servant of Fate),
+    He has not understood the little cries
+    And foreign conversations of the small
+    Delightful creatures that have followed him
+    Not far behind;
+    Has failed to hear the sympathetic call
+    Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
+    Reposeful Teraphim
+    Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
+    He sat on, or the Door he entered through:
+    He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
+    What is he coming to?
+
+    But you should listen to the talk of these.
+    Honest they are, and patient they have kept;
+    Served him without his Thank you or his Please ...
+    I often heard
+    The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,
+    Murmuring, before I slept.
+    The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
+    Then bowed,
+    And in a smoky argument
+    Into the darkness went.
+
+    The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:--
+    "Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know
+    Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
+    He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh,
+    I wonder why I squander my desire
+    Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire."
+
+    Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
+    Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
+    Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;
+    Without a woman's hand
+    To patronize and coax and flatter me,
+    I understand
+    The lean and poise of gravitable land."
+    It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,
+    Twisted itself convulsively about,
+    Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,
+    It stares and grins at me.
+
+    The old impetuous Gas above my head
+    Begins irascibly to flare and fret,
+    Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
+    Reminding me I ought to go to bed.
+
+    The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door
+    Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
+    Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
+    Down from the chimney, half a pound of Soot
+    Tumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.
+    The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
+
+    A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
+    Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
+    My independent Pencil, while I write,
+    Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
+    Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
+    Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
+    Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
+    Ticking of ordinary work again.
+
+    You do well to remind me, and I praise
+    Your strangely individual foreign ways.
+    You call me from myself to recognize
+    Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
+    I want your dear acquaintances, although
+    I pass you arrogantly over, throw
+    Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
+    My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.
+
+    Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
+    You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
+    Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,
+    Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.
+    It well becomes our mutual happiness
+    To go toward the same end more or less.
+    There is not much dissimilarity,
+    Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
+    Between the purposes of you and me,
+    And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.
+
+
+STRANGE MEETINGS
+
+    If suddenly a clod of earth should rise,
+    And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,
+    How one would tremble, and in what surprise
+    Gasp: "Can you move?"
+
+    I see men walking, and I always feel:
+    "Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?"
+    I can't learn how to know men, or conceal
+    How strange they are to me.
+
+
+
+
+_T. M. Kettle_
+
+
+Thomas M. Kettle was born at Artane County, Dublin, in 1880 and was
+educated at University College, where he won the Gold Medal for
+Oratory. His extraordinary faculty for grasping an intricate problem
+and crystallizing it in an epigram, or scoring his adversaries with
+one bright flash, was apparent even then. He was admitted to the bar
+in 1905 but soon abandoned the law to devote himself to journalism,
+which, because of his remarkable style, never remained journalism in
+his hands. In 1906 he entered politics; in 1910 he was re-elected for
+East Tyrone. Even his bitterest opponents conceded that Tom Kettle (as
+he was called by friend and enemy) was the most honorable of fighters;
+they acknowledged his honesty, courage and devotion to the cause of a
+United Ireland--and respected his penetrating wit. He once spoke of a
+Mr. Healy as "a brilliant calamity" and satirized a long-winded
+speaker by saying, "Mr. Long knows a sentence should have a beginning,
+but he quite forgets it should also have an end."
+
+"An Irish torch-bearer" (so E. B. Osborn calls him), Kettle fell in
+action at Ginchy, leading his Fusiliers in September, 1916. The
+uplifted poem to his daughter was written shortly before his death.
+
+
+TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, THE GIFT OF GOD
+
+    In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
+    To beauty proud as was your mother's prime,
+    In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
+    You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
+    And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
+    To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme
+    And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
+    And some decry it in a knowing tone.
+    So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
+    And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
+    Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
+    Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,--
+    But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,
+    And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
+
+
+
+
+_Alfred Noyes_
+
+
+Alfred Noyes was born at Staffordshire, September 16, 1880. He is one
+of the few contemporary poets who have been fortunate enough to write
+a kind of poetry that is not only saleable but popular with many
+classes of people.
+
+His first book, _The Loom of Years_ (1902), was published when he was
+only 22 years old, and _Poems_ (1904) intensified the promise of his
+first publication. Swinburne, grown old and living in retirement, was
+so struck with Noyes's talent that he had the young poet out to read
+to him. Unfortunately, Noyes has not developed his gifts as deeply as
+his admirers have hoped. His poetry, extremely straightforward and
+rhythmical, has often degenerated into cheap sentimentalities and
+cheaper tirades; it has frequently attempted to express programs and
+profundities far beyond Noyes's power.
+
+What is most appealing about his best verse is its ease and
+heartiness; this singer's gift lies in the almost personal bond
+established between the poet and his public. People have such a good
+time reading his vivacious lines because Noyes had such a good time
+writing them. Rhyme in a thumping rhythm seems to be not merely his
+trade but his morning exercise. Noyes's own relish filled and
+quickened glees and catches like _Forty Singing Seamen_ (1907), the
+lusty choruses in _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (1913), and the
+genuinely inspired nonsense of the earlier _Forest of Wild Thyme_
+(1905).
+
+The least popular work of Noyes is, as a unified product, his most
+remarkable performance. It is an epic in twelve books of blank verse,
+_Drake_ (1908), a glowing pageant of the sea and England's drama upon
+it. It is a spirited echo of the maritime Elizabethans; a vivid and
+orchestral work interspersed with splendid lyric passages and brisk
+songs. The companion volume, an attempted reconstruction of the
+literary phase of the same period, is less successful; but these
+_Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (which introduce Shakespeare, Marlowe,
+Drayton, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and other immortals) are alive and
+colorful, if somewhat too insistently rollicking and smoothly lilting.
+
+His eight volumes were assembled in 1913 and published in two books of
+_Collected Poems_ (Frederick A. Stokes Company).
+
+
+SHERWOOD
+
+    Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
+    Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake;
+    Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,
+    Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
+
+    Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves
+    Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,
+    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:
+    All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon;
+    Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist
+    Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.
+
+    Merry, merry England is waking as of old,
+    With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:
+    For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Love is in the greenwood building him a house
+    Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs;
+    Love it in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies;
+    And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.
+
+    Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep:
+    Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?
+    Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,
+    Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
+    Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
+    And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.
+
+    Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together
+    With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather;
+    The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+    Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;
+    All the heart of England hid in every rose
+    Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,
+    Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?
+
+    Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old
+    And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold,
+    Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,
+    _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_
+
+    Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen
+    All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men;
+    Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;
+
+    Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash
+    Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash;
+    The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly;
+    And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.
+
+    _Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves
+    Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves:
+    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
+    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
+
+
+    THE BARREL-ORGAN
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
+      And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
+    And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
+      That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
+    And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
+      In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
+
+    And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,
+      And trolling out a fond familiar tune,
+    And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,
+      And now it's prattling softly to the moon.
+    And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore
+      Of human joys and wonders and regrets;
+    To remember and to recompense the music evermore
+      For what the cold machinery forgets ...
+
+          Yes; as the music changes,
+            Like a prismatic glass,
+          It takes the light and ranges
+            Through all the moods that pass;
+          Dissects the common carnival
+            Of passions and regrets,
+          And gives the world a glimpse of all
+            The colours it forgets.
+
+          And there _La Traviata_ sighs
+            Another sadder song;
+          And there _Il Trovatore_ cries
+            A tale of deeper wrong;
+          And bolder knights to battle go
+            With sword and shield and lance,
+          Than ever here on earth below
+            Have whirled into--a dance!--
+
+    Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
+      Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+
+    The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
+      The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)
+    And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's
+          a blaze of sky
+      The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.
+
+    The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there
+      At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
+    The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo
+      And golden-eyed _tu-whit, tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London.
+
+    For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard
+      At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
+    And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out
+      You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:--
+
+    _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!)_
+
+    And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,
+      In the city as the sun sinks low;
+    And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet
+    Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,
+    And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,
+    Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+    Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote _Il Trovatore_ did you dream
+      Of the City when the sun sinks low,
+    Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream
+    On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
+    To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
+    As _A che la morte_ parodies the world's eternal theme
+      And pulses with the sunset-glow?
+
+    There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,
+    There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone,
+    And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:
+    They are crammed and jammed in busses and--they're each of them alone
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+    There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red
+    As he sees a loafer watching him and--there he turns his head
+    And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
+    For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led
+      Through the land where the dead dreams go ...
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks low;
+    Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet
+    Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet
+    Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet
+    Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat
+      In the land where the dead dreams go.
+
+          So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,
+            What have you to say
+          When you meet the garland girls
+            Tripping on their way?
+          All around my gala hat
+            I wear a wreath of roses
+          (A long and lonely year it is
+            I've waited for the May!)
+          If any one should ask you,
+            The reason why I wear it is--
+          My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.
+
+    And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady
+      (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_)
+    Buy a bunch of violets for the lady;
+      While the sky burns blue above:
+
+    On the other side the street you'll find it shady
+      (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_)
+    But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,
+      And tell her she's your own true love.
+
+    There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
+      In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;
+    And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
+    And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete
+    In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,
+      As it dies into the sunset glow;
+
+    And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
+      That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,
+    And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
+      In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
+
+          And there, as the music changes,
+            The song runs round again;
+          Once more it turns and ranges
+            Through all its joy and pain:
+          Dissects the common carnival
+            Of passions and regrets;
+          And the wheeling world remembers all
+            The wheeling song forgets.
+
+          Once more _La Traviata_ sighs
+            Another sadder song:
+          Once more _Il Trovatore_ cries
+            A tale of deeper wrong;
+          Once more the knights to battle go
+            With sword and shield and lance
+          Till once, once more, the shattered foe
+            Has whirled into--a dance!
+
+    _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
+      Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
+    And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland,
+    Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)_
+
+
+EPILOGUE
+
+(_From "The Flower of Old Japan"_)
+
+    Carol, every violet has
+    Heaven for a looking-glass!
+
+    Every little valley lies
+    Under many-clouded skies;
+    Every little cottage stands
+    Girt about with boundless lands.
+    Every little glimmering pond
+    Claims the mighty shores beyond--
+    Shores no seamen ever hailed,
+    Seas no ship has ever sailed.
+
+    All the shores when day is done
+    Fade into the setting sun,
+    So the story tries to teach
+    More than can be told in speech.
+
+    Beauty is a fading flower,
+    Truth is but a wizard's tower,
+    Where a solemn death-bell tolls,
+    And a forest round it rolls.
+
+    We have come by curious ways
+    To the light that holds the days;
+    We have sought in haunts of fear
+    For that all-enfolding sphere:
+    And lo! it was not far, but near.
+    We have found, O foolish-fond,
+    The shore that has no shore beyond.
+
+    Deep in every heart it lies
+    With its untranscended skies;
+    For what heaven should bend above
+    Hearts that own the heaven of love?
+
+    Carol, Carol, we have come
+    Back to heaven, back to home.
+
+
+
+
+_Padraic Colum_
+
+
+Padraic Colum was born at Longford, Ireland (in the same county as
+Oliver Goldsmith), December 8, 1881, and was educated at the local
+schools. At 20 he was a member of a group that created the Irish
+National Theatre, afterwards called The Abbey Theatre.
+
+Colum began as a dramatist with _Broken Soil_ (1904), _The Land_
+(1905), _Thomas Muskerry_ (1910), and this early dramatic influence
+has colored much of his work, his best poetry being in the form of
+dramatic lyrics. _Wild Earth_, his most notable collection of verse,
+first appeared in 1909, and an amplified edition of it was published
+in America in 1916.
+
+
+THE PLOUGHER
+
+    Sunset and silence! A man: around him earth savage,
+          earth broken;
+    Beside him two horses--a plough!
+
+    Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn man
+          there in the sunset,
+    And the Plough that is twin to the Sword, that is founder
+          of cities!
+
+    "Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-breaker! Can'st hear?
+      There are ages between us.
+    "Is it praying you are as you stand there alone in the
+          sunset?
+
+    "Surely our sky-born gods can be naught to you, earth
+          child and earth master?
+    "Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan, or Dana?
+
+    "Yet, why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your
+          brutes where they stumble?
+    "Has Dana numbed pain of the child-bed, or Wotan put
+          hands to your plough?
+
+    "What matter your foolish reply! O, man, standing
+          lone and bowed earthward,
+    "Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the
+          night-giving God."
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend
+          with the savage;
+    The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, a head's breadth
+          only above them.
+
+    A head's breadth? Ay, but therein is hell's depth, and
+          the height up to heaven,
+    And the thrones of the gods and their halls, their chariots,
+          purples, and splendors.
+
+
+AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS
+
+    O, to have a little house!
+    To own the hearth and stool and all!
+    The heaped up sods upon the fire,
+    The pile of turf against the wall!
+
+    To have a clock with weights and chains
+    And pendulum swinging up and down!
+    A dresser filled with shining delph,
+    Speckled and white and blue and brown!
+
+    I could be busy all the day
+    Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
+    And fixing on their shelf again
+    My white and blue and speckled store!
+
+    I could be quiet there at night
+    Beside the fire and by myself,
+    Sure of a bed and loth to leave
+    The ticking clock and the shining delph!
+
+    Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
+    And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
+    And tired I am of bog and road,
+    And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
+
+    And I am praying to God on high,
+    And I am praying Him night and day,
+    For a little house--a house of my own--
+    Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
+
+
+
+
+_Joseph Campbell_
+
+(_Seosamh MacCathmhaoil_)
+
+
+Joseph Campbell was born in Belfast in 1881, and is not only a poet
+but an artist; he made all the illustrations for _The Rushlight_
+(1906), a volume of his own poems. Writing under the Gaelic form of
+his name, he has published half a dozen books of verse, the most
+striking of which is _The Mountainy Singer_, first published in Dublin
+in 1909.
+
+
+I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
+
+    I am the mountainy singer--
+    The voice of the peasant's dream,
+    The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,
+    The leap of the fish in the stream.
+
+    Quiet and love I sing--
+    The carn on the mountain crest,
+    The _cailin_ in her lover's arms,
+    The child at its mother's breast.
+
+    Beauty and peace I sing--
+    The fire on the open hearth,
+    The _cailleach_ spinning at her wheel,
+    The plough in the broken earth.
+
+    Travail and pain I sing--
+    The bride on the childing bed,
+    The dark man laboring at his rhymes,
+    The eye in the lambing shed.
+
+    Sorrow and death I sing--
+    The canker come on the corn,
+    The fisher lost in the mountain loch,
+    The cry at the mouth of morn.
+
+    No other life I sing,
+    For I am sprung of the stock
+    That broke the hilly land for bread,
+    And built the nest in the rock!
+
+
+THE OLD WOMAN
+
+    As a white candle
+      In a holy place,
+    So is the beauty
+      Of an aged face.
+
+    As the spent radiance
+      Of the winter sun,
+    So is a woman
+      With her travail done,
+
+    Her brood gone from her,
+      And her thoughts as still
+    As the waters
+      Under a ruined mill.
+
+
+
+
+_James Stephens_
+
+
+This unique personality was born in Dublin in February, 1882. Stephens
+was discovered in an office and saved from clerical slavery by George
+Russell ("A. E."). Always a poet, Stephens's most poetic moments are
+in his highly-colored prose. And yet, although the finest of his
+novels, _The Crock of Gold_ (1912), contains more wild phantasy and
+quaint imagery than all his volumes of verse, his _Insurrections_
+(1909) and _The Hill of Vision_ (1912) reveal a rebellious spirit that
+is at once hotly ironic and coolly whimsical.
+
+Stephens's outstanding characteristic is his delightful blend of
+incongruities--he combines in his verse the grotesque, the buoyant and
+the profound. No fresher or more brightly vigorous imagination has
+come out of Ireland since J. M. Synge.
+
+
+THE SHELL
+
+    And then I pressed the shell
+    Close to my ear
+    And listened well,
+    And straightway like a bell
+    Came low and clear
+    The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,
+    Whipped by an icy breeze
+    Upon a shore
+    Wind-swept and desolate.
+    It was a sunless strand that never bore
+    The footprint of a man,
+    Nor felt the weight
+    Since time began
+    Of any human quality or stir
+    Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
+    And in the hush of waters was the sound
+    Of pebbles rolling round,
+    For ever rolling with a hollow sound.
+    And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
+    Swish to and fro
+    Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
+    There was no day,
+    Nor ever came a night
+    Setting the stars alight
+    To wonder at the moon:
+    Was twilight only and the frightened croon,
+    Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
+    And waves that journeyed blind--
+    And then I loosed my ear ... O, it was sweet
+    To hear a cart go jolting down the street.
+
+
+    WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB
+
+    I saw God. Do you doubt it?
+      Do you dare to doubt it?
+    I saw the Almighty Man. His hand
+    Was resting on a mountain, and
+    He looked upon the World and all about it:
+    I saw him plainer than you see me now,
+      You mustn't doubt it.
+
+    He was not satisfied;
+      His look was all dissatisfied.
+    His beard swung on a wind far out of sight
+    Behind the world's curve, and there was light
+    Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed,
+    "That star went always wrong, and from the start
+      I was dissatisfied."
+
+    He lifted up His hand--
+      I say He heaved a dreadful hand
+    Over the spinning Earth. Then I said, "Stay,
+    You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;
+    And I will never move from where I stand."
+    He said, "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"
+      And stayed His hand.
+
+
+TO THE FOUR COURTS, PLEASE
+
+    The driver rubbed at his nettly chin
+    With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black,
+    And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in,
+    And puffed out again and hung down slack:
+    One fang shone through his lop-sided smile,
+    In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile.
+
+    And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked,
+    And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old,
+    And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked
+    It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold
+    Its big, skinny head up--then I stepped in,
+    And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin.
+
+    God help the horse and the driver too,
+    And the people and beasts who have never a friend,
+    For the driver easily might have been you,
+    And the horse be me by a different end.
+    And nobody knows how their days will cease,
+    And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace.
+
+
+
+
+_John Drinkwater_
+
+
+Primarily a poetic dramatist, John Drinkwater, born in 1882, is best
+known as the author of _Abraham Lincoln--A Play_ (1919) founded on
+Lord Charnwood's masterly and analytical biography. He has published
+several volumes of poems, most of them meditative and elegiac in mood.
+
+The best of his verses have been collected in _Poems, 1908-19_, and
+the two here reprinted are used by permission, and by special
+arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers.
+
+
+RECIPROCITY
+
+    I do not think that skies and meadows are
+    Moral, or that the fixture of a star
+    Comes of a quiet spirit, or that trees
+    Have wisdom in their windless silences.
+    Yet these are things invested in my mood
+    With constancy, and peace, and fortitude;
+    That in my troubled season I can cry
+    Upon the wide composure of the sky,
+    And envy fields, and wish that I might be
+    As little daunted as a star or tree.
+
+
+A TOWN WINDOW
+
+    Beyond my window in the night
+      Is but a drab inglorious street,
+    Yet there the frost and clean starlight
+      As over Warwick woods are sweet.
+
+    Under the grey drift of the town
+      The crocus works among the mould
+    As eagerly as those that crown
+      The Warwick spring in flame and gold.
+
+    And when the tramway down the hill
+      Across the cobbles moans and rings,
+    There is about my window-sill
+      The tumult of a thousand wings.
+
+
+
+
+_James Joyce_
+
+
+James Joyce was born at Dublin, February 2, 1882, and educated in
+Ireland. He is best known as a highly sensitive and strikingly
+original writer of prose, his most celebrated works being _Dubliners_
+(1914) and the novel, _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_
+(1916). His one volume of verse, _Chamber Music_, was published in
+this country in 1918.
+
+
+I HEAR AN ARMY
+
+    I hear an army charging upon the land,
+      And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
+    Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
+      Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.
+
+    They cry unto the night their battle-name:
+      I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
+    They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
+      Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.
+
+    They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
+      They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
+    My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
+      My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
+
+
+
+
+_J. C. Squire_
+
+
+Jack Collings Squire was born April 2, 1884, at Plymouth, of Devonian
+ancestry. He was educated at Blundell's and Cambridge University, and
+became known first as a remarkably adroit parodist. His _Imaginary
+Speeches_ (1912) and _Tricks of the Trade_ (1917) are amusing parodies
+and, what is more, excellent criticism. He edited _The New Statesman_
+for a while and founded _The London Mercury_ (a monthly of which he is
+editor) in November, 1919. Under the pseudonym "Solomon Eagle" he
+wrote a page of literary criticism every week for six years, many of
+these papers being collected in his volume, _Books in General_ (1919).
+
+His original poetry is intellectual but simple, sometimes metaphysical
+and always interesting technically in its fluent and variable rhythms.
+A collection of his best verse up to 1919 was published under the
+title, _Poems: First Series_.
+
+
+A HOUSE
+
+    Now very quietly, and rather mournfully,
+      In clouds of hyacinth the sun retires,
+    And all the stubble-fields that were so warm to him
+      Keep but in memory their borrowed fires.
+
+    And I, the traveller, break, still unsatisfied,
+      From that faint exquisite celestial strand,
+    And turn and see again the only dwelling-place
+      In this wide wilderness of darkening land.
+
+    The house, that house, O now what change has come to it.
+      Its crude red-brick facade, its roof of slate;
+    What imperceptible swift hand has given it
+      A new, a wonderful, a queenly state?
+
+    No hand has altered it, that parallelogram,
+      So inharmonious, so ill-arranged;
+    That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was;
+      No, it is not that any line has changed.
+
+    Only that loneliness is now accentuate
+      And, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave,
+    This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again,
+      And all man's energies seem very brave.
+
+    And this mean edifice, which some dull architect
+      Built for an ignorant earth-turning hind,
+    Takes on the quality of that magnificent
+      Unshakable dauntlessness of human kind.
+
+    Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be,
+      Yet imperturbable that house will rest,
+    Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny,
+      Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast.
+
+    Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniac
+      May howl their menaces, and hail descend:
+    Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly,
+      Not even scornfully, and wait the end.
+
+    And all a universe of nameless messengers
+      From unknown distances may whisper fear,
+    And it will imitate immortal permanence,
+      And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.
+
+    It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too,
+      When there is none to watch, no alien eyes
+    To watch its ugliness assume a majesty
+      From this great solitude of evening skies.
+
+    So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around,
+      While life remains to it prepared to outface
+    Whatever awful unconjectured mysteries
+      May hide and wait for it in time and space.
+
+
+
+
+_Lascelles Abercrombie_
+
+
+Lascelles Abercrombie was born in 1884. Like Masefield, he gained his
+reputation rapidly; totally unknown until 1909, upon the publication
+of _Interludes and Poems_, he was recognized as one of the greatest
+metaphysical poets of his period. _Emblems of Love_ (1912), the ripest
+collection of his blank verse dialogues, justified the enthusiasm of
+his admirers.
+
+Many of Abercrombie's poems, the best of which are too long to quote,
+are founded on scriptural themes, but his blank verse is not biblical
+either in mood or manner. It is the undercurrent rather than the
+surface of his verse which moves with a strong religious conviction.
+Abercrombie's images are daring and brilliant; his lines, sometimes
+too closely packed, glow with a dazzling intensity that is warmly
+spiritual and fervently human.
+
+
+FROM "VASHTI"
+
+    What thing shall be held up to woman's beauty?
+    Where are the bounds of it? Yea, what is all
+    The world, but an awning scaffolded amid
+    The waste perilous Eternity, to lodge
+    This Heaven-wander'd princess, woman's beauty?
+    The East and West kneel down to thee, the North
+    And South; and all for thee their shoulders bear
+    The load of fourfold space. As yellow morn
+    Runs on the slippery waves of the spread sea,
+    Thy feet are on the griefs and joys of men
+    That sheen to be thy causey. Out of tears
+    Indeed, and blitheness, murder and lust and love,
+    Whatever has been passionate in clay,
+    Thy flesh was tempered. Behold in thy body
+    The yearnings of all men measured and told,
+    Insatiate endless agonies of desire
+    Given thy flesh, the meaning of thy shape!
+    What beauty is there, but thou makest it?
+    How is earth good to look on, woods and fields,
+    The season's garden, and the courageous hills,
+    All this green raft of earth moored in the seas?
+    The manner of the sun to ride the air,
+    The stars God has imagined for the night?
+    What's this behind them, that we cannot near,
+    Secret still on the point of being blabbed,
+    The ghost in the world that flies from being named?
+    Where do they get their beauty from, all these?
+    They do but glaze a lantern lit for man,
+    And woman's beauty is the flame therein.
+
+
+SONG
+
+(_From "Judith"_)
+
+    Balkis was in her marble town,
+    And shadow over the world came down.
+    Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,
+    That all day dazzled eyes to tears,
+    Turned from being white-golden flame,
+    And like the deep-sea blue became.
+    Balkis into her garden went;
+    Her spirit was in discontent
+    Like a torch in restless air.
+    Joylessly she wandered there,
+    And saw her city's azure white
+    Lying under the great night,
+    Beautiful as the memory
+    Of a worshipping world would be
+    In the mind of a god, in the hour
+    When he must kill his outward power;
+    And, coming to a pool where trees
+    Grew in double greeneries,
+    Saw herself, as she went by
+    The water, walking beautifully,
+    And saw the stars shine in the glance
+    Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance
+    Passing, pale and wonderful,
+    Across the night that filled the pool.
+    And cruel was the grief that played
+    With the queen's spirit; and she said:
+    "What do I here, reigning alone?
+    For to be unloved is to be alone.
+    There is no man in all my land
+    Dare my longing understand;
+    The whole folk like a peasant bows
+    Lest its look should meet my brows
+    And be harmed by this beauty of mine.
+    I burn their brains as I were sign
+    Of God's beautiful anger sent
+    To master them with punishment
+    Of beauty that must pour distress
+    On hearts grown dark with ugliness.
+    But it is I am the punisht one.
+    Is there no man, is there none,
+    In whom my beauty will but move
+    The lust of a delighted love;
+    In whom some spirit of God so thrives
+    That we may wed our lonely lives.
+    Is there no man, is there none?"--
+    She said, "I will go to Solomon."
+
+
+
+
+_James Elroy Flecker_
+
+
+Another remarkable poet whose early death was a blow to English
+literature, James Elroy Flecker, was born in London, November 5, 1884.
+Possibly due to his low vitality, Flecker found little to interest him
+but a classical reaction against realism in verse, a delight in verbal
+craftsmanship, and a passion for technical perfection--especially the
+deliberate technique of the French Parnassians whom he worshipped.
+Flecker was opposed to any art that was emotional or that "taught"
+anything. "The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the soul
+of man, but to make it worth saving."
+
+The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more personal and
+romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed him at Davos Platz,
+Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him from an Olympian disinterest
+to a deep concern with life and death. He passionately denied that he
+was weary of living "as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting
+higher flights of song when his singing ceased altogether.
+
+His two colorful volumes are _The Golden Journey to Samarkand_ (1913)
+and _The Old Ships_ (1915).
+
+
+THE OLD SHIPS
+
+    I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
+    Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
+    With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
+    For Famagusta and the hidden sun
+    That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
+    And all those ships were certainly so old--
+    Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
+    Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
+    The pirate Genoese
+    Hell-raked them till they rolled
+    Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
+    But now through friendly seas they softly run,
+    Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
+    Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
+
+    But I have seen,
+    Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
+    And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,
+    A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
+    And, wonder's breath indrawn,
+    Thought I--who knows--who knows--but in that same
+    (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
+    --Stern painted brighter blue--)
+    That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
+    (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
+    From Troy's doom-crimson shore,
+    And with great lies about his wooden horse
+    Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
+
+    It was so old a ship--who knows, who knows?
+    --And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
+    To see the mast burst open with a rose,
+    And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
+
+
+
+
+_D. H. Lawrence_
+
+
+David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most
+psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging
+from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism,
+is seen even in his prose works--particularly in his short stories,
+_The Prussian Officer_ (1917), his analytical _Sons and Lovers_
+(1913), and the rhapsodic novel, _The Rainbow_ (1915).
+
+As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions; his
+passion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, which
+sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But within his
+range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most notable volumes of
+poetry are _Amores_ (1916), _Look! We Have Come Through!_ (1918), and
+_New Poems_ (1920).
+
+
+PEOPLE
+
+    The great gold apples of light
+    Hang from the street's long bough
+        Dripping their light
+    On the faces that drift below,
+    On the faces that drift and blow
+    Down the night-time, out of sight
+        In the wind's sad sough.
+
+    The ripeness of these apples of night
+    Distilling over me
+        Makes sickening the white
+    Ghost-flux of faces that hie
+    Them endlessly, endlessly by
+    Without meaning or reason why
+        They ever should be.
+
+
+PIANO
+
+    Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
+    Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
+    A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the
+          tingling strings
+    And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who
+          smiles as she sings.
+
+    In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
+    Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
+    To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
+    And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
+
+    So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
+    With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
+    Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
+    Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
+
+
+
+
+_John Freeman_
+
+
+John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes of
+pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive are _Stone
+Trees_ (1916) and _Memories of Childhood_ (1919).
+
+
+STONE TREES
+
+    Last night a sword-light in the sky
+    Flashed a swift terror on the dark.
+    In that sharp light the fields did lie
+    Naked and stone-like; each tree stood
+    Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.
+          Far off the wood
+    With darkness ridged the riven dark.
+
+    And cows astonished stared with fear,
+    And sheep crept to the knees of cows,
+    And conies to their burrows slid,
+    And rooks were still in rigid boughs,
+    And all things else were still or hid.
+          From all the wood
+    Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.
+
+    In that cold trance the earth was held
+    It seemed an age, or time was nought.
+    Sure never from that stone-like field
+    Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill
+    Grey granite trees was music wrought.
+          In all the wood
+    Even the tall poplar hung stone still.
+
+    It seemed an age, or time was none ...
+    Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep
+    And shivered, and the trees of stone
+    Bent and sighed in the gusty wind,
+    And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.
+          Far off the wood
+    Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.
+
+    From all the wood came no brave bird,
+    No song broke through the close-fall'n night,
+    Nor any sound from cowering herd:
+    Only a dog's long lonely howl
+    When from the window poured pale light.
+          And from the wood
+    The hoot came ghostly of the owl.
+
+
+
+
+_Shane Leslie_
+
+
+Shane Leslie, the only surviving son of Sir John Leslie, was born at
+Swan Park, Monaghan, Ireland, in 1886 and was educated at Eton and the
+University of Paris. He worked for a time among the Irish poor and was
+deeply interested in the Celtic revival. During the greater part of a
+year he lectured in the United States, marrying an American, Marjorie
+Ide.
+
+Leslie has been editor of _The Dublin Review_ since 1916. He is the
+author of several volumes on Irish political matters as well as _The
+End of a Chapter_ and _Verses in Peace and War_.
+
+
+FLEET STREET
+
+    I never see the newsboys run
+      Amid the whirling street,
+      With swift untiring feet,
+    To cry the latest venture done,
+    But I expect one day to hear
+      Them cry the crack of doom
+      And risings from the tomb,
+    With great Archangel Michael near;
+    And see them running from the Fleet
+      As messengers of God,
+      With Heaven's tidings shod
+    About their brave unwearied feet.
+
+
+THE PATER OF THE CANNON
+
+    Father of the thunder,
+      Flinger of the flame,
+    Searing stars asunder,
+      _Hallowed be Thy Name!_
+
+    By the sweet-sung quiring
+      Sister bullets hum,
+    By our fiercest firing,
+      _May Thy Kingdom come!_
+
+    By Thy strong apostle
+      Of the Maxim gun,
+    By his pentecostal
+      Flame, _Thy Will be done!_
+
+    Give us, Lord, good feeding
+      To Thy battles sped--
+    Flesh, white grained and bleeding,
+      _Give for daily bread!_
+
+
+
+
+_Frances Cornford_
+
+
+The daughter of Francis Darwin, third son of Charles Darwin, Mrs.
+Frances Macdonald Cornford, whose husband is a Fellow and Lecturer of
+Trinity College, was born in 1886. She has published three volumes of
+unaffected lyrical verse, the most recent of which, _Spring Morning_,
+was brought out by The Poetry Bookshop in 1915.
+
+
+PREEXISTENCE
+
+    I laid me down upon the shore
+      And dreamed a little space;
+    I heard the great waves break and roar;
+      The sun was on my face.
+
+    My idle hands and fingers brown
+      Played with the pebbles grey;
+    The waves came up, the waves went down,
+      Most thundering and gay.
+
+    The pebbles, they were smooth and round
+      And warm upon my hands,
+    Like little people I had found
+      Sitting among the sands.
+
+    The grains of sand so shining-small
+      Soft through my fingers ran;
+    The sun shone down upon it all,
+      And so my dream began:
+
+    How all of this had been before,
+      How ages far away
+    I lay on some forgotten shore
+      As here I lie to-day.
+
+    The waves came shining up the sands,
+      As here to-day they shine;
+    And in my pre-pelasgian hands
+      The sand was warm and fine.
+
+    I have forgotten whence I came,
+      Or what my home might be,
+    Or by what strange and savage name
+      I called that thundering sea.
+
+    I only know the sun shone down
+      As still it shines to-day,
+    And in my fingers long and brown
+      The little pebbles lay.
+
+
+
+
+_Anna Wickham_
+
+
+Anna Wickham, one of the most individual of the younger women-poets,
+has published two distinctive volumes, _The Contemplative Quarry_
+(1915) and _The Man with a Hammer_ (1916).
+
+
+THE SINGER
+
+    If I had peace to sit and sing,
+    Then I could make a lovely thing;
+    But I am stung with goads and whips,
+    So I build songs like iron ships.
+
+    Let it be something for my song,
+    If it is sometimes swift and strong.
+
+
+REALITY
+
+    Only a starveling singer seeks
+    The stuff of songs among the Greeks.
+    Juno is old,
+    Jove's loves are cold;
+    Tales over-told.
+    By a new risen Attic stream
+    A mortal singer dreamed a dream.
+    Fixed he not Fancy's habitation,
+    Nor set in bonds Imagination.
+    There are new waters, and a new Humanity.
+    For all old myths give us the dream to be.
+    We are outwearied with Persephone;
+    Rather than her, we'll sing Reality.
+
+
+SONG
+
+    I was so chill, and overworn, and sad,
+    To be a lady was the only joy I had.
+    I walked the street as silent as a mouse,
+    Buying fine clothes, and fittings for the house.
+
+    But since I saw my love
+    I wear a simple dress,
+    And happily I move
+    Forgetting weariness.
+
+
+
+
+_Siegfried Sassoon_
+
+
+Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, the poet whom Masefield hailed as "one of
+England's most brilliant rising stars," was born September 8, 1886. He
+was educated at Marlborough and Clare College, Cambridge, and was a
+captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. He fought three times in France,
+once in Palestine, winning the Military Cross for bringing in wounded
+on the battlefield.
+
+His poetry divides itself sharply in two moods--the lyric and the
+ironic. His early lilting poems were without significance or
+individuality. But with _The Old Huntsman_ (1917) Sassoon found his
+own idiom, and became one of the leading younger poets upon the
+appearance of this striking volume. The first poem, a long monologue
+evidently inspired by Masefield, gave little evidence of what was to
+come. Immediately following it, however, came a series of war poems,
+undisguised in their tragedy and bitterness. Every line of these
+quivering stanzas bore the mark of a sensitive and outraged nature;
+there was scarcely a phrase that did not protest against the
+"glorification" and false glamour of war.
+
+_Counter-Attack_ appeared in 1918. In this volume Sassoon turned
+entirely from an ordered loveliness to the gigantic brutality of war.
+At heart a lyric idealist, the bloody years intensified and twisted
+his tenderness till what was stubborn and satiric in him forced its
+way to the top. In _Counter-Attack_ Sassoon found his angry outlet.
+Most of these poems are choked with passion; many of them are torn
+out, roots and all, from the very core of an intense conviction; they
+rush on, not so much because of the poet's art but almost in spite of
+it. A suave utterance, a neatly-joined structure would be out of place
+and even inexcusable in poems like "The Rear-Guard," "To Any Dead
+Officer," "Does It Matter?"--verses that are composed of love, fever
+and indignation.
+
+Can Sassoon see nothing glorious or uplifting in war? His friend,
+Robert Nichols, another poet and soldier, speaks for him in a preface.
+"Let no one ever," Nichols quotes Sassoon as saying, "from henceforth
+say one word in any way countenancing war. It is dangerous even to
+speak of how here and there the individual may gain some hardship of
+soul by it. For war is hell, and those who institute it are criminals.
+Were there even anything to say for it, it should not be said; for its
+spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages...." Nichols
+adds his approval to these sentences, saying, "For myself, this is the
+truth. War does not ennoble, it degrades."
+
+Early in 1920 Sassoon visited America. At the same time he brought out
+his _Picture Show_ (1920), a vigorous answer to those who feared that
+Sassoon had "written himself out" or had begun to burn away in his own
+fire. Had Rupert Brooke lived, he might have written many of these
+lacerated but somehow exalted lines. Sassoon's three volumes are the
+most vital and unsparing records of the war we have had. They
+synthesize in poetry what Barbusse's _Under Fire_ spreads out in
+panoramic prose.
+
+
+TO VICTORY
+
+    Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,
+    Not in the woeful crimson of men slain,
+    But shining as a garden; come with the streaming
+    Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.
+
+    I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,
+    Radiance through living roses, spires of green,
+    Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood,
+    Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.
+
+    I am not sad; only I long for lustre,--
+    Tired of the greys and browns and leafless ash.
+    I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers,
+    Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.
+
+    Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,
+    Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;
+    Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness,
+    When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted voice.
+
+
+DREAMERS
+
+    Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,
+      Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
+    In the great hour of destiny they stand,
+      Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
+    Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
+      Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
+    Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
+      They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
+
+    I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
+      And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
+    Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
+      And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
+    Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
+      And going to the office in the train.
+
+
+THE REAR-GUARD
+
+    Groping along the tunnel, step by step,
+    He winked his prying torch with patching glare
+    From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
+
+    Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,
+    A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;
+    And he, exploring fifty feet below
+    The rosy gloom of battle overhead.
+
+    Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lie
+    Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,
+    And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.
+    "I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.
+    "God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)
+    "Get up and guide me through this stinking place."
+    Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,
+    And flashed his beam across the livid face
+    Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
+    Agony dying hard ten days before;
+    And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.
+    Alone he staggered on until he found
+    Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair
+    To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
+    Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
+    At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,
+    He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,
+    Unloading hell behind him step by step.
+
+
+THRUSHES
+
+    Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,
+    Whose voices make the emptiness of light
+    A windy palace. Quavering from the brim
+    Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,
+    They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing
+    Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof
+    Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;
+    Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;
+    Who hears the cry of God in everything,
+    And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
+
+
+AFTERMATH
+
+    _Have you forgotten yet?..._
+    For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
+    Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:
+    And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
+    Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man
+          reprieved to go,
+    Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
+    _But the past is just the same,--and War's a bloody game....
+    Have you forgotten yet?...
+    Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._
+
+    Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,--
+    The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled
+          sandbags on parapets?
+    Do you remember the rats; and the stench
+    Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,--
+    And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
+    Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"
+
+    Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,--
+    And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
+    As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
+    Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
+    With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey
+    Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
+
+    _Have you forgotten yet?...
+    Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll
+          never forget._
+
+
+
+
+_Rupert Brooke_
+
+
+Possibly the most famous of the Georgians, Rupert Brooke, was born at
+Rugby in August, 1887, his father being assistant master at the
+school. As a youth, Brooke was keenly interested in all forms of
+athletics; playing cricket, football, tennis, and swimming as well as
+most professionals. He was six feet tall, his finely molded head
+topped with a crown of loose hair of lively brown; "a golden young
+Apollo," said Edward Thomas. Another friend of his wrote, "to look at,
+he was part of the youth of the world. He was one of the handsomest
+Englishmen of his time." His beauty overstressed somewhat his
+naturally romantic disposition; his early poems are a blend of
+delight in the splendor of actuality and disillusion in a loveliness
+that dies. The shadow of John Donne lies over his pages.
+
+This occasional cynicism was purged, when after several years of
+travel (he had been to Germany, Italy and Honolulu) the war came,
+turning Brooke away from
+
+      "A world grown old and cold and weary ...
+    And half men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
+      And all the little emptiness of love."
+
+Brooke enlisted with a relief that was like a rebirth; he sought a new
+energy in the struggle "where the worst friend and enemy is but
+Death." After seeing service in Belgium, 1914, he spent the following
+winter in a training-camp in Dorsetshire and sailed with the British
+Mediterranean Expeditionary Force in February, 1915, to take part in
+the unfortunate Dardenelles Campaign.
+
+Brooke never reached his destination. He died of blood-poison at
+Skyros, April 23, 1915. His early death was one of England's great
+literary losses; Lascelles Abercrombie, W. W. Gibson (with both of
+whom he had been associated on the quarterly, _New Numbers_), Walter
+De la Mare, the Hon. Winston Spencer Churchill, and a host of others
+united to pay tribute to the most brilliant and passionate of the
+younger poets.
+
+Brooke's sonnet-sequence, _1914_ (from which "The Soldier" is taken),
+which, with prophetic irony, appeared a few weeks before his death,
+contains the accents of immortality. And "The Old Vicarage,
+Grantchester" (unfortunately too long to reprint in this volume), is
+fully as characteristic of the lighter and more playful side of
+Brooke's temperament. Both these phases are combined in "The Great
+Lover," of which Abercrombie has written, "It is life he loves, and
+not in any abstract sense, but all the infinite little familiar
+details of life, remembered and catalogued with delightful zest."
+
+
+THE GREAT LOVER[19]
+
+    I have been so great a lover: filled my days
+    So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
+    The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
+    Desire illimitable, and still content,
+    And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
+    For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
+    Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
+    Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
+    Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
+    My night shall be remembered for a star
+    That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
+    Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
+    Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
+    High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
+    The inenarrable godhead of delight?
+    Love is a flame;--we have beaconed the world's night.
+    A city:--and we have built it, these and I.
+    An emperor:--we have taught the world to die.
+    So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
+    And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
+    And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
+    Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
+    And set them as a banner, that men may know,
+    To dare the generations, burn, and blow
+    Out on; the wind of Time, shining and streaming....
+    These I have loved:
+          White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
+    Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
+    Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
+    Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
+    Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
+    And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
+    And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
+    Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
+    Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
+    Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
+    Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
+    Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
+    Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
+    The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
+    The good smell of old clothes; and other such--
+    The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
+    Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
+    About dead leaves and last year's ferns....
+                                        Dear names,
+    And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;
+    Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
+    Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:
+    Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
+    Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
+    Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
+    That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
+    And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
+    Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
+    Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
+    And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
+    And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;--
+    All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.
+    Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
+    Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
+    To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
+    They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
+    Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
+    And sacramented covenant to the dust.
+    --Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
+    And give what's left of love again, and make
+    New friends, now strangers....
+                                  But the best I've known,
+    Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
+    About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
+    Of living men, and dies.
+                                  Nothing remains.
+
+    O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
+    This one last gift I give: that after men
+    Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed
+    Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."
+
+
+DUST[20]
+
+    When the white flame in us is gone,
+      And we that lost the world's delight
+    Stiffen in darkness, left alone
+      To crumble in our separate night;
+
+    When your swift hair is quiet in death,
+      And through the lips corruption thrust
+    Has stilled the labour of my breath--
+      When we are dust, when we are dust!--
+
+    Not dead, not undesirous yet,
+      Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
+    We'll ride the air, and shine and flit,
+      Around the places where we died,
+
+    And dance as dust before the sun,
+      And light of foot, and unconfined,
+    Hurry from road to road, and run
+      About the errands of the wind.
+
+    And every mote, on earth or air,
+      Will speed and gleam, down later days,
+    And like a secret pilgrim fare
+      By eager and invisible ways,
+
+    Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
+      Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
+    One mote of all the dust that's I
+      Shall meet one atom that was you.
+
+    Then in some garden hushed from wind,
+      Warm in a sunset's afterglow,
+    The lovers in the flowers will find
+      A sweet and strange unquiet grow
+
+    Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
+      So high a beauty in the air,
+    And such a light, and such a quiring,
+      And such a radiant ecstasy there,
+
+    They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
+      Or out of earth, or in the height,
+    Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
+      Or two that pass, in light, to light,
+
+    Out of the garden higher, higher ...
+      But in that instant they shall learn
+    The shattering fury of our fire,
+      And the weak passionless hearts will burn
+
+    And faint in that amazing glow,
+      Until the darkness close above;
+    And they will know--poor fools, they'll know!--
+      One moment, what it is to love.
+
+
+THE SOLDIER[21]
+
+    If I should die, think only this of me;
+      That there's some corner of a foreign field
+    That is for ever England. There shall be
+      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
+    A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
+      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
+    A body of England's breathing English air,
+      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
+
+    And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
+      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
+        Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
+    Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
+      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
+        In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[19] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+[20] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+[21] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by
+John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
+
+
+
+
+_Winifred M. Letts_
+
+
+Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work
+concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in
+her immediate surroundings. Her _Songs from Leinster_ (1913) is her
+most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple
+people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door
+sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure
+and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic
+kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books
+for children, a later volume of _Poems of the War_ and, during the
+conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.
+
+
+GRANDEUR
+
+    Poor Mary Byrne is dead,
+      An' all the world may see
+    Where she lies upon her bed
+      Just as fine as quality.
+
+    She lies there still and white,
+      With candles either hand
+    That'll guard her through the night:
+      Sure she never was so grand.
+
+    She holds her rosary,
+      Her hands clasped on her breast.
+    Just as dacint as can be
+      In the habit she's been dressed.
+
+    In life her hands were red
+      With every sort of toil,
+    But they're white now she is dead,
+      An' they've sorra mark of soil.
+
+    The neighbours come and go,
+      They kneel to say a prayer,
+    I wish herself could know
+      Of the way she's lyin' there.
+
+    It was work from morn till night,
+      And hard she earned her bread:
+    But I'm thinking she's a right
+      To be aisy now she's dead.
+
+    When other girls were gay,
+      At wedding or at fair,
+    She'd be toiling all the day,
+      Not a minyit could she spare.
+
+    An' no one missed her face,
+      Or sought her in a crowd,
+    But to-day they throng the place
+      Just to see her in her shroud.
+
+    The creature in her life
+      Drew trouble with each breath;
+    She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"--
+      But she's lovely in her death.
+
+    I wish the dead could see
+      The splendour of a wake,
+    For it's proud herself would be
+      Of the keening that they make.
+
+    Och! little Mary Byrne,
+      You welcome every guest,
+    Is it now you take your turn
+      To be merry with the rest?
+
+    I'm thinking you'd be glad,
+      Though the angels make your bed,
+    Could you see the care we've had
+      To respect you--now you're dead.
+
+
+THE SPIRES OF OXFORD
+
+    I saw the spires of Oxford
+      As I was passing by,
+    The grey spires of Oxford
+      Against the pearl-grey sky.
+    My heart was with the Oxford men
+      Who went abroad to die.
+
+    The years go fast in Oxford,
+      The golden years and gay,
+    The hoary Colleges look down
+      On careless boys at play.
+    But when the bugles sounded war
+      They put their games away.
+
+    They left the peaceful river,
+      The cricket-field, the quad,
+    The shaven lawns of Oxford,
+      To seek a bloody sod--
+    They gave their merry youth away
+      For country and for God.
+
+    God rest you, happy gentlemen,
+      Who laid your good lives down,
+    Who took the khaki and the gun
+      Instead of cap and gown.
+    God bring you to a fairer place
+      Than even Oxford town.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Brett Young_
+
+
+Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet, and who has
+been called, by _The Manchester Guardian_, "one of the promising
+evangelists of contemporary poetry," has written much that is both
+graceful and grave. There is music and a message in his lines that
+seem to have as their motto: "Trust in the true and fiery spirit of
+Man." Best known as a writer of prose, his most prominent works are
+_Marching on Tanga_ and _The Crescent Moon_.
+
+Brett Young's _Five Degrees South_ (1917) and his _Poems 1916-18_
+(1919) contain the best of his verse.
+
+
+LOCHANILAUN
+
+    This is the image of my last content:
+    My soul shall be a little lonely lake,
+    So hidden that no shadow of man may break
+    The folding of its mountain battlement;
+    Only the beautiful and innocent
+    Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake
+    Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake
+    Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.
+    For there shall be no terror in the night
+    When stars that I have loved are born in me,
+    And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;
+    But this shall be the end of my delight:--
+    That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see
+    Your image in the mirrored beauty there.
+
+
+
+
+_F. S. Flint_
+
+
+Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry, F. S. Flint has
+published several volumes of original imagist poems, besides having
+translated works of Verhaeren and Jean de Bosschere.
+
+
+LONDON
+
+    London, my beautiful,
+    it is not the sunset
+    nor the pale green sky
+    shimmering through the curtain
+    of the silver birch,
+    nor the quietness;
+    it is not the hopping
+    of birds
+    upon the lawn,
+    nor the darkness
+    stealing over all things
+    that moves me.
+
+    But as the moon creeps slowly
+    over the tree-tops
+    among the stars,
+    I think of her
+    and the glow her passing
+    sheds on men.
+
+    London, my beautiful,
+    I will climb
+    into the branches
+    to the moonlit tree-tops,
+    that my blood may be cooled
+    by the wind.
+
+
+
+
+_Edith Sitwell_
+
+
+Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is the sister
+of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In 1914 she came to
+London and has devoted herself to literature ever since, having edited
+the various anthologies of _Wheels_ since 1916. Her first book, _The
+Mother and Other Poems_ (1915), contains some of her best work,
+although _Clowns' Houses_ (1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a
+sharper turn of mind.
+
+
+THE WEB OF EROS
+
+    Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
+    The fire and splendour of the ancient world;
+    The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair;
+    The songs that turned to gold the evening air
+    When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.
+    The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.
+    The maenad fire of spring on the cold earth;
+    The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth
+    To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower
+    That came to Danae in her brazen tower....
+    Within your magic web of hair lies furled
+    The fire and splendour of the ancient world.
+
+
+INTERLUDE
+
+    Amid this hot green glowing gloom
+    A word falls with a raindrop's boom....
+
+    Like baskets of ripe fruit in air
+    The bird-songs seem, suspended where
+
+    Those goldfinches--the ripe warm lights
+    Peck slyly at them--take quick flights.
+
+    My feet are feathered like a bird
+    Among the shadows scarcely heard;
+
+    I bring you branches green with dew
+    And fruits that you may crown anew
+
+    Your whirring waspish-gilded hair
+    Amid this cornucopia--
+
+    Until your warm lips bear the stains
+    And bird-blood leap within your veins.
+
+
+
+
+_F. W. Harvey_
+
+
+Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German
+prison camp at Guetersloh when he wrote _The Bugler_, one of the
+isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse
+is haphazard and journalistic, although _Gloucestershire Friends_
+contains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry.
+
+
+THE BUGLER
+
+    God dreamed a man;
+    Then, having firmly shut
+    Life like a precious metal in his fist
+    Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
+    Our various divinity and sin.
+    For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,
+    And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut
+    Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
+    Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
+    Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast
+    That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
+    Did with it--simply nothing. (Here again
+    Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
+    Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
+    Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
+
+    For me, I do but bear within my hand
+    (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)
+    A simple bugle such as may awaken
+    With one high morning note a drowsing man:
+    That wheresoe'er within my motherland
+    That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide
+    Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,
+    Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.
+
+
+
+
+_T. P. Cameron Wilson_
+
+
+"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was
+educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several
+articles under the pseudonym _Tipuca_, a euphonic combination of the
+first three initials of his name.
+
+When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead,
+Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a
+captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23,
+1918, at the age of 29.
+
+
+SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE
+
+    They left the fury of the fight,
+      And they were very tired.
+    The gates of Heaven were open quite,
+      Unguarded and unwired.
+    There was no sound of any gun,
+      The land was still and green;
+    Wide hills lay silent in the sun,
+      Blue valleys slept between.
+
+    They saw far-off a little wood
+      Stand up against the sky.
+    Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;
+      Some lazy cows went by ...
+    There were some rooks sailed overhead,
+      And once a church-bell pealed.
+    "_God! but it's England_," someone said,
+      "_And there's a cricket-field!_"
+
+
+
+
+_W. J. Turner_
+
+
+W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his
+appearance in _Georgian Poetry 1916-17_, has written no few delicate
+and fanciful poems. _The Hunter_ (1916) and _The Dark Wind_ (1918)
+both contain many verses as moving and musical as his splendid lines
+on "Death," a poem which is unfortunately too long to quote.
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+    When I was but thirteen or so
+      I went into a golden land,
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Took me by the hand.
+
+    My father died, my brother too,
+      They passed like fleeting dreams,
+    I stood where Popocatapetl
+      In the sunlight gleams.
+
+    I dimly heard the master's voice
+      And boys far-off at play,--
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Had stolen me away.
+
+    I walked in a great golden dream
+      To and fro from school--
+    Shining Popocatapetl
+      The dusty streets did rule.
+
+    I walked home with a gold dark boy
+      And never a word I'd say,
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
+      Had taken my speech away.
+
+    I gazed entranced upon his face
+      Fairer than any flower--
+    O shining Popocatapetl
+      It was thy magic hour:
+
+    The houses, people, traffic seemed
+      Thin fading dreams by day;
+    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
+      They had stolen my soul away!
+
+
+
+
+_Patrick MacGill_
+
+
+Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of
+poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he
+worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming
+one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer
+from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his
+bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote
+several vivid novels (_The Rat Pit_ is an unforgettable document) and
+the tragedy-crammed _Songs of the Dead End_. He joined the editorial
+staff of _The Daily Express_ in 1911; was in the British army during
+the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his _Soldier Songs_
+during the conflict.
+
+
+BY-THE-WAY
+
+    These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which
+    I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch,
+    On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.
+
+    Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go,
+    Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so,
+    For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!
+
+    Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,
+    Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies,
+    Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.
+
+    Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes,
+    Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,
+    Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.
+
+    These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,
+    Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put,
+    Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.
+
+
+DEATH AND THE FAIRIES
+
+    Before I joined the Army
+      I lived in Donegal,
+    Where every night the Fairies
+      Would hold their carnival.
+
+    But now I'm out in Flanders,
+      Where men like wheat-ears fall,
+    And it's Death and not the Fairies
+      Who is holding carnival.
+
+
+
+
+_Francis Ledwidge_
+
+
+Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891.
+His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a
+miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in
+hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal
+on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26
+years.
+
+Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of
+color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.
+
+
+AN EVENING IN ENGLAND
+
+    From its blue vase the rose of evening drops;
+    Upon the streams its petals float away.
+    The hills all blue with distance hide their tops
+    In the dim silence falling on the grey.
+    A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray
+    Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom;
+    A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.
+
+    Night tells her rosary of stars full soon,
+    They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.
+    Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon
+    Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease
+    From all her changes which have stirred the seas.
+    Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.
+    I and a marsh bird only make a wail.
+
+
+EVENING CLOUDS
+
+    A little flock of clouds go down to rest
+    In some blue corner off the moon's highway,
+    With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West
+    To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array,
+    Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons
+    Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made
+    A little England full of lovely noons,
+    Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.
+
+    Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22]
+    Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,
+    What he loved most; for late I roamed a while
+    Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed;
+    And they remember him with beauty caught
+    From old desires of Oriental Spring
+    Heard in his heart with singing overwrought;
+    And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page
+194.)
+
+
+
+
+_Irene Rutherford McLeod_
+
+
+Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three
+volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may
+be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918).
+The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was
+married in 1919.
+
+
+"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"
+
+    Is love, then, so simple my dear?
+      The opening of a door,
+    And seeing all things clear?
+      I did not know before.
+
+    I had thought it unrest and desire
+      Soaring only to fall,
+    Annihilation and fire:
+      It is not so at all.
+
+    I feel no desperate will,
+      But I think I understand
+    Many things, as I sit quite still,
+      With Eternity in my hand.
+
+
+LONE DOG
+
+    I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
+    I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
+    I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
+    I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
+
+    I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
+    A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
+    Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
+    But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.
+
+    Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
+    Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
+    O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
+    Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
+
+
+
+
+_Richard Aldington_
+
+
+Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover
+College and London University. His first poems were published in
+England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and
+"H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of
+the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines
+put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_
+(1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in
+pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic
+but warmer and more humanly searching.
+
+
+PRELUDE
+
+    How could I love you more?
+    I would give up
+    Even that beauty I have loved too well
+    That I might love you better.
+
+    Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give--
+    I can but give you of my flesh and strength,
+    I can but give you these few passing days
+    And passionate words that, since our speech began,
+    All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.
+
+    I try to think of some one lovely gift
+    No lover yet in all the world has found;
+    I think: If the cold sombre gods
+    Were hot with love as I am
+    Could they not endow you with a star
+    And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?
+    Could they not give you all things that I lack?
+
+    You should have loved a god; I am but dust.
+    Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.
+
+
+IMAGES
+
+    I
+
+    Like a gondola of green scented fruits
+    Drifting along the dank canals of Venice,
+    You, O exquisite one,
+    Have entered into my desolate city.
+
+    II
+
+    The blue smoke leaps
+    Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
+    So my love leaps forth toward you,
+    Vanishes and is renewed.
+
+    III
+
+    A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky
+    When the sunset is faint vermilion
+    In the mist among the tree-boughs
+    Art thou to me, my beloved.
+
+    IV
+
+    A young beech tree on the edge of the forest
+    Stands still in the evening,
+    Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air
+    And seems to fear the stars--
+    So are you still and so tremble.
+
+    V
+
+    The red deer are high on the mountain,
+    They are beyond the last pine trees.
+    And my desires have run with them.
+
+    VI
+
+    The flower which the wind has shaken
+    Is soon filled again with rain;
+    So does my heart fill slowly with tears,
+    O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,
+    Until you return.
+
+
+AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM
+
+    I turn the page and read:
+    "I dream of silent verses where the rhyme
+    Glides noiseless as an oar."
+    The heavy musty air, the black desks,
+    The bent heads and the rustling noises
+    In the great dome
+    Vanish ...
+    And
+    The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,
+    The boat drifts over the lake shallows,
+    The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,
+    The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,
+    And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle
+    About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....
+
+
+
+
+_Edward Shanks_
+
+
+Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity
+College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and _belles lettres_ for
+several years for various English publications, and is at present
+assistant editor of _The London Mercury_. His _The Queen of China and
+Other Poems_ appeared late in 1919.
+
+
+COMPLAINT
+
+    When in the mines of dark and silent thought
+    Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there,
+    With heavy labour to the surface brought
+    That lie and mock me in the brighter air,
+    Poor ores from starved lodes of poverty,
+    Unfit for working or to be refined,
+    That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye,
+    I turn away from that base cave, the mind.
+    Yet had I but the power to crush the stone
+    There are strange metals hid in flakes therein,
+    Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone,
+    That only cunning, toilsome chemists win.
+    All this I know, and yet my chemistry
+    Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.
+
+
+
+
+_Osbert Sitwell_
+
+
+Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George
+Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became
+an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for
+various periods from 1914 to 1917.
+
+His first contributions appeared in _Wheels_ (an annual anthology of a
+few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and
+disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is
+strengthened by a reading of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_ (1920), where
+Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though
+his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against
+smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry
+has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.
+
+
+THE BLIND PEDLAR
+
+    I stand alone through each long day
+    Upon these pavers; cannot see
+    The wares spread out upon this tray
+    --For God has taken sight from me!
+
+    Many a time I've cursed the night
+    When I was born. My peering eyes
+    Have sought for but one ray of light
+    To pierce the darkness. When the skies
+
+    Rain down their first sweet April showers
+    On budding branches; when the morn
+    Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
+    I've cursed the night when I was born.
+
+    But now I thank God, and am glad
+    For what I cannot see this day
+    --The young men cripples, old, and sad,
+    With faces burnt and torn away;
+
+    Or those who, growing rich and old,
+    Have battened on the slaughter,
+    Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
+    Are creased in purple laughter!
+
+
+PROGRESS
+
+    The city's heat is like a leaden pall--
+    Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air
+    Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare
+    Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall
+    Black houses crush the creeping beggars down,
+    Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,
+    Of silver bodies bathing in a pool;
+    Or trees that whisper in some far, small town
+    Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold
+    Was merely metal, not a grave of mould
+    In which men bury all that's fine and fair.
+    When they could chase the jewelled butterfly
+    Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh
+    For all the future held so rich and rare;
+    When, though they knew it not, their baby cries
+    Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Nichols_
+
+
+Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first
+volume, _Invocations_ (1915), was published while he was at the front,
+Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at
+Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant
+in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by shell shock,
+visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. His _Ardours and
+Endurances_ (1917) is the most representative work of this poet,
+although his new volume, _The Flower of Flame_ (1920), shows a steady
+advance in power.
+
+
+NEARER
+
+    Nearer and ever nearer ...
+    My body, tired but tense,
+    Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure
+    And tremulous confidence.
+
+    Arms to have and to use them
+    And a soul to be made
+    Worthy, if not worthy;
+    If afraid, unafraid.
+
+    To endure for a little,
+    To endure and have done:
+    Men I love about me,
+    Over me the sun!
+
+    And should at last suddenly
+    Fly the speeding death,
+    The four great quarters of heaven
+    Receive this little breath.
+
+
+
+
+_Charles Hamilton Sorley_
+
+
+Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the
+younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at
+Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing
+his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the
+Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an
+immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In
+August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13,
+1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.
+
+Sorley left but one book, _Marlborough and Other Poems_. The verse
+contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired
+Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint,
+tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a boy of 20, distinguish his
+poetry.
+
+
+TWO SONNETS
+
+    I
+
+    Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.
+    Poets have whitened at your high renown.
+    We stand among the many millions who
+    Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.
+
+    You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried
+    To live as of your presence unaware.
+    But now in every road on every side
+    We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.
+
+    I think it like that signpost in my land
+    Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go
+    Upward, into the hills, on the right hand,
+    Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,
+    A homeless land and friendless, but a land
+    I did not know and that I wished to know.
+
+    II
+
+    Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
+    Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
+    A merciful putting away of what has been.
+
+    And this we know: Death is not Life effete,
+    Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen
+    So marvellous things know well the end not yet.
+
+    Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:
+    Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,
+    "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"
+    But a big blot has hid each yesterday
+    So poor, so manifestly incomplete.
+    And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,
+    Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet
+    And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.
+
+
+TO GERMANY
+
+    You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
+    And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
+    But gropers both, through fields of thought confined,
+    We stumble and we do not understand.
+    You only saw your future bigly planned,
+    And we the tapering paths of our own mind,
+    And in each other's dearest ways we stand,
+    And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
+
+    When it is peace, then we may view again
+    With new-won eyes each other's truer form
+    And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm
+    We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
+    When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
+    The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
+
+
+
+
+_Robert Graves_
+
+
+Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming
+musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sassoon and
+Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers who, roused by the war
+and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant
+new hymns of hate. Like Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm
+of fury and blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but,
+fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is
+violent, Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter, Graves is almost
+blithe.
+
+An unconquerable gayety rises from his _Fairies and Fusiliers_ (1917),
+a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. In _Country
+Sentiment_ (1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity.
+But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads
+and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.
+
+
+IT'S A QUEER TIME
+
+    It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
+    When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
+
+    One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
+    Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:
+    The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast--
+    No time to think--leave all--and off you go ...
+    To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
+    To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime--
+    Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"
+    When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
+    You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
+    And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay
+    In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
+    Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
+    You're back in the old sailor suit again.
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out--
+    A great roar--the trench shakes and falls about--
+    You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... _hullo_!
+    Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
+    Hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench--
+    Getting her pinafore all over grime.
+    Funny! because she died ten years ago!
+            It's a queer time.
+
+    The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
+    Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,
+    You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
+    Even good Christians don't like passing straight
+    From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
+    To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
+    Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...
+            It's a queer time.
+
+
+A PINCH OF SALT
+
+    When a dream is born in you
+      With a sudden clamorous pain,
+    When you know the dream is true
+      And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
+    O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
+    You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
+
+    Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
+      Flirting the feathers of his tail.
+    When you seize at the salt-box,
+      Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
+    Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
+    They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
+
+    Poet, never chase the dream.
+      Laugh yourself, and turn away.
+    Mask your hunger; let it seem
+      Small matter if he come or stay;
+    But when he nestles in your hand at last,
+    Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
+
+
+I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?
+
+    Look at my knees,
+    That island rising from the steamy seas!
+    The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands
+    Are boats and barges anchored to the sands,
+    With mighty cliffs all round;
+    They're full of wine and riches from far lands....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+    I can make caves,
+    By lifting up the island and huge waves
+    And storms, and then with head and ears well under
+    Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder,
+    A bull-of-Bashan sound.
+    The seas run high and the boats split asunder....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+    The thin soap slips
+    And slithers like a shark under the ships.
+    My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect
+    Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked.
+    The soap slides round and round;
+    He's biting the old sailors, I expect....
+    _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
+
+
+THE LAST POST
+
+    The bugler sent a call of high romance--
+    "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.
+    On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:
+    "God, if it's _this_ for me next time in France,
+    O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
+    Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
+    Dead in a row with other broken ones,
+    Lying so stiff and still under the sky--
+    Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..."
+    The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
+    Was blood about his head as he stood there.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX
+
+
+_Names of Authors are in Capitals. Titles of Poems are in Italics._
+
+ABERCROMBIE, LASCELLES, xxiv, 174-177
+
+"A. E.," xvii, 76-77
+
+_Aftermath_, 192
+
+ALDINGTON, RICHARD, 216-219
+
+_All-Souls_, 44
+
+_An Athlete Dying Young, To_, 38
+
+_An Old Fogey, To_, 45
+
+_Arab Love-Song, An_, 35
+
+_Astrologer's Song, An_, 66
+
+_At the British Museum_, 218
+
+_A Traveller, To_, 72
+
+AUSTIN, ALFRED, xii, 5, 27
+
+
+_Ballad of Hell, A_, 22
+
+_Ballad of London, A_, 69
+
+_Ballad of the Billycock, The_, 90
+
+_Barrel-Organ, The_, 154
+
+_Beautiful Lie the Dead_, 78
+
+_Beauty's a Flower_, 100
+
+_Before_, 11
+
+_Beg-Innish_, 95
+
+BELLOC, HILAIRE, 86-89
+
+BINYON, LAURENCE, 79-80
+
+_Birdcatcher, The_, 144
+
+_Blackbird, The_, 10
+
+_Blind Pedlar, The_, 220
+
+_Bowl of Roses, A_, 11
+
+BRIDGES, ROBERT, 5-7
+
+_Broken Song, A_, 99
+
+BROOKE, RUPERT, xxiii, 193-200
+
+_Bugler, The_, 208
+
+_By-the-Way_, 211
+
+
+CAMPBELL, JOSEPH, 165-166
+
+_Cap and Bells, The_, 54
+
+CHESSON, NORA (_see Nora Hopper_)
+
+CHESTERTON, G. K., xxiii, 110-119
+
+_Choice, The_, 131
+
+_Clair de Lune_, 102
+
+_Cock-Crow_, 138
+
+COLUM, PADRAIC, xvii, 162-165
+
+_Complaint_, 219
+
+_Connaught Lament, A_, 97
+
+_Consecration, A_, 126
+
+_Conundrum of the Workshops, The_, 63
+
+CORNFORD, FRANCES, 184-186
+
+
+_Daisy_,32
+
+_Dauber_, xxii, 128
+
+DAVIDSON, JOHN, 22-27
+
+DAVIES, W. H., xxiii, xxv, 83-86
+
+_Days Too Short_, 84
+
+DEANE, ANTHONY C., 89-93
+
+_Death and the Fairies_, 212
+
+DE LA MARE, WALTER, xxiii, 105-110
+
+_Donkey, The_, 119
+
+DOUGLAS, ALFRED, 80-81
+
+DOWSON, ERNEST, 73-76
+
+_Drake's Drum_, 49
+
+_Dream, A_, 79
+
+_Dreamers_, 190
+
+DRINKWATER, JOHN, xxiv, 170-171
+
+DUNSANY, EDWARD LORD, 133-136
+
+_Dust_,198
+
+_Dying-Swan, The_, 82
+
+
+_Epilogue_, 161
+
+_Epitaph_, 42
+
+_Epitaph, An_, 107
+
+_Estrangement_, 30
+
+_Eve_, 140
+
+_Evening Clouds_, 214
+
+_Evening in England, An_, 213
+
+_Everlasting Mercy, The_, xxii
+
+_Every Thing_, 146
+
+_Example, The_, 86
+
+
+_Fifty Faggots_,137
+
+FLECKER, JAMES ELROY, 178-179
+
+_Fleet Street_, 183
+
+FLINT, F. S., 205-206
+
+FREEMAN, JOHN, 181-182
+
+
+GEORGIANS, THE, xi, xxiii-xxiv
+
+_Germany, To_, 225
+
+GIBSON, W. W., xxiii, xxv, 119-125
+
+GILBERT, W. S., xiv
+
+_Going and Staying_, 4
+
+GORE-BOOTH, EVA, 98-99
+
+_Grandeur_, 201
+
+GRAVES, ROBERT, xxiii, 225-229
+
+_Great Breath, The_, 76
+
+_Great Lover, The_, 195
+
+_Green River, The_, 81
+
+_Gunga Din_, 57
+
+
+HARDY, THOMAS, xvi, 3-4
+
+HARVEY, F. W., 208
+
+HENLEY, W. E., xi, xv-xvii, 9-13
+
+_"Herod," Fragment from_, 78
+
+HINKSON, KATHARINE TYNAN, xvii, 43-45
+
+HODGSON, RALPH, xxiii, xxv, 139-144
+
+HOPPER, NORA, 97
+
+_House, A_, 172
+
+_House that Was, The_, 80
+
+HOUSMAN, A. E., xxv, 36-40
+
+HUEFFER, F. M., 102-105
+
+HYDE, DOUGLAS, xvii, 40-41
+
+
+_I am the Mountainy Singer_, 165
+
+_I Hear an Army_, 171
+
+_I Shall not Die for Thee_, 40
+
+_I Wonder What It Feels Like to be Drowned?_, 228
+
+_If I Should Ever Grow Rich_, 136
+
+_Images_, 217
+
+_Imagination_, 26
+
+_Impression du Matin_, 21
+
+_In Flanders Fields_, 101
+
+_Interlude_, 207
+
+_In the Mile End Road_, 42
+
+_In the Wood of Finvara_, 50
+
+_In Time of "The Breaking of Nations_," 3
+
+_Invictus_, 10
+
+"_Is Love, then, so simple_," 215
+
+_It's a Queer Time_, 226
+
+
+JACKSON, HOLBROOK, xiv-xv
+
+JOHNSON, LIONEL, xvii, 71-73
+
+JOYCE, JAMES, 171
+
+KETTLE, T. M., 149-150
+
+KIPLING, RUDYARD, xi, xx-xxi, 56-68
+
+_Lake Isle of Innisfree, The_, 53
+
+_Last Post, The_, 229
+
+LAWRENCE, D. H., xxiii, 179-181
+
+LEDWIDGE, FRANCIS, 213-214
+
+LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD, xv, 68-70
+
+_Lepanto_, 111
+
+LESLIE, SHANE, 183-184
+
+LETTS, W. M., 200-204
+
+LEVY, AMY, 41-43
+
+_Listeners, The_, 106
+
+_Lochanilaun_, 204
+
+_London_, 205
+
+_Lone Dog_, 215
+
+"_Loveliest of Trees_," 39
+
+
+MACCATHMHAOIL, SEOSAMH (_see Joseph Campbell_)
+
+MACGILL, PATRICK, 211-213
+
+MACLEOD, FIONA, 18-19
+
+MCLEOD, IRENE R., 215-216
+
+MCCRAE, JOHN, 101
+
+_Man He Killed, The_, 4
+
+_Margaritae Sorori_, 12
+
+MASEFIELD, JOHN, xi, xxi-xxii, xxv, 125-132
+
+MEYNELL, ALICE, 16-17
+
+_Modern Beauty_, 51
+
+MONRO, HAROLD, 144-149
+
+_Moon, The_, 85
+
+MOORE, GEORGE, xviii
+
+MOORE, T. STURGE, 81-83
+
+_My Daughter Betty, To_, 150
+
+_Mystery, The_, 144
+
+_Mystic and Cavalier_, 71
+
+
+_Nearer_, 222
+
+NEWBOLT, HENRY, xxiv, 49-50
+
+NICHOLS, ROBERT, 222-223, 225
+
+_Nightingale near the House, The_, 145
+
+_Nightingales_, 7
+
+_Nod_, 109
+
+NOYES, ALFRED, xxiii, 150-162
+
+
+_Oaks of Glencree, To the_, 96
+
+_Ode_, 8
+
+_Ode in May_, 28
+
+_Old Ships, The_, 178
+
+_Old Song Resung, An_, 55
+
+_Old Susan_, 108
+
+_Old Woman, The_, 166
+
+_Old Woman of the Roads, An_, 164
+
+_Olivia, To_, 34
+
+_One in Bedlam, To_, 74
+
+O'NEILL, MOIRA, xvii, 99-100
+
+O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR, 8-9
+
+O'SULLIVAN, SEUMAS, 138-139
+
+
+_Pater of the Cannon, The_, 183
+
+_People_, 180
+
+PHILLIPS, STEPHEN, 77-79
+
+_Piano_, 180
+
+_Pinch of Salt, A_, 227
+
+_Plougher The_, 162
+
+_Praise_, 139
+
+_Prayer in Darkness, A_, 118
+
+_Preexistence_, 184
+
+_Prelude_, 120
+
+_Prelude_, 216
+
+_Progress_, 221
+
+
+_Reality_, 186
+
+_Rear-Guard, The_, 190
+
+_Reciprocity_, 170
+
+_Regret_, 70
+
+_Requiem_, 16
+
+_Requiescat_, 20
+
+_Return, The_, 61
+
+_Reveille_, 36
+
+_Romance_, 15
+
+_Romance_, 210
+
+_Rounding the Horn_, 128
+
+RUSSELL, GEORGE W. (_see "A. E."_)
+
+_Rustic Song, A_, 92
+
+
+SASSOON, SIEGFRIED, xxiii, 187-193, 225
+
+SEAMAN, OWEN, 45-48
+
+_Sea-Fever_, 127
+
+SHANKS, EDWARD, 219-220
+
+SHARP, WILLIAM (_see Fiona MacLeod_)
+
+SHAW, G. B., 20, 83
+
+_Sheep and Lambs_, 43
+
+_Shell, The_, 167
+
+_Sherwood_, 151
+
+_Sight_, 124
+
+_Silence Sings_, 82
+
+_Singer, The_, 186
+
+SITWELL, EDITH, 206-207
+
+SITWELL, OSBERT, 220-222
+
+_Soldier, The_, 200
+
+_Song_, 31
+
+_Song_, 187
+
+_Song, A_, 79
+
+_Song_ (_from "Judith"_), 176
+
+_Song of the Old Mother, The_, 53
+
+_Songs from an Evil Wood_, 133
+
+_Sonnet_,132
+
+SORLEY, CHARLES HAMILTON, 223-225
+
+_South Country, The_, 87
+
+_Spires of Oxford, The_, 203
+
+_Sportsmen in Paradise_, 209
+
+SQUIRE, J. C., xxiv, 172-174
+
+STEPHENS, JAMES, xxiii, 167-169
+
+STEVENSON, R. L., xvi, 13-16
+
+_Stone, The_, 121
+
+_Stone Trees_, 181
+
+_Strange Meetings_, 149
+
+_Summer Sun_, 13
+
+SYMONS, ARTHUR, xv, 50-51
+
+SYNGE, J. M., xviii-xx, xxii, 93-96
+
+
+_Tall Nettles_, 137
+
+TENNYSON, ALFRED, xii, 49
+
+"_There Shall be more Joy_," 104
+
+THOMAS, EDWARD, 136-138
+
+_Thomas of the Light Heart_, 47
+
+THOMPSON, FRANCIS, 31-35
+
+_Thrush before Dawn, A_, 16
+
+_Thrushes_, 191
+
+_Time, You old Gipsy Man_, 142
+
+_Tired Tim_, 108
+
+_To The Four Courts, Please_, 169
+
+_Town Window, A_, 170
+
+_Translation from Petrarch, A_, 96
+
+TUPPER, MARTIN F., xii
+
+TURNER, W. J., 210-211
+
+_Two Sonnets_, 223
+
+TYNAN, KATHARINE (HINKSON), xvii, 43-45
+
+
+_Unknown God, The_, 77
+
+
+_Valley of Silence, The_, 18
+
+_"Vashti," From_, 175
+
+VICTORIANS, THE, xi-xiii, xx
+
+_Victory, To_, 189
+
+_Villain, The_, 85
+
+_Vision, The_, 19
+
+
+_Walls_, 99
+
+WATSON, WILLIAM, 27-31
+
+_Waves of Breffny, The_, 98
+
+_Web of Eros, The_, 206
+
+_What Tomas an Buile Said_, 168
+
+_When I Was One-and-Twenty_, 37
+
+WICKHAM, ANNA, 186-187
+
+WILDE, OSCAR, xiii-xv, 19-22, 68
+
+WILLIAMS, HAROLD, xviii, 105
+
+WILSON, T. P. C., 209
+
+_Winter Nightfall_, 5
+
+_Winter-Time_, 14
+
+_With Rue my Heart is Laden_, 38
+
+
+YEATS, W. B., xvi, xvii-xix, 52-56, 94
+
+YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT, 204
+
+_You Would Have Understood Me_, 75
+
+  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Notes:                                         |
+  |                                                              |
+  | Page xv: artistocratic amended to aristocratic               |
+  | Page 21: _s_ added to St. Paul's                             |
+  | Page 40: Collge amended to College                           |
+  | Page 71: sevententh amended to seventeenth                   |
+  | Page 84: naif amended to naif                                |
+  | Page 184: PREEXISTENCE amended to PREEXISTENCE (as per poem  |
+  | title in the Table of Contents)                              |
+  | Page 147: double quotes inside double quotes amended to      |
+  | single quotes                                                |
+  | Page 209: comma added after "someone said"                   |
+  | Page 233: comma added after _Nightingales_                   |
+  | Page 234: Comma added after _Winter Nightfall_.              |
+  | _State The_ amended to _Stone, The_                          |
+  |                                                              |
+  | Hyphenation has been retained as is.                         |
+  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern British Poetry, by Various
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