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FOR 1918 



fflnlbg^ nf Htb^ral Aria 

Ger^eTal SuYid 

VT\a.vJ^ %3 , 1 9 z\ No. 





FOK 1918 

^^fcO,£ OF LlBtRAL ART^ 


The Five Wisdoms of Grainne, A Book 

of Poems. (In preparation.) 
The House of Falling Leaves 
Lyrics of Life and Love 


Going Over Tindel, A Novel. (In prep- 

The Poetic Year for 1916, A Critical 

Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1913 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1915 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1916 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1917 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1918 

and Yearbook of American Poetry 
The Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse 
The Book of Elizabethan Verse 
The Book of Restoration Verse 

The Book of Georgian Verse 





FOR I918 











Copyright, 1918, by The Boston Transcript Company . 

Copyright, 1918, 











Digitized by tine Internet Archive 

in 2009 witin funding from 

Boston Library Consortium IVIember Libraries 




Acknowledgments ^ 

Anthology of Poems 1 

The Yeaebook of American Poetry, 1918 .... 163 

Index of Poets and Poems Published in American 
Magazines, October, 1917 — September, 1918 . . 165 

Articles and Reviews of Poets and Poetry Pub- 
lished During 1917-1918 222 

Volumes of Poems Published During 1917-1918 . 231 

A Select List of Books About Poets and Poetry 
Published During 1917-1918 ....... 243 

Some Important Volumes of Poems Published Dur- 
ing 1917-1918 245 

Biographical Index 260 

Index of First Lines 378 


" To object to the conventionality of art is to believe 
in absolute realism, which, if possible, would be a 
science and not an art. " — ^R. A. M. Stevenson. 

Three articles on poetry have been printed 
during the past year which have interested me 
because of the divergent points of view ex- 
pressed. Of the three one only is safely and 
securely between the shoals of R. A. M. Steven- 
son's statement, which I quote at the head of 
this introduction, and common sense. This is 
Mr. Brian Hooker's "The Practical Use of 
Poetry," which appeared in the December 
(1917) issue of The Century Magazine. The 
other two articles are, "What is Poetry?" by 
Maxwell Bodenheim, in The New Republic for 
December 22, 1917, and "The Mechanism of 
Poetic Inspiration," by Conrad Aiken, in the 
North American Review for December, 1917. 

The article by Mr. Aiken, based upon the in- 
vestigations of Nicolas Kostyleff's book "Le Me- 
canisme Cerebrale de la Pensee,^' is an attempt 
to denude poetic inspiration of its mystery and 
to rationalize its origin according to certain 
psychological formulas in which the elements 
of thought and emotion can be reasoned with 
exactness. Mr. Aiken, as theorist, will allow 

nothing for the influence of taste, feeling, 
mental or emotional predilection, on judgment; 
judgment must be absolute, in spite of the fact 
that it has always been determined, starting 
from a 'priori standards, through these very 
same personal qualities of taste, feeling and 
temperamental predilections. Mr. Aiken de- 
sires that judgment should be scientific. A 
poem should be analysed with exactness; the 
process should be cold and calculating. The 
laws of aesthetics, without cognizance of which 
no true poem can exist, may be approached in 
this spirit, but these laws are invariably plas- 
tic and changeable, and they constitute but a 
lateral and subsidiary significance in the imagi- 
native and abstract branches of art, such as 
poetry and fiction. Mr. Aiken imagines poetry 
to be something as real and concrete as a bar 
of iron ore which may be analysed by pure 
science. As a matter of fact the reality of 
poetry lies wholly in the abstract, and to reach 
that reality, comprehend and interpret it, is 
completely a matter of sentiment and not sci- 
ence. And sentiment is passion and emotion 
projecting the mind into regions of the invisible 
and insubstantial where neither science nor 
matter can reach. 

1 am not concerned here with the cause or 
need of expression which Mr. Aiken emphasizes 
with a Freudian cue, in his article. One can 
safely let such a statement as this take care of 
itself: "It is to some deep hunger, whether 
erotic or not, or to some analogous compulsion, 
that we must look for the source of power that 

sets in motion the delicate mechanism, on an- 
other plane, which M. Kostyleff has begun to 
illuminate for us. It is clear that this is not 
merely a sexual hunger, nor an aesthetic hunger, 
nor an ethical hunger, though all may have 
their place in it. . . . Is it merely in general the 
hunger of the frustrate (which we all are) for 
richer experience.?" But doesn't this admis- 
sion, by the way, nullify all the claims of Mr. 
Aiken's pretense to a scientific explanation of 
an art which reflects, if any art does, the varia- 
ble and inscrutable consciousness of human life.'* 

What does concern us is the hypotheses 
Mr. Aiken presents in the course of his article 
about the origin and development of poetic 
inspiration, and in consequence the definition 
and substance of the art of poetry. Could 
Mr. Aiken prove his theory, or have it justified 
by the history and tradition of the art, both 
critical and creative, he would convince us 
that the art is wholly and absolutely a mechan- 
ical performance. Poe attempted this more 
than haK a century ago, and failed; and Mr. 
Aiken with nothing like Poe's genius for intel- 
lectual subtlety or logic is not apt to be any- 
where near as plausible. 

In this fashion Mr. Aiken attacks the belief — 
he holds it rather as a critical and aesthetic 
dogma, made infallible by sentimentality — of 
the inexplicable and abstract quality of the 
poetic impulse: "There is a widespread notion 
in the public mind that poetic inspiration has 
something mysterious and translunar about it, 
— something which altogether escapes human 

analysis, which it would be almost sacrilege to 
touch. The Romans spoke of the poet's divine 
afflatus, the EHzabethans of his fine frenzy. 
And even in our own day critics, and poets them- 
selves, are not lacking who take the affair quite 
as seriously. Our critics and poets are them- 
selves largely responsible for this, — ^they are a 
sentimental lot, even when most discerning, 
and cannot help indulging, on the one hand, in 
a reverential attitude towards the art, and, on 
the other, in a reverential attitude towards 
themselves. Little of the scientific spirit which 
has begun to light the Hterary criticism of 
France, for example, has manifested itself in 
America. Our criticism is still a rather primi- 
tive parade of likes and dislikes: there is little 
inquiry into psychological causes. . . . Mean- 
while, if the hterary folk have been droning, 
the scientists have been busy." In support 
of this accusation, what we get in Mr. Aiken's 
article are statements, in upholding his scien- 
tific theory of the creation and criticism of 
poetry, such as these: that, "after all, the writ- 
ing of poetry is, like speech itself, a purely cere- 
bral affair: and that it is not the result of a 
discharge of an excess of emotion in the poet so 
much as a cerebral reaction to external stimuli." 
"If poetry," asserts Mr. Aiken, "were only 
an emotional discharge, it would be very much 
less complex than it is. In reahty the emo- 
tional shock finds in the poet preformed cere- 
bral mechanisms: mechanisms preformed by 
study, by meditation, by life. These are chains 
of reflexes which are not themselves kept in 


the brain, but the paths of which are traced 
there and easily reproduced. In a poet these 
reproductions are particularly easy, and the 
chains very numerous. The cerebral reflexes, 
becommg linked at the will of unforeseen con- 
nections, draw him along beyond the emotional 
stimulus. . . . Indeed, what matters the ex- 
tent of the emotional power, since the principle 
does not lie there, but in the chains of cerebral 
reflexes, and since the latter can be set off by 
a stimulus wholly cerebral? . . . This obhges us 
to admit at last that poetic inspiration has two 
sources: the sensibility of the poet, and the 
preformed mechanisms of verbal reactions." 

This is of course very vague, is in fact noth- 
ing but pure speculation, and indicates what 
the apphcation of scientific analysis — especially 
by an unscientific mind — ^may do to so unof- 
fending, unresistmg and volatile a conscious- 
ness as the poetic impulse functioning into ex- 
pression. The basis of this scientific method 
is "objective psychology." But the theorist 
quite fails to appreciate the inexphcable and 
dominant mfluence of the subjective identity 
in the poet, which source of control over the 
reactions of the external world is both too vague 
and atavistic to be determined by the mental 
apparatus of an "objective psychology." Only 
by the temperature of the emotion can the 
mind approxunate and register a reality so in- 
definitely constituted of immaterial elements 
as the poetic inspu-ation, and the condensation 
of those elements into rhythmical and imaged 

Science fails before the assumption of solv- 
ing such a riddle, which in the very nature of 
historic human experience is too intricate and 
contradictory for truth to piece together in a 
pattern of facts; and the futility of applying 
scientific formulas to the judgment of art, is 
demonstrated by Mr. Aiken's article denying 
in substance what logic asserts. We fall then, 
in art, back into the secure arms of Mystery, 
just as in matters of religion the orthodox after 
an adventure in the tangling web of defiant 
questioning, receiving no witness in deed or 
voice, falls back into the secure arms of faith. 
Upon this point, between the scientific (ra- 
tional) and mystical (sentimental) spirit, Mr. 
Chesterton has recorded an opinion which may 
illustrate the divergence of Mr. Aiken's theory 
from the practical standards of literary criti- 
cism. He remarks that "It is not a question 
between mysticism and rationality. It is a 
question between mysticism and madness. For 
mysticism, and mysticism alone, has kept men 
sane from the beginning of the world. All the 
straight roads of logic lead to some Bedlam, to 
Anarchism or to passive obedience, to treating 
the universe as a clockwork of matter or else as 
a delusion of mind. It is only the Mystic, the 
man who accepts the contradictions, who can 
laugh and walk easily through the world." 

It is only a step in the wrong direction from 
Mr. Aiken's conception to Mr. Bodenheim's 
definition of poetry. Mr. Bodenheim is at least 
not confused in his ideas, but his ideals are sin- 
ister. He seems to reflect some of James Elroy 

Flecker's meanings of the function of poetry, 
and though Flecker cut away all the Puritan 
restrictions and impositions on the art, it re- 
mained for this lamented young English poet^ 
its own excuse for being as an aesthetic force in 
a world of co-operative influences. What Mr. 
Bodenheim desires poetry should be, is a sort of 
gorgeous and iridescent bubble. Only "mod- 
ern poetry," he suggests, — and by modern 
poetry he means, radical poetry, which is not 
a criticism of life but a reproduction of life, 
not reality, but realism, not evolution in form 
towards an ideal but revolution against the 
standards that impede the way of one's achieve- 
ment — can create this whimsy of imaginative 
expression. Mr. Bodenheim believes that 
"what poetry really is, is still as hazy to poets 
and laymen as it always has been." But then 
he proceeds with a considerable amount of as- 
surance to say what it is. "Pure poetry," he 
writes, "is the vibrant expression of everything 
clearly delicate and unattached with surface sen- 
timent in the emotions of men towards them- 
selves and nature. That pm'suit of poetry," he 
adds, "which has as its basis the wrongs of the 
poor, or the utterance of the broader emotional 
surges of humanity, may have an undying place 
in literature, but it cannot be the basis of a 
separate art. The distinct social message or 
sermon, no matter how right or much needed 
it may be, is only of a utilitarian or corrective 
value, although it may rise to tremendous 
heights of clear prose strength. True poetry is 
the entering of delicately imaginative plateaus. 

unconnected with human beHefs or funda- 
mental human feehngs." 

As a concept this is entirely fallacious. If 
one were to ask Mr. Bodenheim why he wrote 
his own poems, would he answer for no reason 
at all except to imprison a meaningless image in 
a timeless cadence .f* Not at all. He makes a 
poem because he hopes to convey to his read- 
ers, through imagery and cadence, the state of 
his own feeling and the clarity of his vision in 
subjectively meditating on the external world, 
or to give voice to an experience in which he 
thinks there is an element of singular and origi- 
nal emotional crisis. In wishing to convey this 
substance of mood and experience he is but 
laying bare those "reactions of the soul," com- 
mon in one degree or another to all men; and 
his poetry, no matter how decorative he makes 
it, no matter how far or high his spirit may 
wander on "delicately imaginative plateaus,'* 
cannot remain "unconnected with human be- 
liefs or fundamental human feelings." This is, 
of course, if what is written is poetry! 

Poetry is, as I have said before, a perfectly 
human thing. It is not, as Mr. Aiken thinks, 
anatomy to be dissected in the laboratory; it 
is not, as Mr. Bodenheim thinks, a design to be 
scrawled on mist, vanishing in the sunlight of 
experience. How can we arrive at a clear 
understanding, then, of the significance of this 
art.? It is not, I think, by asking or trying to 
decide with absolutism, what poetry is, — but 
what does it mean.f^ And we arrive, in my 
opinion, to this clear understanding of what 

poetry means, nearer, than either through Mr. 
Aiken or Mr. Bodenheim, in Mr. Hooker's 
answer in his article on "The Practical Use of 

Let us consider Mr. Hooker's views. He 
gives, too, a general definition of poetry, but is 
not dogmatic about it. '* We should all say off- 
hand," he writes, "that poetry is the language 
of imagination and emotion, traditionally, at 
least, set forth in measured form; but it is 
needful to observe a little more precisely 
what this means. We can hear without 
emotion of a child slain in war so long as we 
merely understand the fact without imagining; 
but the moment we imagine such a thing, we 
begin to feel." This may well be supplemented 
by the statement that "Poetry deals, as it were 
with the feel of actual life, and so employs lan- 
guage not so much to make us understand or 
even imagine as to make us realize." Again he 
asserts, "We see things happening toothers; we 
feel things happening to ourselves. Poetry, by 
virtue of its emotional point of view, is there- 
fore peculiarly truthful about human truth; 
and we are all of us living poetry so long as we 
are vividly alive." 

You note how Mr. Hooker comes back to 
this quality oi feeling in his article, like a motif. 
It is because poetry is primarily and essentially 
a matter of feeling. Again Mr. Hooker drives 
this fact home. "There is no need," he says, 
"more than to remind any observer of human 
nature that mankind acts rather upon passion 
than upon conviction. Brutus demonstrated 

his point in prose; it was a poetic appeal that 
made the stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 
We define and determine and decide, and still 
do nothing; but when we begin to feel, some- 
thing is done. Though we steer by learning 
and intelligence, yet emotion must fill the sail. 
Or, in another figure, action is the bullet and 
passion the powder; and he who thinks to 
achieve any practical affair by sheer intellect 
shoots with an empty gun. There is no blinder 
folly than the present fashion of using the word 
sentimental as a term of reproach, and decry- 
ing the impulse or incentive of sentiment. The 
one efficient motive is emotion; the only good 
reason for doing is a sentimental reason. 
Dickens the sentimentalist led his reforms, and 
Rousseau the sentimentalist aroused his revo- 
lution; and we are still awaiting actual results 
from Marcus AureHus and Mr. Bernard Shaw." 
This is clear common sense; it is the simple 
truth, neither denuded by the apparatus of 
science nor elaborated by the superfluities of 
a delusive fancy. Poetry begins and ends in 
feeling, moves from the heart of the creator to 
the heart of the reader in a vehicle of dream 
whose motive power is a mystical intelligence. 
This is amply proved by the practical use of 
poetry as summed up by Mr. Hooker: "Poetry, 
being what it is, the record of how it feels to be 
alive, constitutes our whole inheritance of 
mutual understanding, our library of human 
nature, our tradition of all that personal expe- 
rience in this world which we now hold in com- 
mon, and whereby we know our neighbor and 

ourselves. That old comparison of laws and 
songs is not so antithetical, after all. For just 
as the law keeps for our civilization a code or 
body of social conduct, in every age deeply 
studied by a few, by a few more increased or 
altered, and held from age to age as a common 
wisdom by which we half unconsciously direct 
and civilize our lives, so poetry hands down to 
each new generation an older and more general 
code of emotional experience, a history of the 
heart of man not only for the few who read at 
first hand, but so transfusing and impregnating 
our whole memory and sense of being that lan- 
guage itself passes current upon the hidden gold 
of our poetic treasury, and we compare our 
motives and our passions by reference to for- 
gotten dreams. If poetry could be in an in- 
stant swept not merely out of print, but out of 
language and tradition, there would be Babel 
indeed. We should go about isolated each one 
from each by a chaos of misunderstanding, 
with no more communication than we could 
improvise out of intellectual terms. We could 
suggest nothing, connote nothing, say nothing 
but what we could define." 

The year in poetry I shall not discuss in this 
issue. Though the overshadowing reality of 
the war has not quenched the ardor and spirit 
of the art, poets have a vaster dream to con- 
template than that which springs from the 
personal impulse. And if they are keeping 
much in secret, it is for the greater certainty in 
building a mystical foundation for the future. 

Two facts, however, of the year in poetry 
must here be recorded. The first is the well- 
deserved award to Sara Teasdale of the Colum- 
bia University prize of five hundred dollars, for 
having produced during the year, the best vol- 
ume of poems in "Love Songs." The second is 
the lamented death of Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, 
who was killed in action in the second Battle of 
the Marne on July 30. 

The selections in the Anthology this year 
have been confined mostly to short poems, the 
longest being between sixty and seventy Hues. 
This has necessarily compelled me to omit some 
fine poems of greater length, v/hich in another 
year would have been readily included. My 
purpose, as an innovation, was to make the 
1918 anthology as lyrical as possible to exem- 
plify the quality of this achievement in current 
American verse. W. S. B. 

On the Feast of SS. Cornelius and Cyprian. 
Cambridge, Massachusetts. 


To the American poets and to the editors and 
the proprietors of the magazines from which I 
have selected the poems included in the Anthology , 
I wish to express my obligation for the courteous 
permissions to make use of material in the prep- 
aration of this volume. 

I wish also to thank The Boston Transcript 
Company for permission to use material which ap- 
peared in my annual review of American poetry 
in the columns of The Evening Transcript. 

To the following publishers I am indebted for 
the privilege of using the poems named from the 
volumes in which they have been included, and 
which have been published before the appearance 
of this Anthology : 

The Macmillan Company: "Recessional, in 
Time of War: Medical Unit—" in Toward the 
Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters : « How I Walked 
Alone in the Jungle of Heaven," « How Samson 
Bore Away the Gates of Gaza," in The Chinese 
Nightingale, and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay. 
Henry Holt & Company: "Warning," and 
" Swan-Child," in the Old Road to Paradise, by 
Margaret Widdemer; "The Deaf-Mute Sermon," 
" Maureen Oge," « The Booted Hens » and " By 
Clodagh's Stream," in My Ireland, Rhymes and 
Simple Songs, by Francis Carlin. 

George H. Doran Company : " On the Way 
to the Cross," « The Meeting " and " Father 
O'Shea," in The Silver Trumpet, by Amelia Jose- 
phine Burr ; " Lavender " in City Tides, by Archie 
Austin Coates. 

Dodd, Mead & Company: "The Name," by 
Anna Hempstead Branch ; " A Pilgrimage," by 
Nancy Barr Mavity ; " The Flock at Evening " 
and " An Old Inn by the Sea," by Odell Shepard, 
in The. Masque of Poets, edited by Edward J. 

E. P. Button & Company: "Against My Sec- 
ond Coming," " Hrolf 's Thrall — His Song " and 
" I Have Had Great Pity," in Laterns of Geth<- 
semane, by Willard Wattles. 

The Midland Press: "Moon-Worship," "The 
Banded," " The Games," " Road and Path " and 
" Have You an Eye.? " in Barbed Wire, and Other 
Poems, by Edwin Ford Piper. 

The Cornhill Company : " Celestial Signs," in 
The Lover's Rosary, by Brookes More ; " 'Is 
Missus," in Rhymes Grave and Gay, by Carolyn 
and Gordon M. Hillman. 

The Four Seas Company: " The Beach," " The 
Unquiet " and " The Ascent," in A Cabinet of 
Jade, by David O'Neil. 



These have survived the seas* vicissitudes' 

And lie at rest within this quiet bay. 

No more of shifting tides and fickle winds in play - 

These Tyrian galleys know soft interludes. 

When o'er their cargo some old lover broods 

And sees again a verse that slipped away. 

Or hears a mocking bird, in moonlit May 

Make vocal Nature's holiest haunting moods. 

Dream ships, we never thought to look on more. 

Saint Anthony has tipped your spars with fire 

And salved you from the menace of the night. 

Rest, fairy craft, rest on a fairy shore! 

Faint bells ring welcome from a viewless spire. 

While in the dusk the evening star grows bright. 

Richmond Evening Journal Henry A. Sampson 


Sometimes at night a song comes flying 
Among the shadowy fields in sleepers 
Who waken to its sweet careering 
Through their bodies' colour and grace: 
Magic pierces to their hearing 
With sounds that are not heard by day; 
Silence, breaking from its keepers. 
Flies and music takes its place. 
Those who waken and hear it crying 
Find it beats with tidal motion; 
It is the blood within their clay. 
Remembering its ancient ocean. 

To hear such wild and dreamy strains 

Borne past the dim shores of the veins 

The heart stops short — then beats again. 

So to keep the singing flowing 

Through the lands that lie in men. 

For in the song those thousand streams 

Are telling of their ancient fountain. 

The sea, with all its jewels glowing 

And beauty running on the waves. 

Or buried in the water-mountain 

Where the sea Shape, snowy and old. 

In deeps that mock the diver's wish. 

Blood-blind with war and a hate untold. 

Still dooms and tombs in his diamond caves 

The silver navies of the fish; 

And the cold sea-worm, all curled 

About the bones of battle gleams. 

"Long past," (the song runs), "left behind, 

— But we remember all in dreams, — 

The battles in the water world 

Till the landward gates were passed. 

Long since, all dim, long left behind. 
The foes, the fangs, the hates at last 
Buried in the water-mountain 
With the nations of the blind." 

Then the song changes and is young 

A new music leaps in birth. 

Flying sweet in the veins of each. 

Flooding through the body's earth. 

Telling with the spirit's tongue 

Of new seas lifting on another beach. 

In the spirit, in the heart's deep places, 

Those hidden seas increase: 

The shining love from the eternal spaces 

That beats on earth with surges soft as fleece 

Fills them in silence from a tidal fountain. 

Until the golden day shall gleam 

When the red wells of hate are sealed. 

Buried in the shining mountain 

On the day of the heart's overflowing 

When the earth is washed and healed, 

And the lovers with the dream. 

From ocean unto ocean going, 

Shall lift at last into the living peace. 

So the song tells, and much besides 
Of glories in the blood's dim tides ; 
Much that no ear of dust can mark 
Of marvels in the body's dark. 
Singing of marvels in the body's dark. 

The New Republic Ridgely Torrence 


When I come back from secret dreams 

In gardens deep and fair, 
How very curious it seems — 

This mortal name I bear. 

For by this name I make their bread 
And trim the household light 

And sun the linen for the bed 
And close the door at niglit. 

I wonder who myself may be. 
And whence it was I came — 

Before the Church had laid on me 
This frail and earthly name. 

My sponsors spake unto the Lord 
And three things promised they. 

Upon my soul with one accord 
Tlieir easy vows did lay. 

My ancient spirit heard them not. 

I think it was not there. 
But in a place they had forgot 

It drank a starrier air. 

Yes, in a silent place and deep — 

There did it dance and run. 
And sometimes it lay down to sleep 

Or sprang into the sun. 

The Priest saw not my aureole shine! 

My sweet wings saw not he ! 
He graved me with a solemn sign 

And laid a name on me. 

Now by this name I stitch and mend. 

The daughter of my home. 
By this name do I save and spend 

And when they call, I come. 

But oh, that Name, that other Name, 
More secret and more mine! 

It burns as does the angelic flame 
Before the midmost shrine. 

Before my soul to earth was brought 

Into God's heart it came, 
He wrote a meaning in my thought 

And gave to me a Name. 

By this name do I ride the air 
And dance from star to star 

And I behold all things are fair. 
For I see them as they are. 

I plunge into the deepest seas. 

In flames I, laughing, burn. 
In roseate clouds I take my ease 

Nor to the earth return. 

It is my beauteous Name — my own — 

That I have never heard. 
God keeps it for Himself alone, 

That strange and lovely word. 

God keeps it for Himself — but yet 

You are His voice, and so 
In your heart He is calling me. 

And unto you I go. 

Love, by this Name I sing, and breathe 
A fresh, mysterious air. 

By this I innocently wreathe 
New garlands for my hair. 

By this Name I am born anew 

More beautiful, more bright. 
More roseate than angelic dew. 

Apparelled in delight. 

I'll sing and stitch and make the bread 

In the wonder of my Name, 
And sun the linen for the bed 

And tend the fireside flame. 

By this Name do I answer yes — 

Word beautiful and true. 
By this I'll sew the bridal dress 

I shall put on for you. 

The Bookman Anna Hempstead Branch 


I cannot die who drink delight 

From the cup of the crescent moon. 

And hungrily, as men eat bread, 
Love the scented nights of June. 

The rest may die — but is there not 
Some shining, strange escape for me. 

Who found in Beauty the bright wine 
Of immortality? 

Harper's Magazine Sara Teas dale 


On — turgid, bellowing — tramp the freshet rills. 

Heaped up with yellow wine, the winter's brew. 
Out-thrown, they choke and tumble from the hills. 

And lash their tawny bodies, whipping through. 
With flattened bells come scudding purple rain; 

The cold sky breaks and drenches out the snow. 
Far from the perfect circle of the sky 

The heavy winds lick off the boughs they blow; 
And fields are cleansed for plows to slice again. 
For April shall laugh downward by and by. 

With purifying blasts the wind stalks out 

And sweeps the carrion of winter on ; 
It prods the dank mists, stamps with jest about. 

And sows the first blooms on the greening lawn. 
Far up the planks of sky the winter's dross 

Goes driven to the north; her rank smells wave 
In unseen humors to the icy pole 

The charwomen of the sky, with brushes, lave 
And wash the fields for green, and rocks for moss. 
And busily polish up the earth's dull soul. 

Poetry, a Magazine of Verse Edwin Curran 


Wind-loving daughter of eternal day. 

Flooding the sky from urns of starry fire 

To leap upon the altar of our clay 

And rouse the curled flame of our desire, 

O Thou, whose liquid element hath power 

To colour dreaming grasses with thy prayer 


And curve the petals of an April flower. 

Be unto us the passion of our air. 
Thou turnest flesh to flowers and earth to flame. 

Now, in thy name. 
We shape the dust of stars into a song, 
For thou art strong. 

Here, where the glancing memory of the leaves 

Stirred by a windless longing, dropping white. 
Patterns the tranced music midnight weaves 

Under the vanished boughs of April night. 
And where the violet-haunted pasture sleeps 

Drowsy with fragrance, be the gentle guide 
Of mystery-laden flocks the hillside keeps 

Sheltered beneath thy wonder-flooding tide. 
Thou leadest earth and wind and water home. 

The swallow to the nest. 
Open our shadow-path across the foam 
Into the west. 

Or, 'neath the tented majesty of air 

That wraps the golden body of the sun. 
Scatter thy robes and rise, divinely fair. 

Under the spreading arch of clouds that run. 
Foam-flanked, and streaming in the molten east. 

Come to us over the waters, breasting day. 
The Bridegroom calls thee to the wedding feast. 

Come with us, naked, over the fields away. 
The morning stars are ringing in the sky. 

The morning lark below. 
Shoulder the hill with us, the wind laughs high. 
The flowers of April blow 

The Bookman Edward J. O'Brien 


He followed the curve of the sunrise 
Till he came to the gap of the hill. 

Where the golden track to the morning 
Beckoned, very still. 

And over that ancient pathway. 

In a mist of flooding foam. 
He met the star-eyed shepherd 

Bringing his slow flock home. 

Up through the gates of magic 

They drifted, one by one. 
As the little white clouds on the hillside 

Drifted before the sun. 

Softly, before their shepherd. 

They paced down the grassy rim. 

And the golden track to the morning 
Was no longer the way for him. 

Harper's Magazine Edward J. O'Brien 


A trap's a very useful thing: 

Nature in our path sets Spring. 

It is a trap to catch us two. 

It is planned for me and you. 

Do not think my cheeks are warm. 

Do not wonder if my arm 

Would make a pillow sweet for rest. 

Not to speak or glance is best — 

To smother the thing that calls so clear 

Deep in our thoughts at the spring of the year. 

If we stop, if we look, if we speak, if we care. 

Nature will snatch us unaware. 

Will put us in a house with four 

Chairs, a table, and a door 

To enslave us evermore. 

She means to tie you firm and tight 

To a desk from dawn till night 

To make you strain and make you sweat 

Till you forget, till you forget 

All that is good and fine and high. 

She will give you fear to keep till you die. 

She means to tear my flesh to make 

A child to steal my hours awake. 

To break my hours asleep, to be 

Slayer of the youth in me. 

Slayer of the youth in you. 

Slayer of that which makes us sing. 

Let us never look at Spring; 

It is a trap to catch us two. 

Reedy's Mirror Mary Carolyn Davies 


Spring comes earliest in flower-shops. 

Bringing windows riotous with bloom — 

Pink and yellow, white and blue, blossoms calling 

And beyond the door you whiiF the moist warm sweet 

Of Nature in her workshop. 

Will you have the purple violets 

With their heavy stifling fragrance, . 


And the passion and perfection of their satin-sheen? 
They were meant to nestle close against the bosom 
Of a dream-rich woman whose soft firm fingers move 

among their petals. 
While her dark eyes brood above them, — 
Warm and tender — with memories of you ! 

There is welcome in the fragrance of the roses. 

They were meant for glowing girlhood — 

To match the color in her cheeks 

And the swinging rhythm of her step 

On tip-toe with excitement at the wonder of the 

world — 
They will sway against a bosom — where they wake 

no memories ! 

And then there is the orchid — fair exotic stranger. 

All contrary and wise, she holds herself aloof 

And waits the heavy-lidded woman with experience 

, in her eyes — 
What they have to tell each other you and I will 

never know! 
See the riot of the tulips — 
Unfragrant, unmysterious. 
They grace the dinner table of a mother or a wife. 

Beyond the flashing tulips stand the yellow jonquils. 
Nothing else has ever caught so fearlessly the color 

of the sun. 
They always seem to whisper 
A merry little tune of happy days to come. 
So buy them for their glowing gold — and forget 

them in an hour ! 

But come into the flower-shop if only for a moment. 
And drink deep of all the colors of the spring ! 


Open wide your nostrils 

And inhale the mellowed fragrance of a dozen differ- 
ent flowers mingling in the warm damp room. 
Just come into the flower-shop — and laugh ! — 
For spring is here ! 

Dorothea Lawrance Mann 
The Boston Transcript 


Spring, I am tired ! 

Your brisk young buds and vigorous green 

And all the bustle of your clouds and winds, 

But add to my great weariness. 

Ask the long grass how heavy falls my foot 

Across the excitement of the meadow ! 

I pray you, still your restless sprigs and sprays, 

And dancing leaves. 

Trying their newest steps on every bough and bush. 

And tell the birds to call their mates 

More modestly ! 

My eyes are dizzy with the noon's hot gold 

And sudden purple. 

And my ears ring with shouting yellow, pink and 

And singing blue. 
And green and green and green ! 

Spring, I am sad 
And you but make me sadder : 
I walk alone in all this busy joy. 
This self-absorption. 


There is a heartlessness about your birds and flowers ! 

They sip among themselves the moist, sweet air 

Fermented with a thousand scents, 

I think all Nature puts her lips 

Against the sky and earth. 

Mixes and makes of them her beverage immortal — 

But my soul stands before an empty cup. 

Almost I would unmask the mockery of this rejuvena- 
This yearly comedy of youth ! 
Spring, sitting there in your green clothes. 
You are a gray-haired woman! 
You are as old as I, 
As sad, as tired. ' 

But you are brave and beautiful. 

And I will sit with you a while 

And talk with you ; 

Together we will watch this budding pageantry 

That dreams of fullest flower, 

Of passionate and perfect reconstruction — 

Of love. 

But you and I will dream no more 

I think. 

Spring, we are old. 

Contemporary Verse Leonora Speyer 


Between the windy dusk and the first pale light. 
Spring came with breezes and fragrance. Tiptoe 

through the night 
Into the city she came. The city lay dumb. 


Its millions of eyes saw not the light Spring come. 
They saw not the light feet dance with quick, sharp 

They saw not the twinkling fingers, the arms out- 
The eyes half open, the lips half open, the hair 
Blown back and about on the frolicsome April air. 
The millions slept with their tumult of hammers and 

They saw not the Spring nor the troop that danced 

at her heels, 
Singers and fiddlers and pipers and children with 

Painters with brushes and colors, and kindlers of fires. 
Maidens with lutes and citherns and youths with harps, 
Clowns with parody-melodies' flats and sharps. 
Men with horns and boys with trumpets that rang, 
Babies with bells that tinkled and twinkled and sang. 
Spring with her orchestra. Spring with her rollicking 

Spring with her band fluting to dead desire. 
Fiddling to hope past hoping, piping to pain, 
"Love, laugh, and sing! Spring, Spring has come 

again ! " 
The millions slept. They saw not the blithe rout 

With the flutes' high twiddledeedee up stern Broad- 
The towers looked down, the windows stared in sur- 
The arc-lights sputtered and winked their soulless 

For wherever the stony desert showed a tree 
Spring and her covey stopped, and ardently 
Spring blessed the boughs and bade the cold sap run; 
And at each tree, in parting, at each one, 


She left a fiddler or a cithern-player 

To lure the leaves out with some magic air. 

Ah, but the parks were scenes of revelry ! 

The crocus buds threw back their quilts to see. 

The grass awoke, the worms and beetles heard. 

And down the corridors sent the wonderful word, 

Down the corridors winding through cool brown earth 

They sent the echoing, rapturous gospel of mirth. 

" Heigh-ho ! " cried Spring. " Lay your ear to the 

ground, and hark ! 
The grubs are stirring and stretching down there in 

the dark. 
Listen ! The voice of the slug-king, calling to war : 
* Awake, O slugs ! and pillage the world once more ! ' " 
" Awake ! " echoes the hollow, " Awake ! " the sky, 
" Awake ! " cries Spring, and " Awake ! " her minions 

" Awake ! " sing the fiddles in music richer than words, 
" Awake ! " to the sparrows chirp the returning birds ; 
And the sparrows that hate themselves and despise 

their kind. 
Cheep, hop, and turn in the warm, low, cleansing 

" Ai-ah ! " cries Spring, and " Ai-ah " echoing purr 
Rebeck and fife and gittern and dulcimer. 
And " Ai-ah ! " in swelling murmur, first soft, 
" Ai-ah! " then louder, " Ai-ah! " surges aloft. 
" Ai-ah ! Oh, earth, forget the pain and the storm ! 
Ai-ah ! Ai-ah ! Oh, cold, white stars, grow warm I 
Ai-ah ! " What music of psaltery, oboe and flute. 
What rapturous risings and fallings of viol and lute, 
What calls of one to another, what jubilant hails. 
What sparkling of eyes and teeth, what flowing of 

What bendings of bodies in laughter, what impudent 



What jubilant cartwheels, undulant snap-the-whips. 
What rushing of feet, what flame-like blowing of hair^ 
What rampant revel let loose in Madison Square! 
The millions slept. The millions were deaf and blind. 
But into their turbulent dreams the new warm wind 
Brought far-oif flute notes and faint echoings 
Of tremulous, bewitching cithern strings. 
That traveled strangely into their dreams' waste 

Waking new hope, old love, and dear lost faces. 
All night the fiddles poured clear, silver streams 
Across a weary city's arid dreams. 
And when the last note fell, all quavering. 
The millions woke, tingling, and whispered, 

" Spring ! " 

The Outlook Hermann Hagedorn 


I do not know which is worse when you are away : 
Long gray days with the lisping sound of the rain, 

And then when the lilac dusk is beginning to fall. 
The thought that perhaps you may never come back 
again ; 

Or days when the world is a shimmer of blue and gold, 
Sparkling newly all in the dear spring weather. 

And with a heart that is torn apart by pain, 
I walk alone in ways that we went in together. 

Good Housekeeping Aline Kilmer 



I put off my smoke-dimmed garment, 

I put on white for grey ; 
For I would go on pilgrimage 

At the opening of the day; 

To a nameless saint, whose altar 
Is hidden I know not where, 

To be healed of the heavy sickness 
My soul like a cloak must wear. 

The dull brown road before me 
Like a fluttering pennon ran ; 

And the tingling dust in my nostrils 
Smelled sweeter than roses can. 

The wayside shrines were many — 
But which was the one I sought? 

One was of ancient branches 

With murmuring leaves inwrought; 

One a sun-dazzled wheat field 

Where the wind made a shadow road 

That rippled and wavered and beckoned. 
And in streams unchannelled flowed. 

One lay where the moonlight-colour 
Of oats, green-silvered, shone; 

And one where the purpling clover 
Close to my feet had grown. 

But the brown road fled before me. 

And would not let me stay 
To kneel at the shrines of the wayside. 

To lift up my heart and pray. 


So who was the saint, I know not, 
Who quiet healing wrought; 

For the road that had turned like a fancy. 
Lay straight as an iron thought ; 

Led back to my house of labour, 

To my garment of smoke-dimmed grey. 

And home from my pilgrimaging 
At the closing of the day. 

But lo ! It was girdled with sunshine 
(O where was the miracle shrine?) 

And my garment shone as the rainbow, 
And my heart sang aloud, for a sign ! 

The Bookman Nancy Barr Mavity 


O, Piper, pipe ; and I shall dance 
Upon the edges of the sea. 
For I am glad and young and free; 
The world is all for my delight — 
A ball of crystal, shining bright. 
Then I must have what is for me — 
And ever young and glad I'll be. 
I will not heed the foolish creed 
That I must pay the Piper. 

Come, Piper, pipe a wilder tune 
Beneath the slow, sea-rising moon. 
How firm and smooth the yellow slope! 
How strangely dumb the shadows grope 
From out the edge of every tree 
To reach the wild and dancing me. 
For no still shadows do I care; 

The beauty of the moonlit air 
Is in my heart, and I must dance — 
Yet, must I pay the Piper ? 

Then, Piper, pipe, and do not cease; 
And when I wish for my release 
I'll vanish then like quick sea-dawn. 
No one to find where I have gone. 
For I have always had my way — 
I always dance when I am gay — 
But I am swift to steal away; 
I will not pay the Piper. 

O, Piper, Piper, must I pay? 
The gray and chilly light of day 
Has caught me here — I cannot go. 
When pipings end I did not know 
That I must pay all I can give ; 
And that is all my strength to live — 
For I must pay the Piper. 

Harper's Magazine Catharine Emma Jackson 


Why are you doing it this year. Spring? 
Why do you do this useless thing ? 

Do you not know there are no men now? 
Why do you put on an apple bough 

Buds, and in a girl's heart, thronging 
Strange emotions : — fear, and longing. 

Eager flight, and shy pursuing. 
Noble thoughts for her undoing; 

Wondering, accepting, straining, 
Wistful seizing, and refraining; 

Stern denying, answering ? — 

— Why do you toil so droUy, Spring ? 

Why do you scheme and urge and plan 
To make a girl's heart ripe for a man? 

While the men are herded together where 
Death is the woman with whom they pair ? 

Back fall my words to my listening ear. 
Spring is deaf, and she cannot hear. 

Spring is blind, and she cannot see. 
She does not know what war may be. 

Spring goes by, with her age-old sowing 

Of seeds in each girl's heart, kind, unknowing. 

And, too, in my heart (Spring, take heed!) 
Now in my own has fallen a seed. 

(Spring, give over !) I cringe, afraid. 
(Though I suffer, harm no other maid!) 

I hide my eyes, a budding tree 
Is so terrible to see. 

I stop my ears, a bird song clear 
Is a dreadful thing to hear. 

Seeds in each girl's heart Spring goes throwing. 
O the crop of pain that is growing I 

The Touchstone Mary Carolyn Davies 



My love is a bush in bloom, 

My love is a bird in the air. 
My love is an April day. 

And a wind with golden hair< 

A melody is my love 

That trembles and glistens and goes; 
A forest in bud is my love 

Where hidden laughter flows. 

Good-bye, O sweet-lipped maiden, 

O trusted friend, adieu ! 
My old love is my new love. 

And dearer far than you. 

The Bellman William Alexander Percy 


In the last year I have learned 

How few men are worth my trust; 

I have seen the friend I loved 

Struck by death into the dust. 

And fears I never knew before 

Have knocked and knocked against my door 

" I will hope little and ask for less," 

I said, " There is no happiness." 

I have grown wise at last — but how 
Can I hide the gleam of the willow-bough? 
Or keep the fragrance out of the rain 
Now that April is here again? 
When maples stand in a haze of fire 


What can I say to the old desire, 
What shall I do with the joy in me 
That is born out of agony? 

The Bellman Sara Teasdale 


Three fir trees climbing against the sky, 
A road that ran to the top of the world. 

And a wind-drenched tumble of bending rye 
To the flaming ramparts of morning hurled. 

The waters hurrying down to the sea 
Met the wind and the world in flower. 

And wind and waters made one in me. 
Kept in my heart an eternal hour. 

Contemporary/ Verse Edward J. O'Brien 


You say the poppy blooms so red 

Because its roots were daily fed 

On last year's cold and festering dead? 

Such is the blessed way of earth; 

Oblivious, intent on mirth, 

To turn rank death to gorgeous birth ! 

Even this brutal agony. 
So hideous, so foul, will be 
Romance to others, presently. 


And would it not be proud romance 
Falling in some obscure advance 
To rise, a poppy field of France? 

The Bellman William Alexander Percy 


I cannot find the truth that men have told, 
But only know the beauty of a song; 
And nothing truer than the white sea-foam 
Feathering where the gold beach-grass is long; 

Or truer than a high complacent pine 

Pointed to stars upon a lifted hill; 

Or any eloquence of harmony 

Telling as much as when a wind falls still. 

Men with their speech have made an unreal world; 
For I have watched the flight of aimless birds. 
Feeling the truth of it within my heart 
Dispelled . . . when I have sought to give it words. 

Reedy's Mirror George O'Neil 


I met a Fairy in the Dawn, 
As supple as a slender rush. 

For she had her dancing slippers on 
And she had the ankles of a thrush. 

The pollen from her red lusmores 
Had waxed a web of gossamer, 


And all the music out of doors 
Began to play a tune for her. 

Each leaf was moving on its twig, 
And twigs upon their branches shook. 

While the Fairy stepped a Gaelic j ig 
I cannot find in any book. 

And thrushes up among the oaks 

Sang morning songs with such a grace. 

That the earthly echoes seemed to coax 
The skylarks from their heavenly place. 

Oil ! gayly did the Fairy dance 

On the web beneath the red lusmores 

Nor did she see the sun advance 

To the music heard but out of doors. 

So the cuckoo called the merry Elf, 
And I awoke by Clodagh's stream; 

Yet, if I had a dream itself, 

I did not have a deaf man's dream. 

New York World Francis Carlin 


With following the paths that ascend 

I have lost the sense of my dwarfish stature; 

Lost the sense of the city's bigness 

As it dwindles to mosaics ; 

Lost the sense of the teeming streets 

As they dwindle into threads; 

Lost the sense of the cultivated foothills. 

As they dwindle into a faded quilt — 

With following the paths that ascend ! 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse David O'Neil 



Down the dripping pathway dancing through the rain^ 
Brown eyes of beauty, laugh to me again ! 

Eyes full of starlight, moist over fire. 
Full of young wonder, touch my desire ! 

O like a brown bird, like a bird's flight. 

Run through the rain drops lithely and light. 

Body like a gypsy, like a wild queen. 

Slim brown dress to slip through the green — 

The little leaves hold you as soft as a child. 

The little path loves you, the path that runs wild. 

Who would not love you, seeing you move. 
Warm-eyed and beautiful through the green grove ? 

Let the rain kiss you, trickle through your hair. 
Laugh if my fingers mingle with it there. 

Laugh if my cheek too is misty and drips — 
Wetness is tender — laugh on my lips 

The happy sweet laughter of love without pain. 
Young love, the strong love, burning in the rain. 

The Masses Max Eastman 


What! Is Earth sodden of anguish? 
Is she lain weeping, sobbing the fields. 
And the tears that run them scarlet ? 


White morning, as thou comest, 

Art thou not afeared 

That thy mantle shall be stained? 

Oh, silver-footed Eve, art thou not fearful 

That thou shalt bruise the torn breast 

Of Earth vrith thy step, causing her 

To weep anew her scarlet tears ? 

Oh, Noon, hide thou thy sun, 

Lest the parched parch them sorer. 

Oh, Night, kneel upon the fields ! 

Pray with cool words of silver moonlight. 

Spread thy mantle of mist. 

Making the fevered know the touch of mercy. 

Oh, gentle God ! Oh, gentle God ! 
Make an end of man's folly 
With thy wisdom. 

Patience Worth's Magazine Patience Worth 


Ruddy, and golden-bright. 

The great Sun comes from its bed. 

Look ! Like the fiery crown. 

In the window of jewelled glass ! — 

Ever so fair to the sight. 

With its glittering spikes outspread. 

On its cushion of crimson down. 

Above the Priest, at the Mass ; 

• — Or the halo that is shed. 

In the chapel, as we pass, 

From the sinless Christ-child's head ! 


And do but listen ! Oh, hark ! 

Far over the hill, and the dale ! — 

Oh, is it indeed the lark. 

That warbles so wild, and high ? 

But rather it seems the glee 

That the shepherd blows on his nail — 

The wonderful shepherd; he. 

With the shifting and shining locks. 

Who wanders, and leads his flocks, 

Through the pastures of the sky. 

O lark ! — for we, too, would be 

Like thee ! — as glad, and as strong ! 

Strong, with the strength of flight — 

For love doth fetter us so ! 

Strong, with the strength of flight. 

And glad, with the gladness of song ! 

And ever, from some far height. 

To look on the world below ! 

— And over tower, and town. 

And over the mountain's crown. 

We would gaze adown, and adown. 

On the caravans that go 

Over the trackless sands. 

To the far-oiF shimmering sea. 

With the merchants, bearded, and dark; 

And the sails, that whiten, and flee. 

To the undiscovered lands — 

The lands that we yet must know ! 

So would we sail, O lark ! 

And yet, not like to thee ! 

For thou, when thy song is o'er. 

And the light is low in the West, 

Wilt come again to thy nest — 

But we should return no more. 

The Yale Review William Young 



With pilgrim stafF and scrip. 

With poetry and talking, 
And laughter on the lip. 

My love and I went walking. 

"What! Walking?" they all cried; 

They seemed to fear disaster. 
We roused the countryside 

By stepping out the faster. 

Where clematis was spread 

We came upon new honey; 
Thereon we richly fed 

For such a little money. 

We drank from out a well 

Where phlox and yew were growing; 
Then, silent for a spell. 

Just thought while we were going. 

Our limbs in perfect time 

Were rhythmically swinging, 
Our bodies gave the rime, 

Our blood was up and singing. 

" And what poor fools are these ? " 

Cried tourists from the city. 
We ran beneath the trees; 

They motored by in pity. 

We mocked them in our play 

And danced a foot-free measure. 

But at the end of day 

We took a lift with pleasure. 

Collier's Weekly Marion Patton Waldron 



Wild bird with frightened eyes. 
Wild bird with beating wing, 
Save in the lonely skies 
Have you no song to sing ? 

Wild bird, the open air 
Is but a crystal cell ; 
Song cannot tarry there 
Nor any echoes dwell. 

Wild bird with fluttered heart. 
Wild bird with silent throat, 
What calls you far apart 
Where cloud and star-dust float? 

Wild bird, each cloud, sun-bright. 
Is mirrored in your eyes. 
And there the stars of night 
In flaming ranks arise ! 

Wild bird with throbbing breast. 
Wild bird in ceaseless flight. 
Is yours an endless quest 
Beyond all human sight? 

Wild bird, I know a tree 
So tall and straight and fair. 
Where every leaf swings free 
To pilgrims of the air ! 

And this I know, wild bird: 
Each living, leafy gate 
Will open at a word, — 
Must that word always wait? 


Within that verdant tree 
There is a boundless land 
Which they alone may see 
Who enter hand in hand. 

And some find freedom there 
Vaster than all your skies. 
When shall we greatly dare^ — 
Wild bird with frightened eyes ? 

The Outlook Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer 


The shoreline of infinities 

Is just beyond that belt of trees; 

Mile on mile — cobalt and bronze — 

The margin of the woodland runs ; 

Through Hudson^ Litchfield, Manchester 

Hemlock, birch, and pine and fir, 

Weave a border figured dim 

With fixed trunk and swaying limb, — 

That in the distance to my eye 

The wainscot is on a wall of sky. 

There are dreams that half forbid 
Surprise at all the wonder hid 
Behind that wall, so low to earth. 
Where the wild creatures come to birth : 
Crawling, stepping, hopping, winged 
Creatures, unnumbered and unsinged: 
Out of the sight and mind of man. 
But spume of Nature ere he began : — 
What have my dreams to do with these 
Denizens under dusky trees? 


Nor I forget the richest bloom 
Of flowers within the woodland room: 
Scent of these, and pungent vines 
Under covert, or where there shines 
Golden spears of sunlight through 
Leaf and branch, to stab the dew ; 
All this wealth my heart may prize 
But further bournes entice my eyes ; 
There are more thrilling fragrancies 
Than haunt the air beneath the trees. 

The woods are half a mile from me, 
Still must I traverse immensity — 
Become an element, flame or wind, ' 
Swift as a comet ere I find 
The distance reached, the goal confronted. 
My soul compels and my vision haunted 
Since first that wavering, fiery sign 
Flashed as a signal along the line 
Where treetops break the skyline. A gust 
Of dream blows me thither like dust. 

TUe New Opinion Katharine Tonkin 


This autumn afternoon 
My fancy need invent 
No untried sacrament. 
Man can still commune 
With Beauty as of old: 
The tree, the wind's lyre. 
The whirling dust, the fire — 
In these my faith is told. 


Beauty warms us all; 
When horizons crimson bum. 
We hold heaven's cup in turn. 
The dry leaves gleaming fall, 
Crumbs of mystical bread; 
My dole of Beauty I break. 
Love to my lips I take. 
And fear is quieted. 

The symbols of old are made new: 
I watch the reeds and the rushes. 
The spruce tree dips their brushes 
In the mountain's dusky blue; 
The sky is deep like a pool; 
A fragrance the wind brings over 
Is warm like hidden clover. 
Though the wind itself is cool. 

Across the air, between 

The stems and the grey things. 

Sunlight a trellis flings. 

In quietude I lean: 

I hear the lifting zephyr 

Soft and shy and wild; 

And I feel earth gentle and mild 

Like the eyes of a velvet heifer. 

Love scatters and love disperses. 
Lightly the orchards dance 
In a lovely radiance. 
Down sloping terraces 
They toss their mellow fruits. 
The rhythmic wind is sowing. 
Softy the floods are flowing 
Between the twisted roots. 


What Beauty need I own 

When the symbol satisfies ? 

I follow services 

Of tree and cloud and stone. 

Color floods the world; 

I am swayed by sympathy; 

Love is a litany 

In leaf and cloud unfurled. 

Gladys Cromwell 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse 


Have you an eye for the trails, the trails. 

The old mark and the new ? 
What scurried here, what loitered there. 

In the dust and in the dew ? 

Have you an eye for the beaten track. 

The old hoof and the young? 
Come name me the drivers of yesterday. 

Sing me the songs they sung. 

O, was it a schooner last went by. 
And where will it ford the stream .f* 

Where will it halt in the early dusk. 
And where will the camp-fire gleam.'' 

They used to take the shortest cut 

The cattle trails had made; 
Get down the hill by the easy slope 

To the water and the shade. 


But it's barbed wire fence, and section line, 

And kill-horse-travel now; 
Scoot you down the canyon back, — 

The old road's under plough. 

Have you an eye for the laden wheel. 

The worn tire or the new? 
Or the sign of the prairie pony's hoof 

Was never trimmed for shoe ? 

O little by-path and big highway, — 

Alas, your lives are done ! 
The freighter's track is a weed-grown ditch 

Points to the setting sun. 

The marks are faint and rain will fall. 

The lore is hard to learn. 
O heart, what ghosts would follow the road 

If the old years might return. 

Edwin Ford Piper 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 


O, road and path, and path and road. 

They write the story plain ; 
To the picnic grounds, to the little church. 

And for water, wood, and grain. 

They point to the friend, and the dearest friend, 

The gossip, the recluse; 
To the cloud of grief, and the star of love. 

And all life's human use. 


There's a rain-washed mark leads tip the hill 

Because two boys were chums ; 
And a bridle path steals down the draw, — 

Romance in its season comes. 

O, fennel and chickweed fill the ruts 

In the sunny buiFalo grass ; 
For Andy Marsh and his cousin Bill 

Look sidewise when they pass. 

'Twas a well worn track to Heathering's farm. 

But the courting's over now; 
Mary and Belle chose husbands well. 

And Jane the veil and the vow. 

To Connor's house is a welcome road. 

And j ollity is ringing ; 
O, the open door and the dancing-floor. 

The laughter and the singing ! 

There are highways born, the old roads die, — 

Can you read what once they said? 
From the rain-worn ditch, and the sunflower clump. 

And the needs of folk long dead? 

Edwin Ford Piper 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 


In secret places strange and wild 

E'en to the wonder of a child. 

The Wee Folk cobble the little boots. 

For birds that scratch the lusmore's rootis 


And every night the Leprahaun 
Must finish ere the Streak of Dawn 
A pair of boots for every hen 
That scratches on the graves of men. 

Now Katty Shields in Kilnagrude, 
One morning wanting to feed her brood. 
And finding all the hens arrayed 
In boots, she cursed the cobbler's trade. 

And since that morning long ago. 
She is always out at heel and toe. 
In a pair of brogues, the like of which 
Might well be found behind a ditch. 

For she had cursed the Leprahaun, 
Who finishes before the dawn 
A pair of boots for every hen 
That scratches on the graves of men. 

New York World Francis Carlin 


The collie girl had the sense bred out of her. 
But she had head and nose and points enough 
To make her a queen, a fine queen with a rufi" 

Of satin and gold, you'd say, instead of fur. 

She didn't deserve, no doubt, the hate she got — 
She was so shy she'd keep for whole days hid. 
Folks wanted a dog to do better than she did. 

And thought it stubborn ungrateful, like as not. 


Dede Graf, the new man, set himself to feed 

And win her, and thought he'd keep her in the shed; 
" Somebody's skeert her/' he'd say and wag his head. 

He'd no more luck than others had, had Dede. 

Until the poor, lonesome, howling girl got big. 
And no doubt dreamful of her pups to come. 
One night she crept up shivering and dumb. 

And he saw her crouching underneath the rig. 

Lord, when he'd touched her once she was like a 
She'd cry and laugh together for the fun 
Of feeling his hand on her, and then she'd run 

Like a curled streak of gold, that made him wild ! 

Before the pups came he had her at his call, 
And other folk grew soft to her a bit. 
She was a beauty, that was all of it. 

And Dede was envied while the dogs were small. 

She weaned them, and two died and the rest were 
given ; 
And Bess got offish as she was before. 
Dede lured and wheedled and shook his fist and 
swore — 
His talk was somewhat strong when he was driven. 

It went on that way for three years about. 
She'd come to him and be a little saint. 
Having her young; and then the crazy taint 

Would get her when the young ones were turned out. 

Dede was a Job for patience, and no less. 

When she'd go shy again. He'd curse her leather, 


Then at the sight of her like a tawny feather 
Oflf in the field, he'd whine, " Hyuh, Bess ! — come 
Bess! " 

He must have got to know her . . . When she died — 
The fellow was five-foot-ten and like an ox; 
Fearful to see too ; pitted by smallpox — 

Well, he broke up for days that time, and cried. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Orrick Johns 


Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. 
Wherever turf is turned their hooves have pressed. 
Gladly the great Earth-mother gives her breast 

For them to trample — her pure bosom, pearled 

With dews of innumerable mornings. Where were 
Slit pitiful flags, their passing stills dismay: 
Yoke-ridden, mute, Peace binds on them her bay. — 

For this the goad, the lash, the curse age-hurled ! 

Patient (Ah, theirs the patient eyes of Christ!), 
They tread the centuries. Behind them flows 
The furrowed glebe, and hath since Egypt rose. 

Starlike, above the Nile. They bide the tryst 
Man hath appointed; till he dig their graves. 
Serve him, complaintless, who hath made them 

The Sonnet Mdhlon Leonard Fisher 



Because of the light of the moon. 

Silver is found on the moor. 
And because of the light of the sun, 

There is gold on the walls of the poo%-. 

Because of the light of the stars. 
Planets are found in the stream. 

And because of the light of your eyes, 
There is love in the depths of my dream. 

New York Herald Francis Carlin 


Never tell me what you are. 

Lest I dare to make you less — 

Lest I hold the golden star 
To my bosom, and confess 
Fire and dross and earthliness; 

For I know you cannot be 

Wholly what you seem to me. 

Shine beyond me, calm and high. 

Fair to love and far from knowing; 

So that, striving to descry 

Heaven in you, and slowly growing 
Through forgiving and foregoing. 

Somehow I may come to be 

Worthy your reality. 

The Touchstone Brian Hooker 



The cause of this I know not. 
Whither they went, nor why; 

But I still remember the laughter 
And the bright eyes flashing by — 

The day the girls were kissing 
The boys who had to die. 

I search in vain for the reason — 
What does a poet know ? — 

Only that yodth is lovely. 
Only that youth must go; 

And hearts are made to be broken, 
And love is always woe. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Haniel Long 


She came among us and we lived. 
As unassuming as the day 
That seeks no boon or token 
She came her elemental way 
And healed us who were broken. 

The faith that we had put aside 

In years when we were master men. 

Returned with her like flowers 

The knowing spring lures back again. 

To help the tired hours. 

So we began to see and know. 

She brought the light and taught the truth 

To us poor fools of duty. 


It was her unimpeded youth 
That filled our lives with beauty. 

They saw no change when she had gone. 
But we, who seemed so very old. 
Had snapped our chains to follow 
Her face, that was the rainbow's gold. 
Her heart, that was the swallow. 

The Bellman Scudder Middleton 


Is this your body that my fingers touch ? 

And are these lips but lips, that can reveal 
Splendor of marching skies — so much 

More than the flesh can feel ? 

Under the savage heat and rude desire 

A sudden glory breaks, half- felt, half-seen; 

I rise upon a sea of singing fire 
That lifts and sweeps me clean. 

The rumble and the clash of war have gone 
Into my blood that shouts its battle-cry ! 

Even your beauty keeps me struggling on 
Toward that for which men die. 

You hold me closely, yet you set me free 
For unknown battles with a great release; 

You are my red desire of victory 
And my white dream of peace. 

The Yale Review Louis Untermeyer 



By some strange way the truth emerges. 
Tangled with frowns or a smile's denial; 

Something's declared in the flush that surges 
Over your face, at a thought's swift trial. 

Auguries ! Auguries ! how shall you stem them ! 

A jury of dreams has opened your prison; 
All your hopes, what now is to hem them 

In with darkness, since the dawn is risen? 

Truth has a way its own — no shelter. 
Thought or dream or deed or desire 

Gives. Fate's a world goes helter-skelter 
Out of its path when the blood's — on fire ! 

The New Opinion Katharine Tonkin 


Strange, how this smooth and supple joint can be 

Put to so many purposes. It checks 
And rears the monsters of machinery 

And shapes the idle gallantries of sex. 

Those hands that light the fuse and dig the trap. 
Fingers that drive a world, or plunge through 
shame — 

And yours, that lie so lightly in your lap, 
Are only blood and dust, all are the same. 

What mystery directs them through the world 

And gives these delicate bones so great a 
power .^ . . . 


You nod your head. You sleep. Your hands are 
Loosely, like some half-opened, perfumed flower. 

An hour ago they burned in mine and sent 

Armies with banners charging through my veins. 

Now they are cool and white; they rest content. 
Curved in a smile. . . . The mystery remains. 

The Yale Review Louis TJntermeyer 



I have had great pity of forgotten lovers 
Whom the world remembers only as a name, 
Sad and ineiFectual singers of the twilight 
Who have gone the wind's way whence they came. 

Here we halt a moment in the pleasant places 
(One there was who loved me, long ago. 
Loved me, loved me, loved me, loved me — ) 
Tell me what the wind is — surely lovers know. 

Lay aside the lyre, Alexis, I am weary. 

Thy fingers pale have touched too many strings; 

Warmer through the plane-trees falls the sun at 

noon-day : 
Better the sea's kiss, bitter though it stings. 

Late last night I heard two mingled voices 
Hushed in sudden wonder — still her body clings ! 
Shadow me no shadows, I am weary, weary; 
Thy fingers pale have touched too many strings; 

What is this that whitens all the quiet water, 


Like a floating lily, redder than the rose. 
Stately as a cedar when the wind arises. 
Where the lonely ripple softy over-flows? 

What this that reaches out its hands to touch me, 
All my sunny body sudden grown so cool . . . 
After all the fever here to meet with mercy 
Tangled in the cresses of a lilied pool ! 

The lamp I lifted to my stormy window 
Sullen the dark has strangled while I prayed, 
And the dear lips of him I loved at midnight 
Answer no more the lips upon them laid. 

Straighten the feet that know no more of leaping, 
Kiss down the eyes that have no need of light; 
And above him crumble the faithless wick to ashes 
Of my dull lamp that failed him in the night. 

Let fall the doom, disdainful of their thunder 
Whatever gods may guard the walls of Troy: 
Andromache may lift her hands for intercession. 
They shall not hearken who evenly destroy. 

Purple the wounds that mar his shining belly 
Here where the bronze has spent its bitter thrust; 
Let fall the doom, there's not a god shall throw me 
Till I have levelled Ilium to dust. 

Athene of the Olive Tree, slowly the procession 
Leaves the shining agora and mounts the awful hill, 
All the golden maidens bearing before them 
The snowy flaxen off"ering, reverent and still. 

Firm of foot beside them walk the youths in beauty 
Naked in the wisdom of the sun-drenched air: 


Athene of the Olives, altogether lovely. 
Mounts the slow procession up thy holy stair ! 

Contemporary Verse Willard Wattles 


All the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds. 
And the sun lies warm and still on the western sides 

of swollen branches. 
There is no wind; 
Even the little twigs at the ends of the branches do 

not move. 
And the needles of the pines are solid 
Bands of inarticulated blackness 
Against the blue-white sky. 
Still, but alert; 

And my heart is still and alert. 
Passive with sunshine. 
Avid of adventure. 

I would experience new emotions. 

Submit to strange enchantments. 

Bend to influences 

Bizarre, exotic. 

Fresh with burgeoning. 

I would climb a sacred mountain. 

Struggle with other pilgrims up a steep path through 

Above to the smooth, treeless slopes. 
And prostrate myself before a painted shrine. 
Beating my hands upon the hot earth, 


Quieting my eyes with the distant sparkle 
Of the faint spring sea. 

I would recline upon a balcony 

In purple, curving folds of silk, 

And my dress should be silvered with a pattern 

Of butterflies and swallows. 

And the black band of my obi 

Should flash with gold, circular threads. 

And glitter when I moved. 

I would lean against the railing 

While you sang to me of wars 

Past and to come — 

Sang, and played the samisen. 

Perhaps I would beat a little hand drum 

In time to your singing; 

Perhaps I would only watch the play of light 

On the hilt of your two swords 

I would sit in a covered boat. 
Rocking slowly to the narrow waves of a river. 
While above us, an arc of moving lanterns. 
Curved a bridge, 
A hiss of gold 
Blooming out of blackness. 
Rockets exploded. 

And died in a soft dripping of colored stars. 
We would float between the high trestles, 
And drift away from other boats, 
Until the rockets flared soundless. 
And their falling stars hung silent in the sky. 
Like wistaria clusters above the ancient entrance of a 

would anything 
Rather than this cold paper, 


With outside, the quiet sun on the sides of burgeon- 
ing branches. 
And inside, only my books. 

The Century Magazine Amy Lowell 


How many million Aprils came 

Before I ever knew 
How white a cherry bough could be, 

A bed of squills how blue ! 

And many a light-foot April, 

When life is done with me, 
Will lift the blue flame of the flower 

And the white flame of the tree. 

Oh, burn me with your beauty then. 

Oh, hurt me, tree and flower. 
Lest in the end death try to take 

Even this glistening hour. 

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees, 

O sunlit white and blue. 
Wound me, that I through endless sleep 

May bear the scar of you! 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Sara Teasdale 


When I came back from Nora's burial 
I found the three days' work to do; 
The kitchen sink piled high with sticky dishes, 
The beds unmade, the pantry bare; 


Soiled rugs to sweep, soiled floors to scrub; 

Besides, the countless, little, nameless things 

The true housekeeper's feet run after all day long 

And never overtake, — 

The tiny trivial tasks that show only when they 

Are left undone; 

Yet their accomplishment makes all the difference 

Between the comfort and the rub 

Of daily living. 

Yes, she, the one I loved the best of all. 

Who ever turned toward me the brighter side of 

Who shared with me her beauty and her song. 
Was gone; 

Gone on to higher life ; and there was left for me 
Only the same old toil and fret, — 
The dirt that I must fight each hour. 
Knowing full well that it would conquer me. 
That surely they would lay me down in it at last, — 
To rub, and scrub, and scour, and clean. 
To bake, and brew, and mend 
For those who did not care for me at all, 
Nor I for them. 

And she was gone, gone, gone ! 

Yet I took up the broom and pail with strength 

I never felt before. 

Lord I How she hated drudgery ! 

She would not even talk of it. 

How she laughed at those who spent good time 

In telling how much work they'd done that day! 

Yet she was tied to drudgery herself 

As most of us must always be, it seems. 

" It is to do," she said, and kept her thought 


Upon the book, the music, and the bit 
Of loveliness her flashing needle wrought so cleverly. 
She had so little strength; but with it all she loved 
The bird, the flower, the sky, the child — so hard 
That all who neared her caught her joy in life. 
No pain could spoil her smile; 

When it was winter out-of-doors, she made you think 
of spring. 

When I came back from Nora's funeral 
I worked with all my might and prayed, 
" Oh, let me be like her ! " 

The Touchstone Elizabeth West Parker 


The maid is out in the soft April light. 

Our store of linen hanging up to dry; 

On clump of box, on the small grass there lie 

Bits of thin lace, and broidery blossom-white. 

And something makes tall Ellen — air or look - 

Or else but that most ancient, simple thing. 

Hanging the clothes upon a day in spring. 

Like to a Greek girl cut out an old book. 

The wet white flaps; a tune just come to mind. 

The sound brims the still rooms. Our flags are out. 

Blue by the box, blue by the kitchen stair; 

Betwixt the twain she trips across the wind, 

Her warm hair blown all cloudy-wise about. 

Slim as the flags, and every whit as fair. 

Contemporary Verse Lizette Woodworth Reese 




Written for the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Philadelphia, and 
read at their meeting, December 8, 1917. 

Esther, second chapter tenth verse and twentieth 
verse: "Esther had not shewed her people nor 
her kindred." 

He harried lions up the peaks. 

In blood and moss and snow they died. 

He wore a cloak of lions' manes 

To satisfy his curious pride. 

Men saw it trimmed with emerald bands 

Flash on the crested battle-tide. 

Where Bagdad stands^ he hunted kings. 
Burnt them alive, his soul to cool. 
Yet in his veins god Ormadz wrought 
To make a just man of a fool. 
He spoke the rigid truth, and rode. 
And drew the bow, by Persian rule. 

Ahasuerus in his prime 

Was gracious an*^ voluptuous. 

He saw a pale face turn to him, 

A gleam of Heaven's righteousness: 

A girl with hair of David's gold 

And Rachel's face of loveliness. 

He dropped his sword, he bowed his head. 
She led his steps to courtesy. 


He took her for his white north star: 
A wedding of true majesty. 
Oh, what a war for gentleness 
Was in her bridal fantasy! 

Why did he fall by candlelight 

And press his bull-heart to her feet? 

He found them as the mountain-snow 

Where lions died. Her hands were sweet 

As ice upon a blood-burnt mouth 

As mead to reapers in the wheat. 

The little nation in her soul 
Bloomed in her girl's prophetic face. 
She named it not, and yet he felt 
One challenge: her eternal race. 
This was the mystery of her step. 
Her trembling body's sacred grace. 

He stood, a priest, a Nazarite, 
A rabbi reading by a tomb. 
The hardy raider saw and feared 
Her white knees in the palace gloom. 
Her pouting breasts and locks well combed 
Within the humming, reeling room. 

Her name was Meditation there: 
Fair opposite of bullock's brawn. 
I sing her eyes that conquered him: 
The fern before the grazing fawn 
Bends down with dew, a thing of naught. 
Only the forest's floor and lawn. 

He gave her * Shushan from the walls. 
She saw it not, and turned not back. 
* Shushan — the royal city. 


Her eyes kept liunting through his soul 
As one may seek through battle black 
For one dear banner held on high^ 
For one bright bugle in the rack. 

The scorn that loves the sexless stars: 
Traditions passionless and bright: 
The ten commands (to him unknown). 
The pillar of the fire by night: — 
Flashed from her alabaster crown 
The while they kissed by candlelight. 

The rarest psalms of David came 

From her dropped veil (odd dreams to him!). 

It prophesied, he knew not how. 

Against his endless armies grim. 

He saw his Shushan in the dust — 

Far in the ages growing dim. 

Then came a glance of steely blue. 
Flash of her body's silver sword. 
Her eyes of law and temple prayer 
Broke him who spoiled the temple hoard. 
The thief who fouled all little lands 
Went mad before her, and adored. 

The girl was Eve in Paradise, 
Yet Judith, till her war was won. 
All of the future tyrants fell 
In this one king, ere night was done. 
And Israel, captive then as now. 
Ruled with tomorrow's rising sun. 

And in the logic of the skies 
He who keeps Israel in His hand. 
The God whose hope for j oy on earth 



The Gentile yet shall understand. 

Through powers like Esther's steadfast eyes 

Shall free each little tribe and land. 

Contemporary Verse Vachel Lindsay 



Oh Maureen Oge across the foam. 
If you were at these hedges here. 

You would not know that you were home. 
So quaint is everything and queer. 

Each primrose opens. with the day 

To wonder why it has unfurled. 
And since you wandered far away 

The winds have searched the open world. 

The cuckoo calls you home again; 

The daisies droop in pale distress; 
And roses lean across the lane, 

Och ! roses wild with loneliness. 

Oh Maureen Oge beyond the sea, 

I wait not only with the rose; 
For in the house where you should be 

The walls are lonesome for your clothes. 

New York World Francis Carlin 


I wonder, will the guelder-roses bloom 
Here in this garden where the moon is bright. 
When you and I have heard the trump of doom 

And faded into dusk like the perfume 
Forgotten flowers dropped in their swift flight? 
I wonder will the guelder-roses bloom 

And stifle with their fragrance this sweet gloom 
Where we have walked and tasted of delight, 
When you and I have heard the trump of doom? 

Ah, love, when we no longer may resume 
The sweet old ways, how will the gods requite, 
I wonder? Will the guelder-roses bloom? 

And will you still from your neglected tomb 
In spirit tend them, glorying in their sight. 
When you and I have heard the trump of doom ? 

Already, dearest, you and I like spume 
Are falling back into the sea tonight. 
It is tonight the guelder-roses bloom! 

So kiss me, dear ! Kiss me, and from this height 
Forget the world will last beyond tonight. 
Nor wonder will the guelder-roses bloom 
When you and I have heard the trump of doom. 

Detroit Sunday News Richard Mount 


Lay her under the rusty grass, 

With her two eyes heavy and blind and done; 
Her two hands crossed beneath her breast 

One on one. 

Lay her out in the paling eve. 

With its sudden tears and white birch-trees; 


And let her passing seem to be 
One with these. 

Close her out of this hour of grief. 

And casting the earth on her, like a breath, 

Sew her tenderly, that she may 
Reap her death! 

And close her eyes, close, close her lips. 
For still, too still is her smitten tongue; 

Her hour's over, her breath has passed. 
And her song is sung. 

Lay her under the wild red grass 

In the fields death-tossed and bowed with rain; 
And let her silence seem to move 

Within the grain. 

All-Story Weekly Djuna Barnes 


The twilight hangs like smoke in the streets. 
Pearly, veiling all the stretches in illusion; 
And the new-lit lamps are the glow of hearts 
That grope unseeing and unseen. 

At the corner a lean young girl offers me lavender. 
Offers me youth and romance to hold in my palm, 
closed — thus. 

She gives dreams to the world. 

She who knows nought of dreams — 

Gives gardens, and waters, and the young shy moon 

Hung in the laurels ; 


Gives the smoke of evening in the willows, 
And the complaining stream. 

And the lavender's subtle reawakening of old, dead 

These, all these she gives, this lean girl — 

(A shawl is over her head and her eyes look into the 

What does she know of dreams ? 
How more happy is she than I who have dreamed, 
And may dream no more ! 

Archie Austin Coates 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse 


They met, as it were, in a mist. 

Pale, curious, eager, uncertain. 
When each clasped the other and kissed. 

The mist rolled aside like a curtain. 

There were fields of delight to explore. 

Where it seemed that their lips could not sever.- 

Now their lips are as lone as before 
And the cold mist is thicker than ever. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


I had visited her often. 

Long had sought, with vain endeavor. 
Her obdurate heart to soften; 

But she answered, " never, never." 

Then it softened and ran widely. 
Like an ink-drop on a blotter. 

I ceased labor, tasted idly. 

Found it bitter, and forgot her. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


Oh, where has my honey gone? 

Fly away, my Juhal, fly away! 
Oh, where have they laid her bones? 

Fly away, my Juhal, fly away! 
Conjure woman shake her head. 
Preacher dumb and master sad. 
Nobody knows! 
Nobody knows! 

Why the tears that drop all night? 

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away! 
Why the heart that burns like fire? 

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away! 
Angel close the Book of Life, 

Moon goes down and stars grow cold. 
Nobody knows! 
Nobody knows! 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Fenton Johnson 


You cannot choose but love, lad. 
From dawn till twilight dreary ; 

You cannot choose but love, lad, 
Tho love grows weary, weary. 


For, lad, an if you love not, 

You'd best have slept un waking; 

But, O, an if you love, lad, 

Your heart is breaking, breaking. 

Tho friends and lovers only 
Fill life with joyous breath. 

Yet friends or lover only 

Can make you pray for death. 

Throw open wide your heart then, 
Love's road-house for a mile! 

And if one turns to leave you 
Or stab you — smile, lad, smile. 

William Alexander Percy 
Contemporary Verse 


As long as you never marry me, and I never marry 


There's nothing on earth that we cannot say and noth- 
ing we cannot do — 

The flames lift up from our blowing hair, the leaves 
flash under our feet 

When once in a year or a score of years our hands 
and our laughters meet ! 

For east and west through a sorry world we pass with 

our joy to sell. 
And they that buy of our song and jest they praise us 

that we do well. 
But few can sell us the mirth they buy, and few be 

that know a song. 
And for all of the praise of the kindly folk, their 

speeches are over-long ! 

But two of a trade, one always hears, might get in 

each other's way. 
And you might be wanting to sing, God wot, when I 

desired to play, 
(Oh, it's rather a danger with folks like us and our 

sparks that are flying free) 
But I never, never must marry you, and you never 

must marry me ! 

But when we take breath from songs at last, to be 

what the rest call dead. 
They'll sigh, " Ah, noble the songs they made, and 

noble the jests they said! " 
And they will inscribe on our monuments regret that 

our day is done — 
But we will be off in an excellent place, and having 

most excellent fun — 

Oh, very proud from a golden cloud you'll stride in 

your crown and wings. 
Till you hear my little earthly laugh from behind my 

gold harpstrings ; 
And you'll lay your gemmed theorbo down on the 

nearest star or moon. 
And carry me off on a comet's back for a long, wild 

afternoon ; 

And while we're lashing the comet up till it misses St. 

Michael's Way, 
And laugh to think how the seraphs blink, and what 

the good saints will say. 
We'll heave a little sigh of content — or a wistful one, 

maybe — 
To know that I never can marry you, and you never 

can marry me 

The Bellman Margaret Widdemer 



His eyes grow hot^ his words grow wild; 

He swears to break the mold and leave her. 
She smiles at him as at a child 

That's touched with fever. 

She smooths his ruffled wings, she leans 
To comfort, pamper and restore him. 

And when he sulks or scowls she preens 
His feathers for him. 

He hungers after stale regrets. 

Nourished by what she ofFers gaily; 

And all he thinks he never gets 
She feeds him daily. 

He lusts for freedom, cries how long 

Must he be bound by what controlled him; 

Yet he is glad the chains are strong 
And that they hold him. 

She knows he feels all this but she 
Is far too wise to let him know it; 

He likes to nurse the agony 
That fits a poet. 

He grins to see her shape his life. 

When she half-coaxes, half-commands him. 

And groans it's hard to have a wife 
Who understands him. 

The Bellman Louis Vntermeyer 



Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes 

And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; 

Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes 

Blown by black players upon a picnic day. 

She sang and danced on gracefully and calm. 

The light gauze hanging loose about her form; 

To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm 

Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. 

Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls 

Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise. 

The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girlSj 

Devoured her with eager, passionate gaze: 

But, looking at her falsely-smiling face, 

I knew her self was not in that strange place. 

The Seven Arts Eli Edwards 


I know why ladies dress themselves 

In silky sheens and peacock dyes : 

They hush their little hungry souls 

And feed them through their snatching eyes. 

I know why ladies mince and strut 
And wrap themselves in mimic state: 
Despairing prisoners of the world. 
Their hearts are hungry to be great. 

The Yale Review Karle Wilson Baker 



All day long I have been working. 

Now I am tired. 

I call: " Where are you? " 

But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind. 

The house is very quiet, 

The sun shines in on your books. 

On your scissors and thimble just put down. 

But you are not there. 

Suddenly I am lonely: 

Where are jon} 

I go about searching. 

Then I see you. 

Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur, 

With a basket of roses on your arm. 

You are cool, like silver. 

And you smile. 

I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes. 

You tell me that the peonies need spraying, 

That the columbines have overrun all bounds. 

That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and 

You tell me these things. 
But I look at you, heart of silver. 
White heart-flame of polished silver. 
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur. 
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet, 
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of 

the Canterbury bells. 

The North American Review Amy Lowell 



My tired horse nickers for his own home bars ; 

A hoof clicks out a spark. 
The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars; 

The trail twists down the dark. 
The ridge pines whimper to the pines below. 
The wind is blowing and I want you so ! 

The birch has yellowed since I saw you last. 
The Fall haze blued the creeks. 

The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past. 
But still, above the peaks 

The same stars twinkle that we used to know. 

The wind is blowing and I want you so ! 

The stars up yonder wait the end of time 
But earth fires soon go black. 

I trip and wander on the trail I climb — 
A fool who will look back 

To glimpse a fire dead a year ago. 

The wind is blowing and I want you so ! 

Who says the lover kills the man in me.'' 

Beneath the day's hot blue 
This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free. 

And laughs an hour or two. 
But now it wavers like a wounded doe. 
The wind is blowing and I want you so ! 

Scribner's^ Magazine Badger Clark 



I knew you thought of me all night, 
I knew, though you were far away; 

I felt your love blow over me 

As if a dark wind-riven sea 

Drenched me with quivering spray. 

There are so many ways to love 

And each way has its own delight — 
Then be content to come to me 
Only as spray the beating sea 
Drives inland through the night. 

The Touchstone Sara Teasdale 


I who was with her all the time, a child, 
Remember now just how she spent the days. 
The names of flowers in the garden ways 
She said were little live things, winged and wild. 
Which hovered just above — for she loved words. 
Inside, the house was quiet when she sewed; 
Around her in the room the silence flowed. 
Her hands were warm and quick, like quiet birds. 
The flickering candles in her looking-glass 
Widened her eyes to pools of wonder deep. 
Once in my father's arms I saw her weep. 
And sometimes she came running, on the grass. 
Now I hear fragments of a song she sung, 
But then I never knew that she was young. 

Ainslee's Magazine Louise Towns end Nicholl 



The Love of Children lives ; it never dies ; 

Deathless as Love's own self, it gleams and shines 

Like a soft lamp of stars set in the pines. 
Aglow so long as stars glow in the skies ! 
A boon of dew, it falls where slumbering lies 

The seed-bud of a thousand-flowered rose; 

A breeze benign, o'er arid Earth it blows; 
A cooling hand, it soothes the World's tired eyes. 
Sweetner of Centuries, Egypt knew it, Rome, 

And India encompassed round with dreams; 

It broods today by dim Assyrian streams. 
Streams dim with unplumbed woe ; where broken dome 

And ivied silence crown the Cyclades, 

The dusty aisleways wake to old lullabies ! 

The Sonnet Mahlon Leonard Fisher 


(Heard speaking through Fritz Kreisler's playing of 
Schubert's ballet music from " Rosamunde ") 

God and the Fairies, be true, be true! 
I am the child who waits for you. 

I wait for God as I go to sleep. 
I stretch out my hand for His hand to keep. 
I look for Fairies where grass is deep. 
And once where I heard a bell on the sheep. 
The Saint who comes at Christmas-time 
Is someway not so much all mine. 
He surely comes, for Christmas Day, 
But I never ask that Saint to stay. 
He brings me beautiful things to keep, 

But I liked the best the bell on the sheep. 

God and the Fairies I can not see 

Are the ones that I want to stay with me. 

They always stay with me through the night. 

But they go just before the room is light. 

It is always just God, or just Fairies, who stay. 

But I never know which, nor which is away. 

But once I woke when it was dark 

And Something made me hush and hark. 

My hand which I'd left outside on the sheet 

Was tucked very gently under my cheek. 

So I knew it was God who stayed that night — 

And then I slept till it was light. 

And when my hand stays out on the bed, 

I guess the Fairies are there instead. 

I think the Fairies bring the dreams. 

And when I wake and my room seems 

Very strange, because I've played 

All the night in a woodsy glade 

In my dreaming, then I know 

Fairy folk have made it so — 

Fairy folk who slide, they say, 

Into the house on a thin moon's ray. 

But always Something has been there. 

To fill my room with Day and air. 

To make me feel so sweet and wise 

Before I open up my eyes. 

But sometimes when it's bright and Day, 

I feel alone and I must pray. 

I am sure of them and yet I say, 

" God and the Fairies, be true, be true ! 

I am the child who waits for you." 

Louise Townsend Nicholl 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 



My feet have touched the Dancing Water, 
My lips have kissed the Singing Rose 

And I was horn a swan-girl's daughter. . . 

Oh, I would stay with you, my lover. 
But in my heart a sea wind blows 

And in the dark the wild swans hover. . . 

To-night as I went down to sea 

To cast my net, to draw my net. 
The Marsh-King's daughter whispered me, 

" Sister," she called, " do you forget? " 
For, though I am a fisher's child 

It was a swan-maid mothered me, 
And I have wings that I can don 
When day is done, when dark comes on. 

To bear me high across the sea. 

One star-dusk when I waited you 

And it was long before you came. 
There was a bird with wings of blue 

And claws of gold and crest of flame 
Who sang with words as mortals do: 

He sang me of an ivory fountain 

Within a wood beyond a mountain 
Where lies beneath the water's flow 

A golden key, a silver cup, 

Until my hand shall lift them up. . . . 

(Oh, I must go from you, my lover !) 
For they were mine once long ago. 

How shall you keep me, dear my lover? 

My heart is yours till night-winds call. 
And then dear earth-things fade and fall 

(O I was born a swan-girl's daughter !) 


For I have found beneath the moon 
Brown fairy fernseed for my shoon 

That carries me where no man knows. 
Beyond the sands, beyond the clover. , . . 
I cannot bide with you, my lover. . . . 

My feet have touched the Dancing Water, 
My lips have kissed the Singing Rose. 

The Bookman Margaret Widdemer 


The chill clung to the water; 

A bevy of boys. 

In naked beauty — 



Shy with wonderment — 

Huddled into themselves. 

Like street sparrows 

On snowy mornings. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse David O'Neil 


I am bewildered still and teased by elves 
That cloud about me even through city streets. 
One sings a stave and one a dream repeats. 
One, cruder, in some old resentment delves. 
I am a"«vare they are my other selves. 
Yet to what dazzling vision each entreats. 
Casting a glamour over shams and cheats, 
Ennobling can't buzzing by tens and twelves ! 
So then my smiling grieves the passerby. 

I strut in all vocations not my own, 
Wearing the centuries like a baldric slung; 
Whilst shabby I gawk at this splendid I. 
Chronos and Moraus through my lipe intone. 
Archangels, heroes, — rascals yet unhung ! 

The Yale Review William Rose Benet 


Through the half open door. 

Over the gray sidewalk. 

In front of the many-spired Russian Cathedral ■ 

Alien of aliens, here in the Occident — 

Sweeps music. 

Bitter, plaintive. 

Yearning, turbulent. 

Splashing purple, red, blue, gold. 

Over the white sidewalk: 

Vari-colored glory of the East 

On the gray glory of the West. 

Through the half open door. 

Over the gray sidewalk. 

Drifts incense smoke. 

Curling in lavender spirals. 

Now soft, now heavy. 

Scented with a far, foreign odor. 

Mingled with hesitating lilac fragrance 

From the bush on the green parking: 

Mystic glory of the East 

With the simple glory of the West. 

Through the door, opened wide. 
On to the white sidewalk, 


Pour the worshippers — 

Aliens of aliens, here in the Occident — 

With far-looking eyes. 

With far-seeking faces. 

With far-born turbulent tongues. 

Jostling the kindly, contented, practical. 

Conventional-voiced passers-by : 

To-morrow's glory of the East, 

Jostling to-day's glory of the West. 

The Nation Nelson Antrim Crawford 


Luck makes him head, he meets it pranksomely, — 

Dapper Ulysses, five feet in his boots 

And proud as Satan of a black mustache 

Would grace a Spanish pirate; half a hand 

In the wheat, first class at baking. Buxom Sue 

Towers last in the line of girls; she could pitch 

All day for any partner: mirth arises 
To see them countering between the ranks. 
First shuttles in the good old weaving game. 
The blithesome maze of the Virginia reel: 

" Meet half way to your best liking, 
Meet half way to your best liking. 
Meet half way to your best liking. 
You're the one, my darling ! 

" Lead 'er up an' down the old brass wagon. 
Lead 'er up an' down the old brass wagon. 
Lead 'er up an' down the old brass wagon. 
You're the one, my darling ! 


" Wheel an' turn the old brass wagon. 
Wheel an' turn the old brass wagon. 
Three wheels off an' the axle draggin'. 
You're the one, my darling ! " 

The seven stanzas near monotony 

When each has led the weaving. Welcome change 

Is the graceful round of a good old harvest dance: 

" O, it rains, and it hails, and it's cold stormy 
weather ; 
In comes the farmer, drinking up cider. 
I'll be the reaper if you'll be the binder, 
I've lost my true love and I cannot find her." 

They race through Tansy with a merry speed 

Before the circle spins into rollicking rings 

In the whirls of " Three by three with a polkay O ! " 

" O, great big sheep jumped over the meetin' house, 
Over the meetin' house, over the meetin' house. 
Great big sheep jumped over the meeting' house 
Down in Alabama! " 

Some echo rises as from age-old rites 
In Oats, Peas, Beans and Barley, Weevilly Wheat 
Times lightsome dancers, then, a flouting song 
With a flower for the girl, a gibe to tease the boy: 

' O, now we've got the little red rose. 
The little red rose, the little red rose; 
And now we've got the little red rose 
So early in the morning ! 
Go choose you out a partner. 
The prettiest you can find. 


" And now we've got the old plough horse, 
The old plough horse, the old plough horse ; — " 

Comes Happy Miller with its round of shifts ; 
Then Chase the Squirrel; boys and girls in lines. 
With the head couple dancing through and back: 

" Up and down the center we go, 
Up and down the center we go. 
Up and down the center we go. 
This cold and frosty morning! 

*' Now's the time to chase that squirrel, 
Now's the time to chase that squirrel, — " 

The girl runs round the rank of girls, the boy 
Circles at speed the rank of boys in hope 
Of sweet reward in the lane. The lads take space 
Lengthening the line to see the pursuer puff: 

" Catch her and kiss her if you can, — " 

And he may catch her if luck favors him. 
Otherwise, — he is chaffed for running slow. 
Voices need rest. Youth turns with lively relish 
To coffee and fried chicken, rolls and cakes. 
Doughnuts and pies. An hour of chat and laughter; 
Then the cool moon may spill its gracious ease 
On what might else seem awkward, while the space 
Lends harmony to youthful voices blent 
In folk-tunes of the good old courtship games. 
Where dancing is the maid, romance the lady: 
Juniper Tree, We're Marching Round the Levee, 
Here Comes a Loving Couple, Lazy Mary, 
Then the lively turns of The Girl I Left Behind Me, 
With, Here She Stands, and a partners' march for 


" We are marching down to old Quebec, 
And the drums are loudly beating; 
The Americans have gained the day. 
And the British are retreating. 

" The war's all o'er, and we'll turn back 
To the place from whence we started; 
We'll open the ring, and choose a couple in 
To see if they'll prove true hearted." 

The moon is rolling half-way down the sky 
When the last wagon rumbles to the road ; 
And you hear Suwanee River, Old Black Joe, 
And Annie Laurie, sweet and faint and far. 
Dying in silver haze along the hills. 

O prairie spaces, joyous boys and girls. 
Youth, and romance, and music of the moon ! 

Edwin Ford Piper 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 


May nothing evil cross this door. 

And may ill-fortune never pry 
About these windows; may the roar 

And rains go by. 

Strengthened by faith, these rafters will 
Withstand the battering of the storm; 

This hearth, though all the world grow chill. 
Will keep us warm. 

Peace shall walk softly through these rooms. 
Touching our lips with holy wine, 


Till every casual corner blooms 

Into a shrine 

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout; 

And, thougli these sheltering walls are thin 
May they be strong to keep hate out 

And hold love in. 

Good Housekeeping Louis Untermeyer 


There be five things to a man's desire : 
Kine flesh, roof-tree, his own fire, 
Clean cup of sweet wine from goat's hide, 
And through dark night one to lie beside. 

Four things poor and homely be: 
Hearth-fire, white cheese, own roof-tree, 
True mead slow brewed with brown malt; 
But a good woman is savor and salt. 

Plow, shove deep through gray loam; 
Hack, sword, hack for straw-thatch home; 
Guard, buckler, guard both beast and human; 
God, send true man his true woman ! 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Willard Wattles 


The Dream-Seller came to the little by-street. 
His smile was misty, yet grave and sweet. 
As he knocked on the door where his footsteps led. 
At the house of The Lady-Who-Sews-for-Bread. 


He lifted the veil from his basket lid. 
And showed where his beautiful dreams lay hid; 
Some golden, some sparkling, some violet-gray. 
And smiled, as he said, " Any dreams today? " 

" Oh, Dream-Seller Man, don't you know right well, 

'Tis not here you must come with dreams to sell; 

'Tis not to the poor, who spin and weave 

Dreams and hopes with the air they breathe; 

Each attic chamber has its loom; 

There's a spindle of dreams in each small hall room. 

No, Dream-Seller; go to the side of town 

Where the mansions are grand, and big and brown. 

Where the wealthy are busy with dress and play. 

Go there, if you'd sell any dreams today. 

The Touchstone Eugenia Stoutenburgh 


Ancestral Spirit, hidden from my sight 
By modern Time's unnumbered works and ways 
On which in awe and wonderment I gaze. 
Where hid'st thou in the deepness of the night? 
What evil powers thy healing presence blight? 
Thou who from out the dark and dust didst raise 
The Ethiop standard in the curtained days, 
Before the white God said: Let there be light! 
Bring ancient music to my modern heart. 
Let fall the light upon my sable face 
That once gleamed on the Ethiopian's art; 
Lift me to thee out of this alien place 
So I may be, thine exiled counterpart. 
The worthy singer of my world and race. 

The Seven Arts Eli Edwards 



You think my songs are strange. 

I think they are myself. 
I let my fancy range — 

The divagating elf. 

Don't say my songs are common. 

For though my soul I seek 
In every man and woman 

I want my songs unique. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


Others make verses of grace. 

Mine are all muscle and sinew. 
Others can picture your face. 

But I all the tumult within you. 

Others can give you delight, 

And delight I confess is worth giving. 
But my songs must tickle and bite 

And burn with the ardor of living. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


My Song, be silent, for a bird has died: 
I saw his little figure in the snow. 
Like a soft fallen blossom. Does God know 

The golden throat, whose molten flow had pried 


The grave of April open and thrown wide 

The prison of the Spring, is still — the lute 
Whose tentative sweet timing should salute 

The violet, which is of Spring the pride ? 

Have saddened pastures, planted by His hand, 
Had any inkling, in this wintry hour. 
Of lilies that shall listen, where they tower, 

And, all in vain, the grasses, where they stand. 
For skyey song gone back the way it came ? . . 
I wonder can the summer be the same ! 

The Sonnet Mdhlon Leonard Fisher 


When the song is done 

And the notes all heard. 

Who can find the thrill in a plain brown bird 

A beggar bird shivering out in the snow — 

Dingy and starved? Must beauty go 

When the song is done? 

Is there none in the wing 

And none in the breast of the shivering thing 

Could we bring back the notes — make them over in 

Color the dingy throat, breast and the head. 
Would the rapture be there 
And all that was fair 
When the song was begun? 

The Masses Annette Wynne 



Through the streets and bazaars 

Of a Far Eastern city 

There went one day a Moor 

Bearing in a basket 

A glittering array of lamps. 

And as he walked he cried: 

" Oh, who will give 

Old lamps for new ? " 

And all the world followed him 

And the street boys pursued him 

From place to place. 

And mocked at him. 

But he cared not for that. 

For when he reached 

The palace of Ala-ed-Din 

He gained the prize he sought. 

The Magical Lamp of the Treasure, 

In exchange for his tawdry wares. 

And so today 

In Western lands 

Great thoughts out of the past 

Woven from the magic of men's minds 

Are bartered or are cast aside 

Whenever we are asked to give 

Old books for new. 

The Boston Transcript Edwin Francis Edgett 


Stranger alike to traffic's clamor crude 
And to joy's throbbing, intricate design, 


He stands serene. A formula, a line. 
With changeless beauty is by him endued. 
Striver for truth's perfection, no light mood 
May move him. Differential, axiom, sign, 
Bring to him glimpses of the far divine. 
Marking the boundaries of finitude. 

By Euclid's theorems cramped, he seeks new spheres. 

And walks in high, far ways forever free. 

Toils with awed vision through the ordered years. 

Till, from the all-but-handled harmony, 

In some grave vision Deity appears. 

And in a graph he finds Eternity. 

The New Republic Nelson Antrim Crawford 


He met the Danske pirates oiF Tuttee; 

Saw the Chrim burn " Musko " ; speaks with bated 

Of his sale to the great Turk, when peril of death 
Chained him to oar their galleys on the sea 
Until, as gunner, in Persia they set him free 
To fight their foes. Of Prester John he saith 
Astounding things. But Queen Elizabeth 
He worships, and his dear Lord on Calvary. 
Quaint is the phrase, ingenuous the wit 
Of this great childish seaman in Palestine, 
Mocked home through Italy after his release 
With threats of the Armada ; and all of it 
Warms me like firelight jewelling old wine 
In some ghost inn hung with the golden fleece! 

The Yale Review William Rose Benet 



Robert Lee, you paladin, 

I wonder how my words would strike you. 

1 know the portrait might have been 

In many, many ways more like you. 

But you would not have had me plan 
To make your figure more heroic 

For you would rather be a man 
Than just a marble hearted stoic. 

And I can often hear you say, 

When they condemn and when they flatter. 
In your divineh'^ tender way, 

" Good friend, it really doesn't matter." 
Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


How shall men call you " bankrupt," you who hold 
The treasure of a deathless line of kings. 
Who, musing 'midst the surge of awful wings. 

With lifted eyes, unwearied, calm and bold 

Can span the infinite and see unfold 

The shrinking beauty of all hallowed things. 

While sun to sun in joy eternal sings 

And far-flung stars burn through a rain of gold. 
Life, Love and Death are yours to understand; 
The cry of winds and laughter of the sea; 

The lore of days to come and days long dead. 
All, all is yours, and if with empty hand 

Men pass you by, still, shall your soul be free 

E'en though your body, fettered, lacks for bread. 
Richmond Evening Journal Henry A. Sampson 


He talks of kings and in his eyes at times 

I catch parading banners tossing by. 
He puts to rout my gathering cloud of rhymes 

By smiling suddenly and lifting high 

His weather-beaten forehead to the sky. 
With speculative twists he throws the ball 

Of chatter with agility most spry 
And keeps the thread, nor loses it at all. 

His face is like old oak the sun has burned 

To mellow beauty, and his eye is such 
That if it suddenly on me is turned 

I am aware of things that matter much 

In analyzing why the common touch 
Of sight to sight means more than words may say. 

And why the earth may sometimes seem a smutch 
Of soot upon the lintel of the day. ^ 

He grows in greatness to his words and I 

Diminish in their magic to an ear 
Existing solely for the thoughts that fly 

In colored ardency from him so near 

And I so far, thoughts longer than a year — 
With wisdom heaped on wisdom, yet they pass 

As swiftly as a half-unconscious tear 
Dropped suddenly upon a heated glass. 

He hitches up his one suspender, chews 
Tobacco with a ruminating air. 

Dissects with equanimity the news 

Of warring nations, with a word lays bare 
The white nerve-centres of some great affair 

And solves a riddle that a statesman died 


To find the key to, turns a knowing stare 
Upon humanity — and once he sighed. 

He sits upon this battered hulk, the earth, 

And plays with theory as men with dice. 
He knows the nations from their feeble birth 

In prehistoric fields of sliding ice. 

Through age and age he traces each device 
That man perfected for the sake of Man, 

And has no need to brood upon them twice. 
But places each within its proper plan. 

Incompetent he may be for a world 

Too eager of delight to know a seer 
Who reads the heavens as a sign unfurled 

And finds philosophy a spinning drear. 

But there are times I feel that gods are near 
And through the windows of his eyes a light. 

Auspicious, awful and divinely clear. 
Glows like the Burning Bush across the night. 

The Boston Transcript Herbert S. Gorman 


Tutored not, unlearned am I, 
Left to sift the ash of ages 
That I may find one lentil 
Upon which to feed. 
Oh, the prattle of wise men. 
And the wisdora-heavy wagging 
Of fools ! Their yeas and nays 
Clink like pence within the purse 
Of time. 

Patience Worth's Magazine Patience Worth 



In silence which no weighted sound could plumb 

I sat before the pulpit, while a son 

Of canonized Ignatius deftly spun 
A sermon with quick fingers and a thumb; 
And seated there among the deaf and dumb. 

It seemed to me, remembering Babylon 

Of the many living languages, that none 
Became so much that stilly state to come. 
For at the benediction music pealed 

A chant of mighty chords, and suddenly 
The cleric to his only hearer sang 

As sang a lark one distant mom to me 
O'er the deaf and tongueless lying in their field. 
While the Irish bells of Limerick loudly rang. 

New York World Francis Carlin 


No doubt this active will. 
So bravely steeped in sun. 
This will has vanquished Death 
And foiled oblivion. 

But this indifferent clay. 
This fine experienced hand. 
So quiet, and these thoughts 
That all unfinished stand. 

Feel death as though it were 
A shadowy caress; 
And win and wear a frail 
Archaic wistfulness. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Gladys Cromwell 


Who are the banded? Gather from the four 

Broad winds one hundred strangers varying 

In tongue, age, disposition; set them down 

On the wild prairie where a neighbor's help 

Is priceless. Each has left an ordered world 

Where every wheel rolls on in its old rut 

To the expected stopping place, and men 

Make law of local patterns, local custom. 

How shall these hundred settlers find adjustment 

To their unsettled neighbors, and to thoughts 

Novel and startling, thoughts which fostering years 

May nourish to strange fruitage? 'Tis a problem 

Too large for human powers, infinite 

In nice complexities. 

The spirit of life 
Will draw this dusk confusion into form. 
Will shape the self of the neighborhood wherein. 
Like wheat straws in the bundle, men are bound. 
And press upon each other, bringing help 
Or harm not to be measured. Hate, and love. 
And hateful love, and loving hate, and low 
Passions that bind man to his brother beast. 
And wild sweet hopes, and airy fancies lifted 
Like a winged song half way from man to God, 
Must merge into the spirit of the group 
Which pipes for dancers, mourns to those that mourn. 
Trains one wolfhound to charge the bristling pack, 
Pampers another into poodle form. 
And for a sulky brute lays a rod in brine. 

Brutes may object to rods. Suppose the cur 
When threatened, snarls, when beaten, howls and 
bites ; 


Dogs, children, wives, and neighbors swell the 

clamor, — 
Bow-wow and boo-hoo, Fairview Ridge eruptive. 

It's easier to start than end a fracas. 
And status quo may seem beyond the reach 
Of thought itself, demanding that each bristle 
Shall lie sleek on the dog, and not a tremor 
Stir in the extinct volcano. 

Here the banded 
Fashion the fate of man. Who prays for blessing 
Shall ask for health, a clean soul, and good neighbors. 

Edwin Ford Piper 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 


If you made your picture 

And I made my song. 
Think you they would give us bread 

All the year long? 

The great wheels of the city 

Grind clothing and grind bread. 

And what if we offered 
Songs, pictures, instead ? 

So, I'll make the petticoat. 

You make the shoe, — 
That's what the world wants 

Of me and you. 

The Masses Annette Wynne 



Remembering Thy sacrificial throne, 
We chosen guardians of revelation 
Establish on the earth the Word's foundation 
On men that groan. 

We praise and magnify Thee, that of the seed 
Thy martyrs planted who in anguish died, 
We are the fruit indeed. 
Consummate, justified. 

Against inquiry and ardor's heat 
Thy mercy we entreat; 
From consequence untoward and perilous 
Deliver us; 

From rod and tribulation for Thy sake 
Deliver us; 

• From slander, ruin and from social break 
Deliver us; 

From all excess of love and penitence; 
From unproductive forms of violence 
Deliver us; 

From needless pain and execrated sorrow; 
From the fool's paradise, unplanned tomorrow; 
From hunger fell with its fell partner thirst; 
From leprous blight of poverty accursed; 
From exile, revolution and the rest 
That Thou hast blest. 
Deliver us; 


And at the last, we pray Thee, of Thy Grace 
From sudden death 
Deliver us; 

Lest it be truly as the prophet saith, 
That in unsheltered space 
We look upon Thy face. 

The New World Viola Chittenden White 


Whoso is faithful warden of desire, 

And o'er his bosom wields control complete, 

Hath deep within his soul a bower meet 

For shadowy ease and chaunt of woodland quire; 

Nay, 'tis a sacred region walled with fire, 

A sanctuary pure, a calm retreat 

Of healing thoughts and claustral silence sweet 

Whence all the ills o' the seeming world retire. 

But if he should his wild desires unpen 

Upon this precious plot and it despoil. 

The snake Remorse about his heart shall coil 

And this fair garth become a viperous den; 

For this is truth, if any truth's to tell, 

In man's own breast he bears his Heaven or Hell. 

The Catholic World John Bunker 


(1 Chronicles xxi. 15-23) 

Beyond the valleys flushed with almond-buds. 
Beyond the blue, deep circle of Judean hills. 
Where yet the mist of new-fledged olive-boughs 
Lay gray as rain, 

The fleece-girt shepherds shaded troubled brows 

To see them go. 
The hosts of David, bannered, terrible. 

Across the plain. 
Winding in purple pomp to Jericho, 
And still the leaf was green upon the fig. 

And still 
The wild grape pitched her bronzing tabernacles 

On the hill. 
When they came back across the gilding fields 

In broken might. 
Seeking, beside his wheat-gold threshing-floor, 

Oman the Jebusite. 

So have they come to us, the broken kings. 
To stand among our wheat-chafF and our flails. 
Staining our mill-stones with the blood and fire 

Of covenant. 
Lo ! we have known too long the field, the byre. 

Have loved too well 
The goodly thunder of the flails upon the floor. 

The threshers' chant; 
Too long have lingered in the market-place to sell 

And weigh. 
Not only wheat and oxen shall they take 

Of us, — nay. 
Corn and oil and the burnt flesh of sacrifice, these 

Be lesser things, — 
Take of our sons, our prayers, our blood, that we may 

" As kings give unto kings." 

Scrihner's Magazine Dorothy Paul 



Massive and grand are those old houses know. 

Whose rails, too high for children's hands to reach^ 
Lend yet the ready help of friends to each 

In age, to ease his hard ascent and slow. 

Like brooks', their broad mahogany's soft flow; 
Like that of rivers the proud sweep of them. 
Holy because they knew the garments' hem 

Of some we loved and lost in Long Ago. . . . 

Ah, God ! what is to soothe us — now our tears 
Are softly fall'n and Laughter lets no more 
Her silver lyric float from floor to floor — 

Who climb these silent stairways with the years 

For mute companions, and, when those have passed, 
But stagger blindly down them at the last ! 

The Sonnet Mahlon Leonard Fisher 


Through twelve stout generations 
New England blood I boast; 

The stubborn pastures bred them, 
The grim, uncordial coast. 

Sedate and proud old cities, — 
Loved well enough by me. 

Then how should I be yearning 
To scour the earth and sea? 

Each of my Yankee forebears 
Wed a New England mate ; 

They dwelt and did and died here. 
Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. 


My clan endured their kindred ; 

But foreigners they loathed, 
And wandering folk, and minstrels. 

And gypsies motley-clothed. 

Then why do patches please me. 

Fantastic, wild array? 
Why have I vagrant fancies 

For lads from far away ? 

My folk were godly Churchmen, — 
Or paced in Elders' weeds; 

But all were grave and pious 
And hated heathen creeds. 

Tlien why are Thor and Wotan 

To me dread forces still? 
Why does my heart go questing 

For Pan beyond the hill? 

My people clutched at freedom, — 
Though others' wills they chained, — 

But made the Law and kept it, — 
And Beauty they restrained. 

Then why am I a rebel 

To laws of rule and square? 

Why would I dream and dally. 
Or, reckless, do and dare? 

O righteous, solemn Grandsires, 
O dames, correct and mild, 

Who bred me of your virtues ! 

Whence comes this changeling child? 

The thirteenth generation, — 
Unlucky number this ! — 

My grand am loved a Pirate, 
And all my faults are his ! 

A gallant, ruffled rover. 

With beauty-loving eye, 
He swept Colonial waters 

Of coarser, bloodier fry. 

He waved his hat to danger. 

At Law he shook his fist. 
Ah, merrily he plundered, 

He sang and fought and kissed! 

Though none have found his treasure, 
And none his part would take, — 

I bless that thirteenth lady 
Who chose him for my sake ! 

The Bellman Abbie Farwell Brown 


He thought to solve 

The unquiet of his heart. 

In the stillness of solitude; 

But the ticking of the clock. 

Penetrated the silence; 

Then song-sparrows sang 

In the evergreens at his window; 

And there came the ache 

Of a heavily loaded wagon 


Up the hill; 

And the voices of things in his room 


Till he sought the noise of the city 

For its silence. 

David O'Neil 
Others, A Magazine of the New- Verse 


(From the Japanese of Doku-Ho) 

An island in an inland sea ; 

" Too small for me ! " I sadly cried 

And then espied 
A lark that rose into the sky. 
Whereat I changed my plaintive cry: 

" If lark there be 

Then field there is. 

If field there be 

Then man there is. 

If man there be 

Then Love there is. 
Then large enough, indeed, for me 
Thou little island in the sea ! " 

Scrihner's Magazine Ian Oliver 


Sorrow can wait. 

For there is magic in the calm estate 
Of grief ; lo, where the dust complies 
Wisdom lies. 

Sorrow can rest, 

IndiiFerent, with her head upon her breast; 
Idle and hushed, guarded from fears; 
Content with tears. 

Sorrow can bide, 

With sealed lids and hands unoccupied. 
Sorrow can fold her latent might. 
Dwelling with night. 


But Sorrow will rise 

From her dream of sombre and hushed eternities. 

Lifting a Child, she will softly move 

With a mother's love. 

She will softly rise. 
Her embrace the dying will recognize. 
Lifting them gently through strange delight 
To a clearer light. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Gladys Cromwell 


The wind no longer sings to me. 

Nor is there any sound 
From the white fringes of the sea 

Or spring rain on the ground. 

I see the song-bird's swelling throat. 

And lift my head to hear 
A long-belated silver note 

That never meets my ear. 

The earth like velvet deeply drowns 

All echoes of my tread. 
My ghostly friends through ghostly towns 

Drift like the formless dead. 

Only the changeless pantomime 

Of stars in still review 
Keeps me in touch with space and time 

And worlds that once I knew. 

For all the chorus of the earth 

Down the unending days 
Will bring no tidings of clean mirth: — 

I walk through soundless ways. 

Wind, sea, birds, and living men: 

If you are silent, — be it so ! 
A voice I shall not hear again 

Is the one grief I know. 

The Outlook Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer 


Death is no f oeman, we were born together ; 

He dwells between the places of my breath, 
Night vigil at my heart he keeps and whether 

I sleep or no, he never slumber eth. 
Though I do fear thee. Knight of the Sable Feather, 
Thou will not slay me. Death ! 

But one rides forth, accoutred all in wonder; 

I know thee. Life, God's errant that thou art. 
Who comes to make of me celestial plunder. 

To wound me with thy love's immortal smart ! 
Life, thou wilt rend this flesh and soul asunder ; 
Love, thou wilt break my heart ! 

The Catholic World S. M. M. 


It's far I must be going. 

Some night or morning gray. 

Beyond the ocean's flowing. 
Beyond the rim of day ; 

And sure it's not the going. 
But that I find the way. 

The Catholic World Patrich McDonough 



In the dark of the mine. 

In the bloom of the sun. 
In the leap of the vine 

I heard the war-message run; 

Heard the old earth softly crooning 
And whispering to her own. 
The hymn of man attuning 

Under republic and throne : — 
" Nature my garment, love my creed. 

And the thought of man to grow in; 
Labor the arm, freedom the seed. 

And the field of time to sow in ! 
What are these mighty labors worth. 
If Justice die upon the earth ? " 

I heard the old earth calling 

Loud over plains and mountains. 
Voices, arising and falling, 

In the noise of ocean-fountains : — 
" Waken, old allies of man. 

Ye, who were borne in my bosom ! 
He, in whom freedom began. 

The topmost flower and blossom. 
The glory and fruit of all 

The ages have lifted on high 

On the heaven-most branch of the sky, — 

Shall he fail ? Shall he drop ? Shall he die ? 
What are ye all, if he fall ? 
What are we all, if he die? 



" Ships for the pilot of time, 

Who hath the stars for eyes ! 
Room for the sailor sublime. 

The unroller of the skies ! 

He, who stretched, past hope's increase. 
Freedom o'er the laughing foam. 
And on the billows set her home. 

The boundless empire of the seas, 

Continent-bastioned, island-strewn, — 

And grasped the keys of fates unknown ! 
Let nature's universal whole 

Press on the common toil, — 
Corn, and cotton, and coal! 

Copper, and iron, and oil ! 
What are ye all, if he shall fall? 
What you or I, if he shall die ? 


He harnessed our wild forces ; 

He edged our might with mind; 
Our ways, the heavenly courses 

His instincts have divined: 
All light that we inherit 
Pours from his azure spirit. 

That hath a higher law — 
Honor and freedom knowing, 
Justice and mercy showing, 

That our dumb worlds o'erawe: 
The truths his lips let fall 

Point the celestial pole ; 
For the greatest ally of all 

Is man's own soul." 

Scrihner's Magazine George Edward Woodherry 



Even as I see, and share with you in seeing. 

The altar flame of your love's saeriiice; 

And even as I bear before the hour the vision. 

Your little hands in hospital and prison 

Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes. 

So do I suffer for splendor of your being 

Which leads you from me, and in separation 

Lays on my breast the pain of memory. 

Over your hands I bend 

In silent adoration. 

Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end. 

Asking for consolation 

Out of the sacrament of our separation. 

And for some faithful word acceptable and true. 

That I may know and keep the mystery: 

That in this separation I go forth with you 

And you to the world's end remain with me. 

How may I justify the hope that rises 

That I am giving you to a world of pain. 

And am a part of your love's sacrifices ? 

Is it so little if I see you not again? 

You will croon soldier lads to sleep. 

Even to the last sleep of all. 

But in this absence, as your love will keep 

Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall. 

So I, though far away, shall kneel by you 

If the last hour approaches, to bedew 

Your lips that from their infant wondering 

Lisped of a heaven lost. 

I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost 


As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving. 

Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living 

Bearing a solace in death. 

God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,- 

You are transfigured 

Before me, and I bow my head. 

I leave you in the light that lights your way 

And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped. 

And the hour we must obey — 

Look you, I will go pray ! 

Reedy's Mirror Edgar Lee Masters 



The darkness is full of well-remembered sounds 

And smells of vanished spring. 
Old North's calm clock is making his tuneful rounds. 

The echoes leap and sing 
In the old old way from star-topped tower to tower — 

I pause in the shadow and strain 
For the voices that now will arise to salute the hour: 

But they come not here again. 

Cradled along the tops of the ancient trees 

Swings autumn's newest moon — 
The shadows shiver before the silent breeze 

Heralding Night's high-noon. 
Scattered lights gleam out through the leaded glass. 

Where the lowest leaves begin : 
But many a window is dark, and I turn and pass 

Where I used to enter in. 

On the edge of night when still is seen no morning, 
Princeton, you stand and smile. 

Glad to give, when the call followed the warning. 

Your sons for a little while. 
And if they come not again, as before some came not, 

Heart-free and young and whole, ' 

They know their names, like their fathers' fathers', 
shame not 

Your ghostly honor-roll. 

Scrihner's Magazine Hamilton Fish Armstrong 


All night long we had heard the voice of the Sea 

Roaming the corridors. 

Across the worn and hollow floors 

There went a ghostly tread incessantly. 

The walls of our old inn, 

By windy winters eaten grey and thin 

Trembled an^ shook, the wild night long. 

With resonant, vague, hoarse-throated song. 

Like a storm-strung violin. 

All night we heard vast forces throng 

To onset in the dark, indomitably strong. 

An army under sable banners flying. 

And then, above the din 

Of far wild voices crying 

And farther, wilder voices dreadfully replying, 

Slowly, far down the unseen mysterious shore. 

With fearful sibilance and long unintermittent roar. 

We heard another, mightier tide begin ! 

Then our hearts shook, there on the worlds' wild rim 
Fronting eternity and neighbouring the Abyss. 

1 Written shortly after America's declaration of war. 


Had we not cowered all night from the face of Him^ 

The King of Terrors, from the coil and hiss 

Of the pale snakes of death 

Writhing about our very door? 

Had we not borne his clammy breath 

Upon our hair 

Nightlong, and his stealthy footstep on the stair, 

His vast voice everywhere ? 

Had not each echoing wall and hollow floor, 

Worn by his winds so grey and spectre-thin. 

Resounded like the shell of a fragile violin 

That screams once at its death and never more ? 

Had He not homage of our fear enough before 

He sent this last dark cohort crashing in? 

The Bookman Odell Shepard 

SPRING, 1918 

I never longed so hungrily for spring 

Before, nor in the past and peaceful years 
Saw the first robin through a rush of tears. 
And heard his throaty whistle quivering. 

Bright squills the color of a bluebird's wing. 
And fruit-trees white as water round the weirs 
You hearten us more than a storm of cheers. 
Eternal beauty reawakening. 

Help us to know it is for you we fight, 
O Beauty of the many guises ! Be 
Incarnate for us in white deeds : the flight 

Of wind-blown birds in May, and liberty. 
Still manifest no less in the grim night 
Of gallant failures like Gallipoli. 

The Century Magazine Sara Teasdale 



I sing of Song ! of Spontaneity . 

Of all the mirage Hopes we're dreaming of. 

I sing of Deity ! 

The Song-god gave to me 

The love of Song^ the song of Love. 

Crude-carven it may be, 

My song of Song; 

And its supremacy 

Lies not in master-music ravishing, 

Nor in gemmed verse by genius' hand set free. 

But in the words : I sing ! 


Song's parents are the singer's Joy and Pain; 

Song's soul is Love; 

Song is the mirror of the heart 

That pictures to the mind a world apart 

From sordid things it's thinking of. 

Song is a sacred treasure-trove 

That e'en the humblest do not seek in vain. 

When touched by Art, 

Song is transfigured 

And mounts to golden air above, 

A living dream to be and to remain 

Eternal lovelihead, 

In carefree boyhood, bare of feet and arms, 
I whistled out my song in dusty lanes ; 
In awkward youth-tide, filled with faint alarms, 
I hummed my song, timid of noisy strains ; 
In passionate manhood, burning with the sweet 


And awful fire, in Love's own tongue I'd greet 

The pink of dawn. 

The gold of eve ; 

The woodland-warbler's glad, wide-throated song 

Shamed not my song of Love. 

Now in full lustihood of powers I stand 

And see grim War enshroud the ravished world. 

War-slaved, into a chaos I am hurled. 

I see the giant guillotine grow great ; 

I hear the snarling hymns of poisoned hate ; 

I hear the world's soul shriek — 

It dare not speak; 

Its hollow face 

Looks piteously for a place 

To hide itself in death. 

Still do I sing 

And bring 

My soul of song to solace the world's soul. 


The wolf-world shows its fangs and cries: 
You fool, your songs are lies ! 
Barbaric foes ordain to devastate 
The world of good; therefore to expiate 
The crime, we must retaliate. 
Sing hate ! 
Feel hate ! 

Our guilt will be purged white through bloody sacri- 

I sing of hate? . . . 

There is no wrath among the stars for me ; 
There is no rage in the white moon for me ; 

There is no combat in my dreams ; 
There is no hate within my memory; 
My soul knows not the chord: retaliate. 
I have no song of hate. 

So still I sing, till leaping at the smart 

Of War's hard hand, I turn; and from his heart 

Of iron he vomits through his bloody lips : 

Poor slavering pygmy ! You are caught in grips 

Of powers so gigantic that the whole 

Of Life is shackled ; this decrepit soul 

Of which you prate needs but a breath 

To shrivel into silence with your death. 

His cannon roar of laughter rocks the sky 

I cower for a moment, then I cry: 

I live this hour, and in it I 

Sing as ne'er I sang before ! 

Your dread, death-reeking power 

Stops at the door 

Behind which souls assemble; that fair place 

Of spirit-song your form can not disgrace. 

This pygmy self defies you to destroy 

My soul's one hour of exalted j oy ! 


He turns, but does not go . . . 

Ah, well I know 

The fire of War's breath 

Means death. 

Ah, well I feel Moloch's certain power 

Crushing this glad hour. 

To-day I may be thrown 

Into abyssmal War's red zone. 

To-morrow I may see 


Strong bodies shattered hideously. 
Then will I sing? 
Can I then sing? 

The Song-god gave to me 

The love of Song, the song of Love, and He, 

Mightier than Moloch, gave it immortality. 


Dear God, when stumbling up the scorching hill 
That dooms my death, e'en then 
My song must not be still ! 

I see ahead a gored, ensanguined path; 

I hear the guns belch forth in deafening wrath; 

Sickened, I stand before the shrieking slain; 

I watch the scarlet stretchers write with pain ; 

See War obliterate the Brotherhood 

My song had wooed 

Alone with God I sing above the strife ! 

Rings out the word to charge ! 
I cross the marge 
Of life. 

Then will one last enraptured, quivering cry. 

One more loved strain from memory. 

One final hope for time to be, 

Burst from my soul as in the mud I die ! 

Mingling with the earth-mold, one last kiss 

I'll give the world's soul — only this — 

A friend's farewell — then silence — War's roar 

drowned — 
I find my song within the world's soul — crowned. 

Everybody's Magazine Allen Crafton 

(Hq. Co. 123d Field Artillery, Camp Logan) 


Kissed me from the saddle, and I still can feel it burn- 
But he must have felt it cold, for ice was in my 
Shall I always see him as he waved above the turnings 

Riding down the canon to the smoke-blue plains? 
Oh, the smoke-blue plains ! How I used to watch 
them sleeping, 
Thinking peace had dimmed them with the shadow 
of her wings ; 
Now their gentle haze will seem a smoke of death 
Drifted from the fighting in the country of the 

Joked me to the last, and in a voice without a quaver, 
Man o' mine; but underneath the brown his cheek 
was pale. 
Never did the nation breed a kinder or a braver 

Since our fathers landed from the long sea-trail. 
Oh, the long sea-trail he must leave me here to followj 
He that never saw a ship, to dare its chances blind. 
Out the deadly reaches where the sinking steamers 
Back to trampled countries that his fathers left 
behind ! 

Down beyond the plains, among the fighting and the 
God must watch his reckless foot and follow where 
it lights. 
Guard the places where his blessed, tousled head is 
lying — 


Head my shoulder pillowed through the warm safe 
Oh, the warm, safe nights, and the pine above the 
shingles ! 
Can I stand its crooning and the patter of tlie rains ? 
Oh, the sunny quiet and a bridle-bit that jingles, 
Coming up the caiion from the smoke-blue plains ! 

The Century Magazine Badger Clark 


Oh, I have seen the valiant ones go by — 
Eyes to the sun — and heard the praise of men 
Filling the day for deeds that will not die ; 
And I have stood apart and wondered, then. 

It must be right, or blind hearts would not leap 
With such instinctive joy because they go 
To things that make men proud and women weep, 
They are the very life of truth, I know. 

And all I wonder is, — how do they wake 
To so much grandeur who were meek so long — 
When I, who from the first loved living's ache. 
Have nothing else to offer but a song. . . . ? 

Reedy's Mirror George O'Neil 


(From a rosary taken from the body of a poilu killed in 
one of the first battles of the war.) 

A black cross and a bloody 

With a small Christ on a tree 
A black cross and a bloody 

From a dead man's rosary, 

To count no Ave Marys 
To say no prayers by rote 

A black cross and a bloody 
I wear upon my throat; 

A black cross and a bloody 

I wear upon a chain 
To keep in this my body 

Still, still, his body's pain; 
A black cross and a bloody 

To let me not again 
Sleep satisfied or calm until 

A murderer be slain. 

Blackcrusted blood makes holy 

The black cross at my throat. 
And to the Christ upon it 

I say no prayers by rote; 
Kind prayers I have forgotten. 

The little prayers of peace — 
Until a death be compassed 

I have no time for these. 

The young dead man had stiffened 

His fingers held from harm 
In wooden clasp the cross that now 

Upon my throat is warm 
About him fell my kinsmen; 

The foe they could not stem; 
And since I have no token 

I keep this cross for them. 

Until his death be compassed 
Who slew my kin, I keep 

The little cross upon me 
To tell me, in my sleep, 


Even in dreams to strengthen 

My arm to join my blow 
With others to bring death to him 

Who laid my kinsman low. 

I wear the black cross that has been 

In a dead man's hands. I dedicate 
My life, my power, my strength, my hate 
To this: For what his deeds have been 
To slay the one who slew my kin. 
Beauty and joy are kin to me 
And youth. War slew them utterly. 

The. Touchstone Mary Carolyn Davies 


The battle raged with hellish spite, 

And good men fell like rain that night. 

The morning stars came on a-pace 

And stared into each staring face. 

Tearing its way the wild shell screamed ; 

— But quietly the Fallen dreamed. 

" It is the shining April rain 

Singing to us," said the Slain. 

" The rustling poplars stir and sigh 

Like mothers crooning hush-a-bye. 

Happy candle lights appear 

In every cottage far and near. 

The supper things are laid away 

And round the hearth the children play." 

The Red Cross Men stole on the field 
To find the gruesome harvest's yield. 
They bore tlie wounded back from hell : 
— " Somebody comes," said Those Who Fell. 


And each one thought within his breast, 
" It is the one that I loved best. 
She kneels down softly by my side. 
And weeps to think that I have died. 
I wish that I could smooth her cheek. 
For she is bowed and sad and meek. 
But it is sweet to have her come 
Though I must lie here cold and dumb. 
She puts my head upon her breast 
And prays for my eternal rest." 

After the sick September noon 
The evening brought the waning moon. 
Soft veils she wove around each head. 
— " It is an angel," dreamed the Dead. 
" We cannot think what way we died. 
But Christ we know was crucified. 
And for His sake we have release, 
God gives good soldiers death and peace. 
We shall march up before His tent 
All in a shining regiment. 
And He will smile on us and say, 
' My soldiers have done well today.' 
For Heaven has a simple grace 
Where folks are kind and commonplace. 
It is not proud and grand and far. 
But like our homes before the war." 

Peace lay upon the s'hattered plain 
Where men had fallen like summer rain. 

The Touchstone Virginia Biddle 




Dulcimore ^ over the fireboard, a-hanging sence allus- 

Strangers are wishful to buy you, and make of your 
music a show. 

Not while the selling a heart for a gold-piece is reck- 
oned a sin; 

Not while the word of old Enoch still stands as a law 
for his kin. 

Grandsir' he made you in Breathitt, the while he was 

courting a maid; 
Nary a one of his offsprings, right down to the least 

one, but played. 
Played, and passed on to his people, with only the 

song to abide. 
Long-ago songs of Old England, whose lads we are 

battling beside. 

There you'll be hanging to greet him when Jasper 

comes back from the fight. 
Nary a letter he's writ us, — but he'll be a-coming, all 

Jasper's the last of the Logans, — hit's reason to feel 

that he'll beat. 
Beat, and beget sons and daughters to sing the old 

songs at his feet. 

1 The dulcimer has been for generations the musical in- 
strument of the Kentucky mountains. To its plaintive drone 
are sung the ancient English and Scottish ballads still handed 
down from father to son. 



A cripple woman has a sight of time to grieve and fret^ 
"With nary thing to do but watch the sun-ball rise and 

And nary soul a-passing by the whole enduring day. 
Hit's lonesome up the holler now the lads are gone 


They useter lope along the trail, their beastes all 

A-shouting out the good old tunes and shooting in the 

And whether they was drunk or dry, they'd alius stop 

and say, 
" Well, howdye. Aunt Lucindy, how're you comin' on 


Loretty 'lows they had to go; she'll not have got hit 

I never beared of forcing mountain men to jine a fight. 

Hit mought be known down yander they're right handy 
with a gun, 

And they'll be larning level-country lads how shoot- 
ing's done. 

The maids have quit their weaving, and they've quit 

their singing too, 
'Twill be a lonesome valley that they'll be a-traveling 

through ; 
And sorry help are cripples, who can only sit and prayj 
" Christ comfort maids and mothers now the lads are 

gone away 

The Outlook Ann Cobb 



O Youth who erstwhile stood before thy elders 

In particolored garments, gay and bright. 
Loose reined in dalliance and singing 
For sheer delight; 

What dear Alcestis wakes thy spirit's ardor. 

That thou, like some new Hercules, should'st be 
In Yorkshire, Rome, Columbia, Picardy, 
Armed cap a pie? 

The Boston Transcript Eron 0. Rowland 


My shoulders ache beneath my pack, 
(Lie easier. Cross, upon His back.) 

I march with feet that burn and smart, 
(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart.) 

Men shout at me who may not speak, 

(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek.) 

I may not lift a hand to clear 
My eyes of salty drops that sear, 

(Then shall my fickle soul forget 
Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat.'*) 

My rifle hand is stiff and numb, 

(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come.) 


Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me 
Than all the hosts of land and sea. 

So let me render back again 
This millionth of thy gift. Amen. 

Good Housekeeping Joyce Kilmer 

Private 16oth Infantry — American Expeditionary Forces 


The sea that I watch from my window 

Is gray and white ; 
I see it toss in the darkness 

All the night. 
My soul swoops down to sorrow 

As the sea-gulls dip. 
And all my love flies after 

Your lonely ship. 

Yet I am not despairing; 

Though we must part. 
Nothing can be too bitter 

For my high heart; 
All in the dreary midnight. 

Watching the flying foam, 
I wait for a golden morning 

When you come home. 

Good Housekeeping Aline Kilmer 



The brook that threads the meadow 

Was rippling in the sun. 
And close beside it in their play 

I saw the children run. 

" Where goes the brook, my brother ? " 

The little maiden cried. 
" It seeks the river first," he said, 

" And then the ocean wide." 

" And when it finds the ocean. 

Where do its waters go ? " 
" To distant shores and round the world. 

Wherever tides may flow." 

The little maiden pondered: 

" Oh, is there any chance 
Our little brook will cross the sea. 

And touch the shores of France ? " 

" Who knows ? " the brother answered. 

" The waters travel far ; 
It may be that our brook will flow 

To where the battles are." 

Then spake the little maiden: 

" Upon Memorial Day 
We love to gather all the flowers 

That blossom in the May; 

" We take them to the churchyard, 

And place them there above 
The graves of gallant men who fought 

Beneath the flag we love. 


" I have a plan, my brother " — 
Her bright eyes met his glance: 

" We'll ask the brook to bear our flowers 
To those who are in France ! " 

They gathered from the hillside 

The purple lilac spray; 
They plucked the little violets 

That grew beside the way. 

And then into the waters 

They cast them one by one — 
The waters of the meadow brook 

That sparkled in the sun. 


" Oh, take the flowers we ofi'er/* 

I heard the children say, 
** And bear them with our love to France, 

Three thousand miles away ! " 

The brook went rippling onward. 

The blossoms on its tide. 
To seek afar the river first 

And then the ocean wide. 

I know not where the waters 

The love-sent blossoms bore; 
But this I know — their fragrance spread 

Three thousand miles, and more ! v 

The Youth's Companion John Clair Minot 



He died in France ! 

I know — 

I who love courage so — 

I must not weep, but only bravely smile, 

Still thinking all the while 

That, in some rosy haven where he lies 

At rest in Paradise, 

By a most gracious Heaven-granted chance 

He smiles at me — my boy who died in France ! 

He surely could not be afraid, 

How long we worked to make him brave ! 

Why, when he was a little tot, one day 

He came home cut and bruised and gave 

Me one scared look, and said, 

" They pounded me," and cried and begged to stay 

Away from school and never, never to go back. 

And then we talked, my little lad and I, 

He snuffled and he whined but ceased to cry. 

Then stood up straight and gave his chest a whack, 

And tossed his head, — his close-cropped head. 

Where his bright chestnut curls were used to grow 

Before his father cut them ofF, — ah, long ago — 

And said he'd beat them yet! 

But oh, those dreary days 

When he came home still beaten, still afraid ! 

His sobbing whimpers always made 

My heart sink low. It was so hard to get 

His courage back, and make him try again. 

Till dawned that golden morning when 

He strutted through the door, his eyes ablaze ! 

His lips were cut and his poor freckled nose 

Was one red spurt of blood from well-placed blows. 


I met the gaze 

Of that wrecked god-like youngster, saw the shade 

0£ fear had vanished, and I knew 

That when he pranced and shouted, it was true — 

" I ain't afraid ! " 

But now he's dead. 

In France, I don't know where. 

He thought I would not let him go. 

Dear, foolish boy, and brought me flowers 

And petted me and tried so to prepare 

My heart for his great news. How could he know 

That I had read it in his deepexied eyes 

And sudden manly ways ? 

He was so proud that I could rise 

To his fair dreams. He thought that I loved Peace; 

And so I did, until one night they drowned 

A stately ship whose bravery has crowned 

Her beauty for the centuries to praise. 

Since then I did not cease 

To rear about my splendid boy great towers 

Of pray'r that he should fight with courage high 

And that, if need be, bravely he should die. 

I prayed that he might fight, if die he must, 

Matched man to man with hope in ev'ry thrust; 

That in his last encounter he should meet 

A man who fought with grave and gallant grace 

And, while the blows fell, in the other's face 

Be written admiration; so the last defeat 

Would not taste bitter from a foe so brave. 

This boon I could not help but crave. 

What futile dreams a mother's thoughts employ ! 

Surrounded he — a dozen to my boy J 

And yet I know — 

I who love courage so — 


When through the dawn their faint shapes were 

Thank God — he fought them all, and fighting died ! 

Scribner's Magazine Blanche Olin Twiss 


There is a road in Flanders 

That runs a quiet way, 
And few there were that found it; 

And yet, at dusk of day. 
There were some feet that sought it. 

And loved its dust and loam, 
The feel of it beneath them: 

Men glad of going home. 

A little road and quiet. 

Not built for great affairs — 
The sort of road for children. 

All sweet with evening airs. — 
So many now have found it 

That knew so few before, 
But never the feet of home-glad men, 

Or children any more. 

Collier's Weekly David Morion 


Oh little Christ, why do you sigh 

As you look down tonight 
On breathless France, on bleeding France, 

And all her dreadful plight .-^ 


What bows your childish head so low ? 
What turns your cheek so white? 

Oh little Christ, why do you moan. 

What is it that you see 
In mourning France, in martyred France, 

And her great agony ? 
Does she recall your own dark day. 

Your own Gethsemane? 

Oh little Christ, why do you weep, 

Why flow your tears so sore 
For pleading France, for praying France, 

A suppliant at God's door? 
" God sweetened not my cup," you say, 

" Shall He for France do more? " 

Oh little Christ, what can this mean. 

Why must this horror be 
For fainting France, for faithful France, 

And her sweet chivalry? 
" I bled to free all men," you say, 

" France bleeds to keep men free." 

Oh little, lovely Christ — you smile ! 

What guerdon is in store 
For gallant France, for glorious France, 

And all her valiant corps? 
" Behold I live, and France, like me, 

Shall live for evermore." 

The Independent Jessie Fauset 



Standing on the fire-step. 

Harking into the dark. 
The black was filled with figures 

His comrade could not mark. 
Because it was softly snowing 

Because it was Christmastide, 
He saw three figures passing 

Glittering in their pride. 

One rode a cream-white camel, 

One was a blackamoor. 
One a bearded Persian; 

They all rode up to the door. 
They all rode up to the stable-door. 

Dismounted, and bent the knee. 
The door flamed open like a rose. 

But more he could not see. 

Standing on the fire-step 

In softly falling snow. 
It came to him — the carol — 

Out of the long ago. 
He heard the glorious organ 

Fill transept, loft, and nave. 
He faintly heard the pulpit words, 

" Himself he could not save." 

And all the wires in no-man's-land 

Seemed thrummed by ghostly thumbs; 

There woke then such a harping 
As when a hero comes. 

As when a hero homeward comes — 
And then his thought was back: 


He leaned against the parapet 
And peered into the black. 

The Century Magazine William Rose Benet 


April now walks the fields again. 

Trailing her tearful leaves 

And holding all her frightened buds against her heart: 

Wrapt in her clouds and mists. 

She walks, 

Groping her way among the graves of men. 

The green of earth is differently green, 

A dreadful knowledge trembles in the grass. 

And little wide-eyed flowers die too soon: 

There is a stillness here — 

After a terror of all raving sounds — 

And birds sit close for comfort upon the boughs 

Of broken trees. 

April, thou grief! 

What of thy sun and glad, high wind. 

Thy valiant hills and woods and eager brooks. 

Thy thousand-petalled hopes ? 

The sky forbids thee sorrow, April! 

And yet — 

I see thee walking listlessly 

Across those scars that once were joyous sod, 

Those graves. 

Those stepping-stones from life to life. 

Death is an interruption between two heart-beats. 
That I know — 


Yet know not how I know — 

But April mourns. 

Trailing her tender green, 

The passion of her green. 

Across the passion of those fearful fields. 

Yes, all the fields! 

No barrier here. 

No challenge in the night. 

No stranger-land; 

She passes with her perfect countersign. 

Her green; 

She wanders in her mournful garden. 

Dropping her buds like tears. 

Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of men. 

Contemporary Verse Leonora Speyer 


" In the town of Bar-Ie-Duc in the Province of the Meuse 
in France the Prefect has issued instructions to the Mayor, 
the schoolmasters and the schoolmistresses to prevent the 
children under their care from eating candies which may be 
dropped from German aeroplanes, as candies which were 
similarly scattered in other parts of the war zone have been 
found to contain poison and disease germs." — Daily News 

Currants and Honey ! 

Currants and Honey ! 

Bar-le-Duc in times of peace. 

Linden-tassel honey. 

Cherry-blossom, poppy-sweet honey. 

And round red currants like grape clusters. 

Red and yellow globes, lustred like stretched umbrella 

Money clinking in town pockets, 

Louis d'or in exchange for dockets of lading: 

So many jars. 

So many bushes shorn of their stars. 

So many honey-combs lifted from the hive-bars. 

Straw-pale honey and amber berries. 

Red-stained honey and currant cherries. 

Sweetness flowing out of Bar-le-Duc by every train. 

It rains prosperity in Bar-le-Duc in times of peace. 

Holy Jesus ! when will there be mercy, when a ceasing 

Of War! 

The currant bushes are lopped and burned. 

The bees have flown and never returned, 

The children of Bar-le-Duc eat no more honey, 

And all the money in the town will not buy 

Enough lumps of sugar for a family. 

Father has two between sun and sun, 

So has mother, and little Jeanne, one. 

But Gaston and Marie — they have none. 

Two little children kneeling between the grape-vines, 

Praying to the starry virgin. 

They have seen her in church, shining out of a high 

In a currant-red gown and a crown as smooth as honey. 
They clasp their hands and pray. 
And the sun shines brightly on them through the 

stripped Autumn vines. 

Days and days pass slowly by. 
Still they measure sugar in the grocery. 
Lump and lump, and always none 
For Gaston and Marie, 
And for little Jeanne, one. 
But listen. Children. Over there. 
In blue, peaked Germany, the fairies are. 
Witches who live in pine-tree glades, 

Gnomes deep in mines, with pickaxes and spades. 
Fairies who dance upon round grass rings, 
And a Rhine-river where a Lorelei sings. 
The kind German fairies know of your prayer. 
They caught it as it went through the air. 
Hush, Children! Christmas is coming. 
Christmas, and fairies, and cornucopias of sugar- 
plums ! 

Hollow thunder over the Hartz mountains. 

Hollow thunder over the Black Forest. 

Hollow thunder over the Rhine, 

Hollow thunder over " Unter den Linden." 

Thunder kettles. 

Swung above green lightning fires. 

Forked and spired lightning 

Cooking candy. 

Bubble, froth, stew! 

Stir, old women; 

Stir, Generals and spur-heeled young officers ; 

Stir, misshapen Kaiser, 

And shake the steam from your up-turned moustachios. 

Streaked and polished candy you make here. 

With hot sugar and — other things ; 

Strange powders and liquids 

Dropped out of little flasks. 

Drop — 

Drop — 

Into the bubbling sugar. 

And all Germany laughs. 

For years the people have eaten the currants and honey 

of Bar-le-Duc, 
Now they will give back sweetness for sweetness. 
Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! from Posen to Munich. 
Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! in Schleswig-Holstein. 
Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! flowing along with the Rhine waves. 

Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! echoing round the caves of Riigen. 
Germany splits its sides with laughing. 
And sets out its candles for the coming of the Christ- 

" Heilige Nacht!" and great white birds flying over 

Are the storks returning in mid- Winter ? 
" Heilige Nacht ! " the tree is lit and the gifts are 

Steady, great birds, you have flown past Germany, 
And are hanging over Bar-le-Duc, in France. 
The moon is bright. 
The moon is clear. 

Come, little Children, the fairies are here. 
The good German fairies who heard your prayer. 
See them floating in the star-pricked air. 
The cornucopias shake on the tree. 
And the star-lamps glitter brilliantly. 
A shower of comfits, a shower of balls. 
Peppermint, chocolate, marzipan falls. 
B.ed and white spirals glint in the moon. 
Soon the fairies answered you — 

Bright are the red and white streaked candies in the 

moonlight : 
White corpse fingers pointing to the sky. 
Round blood-drops glistening like rubies. 
Fairyland come true: 
Just pick and pick and suck, and chew. 
Sugar and sweetness at last. 
Shiny stuif of joy to be had for the gathering. 
The blood-drops melt on the tongue, 
The corpse fingers splinter and crumble. 


Weep white tears, Moon. 
Soon ! So soon ! 

Something rattles behind a hedge. 

Rattles — rattles. 

An old skeleton is sitting on its thighbones 

And holding its giggling sides. 

Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Bar-le-Duc had currants red, 

Now she has instead her dead. 

Little children, sweet as honey. 

Bright as currants. 

Like berries snapped off and packed in coffins. 

The skeleton dances. 

Dances in the moonlight. 

And his fingers crack like castanets 

In blue, peaked Germany 

The cooks wear iron crosses. 

And the scullery maids trip to church 

In new ribbons sent from Potsdam. 

The Independent Amy Lowell 


[Moscow, 1915] 

On the way of the cross we were comrades. 

There was weariness passing all words, there was 

hunger and thirst, 
There was sickness of body and mind, there was cold, 

there was sorrow. 
And the dead hurried into the ground with no time for 

their prayers, — 
But we buried them close to the road, as the others 

had done 


Who had gone on before us. We prayed for their 

dead as we passed. 
As we knew that the ones coming after would pray for 

our dead. 
On the way of the cross we were comrades. 
We thought we had suffered all pain that the world 

has to give. 
But here in the city, with shelter and comfort and 

Is a pain that was not on the road. There is loneli- 
ness here. 
We could not have trusted our graves to the prayers 

of the city. 
Here we are mouths for the bread that already is 

scant — 
On the way of the cross we were comrades. 

How often, our Father in Heaven, must we learn and 

forget .'' 
On the way of the cross we are comrades. 
But when we are safe in the city, the vision grows 

Hand slips from hand, and the hearts that were quick 

with Your fire 
Grow clinkered and dull. You have seen it so often 

— and yet 
Why is Your patience not weary? Because You are 

Are You sure there is coming a day (is it ours? is it 

When the streets of the City shall be as the Way of 

the Cross, 
And Your children forever be comrades ? 

The Bellman Amelia Josephine Burr 



I sit beside the window sill 
And watch my hands lie^ palm up, on my knee 
As if they had no will to stir — watch them until 
They are become no part of me, 
Strange, alien hands I know not. On and on 
The thick air beats in rhythms, measuring 
One minute gone, one — minute gone, one — minute 

— gone. 
Of time that yet moves not, nor will. 
Until its pulse is maddening 
And I start up and shake the lethargy 
Off of my shoulders, shrug 

My weakness from me like a close, grey shawl. 
Travel the floor, setting my feet mechanically 
Between the round, blue roses on the rug . . . 
There are blue roses, too, upon the wall — 
Thin, flat, blue roses . . . 

My thoughts are like those roses on the wall, 
They make a blue design 

By any wind of speech — 
A bright, hard scrawl 

Of dizzy leaves and dizzy flowers that twine 
And writhe, sunblurred. 
And each 

Repeating endlessly flat bud and vine 
And twisting line 

Unto that biggest, bluest splash of all — 
An aimless, changeless scrawl 
Of thin, blue roses . . . 

" Hot fighting at the front. English retreat." 
The paper lay across his knee, 


The headlines blared across the sheet. 

" Hot fighting at the front. English retreat.' 

He looked at me 

With the old grim, grey look 

I thought my fears had conquered 

And the room 

Went suddenly most strange. 

The lamplight made a sickly gloom 

Over the rug's gay garden plot. 

The table and the old comradely chairs 

Whose every scar and spot 

I knevr, mocked me vrith change 

Like words that rearrange 

Themselves in hideous new meanings. 

And I went upstairs 

Where, in the chest, were laid 

Wee, half -sewn garments never worn, 

(He for whom they were made 

Coming to us still-born.) 

God ! if the day were not so still. 
Noon lies a dead weight in the room. 
The open casement sucks a dull perfume 
Across the sill 
As dry earth sucks the sun. 
All sounds but one 
Are smothered out in heat and glare. 
But by the dust-brown hedge 
I hear the dry grasshopper's buzz-saw tear 
The thick-knit air 
Beyond the window ledge. 
Blasted by too much light, 
The withered garden aches along my sight 
Until all forms and sounds become a pain 
And drive my senses back 
To weave their devious old track 



Round and around those blue wall-paper roses. 

They become 
A thousand faces — 
Blue, evil, little faces. 

Smirking and sneering at me from their places 
While I sit dumb, 
" You lied ! You lied ! " 
And then again, 
"You lied!" 

" What do you stitch ? " he said. 
I answered, " Nothing," and 
I made as if to hide 
What my bright thread 
Was fashioning underneath my hand. 
But I knew he would see 
The little, telltale sleeve. 
Take it, man-clumsily. 
Look at me 
And believe — 

I heard the lamp purr, and a droning fly. 
A hot, swift fear 

Snatched at the minutes that were hours. 
And when he answered I could hear 
My youth go by — 
Turn from the room 

And pass out through the garden, down the walks 
Bordered by red begonia and pale stalks 
Of touch-me-nots and gilly flowers 
And white syringa bloom — 
So into silence. 

The baby dress still clung 
To his big hand. " Shall our son call 

Me coward, then ? " was all 

He said, and I made no reply 

For all words turned to sand upon my tongue. 

And so I sit here with my lie 
Beside me, and I watch blue roses crawl 
Across a wall. 

The Dial Eloise Robinson 


(One of the tragic figures of the war is the " canary," the 
name used in the English munition works for tiie women 
wliose worli with picric acid has produced a disease of the 
mucous membranes which turns the sltin an even dull yellow. 
To present knowledge the condition is incurable.) 

She was a blossoming slip of English May, 
All white and rosy, when he went away. 
Her soldier who is coming back today — 
The girl whose beauty in that hell afar 
Lighted his homesick dreamings like a star. 
The front is not where all the battles are. 
In the munition works, it came her turn 
To take a place among the fumes that burn 
Roses and white alike to yellow clay. 
She went without complaint — only the tears 
Fell softly for the long unlovely years 
Over the flush he would not see again. 
And now she waits in anguish for the train. 
For though his love upon a rock be set 
She knows that she will see — and not forget — 
The pitiful horror of his first surprise. 
He, wounded, weary, seeking healing joy 
And finding . . . this. And now she sees her boy 
Far down the platform — coming — but how 
slowly — 


And now her fears, herself, forgotten wholly 

She runs, she clings to him. Those darkened eyes 

See nothing but the pictures memory shows. 

He holds her fast — " My rose ! my little rose. . . . 

The Bellman Amelia Josephine Burr 


There was always waiting in our mother's eyes. 

Anxiety and wonder and surmise. 

Through the long day and in the longer, slow. 

Still afternoons, that seemed to never go. 

And in the evenings, when she used to sit 

And listen to our casual talk and knit. 

And when the day was dark and rainy, and 

Not fit to be abroad in, she would stand 

Beside the window and peer out and shiver, 

As small, sleek raindrops joined to make a river 

That rushed, tempestuous, down the window-pane. 

And say : " I wonder what they do in rain ? 

Is it wet there in the trenches, do you think ? " 

And she would wonder if he had his ink 

And razor-blades and tooth-paste that she sent; 

And if he read much in his Testament, 

Or clean forgot, some mornings, as boys will. 

But always the one wonder in her eyes 

Was : " Is he living, living, living, still 

Alive and gay? Or lying dead somewhere 

Out on the ground, and will they find him there! 

She closed her lids each night upon that look 

Of waiting, as a hand might close a book, 

But never change the words that were within 

And when the morning noises would begin 

A new day, and a young sun touched the skies, 


Again she woke with waiting in her eyes. 
But that is over now. She does not read 
The lists of casualties since that one came 
A week or two ago. There is no need. 
She's making sweaters now for other men. 
And knitting just as carefully as then. 
There is no change except that as she plies 
Her needles, swift and rhythmic as before, 
There is no waiting in our mother's eyes. 
Anxiety or wonder any more. 

The Century Magazine Mary Carolyn Davies 


Gordan Rand, we saw you last 
On a baseball field at play : — 

Now the word is swiftly passed, 
" Gordan died in France to-day!** 

Gordan Rand, the boy we knew 

Vanished when that message came : — 

We shall always think of you 
As a torch of living flame. 

Ere our first few hundreds fell 

It was your proud lot to fall 
Underneath a German shell 

In the vanguard of us all. 

Gordan Rand, the men who die 
As the pledge of hosts to come 

Are a trumpet in the sky 

And an ever-sounding drum. 


We who still must wait and pray 
For one chance to serve our land 

Know what drum and trumpet say — 
We salute you, — Gordan Rand ! 

The Outlook Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer 


Muse, we have rhymed of Liberty, 

Have damned the Germans, cheered for France, 

Exalted Belgium's constancy — 

Bowed to the times and circumstance: 

But have we given of our best? 

Have we not drawn from brackish springs 

Dead water ? Have we stood the test. 

The test that Life, Life only, brings? 

Reflected from her eyes, they fade. 

Those rhymes of ours; they thin and are 

As if they never had been made. 

— Poor Muse ! and must the blight of war 

Destroy in us the seeds of song. 

Leave us no hope for flower or fruit? 

Must all that touches war go wrong. 

Leaf-withered, blasted at the root? 

Not all. But, Muse of mine, our hearts 

Have not the mighty pulse that shakes 

The soul of nations. Song departs 

From us, when all we sang of breaks 

From all we hoped for — peace on earth. 

Good will to men of kindly will. 

Beauty. . . . But what is beauty worth 

In a crazed world where man must kill 

Man, to make Truth come true? Poor Muse, 

Bewildered Muse of mine, farewell! 


Find thou some Heaven apart! I choose 
To labor, not to sing, in Hell. 

The Yale Review Lee Wilson Dodd 



For Belgium 

And for Serbia, 

For Turkey and 

For Armenia, 

And now for Russia, 

The Kaiser 1 

Thanks his God. 

But when the day comes. 

Not Der Tag 

But the day 

Of England and of America 

And of all their Allies, 

He will have sore need 

To pray to his God 

To save him 

And his German people 

From the overwhelming wrath to come. 


In this 

Enlightened time 

When a new commandment. 

Thou shalt not drink. 

Is to be thrust upon us. 

Why not turn back 

The pages of time 


And in Holy Scripture 

Read these words? 

" In that day sing ye unto her, 

A vineyard of red wine. 

I the Lord do keep it, 

I will water it every moment: 

Lest any hurt it. 

I will keep it night and day." 

Thus spake 

The prophet Isaiah. 

The Boston Transcript Edwin Francis Edgett 


Father O'Shea was his regiment's pride. 

Sturdy, fine sons of the emerald sod, 

Like heroes they fought and like children they died 

With their Padre beside them to help them to God. 

Four times court-martialed for risking his life 

In No Man's Land, seeking his lost where they lay. 

" They are my sons as the Church is my wife. 

And I never will fail them," said Father O'Shea. 

They were called for their turn in the terrible drive, 
And the Padre went up with his boys to the town 
Where host upon host passed their last night alive — 
Ah, the few that came back where the many went 

down ! 
He had looked in those simple young hearts to the 

He had shriven their souls for the perilous way. 
" It's clean wheat for heaven the Berthas will reap 
In the battle to-morrow," said Father O'Shea. 


But tlie blood will run hot when it soon may be cold, 
And life's lure is stronger with death just ahead. 
There were women with eyes that were shallow and 

In the quarter inclosed, where a narrow gate led 
To the chambers a man need not visit by stealth. 
That stood open shameless to all who could pay. 
The authorities gave them a clean bill of health. 
But they never could get one from Father O'Shea. 

That night, every Irishman bound for that gate 
Stopped at salute — there was no room to pass 
The figure that sat there as steady as fate 
With a quizzical glitter of spectacle glass. 
He shut for a marker his thumb in the book. 
" Is it me that ye want, son? " he glanced up to say. 
They all turned abashed from the probe of that look. 
And back to his reading went Father O'Shea. 

The shadows of sleeplessness circled his eyes 
When at morning he heartened his lads for the test. 
But through a worse danger he'd guarded his prize. 
And in the tired body his heart was at rest. 
If I had a son where the red rivers roll. 
With every breath of my lips I would pray, 
" God save him, God keep him in body and soul — 
And send him a Padre like Father O'Shea ! " 

The Outlook Amelia Josephine Burr 


Joe 'e is a hero, a-wearin' of his cross. 
But when 'e is in Lunnon, his missus is his boss. 
'E went into the army, 'cause she threw him out o' 


She 'it him with a broomstick an' told him " Go an' 

An' now, 'e's been a-roamin', a-fightin' o' the Dutch, 
But the fightin' 'e's been doing don't amount to much! 
'E's a-struttin' up the walk, a-swingin' of his stick. 
An' in a 'arf an hour, 'e'll be scrubbin' o' the brick. 

The king, he takes 'im by the paw an' shows 'im to 

the queen. 
An' now 'e's out upon 'is yard, a weedin' o' the green, 
'Is missus sits upon the steps, a-lookin' at 'is cross. 
The king 'e is a ruler, but 'is missus is 'is boss ! 

'E's a bustin' o' the stovepipe, an' washin' o' the floor 
While 'is missus sits afore 'im so's he can't get out the 

'E's out upon 'is furlough, " Takin' o' his rest ! " 
But 'is missus says for workin', and workin' is the 


The king, 'e is a ruler, the queen she is his wife. 
The general's a rubber doll wot's sudden come to life. 
A 'ero is a 'ero, a-wearin' of 'is cross. 
But you'll find a hero's missus alius is 'is boss ! 

The Boston Transcript Gordon M. Hillman 


" Against my second coming," 
Christ the Lord hath said, 

" Provide with driven thunder 
The nations for my bed, 

Make plain the path before me 
With lightning from the skies 

When unbelief shall open 
And all the dead arise. 


" With patience beyond wisdom 

And knowledge beyond grace 
I have prepared my peoples 

At last to bear my face; 
By many intimations 

The final truth is known, 
And all the lone discover 

They never were alone. 

" Against my second coming," 

The good Lord Jesus saith, 
" Ten million young men lightly 

Shall charge the gates of death. 
Until, grown still with wonder. 

They know how far they came 
Through many habitations 

Eternally the same. 


" Behold, I knit the nations 

With instant words of light. 
And on the clouds of heaven 

My winged feet are bright; 
Beneath the seas I smite them, 

And through the mountain's core 
The splendor of my coursers 

Escapes the granite door. 


" The shining page my hillside, 

I need no special sea. 
For fisliing-boats are paper. 

And oceans, Galilee. 
I walk no more among you 

On brown and lovely feet, 
But yet my hand is on you, 

And still my lips are sweet. 


" My perfect consummation 

Ye cannot put aside, 
I am the living Jesus 

Wlio will not be denied ; 
The moment of your anguish. 

When all seemed dead but death, 
I drew you to my bosom," . . . 

The good Lord Jesus saith. 

The Outlook Willard Wattles 


I am filled of compassion. 
Lo, would I bend down, 
Succoring, lending of my love. 
Enough to fashion cloaks 
For them I see. 

With the smile of mercy 
I know the dealing of wrath 
Is undone. What I have 
Looked upon is writ upon 
My heart. I ask me not why. 
For I understand. I would not 

Undo the day with the reasoning 
Of wisdom. Rather would I 
Listen unto God, whose wisdom 
Ne'er shouteth, but whispereth. 

I would pluck no new thing 

To balm the earth; for I know 

There is but one shadow 

In which to rest, but one smile 

Whose light may warm the chill • 

That sets the day. 

Oh, I am a fellow with my Brother, 

And my Father is nigh. 

Patience Worth's Magazine Patience Worth 


Time was when ye were powerless. 
To shrive and sign, anoint and bless. 

Clasped, ye worshipped from afar. 
That Host, as distant as a star. 
Your palms were barren still, and cold. 
Ye might not touch, ye might not hold, 
God, Whom the signs of bread enfold. 

But now, ah, now, most happy hands. 
Ye fold the Saviour's swaddling bands. 

Ye lift His tender limbs and keep. 

The snowy bed where He doth sleep. 

His heart. His blood. His being fair. 

All God and Man is in your care! 

Ye are His guardians everywhere. 

Ye pour the wine, ye break the bread. 
For the great Supper, sweet and dread ! 

Ye dress the rood of sacrifice, 
Whereon the morning Victim lies, 
And when my trembling accent calls. 
Swift leaping from His Heaven's walls. 
On you the Light of Glory falls ! 

You are the altar, where I see 

The Lamb that bled on Calvary, 

As sacred as the chalice shrine, 
Wherein doth glow the Blood divine. 
As sacred as the pyx are ye, 
Oh happy hands — an angel's fee ! 
That clasp the Lord of Majesty! 

Edward F. Garesche, S.J. 
The Catholic World 


Time was I saw Christ's body 

And could not understand 
The thorn-crowned head, the bleeding feet. 

The nail that pierced each hand. 

But Life came and then I knew: 
Oh, blood from God's opened side, 

I know and shall forever know 
How Love is crucified. 

The Catholic World Caroline Giltinan 


Sing not to me of earthly power, 

For winds make sport of the dust of kings ; 

In many an immemorial hour, 

Men fought and bled for trivial things. 
Sing me the prayer that lifts from some white heart. 
As Earth's immortal part. 

For deeds that live to gain reward. 

And dreams that barter Love for Fame: 

These all shall die as with a sword. 
And be forever linked with shame. 

The great white visions born of pain and death. 

These have eternal breath. 

And as a comet sweeps the sky. 

To reappear through cycling years. 
So shall Love's deeds supreme and high 

Enkindle hope again from tears. 
Sing me Love's utter sacrifice and loss — 
Christ's death upon the Cross. 

The Magnificat J. Corson Miller 


Dear God, 

Herewith a book do I inscribe and send 

To Thee Who art both its Beginning and its End; 

A volume odd. 

Bound in some brief, allotted years, 

And writ in blood and tears ; 

Fragments, of which Thou art the perfect, whole 

Book of my soul. 

Break Thou the sealing clod 
And read me, God ! 

The Catholic World S. M. M. 




Once, in a night as black as ink, 

She drove him out when he would not drink. 

Round the house there were men in wait 

Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate. 

But the Holy Spirit was in this man. 

Like a gentle wind he crept and ran. 

(" It is midnight," said the big town clock.) 

He lifted the gates up, post and lock. 
The hole in the wall was high and wide 
When he bore away old Gaza's pride 
Into the deep of the night: 
The bold Jack-Johnson Israelite — 
Samson, the Judge, the Nazarite. 

The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon. 

Samson's heart was as big as a wagon. 

He sang like a shining golden fountain ; 

He sweated up to the top of the mountain. 

He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment. 

And the quails all ran with the big arousement. 

But he wept: " I must not love tough queens. 

And spend on them my hard-earned means. 

I told that girl I would drink no more. 

Therefore she drove me from her door. 

Oh, sorrow. 


I cannot hide ! 

Lord, look down from your chariot side! 
You made me Judge, and I am not wise; 

1 am weak as a sheep for all my size." 


Let Samson 
Be corning 
Into your mind. 

The moon shone out, the stars were gay — 
He saw the foxes run and play. 
He rent his garments, he rolled around 
In deep repentance on the ground. 

Then he felt a honey in his soul; 

Grace abounding made him whole. 

Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue. 

The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew; 

The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune 

And crunched in thunder over the moon. 

And Samson shouted to the sky: 

" My Lord, my Lord is riding high." 

Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof; 

He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof, 

And danced in the night 

On the mountain-top; 

Danced in the deep of the night — 

The Judge, the holy Nazarite, 

Whom ropes and chains could never bind. 

Let Samson 
Be coming 
Into your mind. 

Whirling his arms, like a top he sped ; 
His long black hair flew around his head 
Like an outstretched net of silky cord, 
Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord. 

Let Samson 
Be coming 
Into your mind. 


Samson saw the sun anew. 

He left the gates in the grass and dew. 

He went to a county-seat a-nigh, 

Found a harlot proud and high, 

Philistine that no man could tame- 

Delilah was her lady-name. 

Oh, sorrow, 

Sorrow — 

She was too wise ! 

She cut off his hair. 

She put out his eyes. 

Let Samson 
Be coming 
Into your mind. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Vachel Lindsay 

Of old our fathers' God was real. 
Something they almost saw, 

Which kept them to a stern ideal 
And scourged them into awe. 

They walked the narrow path of right 

Most vigilantly well. 
Because they feared eternal night 

And boiling depths of Hell. 

Now Hell has wholly boiled away 

And God become a shade. 
There is no place for him to stay 

In all the world he made. 


The followers of William James 

Still let the Lord exist, 
And call him by imposing names^ 

A venerable list. 

But nerve and muscle only count, 

Gray matter of the brain. 
And an astonishing amount 

Of inconvenient pain. 

I sometimes wish that God were back 
In this dark world and wide; 

For though some virtues he might lack, 
He had his pleasant side. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all alone 
Upon the sacred cliffs above the sky. 
God and the angels, and the gleaming saints 
Had journeyed out into the stars to die. 

They had gone forth to win far citizens. 
Bought at great price, bring happiness for all: 
By such a harvest made a holier town 
And put new life within old Zion's wall. 

Each chose a far-off planet for his home. 
Speaking of love and mercy, truth and right. 
Envied and cursed, thorn-crowned and scourged in 

Each tasted death on his appointed night. 

Then resurrection day from sphere to sphere 
Sped on, with all the Powers arisen again. 
While with them came in clouds recruited hosts 
Of sun-born strangers and of earth-born men. 

And on that day gray prophet saints went down 
And poured atoning blood upon the deep, 
Till every warrior of old Hell flew free 
And all the torture fires were laid asleep. 

And Hell's lost company I saw return 
Clear-eyed, with plumes of white, the demons bold 
Climbed with the angels now on Jacob's stair. 
And built a better Zion than the old. 

And yet I walked alone on azure cliffs 
A lifetime long, and loved each untrimmed vine: 
The rotted harps, the swords of rusted gold 
The j ungles of all Heaven then were mine. 

O mesas and throne-mountains that I found ! 

O strange and shaking thoughts that touched me 

Ere I beheld the bright returning wings 
That came to spoil my secret, silent lair! 

The New Republic Vachel Lindsay 


God will not let my field lie fallow. 

The ploughshare is sharp, the feet of his oxen are 

heavy ; 
They hurt. 


But I cannot stay God from His ploughing, 
I, the lord of the field. 
While I stand waiting, 

His shoulders Toom upon me from the mist, 
He has gone past me down the furrow, shouting a 

(I had said, it shall rest for a season. 
The larks had built in the grass . . .) 

He will not let my field lie fallow. 

The Yale Review Karle Wilson Baker 


I do not fear to lay my body down 

In death, to share 
The life of the dark earth and lose my own. 

If God is there. 

I have so loved all sense of Him, sweet might 

Of color and sound, — 
His tangible loveliness and living light 

That robes me 'round. 

If to His heart in the hushed grave and dim 

We sink more near. 
It shall be well — living we rest in Him. 

Only I fear 

Lest from my God in lonely death I lapse. 

And the dumb clod 
Lose Him, for God is life, and death, perhaps, 

Exile from God. 

Beedy's Mirror John Hall Wheelock 



Sunlight dancing, and the Earth 

Is stalked of shadows. 

Night hangs, and the shadows 

Possess Earth. 

Yet at morning, where go the old shadows ? 

And at evening where do the new ones tarry ? 

Oh, ye hosts of shadows. 

Where thy land? 

Sunlight cometh, and man 
Stalketh the Earth, and at eve 
He lieth down amid the shadows, 
Fellowing with them. He waketh 
Unto new light, but wearieth 
For the shadows. 
Oh, shadows, where is thy land ? 

You shadow, you were the shade 

Of a leaf, and the leaf is gone. 

Even so are you. 

Man hath gone, and his shadow 

Accompanied him. 

Where to? 

Man was; even so the leaf 
And the shadows ; then they 
May not be finished. 

Patience Worth's Magazine Patience Worth 


Sing a little, play a little. 

Laugh a little; for 
Life is so extremely brittle. 

Who would think of more? 

Every long-laid project shatters, 

Framed by things of clay: 
He who knows that nothing matters 

Smiles and slips away. 

Contemporary Verse Gamaliel Bradford 


Poppies paramour the girls. 
Lilies put the boys to bed — 

Death not other is than this 
After everything is said. 

They are safe, and shall not fade, 
After everything is done. 

Pass the solace of the shade 
Or the rescue of the sun. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Haniel Long 


These who were born so beautifully 

Of straight-limbed men and white-browed, candid 

Now have walked out beyond where we can see; 
Are full-grown men, with spent and splendid lives: 
And these that only a little while ago 
Without our help would stumble in steep places. 
Need never our liands, stride proudly on, and so 
Come to a dawn of great, unknown spaces. 

O lithe young limbs and radiant, grave young eyes. 
Now have you taught us beauty cannot fade ; 

This summer finds a rounding of the skies. 
And all the summer night is overlaid 
With calm, a strength, a loveliness, a lending 
Of grace that will not go, that has no ending. 

And I had planned a future filled with bright 
Upstanding days that found and held the sun 
Even where shadows are. When these were done. 
Sleep, with a heart made curiously light . . . 
I dreamed so much ... as all men dream at night . . 
Of tasks, and the fine heat of them, the cool 
That comes by dusk like color on a pool: 
Now this is over and new things begun. 

Now this is over, and my dreams are caught 
Up in a great cloud terrible and unsought. 
And all my hours, so straightly marked before. 
Are blown and broken by the wind of war ; 
I only know there is no time for reaping; 
The trumpets care so little for my sleeping. 

After great labor comes great calm, great rest. 

The wonder of contentment, and surcease. 

And once again we feel the wind and see 

A flower stirred, or hear, amidst the peace. 

The inarticulate music of the bee: 

Taste sweetness where sweat was, and, what is best. 

Behind the veil that hangs across our sight, 

One moment know the changelessness of light. 

And so I have no pity for the dead. 

They have gone out, gone out with flame and song, 

A sudden shining glory round them spread; 

Their drooping hands raised up again and strong; 

Only I sorrow that a man must die 

To find the unending beauty of the sky. 

Scrihner's Magazine Maxwell Struthers Burt 


The blue wistaria hovers 'round her door 
To whisper soft the message of the spring 
And seems to sigh, " Where is she wandering 

While April skies the new-born earth bend o'er 

With dewy eyes, e'en as young mothers pore 
On dreamy babes, lulled by the murmuring 
Of circling angels on unwearied wing? " 

Ah, droop sweet blooms ! she will return no more. 
No more, no more : fall petals like quick tears ! 
Rain perfumed sorrow where her shadow passed ! 

Ye may not rise where her pure spirit rose. 

Where spring undying smiles through endless 
years — 
Peace, peace, we know in all God's garden, vast, 

No saintlier soul, no lovelier flower blows. 

Henry A. Sampson 
Richmond Evening Journal 


They say that dead men tell no tales! 

Except of barges with red sails 
And sailors mad for nightingales; 

Except of jongleurs stretched at ease 
Beside old highways through the trees; 

Except of dying moons that break 
The hearts of lads who lie awake ; 

Except of fortresses in shade, 
And heroes crumbled and betrayed. 

But dead men tell no tales, they say! 

Except old tales that burn away 
The stifling tapestries of day: 

Old tales of life, of love and hate, 
Of time and space, and will, and fate. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Haniel Long 


I never have known anyone so proud. 

So fierce for faith, so strong for nobleness. 

I never heard you whine nor cry distress. 

Nor saw you kneel nor knew your bright head bowed. 

Dreams, Love and Laughter were a swift, white crowd 

Of wings flashed upward from your loveliness — 

You carried Truth, wore Honor as a dress. 

And wound yourself in Beauty like a cloud. 

Surely this is not you who lies so low. 

Smitten as others, yielding as they must 

With abject hands and smooth, submissive head — 

All fire and glory crumpled by one blow. 

Bewildered and beaten and brought to dust. 

This is not you, oh pitiful and dead ! 

The North American Review Winifred Welles 



This is the spot where I will lie 
When life has had enough of me. 

These are the grasses that will blow 
Above me like a living sea. 

These gay old lilies will not shrink 
To draw their life from death of mine. 

And I will give my body's fire 

To make blue flowers on this vine. 

" O soul," I cried, " have you no tears, 
Was not the body dear to you? " 

I heard my soul say carelessly, 

" The myrtle-flowers will grow more blue." 

The Bellman Sara Teasdale 


Sweet hath hung the eve. 
The clustered leaf a-hangeth dewed. 
I set me 'pon the path o' even's hours, 
A-search o' strands that I do set aweave. 
The tasselled youth-bush sheweth 
Like unto a traced wonder-work, 
A-silvered o'er o' white eve's breath. 
And do I stop me here ? Ah, nay. 

I set me 'pon the morn's first break 
When still the purple hangeth 
'Neath the mornin's wings. 

When sweets ahang them 'pon the field's a-wetted sod, 
And, jewelled o'er, the webs a-spread the ruts. 
And do I stop me here ? Ah, nay. 

I step me 'pon the noon-tide's heights, 

When gold doth splash the garish earth. 

When heats hang close and dry the mornin's breath. 

When silvered stars have fleed and moon ahid, 

And earth hath wearied much. 

And do I stop me here? Ah, nay. 

I step me on the night's tides* way, 

When dark a-robes his glories o'er. 

When eve's awearied breeze. 

Doth hang a-heavied o'er the Earth men's prayers. 

When babes a-rove the rosed lands afar man calleth 

And do I stop me here? Nay. 

Of all there be nay strand 

That sheweth fair unto this hand 

That I do set aweave. 

For lo, would I to set this song a-riched o' love. 

And man hath all that sheweth to his see. 

And what man hath a-holdeth naughts unto His will. 

For lo, man doth to take of all He offereth. 

And speak him naughts as thank song unto Him 

And fill him up and take and take. 

And lo, doth e'en forget to turn 

One glance unto the Sender o' the store. 

Naught o' this do I to seek to weave. 

Ah, nay; of tatters shall I weave. 

Not of Earth's days but o' days a-bedded in this heart; 

Not o' Earth's moms, but morns a-bedded here. 

For lo, he who knoweth Him 

A-needed not that he see His works. 

But knoweth, deep, deep athin. 

The noons, the nights, the morns, the eves 

Are His ! Of tatters do I weave. 

Of this pure hath she wove a cloth, 


And this would I to weave 
Athin this song — to Him. 

Patience Worth's Magazine Patience Worth 


I hear them singing in the open spaces 

The old, old rites, the music of the moon; 

The rougher and the sweeter voices blending 
To lift the joyous tune. 

I see them dancing in the open spaces 

As moonlit nights grow long; 
Clasped hands and circling steps and charmed faces, 

And witchery of song. 

A harmony of hearts to rule the singing 

As loud and low they croon; 
I see them dancing in the open spaces 

The worship of the moon. 

Edwin Ford Piper 

The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West 


A bird ran up the onyx steps of night, 
Seeking the moon upon her silver throne; 

But insolent stars confused him with their light 
And left him in the friendless skies, alone. 

He watched the winds, disheveled and awry, 

Hurling the clouds, like pillows from their beds ; 

He saw the mountain peaks that nudged the sky. 
Take oflp the wreaths of sunset from their heads. 

He heard the storms, a troupe of headstrong boys, 
Locked up as punishment for petulant tears. 

Beat on the ebony doors with such a noise. 
That all the angels had to hold their ears. 

Frightened, he left the halls of thundering sound 
For a less dazzling height, a lowlier dream; 

And, perching on a watery bough, he found 

The moon, her white laugh rippling from the 

The Bellman Louis Untermeyer 


Down from the rocky western steep 
Where now the sunset crumbles low 

The shepherd draws his sun-drowsed sheep 
Ringed in a rosy glow; 

Along the dusty leaf-hung lane, 

Now blurred in shade, now bright again. 

They trail in splendour, aureoled 

And mystical in clouded gold. 

As insubstantial as a dream 

They huddle homeward by my door, — 
From what Theocritean stream 

Or what Thessalian shore.'' 
What ancient air surrounds them still. 
As though from some Arcadian hill 
They shuffled through the afterglow 
Across the fields of long ago ? 

Is this the flock that Bion kept 

From straying by his reed-soft tunes 
While the long ilex shadow crept 

Through ancient afternoons? 
In some still Arethusan wood. 
Ages agone, have they not stood 
Wondering, circle-wise and mute. 
Round some remote Sicilian flute ? 

I think that they have gazed across 

The dazzle of Ionian seas 
From the green capes of Tenedos 

Or sea-washed Cyclades, 
And loitered through the twilight down 
The hills that gird some Attic town 
Still shining in the early gloam 

Beside the murmur of the foam. 


What dream is this? I know the croft, 
Deep in this dale, where they were born; 

I know their wind-swept hills aloft 
Among the rustling corn; 

Yet while they glimmer slowly by 

A younger earth, a fairer sky 

Seem round them and they move sublime 

Among the dews of dawning time. 

The Bookman Odell Shepard 


There are twisted roots that grow 

Even from a fragile white anemone. 

But a star has no roots ; to and fro 

It floats in the light of the sky, like a water-lily, 

And fades on the blue flood of day. 

A star has no roots to hold it. 
No living lonely entity to lose. 

Floods of dim radiance fold it; 

Night and day their silent aura transfuse; 

But no change a star can bruise. 

A star is adrift and free. 

When day comes, it floats into space and complies ; 

Like a spirit quietly. 

Like a spirit, amazed in a wider paradise 

At mortal tears and sighs. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse Gladys Cromwell 


I went out at night alone ; 

The young blood flowing beyond the sea 
Seemed to have drenched my spirit's wings — 

I bore my sorrow bitterly.' 

But when I lifted up my head 

From shadows shaken on the snow, 

I saw Orion in the east 
Burn steadily as long ago. 

From windows in my father's house. 
Dreaming my dreams on winter nights 

I watched Orion as a girl 

Above another city's lights. . . . 

Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too. 

The world's heart breaks beneath its wars — 

All things are changed, save in the east 
The faithful beauty of the stars. 

Collier's Weekly Sara Teasdale 



The occult Magian, versed in subtle art. 
Intent on solving hidden mysteries. 
Nightly observes the slowly moving skies. 
Obscurely shadowed on his ancient chart; 

All his quaint patterns of the stars impart 
Disputed knowledge; when a monarch dies, 
Or deeds of honour to enhance the wise. 
Rich in their pride, before their souls depart: 

But we, consulting those celestial signs. 

Can only wonder where the spirits dwell, — 
Long vanished from this world, for weal or woe ; - 

And, wonder as we may, the mind declines 

To answer, whether heaven, or sleep, or hell ; — 
Or dreams must satisfy — until we go. 

The Boston Transcript Brookes More 


What has been written secretly in these 

Old archives of the mind? What still unread 
And untranslated language of the dead 

Strives with our lips to speak, through memories, 

Of griefs and exultations lost not yet? 

We cannot know. Our mazed thoughts grope 

Legends and words and symbols to find tongue; 

But we are dumb or fearful, or forget. 

We are a phrase — no more. The winds erase 
The charact'ry of dust, and meanings lie 

New-figured still beyond the glyphs of Mars, 
As endlessly the hands of Twilight trace 
Across the ancient palimpsest of sky 

The faint, fantastic scripture of the stars. 

The Sonnet Leslie Nelson Jennings 






OCTOBER, 1917 — SEPTEMBER, 1918 

The asterisks after the titles indicate the poems of dis- 
tinction which have appeared in the publications of the 
year. The ratings are through three grades, those with one 
the lowest, those with three the highest in merit. 

Abbot, Helen L. Pictures,* The Boston Transcript, Jan. 26. 

Adams, Katharine. Le Cygxe,* The Boston Transcript, 
Apr. 20; Life,** The Boston Transcript, Dec. 22, 1917; 
Longing, Contem^porary Verse, August, 1917. 

Aiken, Conrad. Musical Cleggs,* Detroit Sunday News, 
Mar. 3; Sonata in Pathos,* The Poetry Journal, No- 
vember, 1917. 

Alden, Baxter. In Ink of India and Gold, Others, Decem- 
ber, 1917. 

Aldington, Richard. Fatigues,* The Dial, Sept. 27, 1917; 
In the Trenches,* The Dial, Dec. 6, 1917. 

Alexander, Hartley B. Enhallowed,** The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, December, 1917. 

Alvord, James Church. The Bald Eagle,* The Century, 
November, 1917. 

Allen, Percival. Ultimate Grief, Conternporary Verse, 
September, 1917. 

Amidon, Beulah. In a Southern Garden, The Liberator, 
April; To AN Aviator,* The Liberator, May. 

Anderson, Jessie Annie. My Shepherd, The Lyric, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Anderson, Dorothy. My Soul is a Moth,* Contemporary 
Verse, June. 

Anderson, Maxwell. Immortality, The Smdrt Set, Febru- 
ary; In an Afternoon,** The Smart Set, January. 

Anderson, Robin. A Song of the Southern Moon, The 
People's Home Journal, January. 

Andrews, Lorraine. When the Mustard's All A-Quiver,** 
Overland Monthly, Februarj^. 

Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman. A Call to Arms, 


Scribner's, July; A Godspeed,** Scribner's Maga- 
zine, December, 1917; Playmates,** Good Housekeep- 
ing, July ; The Flowering,** Scribner's Magazine, May. 

Anonymous. The Angel,** New York Evening Sun; Wild 
Animals I Have Known,* The Parisienne, September, 

Apotheker, Nan. A Lonely One Speaks, The Smart Set, 
January; Words, The Century, February; Negation, 
Contemporary Verse, May; Question, Contemporary 
Verse, May. 

Armstrong, Hamilton Fish. Passing Princeton Junction, 
Harper's, July; On Sargent Mountain, Scribner's, 
July; The College, 1917,*** Scribner's Magazine, 
November, 1917. 

Armstrong, Margaret. Half-Loaves,** Harper's Magazine, 
October, 1917. 

Ashleigh, Charles. Night in Prison,* The Liberator, May. 

B., E. F. A. When Dreams Come True,* The Parisienne, 
August, 1917. 

Bacon, Leonard. The Maunderings of Momus: or Lec- 
tures OF the Unlearned,* The Century Magazine, Jan- 

Bacheller, Irving. The Carefullest Man in the World, 
New York Times, June 30. 

Baird, George M. P. Old Walt Drops In,* Beedy's Mir- 
ror, Feb. 1. 

Baker, Karle Wilson. Vanity,*** The Yale Review, Janu- 
ary; The Ploughman,*** The Yale Review, January; 
Winter Secrets,** Everybody's Magazine, December, 

Baker, Louise R. April Fool, The Youth's Companion, 
Mar. 28. 

Barker, Perceval M. On Hearing the Carillon of Ant- 
werp Cathedral, The Century, June. 

Baldwin, Anita M. To Mars, The Graphic, Apr. 10. 

Baldwin, Mary. La Scala Santa, Rome,** Scribner's, Jan- 

Bangs, John Kendrick. To Columbia's Sons, The Outlook, 
Dec. 13, 1917. 

Barnes, Djuna. Lines to a Lady,*** All-Story Weekly, 
June 1. 

Barney, Danford. Diametrics, The Poetry Journal, Sep- 
tember, 1917; The Dead Awake, The Poetry Journal, 
September, 1917. 


Baronti, Gerve, Vocta, The Poetry Journal, February. 

Barr, Nann Clark. The Marsh, The Liberator, March. 

Barrett, Wilton Agnew, Thebe Is a Stream I Know, Con- 
temyorary, July, 1917; Songs fbom the Jour- 
ney,* Contemporary Verse, August, 1917. 

Barrington, Pauline B. Song,* The Graphic, Dec. 20, 1917; 
Sonnet, The Graphic, Nov. 10, 1917; Verse,* The 
Graphic, May 1 ; I Did Not Know, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917. 

Batchelor, Jean M. Song, Contemporary Verse, August, 

Bates, Katharine Lee. Darby and Joan Keep Their 
Golden Wedding,** The Boston Transcript, May 4; 
Soldiers of Freedom,* Good Housekeeping, December, 
1917; White Moments,** Scribner's Magazine, January; 
The Death of Olaf Tryggvison,** The Stratford Jour- 
nal, April; The Dead of the Tuscania,* The Bellman, 
April 6. 

Baxter, Sylvester. Service-Flags,* The Boston Transcript, 
Feb. 21. 

Beard, Theresa Virginia. Against the Wall, The Minne- 
apolis Journal; A Song for Marching Men,* The Bell- 
man, May 4; The Flag Goes By, The Bellman, May 4; 
The Christ-Child, The Bellman, Dec. 22, 1917. 

Becker, Charlotte. Pierrot Goes,** Everybody's Magazine, 

Bell, W. L. D. Salut d'Amour, The Smart Set, April; We 
Outgrow Love, The Smart Set, October, 1917. 

Ben^t, Laura. Loosed,* The Lyric, October, 1917. 

Benet, William Rose. Front Line,*** The Century Maga- 
zine, January; Miniature,* Everybody's Magazine, Feb- 
ruary; On Edward Webbe, English Gunner,*** The 
Yale Review, October, 1917; The Price,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; The Sensible Con- 
vict, The Smart Set, December, 1917; Tricksters,*** 
The Yale Review, October, 1917; Veteran, The Lyric, 
November, 1917; Aristeas Relates His Youth, The 
Lyric, January-February. 

Benjamin, Paul Lyman. The Mute Singer,** The Mid- 
land, A Magazine of the Middle West, January-Febru- 
ary; A Wreath for a Soldier Poet,* The Boston Tran- 
script, Apr. 27. 

Bensel, Anna B, Slumber Song,* Richmond Evening Jow- 
nal, Feb. 23. 


Bernard, "Sapper" R. Lest We Forget,** Everybody's 
Magazine, May. 

Berrington, Emilia. Sorrow,* The Masses, October, 1917. 

Beziat, Georges. Le Heve,* The Smart Set, November, 1917. 

Bickford, G. M. Slumber Boats,* The Youth's Companion, 
Mar. 21. 

Biddle, Virginia. Silence,*** The Touchstone, July. 

Binns, Henry Bryan. The Blacksmith,* The Bookman, 
January; The Peacemaker — August, 1914,* The 
Bookman, February, 

Birch, Helen Louise. A Voice Breaks in Upon the 
Silence, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; 
Artist, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; 
Can This Be All? Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Oc- 
tober, 1917; Forewarned,* Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, October, 1917; Mid-October, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, October, 1917; Music, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, October, 1917; Prophets, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, October, 1917; Up in the Hills,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917. 

Bird, Stephen Moylan. Forget Me Not, Contemporary 
Verse, June; The Cornish Sea, Contemporary Verse, 
June; Wildness, Contemporary Verse, June. 

Bishop, John Peale. The Birds of Paradise, The Lyric, 
October, 1917. 

Bjorkman, Edwin. To Diana, The Century, June. 

Black, John. A Poet's Epitaph,* Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, November, 1917. 

Blossom, Almina. A Morning Walk, The Yoidh's Com- 
panion, Jan. 17; The Three Pigs, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Apr. 4. 

Blunt, Hugh F. His Wat,** The Catholic World, Novem- 
ber, 1917. 

Bodenheim, Maxwell. An Old Poet to His Love, The 
Century, February; Death,* The Century, November, 
19T7; East Side Children Playing,* Others, December, 
1917; East Side Moving Picture Theatre — Sunday, 
The Bookman, January; Factory-Girl, The Bookman, 
January; Factory-Girl,* Others, December, 1917; 
Meeting, The Smart Set, November, 1917; Meeting,* 
Others, December, 1917; Parade of Conscripted Sol- 
diers,* Others, December, 1917; To Dorothy,* The Dial, 
Mar. 39; To Dorothy, Others, December, 1917; While 
Walking, The Smart Set, December, 1917; Whimsy, 
Others, December, 1917. 


Bogan, Louise. Bethothed,** Others, December, 1917; The 

Young Wife,** Others, December, 1917. 
Boiling, Bertha. I Heard a Bird, The Smart Set, Novem- 
ber, 1917; If Hearts Were Stars, The Smart Set, June; 
The Yellow Curtains of Rome, Scribner's, June; 
Youth,* The Smart Set, March. 
Boogher, Susan M. Alchemy, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, March; Beatrice: Daughter of Dante,** 
Beedy's Mirror, Apr. 13; The Harlot's Child,* Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, March. 
Boorman, Charlotte Sayre. Buy a Liberty Bond, The Out- 
look, Apr. 17. 
Booth, Eleanor Dixon. Spring,* The Boston Transcript, 

Jan. 30. 
Borden, Lucille. When There Was Peace,** The Catholic 

World, April. 
Bostwick, Grace G. Barren,* The Bookman, June; Under- 
standing, The Smart Set, March. 
Boswell, Arthur. Roughchin the Pirate, Contemporary 

Verse, September, 1917. 
Bouv^, Pauline Carrington. Little Betty Buttermilk,* 

The Youth's Companion, Dec. 27, 1917. 
Bowdoin, Virginia. Litfle Molly Meader, The Youth's 
Companion, Oct. 18, 1917; Little Dannie Durkee, The 
Youth's Companion, Nov. 22, 1917; May-Basket Tisie, 
The Youth's Companion, May 2; The Trials of Thomas 
and His Friends,** The Youth's Companion, May 30. 
Bovi^en, Stirling. Home from Arras, The Liberator, June; 
On a Volume of Verse,* Detroit Sunday News, Feb. 
24; Russia,* Detroit Sunday News, Apr. 14; War 
Bride,** Detroit Sunday News, May 26. 
Boylan, E. E. Friendship, The Smart Set, January. 
Bradford, Gamaliel. Ardor,*** Contemporary Verse, 
March; A Thousand Years, Contemporary Verse, 
March; Anacreon's Apology, Contemporary Verse, 
March; Exit God,*** Contemporary Verse, March; 
Hunger, Contemporary Verse, September, 1917; In- 
eluctahilis. Contemporary Verse, September, 1917; 
Fear, Contemporary Verse, March; God,** Contempo- 
rary Verse, March; Heinelet, I-II,*** Contemporary 
Verse, March; Robert E. Lee,*** Contemporary Verse, 
March; Seals, Contemporary Verse, March; The Diva- 
gator,*** Contemporary Verse, March; The Idle Wind, 
Contemporary Verse, March; The Pursuit,*** Coru- 
temporary Verse, March; The Riot, Contemporary 

Verse, March; Things of Clay,*** Contemporary Verse, 
March; Why? Contemporary Verse, March. 

Bradley, William Aspenwall. Eglon and Ehoud (Judges 
I, 12 — ),** The Poetry Journal, November, 1917. 

Braithwaite, William Stanley. A Chronicle, The Book- 
man, November, 1917; Twenty Stars to Match His 
Face, The Bookman, December, 1917; The Wet Woods, 
The Bookman, November, 1917. 

Branch, Anna Hempstead. The Name,*** The Bookman, 
December, 1917. 

Brastow, Virginia. The Returning,** The Poetry Jour- 
nal, January. 

Brewster, Margaret Cable. Love's Silence,* Scribner's, 
October, 1917. 

Bridgham, Lilian Clisby. Halloween Witches,* The 
Youth's Companion, Oct. 25, 1917. 

Bridgman, Amy Sherman. Colors,** The Stratford Journal, 

Bridgman, L. J. Advice to Kings, The Youth's Companion, 
May 9. 

Briggs, George. Eloise, The Parisienne, December, 1917; 
Love Lingered for a While, The Parisienne, November, 

Brown, Abbie Farwell. Maids and Mushrooms,** The 
Bookman, May; Tanager, Contem-porary Verse, April 
The Carpenter,** The Boston Transcript, June 19 
The Cross-Current,*** The Bellman, Dec. 15, 1917 
The Plume,*** The Bookman, January; To Certain 
Irish-Americans,** The Boston Transcript, Apr. 13. 

Brown, Marion Francis. Loneliness,** The Graphic, Apr. 
10; Souvenir,* The Graphic, May 20; The Garden 
Gate, The Graphic, Apr. 20. 

Browne, Maurice. Silence of the Night, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, February. 

Browne, Porter Emerson. "Won't You Work a Little 
Faster?" The Outlook, Feb. 13. 

Brownell, Baker. Departure, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
March; Freebourne's Rifle, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, March; Major Fitzpatrick, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, March; On the Road, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, March; Private Rausch, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, March; Southward, Poetry, A Mazagine of 
Verse, March; Reveille, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
March; Taps, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; 
The Hurricane, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; 

The Number, Poetry, A Mac/azine of Verse, March. 

Bruncken, Herbert. The Tide, The Midland, A Magazine 
of the Middle West, March- April. 

Bryning, W, L. Thy Friends,** The Boston Transcript, 
Feb. 2. 

Buchanan, Jean. Camouflage, Contemporary Verse, July. 

Buhler, M. E. A Puritan Exhortation, The Outlook, 
Nov. 7, 1917; In a Colonial Churchyard,* The Bell- 
man, May 18. 

Bunker, John. The Flute-Player,** Contemporary Verse, 
June; Saints' Gold,*** The Catholic World, February. 

Bunner, Alice L. Ordered to France,** Scribnei-'s, Novem- 
ber, 1917. 

Burgess, Katharine Stanberry. The Bookshelves,** The 
Bookman, December, 1917. 

Burnet, Dana, Confession,** Harper's Magazine, April. 

Burt, Jean Brooke. Ad Finem,* The Outlook, Jan. 23; 
EscANDiDO,* The Outlook, Apr. 17; The Fires, The 
Outlook, Jan. 16; The Heralds of Spring, The Outlook, 
Mar. 13. 

Burt, Maxwell Struthers. Crjepuscule, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, July; Non Omnis Moriar, Contemporary 
Verse, July; The House,** Scribner's, February; The 
Young Dead,*** Scribner's Magazine, June. 

Burton, Richard. Apart,* The Bellman, Oct. 6, 1917; 
Rhyme for Remembrance of May,** The Bellman, 
May 25. 

Burr, Amelia Josephine. A Poet Enlists,** The Outlook, 
Oct. 24, 1917; A Prayer for the Year's Beginning,* 
Everybody's Magazine, January; Calypso,** The Book- 
man, October, 1917; Carey's Men,* The Outlook, May 8; 
Father O'Shea,*** The Outlook, Nov. 21, 1917; God's 
Challenge, Beedy's Mirror, Oct. 5, 1917; In the Dark 
Days,* Everybody's Magazine, March; Mother Moon, 
Contemporary Verse, May; On the Way of the 
Cross,*** The Bellman, Nov. 24, 1917; Rest,* The Cen- 
tury, November, 1917; Sentry-Go,** The Outlook, Feb. 
13; " Soixante-Dix " Pau at Neuilly,* The Bellman, 
Jan. 12; Stay-At-Home Stars,** The Outlook, Feb. 13; 
The Fiery Cross (To Harry Lauder),** The Outlook, 
Nov. 21, 1917; The Gain,* Everybody's Magazine, Jan- 
uary; The Meeting,** The Bellman, Mar. 9; The 
Prayer (The Real Experience of a French Gun- 
ner),** The Outlook, Nov. 21, 1917; The Troop-Train, 
Everybody's Magazine, July; To a Lilac-Bush,* The 

Poetry Journal, November, 1917; When the Trans- 
ports Sail,** The Outlook, Feb. 27; Windflowers,* The 
Poetry Journal, November, 1917. 

Buss, Kate. Stein Song,* The Boston Transcript, May 8; 
The Dead Pecos Town, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
November, 1917. 

Byars, William Vincent. The Long Road,** Beedy's Mir- 
ror, Dec. 14, 1917. 

Bynner, Witter. At Heaven's Gate,* Beedy's Mirror, 
Mar. 29; I Ome and Go,* The Bookman, January. 

Camp, Pauline Frances. The Secret, The Outlook, Mar. 13. 

Cammaerts, Emile. Meditation Sur La Nuit Du Trois 
AouT (1914-1917), — Translated by Madame Cam- 
maerts, The Yale Beview, October, 1917. 

Cann, Louise Gebhard. CRoams, The Poetry Journal, Sep- 
tember, 1917; Immortality, The Poetry Journal, Sep- 
tember, 1917; Love Sharing and Furthering Destiny, 
The Poetry Journal, September, 1917; Man and Na- 
ture, The Poetry Journal, September, 1917; The Moon, 
The Poetry Journal, September, 1917. 

Carlin, Francis. Alchemy,*** The New York Herald; Be- 
yond Rathkelly,** The New York World Magazine, 
Mar. 17; By Clodagh's Stream,*** The New York 
World Magazine, Mar. 17; Maureen Oge,*** The New 
York World Magazine, Mar. 17; My Ireland,*** The 
New York World Magazine, Mar. 17; The Booted 
Hens,*** The New York World Magazine, Mar. 17; The 
Deaf-Mute Serbion,*** The New York World Maga- 
zine, Mar. 17; The Dublin Poets,** The New York 
World Magazine, Mar. 17; The Silent Clock,** The 
New York World Magazine, Mar. 17; We Both Set 
Out,** The New York World Magazine, Mar. 17. 

Carlton, Augustus. Beware the First Kiss, Young Man, 
The Parisienne, August, 1917. 

Carmichael, Waverly Turner. 'Tain't No Need o' Women 
Worrin',** The Crisis, January. 

Carnevali, Emanuel. Drolatique-Serieux, Poetry, A Mag- 
azine of Verse, March; His Majesty the Letter-Car- 
rier. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; In This 
Hotel,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; Senti- 
mental Dirge, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; 
To the Poets,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March; 
When It Has Passed, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 


Carstairs, Carroll. Caprice, For the Piano, The Poetry 
Journal, January. 

Carter, Elizabeth. Mnemonian Wind,* The Masses, Oc- 
tober, 191T. 

Caruthers, Mazie V. A Protest, The Parisienne, October, 

Carvel, John. Giits,* The Smart Set, February. 

Cawein, Madison. The Child in the House, Scrihner's, 

Carrel, Morton. The Scullion, The Masses, October, 

Carruth, Gorton Veeder. The Home-To-Be,* The Youth's 
Companion, Dec. 6, 1917. 

Carruth, William Herbert. Donald Singing in the Dark,* 
The Youth's Companion, Nov. 15, 1917. 

Chandler, Anna C. Wafting Wishes, The Youth's Compan- 
ion, Apr. 25. 

Chapin, Anna Alice. In Greenwich Village, The Book- 
man, March. 

Chapin, C. C. Fall In, America ! Richmond Evening Jour^ 
rial. Mar. 30. 

Chapman, John Jay. Ode, On the Sailing of Our Troops 
FOR France,* The North American Review, November, 
1917; Retrospection,* The Yale Review, April. 

Child, O. C. A. To a Strapless Waist, The Parisienne, 

Chipp, Elinor. Song,** The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, December, 1917. 

Chocano, Jose Santos. A Song of the Road * (translated 
BY John Pierrepont Rice), Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, February; El Charro** (translated by John 
Pierrepont Rice), Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Febru- 
ary; Oda Salvaje (translated by John Pierrepont 
Rice), Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February; The 
Magnolia** (translated by John Pierrepont Rice), 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February. 

Christie, Caroline. My Treasures,* Overland Monthly, 

Churchill, David. Holocaust, Everybody's Magazine, No- 
vember, 1917. 

Clark, Jr., B. Preston. Autumn, The Poetry Journal, No- 
vember, 1917; Nocturne, The Century, November, 1917; 
Summer, 1917,* The Century, September, 1917; Venice 
— November, 1917,** The Boston Transcript, Nov. 7, 


Clark, Badger. A Night Trail,*** Scribner's, April; The 
Drafted Mast,*** The Century, March; My Enemy,** 
Scribner's, January; The Fighting Swing, Scribner's, 

Cleaves, Charles Poole. The Hero, The Youth's Compatir- 
ion, Feb. 14. 

Clerfeyt, Rene-Mary. Maeronitiers,* The Smart Set, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Cline, Leonard Lanson. On the Roof,** The Liberator, 
March; Washington Avenue,** Detroit Sunday News, 
Jan. 27. 

Cloud, Virginia Woodward. Through the Call of Closer 
Days, The Smart Set, October, 1917; Isle of Dreams,** 
The Bellman, Feb. 2; The Little House, The Bellman, 
Dec. 8, 1917. 

Clover, Samuel T. A South Sea Ditty,* Richmond Eve- 
ning Journal, July 27. 

Coates, Archie Austin. Lavender,*** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, November, 1917. 

Coates, Florence Earle. As They Leave Us,*** Philadel- 
phia Public Ledger; A Love -Song,** The Bellman, 
Dec. 1, 1917; In Plains of Picardy,** New York 
Times; Serbia,** Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 17; 
Thanksgiving, 1917, Philadelphia Public Ledger; The 
Comrade,** Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 12; The 
Something More,** The Boston Transcript, Apr. 6. 

Coatsworth, Elizabeth J. The Coolie Ship, The Liberator, 
March; Loneliness,* Contemporary Verse, June. 

Coburn, Dorothy Davis. The Silent Violin,* The Boston 
Transcript, Jan, 2. 

Cobb, Ann. War-Time in the Mountains,*** The Outlook, 
May &. 

Cogswell, Theodora Bates. The Little Trees of Christ- 
mas,** Scribner's Magazine, December, 1917. 

Cohen, Nessa. A Tone Poem of Rimsky-Korsakoff, The 
Lyric, November, 1917; My Garden at Twilight, The 
Lyric, November, 1917. 

Coit, Dorothy. The Door,* The Poetry Journal, March, 

Cole, Samuel Valentine. William DeWitt Hyde,* The 
Boston Transcript, Oct. 27, 1917, 

Collyer, Robert. Saxon Grit, The Bellman, May 4, 

Conant, Isabel Fiske. War's Alchemy, Contemporary 
Verse, July. 

Cone, Helen Gray. Old Burying Hill,** The Sonnet, 
Number Six, January, 


Conger, Josephine. Life, The Stratford Journal, May; 
The Man op Power, The Stratford Journal, May. 

Conger, Katharine Janeway. A Prayer,* Good Housekeep- 
ing, January. 

Conkling, Grace Hazard. After Sunset,** The Century 
Magazine, P'ebruary; Amecameca,** Poetry, A Magor- 
zine of Verse, December, 1917; At the Cross Roads, 
Good Housekeeping, June; Cuernavaca, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Durango, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Dusk in the 
Garden,* Contemporary Verse, June; Flanders Bells,* 
Everybody's Magazine, July; Guadalupe, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Huasteca, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Orizaba, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Popocatapetl, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; San 
Luis Potosi,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 
1917; Tampico,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Decem- 
ber, 1917; To A Soldier in France,* The Century Maga- 
zine, December, 1917; The Nightingales of Flanders,* 
Everybody's Magazine, October, 1917; The Pine Tree 
of Dusk,** The Smart Set, November, 1917; Vera Cruz, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; War,** 
Good Housekeeping, April; White Birches,* Good 
Housekeeping, January. 

Conselman, William M. Cynara, The Parisienne, April; 
In an Old Fashioned Garden, The Parisienne, June; 
To A Cynic, The Parisienne, February. 

Converse, Florence. Millennial Episode,** The Living 
Church, Dec. 22, 1917. 

Coole, Ralph Garnier. Smoke Rings, The Graphic, Mar. 20. 

Cooper, Belle. At Four O'Clock, The Graphic, Apr. 1. 

Cook, Harold. The Last Fay, The Smart Set, July; The 
Lost Lover, The Sma/rt Set, October, 1917; The New- 
Song,** The Smart Set, June; All, The Smart Set, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Corbin, Alice. A Song from Old Spain^ Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, November, 1917; In the Sierras, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; Los Xonquista.- 
DOREs, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; 
Old Houses,** The Century Magazine, September, 1917; 
Old Timer, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 
1917; Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; South Water 
Street, Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 7; Three Men Entered 

THE Desert Alone, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, No- 
vember, 1917. 

Cotter, Jr., Joseph Seaman. A Sonnet to Negro Soldiers, 
Dedicated to the Ninety-second Division, U. S. 
Army,* The Crisis, June. 

Cournos, John. Nostalgia, The Dial, June 30. 

Coveia, Clarence. To a Vampire, The Parisienne, April. 

Cowdin, Jasper Barnett. Where Grows the Tree, Coiv- 
temporary Verse, August, 1917. 

Cox, Eleanor Rogers. To a Portrait of Lord Byron,** 
The Art World, October, 1917; To a Portrait of 
Whistler in the Brooklyn Art Museum,** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Whistler's White 
Girl,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917. 

Crafton, Allen. In Time of War I Sing,*** Everybody's 
Magazine, May. 

Crawford, Nelson Antrim. A Child's Grace,** The Young 
Churchman, June 23; Glories,*** The Nation; Dissever- 
ance,* The Pagan, June; Humoresque, The Smart Set, 
June; Memory,* Overland Monthly, February; The 
Mathematician,*** The New Republic, Nov. 10, 1917. 

Crew, Helen Coale. Koto Lies Dead,** The Art World, 
October, 1917. 

Cromwell, Gladys. Autumn Communion,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, March; Folded Power,*** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, March; Star Song,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, March; The Mould,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, March. 

Crowell, Grace Noll. Recompense,* Scribner's Magazine, 

Culnan, Catherine. Song of Courage, The Youth's Compan- 
ion, June 27. 

Curran, Edwin. The March Thaw,*** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, March. 

Curtis, Christine Turner. New England Beach, Contem- 
porary Verse, June; The Old Range Road, The Lyric, 
December, 1917. 

Curry, Walter Clyde. Death in the Trenches, The Strat- 
ford Journal, January; The Street Cleaner,* The 
Stratford Journal, January. 

Cutler, Julian S. The Kid,* The Boston Transcript, Dec. 1, 

Cutting, Mary Stewart. April's Isle, Everybody's Maga- 
zine, May; Strange,* Everybody's Magazine, June. 


Dalton, Mary Lee. Lucky Priscilla, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Jan. 10; Moving Day, The Youth's Companion, 
May 16; The Greatest Show on Earth, The Youth's 
Companion, Apr. 18. 

Damon, S. Foster. Idyll, The Century Magazine, July. 

Danforth, Roy Harrison. Sister of Mine, The Masses, 
October, 1917. 

Daniel, Mary Samuel. The Path,** Harper's Magazine, 

Dargan, Olive Tilford. Ballad of the Rich Suitor,** 
Scribner's, November, 1917; Fatherland,*** The Book- 
man, October, 1917. 

Dario, Ruben. Nightfall in the Tropics (translated by 
Thomas Walsh), The Bookman, December, 1917. 

Darrach, Grace. If I Could Write, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917; Interim, Contemj)orary Verse, July, 1917; 
Man's Work, Contemporary Verse, August, 1917; The 
Swallows, Contemporary Verse, August, 1917. 

Davidson, C. H. There is a Hill Beyond the House, Con- 
temporary Verse, October, 1917. 

Davidson, Gustav. Dependence, Poet Lore, Spring Num.- 
ber, 1918; I Said Vv'hen First I Saw You, Poet Lore, 
Autumn Number, 1917; Rencontre, Poet Lore, Spring 
Number, 1918. 

Davies, George. The Village Street,** The Lyric, Novem- 
ber, 1917. 

Davies, Mary Carolyn. A Casualty List,*** The Century 
Magazine, July; A Spring Wish, The Parisienne, May; 
Guardian,* Contemporary Verse, May; Free, The Cen- 
tury Magazine, February; Home Fires,** The Paris- 
ienne, July; It's Well and Well — ,* Contemporary 
Verse, May; Loving a Child,** Good Housekeeping, 
December, 1917; Mary's Pity,** Good Housekeeping, 
June; Our Street,** The Century Magazine, Novem- 
ber, 1917; Roof-Tops, The Lyric, January-February; 
Scheherazade (A Dedication),** The Century Maga- 
zine, May; Song, The Poetry Journal, March; The 
Dead Wife,* Contemporary Verse, May; The Door, 
Contemporary Verse, May; The Jailer, The Lyric, De- 
cember, 1917; To A Tree, Contemporary Verse, May; 
Spring Sows Her Seeds: Nineteen Eighteen,*** The 
Touchstone, June; The Blood-Stained Cross,*** The 
Touchstone, May; The Moon is a Girl,* Others, De- 
cember, 1917; The Movies in New York, The Century 
Magazine, October, 1917; The World is All a Wonder- 

lAND,* The Youth's Compamon, Oct. 25, 1917; Three 
Songs,* The Parisienne, June; Traps,** Beedy's Mirror, 
June 31; Vintage,* The Century Magazine, March; 
Volunteer,* The Youth's Companion, Jan. 3; Words,* 
The Parisienne, July. 

Davis, Mary Wright. A Songster Unknown, The Youth's 
Companion, Jan. 24. 

Daw, Beatrice. Madrigal Sans Politesse,* Poet Lore, New 
Year's Number, 1918. 

Dawson, Coningsby. A Hospital in France, Good House- 
keeping, December, 1917; The Lads Away,** Good 
Housekeeping, March. 

Dawson, Eric P. Letters from Home, Good Housekeep- 
ing, June. 

D. C. W. To My Father,* Contemporary Verse, August, 

de Banville, Theodore. Ballads of Fidelity (translated 
BY William van Wyck),* The Graphic, Dec. 10, 1917. 

de la Selva, Salomon. Measure,** Harper's Magazine, 
June; My Nicaragua,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
November, 1917; One Day in Bethlehem,*** Ainslee's 
Magazine, April; The Merchant,** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, November, 1917; The Tiny Maiden,** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917. 

Dell, Floyd. On Reading the Poems of Edna St. Vincent 
MiLLAY,* The Liberator, May. 

Denison, Eldredge. Love's Dwelling Place, The Parisi- 
enne, May. 

Dennen, Grace Atherton. A Knitting Song,* The Youth's 
Companion, Mar. 7; Conscience, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917. 

De Pue, Elva. The Foolish Virgin Lights Her Lamp, 
The Masses, October, 1917. 

Deutsch, Babette. Gifts, The Smart Set, February; Lures, 
The Smart Set, June; Nocturne,** Reedy's Mirror, 
Nov. 23, 1917; Sea-Music, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
January; Silence, The Smart Set, October, 1917; The 
Death of a Child,* Beedy's Mirror, Dec. 14, 1917; The 
Silver Chord, The Liberator, July; Sic Semper, The 
Lyric, October, 1917. 

Dierssen, Anna. Now,* Beedy's Mirror, Nov. 16, 1917. 

Divine, Charles. A Song of Lovers,* The Parisienne, Oc- 
tober, 1917; Dickie Dow, W. S. R.,** Wadsworth Gas 
Attack, Dec. 22, 1917; Night, Camp Wadsworth,** 
New York Sun; Oh, Little Moonlit Hill, The Masses, 

October, 1917; The Hob-Nail Shoes,** Wadsworth Oas 
Attack, Dec. 29, 1917; The Impatient Soldier,** Wads- 
worth Gas Attack, Jan. 19; When We Come Back,*** 
Wadsworth Oas Attack, May 4; Wind in the Spuing, 
The Smart Set, April. 

Dodge, Louis. Impressions, Reedy' s Mirror, May 10; 
Rhythms,* Reedy' s Mirror, Nov. 30, 1917. 

Dodd, Lee Wilson. A Little Grimy-Fingered Girl,** The 
Outlook, June 12; Autumnal, The Lyric, January- 
February; Open Letter, The Lyric, January-February; 
Refusal,** The Lyric, October, 1917; The Parting,*** 
The Yale Review, January. 

Donnellj^, S.J., Francis P. All Things Unto God,* The 
Catholic World, March. 

D'Orge, Jeanne. Sea-Mood, Others, December, 1917; 
Stolen, Others, December, 1917; The Convent, Others, 
December, 1917; The Freshman, Others, December, 
1917; The Problem Is, Others, December, 1917. 

Doyle, S.J., Francis X. Adventurers, The Catholic World, 

Drake, Maria Upham. The Law of Life,* The Youth's 
Companion, Oct. 18, 1917. 

Drane, Cecil Arthur. If Only I Might Look,** The Son- 
net, Number Seven, March-April. 

Dresbach, Glenn Ward. Christmas Eve, 1917, The Book- 
man, December, 1917; Like the Wind in the Dunes, 
Contemporary Verse, September, 1917; Dewdrops,* The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, January- 
February; Winds that Moved the Friendly Trees,* 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, Janu- 
ary-February; Hy'mn to Pan,* The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, January-February; I Had 
Forgotten,* The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, January-February; O Restless Spirit, Contem- 
porary Verse, July; Song of the Nevt Crusade, The 
Bookman, October, 1917; Summer, 1918, The Bookman, 
June; The Murderer God Sentenced,** The Midland, 
A Magazine of the Middle West, March- April; V\" hen- 
Spring Comes Back, The Bookman, April. 

Drinkwater, John. Reciprocity,** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, November, 1917. 

Driscoll, Louise. Exit — The Fool,* Contemporary Verse, 
May; HARBxmY,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Febru- 

Dreyfus, Estelle Heartt. Unfoldment, The Graphic, Jan. 10. 

Dudley, Dorothy. Pine River Bay, Atttumn-, 1916, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917. 

Dudley, Helen. Dirge, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, De- 
cember, 1917; Reed-Song, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
December, 1917. 

Duncan, Walter Jack. Cradle Song,** The Delineator, 

Dunbar, Aldis. Reveille,** The Midland, A Magazine of 
the Middle West, October, 1917; The Younger Broth- 
ers, The Youth's Companion, June 6. 

Durbin, Harriet Whitney. The Milk Room,** The People's 
Home Journal, August, 1917. 

Earls, S.J., Michael. A Ballad of France,** The Catholic 
World, October, 1917. 

Eastman, Max. Anniversary,* The Liberator, May; Eyes, 
The Liberator, April; Fire and Water,* The LVier- 
ator, July; In My Room,** The Liberator, June; Isa- 
dora Duncan,** The Liberator, March; Rainy Song,*** 
The Masses, October, 1917; Those You Dined With,** 
The Liberator, April. 

Eaton, Walter Prichard. Home-Coming,* The Century 
Magazine, December, 1917; Piegan Pines,* The Century 
Magazine, April. 

Edgett, Edwin Francis. All for Mother,* The Boston 
Transcript, May 11; For Belgium,*** The Boston Tran- 
script, Mar. 16; In France,*** The Boston Transcript, 
Mar. 25; Old Books for New,*** The Boston Tran- 
script, Apr. 6; Satan Rebukes Sin,** The Boston Tran- 
script, June 14; Stand Firm at Home,*** The Boston 
Transcript, June 5; The Blest and the Curst,* The 
Boston Transcript, May 8; Thus Spake the Prophet 
Isaiah,*** The Boston Transcript, Mar. 20. 

Eddy, Lucy. Bougainvillea, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
February; Iris, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Febru- 
ary; Lullabies, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Febru- 
ary; New-Born, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Feb- 
ruary; Ophelia Roses, Poetry, A Mcigazine of Verse, 
February; Red Eucalyptus, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, February; Sea-Gardens — Avalon, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, February; The Flowering Acacia, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February; The Jaca- 
randa. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February; The 
Olive Tree, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February. 

Eldridge, Paul. My Thoughts,* The Stratford Journal, 

Edwards, Eli (Claude McKay). Invocation,*** The Seven 
Arts, October, 1917; The Harlem Dancer,*** The 
Seven Arts, October, 1917. 

Eliot, Jr., S. A. The Northeaster, Contemporary Verse, 

Endicoff, Max. The Spring Storm, The Lyric, October, 
1917; The Veteran, The Liberator, June. 

Erskine, John. The Poetic Bus-Driver,*** The Lyric, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Fauset, Jessie. Again It Is September,* The Crisis, Sep- 
tember, 1917; Christmas Eve in France,*** The Inde- 
pendent, Dec. 22, 1917. 

Fay, Charles Edey. Autumn, The Bookman, October, 1917; 
The People Perish,* The Bookman, December, 1917. 

Feinstein, Martin. A Fool in Distress,** The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, May-June. 

Fendell, Solomon J. D. Love Lasts Like a Lily, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, May. 

Fishe, Isabelle Howe. Epitaph for an Unknown Soujiee, 
Contemporary Verse, July, 1917. 

Fisher, Isobel Hume. The Mother,* The North American 
Review, January. 

Fisher, Mahlon Leonard. Anticipation,** The Sonnet, 
Number Pour, September, 1917; Compensation,** The 
Sonnet, Number Four, September, 1917; Love of Chil- 
dren,*** The Sonnet, Number Six, January; My Song, 
Be Silent,*** The Sonnet, Number Five, November, 
1917; Oxen,*** The Sonnet, Nu/mber Six, January; 
Per Contra,* The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, January-February; Stairways,*** The Son/net, 
Number Seven, March- April; The Simple Thought,** 
The Sonnet, Number Five, November, 1917; When I am 
Ended,** The Sonnet, Number Four, September, 1917. 

Ficke, Arthur Davison. Prayer Before Summer,* The 
Bookman, November, 1917. 

Fitch, Ruth. The Kiss, The Century Magazine, September, 

Fletcher, John Gould. A Neav Heaven,* The Yale Review, 
April; Earth,* The Bookman, March, 1918; La Salle 
Street — Evening, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, De- 
cember, 1917; Lake Front at Night, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, December, 1917; Night on the Beach, 

The Dial, Nov. 23, 1917; Russia,* Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; The Great Silence, To Richaed 
ALDiNGTOif,** The Poetry Journal, January; The 
MoNADNOCK, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 
1917; Snow, The Lyric, December, 1917; The Waking 
OF the Guns, The Poetry Journal, January; War 
Angles, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917. 

Flexner, Hortense. Above the Hill, The Liberator, April; 
Awakening, The Smart Set, January; Belief, The 
Smart Set, June; Four Things,** The Smart Set, May; 
Sand, Contemporary Verse, May; The Drafted Moun- 
taineer Salutes,* Contemporary Verse, July; The 
Presence, The Smart Set, March; Three Songs, The 
Lyric, November, 1917; Voyage, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, May. 

Flint, F. S. Children,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
January; In the Cathedral, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, January. 

Flower, Jean. And So It Goes, The Parisienne, January. 

Foster, Nancy K. A California Garden, The Graphic, 
Oct. 10, 1917. 

Fraley, Frederick. To a Black-Eyed Susan, Contemporary 
Verse, July. 

Francis, Emma S. Two Girls of Binbury Town,* The 
Youth's Companion, May 23. 

Frank, Florence Kiper. Afterwards,* Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, December, 1917; Attack,* Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, December, 1917; For the Young Men 
Dead,** The Dial, Apr. 25; The Moment,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; The Two Souls, 
Contemporary Verse, May; With Child,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Within My 
Arms,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917. 

Frederick, John Townes. November, The Poetry Journal, 
January; Song, The Poetry Journal, January. 

French, Frank Arthur. Garlands, The Poetry Journal, 
September, 1917. 

Fryer, Cecily. Conscience,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
May; In a Gale, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May. 

Gammans, Harold W. In My Winter Garden, The Strat- 
ford Journal, January; Pittsburg Murmurs,* The Strat- 
ford Journal, April. 

Gannon, Jr., Frank S. Influence, The Catholic World, 


GareseW, S.J., Edward F. The Young Peiest to His 
Hands,*** The Catholic World, June. 

Garland, Robert. A Pkayeb in Khaki, The Outlook, Dec. 
26, 1917. 

Garnett, Louise Ayres. Keeping Cool, The Masses, Oc- 
tober, 1917; Whither Thou Goest, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, May-June. 

Garrison, Theodosia. A Prayer for Planting Time,* Good 
Housekeepinff, June; A Prayer for Mothers of Men, 
Good Housekeefing, December, 1917; A Prayer foe 
the Road's End,* Good Housekeeping, November, 1917; 
A Prayer for Those Who Watch,** Good Housekeep- 
ing, July; Her Heaven,** Everybody's Magazine, Janu- 
ary; Margot of Alsace, Everybody's Magazine, Decem- 
ber, 1917; The Declaration of Independence, The 
Outlook, July 3; The Martyr,* Harper's Magazine, 
June; These Shall Prevail,** Good Housekeeping, 
February; With the Same Pride,* Everybody's Maga- 
zine, June. 

Gaskill, Marian N. Crusadees,** Scribner's Magazine, No- 
vember, 1917. 

Gay, Dorothea. Constrained, The Liberator, June; Trees, 
The Masses, October, 1917. 

Geiger, Frances Moore. A Pagan, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917. 

Gibson, Charles E. The Other,* The Bookmam, June, 1918. 

Giddings, Helen. My Garden,* The Stratford Journal, 

Ginsberg, Louis. Song, Summer Afternoon, Song, Con- 
temporary Verse, July, 1917. 

Gilchrist, Marie Emilia. Growing Older,** The Nation, 
June 23. 

Gilbert, Morris. Miracles, The Smart Set, June; What 
There Is, The Smart Set, April; Wheels,** The Liber- 
ator, June. 

Gilmore, Evelyn King, Sacrifice, The Youth's Companion, 
Feb. 28. 

Gilmore, Louis. Deity,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
June; Earth,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June; 
Pause,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Jime. 

Gillilan, Strickland. He Beat Me Home,* Good House- 
keeping, November, 1917. 

Giltinan, Caroline. Surrender,* Contemporary Verse, July; 
The Miracle,* Contemporary Verse, May; The Re- 
vealer,*** The Catholic World, March. 

Giovannitti, Arturo. Mea Culpa,** The Lyric, October, 
1917; AsTKivEKSARY,** The Masses, October, 1917; 
When the Cock Crows,** The Masses, October, 1917. 

Glaenzer, Richard Butler. A Pittance, Contemporary 
Verse, July, 1917; Christmas in the Old World,* 
The Boston Transcript, Dec. 2^, 1917; Middle-Age,** 
Everybody's Magazine, September, 1917; Snap-Shots of 
American Novelists: Deland,** The Bookman, Octo- 
ber, 1917; Snap-Shots of American Authors: Morris, 
The Bookman, January, 1918; Snap-Shots of English 
Authors: G. K. C, The Bookman, October, 1917; Snap- 
Shots of Foreign Authors: Artzibashef, The Book- 
man, July; Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: Barrie,** 
The Bookman, July; Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: 
D'Annunzio,** The Bookman, July; Snap-Shots of 
Foreign Authors: France, The Bookman, March, 1918; 
Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: Gorky, The Book- 
mam,, July; Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: Loti, The 
Bookman, February, 1918; Snap-Shots of Foreign Au- 
thors: Maeterlinck,* The Bookman, July; Snap-Shots 
of Foreign Authors: Rolland, The Bookman, March, 
1918; Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: Schnitzler, 
The Bookman, July; Snap-Shots of Foreign Authors: 
Sudermann, The Bookman, July; The Shoulders of 
France, Contemporary Verse, July, 1917. 

Going, Charles Buxton. Repatriated,** Everybody's Maga- 
zine, August, 1917; They Who Wail,** Scribner's 
Magazine, November, 1917. 

Goodloe, Abbie Carter. Overseas, In Memory of Alan 
Seeger, Killed in Battle, Belloy-en-Santerre, July 
4, 1916,* The Bookman, February; The Telephone, 
The Bookmam,, April, 1918. 

Goodman, Henry. Memory, The Lyric, January-February. 

Goodyear, Rosalie. Beloved Madness, The Liberator, June. 

Gordon, Florence Lee. Dawn, The Midland, A Magazine of 
the Middle West, May-June; Quiet, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, May-June. 

Gordon, Frank S. By Genesseret,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, June; Dirge for One Dying,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, June; I Have But One Love,* 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June; I Will Cling Me 
TO a Star, The Poetry Journal, March; Liberty, The 
Poetry Journal, March; Lost Land, The Poetry Jour- 
nal, March; Morning Hymn,* Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, June; Startled Waters,* Poetry, A Magazine 

of Verse, June; The Smoke Prayer,* Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, June. 

Gorman, Herbert S. The Burning Bush,*** The Bottom 
Transcript, Jan. 26. 

Gould, Felix. The Kiss of the God, The Poetry Journal, 

Goulding, Eric Ross. To the Heroic Dead, Detroit Sunday 
News, June 9. 

Granville, Charles. For Parents of the Slain, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, January; The Bayonet Charge, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January; The Mourner, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January; The Question, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January; Under Orders, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January. 

Gray, Agnes Kendrick. A Dying Soldier of Venice,* The 
Boston Transcript, Dec. 8, 1917; Roma Sterna,** The 
Boston Transcript, June 8; The Palm Tree's Song,** 
The Youth's Companion, Mar. 21. 

Grant, Robert. A Hymn,* Scribner's Magazine, March, 

Gregory, Susan Myra. Here Where We Met, The Poetry 
Journal, November, 1917; September Song, The Poetry 
Journal, November, 1917; The Secret, The Poetry Jour- 
nal, November, 1917; To-Night, The Poetry Journal, 
November, 1917. 

Greene, Roy Farrell. The Litti^e Girl Who Laughed,* 
The People's Home Journal, October, 1917. 

Greenwood, G. Douglas. Reverie, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917, 

Gridley, Louise May. A Winter Evening, Good House- 
keeping, January. 

Griffith, William. Pierrot is Haunted by the Wraith of 
Pierrette,** Ainslee's Magazine, July. 

Grudin, Louis. All My Beautiful Moments, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Have You No 
Pity? Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; 
How Many Stars? Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, De- 
cember, 1917; I Squandered, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, December, 1917; The River, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, December, 1917; The Vv^oolworth, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; With My Own 
Hands, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917. 

Gruman, Harry D. The Cynic, The Parisienne, May. 

Guest, Edgar A. Christmas Wishes foe 1917,* The 
Graphic, Dec. 20, 1917. 


Guiterman, Arthur. Elsewhere, R. F. D.,* The Youth's 
Companion, Nov. 23, 1917; Gahgantua or Gotham,* 
The Century Magazine, July; Mexican Serenade, The 
Century Magazine, June; Mikko the Squirrel, A 
PASSAMAauoDDY LEGEND, Thc Youth's Companion, May 
16; The Idol-Maker Prays, Harper's Magazine, July. 

Hagedorn, Hermann. How Spring Came to New York,*** 
The Outlook, Apr. 3; The Just Cause,** Everybody's 
Magazine, January. 

Hager, Alice Rogers. Sea Song, The Graphic, June 10. 

Haines, Elwood Lindsay. Twilight Song, Contemporary 
Verse, July, 1917; Walking Home,* Contemporary 
Verse, June. 

Haines, Helen. Pax, The Catholic World, January. 

Hairig, Murgurditch Chrimian. The Memorial of the La- 
menting Soldier** (Alice Stone Blackwell, trans- 
lator), The Stratford Journal, February. 

Hall, Amanda Benjamin. Fog, The Smart Set, February; 
Joy o' Living,* Contemporary Verse, June. 

Hall, Hazel. A Falling Star,** The Boston Transcript, 
Mar. 30-, Americanism, The Graphic, June 20; From an 
Old Portrait,* The Graphic, June 20; Red Cross Knit- 
ting, The Graphic, June 20; Song, The Graphic, May 
20; The Sth.l Return,* The Liberator, July; To a 
Phrase,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, July. 

Hall, Jeannie Pendleton. The Cloak for the Manger,* 
The Youth's Companion, Dec. 13, 1917. 

HaU, Newton Marshall. At a Certain Place in Flan- 
ders,** The Boston Transcript, Apr. 17. 

Hamsby, Florence. Rime and Reason, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Feb. 7. 

Hanlon, John. A Lyric,** The Parisienne, January; The 
Bridesmaid, The Parisienne, August, 1917; To a Re- 
luctant Lady, The Parisienne, April; Two Songs of 
Pan, The Parisienne, July. 

Hanly, Elizabeth. Aspirations,* Contemporary Verse, July, 
1917; Back Home,** The Boston Transcript, Jan. 26; 
First to Fall (W. C. S., Class of '15),** The Outlook, 
Mar. 27; Her Garden,** The Youth's Companion, Dee. 
27, 1917; Sixteen, Contemporary Verse, September, 

Hare, Amory. Gone, Contemporary Verse, September, 


Hardy, Mary Earle. In an April Showeh, The Youth's 
Companion, Apr. 11. 

Hart, Elizabeth. Gloucester Nights,** Scribner's Maga- 
zine, October, 1917. 

Harte, Richard Bret. To J, L. L., A Psychic Poem,* The 
Graphic, Nov. 20, 1917. 

Hartley, Marsden. After Battle,* Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, July; Her Daughter,** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, July; In the Frail Wood,** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, July; Spinsters,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, July. 

Hanline, Maurice A. Poetry, Contemporary Verse, July. 

Harding, D. E. P. The Queen's Shrift, Contemporary 
Verse, October, 1917 

Hausgen, Mattie Lee. The City Boy, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Oct. 25, 1917. 

Hawley, Hudson. Just Thinking,* Everybody's Magazine, 

Hawthorne, Hazel. Fifteen Years Old,* The Liberator, 

Hayne, William H. A Gentleman,** Scribner's Magazine, 
January, 1918. 

Head, Henry. Died of His Wounds,** The Yale Review, 

Hecht, Ben. Snow Monotones,** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, February. 

Hellman, George S. The Princess, The Lyric, December, 

Henderson, Anna M. A Prayer,** The Crisis, April. 

Henderson, Daniel M. Alan Seeger: Soldier-Poet, Con- 
temporary Verse, July; Dawn, Everybody's Magazine, 
March; The Living,** McClure's Magazine, November, 
1917; The New York Public Library,* The Bookman, 
November, 1917. 

Henderson, Rose. A Plains Wife,** Contemporary Verse, 
September, 1917; On the Mountain, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917; Spring — New Mexico, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, April; To One in the 
Trenches,** The Dial, Dec. 20, 1917; When War 
Came, The Liberator, April. 

Henderson, W. J. The Afternoon, Scribner's Magazine, 
July. 1918. 

Hereford, Oliver. To a Hen Crossing a Road,** The Cen- 
tury Magazine, June*; To a Sheep,** The Century 
Magazine, July. 


Hersey, Harold. Asr Hour of Grace,*** The Parisienne, 
April; Fragment, The Parisienne, June; Irony, The 
Parisienne, September, 1917; The Last Word,* The 
Parisienne, November, 1917; The Meeting Place,* The 
Parisienne, May. 

Hersey, Marie Louise. Unidentified,* The Boston Tratv- 
script, Jan. 2. 

Hervey, John L. PAllisy,** Reedy's Mirror, July 5. 

Hewetson, George Benson. The Homeless God, The Cath- 
olic World, October, 1917. 

Hewitt, Ethel M. Bois Stoile,* Harper's Magazine, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Hillman, Carolyn. June Fancies,* The Boston Transcript, 
June 8; The Blue Strand,* The Boston Transcript, 
May 1. 

Hillman, Gordon M. 'Is Missus,*** The Boston Transcript, 
July 6. 

Hillyer, Robert Silliman. Summer Night,* The Stratford 
Journal, January. 

Hofmannsthall, Hugo von. Death (translated by C. W. 
Stork), Poet Lore, Spring Number, 1918. 

Hoffman, C. Gouverneur. To the Anglo-Saxon Aviators, 
Scribner's Magazine, May. 

Hoffman, Phoebe. The Down-Trail, Contemporary Verse, 
June; The Up-Trail, Contemporary Verse, June. 

Holbrook, H. W. Art,* The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, May-June. 

Holbrook, Weare. The Birch, The Stratford Journal, 

Holden, Raymond Peckham. February Twenty-second,** 
Contemporary Verse, August, 1917; Funeral,** Conf 
temporary Verse, September, 1917; Passers-by I-VI, 
Poetrij, A Magazine of Verse, June. 

Holliday, Terrell Love. An Ode to Ankles, The Parisi- 
enne, November, 1917; Sidestepping Circe, The Parisi- 
enne, December, 1917; The Years, The Parisienne, Feb- 

Hooker, Brian. The Wanderer,* Harper's Magazine, No- 
vember, 1917; To Any Woman,*** The Touchstone, 

Hooley, Louise Richmond. The Reward, The Smart Set, 

Hoopes, Helen Rhoda. A Teacher,* The Graduate Maga- 
zine, University of Kansas. 

Housman, Laurence. Song, The Bookman, April, 1918; 

The Old Moon,** Harper's Magazine, July; The Wood 
Maze,** The Bookman, July. 

Howe, Martyn. Ophaly, Ttie Poetry Journal, November, 

Howe, Jr., R. Heber. A Mountain Madhioal,* The Bos- 
ton Transcript, Apr. 6. 

Hoyt, Helen. Axticipation, The Poetry Journal, Novem- 
ber, 1917; Before the Stohm, The Poetry Journal, No- 
vember, 1917; Gods, The Century Magazine, December, 
1917; Miss Smith, The Liberator, April; Patience,* The 
Liberator, April; Remonstrance with Sleep, The 
Poetry Journal, November, 1917; Sparrows, The Liber- 
ator, April; Royalty, The Lyric, November, 1917; The 
Book, Contemporary Verse, May; Trees of Memorial, 
The Poetry Journal, November, 1917. 

Huckfield, Leyland. The Bogging of Death,** The Mid- 
land, A Magazine of the Middle West, January-Febru- 
ary; The Old Gods March, Contemporary Verse, April; 
An April Night, Contemporary Verse, April; The La- 
borer in the Mists, The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, January-February; Off Catalina, Con- 
temporary Verse, October, 1917; Oh! For a Dark- 
Green Hill-Top, Contemporary Verse, April. 

Hueffer, Ford Madox. The Sanctuary, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, April; The Silver Music, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, April. 

Huiginn, E. J. V. Christmas Ode,** The Beverley; In No 
Man's Land,* The Boston Transcript, Apr. 24; The 
Boys of Uncle Sam,* The Boston Transcript, Jan. 12; 
To the German People,** The Beverley; Viva Italia!* 
The Boston Transcript, June 4. 

Hunnicutt, Nat C. The Last Hour,** Contemporary 
Verse, August, 1917. 

Hunt, Elizabeth R. — And no Birds Sing,* Beedy's Mir- 
ror, Apr. 5; Main Floor G2 Center, Beedy's Mirror, 
Feb. 8. 

Hunt, Fern-Dell. The Difference, The Graphic, Nov. 20, 

Hunt, Richard. Gas-Lamp Ghost, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, April; Song in Early April, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, April. 

Hunt, Violet. Is It Worth While? Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, April. 

Hunter, Minerva. The Fairies' Masquerade, The Lyric, 
October, 1917. 


Ide, Edward. Laughing in and Out,* The Crisis, August, 

Irwin, Inez Haynes. Spring in Paris — 1917,** The Liber- 
ator, July, 

Irwin, Walla/Ce. An Ancient Scottish Ballad,* The Cen- 
tury Maguzine, May. 

Ish-Kishor, Sulamith. The First Day, The Lyric, Novem- 
ber, 1917, 

Jackson, Catharine Emma. Piping,*** Harper's Magazine, 

Jackson, Leroy F. The Northwester, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, October, 1917. 

James, Justice. Good Night, Dear Heart, Pittsburgh Dis- 

Jennings, G. B. Bernice, The Smart Set, March. 

Jennings, Leslie Nelson. Denouement,* The Smart Set, 
February; Design for Old Desire,* The Poetry Jour- 
nal, March; Extase, The Smart Set, June; Frustrate,** 
The Sonnet, Number Seven, March- April; Haven,** 
The Dial, Feb. 28; In Dedication,** The Dial, May 23; 
Inscription,*** The Sonnet, Number Six, January; 
Moon-Fear,* The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, January-February; Now I am Grieving, The 
Poetry Journal, November, 1917; Portion, Contempo- 
rary Verse, August, 1917; Procession,** The Sonnet, 
Number Five, November, 1917; Sepulture, The Smart 
Set, July; The Little Ships,** The Smart Set, May; 
The Sky Road,* The Smart Set, April; The White- 
Crowned Sparrow, The Smart Set, March; Sea-Spoil,** 
The Lyric, October, 1917; The Silver Gate, The Lyric, 
January-February; Two Deaths, The Lyric, Decem- 
ber, 1917; The Dusk of Empire,* The Forum, June; 
The Gray Rain,** McCall's Magazine, April; Lost 
Town,** McCall's Magazine, Feb.; Awakening,** Sun- 
set, the Pacific Monthly, November, 1917. 

Johns, Orrick. Bess,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; 
Translation,* The Smart Set, October, 1917. 

Jones, Ralph M. I Saw the Spring Come Riding,* The 
Youth's Companion, May 2. 

Jones, Ruth Lambert. War Pictures,*** Contemporary 
Verse, July; Wounded, Contemporary Verse, July. 

Johnson, Anne Porter. October,* The People's Home Jour- 
nal, October, 1917; On the Way,* The People's Home 


Journal, November, 191 T; The Heart's Way,* The 
People's Home Journal, August, 191T; The Wandeueh,* 
The People's Home Journal, September, 1917; The 
Winter Fire,* The People's Home Journal, February. 

Johnson, Burges. Play, Harper's Magazine, May. 

Johnson, Fenton. How Long, O Lord!* Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, June; The Lost Love,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, June; Who is that A- Walking in 
the Corn?** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June. 

Johnson, Georgia Douglas. Again it is the Vibrant 
May,** The Crisis, May; Desert-Bound,* The Crisis, 
April; Guardianship,* The Crisis, October, 1917; Heri- 
tage,* The Crisis, October, 1917; Hope,* The Crisis, 
October, 1917; Let Me Not Lose My Dream, The 
Crisis, October, 1917; My Boy,* The Crisis, October, 
1917; Tears and Kisses,* The Crisis, August, 1917; The 
Mother,* The Crisis, October, 1917. 

Johnson, Ida Judith. Flood, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
May; The Minstrel,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 

Johnson, James Weldon. To America,** The Crisis, No- 
vember, 1917. 

Johnstone, Julian. Tantramar,* The Catholic World, July. 

Joyce, James. Alone,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, No- 
vember, 1917; On the Beach at Fontana,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; She Weeps Over 
Bahoon,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 

Josephson, Matthew. Autumn (After the German of 
Rainer Maria Rilke), The Lyric, November, 1917. 

Kelley, Ethel M. Roses, Harper's Magazine, June; Wait- 
ing FOR Santa Glaus,* The Youth's Companion, Dec. 
13, 1917. 

Kemp, Harry. A Phantasy of Heaven,*** The Smart 
Set, January; A Lad and a Lass Together,** The 
Parisienne, October, 1917; And Is It True?* The 
Parisienne, April; Defeat, The Smart Set, April; Her 
Handkerchief,* The Parisienne, July; How Many 
Women Tall and Fair,* The Smart Set, October, 1917; 
Idealism, The Smart Set, December, 1917; Jim,** The 
Parisienne, June; Unforgotten, The Parisienne, Octo- 
ber, 1917; Solomon's Song,*** Snappy Stories, Dec. 18, 
1917; The Dream,** The Smart Set, January; The 

Tryst, The Parisierme, February; The Wheel of Life,* 
The Smart Set, December, 1917; What Else To Do?* 
The Parisienne, January; Why Should We Strive?* 
The Parisiewne, November, 1917, 

Kennedy, Charles W. A Christmas Prayer,** Scribner's 
Macjazine, December, 1917. 

Kenyon, James B. The Airman, Harper's Magazine, Feb- 

Kenyon, Theda. November, The Lyric, November, 1917; 
To a Tear Bottle, Contemporary Verse, July, 1917. 

Kern, John. The Proud Lady,* The Smart Set, April. 

Ketchum, Arthur. A Place of Stars,** The Living Church, 
Dec. 22, 1917; Before the Swallow Dares,* The 
Youth's Companion, Mar. 38. 

Kessler, Karl W. But She Isn't, The Parisienne, July; 
I Admit Something, The Parisienne, February; The 
Lesson, The Parisienne, November, 1917. 

Kilmer, Aline. High Heart,*** Good Housekeeping, 
March; In Spring,*** Good Housekeeping, April. 

Kilmer, Joyce. Prayer of a Soldier in France,*** Good 
Housekeeping, April. 

Kirk, William F. Come Again, Uncle Sam! The Parisi- 
enne, May. 

Kittredge, Herman E. The Dream-Flower, The Lyric, 
October, 1917. 

Kneveis, Gertrude. Mourning,** The Outlook, Nov. 7, 

Kramer, Bert. When Silence Reigned, The Parisienne, 
September, 1917. 

Kreymborg, Alfred. Animals, The Bookman, December, 
1917; Preludes, The Bookman, November, 1917; When 
the Willow Nods,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
March; Worm,** The New Republic, May 18. 

Kueflfner, Louise Mallinckrodt. Mother of Joy, Contem- 
porary Verse, April. 

Laflatte, Kate C. America, The Graphic, Mar. 20. 

Laird, Alan. Tertium Quid, The Smart Set, April. 

Laird, William. A Stable-Yard, The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, March-April; And I Also,* 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- 
April; Foresight, The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, March- April; An Apple Eater to a 
Coquette,*** Contemporary Verse, July; The Two 
Thiefis, Contemporary Verse, October, 1917; Thoughts 

On a Long Road, Contemporary Verse, July, 1917; 
Ulysses Returned, Contemporary Verse, August, 1917. 

Langhorne, Margaret. Moening Song, The Smart Set, Oc- 
tober, 1917. 

Latham, Peter. Advice, Contemporary Verse, April; Con- 
tradiction, Contemporary Verse, February, 

Lawrence, D. H. Moonrise,* Poetry, A Mayazine of Verse, 
July; People,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, July; 
Gloire De Dijon, The Lyric, January-February; 
River Roses, The Lyric, October, 1917. 

Lea, Fannie Heaslip. His Girl, Good Housekeeping, June. 

Ledvi'idge, Francis. Had I a Golden Pound,** The Cen- 
tury Magazine, May, 1918; The Lanawan Shee,** The 
Century Magazine, January; To One Who Comes Novt 
AND Then,** The Century Magazine, March. 

Leinster, Murray. To — (Whom I Loved Last Year), The 
Parisienne, December, 1917; You Kissed Me, The Pa- 
risienne, April, 

Lee, Agnes. A Blinded Poilu to His Nurse, The Book- 
man, May, 1918; Claude Debussy,** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, May, 

Lee, Muna. Addendum, The Smart Set, January; From a 
Book of Phrases, The Smart Set, December, 1917; 
Love Song, The Smart Set, April; Song of an Old 
Love, The Smart Set, February; The Cabbage Field,* 
The Smart Set, March; Two Love Songs,* The Smart 
Set, October, 1917, 

Le Gallienne, Richard, Desiderium,* Harper's Magazine, 
November, 1917; Sacred Idleness,* Harper's Magazine, 

Leonard, Dorothy. A Day of Rain, The Century Maga- 
zine, October, 1917; The Minuet,** The Century Maga- 
zine, January. 

Leonard, Priscilla. Desolation, The Outlook, May 22, 

Leiloy, Harriet Crocker. A Mother in England,* The 
Youth's Companion, Oct. 11, 1917. 

Letts, W. M. The Connaught Rangers,* The Yale Re- 
view, April, 

Lewis, Katharine Park, Gold,** Everybody's Magazine, 
September, 1917. 

Lewis, Emily Sargent. The Abbess,* Contemporary Verse, 
October, 1917, 

Lieberman, Elias. The Ghost,** Snappy Stories, Dec. 18, 
1917; The Parade of the Draited Men,** New York 
Times, Feb. 24. 


Lindsay, Vachel. How I Walked Alone in the Jungles 
OF Heaven,*** The New Republic; How Samson Bore 
Away the Gates of Gaza, A Negro Sermon,*** Po- 
etry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; The Eyes 
of Queen Esther and How They CoNauERED King 
Ahasuerus,*** Written for the Phi Beta Kappa So- 
ciety OF Philadelphia, and read at their meeting, 
December 8, 1917, Contemporary Verse, April; The 
Soap-Box, " This is My Song Made for Kerensky," * 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917. 

Livingston, Stephen Tracy. A Song of Victory,* The Bos- 
ton Transcript, Mar. 16. 

Long, Haniel. A Book on Economics,** Poetry, A Magor- 
zine of Verse, May; Dead Men Tell No Tales,*** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; His Deaths,** 
The Poetry Journal, November, 1917; Madness,* Po- 
etry, A Magazine of Verse, May; Seeger,** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, May; Shoes,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, May; Song,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
May; Song of Young Burbage,** Poetry, A Magazine 
&f Verse, May; Star-Dust,** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, May; The Cause of This I Know Not,*** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; The Cuban in 
THE States,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; The 
Herd Boy,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; The 
Terror,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May. 

Lowell, Amy. A Sprig of Rosemary,* Scribner's Magazine, 
July, 1918; Business as Usual,** The Boston Transcript, 
Feb. 16; Dreams in Wartime,** The Little Review, 
June; Free Fantasia on Japanese Themes,*** The 
Century Magazine, February; Madonna of the Eve- 
ning Flowers,*** The North American Review, Feb- 
ruary; Sugar,* The Independent, Dec. 29, 1917; The 
Cornucopia of Red and Green Comfits,*** The Inde- 
pendent, Nov. 3, 1917; The Landlady of the Whinton 
Inn Tells a Story,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
January; The Two Rains,** The Dial, Jan. 28; Twelve 
Loyal Fishermen,** The Independent, Nov. 24, 1917. 

Lowengrund, Alice C. A Prayer, America, 1918, Contem- 
porary Verse, July. 

Lowrey, Per r in Holmes. Periwinkles, Contemporary 
Verse, April. 

Lyman, Jr., Dean B. Pomegranates, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, May. 

Lyster, Margaret. Song for Parting, The Smart Set, July. 

M. C. D. The Blurred Twig, The Century Magazine, May. 

M., S. M. Knights-Eukant,*** The Catholic World, Octo- 
ber, 1917; To My Favorite Author,*** The Catholic 
World, April, 

Machado, Antonio. To Juan R. Jimenez,* Translated by 
Leonard L. Cline, Detroit Sunday News, Apr. 7. 

Mann, Karl. Loot,** The Lyric, November, 1917. 

Maysi, Kadra. Lines on a Chinese Landscape Drawn in 
A Book of Chinese Verse, The Lyric, December, 1917; 
The Taking of Bagdad,* Contemporary Verse, August, 

MacKaye, Percy. American Consecration Hymn *** 
(Music BY Francis Macmillen), The Outlook, May 8. 

MacMiUan, Mary. Inspiration, The Smart Set, October, 
1917; Nausica Sings Before the Coming of Ulysses,* 
The Smart Set, June; The Fabiily Pew, The Liberator, 

MacTavish, Sandy. Golf, The Graphic, Jan. 20. 

Mahdesian, Arshag D. The Snow * (Alice Stone Black- 
well, translator). The Stratford Journal, February. 

Mann, Dorothea Lawrance. Spring-Song,*** The Boston 

Margetson, George Reginald. The Light of Victory^,* 
The Boston Transcript, Apr. 24. 

Markham, Edwin. Peace Over Earth Again,** The Peo- 
ple's Home Journal, December, 1917. 

Marlsham, Kirah. Mood, The Smart Set, February. 

Marlatt, Earl. Love Untold, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, December, 1917; People,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, December, 1917. 

Marsh, George T. Exit,** Scribner's Magazine, March, 1918, 

Mason, Lowell. Playing the War Game, I'he Outlook, 
Jan. 9. 

Masters, Edgar Lee. At Decapolis ** (Mark, Chap. V), 
Reedy's Mirror, Apr. 26; Clay Bailey at the Side 
Show,* Reedy's Mirror, Mar. 22; Neanderthal,*** 
Reedy's Mirror, Oct. 5, 1917; Recessional, In Time of 
War, Medical Unit — ,*** Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 28, 
1917; Song of the Human Spirit,** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, October, 1917; Song of Men,*** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Song of 
Women,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 
1917; The Wedding Feast,*** Reedy's Mirror, Jan. 25; 
Toward the Gulf,** Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 14, 1917; 
Winged Victory,*** Reedy's Mirror, Feb. 22. 


Mastin, Florence Ripley. Americus, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, January; David, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
January; Dkeam Free, The Poetry Journal, September, 
1917; IsiDOR, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January; 
LucRETiA, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January; 
Moth Moon, The Poetry Journal, September, 1917; 
Off the Maike Coast, The Poetry Journal, September, 
1917; Roderick, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Janu- 
ary; Shadows on Bedford Hill, The Liberator, May; 
To One Loved, The Liberator, April. 

Mavity, Nancy Barr. A Pilgrimage,*** The Bookman, 
February; The Living Pan,** The Bookman, July; 
Violets,* The Bookman, June, 1918. 

Mayer, Edwin Justus. Sonnet,* The Masses, October, 

Maynard, Laurens. Ave Post Saecula,* Poet Lore, Winter 
Number, 1917. 

McCallum, Mella Russell. The Frog, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, March-April. 

McCarthy, John Russell. The Perfect Ghost, The Parisi- 
enne, July; The Still Trees,** The Bellman, Mar. 23; 
The Way of a Maid,* The Bellman, March 2. 

McCIellan, Falter. In the Night, The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, May-June. 

McClure, John. Carol,* The Smart Set, January; Lady of 
Delight, The Smart Set, June; Les Revenants,* The 
Parisienne, June; Retort Courteous, The Smart Set, 
July; Song,* The Smart Set, March; The Dreams,** 
The Smart Set, January; These Be the Gifts, The 
Smart Set, February; Wanderer,** The Smart Set, 

McCoU, John. A Wayfaring Song,* The Parisienne, June. 

McCormick, Anne. Pompeii,** The Bookman, January. 

McDonald, Carl. A Poet's Epitaph,** The Bookman, May; 
The Ould Irish Landlord,* The Bookman, March, 

McDonough, Patrick. Vla. Longa,*** The Catholic World, 

McDougall, Allan Ross. When Alma Gluck Sang, Chi- 
cago Daily News, Apr. 22. 

McGaflfey, Ernest. A California Lily, The Graphic, June 
10; Aeroplanes,* The Graphic, Jan. 20; America 
(Marching Song),* The Graphic, Nov. 1, 1917; Bal- 
lade of Berenice,* The Graphic, Mar. 10; Ballade of 
THE Jewess,** The Graphic, Jan. 10; Cavalry Charge,* 

The Graphic, Dec. 1, 1917; Easter Lilies, The Graphic, 
Mar. 20; Edith Cavell,* The Graphic, Mar. 1; Fight 
On, The Graphic, Feb. 10; Flags of Three Nations, 
The Graphic, Apr. 10; Foothills, The Graphic, Apr. 10; 
Laura and Petrarch,* The Graphic, Apr. 20; Lou- 
vain,* The Graphic, Nov. 10, 1917; Other Men, The 
Graphic, Feb. 20; Other Women, The Graphic, Feb. 
20; Peace, The Graphic, Jan. 1; Sea-Longings,* The 
Graphic, Dec. 20, 1917; Spring, The Graphic, Apr. 20; 
The Price of Liberty, The Graphic, May 1; The 
Sword, The Graphic, Apr. 1; War's Hospitals, The 
Graphic, May 20; Winter,* The Graphic, Dec. 20, 1917. 

McGiffert, Margaret C. A Song for the Seasons,* Scrib- 
ne^-'s Magazine, April, 1918. 

McKenzie, James Proctor. Hey, Ca' Thro',** The Smart 
Set, April. 

McKinney, Isabel. When Singing April Came, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, April. 

McLeod, Irene. At Parting,* The Yale Review, October, 
1917; Discharged,** The Yale Review, October, 1917; 
Missing,** The Yale Revieio, July; The Absent 
Lover,** The Yale Review, July. 

McMaster, Bryce. Brimstone Butterfly,* Chicago Herald 
and Examiner, May 4. 

McMuUen, Dysart. To a Young Soldier,* Everybody's 
Magazine, July. 

Meadowcraft, Clara Piatt. The Open Path, Harper's 
Magazine, January. 

Merkle, Robert. Murderer,* The Parisienne, April. 

Merrill, Margaret Bell. In the Midst of Them, Scribner's 
Magazine, May. 

Meyer, Myrtle Collman. The Lost Spell, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917. 

Michelson, Max. The Tired Woman, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, February. 

Middieton, Scudder. Spring,* The Bookman, April, 1918; 
The Prisoners,*** The Bellman, Mar. IC. 

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Figs from Thistles,** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, June; Sonnet,* The Century 
Magazine, December, 1917; The Penitent,*** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, June; Thursday,** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, June; The Unexplorer,** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, June. 

Miller, Alice Duer. Brandon,** Harper's Magazine, De- 
cember, 1917. 


Miller, J. Corson. Beloved,* Illustrated Sunday Maga- 
zine; Lady April, Boston Transcript, Apr. 24; 
Remorse,* The Ave Maria, May ,4; Sacrifice,*** The 
Magnificat, June; The Dying Year,* New York Times, 
Dec. 30, 1917; The Little Homes of Flastders,* The 
Boston Transcript, Mar, 13; The Trystikg,* The Bos- 
ton Transcript, May 29; To a Lark at Morn,** The 
Boston Transcript, Jan. 19; To Arms, Illustrated Sun- 
day Magazine, June 9. 

Miller, Mary Willis. Cards,* The Lyric, October, 1917. 

Minot, Elizabeth. Chicken and Corn Pone,* The Boston 
Transcript, Feb. 6 ; Viva Italia ! ** The Boston Tran- 
script, Nov. 17, 1917. 

Minot, John Clair. Good Old Major,* The Youth's Com- 
panion, Nov. 15, 1917; The Brook that Runs to 
France,*** The Youth's Companion, May 23; The 
King's New Year's Test,** The Youth's Companion, 
Jan. 3. 

Mitchell, Lalia. Memories, The Parisienne, December, 

Mitchell, Ruth Comfort. A Ballad of Doris Ritter,** 
The Century Magazine, July; A Letter,*** The Century 
Magazine, October, 1917; My Grief that I Married a 
Gipsy Man,* The Century Magazine, May. 

MitcheU, R. S. A Fig Tree,** The Dial, Nov. 22, 1917. 

Mixter, Florence K. December Augury, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917; St. Patrick's Cathedral, The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March-April; 
The Dead, The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, March-April; The Summons,*** The Midland, 
A Magazine of the Middle West, May-June; To a 
Child, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917. 

Monahan, Michael. Revanche, The Smart Set, December, 

Monroe, Harriet. April — North Carolina, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, April; Azaleas, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, April; My Porch, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; The Blue Ridge, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; The Fringe -Bush, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, April; The Laurel, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; The Meeting, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, April; The Mocking-Bird, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; The Mountaineer's Wife, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, April; The Oak, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, April; The Rose-Bush, Poetry, A Maga- 

ine of Verse, April; The Question, Poetry, A Magor- 
zine of Verse, April; Vernon Castle, Killed in the 
Aviation Service, Feb. 15th, 1918, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, March; White, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 

More, Brookes. Celestial Signs,*** The Boston Tran- 

Morgan, Emanuel-Bynner, Witter. In Memory of a 
Night,** Detroit Sunday News, June 23. 

Morley, Christopher. Do Yoir Ever Feel Like God? The 
Smart Set, December, 1917; Lines for an Eccentric's 
Book Plate, The Bookmam, May, 1918; To a Broadway 
Hotel,* The Smart Set, March; To a Very Young 
Gentleman,** The Century Magazine, January; 
Trees,** Collier's Weekly. 

Morris, Olivette. The Buttercup Test, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Apr. 18; The Little Birds, The Youth's Com- 
panion, May 30; The Spick-Span Dress, The Youth's 
Companion, Oct. 11, 1917. 

Morsell, Mary. I Find no Words to Sing of Lo^t;, The 
Stratford Journal, April; Vain Hope, The Parisienne, 

Morton, David. A Road in Flanders,*** Collier's Weekly; 
A Tryst, The Smart Set, October, 1917; Firelight,** 
The Smart Set, December, 1917; Five O'Ci.ock,** The 
Bellman, Feb. 23; Lamplight,* The Smart Set, March; 
Love Song, The Smart Set, March; Napoleon in 
Hades,* The Century Magazine, October, 1917; 
Shackles, The Smart Set, June; Sonnet,** The Smart 
Set, February; Stranger, The Smart Set, April; Swal- 
lows, The Smart Set, January; William Winter, 1836- 
1917,** The Century Magazine, September, 1917. 

Morton, Francis McKinnon. The Little Cloud Sheep,* 
The People's Home Journal, December, 1917. 

Morrison, John. A Party in the Marshes, The Youth's 
Companion, May 2; Fooling the Teacher,** The 
Youth's Companion, Mar. 21; The Magic Coin,* The 
Youth's Companion, Mar. 28; The Thanksgiving of 
THE Bunnies,* The Youth's Companion, Nov. 22, 1917; 
The Trouble with School, The Youth's Companion, 
Oct. 11, 1917. 

Mosher, Ada A. Journey's End,* The Sonnet, Number 
Four, September, 1917. 

Mosher, Martha B. Haunted, The Lyric, January-Feb- 
ruary; The Sea Speaks, The Lyric, October, 1917. 

Mount, Richard. Villanelle,*** Detroit Sunday News, 

Apr. 24. 
Munger, Robert. The Sleepers,** The Yale Review, July. 
Mowrer, Paul Scott. A Wind that Blows from Picardy,** 

Collier's Weekly. 
Murphy, Charles R. Sonnet, Contemporary Verse, July. 
Murray, T. J. Satiety,* The Parisiemne, November, 1917. 

Nesmith, Joseph A. Oku, Nogi and Nodzu, The Youth's 
Companion, Jan. 10. 

Nevin, Hardwicke Marmaduke. Trenches, Contemporary 
Verse, July; A Home, Contemporary Verse, July, 

NichoU, Louise Townsend. For a Child Named Kath- 
arine,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, December, 1917; The Black House,* Contempo- 
rary Verse, May; The Child's Mother,*** Ainslee's 
Magazine, May. 

Norris, William A. Ballad of Stars,** The Poetry Jour- 
nal, January; Morn and Eve,** The New Republic, 
May 18. 

O'T., p. L'Aveugle,* Reedy's Mirror, Jan. 18; Specters 
AND ExPECTERS, A FuTURiST Fantasy,** Reedy's Mir- 
ror, Dec. 14, 1917; The Rider, Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 31, 

O'Brien, Edward J. April Twilight,* The Stratford Jour- 
nal, June; Eucharist,** Contemporary Verse, April; 
To A Skylark, Eucharist, The Meeting, Mirrored 
Light, Sea Flame, Contemporary Verse, April; Hymn 
to Light,*** The Bookman, April; Light Concealed,* 
The Stratford Journal, June; Ode in Time of Remem- 
brance, Read at the Lincoln Exercises of the Twen- 
tieth Century Club, Boston, February 9, 1918,*** 
The Boston Transcript, Feb. 13; The Meeting,*** Con- 
temporary Verse, April; The Path,*** Harper's Magur- 
zine, April; To a Skylark,* Contemporary Verse, 
April; Wild Air, The Smart Set, July. 

O'Conor, Norreys Jephson. All Saints' Day, The Living) 
Church, Nov. 3, 1917; Evensong,* The Bookman, Octo- 
ber, 1917; Jerusalem Retaken,* The Bookman, Febru- 
ary, 1918; Moon Fancy,* Contemporary Verse, June; 
Prayer for St. Patrick's Day,* The Boston Tran- 

script, Mar. 6; Summer's End,* The Art World, Octo- 
ber, 1917; The Hills o' Dreams, The Bellman, Feb. 26. 

O'Connell, Martin T. Why,* The Catholic World, April. 

O'Connor, Violet. A Gheat Mystery, The Catholic World, 

O'Donnell, Charles L. Magi, The Bookman, December, 

O'Hara, John Myers. Parentalia,** Scribner's Magazine, 
December, 1917. 

O'Hara, Stephen J. The Parting,* The Parisienne, Sep- 
tember, 1917. 

Oliver, Ian. Love's Island (From the Japanese of Doku- 
Ho),** Harper's Magazine, December, 1917. 

O'Neil, David. A Navajo Poet,*** Others, December, 
1917; A Troop Ship,* The Poetry Journal, September, 
1917; Child's Eyes,** The Poetry Journal, September, 
1917; Enslaved,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, No- 
vember, 1917; Freedom,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
November, 1917; Human Chords,*** Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, November, 1917; Inheritance,*** 
Others, December, 1917; Lime Light,* Others, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Love Song from the Trenches,* The Poetry 
Journal, September, 1917; March,** The Poetry Jour- 
nal, September, 1917; Peasants at War,** The Poetry 
Journal, September, 1917; Regeneration,* Others, De- 
cember, 1917; The Ascent,*** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, November, 1917; The Beach,*** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; The Peasants,** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; The 
Prodigal Son,* Others, December, 1917; The Un- 
quiet,*** Others, December, 1917; Walt Whitman,** 
The Poetry Journal, September, 1917; War's After- 
math,* The Poetry Journal, September, 1917. 

O'Neil, George. For the Woods Destroyed,** Reedy's 
Mirror, Mar. 22; On the Light Reeds,*** Reedy's 
Mirror, Mar. 22; Le Cynge,* The Smart Set, June; 
Spring's Crocus-Fingers,** Reedy's Mirror, Mar. 23; 
The Fisherman,* The Smart Set, June; They Pass,*** 
Reedy's Mirror, Mar. 22. 

Opdyke, Oliver. The Day of Days,* The Boston Tran- 
script, Apr. 26. 

Oppenheim, James. Morning and I,** The Century Maga- 
zine, September, 1917; The Young World,*** The Dial, 
Feb. 28. 

O'Reilly, Amadeus. To a Bluebird (Seen on My Silver 

BmcH, November 1, 1917),* The Boston Transcript, 
Jan. 9; Two,* The Boston Transcript, Mar. 20. 
Oxenham, John. M-U-D,* The Bookman, July. 

Packard-Du Bois, G. Easter Thoughts,* Pasadena Li- 
brary and Civic Magazine, March- April; Who Goes 
Theke?* Pasadena Library and Civic Magazine, Jan- 

Paget, Blanche. Impotence, The Lyric, November, 1917, 

Paradise, Viola I. Death, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
May; Early Spring Night, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, May; Midnight Rain, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, May; Thoughts, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
May; Wind and Moonlight, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, May. 

Parker, E. W. Nora,*** The Touchstone, July. 

Partridge, Pauline D. Sacrament, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, July. 

Patkanian, Raphael. The New Generation * (Alice 
Stone Blackwell, translator). The Stratford Jour- 
nal, February. 

Patterson, Antoinette De Coursey. A Day in the Open,* 
Ainslee's Magazine, July; Glamour,* Contemporary 
Verse, June. 

Patterson, Marjorie. Fulfilment, The Lyric, December, 

Paul, Dorothy. The Threshing-Floor (I Chronicles, xxi, 
15-24),*** The Century Magazine, April. 

Pearson, Ruth R. To Woodrow Wilson, The Liberator, 

Peck, Kathryn. In the Day Nursery,* The Liberator, 

Peck, Samuel Minturn. Communion, Harper's Magazine, 

Peeples, Lucia. Mine, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, January. 

Percy, William Alexander. A Wood Song,*** The Bell- 
man, Jan. 5; Poppy Fields,*** The Bellman, Apr. 27; 
In the Night,* Contemporary Verse, July; To an Old 
Tune,*** Contemporary Verse, January; Lullaby,** 
Contemporary Verse, July. 

Perkins, Helen Standish. A Careful Maid, The Youth's 

Companion, Feb. 28. 
Perry, Eugene. West to East,* The Bellman, April 13. 

Perry, Harold E. Ltberty Gold,* The Boston Transcript, 
April 24. 


Pickens, William. The Norway Spruce, In Memory of 
Eleanor Carey* (In Perkins Square, Baltimore, 
Maryland, 1918), Baltimore Daily Herald; The Rivet- 
ers, Baltimore Am,erican, May 29. 

Pickering, Ruth. To Arthur B. Davis,* The Liberator, 

Pickthall, Marjorie L. C. Quiet,* The Dial, Oct. 25, 1917. 

Pinckney, Clara. A Coasting Song, The Youth's Compan- 
ion, Jan. 10. 

Piper, Edwin Ford. At Her Dugout,*** The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, December, 1917; At the 
Postoffice,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the Mid- 
dle West, December, 1917; Have You an Eye?*** The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, October, 
1917; In a Public Place,** The Midland, A Magazine 
of the Middle West, December, 1917; Jarvis Waited,** 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Joe Taylor,** The Midland, A Magazine of 
the Middle West, December, 1917; Mister Dwiggins,*** 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Moon-Worship,*** The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, December, 1917; Nathan 
Briggs,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, December, 1917; Road and Path,*** The Mid- 
land, A Magazine of the Middle West, December, 1917; 
The Banded,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the Mid- 
dle West, December, 1917; The Games,*** The Mid- 
land, A Magazine of the Middle West, December, 1917; 
The Gathering,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, December, 1917; The Jumper,** The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, December, 
1917; The Key,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the 
West, December, 1917; The Man With the Key Once 
More,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, 
December, 1917; The Neighborhood,*** The Midland, 
A Magazine of the Middle West, December, 1917. 

Pitt, Chart. The Eyes of War, Everybody's Magazine, 
November, 1917. 

Phelps, Arthur L. An Old Man's Weariness, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, July; There Was a Rose, Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, July. 

Phillips, Charles. Birth, The Catholic World, June. 

Pollock, Channing. Afterward, The Century Magazine, 

Porterfield, G. A. (British Expeditionary Force, Flanders, 

1917). A Carol for Christmas: 1917, The Bellman, 
Dec. 22, 1917. 

Pottle, Emery. To ak Italian Statue,* Harper's Maga^ 
zine, April. 

Potter, Miriam Clark. The Gigglequicks axd Bobby, The 
Youth's Companion, Dec. 27, 1917; The March Wind, 
The Youth's Companion, Mar, 7. 

Powell, Arthur, The Fighter, Contemporary Verse, July, 

Pratt, Anna M. An April Fool, The Youth's Companion, 
Apr, 4. 

Prouty, Adelaide. An April Battle-Ground, The Out- 
look, Apr, 3, 

Pulitzer, Walter. Little Mother Work-All-Day,* Neio 
York Evening Mail. 

Pulsifer, Harold Trowbridge. America to France and 
Great Britain,* The Outlook, Apr, 2^4; The Shadow 
OF Silence,*** The Outlook, May 15; The Strong 
YotTNG Eagles,* The Outlook, July 3; To a School- 
mate — Killed in Action,** The Outlook, Mar, 20; 
Wild Bird,** The Outlook, Feb, 6, 

Quirk, S.J., Charles J. A Song, The Catholic World, No- 
vember, 1917. 

R,, P, T, Plums, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, July, 

Rainsford, W. Karr. Faugh-A-Ballagh, The Outlook, 
Apr. 24. 

Ravanel, Beatrice W, Sonnets from an Unknown 
(Found on the Body of an Irish Officer), Contem- 
porary Verse, May; Amen, The Bookman, January, 

Redfield, Jr., Robert, Ambition, Contemporary Verse, 

Reps, Paul, Once in a Blue, Blue Moon,*** The Masses, 
October, 1917. 

Reese, Lizette Woodworth. A Song, The Smart Set, 
March; Chloe to Amaryllis,** The Bookman, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Cupboards,** The Midland, A Magazine of 
the Middle West, May-June; Ellen Hanging 
Clothes,*** Contemporary Verse, May; To Myself,* 
The Book-^an, February, 1918. 

Reeves, Mary. My Lesson,* The Catholic World, January. 

Rice, Cale Young, After Parting (A Woman Speaks),* 
The Bellman, June 15; King Amenophis (A Screed for 
Deported Belgians),** The Bellman, Nov. 17, 1917; 

The Faring of Fa-Hien,* The Bellman, Jan. 19; To a 
SoLiTAHY Sea-Gull, The Bellman, Feb. 9; Youyo Apbil, 
The Century Magazine, April. 

Richardson, Mabel Kingsley. Ubiquity, Contemporary 
Verse, July. 

Rich, H. Thompson. Afterwards,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, November, 1917; I Come Singing,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, November, 1917; Lyuic, The Parisi- 
enne, August, 1917; Pierrette Sings, The Parisiervne, 

Richmond, Charles Alexander. For the Sailors at Sea,** 
The Outlook, Feb. 20. 

Rittenhouse, Jessie B, Defeat,*** Harper's Magazine, 
March; Freedom,** The Smart Set, November, 1917; 
Patrins, Contemporary Verse, July, 1917; The 
Ghost,*** Scribner's Magazine, November, 1917. 

Rivenburgh, Eleanor. The Gift, The Parisienne, August, 

Rivola, Flora Shufelt. Fledglings,* The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, March-April; Kinship,** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; Lincoln,** The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- 
April; The School-House Revival: A Fragment, The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- 

Robbins, Jacob. Judas,** The Lyric, December, 1917. 

Roberts, Mary Eleanor. Hilda's Garden,* Contemporary 
Verse, July, 1917. 

Roberts, Walter Adolphe. Ballade of the Fourth Year 
OF the War,** The Masses, October, 1917; Place De 
La Concorde, The Parisienne, October, 1917. 

Robinson, Charles Mulford. The Fields of Flanders,* 
The Outlook, Apr. 10, 

Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt. The Last Leaf in Spring,** 
Scribner's Magazine, December, 1917. 

Robinson, Eloise. Blue Roses,*** The Dial, June 20; 
Quiet,* Scribner's Magazine, March, 1918; Remember- 
ing,* The Outlook, Jan. 9; The Bridge,* Conlemporary 
Verse, May; The Trees,*** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, July. 

Robinson, Gertrude. Riding the Storm,* The People's 
Home Jownol, November, 1917; Tide o' the Year,* 
The People's Home Journal, February. 

Roche, John Pierre. Life as a Gage You Flung, Contem- 
porary Verse, July. 


Rosenzweig, M. E. Hope, The Stratford Journal, January. 

Rosenthal, David, Sylvakettes, Others, December, 1917; 
The Paint Box, Others, December, 1917, 

Roth, Samuel, Human Speech,** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, June; In Memory of Atjguste Rodin,** The 
Boston Transcript, Nov, 21; Kol Nidre,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, June; Sonnets on Sinai,** The 
Menorah Journal, December, 1917, 

Rowland, Eron O. Youth in Arms,*** The Boston Tran- 

Royer, Jessica, Then,* Everybody's Magazine, June. 

S., M. E. Oh, Grave, Where is Thy Victory? The Parisi- 
enne, October, 1917. 

Sabel, Marx G. Moonshine, Contemporary Verse, October, 
1917; The Musician, Contemporary Verse, July, 1917, 

Sampson, Henry A, After Reading an Anthology of 
Fugitive Verse,*** Richmond Evening Journal, July 
27; All Hail, Romance,* Richmond Evening Journal, 
Mar. 23; By the Sea: A Memory,* Richmond Evening 
Journal, Apr. 6; Dawn,* Richmond Evening Journal, 
Feb, 16; Death of Ase (Peer Gynt Suite),* Richmond 
Evening Journal, Mar, 2; Death of Samson, Richmond 
Evening Journal, Mar, 23; Golgotha,* Richmond Eve- 
ning Journal, Apr, 20; In Memoriam,* Richmond Eve- 
ning Journal, Feb, 23; On an Old Hymn Book (Pub- 
lished IN 1780),** Richmond Evening Journal, May 11; 
On the Death of a Young Boy,** Richmond Evening 
Journal, Apr. 20; Poe,* Richmond Evening Journal, 
Mar. 2; Prologue to a Book of Verse,** Richmond 
Evening Journal, Feb. 23; Sonnet to a Sonnet,* Rich" 
mond Evening Journal, Feb. 9; Stephen Phillips, 
Bankrupt,*** Richmond Evening Journal, Mar. 9; The 
Wave,* Richmond Evening Journal, Feb. 16; To F, L. 
W.,* Richmond Evening Journal, Mar, 30; To H. M.: 
In Memoriam,*** Richmond Evening Journal, Mar. 9; 
To A Genial Old Man,** Richmond Evening Journal, 
May 11; To R. P. A.,* Richmond Evening Journal, 
Feb, 9; Ventosus,* Richmond Evening Journal, Apr, 6; 
" Victory " of Samothrace,* Richmond Evening Jour- 
nal, Mar. 30, 

Salmon, Arthur, The Pilgrims,** Collier's Weekly, Feb. 2, 

Sanborn, Mary Farley, He Stands Behind the Coun- 
ter,** The Poetry Journal, February. 


Sanborn, Robert Alden. Window-Ltghts on a Child at 
Lunch,** 2'he Poetry Journal, November, 1917. 

Sandburg, Carl. Puairie,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
July; The Four Brothers, Notes for War Songs,*** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917. 

Sanford, William. Even at That, The Parisienne, Janu- 

Sangster, Jr., Margaret E. Jus' A Boy,* Oood Housekeep- 
ing, April; Somehow, Good Ilotisekeeping, July; To a 
Pair of Gloves,* The People's Home Journal, October, 

Satterlee, Mary. Nona Goble,** The Parisienne, May. 

Savage, Clara. Flight, Good Housekeeping, March. 

Saxon, Helen A. Departure,* The Youth's Companion, 
Jan. 10. 

Schelling, Felix E. A Thought Obvious, Contemporary 
Verse, April; From Under the Knife, Contemporary 
Verse, April; Life, Contemporary Verse, Feb. 

Schneider, Pauline. An Old Woman in Spring,* The Lib- 
erator, July. 

Schuyler, Margaretta. Sea Myths, The Liberator, March. 

Scollard, Clinton. A Shop in Portland Town (To Thomas 
Bird Mosher),* The Boston Transcript, Oct. 10, 1917; 
A Southern Garden,* The Bellman, Dec. 20, 1917; 
April Song, The Bellman, April 20; Apple-Trees,* 
Harper's Magazine, May; Beckonings,* The Out- 
look, Apr. 17; Blow, Ye Blithe Airs, The Smart Set, 
June; Dawn, The Parisienne, June; Jericho,** The 
Outlook, Apr. 10; My Library,** The Bookman, Janu- 
ary; Song, The Parisienne, April; Song in Autumn,* 
The Bellman, Oct. 13, 1917; The Phylactory, The 
Parisienne, May; Winter Music,* Harper's Magazine, 

Scott, Evelyn Bartlett. Argo, The Poetry Journal, Febru- 
ary; Destiny, The Poetry Journal, February; Japa- 
nese Moon, The Poetry Journal, February; Lullaby, 
The Poetry Journal, February; Night, The Poetry 
Journal, February; The Naiad, The Poetry Journal, 

Scott, Winfield Lionel. Bobwhite,** The Boston Tran- 
script, Mar. 9. 

Scripps, Robert Paine. Island Song, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, July. 

Scruggs, J. E. The Screech Owl,** Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, July. 


Sears, Mary. Jolted, The Parisienne, April. 

Seiifert, Marjorie Allen. A Print by Hiroshige,* Others, 
December, 1917; An Old Woman, Contemporary Verse, 
July, 1917; November,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
November, 1917; Print by Kiyonaga,* Others, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Rain,* The Masses, October, 1917; To a 
Child, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, April; To a 
Poet,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, April; When I 
Am Old, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, April. 

Seitz, Don C. Below the Water-Line, Scribner's Maga- 
zine, May; The Load, The Outlook, Apr. 24. 

Seton, Harold. While Making Bandages, The Parisienne, 

Shadwell, Bertrand. The Leddies Fra' Hell,** The Bos- 
ton Transcript, May 25. 

Shakespeare, John Henry. Imagistic, The Oraphic, Mar. 

Shanafelt, Clara. Desirable Residential Neighborhood,* 
The Dial, May 23. 

Shaw, M. A. The Turning Year, The Midland, A Maga- 
zine of the Middle West, November, 1917. 

Sheffield, Rena. In Nicotina, Life. 

Shepard, Odell. An Old Inn by the Sea,*** The Book- 
man, January; The Flock at Evening,*** The Book- 
man, February; Waste,*** The Boston Transcript, 
Nov. 2, 1917; The Elm,* Contemporary Verse, June. 

Sherwin, Louis. Another Hymn of Hate, The Smart Set, 

Shumway, Harry Irving. Seeing is Believing, The Parisi- 
enne, June; She Had Presents of Mine, The Parisi- 
enne, December, 1917. 

Siamanto. Thirst * ( Alice Stone Blackwell, transla- 
tor). The Stratford Journal, February. 

Sifton, Paul F. Wola'erine Winter, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, January. 

Simmons, Laura. After Omar — 100 Yards,* The Parisi- 
enne, August, 1917. 

Slade, William Adams. Hymn for America,* New York 
Times Magazine, Mar. 17. 

Slater, Mary White. Barefoot Sandals, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, November, 1917. 

Sloan, J. Blanding. Kiss, Others, December, 1917; Lee 
Crystal,** The Masses, October, 1917; Pam, Others, 
December, 1917. 

Smith, Ida K. To Baboushka,* The Goshen Democrat, 

Feb. 38; What is the News Today? The Goshen Demo- 
crat, Feb. 28. 

Smith, John. The Prussian Alphabet, The Graphic, Apr. 10, 

Smitli, Marion Couthouy. An Old Fkench " Seventy- 
Five," * The Youth's Companion, Apr. 18; The Legion 
OF Death (The Women Soldiers of Russia),** The 
Outlook, Oct. 31, 1917; The Waterfall, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917, 

Smith, Nora Archibald, The Feet of the Children,** 
The Outlook, Apr. 3; War Work,* Good Housekeep- 
ing, April. 

Sothern, E. H. God^* Scribner's, January. 

Speakman, Harold. Sacrament, Everybody's Magazine, 
July; The Toilers, Everybody's Magazine, September, 

Speyer, Leonora. A Crabbed Song of Spring,*** Contem- 
porary Verse, April; April on the Battlefields,*** 
Contemporary Verse, July; Fog at Sea,* The Stratford 
Journal, February; The Feather,* The Stratford 
Journal, April; When Baba Dives,* The Stratford 
Journal, April; The Chinese Tapestry,* The Lyric, 

Spicer, Anne Higginson. Easter, 1918, Chicago Tribune, 
Mar. 31; Flanders Flowers, Chicago Tribune; 1918, 
Chicago Daily Tribune, Jan. 2. 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott. At Dawn,** Scribner's Maga- 
zine, December, 1917; The End of the Road, Harper's 
Magazine, April. 

Stackhouse, Elsie. Bells, The Liberator, July; Brick 
Pathway,** The Liberator, July; My Garden,** The 
Liberator, July; Pipes, The Liberator, July; Play- 
time,** The Liberator, July; Wishes,** The Liberator, 

Starbuck, Victor. Ballad of Adventurers,** The Youth's 
Companion, Nov. 29, 1917. 

Stearns, Harold Crawford. A Prayer,* The Boston Tran- 
script, June 1 ; God is Singing,* The Stratford Jour- 
nal, June; I Have Made Two Songs for You,** The 
Smart Set, July; Sounds,* The Stratford Journal, 
June; The Schoolmaster,** The Bellman, Feb. 16; 
There Are Two Ladies in Our Little Town,* The 
Smart Set, October, 1917; To You Whom I Dared Not 
See, The Parisienne, December, 1917. 

Stephenson, Daisy D. The Slumberland Sea,* The Peo- 
ple's Home Journal, December, 1917. 


Stephenson, Basil. Dreamek of Dreams, Contemporary 
Verse, July; To the Unknown Dead, Contemporary 
Verse, July. 

Sterling, George. A Lost Garden,* Scribner's Magazine, 
February; A Morning Hymn,** The Bellman, June 22; 
The Common Cult,** The Bellman, Nov. 3, 1917; The 
Setting of Antabes,* The Sonnet, Number Seven, 
March- April. 

Sterry, Ruth. The Bubble's Requiem, The Graphic, Jan. 1. 

Stevens, Ruey Bartlett. Grass,* The Boston Transcript, 
May 4. 

Stevens, Thomas Wood. The Pageant, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, May. 

Stevens, Wallace. Carlos Among the Candles,** Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, December, 1917; Gray Room, 
Others, December, 1917; " Lettres D'Un Soldat," ** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May; Meditation, 
Others, December, 1917; The Wind Shifts, Others, 
December, 1917; Thirteen Ways of Looking at a 
Blackbird,*** Others, December, 1917; Valley Can- 
dle,* Others, December, 1917. 

Stork, Charles Wharton. A Song of Foot-Faring, Every- 
body's Magazine, February; In Silence, The Smart 
Set, June; Lover's Lack, Everybody's Magazine, June; 
Recognition, The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, March- April; To a Bibliophile,* The Bookman, 
February, 1918. 

Storrs, John. Music, The Liberator, April. 

Stoutenburgh, Eugenia. The Dream-Seller Man,*** The 
Touchstone, November, 1917. 

Strong, Philip B. In August,* The People's Home Journal, 
August, 1917. 

Suckovv^, Ruth. Orchard House, Concord, Massachusetts,* 
The Youth's Companion, January, 1917. 

Sullivan, Alan. To One Killed in Action,* The Century 
Magazine, October, 1917. 

Sutherland, Harriet. The Dropped Stitch, The Youth's 
Companion, June 6; The Falling Moon,* The Youth's 
Companion, May 9; Ten Little Autumn Leaves,* The 
Youth's Companion, Nov. 29, 1917. 

Swain, Corinne Rockwell. A Ballade of Ambition, The 
Century Magazine, July. 

Swift, Eliza Morgan. On the Prairie, Scribner's Maga^ 
zine, May. 


Symons, Arthur. An Epilogue to Love,* The Smart Set, 

Teasdale, Sara. Blue Squills,*** Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, April; By a Brook,** Contemporary Verse, 
June; In a Burying Ground,*** The Bellman, Oct. 27, 
1917; Lights,* The Poetry Journal, September, 1917; 
Mothers,* Good Housekeepiny, March; Nightfall,* 
The Smart Set, May; Red Maples,*** The Bellman, 
Mar. 30; Rest,** The Smart Set, April; Schooners 
(Charlevoix Harbor),** Everybody's Magazine, Au- 
gust, 1917; Sons,** Everybody's Magazine, January; 
Spray,*** The Touchstone, July; Spring, 1918,*** The 
Century Magazine, May; Summer Storm, The Smart 
Set, June; Sunset, St. Louis, Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 14, 
1917; The Cup,*** Harper's Magazine, March; The 
Ghost,** Harper's Magazine, October, 1917; There 
Will Come Soft Rains,** Harper's Magazine, July; 
When We Are Happiest,* Everybody's Magazine, 
March; Winter Stars,*** Collier's Weekly, Feb. 9. 

Thomas, Earl Baldwin. Behemia,* The Parisienne, Octo- 
ber, 1917. 

Thomas, Edith M. The Drinking-Fountain, Everybody's 
Magazine, July. 

Thompson, Ralph M. Prophets, The Parisienne, January; 
The Married Man, The Parisienne, December, 1917. 

Thompson, Will. Before You Came, The Parisienne, Feb- 
ruary; Camels,* The Century Magazine, December, 
1917; That Roman Spring, The Parisienne, May; Two 
Friends, Everybody's Magazine, July; Two Sparkling 
Eyes, The Parisienne, January. 

Thomson, O. R. Howard. The Crisis,** New York Times, 
Apr. 20. 

Thorn, Alix. The Stepping-Stones, The Youth's Compan- 
ion, Oct. 25, 1917. 

Thorton, L. M. The Reason, The Parisienne, May. 

Thurston, Charlotte W. Before the Dawning,* Scribner's 
Magazine, January. 

Thurston, Helen. Fields of France,* The Boston Traits 
script, May 1. 

Tietjens, Eunice. A Song of Loneliness, The Smart Set, 
November, 1917; Song, The Smart Set, December, 1917. 

Tirowen, Kenneth. Quandary, The Smart Set, July. 

Tonkin, Katharine. By Some Strange Way,*** The New 

Opinion, August; The Way the Trees Break the 
SKYLiiiTE,*** The New Opinion, October, 1917. 

Torrence, Ridgley. Sea Dream,***, The New Republic, 
Nov. 10, 1917. 

Toumanian, Hovhannes. When Some Day ** (Alice 
Stone Blackwell, translator). The Stratford Journal, 

Tourkan, Bedros. She * (Alice Stone Blackwell, trans- 
lator). The Stratford Journal, February. 

Towne, Charles Hanson. A Prayer for the Old Courage, 
Harper's Magazine, March; How Will It Seem,* 
Harper's Magazine, April; New Year's Eve,* The 
People's Home Journal, January; On Seeing a Nun 
IN A Taxicab, The Smart Set, December, 1917; Ruins,** 
The Outlook, June 19; Sunday Evening,* Everybody's 
Magazine, June; Telephones, The Smart Set, February; 
The Shell,* Harper's Mafjazine, October, 1917. 

Trapnell, Edna Valentine, Unhistoried, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917; Echoes,** Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917. 

Trimble, Chandler. Beside the Pool, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, January-February; Sum- 
mer's Awakening,*** The Midland, A Magazine of the 
Middle West, May-June. 

Trombly, Albert Edmund. Prophetic, Contemporary 
Verse, September, 1917; April, Contemporary Verse, 
April; I Hung My Heart to the Wind, Poet Lore, 
New Year's Number, 1918; Love -Song,** The Midland, 
A Magazine of the Middle West, March-April. 

True, Ruth. Little Daughter of the Streets, The Liber- 
ator, March. 

Tryon, James Owen. A Cabaret Song,* The Parisienne, 
December, 1917; Disillusionment, The Parisienne, Sep- 
tember, 1917; Moonshine, The Parisienne, August, 

Tuckerman, Fleming. Bella Venezta,* The New York 
Herald, Dec. 8, 1917; Lincoln's Birthday, New York 

Turner, Grace. Sonnet, Contemporary Verse, June. 

Turner, Lizinka Campbell. Distinguo,* The Liberator, 

Turner, Nancy Bird. A Butterfly, The Youth's Compan- 
ion, May 9; A Curious Gardener,* The Youth's Com- 
panion, Apr. 11; A Song for Twilight, The Youth's 
Companion, Jan. 31; A Queer Idea, The Youth's Com- 

panion, Jan. 17; Early ok the Fourth, The Youth's 
Companion, June 27; Easter, 1918,* The Youth's Com- 
panion, Mar. 21; Jewels, The Youth's Companion, Feb. 
28; Miss Apple Tree, The Youth's Companion, May 30; 
September's Trail,* The People's Home Journal, Sep- 
tember, 1917; The Wood Trails,* The Youth's Com- 
panion, Nov. 8, 1917; W. B. R. R. Limited, The Youth's 
Companion, Feb. 7. 
Twiss, Blanche Olin. His Mother Speaks ! *** Scribner's 
Magazine, May. 

Untermeyer, Jean Starr. Autumx,** The Century Maga- 
zine, October, 1917; Church Sociable,** The Liberator, 

Untermeyer, Louis. A Derelict,* The Liberator, Maj?^; 
Advice,* The Liberator, June; Arts and the Mak,** 
The Century Magazinti, February; Confidence, The 
Smart Set, May; Distances, The Smart Set, July; 
Fantasy,*** The Bellman, June 1 ; Forest Lake,* The 
Century Magazine, March, 1918; Habit,* The Liberator, 
May; Hands,*** The Yale Review, April; Jerusalem 
Delivered,*** The Yale Review, July; Nocturne, The 
Smart Set, April; On Your Way,*** The Broadside, 
July 5; Picnic on the Grass,* The Liberator, May; 
Prayer for Courage,* The Century Magazine, June; 
Prayer for a New House,*** Good Housekeeping, 
February; The Last Day, The Smart Set, February; 
The Park Revisited,* Everybody's Magazine, Novem- 
ber, 1917; The Pilgrimage,** The Liberator, March; 
The Score Board,** The Liberator, July; The Wise 
Woman,*** The Bellman, May 11; You,*** The Yale 
Review, April; Windy Days,*** The Liberator, March; 
Words, The Smart Set, January; Worship,** The Smart 
Set, November, 1917; Enough,* The Lyric, October, 

Underbill, Ruth. Patriotic Song No. 689,* The Liberator, 

Underwood, John Curtis. At Bethlehem,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, June; Down Fifth Avenue,* Po- 
etry, A Magazine of Verse, June; The Red Coffins,* 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June; The Song of the 
Cheechas,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June. 

Unger, Howard. We Who Have Lost, Poetry, A Magor- 
zine of Verse, May. 


Upward, Allan, Goldenhair and Curlyhead,** Beedy's 
Mirror, Dec. 14, 1917. 

Varoujan, Daniel. Alms* (Alice Stone Blackwell, 
translator), The Stratford Journal, February. 

Van Dyke, Henry. Flood-Tide of Flowers in Holland,*** 
Scribner'g Magazine, December, 1917; Righteous 
Wrath,** The Outlook, Jan. 9; The Peaceful War- 
rior,** Scribner's Magazine, July; The PS,oud Lady,*** 
Harper's Magazine, December, 1917. 

Van Rensselaer, Mrs. Schuyler. A Song for Winter,** 
Harper's Magazine, December, 1917; In the Night, 
Harper's Magazine, May. 

Van Slyke, Berenice K. I Stood at Twilight,** Contem- 
porary Verse, August, 1917. 

Van Wyck, William. Fifth Avenue,* The Graphic, Jan. 1 ; 
In Woodland Ways, The Graphic, Jan. 1; Jefferson 
Court,* The Graphic, Jan. 1 ; South Ferry and Bowl- 
ing Green,* The Graphic, Jan. 1 ; The Mandarin,* The 
Graphic, Jan. 1 ; To a Blind Poilu,* Richmond Eve- 
ning Journal, Mar. 2; To a French Governess,* The 
Graphic, June 1 ; Washington Square,* The Graphic, 
Jan. 1. 

W., E. Love Unconfessed, The Midland, A Magazine of 
the Middle West, May-June. 

W., M. C. Some Wife to Some Husband,** The Boston 
Transcript, Dec. 15, 1917. 

Wagner, Charles L. H. The Path that Brings Me 
Home,* The Boston Transcript, Feb. 9. 

Waggaman, Mary T. The Writings of St. John of the 
Cross, The Catholic World, November, 1917. 

Waldron, Marion Patton. Holiday,*** Collier's Weekly, 
Feb. 2. 

Waldron, Winifred. Hoofs, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
June; Swallows, Poetry, A Magazine of Vers,e, June. 

Waley, Arthur. Translator. Chinese Poems, Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, January; Translator. Chinese 
Poems, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, February. 

W^alsh, Thomas. The Stigmata, Scribner's Magazine, De- 
cember, 1917; The Embers Speak,* The Bookman, Oc- 
tober, 1917; All the Beasts of the Forest, The Lyric, 
October, 1917. 

Ware, Richard D. The Pacifist,* The Boston Transcript, 
May 8; Where Lincoln Stood,* The Boston Tran- 
script, Feb. 16. 


Waring, John M. The Ghost, Contemporary Verse, Octo- 
ber, 1917; Ye Highway Men, Contemporary Verse, 
October, 1917. 

Warner, Harry. Ferdinand and Florabelle, The Parisienne, 
July; Reductio Ad Absurdum, The Parisienne, April. 

Watkins, Lucian B. Frederick Douglass — Orator, The 
Crisis, August, 1917; Paul Lawrence Dunbar — Poet, 
The Crisis, August, 1917; Samuel Coleridge-Taylor — 
Musician, The Crisis, August, 1917; These, 7:17 a.m., 
Decebiber 11, 1917,* The Crisis, January. 

Watson, Annah Robinson. The Queen — A Mother, The 
Living Church. 

Watson, Evelyn. Fulfillment,* The Sonnet, Number Five, 
November, 1917. 

Watson, Lucia Norwood. At Mass for the Soul of Sister 
Helena, The Bookman, October, 1917. 

Wattles, Willard. A Beautiful Woman Told Me Once,** 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- 
April; "Against My Second Coming,"*** The Out- 
look, Oct. 10, 1917; A Song of no Consequence,** 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Ha Ha,** 
Out of Laughter,** Laugh With Me,* While You 
Love Me, Love "Me,*** But It is the Dead Love,** 
Silenced,** Acceptance,* Pisgah,* Return,*** Frag- 
ments,** Courage, Mon Ami,** Contemporary Verse, 
October, 1917; Difference,* Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, October, 1917; Ding Dong Bell,** Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Heaven,* Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Hrolf's Thrall — 
His Song,*** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 
1917; How Little Knows the Caliph,* The Smart Set, 
June; I Have Had Great I*ity,*** Contemporary 
Verse, November, 1917; I Now, Walt Whitman,** 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, Decem- 
ber, 1917; Prayer,* The Bookman, March; Requiescat,* 
The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- 
April; Somehow or Other,** The Independent, May 
25; The Builder,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Oc- 
tober, 1917; The Monby Changers,* The Bookman, 
May; Road-Mates,** Contemporary Verse, July. 

Watts, Harvey M. Fireflies (At the June Solstice), 
Contemporary Verse, June. 

Weaver, Jr., J. Van Alstyne. Northern Lights,* Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, May; The Sowing, Spring — 
Fort Sheridan,* Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, May. 

Weaver, Ray Bennett. Boughs of May, The Midland, A 
Magazine of the Middle West, May-June. 

Weitbree, Blanche. The Little People,* The Graphic, 
Dec. 20, 1917, 

Welles, Winifred. Communion,* The North American Re- 
view, February; To Narcissus,* Contemporary Verse, 
May; Hail and Farewell,** The North American Re- 
view, September, 1917; Lifetime,** The North Ameri- 
can Review, February; Moonflower,** The North 
American Review, September, 1917; Threnody,*** The 
North American Review, September, 1917. 

Wells, Amos R. New Glory,* The Youth's Companion, 
May 30. 

Wendell, Douglas Gary. The Song of the Sea, Contempo- 
rary Verse, July; When the Fleet Comes In, Contem- 
porary Verse, July. 

Wheelock, Gertrude Mercia. The Private,* The Youth's 
Companion, Feb. 7. 

Wheelock, John Hall. Dear Earth, Contemporary Verse, 
June; Exile from God,*** Reedy's Mirror, Apr. 5; The 
Presence, Contemporary Verse, June; Life, The Smart 
Set, July; Storm and Sun,*** Reedy's Mirror, May 31; 
The World-Sorrow,** Harper's Magazine, June. 

White, Florence C. Doing Her Bit, The Parisienne, Feb- 
ruary; Her Text, The Parisienne, August, 1917. 

White, James Terry. We Shall Remember Them,* The 
Boston Transcript, Apr. 3. 

White, Viola C. The Litany of the Comfortable,*** The 
New World, May. 

Whiteside, Mary Brent. Change,** The North American 
Review, June. 

Whitney, Myra. The Spelling Lesson, The Youth's Com- 
panion, Nov. 8, 1917. 

Wilde, Georgia. With the British at Messines Ridge,* 
The Lyric, October, 1917. 

Wilbur, Harriette. F-L-A-G,* The Youth's Companion, 
Nov. 8, 1917. 

Widdemer, Margaret. A Girl to Her Mirror,* The 
Youth's Companion, Jan. 31; Garden Dream,** The 
Dial, Nov. 8, 1917; Good-By, My Lo\'er, Everybody's 
Magazine, December, 1917; Homes,* Everybody's Maga- 
zine, May; I Did Not Know, Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, October, 1917; In an Office Building, The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, May- June; 
Interim, The Smart Set, December, 1917; Life to the 


Dreamer, The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle 
West, May-June; Next Year,* Everybody's Ma(/azine, 
November, 1917; Pkai-eu for a World Hurt Sore,** 
Good Housekeeping, January; Prescience, Foeiry, A 
Magazine of Verse, October, 1917; Recessional Praver: 
Easter, 1918,** Good Housekeeping, March; Swan- 
Child,*** The Bookman, June; The Dancers,** Har- 
per's Magazine, Jul^'; The Gray Magician,* The Book- 
man, April, 1918; The Masters, Harper's Magazine, 
March; The Story-Book's End,** The Bellman, Nov. 
10, 1917; To Youth After Rain,** The Youth's Com- 
panion, Dec. 20, 1917; Tryst, The Smart Set, July; 
Youth-Song,** Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, October, 
1917; The Singing Wood, Contemporary Verse, July, 
1917; Vain Hiding, Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Oc- 
tober, 1917; Warning,*** The Bellman, June 8; Whis- 
tle Fantasy, The Century Magazine, October, 1917. 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler. Are You Loving Enough?* Every- 
body's Magazine, August, 1917; Let Us Give Thanks,* 
Good Housekeeping, November, 1917. 

Wilcox, Charles. The Cynic, The Parisienne, June. 

Wilkinson, Marguerite. A Walk in Springtime,* The 
Smart Set, May; Love Song, The Smart Set, February' ; 
Once Your Love Pleased Me, The Smart Set, January. 

Williams, Mark Wyne. Clemenceau,** The Boston Tran- 
script, May 8; Park Street and the Archbishop,** 
The Boston Transcrijd, Mar. 13. 

Williams, Oscar C. The Purpose, Everybody's Magazine, 

Williams, Warwick F. The Open Path,* New York Her- 
ald, Dec. 26, 1917. 

Williams, William Carlos. Le Medecin Malgre Lui, Po- 
etry, A Magazine of Verse, July. 

Wilson, Calvin Dill. The Old Gods, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, June. 

Wilson, Eleanor llobbins. April,* The Youth's Compan- 
ion, Apr. 11. 

Wilson, Glenn. Le Jardin Du Petit Trianon,* The Lyric, 
October, 1917. 

Withington, Robert. Les Champs de Dieu,* The Boston 
Transcript, Nov. 24, 1917. 

Woljeska, Helen. The Strange Assembly, The Smart Set, 
October, 1917. 

Wood, Alice Boise. O Feet that Once Were Wee,* The 
Boston Transcript, Dec. 27, 1917. 


Woods, Bertha Gerneaux. Her Son,** The Youth's Com- 
panion, Apr. 25; The Giver,* The Youth's Companion, 
May 23; The Three,* The Youth's Companion, May 9. 

Wood, Clement. Ballade of Tame Oats,* The Parisienne, 
January; Berkshires in April, Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, April; Coin of the Year, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, December, 1917; Revolution, The Lyric, 
November, 1917; Into Green Pastures, The Liberator, 
May; Lo\t: the Devourer,** The Liberator, May; Nar- 
cissi,** The Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, 
May-June; O Dear Brown Lands, Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, December, 1917; Soul-Drift, The Mid- 
land, A Magazine of the Middle West, March- April; 
The Night Cometh,* The Century Magazine, October, 
1917; To Yesterdays, The Parisienne, August, 1917. 

Woodberry, George Edward. Allies,*** 8cribner's Maga- 
zine, May; Faneuil Hall,* The Boston Transcript, 
Apr. 10; Italy,* The Boston Transcript, May 20; Rou- 
MANiA,* The North American Review, May. 

Woods, William Hervey. An Attic Window,* The Youth's 
Companion, Apr. 4. 

Woodworth, Edith Ives. Aspiration,** The Bellman, June 

Worth, Patience. A Call to Arms,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, December, 1917; A God's Wish Unto Thee,* 
Patience Worth's Magazine, September, 1917; Ah, Gar- 
den's Way A-Bloomin', Sweet Spillin',* Patience 
Worth's Magazine, January; And the Skies Hung 
Lowerin',* Patience Worth's Magazine, December, 
1917; A Prayer, Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 
1917; A-Singin' o'er the Sea's Wave,* Patience 
Worth's Magazine, March; A Token,** Patience 
Worth's Magazine, March; At the Early Dawn I'd 
Claim,** Patience Worth's Magazine, March; A Weary 
Song,* Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; A 
Wry Day,* Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; 
Aw ! Ye Seekin' Babbies ! ** Patience Worth's Maga- 
zine, May; Ayle ! Ayle ! Ayle ! * Patience Worth's 
Magazine, November, 1917; Brother o' the Path,** 
Patience Worth's Magazine, May; Comrade Vagabond, 
Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Day Hat a 
Merry,* Patience Worth's Magazine, September, 1917; 
Dear Deaded Bud, Awithered,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, November, 1917; Dear Sorrow,** Patience 
Worth's Magazine, April; Dusts, Gray Dusts, Blow!** 

Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Eternal Spring,* 
Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; Fade Thee, 
Lights o' Day,** Patience Worth's Magazine, Septem- 
ber, 1917; Faith,* Patience Worth's Magazine, May; 
Far Hills, Sunk Amid the Blue,** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, October, 1917; Fearing, Fearing Heart,** 
Patience Worth's Magazine, November, 1917; Gentle- 
ness AND Might,* Patience Worth's Magazine, January ; 
Go, Rains, Thou Hast Washed the Earth,* Patience 
Worth's Magazine, November, 1917; God's Twilight,* 
Patiehce Worth's Magazine, September, 1917; Gol- 
gotha,* Patience Worth's Magazine, April; Hope and 
Faith,* Patience Worth's Magazine, April; Larks 
A-tSingin' High,** Patience Worth's Magazine, May; 
Mary,* Patience Worth's Magazine, December, 1917; 
Mother,* Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; 
Mother,* Patience Worth's Magazine, January; My 
Ship,* Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; My 
Song,** Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Oh, He 
is the Gentleness,* Patience Worth's Magazine, No- 
vember, 1917; Oh, Like unto a Pit am I — Deep! 
Deep !* Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Oh, My 
Brothers,* Patience Worth's Magazine, May; Oh, My 
Wee, Bonny Craftie,* Patience Worth's Magazine, 
November, 1917; Oh Thou My All,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, August, 1917; Oh, Ye Anguished Hearts,* 
Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Out from 
Naughts do I to Cunger Me,** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, April; Perchance,** Patience Worth's Mag- 
azine, April; 'PoN A Spring's Burst, a Babe was 
Fleshed,** Patience Worth's Magazine, May; Satis- 
faction,* Patience Worth's Magazine, May; Sea 
Dreams,** Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Seek- 
ing, Seeking, Seekin', See, I Be,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, March; Slumber, Slumber, Slumber,*** Pa- 
tience Worth's Magazine, April; Song of My Heart,* 
Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; Stop, Oh 
Day! Speed Ye Not On,** Patience Worth's Magazine, 
January; Sweet Hath Hung the Eve,*** Patience 
Worth's Magazine, April; Swing Thee, Cradled 
Moon,** Patience Worth's Magazine, September, 1917; 
Thanklessness,* Patience Worth's Magazine, April; 
The Blade,* Patience Worth's Magazine, April; The 
Break of Cloud,* Patience Worth's Magazine, August, 
1917; The Cleansing,* Patience Worth's Magazine, 

March; The Deceiver,* Patience Worth's Magazine, 
January; The Endless Voice,* Patience Worth's Maga- 
zine, January; The Fellow-Player,** Patience 
Worth's Magazine, May; The Feet of Youth,* Pa^ 
tience Worth's Magazine, March; The Field Awaved, 
AswAYED AND GoLDED O'er,*** Paticnce Worth's Maga- 
zine, May; The Flag,* Patience Worth's Magazine, 
January; The Marching Hosts,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, March; The Mill,** Patience Worth's Mag- 
azine, April; The Miracle,** Patience Worth's Maga- 
zine, April; The Old, Old Song,** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, April; The One Thing,*** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, May; The Player,* Patience Worth's Maga- 
zine, April; The Resurrection,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, February; The Scarlet Sign,* Patience 
Worth's Magazine, December, 1917; The Seekers,* Pa- 
tience Worth's Magazine, August, 1917; The Shadow 
Land,*** Patience Worth's Magazine, January; The 
Singer,** Patience Worth's Magazine, April; The Sol- 
dier,* Patience Worth's Magazine, March; The Two 
Sisters,* Patience Worth's Magazine, March; The Un- 
heard Sounds,** Patience Worth's Magazine, March; 
The Weeping Earth,*** Patience Worth's Magazine, 
March; There's a Spot Afar Within a Sea — My 
Isle,** Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Tinklin' 
Bells o' Eventide,* Patience Worth's Magazine, March; 
To the Warsmen,** Patience Worth's Magazine, May; 
Tutored Not, Unlearned am I,*** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, March; Victors Ever,* Patience Worth's 
Magazine, March; We Two Together,** Patience 
Worth's Magazine, April; When Love Came,* Patience 
Worth's Magazine, May; Where Morn's Kiss Lieth 
o'er the Young Spring's Field,** Patience Worth's 
Magazine, November, 1917; Where My Love Was 
Born,* Patience Worth's Magazine, January; Where 
THE Cool Morn Bathes,** Patience Worth's Magazine, 
April; Ye Dank, Dank, Teared, Gray Day,*** Pa- 
tience Worth's Magazine, May; Yea, I Be A-Tebipt o' 
Song,** Patience Worth's Magazine, December, 1917. 

Wright, Isa L. Mother's Smile,* The People's Home Jour- 
nal, January. 

Wyatt, Mary L. Three Little Maids,* The Youth's Com- 
panion, Nov. 22, 1917, 

Wynne, Annette. A Fiddle is a Strange Thing,** The 
Liberator, April; April is a Baby,* The Youth's Com- 

panion, Mar. 28; Arbob Day,* The Youth's Companion, 
Apr. 4; Crucified, The Liberator, April; Gardens,** 
The Dial, June C; I Had a Thought that Love 
Would Come,* Everybody's Magazine, March; In a 
Factory,*** The Masses, October, 1917; Indian Chil- 
dren,* The Youth's Companion, Mar. 7; Love Need 
Have Nothing Else to Do,** The Liberator, March; 
May,* The Youth's Companion, May 9; My Friends,* 
The Yotith's Companion, May 2; Play,** The Liber- 
ator, May; When the Song is Done,*** The Masses, 
October, 1917. 

Yeats, William Butler. Ego Dominus Tuus,** Poetry, A 

Magazine of Verse, October, 1917. 
Young, William. Jouhneys to Go,*** The Yale Review, 

October, 1917. 

Zangwill, Israel. A Passover Sermon, The Lyric, Novem- 
ber, 1917; Spring, 1917, The Lyric, November, 1917. 

Zumstein, Ida Mcintosh. Magic,* Good Housekeeping, 



This list is not confined to articles on American poets or 
poetry, but includes articles and reviews dealing with all 
aspects of poetry printed in American publications. While 
the list is extensive it is not claimed to be complete. It 
provides, however, a valuable working source of reference 
for any who wish to make a critical study of contemporary 
poetry, either American or European. 

Aiken, Conrad. Divers Realists. The Dial, Nov. 8, 1917. 
Confectionery and Caviar. The Dial, Nov. 22, 1917. 
Tlie Deterioration of Poets. The Dial, Apr. 25. 
The Mechanism of Poetic Inspiration. The North Ameri- 
can Review, December, 1917. 
Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels (Anthology of Magazine 
Verse for 1917). The Dial, Feb. 28. 
Allen, M. A., Hugh Anthony. "The Poet of the Return 

to God." The Catholic World, June. 
Allinson, Anne C. E. Virgil and the New Patriotism. The 

Yale Review, October, 1917. 
Anonymous. The Neo-Parnassians. The Unpopular Re- 
view, July-September. 

Bodenheim, Maxwell. What Is Poetry? The New Repub- 
lic, Dec. 23, 1917. 
Boogher, Susan M. Death and the Poet, A Conversation in 

One Act. Reedy's Mirror, Jan. 4. 
Bowen, C. R. A Vintage of Verse. Reedy's Mirror, Dec. 

14, 1917. 
Braithwaite, William Stanley. A Group of Poets (Grant- 
land Rice, Don C. Seitz, Fleming Tuckerman). Bos- 
ton Transcript, Jan. 2. 
An American Poet of Japanese Quality. Boston Tran- 
script, Nov. 17, 1917. 
An Urban Poet with Rural Insight (W. Griffith). Bos- 
ton Trcmscript, Mar. 30. 


A Poet of a Serene Mood (Robert Underwood Johnson). 
Boston Transcript, Apr. 17. 

A Poet of Renascence (Edna St. Vincent Millay). Bos- 
ton Transcript, Feb. 6. 

A Poet's Airs and Ballads (John McClure). Boston 
Transcript, Apr. 24, 

A Poetic Voice from Ireland (Padraic Pearse). Boston 
Transcript, Apr. 3. 

A Poetic Voice from the Middle West (Edwin Ford 
Piper). Boston Transcript, Nov. 24, 1917. 

A Quartet of Poets (Christopher Morley, Robert S. Hill- 
yer, Edith F. Wyatt, Richard B. Glaenzer). Boston 
Transcript, Dec. 27, 1917. 

A Twentieth Century Apostle of Keats (Robert Nichols). 
Boston Transcript, Apr. 20. 

A Young Poet's First Leap to Fame (Wallace Gould). 
Boston Transcript, Dec. 1, 1917. 

Bernard Sexton, Most Original of Poet Educators. Bos- 
ton Transcript, Jan. 30. 

Edward Thomas, the Poet and Nature-Lover. Boston 
Transcript, Feb. 2. 

George Sterling. Boston Transcript, Feb. 9. 

Poems by Norreys Jephson O'Conor. Boston Tran- 
script, Jan. 23. 

Recent American Poets (Ruth Baldwin Chenery, Samuel 
Roth). Boston Transcript, Dec. 29. 

Suppressed Swinburne Resurgent. Boston Transcript, 
Jan. 26. 

The Delicate Lyric Verse of Katharine Adams. Boston 
Transcript, Apr. 10. 

The Door of Dreams (Jessie B. Rittenhouse). Boston 
Transcript, Feb. 16. 

The English Poetry of Henry Chappell. Boston Tran- 
script, May 11. 

The Later Poetry of Alice Meynell. Boston Transcript, 
Jan. 30. 

The Life and Poetry of John Keats (Sir Sidney Colvin's 
"Life"). Boston Transcript, Dec. 8, 1917. 

The Love Songs of Sara Teasdale. Boston Transcript, 
Nov. 10, 1917. 

The Masque of Poets. Boston Transcript, Apr. 1. 

The New Floor-Walker Poet Genius (Francis Carlln). 
Boston Transcript, Mar. 6. 

The Old Huntsman, and Other Poems (Siegfried Sas- 
soon). Boston Transcript, Jan. 26. 


The Poems of Frank Dempster Sherman. Boston Tran- 
script, Dec. 15, 1917. 

The Poems of James Weldon Johnson. Boston Tran- 
script, Dec. 12, 1917. 

The Poems of John Drinkwater. Boston Transcript, 
Apr. 13, 

The Poems of Katharine Lee Bates. Boston Transcript, 
May 25. 

The Poetic Advance of Edgar Lee Masters. Boston 
Transcript, Apr. 27. 

The Poetic Magic of Caroline Giltinan. Boston Tran- 
script, Dec. 19, 1917. 

The Poets and the War. Boston Transcript, Dec. 5, 1917. 

The Posthumous Poems of Swinburne. Boston Tran- 
script, May 18. 

Two American Poets (Sylvester Baxter, Marie Tudor). 
Boston Transcript, Feb. 13. 

Two Poets Gone Astray (Ezra Pound, Conrad Aiken). 
Boston Transcript, Mar. 20. 

Trio of Modern Poets (E. W. Hornung, Glenn Ward 
Dresbach, Berton Braley). Boston Transcript, Jan. 9. 

Vachel Lindsay's " The Chinese Nightingale." Boston 
Transcript, Nov. 3, 1917. 

Verse Old and New from American Poets (Arthur C. 
Inman, Clinton ScoUard, Thomas S. Jones, Jr.). Bos- 
ton Transcript, Nov. 31, 1917. 

Western Waters (Elizabeth S. Hill). Boston Transcript, 
Jan. 19. 

William Stanley Braithwaite, Southern Workman, May. 
Brawley, Benjamin. Richard Le Gallienne and the Tradi- 
tion of Beauty. The Sewanee Review, January. 
Brooke, Tucker. The Romantic lago. The Yale Review, 

Burrell, John Angus. The New Poets of France. The 
Dial, Sept. 27, 1917. 

Calantiere, Lewis. The Poetic Drama of Paul Claudel. 

The Dial, June 30. 
Callender, J. A. The Further Progress of Poesy. The 

Bellman, May 18. 
Carlisle, B. A., Marjorie. Four Poets. Reedy's Mirror, 

Dec. 14, 1917. 
Chase, Lewis. Francis Ledwidge. The Century Magazine, 



Carpenter, Ph.D., B. Franck. Shakespeare's Sonnets: To 
Whom Dedicated? The Catholic World, January. 

Crawford, Nelson Antrim. Realizing America in Poetry: 
Vachel Lindsay's "The Chinese Nightingale." The 
Midland, A Magazine of the Middle West, November- 
December, 1917. 

Deutsch, Babette. A Modern Psalmist (James Oppenheim). 
Beedy's Mirror, Nov. 9, 1917. 
A Sophisticated Mystic (Edwin Arlington Robinson). 

Beedy's Mirror, Mar. 22. 
"Ezra Pound: Vorticist." Beedy's Mirror, Dec. 21, 1917. 
"First Poems" (Edwin Curran). Beedy's Mirror, 

June 7. 
Poet and Peasant (Padraic Colum). Beedy's Mirror, 
Nov. 30, 1917. 
Dodge, R. E. Neil. The "Sage and Serious" Poet (Ed- 
mund Spenser). The Dial, May 23. 
Downing, Margaret B. A Recalled Poet-Diplomat (Sir 

Cecil Spring-Rice). Beedy's Mirror, Jan. 11. 
Dudley, Dorothy. Lare Measures (Toward the Gulf, by 
¥A. L. Masters). Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, June. 
"To Whom it May Concern" (Al Que-Quiere! by W. C. 
Williams). Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, April. 

Firkins, O. W. Chez Nous (Alice Brown, M. L. Fisher, 
G. E. Woodberry, Odell Shepard, C. Y. Rice, Robinson 
Jeffers, R. C. Mitchell). The Nation, Oct. 11, 1917. 
Fletcher, John Gould. Harold Monro. The Poetry Jour- 
nal, March. 
The Poetry of Conrad Aiken. The Dial, Mar. 28. 
Thomas Hardy's Poetry. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 
Fuller, Henry B. Tendencies in Modern American Poetry. 
The Dial, Nov. 8, 1917. 
The Imagists. The Dial, Sept. 27, 1917. 

Garnett, Edward. A Great Chinese Poet: Po-Chu-I. The 

Dial, Oct. 25, 1917. 
Goldberg, Isaac. Chocano, Greatest of Bards Since Walt 

Whitman. The Boston Transcript, Feb. 9. 
Green, Walter C. Poetry Various. Beedy's Mirror, Dec. 

14, 1917. 

Hamilton, Clayton. Alfred De Musset in the Theatre. The 
Bookman, February. 


Sir Sidney Colvin's "John Keats." The Bookman, Janu- 
Harvey, Alexander. William Griffith's Verse. Reedy's 

Mirror, Mar. 29. 
Henderson, Alice Corbin. A Group of English Contempo- 
raries. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, March. 
American Verse and English Critics. Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, January. 
Hodgson's Poems. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Octo- 
ber, 1917. 
Hervey, John L. Masters, American Master. Reedy's 

Mirror, May 17. 
Hickey, Emily. In the Forest of Arden. The Catholic 
World, July. 
The Play of Julius Caesar. The Catholic World, Novem- 
ber, 1917. 
Howe, M, A. DeWolfe. Dr. Holmes, the Friend and Neigh- 
bor. The Yale Review, April. 

Johnston, Alma Calder. Personal Memories of Walt Whit- 
man. The Bookman, December, 1917. 

Johnstone, Julian E. The Classical Element in Shake- 
speare. The Catholic World, October, 1917. 

Kiser, Helen BuUis. Amy Lowell: A Personality. The 
North American Review, May. 

Kreymborg, Alfred. As Others See Us (The New Po- 
etry — An Anthology. H. Monroe and A. C. Hender- 
son). Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, July. 

Lamb, Louis Albert. Fundamental Poetry. Reedy's Mir- 
ror, Dec. 7, 1917. 
Le GaUienne, Richard. Why Old Songs Live. Harper's 

Magazine, December, 1917. 
Lemmermann, Karl. Improvised Negro Songs. The New 

Republic, Dec. 22, 1917. 
Lieberman, Ellas. Arthur Guiterman, the Laughing Phi- 
losopher. The American Hebrew, Jan. 4. 
Clement Wood, Singer of Protest. The American He- 
brew, Apr. 12. 
James Oppenheim — Prophet of a New Tomorrow. The 

American Hebrew, Jan. 18. 
The Soul of a Race (James W. Johnson). The Ameri- 
can Hebrew, Apr. 26. 


Littell, Philip. Sir Sidney Colvin's Life of John Keats. 
The New Republic, Dec. 22, 1917. 

Livesay, Florence Randal. Ukrainian Folk Song. The 
Bellman, Oct. 20, 1917. 

Love, Bert. Whitmania. Reedy's Mirror, May 24. 

Lowell, Amy. A Poet of the Present. Poetry, A Magazine 
of Verse, December, 1917. 
Poetry, Imagination and Education. The North Ameri- 
can Review, November, 1917. 

Marks, Jeannette. Drugs and Genius. The Yale Review, 

Mencken, H. L. Whoopers and Twitterers. The Smart 
Set, November, 1917. 

Monroe, Harriet. Dr. Patterson on Rhythm. Poetry, A 
Magazine of Verse, April. 
Mr. Jepson's Slam. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, July. 

Morgan, Appleton. What Meres Knew About Shake- 
speare's Sonnets: A Reply to Dr. Carpenter. The 
Catholic World, May. 

Moriarty, Helen. A Poet-Priest (Edward F. Garesche, 
S.J.). Reedy's Mirror, May 10. 

Mortland, M. A. Francis Ledwidge, Poet of the Black- 
bird. The Bellman, Nov. 10, 1917. 

Noguchi, Yone. Japanese Hokku Poems. Poet Lore, New 
Year's Number, 1918. 

O'Brien, Edward J. The Masque of Poets. The Bookman, 

Olivero, Federico. Paul Claudel. Poet Lore, New Year's 

Number, 1918. 

Patterson, William Morrison. New Verse and New Prose. 

The North American Review, February. 
Perry, Lawrence. The Poet (A Story). Harper's Maga- 
zine, May. 
Phelps, William Lyon. Goethe, The Dial, Nov. 8, 1917. 
Robert Browning and Alfred Austin. The Yale Review, 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part I. The Bookman, October, 1917. 
The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part II. The Bookman, November, 1917. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part III. The Bookman, December, 1917. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part IV. The Bookman, January. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part V. The Bookman, February. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part VI. The Bookman, March. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part VII. The Bookman, April. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part VIII. The Bookman, May. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part IX. The Bookman, June. 

The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Cen- 
tury. Part X. The Bookman, July. 
Phillips, Charles. The Poet's Lincoln. The Catholic 

World, May. 
Pound, Ezra. Irony, Laforgue, and Some Satire. Poetry, 
A Magazine of Verse, November, 1917. 

Swinburne Versus Biographers. Poetry, A Magazine of 
Verse, March. 

The Hard and Soft in French Poetry. Poetry, A Maga- 
zine of Verse, February. 

Rice, John Pierrepont. Jose Santos Chocano. Poetry, A 

Magazine of Verse, February. 
Riley, James Whitcomb. Letters of: Realizing Success — 
1883-90. Harper's Magazine, May. 
Letters of: The Poet in the Making. Harper's Magazine, 

Letters to Children. Harper's Magazine, December, 1917. 
Rittenhouse, Jessie B. Contemporary Poetry. The Book- 
man, December, 1917. 
Contemporary Poetry. The Bookman, January. 
Contemporary Poetry. The Bookman, February. 
Contemporary Poetry. The Bookman, April. 
Contemporary Poetry. The Bookman, May. 
Latest Books of English Poets. The Bookman, June. 
Poets Militant. The Bookman, March. 
Rivenburgh, Eleanor. Stevenson in Hawaii. Part I. The 
Bookman, October, 1917. 
Stevenson in Hawaii. Part II. The Bookman, Novem- 
ber, 1917. 


Stevenson in Hawaii. Part III. The Bookman, Decem- 
ber, 1917. 

Sargent, George H. New Finds of 'Gene Field's Manu- 
scripts. The Boston Transcript, Feb. 23. 

Scott, Evelyn Bartlett, A New Brazilian Poet (Gilka 
MacJaado), The Poetry Journal, January. 
Olavo Bilac (Brazilian Poet). The Poetry Journal, 

Segar, Mary G. Echoes of the Canticle of Canticles in 
Mediaeval Literature. The Catholic World, March. 

Slaughter, Gertrude. A Poet's Wisdom. The North Amer- 
ican Review, January. 

Smith, James Walter. Gjillerup, New Nobel Prize Winner. 
The Boston Transcript, Feb. 13. 

Stauffer, Ruth M. Byron and Shelley, I. Poet Lore, Au- 
tumn Nwmber, 1917. 
Byron and Shelley in Italy, II. Poet Lore, Winter Num- 
ber, 1917. 

Stewart, William Kilborne. The Poetry of Stefan George. 
The Dial, Dec. 6, 1917. 

Symons, Arthur. A Note on Walt Whitman. The Bell- 
man, Feb. 9. 

Trueblood, C. K. The Middle Way in Mysticism (Volumes 

of Mystical Verse). The Dial, June 6. 
Tynan, Katharine. Francis Ledwidge. The Catholic 

World, November, 1917. 

Untermeyer, Louis. A Novelist Turned Prophet (Mid- 
American Chants). The Dial, May 23. 

China, Provence, and Points Adjacent (Vachel Lindsay 
and Ezra Pound), The Dial, Dec. 20, 1917. 

"Others" — and Others (Others, An Anthology of the 
New Verse, William A. Bradley, Edwin Curran). The 
Nation, Mar. 16. 

Paper-Jacket Problems (Drinkwater, Wilcox, Rice, 
Haflz, Lieberman). The Dial, June 20. 

WagstaflF, Blanche Shoemaker. Joyce Kilmer. The Poetry 

Journal, January. 
Ward, Stanley M. A Romantic Episode in the Life of the 

Poet, Fitz-Greene Halleck. The Bookman, July. 
Walch, Gerald. A Dutch Estimate of Baudelaire. The 

Nation, Oct. 11, 1917. 


Wilbur, Harriette. " Fair Maid of February " (the month 
in verse). The Catholic World, February. 
The Sailor's Trade-Song. The Catholic World, July. 
Wilkinson, Marguerite. Apple Sauce and Poetry. The 
Touchstone, June. 
The Poets Arrive. ISew York Sun, Feb. 10. 
Poets of the People: A Discussion of War Poetry by 

John Masefield. The Touchstone, March. 
Poets of the People: Amy Lowell. The Touchstone, 

Edgar Lee Masters 

The Touch- 

Poets of the People: 

stone. May. 
Poets of the People: 

Poets of the People: 

December, 1917. 
Poets of the People: Vachel Lindsay. 

Williams, William Carlos. America, Whitman, and the 

Art of Poetry. The Poetry Journal, November, 1917. 
Withington, Robert. Poetry: Body and Soul. The Poetry 

Journal, November, 1917. 

Robert Frost. The Touchstone, 
Sara Teasdale. The Touchstone, 

The Touchstone, 



A Pagan Anthology. Composed of Poems by Contributors 
to the Pagan Magazine. Pagan Publishing Co., New 
York City. 
Adams, Franklin P. Weights and Measures. Doubleday, 

Page and Co. 
Adams, Katharine. Light and Mist. The Cornhill Co. 
Angellier, Auguste. To the Lost Friend. Translated from 
the French by Mildred J. Knight and Charles R. Mur- 
phy. John Lane Co. 
Aiken, Conrad. Nocturne of Remembered Spring. The 

Four Seas Co. 
Aikins, Carroll. Poems. Sherman, French and Co. 
American Press Humorists. "Long Live the Kaiser." 

Verses and Drawings. Small, Maynard and Co. 
Andrews, Lieutenant C. E., Editor. From the Front. 

Trench Poetry. D. Appleton and Co. 
Anderson, Mary Eleanor. Poems and Biography of. By 

Galusha Anderson. The Colonial Press, Boston. 
Anderson, Sherwood. Mid-American Chants. John Lane 

Andrews, Marietta M. Songs of a Mother. E. P. Dutton 

and Co. 
Appleton, Everard Jack. With the Colors. Songs of the 

American Service. Stewart and Kidd Co. 
Armstrong, Hamilton Fish. The Book of New York Verse. 

Editor. G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
Bates, Katharine Lee. The Eetinue, and Other Poems. E. 

P. Dutton and Co. 
Baxter, Sylvester. The Unseen House, and Other Poems. 

The Four Seas Co. 
Beriet, William Rose. The Burglar of the Zodiac. The 

Yale University Press. 
Beers, Henry A. The Two Ticilights. Richard G. Badger. 
Beer, Morris Abel. Songs of Manhattan. The Cornhill Co. 
Bensel, Anna B. A Voice from the Silence. With an In- 
troduction by Bishop Brent. Sherman, French and Co. 

Benson, Stella. Twenty. The Macmillan Co. 

Bennet, Charles Ernest. Across the Years. The Stratford 

Bernays, Edward L. and Samuel Hoffensteln, Walter J. 
Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton. The Broadway An- 
thology. Duffield and Co. 

Bernbaum, Ernest, Editor. English Poets of the Eight- 
eenth Century. Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Berry, Albert L. She Planted a Garden. A. C. McClurg 
and Co. 

Binns, Henry Bryan. November. Poems in War Time. 
Dodd, Mead and Co. 

Bishop, John Peale. Green Fruit. Sherman, French and 

Boynton, Percy H. and Howard M. Jones, George W. Sher- 
burn, Frank M. Webster, Editors. American Poetry. 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Bjornson, Bjornstjerne. Ami jot Gelline. Translated 
from the Norwegian, with Introduction and Notes by 
William Morton Payne. The American-Scandinavian 

Bradley, William Aspenwall. Garlands and Wayfarings. 
Thomas Bird Mosher. 
Old Christm,as, and Other Kentucky Tales in Verse. 

Houghton Mifflin Co. 
Singing Carr. Alfred A. Knopf. 

Braithwaite, WiUiam Stanley, Editor. Anthology of Maga- 
zine Verse for 1917. And Yearbook of American Po- 
etry. Small, Maynard and Co. 
The Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse. Small, May- 
nard and Co. 

Braley, Berton. A Banjo at Armageddon. George H. 
Doran Co. 
In Camp and Trench. Songs of the Fighting Forces. 
George H. Doran Co. 

Bridgman, Amy S. Song-Flame. The Stratford Co. 

Brodhay, O. Chester. Verses of My Idle Hours. Freder- 
ick C. Browne. 

Buhler, M. E. The Grass in the Pavement. James T. 
White and Co. 

Burr, Amelia Josephine. The Silver Trumpet. George H. 
Doran Co. 

Buxton, Lucy. Hay Harvest, and Other Verse. John Lane 


Call, F. O. In a Belgian Garden, and Other Poems. 

Erskine Macdonald. 
Campbell, Olive Dame and Sharp, Cecil J., Compilers. 

English Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians. 

Comprising 122 Songs and Ballads and 323 Tunes. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
Cammaerts, Emile. Messines, and Other Poems. English 

translations by Tita Brand-Cammaerts. John Lane Co. 
Carlin, Francis. My Ireland. Songs and Simple Rhymes. 

Henry Holt and Co. 
Carmichael, Waverley Turner. From the Heart of a Folk. 

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Holly Hanford. The Cornhill Co. 
Chapin, Harry Lorenzo. Mythology. Poetry and Prose. 

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Chappell, Henry. 2'he Day, and Other Poems. John Lane 

Chenery, Ruth Baldwin. At Vesper Time. G. P. Put- 
nam's Sons. 
Clarke, George Herbert, Editor. A Treasury of War Po- 
etry. British and American Poems of the World War, 

1914-1917. Houghton Mifflin Co. 
Colton, Joseph K. Jimmy-Boy Recruit, and Other Verses. 

Harrigan Press, Inc., Worcester, Mass. 
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lished by the Author. 
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Lyrics. With an Introduction by Cale Young Rice. 

The Cornhill Co. 
Cudworth, Warren H. The Odes and Secular Hymns of 

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Zanesville, Ohio, 
de Bosschere, Jean. The Closed Door. Translated by F. 

S. Flint. Introduction by May Sinclair. John Lane 

de la Mare, Walter. Motley, and Other Poems. Henry 

Holt and Co. 
de la Selva, Solomon. Tropical Town, and Other Poems. 

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Dennis, C. J. The Moods of Ginger Mick. John Lane Co. 
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mond Coke. John Lane Co. 


Dithridge, Ethelwyn. As Thou Wilt, and Other Poems. 
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Frost, Henry Weston. Heart Songs. Verses for Chris- 
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Camp-Fire Verse, An Anthology of Open-Air Verse. 

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French and Co. 
Hodgson, Ralph. The Last Blackbird, and Other Lines. 

The Macmillan Co. 
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Home, Cyril Morton. Songs of the Shrapnel Shell. Har- 
pers and Bros. 

Home, Ida Caroline. Songs of Sentiments. Edited by her 
son, Herman Harre Home. The Neale Publishing Co. 

Hornung, E. W. The Ballad of Ensign Joy. E. P. Dutton 
and Co. 

Hughes, Glenn. Souls, and Other Poems. Paul Elder. 

Inman, Arthur Crew. One Who Dreamed. The Four Seas 

Jones, Jr., Thomas S. The Voice in the Silence. Thomas 

Bird Mosher. 
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of All. Lloyd Adams Noble, New York City. 
Johnson, Georgia Douglas. The Heart of a Woman. The 

Cornhill Co. 
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With an Introduction by Brander Matthews. The 

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Johnson, Robert Underwood. Italian Rhapsody, and Other 

Poems of Italy. Published by the Author, 70 Fifth 

Avenue, New York City. 
Poems of War and Peace. Published by the Author, 

70 Fifth Avenue, New York City. 
Joyce, James. Chamber Music. The Cornhill Co. 

" K., A. M." Beloved, a Driftage of Love Lyrics. Grafters 
Publishing Co., Kansas City, Mo. 

Kenyon, James B. Reed Voices. James T. White. 

Kilmer, Joyce, Editor. Dreams and Images. An Anthol- 
ogy of Catholic Poems. Boni and Liveright. 

Kreymborg, Alfred, Editor. Others, An Anthology of the 
New Verse, 1917. Alfred A. Knopf. 

La Prade, Ruth. A Woman Free. Introduction by Edwin 
Markham. J. F. Rowney Press, Los Angeles, Cal. 

Langdon, Courtney. The Divine Comedy of Dante AUghieri. 
The Italian Text with a Translation in English Blank 
Verse and a Commentary. Vol. I. Inferno. Harvard 
University Press. 

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Lays. John Lane Co. 


Leamy, Edmund. My Ship, and Other Verses. With a 

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Leland, iiobert De Camp. Roses and Rebellion. The Four 

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Leveridge, Lilian. Over the Hills of Home, and Other 

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Lewis, Seneca G. The Cycles. Themes by Seneca G. Lewis. 

Interpretative Verse by C. P. McDonald. The Cornhill 

Lieberman, Elias. Paved Streets. The Cornhill Co. 
Lindsay, Vachel. The Chinese Nightingale, and Other 

Poems. The Macmillan Co. 
Linn, Edith Willis. A Cycle of Sonnets. James T. White 

and Co. 
Loveman, Robert. Sonnets of the Strife. With Songs. 

With a Foreword by John Burroughs. The Cornhill Co. 

MacKaye, Percy. Jeanne D'Arc. The Macmillan Co. 

The Evergreen Tree. D. Appleton and Co. 
Mackereth, James A. The Red, Red Dawn. Erskine Mac- 

Macleish, Archibald. Tower of Ivory. With a Foreword 

by Lawrence Mason. The Yale University Press. 
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rill Co. 
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and Co. 
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Masters, Edgar Lee. Toward the Gulf. The Macmillan Co. 
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and Co. 
Maynard, Theodore. Drums of Defeat. Erskine Mac- 

McCarthy, Dennis A. Songs of Sunrise. Little, Brown 

and Co. 
McClure, John. Airs and Ballads. Alfred A. Knopf. 

Editor. The Stag's Hornbook. Alfred A. Knopf. 
McLaren, James Henry. Joan of Arc. Paul Elder and Co. 
Mendes, H. Pereira. Esther and Harbonah. The Gorham 

Meynell, Alice. A Father of Women, and Other Poems. 

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Edna Worthly Underwood. Paul Elder and Co. 


Middleton, Jesse Edgar. Sea Dogs and Men at Arms. G. 

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Newbegin, Anna B. H. M. Poems of Life from California. 

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Holiday and Poems and Phantasies. Frederick A. 

Stokes Co. 

Oberlin, Samuel H. Not Psalms hut Sam's. Published by 

the Author, MassUIon, Ohio. 
O'Brien, Edward J. The Masque of Poets. A Collection 

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O'Byrne, Cathal. The Grey Feet of the Wind. Frederick 

A. Stokes Co. 
O'Conor, Norreys Jephson. Songs of the Celtic Past. John 

Lane Co. 
O'Hara, John Myers. Threnodies. Smith and Sale. 
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O'Seasnain, Brian Padraic. Star-Drift. The Four Seas 

Oxenham, John. The Fiery Cross. George H. Doran Co. 

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Peach, Arthur Wallace. The HiU Trails. Sherman, French 
and Co. 

Pearse, Padraic. The Collected Works of. Frederick A. 
Stokes Co. 

Pembcr, Mrs. E. G. The Fall of Babylon, Naaman, The 
Syrian, Judith. The Tran.'.cript Press, Dedham, Mass. 

Pendergast, P. J. Selected Gems. Published by the Au- 
thor, Norwood, Mass. 

Piatt, Joseph Roland. Songs of the Heart and Soul. Sher- 
man, French and Co. 

Piper, Edwin Ford. Barbed Wire, and Other Poems. The 
Midland Press. 

Poemes Des Poilus. With an Introduction by Robert Her- 
rick. W. A. Butterfield, Boston. 

Porter, Agnes. English B. Sherman, French and Co. 

Pound, Ezra. Lustra of, with Earlier Poems. Alfred A. 

Powys, John Cowper. Mandragora. G. Arnold Shaw. 

Preston, John. Romance and the West. Palling Petals, 
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Reed, Edward Bliss. Sea Moods. The Yale University 

Rice, Grantland. Songs of the Stalwart. D. Appleton and 

Richards, Laura E. To Arms! Songs of the Great War. 

The Page Co. 
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Day Poets. Houghton Mifflin Co. 
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Rittenhouse, Jessie B. The Door of Dreams. Houghton 

Mifflin Co. 
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Sackville-West, V. (Mrs. Harold Nicolson). Poems of 
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phia, Pa. 

Schnittkind, Henry T,, Editor. The Poets of the Future. 
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ScoUard, Clinton. Elegy in Autumn. In Memory of Frank 
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Shackelford, Theodore Henry. My Country, and Other 
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the Woodberry Society. 
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thor, Harbor Springs, Michigan. 
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lingana. E. P. Dutton and Co. 
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Pound, Ezra. His Metric and Poetry. Alfred A. Knopf. 

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P. Dutton and Co. 



These notes intend to give some interpretative idea of 
the books under review. In my treatm,ent I have tried to 
keep in mind a statement of Max Eastman's, — that, '' The 
fundamental act of life is not judgment but choice. It is 
not what people have decided but what people want, that is 
of original and divine importomce." 

Ardours and Endurances. Also A Faun's Holiday and 
Poems and Phantasies. By Robert Nichols. (Frederick 
A. Stokes Company.) One might be bold enough to de- 
clare, if the declaration means anything, that in " A Faun's 
Holiday" this young English poet has produced a kind of 
second " Endymion." It is a poem of great romantic 
beauty; besides having all the elaborate appareling of lan- 
guage, it has beneath a body of idealism as thoroughly 
Christian as Keats' was pagan. Here is a young poet who 
gropes through a ritual of naturalism to the divine doc- 
trine of theism; and his ritual is a way of escape from the 
symbolic laws of nature to the separate and higher laws of 
man. Does this poem point the way that is to be taken by 
the poets after the, war ? Has the emergence begun — we 
have this year, the mystical example of Mr. Siegfried 
Sassoon — from the ruins of the past and present, and in 
such poets as Mr. Nichols and Mr. Sassoon, is the glimmering 
of the new spirit for a new age showing itself? Somehow 
I seem to think it is so. Mr. Nichols has been in the 
trenches and has written a group of war poems unsurpassed 
for their vivid feeling and beautiful simplicitj'' of expres- 
sion. He tells of the batteries moving into position, of 
the assault, of self-sacrificing gallantry, imbuing them all 
with a spirit and vision entirely new in the poetry of the 
war. He seems to accomplish his extraordinary quality out 
of the consciousness shimmering in the line " All my 
Young England fell to-day in fight," a fact which does not 


emanate from the glory of capturing German trenches nor 
the nobility of heroic action, but becomes sacred in the light 
of ransoming by the blood shed and the deaths endured, 
the holy freedom of mankind. So through these poems we 
trace the spiritual progress of youth, from the moment 
when the " Summons " came to the " Approach " taking 
him to " Battle," and in the tributes to " The Dead " who 
were his friends, upon whom, lying wounded in the hospital 
he thinks, being himself " out of the night," of that awful 
experience, and passing through " The Aftermath " of spirit- 
ual speculation. Here is a sequence of war poems of un- 
usual meaning and beauty. They make a kind of testament, 
such as no other poet has yet given us of his experience in 
this war. Conceivably Mr. Sassoon might have done so had 
he sketched a design in which to weave his spiritual experi- 
ence. In the " Poems and Phantasies," which form the 
last section of Mr. Nichols' book, he gives us many a richly 
embroidered song full of subtle and mystical meaning. In 
these poems, as in " A Faun's Holiday," the poet shows 
himself possessed of a romantic imagination which burns 
and glows into and through the theme. It is pure poetry 
that Mr. Nichols writes, and with youth on his side, he will 
enrich more surprisingly than even in this book, the future 
store of English poetry — if the war spares him! 

Barbed Wire, and Other Poems. By Edwin Ford Piper. 
(The Midland Press, Moorhead, Minn.) Precisely what 
Robert Frost has done for New England, Mr. Piper has, 
in this volume, done for the West from Illinois to the 
foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The difference on the 
one hand is, that the eastern community has a long back- 
ground which gives a highly complicated weave to character 
and experience, while the western comifiunity is largely set 
in the foreground of national life, simple in detail, more 
elemental and expansive. On the other hand, the similarity 
of style between the two poets has its difference in the 
fundamental quality of tone rather than in the technical 
structure of rhythms. Both employ a colloquial mood and 
speech, making blank verse, for the most part, serve a 
natural and flexible character of- expression. Both poets 
with this medium obtain peculiar and individual effects, a 
quiet and persuasive utterance is common to both, and is 
the result of a language very plain and drab in appearance 
and meaning, but having about it a sense and spirit which 
is the essence of the visual and imaginative. The art of 
both these poets is concrete. They deal with what is the 

most ordinary materials, but time upon one has put the 
imprint of the tragic and grim, of the bare and worn nerves 
of a lonely and isolated rural people; time upon the other 
has scarcely made an impression as yet. It is nature that 
has stamped the people of Mr. Piper's wide stretching 
country of prairie and canyon, with vigor and romanticism, 
with the hardy and aspiring impulse of a fresh stock. One 
cannot with too much emphasis lay stress upon the social 
value of Mr. Piper's poems, for with a most vivid use of 
the imaginative faculty, he weaves for us the fabric of a 
community rising on the bare breast of nature. The con- 
tact of his people is wholly with elemental forces and needs. 
We watch them adjusting and adapting themselves to new 
conditions of life, which have been scarcely settled by the 
second generation of movement across the plains. The in- 
heritance of new homes, such as establish themselves with 
the crude necessities of a new and separated existence, is 
also curiously touched and colored by the poet with the 
finer instincts of the spiritual inheritance of forbears in 
the old' homes. For it is the edge of pioneer days which 
the poet sets as the background for his poetry, and all the 
subjects of that life are sharply visualized in presenting the 
human story. The first half of Mr. Piper's book deals with 
this life in its various aspects, and it is done with a fine 
concentration on the essential features. The second, and 
quite the larger part of the book, deals with " The Neigh- 
borhood." Here the settlements have crystallized into 
communities, and character rather than circumstance stands 
out. These poems tend to convince the reader that the 
West has in Mr. Piper a new poet of rare power of feeling 
and expression, who, eschewing the tawdry and spectacular, 
the false and cheap modern impulse, gives embodiment and 
representation to what is true and sound, fundamental and 
characteristic in its pioneer life. He has done this with 
an art that is both sympathetic and suitable to the mate- 
rial; that is not in any sense derivative, but vigorous and 
fresh in style, natural and easy in a sort of dry and homely 

Buddy's Blighty, and Other Verses from the Trenches. 
By Lieutenant Jack Turner, M. C. Canadian Expeditionary 
Force. (Small, Maynard and Company.) Last year Rob- 
ert W. Service's " Rhymes of a Red Cross Man " stood 
far ahead of all the popular war verse with the Kiplingese 
note, and this year the honor with equal justification goes 
to Lieutenant Jack Turner. " Buddy's Blighty " is a hu- 

man book — humanity is not nearly so human under other 
conditions as under the grim stress and suffering of war — 
it is a humorous book, a racy and direct book of singing 
verses. It sings of the rough, unsophisticated giant coming 
down from the frozen barrens of the North to get into the 
" scrap " over there in Flanders — and the particular giant, 
" Buddy Baldwin, Broncho-Buster," is a singularly imagi- 
native chap coming out of ether in a hospital in Blighty — 
of the man with a yellow streak who proved in his fright 
to be a first-class hero, and of many another one in the 
trenches. The poems are full of the " Ragtime Army," of 
shell-shock, of verses to Macconachie, of No Man's Land — 
in fact of all the familiar, and current topics and experi- 
ences the war has brought forth. But somehow Lieutenant 
Turner arouses a fresh interest in what are now these com- 
monplaces of the war. The volume is a deeply human and 
moving chronicle of the trenches. 

First Poems. By Edwin Curran. (Published by the Au- 
thor. Moorehead Avenue, Zanesville, Ohio.) This is a 
modest little pamphlet of twenty-nine unnumbered pages. 
The cover is also the title-page, and carries this note of 
information : " Reviewers please include address of author 
and price of book (35c Postpaid) in notices. Any help in 
distribution will be appreciated. Author is a railroad 
telegrapher, 25, unmarried, a beginner and needs publisher. 
If this volume meets expenses, another, possibly better, will 
be issued. This edition 250 autographed copies. Quota- 
tions may be made at will by newspapers, magazines, etc." 
If this pamphlet of verses doesn't become famous some day, 
I'll be much mistaken. I venture also that Mr. Curran 
will not " need " a publisher for his second volume. For 
here, indeed, is a genius, if in the rough. There are few 
poets to-day who can produce epithets with the vitality, 
the freshness, and the illumination of vision, as this appar- 
ently untutored singer. The poems are uneven, but the 
pure gold among them is evidence of an absolute poetic 
gift. Discerning critics have been quick to see Mr. Curran's 
power, and the enthusiasm of Mr. Untermeyer will be gen- 
eral with the poet's next volume. 

Georgian Poetry. 1916-1917. Edited by Erskine Mac- 
donald. (G. P. Putnam's Sons.) The editor remarks in 
his Prefatory Note that "This third book of Georgian 
Poetry carries to the end of a seventh year the presentation 
of chosen examples from the work of contemporary poets 
belonging to the younger generation. Of the eighteen 


writers included, nine appear in the series for the first 
time. The representation of the older inhabitants has in 
most cases been restricted in order to allow full space for 
the newcomers." The poets included are W. J. Turner, 
James Stephens, J. C. Squire, Siegfried Sassoon, I. Rosen- 
berg, Robert Nichols, Harold Monro, John Masefield, Ralph 
Hodgson, Robert Graves, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, John 
Freeman, John Drinkwater, Walter De La Mare, William 
H. Davies, Gordon Bottoniley, Maurice Baring, and 
Herbert Asquith. This issue is the best of these series of 
Georgian Poetry; the poems by Sassoon and Nichols give 
it, in spite of the fine quality of the work of Masefield, 
Davies, Gibson, and Stephens, significance. The omission 
of Edward Thomas seems a little puzzling, but on the whole 
the volume is admirably representative of the younger gen- 
eration in England — in considering the men only. 

Hill-Tracks. By Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. (The Macmil- 
lan Company.) In this book Mr. Gibson shows great visual 
concentration, sharply outlining the moods of memory and 
association. The faculty to do this has not been displayed 
in the dramatic reveries and dialogues of laboring people 
that make up the greater portion of Mr. Gibsons poetic 
achievement. In these latter, there is the conscientious 
artist who sees his nearest goal to reality, and one must add, 
a rigid kind of beauty, running through the by-paths of 
democracy; but he managed always to invest his human 
episode with a gray atmosphere, and his characters, in the 
hard confines of their social existence, were meagre and 
monotonous in type. Of its kind, this poetry of "Daily 
Bread," " Borderlands and Thoroughfares," " Livelihood " 
and " Fires," was quite perfect for the social and human 
material the poet dealt with. But with the advantages of 
theme and understanding went certain disadvantages of ex- 
pression. It was with his collection of war lyrics, " Battle," 
that there came into Mr. Gibson's art a more flexible qual- 
ity of imagination, a liquidity of utterance, which refused 
to be confined into the well-cut channels of emotions. 
" Hill-Tracks " is another advance in the lyrical develop- 
ment of the poet. They lead through a torn heart, for 
going and coming, are memories of the war. Where they 
branch oflF, are on the side-slopes of bucolic character and 
incident. On these for the time, the poet tries to escape 
from his own consciousness of the strife, but he cannot 
escape from sadness, because the terrible conflict has eatep 
into his imagination. All those topographical references, 

of which the poems in this volume are full, to English scenes 
and places, is an effort to wrench the memory from the 
thunder and misery of the conflict across the Channel, and 
lure it into the security of traditional associations, but even 
the effort fails. The result is a continued lyrical lament 
breaking through the mellow English landscape. 

Motley, and Other Poems. By Walter de la Mare. 
(Henry Holt and Company.) Both Mr. de la Mare's pre- 
vious books, " The Listeners " and " Peacock Pie " were 
belated gifts to American readers when they became known 
here through American editions within the past two years. 
Neither became very popular over here, but their magic 
did not fail to impress critics of varying tempers and sym- 
pathies, and won a discriminating audience of respectable 
size. This new collection then, ought to find a hearty Amer- 
ican welcome, for it comes as a direct assurance that Mr. 
de la Mare has found a place in the appreciation of Ameri- 
can readers. Will those, who have what amounts to a 
veneration for the subtle and delicate magic of " The Lis- 
teners," that volume whose very name cast a spell upon 
readers, be disappointed in these new poems? Admittedly, 
it has nothing so fine as a half dozen or more perfect mas- 
terpieces in " The Listeners " volume ; but for all that, 
there is no lessening of that magical quality, so simply 
conjured from the frailest substances, which is the supreme 
gift, as it is the most inexplicable, of Mr. de la Mare's art. 
The strangeness clinging about life, the invisible beauties in 
the apparent forms and flowing veils of motion in nature, 
which it is his power to evoke and make into presences, 
are all here exquisitely woven into the shimmering texture 
of verse. It is scarcely the subject or theme that Mr. 
de la Mare may choose to sing about that counts, it is his 
remarkable sensibility in taking the attitude or aspect 
which casts an illumination of shadow or motion, or of 
signifying spirit, which abstract the mood of wizardry and 
beauty. So these poems are spells, quite as much as any 
he has written, and the reading of them prefigures all that 
one suddenly and flashingly remembers of experience and 
observation in life and nature. 

My Ireland. Songs and Simple Rhymes. By Francis 
Carlin. (Henry Holt and Company.) In Francis Carlin 
America has produced a poet who in imagination is a Celt 
of the Celt. This American born Irishman is spiritually 
and poetically an alien in the city of New York where he 
lives. He is a born poet, for, as he admits, he has had 

practically no literary training. Yet a reading of his poems 
is not to be judged purely by academic standards; he is 
wise in the knowledge which only the born poet possesses; 
in that spiritual training and intuition, which opened to 
Keats and William Blake a world of dreams and realiza- 
tions beyond the acquisition of schools. And it is with 
Blake, in a certain brief lyric mysticism and intensity, that 
he is akin in his most alluring moments. Ireland, as may 
be seen, is the poet's passion, and to her he gives the best 
of his songs. Some of these have a turn of phrase and 
imagination that thrill with their simple and pathetic 
beauty. The Irish wistfulness in both delight and sorrow 
is in this poet the measure of his yearning for the unattain- 
able — the green fields of Ireland. But out of the suppres- 
sion of a New York mercantile existence, he shapes out of 
memory and dream and passion pure haunting strains of 
Celtic song. 

Poems. By Edward Thomas (" Edward Eastaway "). 
With a Portrait from a Photograph by Duncan Williams. 
(Henry Holt and Company.) Edward Thomas, whose na- 
ture essays and literary biographies won him a place among 
the younger writers of England, was killed in action at 
Arras, Easter Monday, 191 T. This volume of poems, pub- 
lished afterwards, was his first presentation as a poet. It 
shows the influence of Robert Frost, to whom it is dedi- 
cated. As a nature essayist Edward Thomas was one of 
the most perceptive and alluring of the younger English 
writers; and these poems have much of the same quality of 
sentiment and feeling. The style and diction employed 
tend, however, with its rigid colloquialism of speech, to dis- 
joint and disarray one's feeling and appreciation, until one 
has attuned the ear of the spirit to the sense so harmoni- 
ously imbuing the abrupt dropping of words into the 
metres. They seem to present incoherencies of thought and 
expression, but one becomes aware with careful attention of 
something unusual, of a kind of magic ecstasy growing out 
of the method. Tlie magic of the English countryside flows 
through these poems of Edward Thomas. Contemplating 
scenes of woodland and field, of highroad and farmstead, 
his visions are captivating. His portraiture of rural char- 
acters is quite as infectious as his paintings in delicate 
colors of the English landscape. It is difficult to find poems 
more saturated with the particular kind of beauty these 

Renascence, and Other Poems. By Edna St. Vincent 


Millay. (Mitchell Kennerley.) The stir made by Miss 
Millay's poem " Renascence " when it appeared in The 
Lyric Year contest some years ago, turned the gaze of the 
poetry-loving public upon this young lady with considerable 
interest and expectation. Since then she has printed lyrics 
and songs in the magazines of a quality to pronounce her 
gift as a rare one. Intensity is her most marked emotion- 
al trait and it points an imagination which rapturously 
ensnares the elusive realities of the world. Her reaction 
to these flights as in " Renascence," is to fall passionately 
into sorrowful moods, in the attempt to struggle through 
the pain of love, of harassing dreams, into a kind of tri- 
umphant realization that all life and experience is a shim- 
mering illusion. But for all that there is a starry glad- 
ness in her substance, which has, especially in her shorter 
songs and lyrics, an haunting influence upon the reader. 

The Burglar of the Zodiac, and Other Poems. By Wil- 
liam Rose Benet. (The Yale University Press. The 
exuberance of Mr. Benet's muse is the most daringly ex- 
ploitive of any in American poetry. He is the Drake or 
Raleigh of American verse sailing the oceans of the poetic 
imagination and discovering continents of fancy. Never 
was a more apt title than the " burglar " applied to the 
creative mind; it steals into the secret and fastened places 
of experience and nature, and returns laden with the wares 
of dream and music. The reader may revel with him as 
he displays his loot to the astonished sensibilities. He per- 
forms with such careless ease, that one sometimes thinks 
that he will be caught and imprisoned with trivialities and 
mawkishness, but he always manages to escape with the 
proud consciousness of a true and subtle craftsman. With 
this volume he becomes a very important figure in con- 
temporary poetry. 

The Chinese Nightingale, and Other Poems. By Vachel 
Lindsay. (The Macmillan Company.) "The Chinese 
Nightingale " having won two years ago the prize annually 
awarded by Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, for the best 
poem printed by it during the year, ought on account of 
that to be the most popular of Mr. Lindsay's poems. 
Whether it is or not I would not venture to say, because all 
that Mr. Lindsay does is very much talked about. As the 
poem which gives its title, and in a large measure the dis- 
tinction to this volume, it will come, I think, to readers 
who already know it with scarcely any loss of glamor or 
interest. The war poems which make up the first and 

second section of Mr. Lindsay's book have a recondite sig- 
nificance in " America Watching the War," and " America 
at War with Germany." In the first of tliese "The Tale 
of the Tiger Tree" finely illustrates the tapering of Mr. 
Lindsay's imaginative power into a suggestion of manner- 
ism; it is ail here, the kind of incisive exploration of vision 
which Mr. Lindsay takes to particularize a simple and im- 
pressive fact, but the kind of familiarity that envelopes it 
takes away the thrill of emotion we feel in reading "The 
Chinese Nightingale " and many other poems. Mr. Lind- 
say, however, can never fail to be interesting, seductively 
arresting, and exhilarating, in his own strange and indi- 
vidual way. The new art, or combination of arts, which 
Mr. Lindsay has devised in " The Poem Games," is, apart 
from " The Chinese Nightingale," the most interesting fea- 
ture of this new book. The " Booker Washington Trilogy," 
except for the third member of the group, I care little for; 
the significance of the tribute as a " memorial " to the Negro 
educator is too detached in the symbolism to catch the 
imagination. And let me say here that in spite of what 
Professor Phelps and Professor Nelson Antrim Crawford 
have written about Mr. Lindsay's understanding and sym- 
pathy for the Negro, he neither understands nor repre- 
sents them. I once heard Mr. Lindsay preface his reading 
of " The Congo " with some reflections on the Negro race, 
and I saw immediately that he regarded it purely as a 
spectacle; that he drew little difference between the emo- 
tionalism of the aboriginal and the individual so interfused 
with other bloods and environments who was as far re- 
moved from the " big, black bucks " as the poet himself. 
The third member of this Trilogy, " King Solomon and the 
Queen of Sheba," one of the poem games, shows the pos- 
sibilities of the community expressed in the art of verse, 
through speaking and dancing. The poem itself has a 
magical quality. Mr. Lindsay's explanation of the poem 
games, in an introduction to these poems, gives an inter- 
esting interpretation of the idea. There has been a re- 
sponse to the idea in Chicago and the West, but whether it 
will spread further through general acceptance, one would 
not venture to predict, though as a social solution for one 
of the many problems of democracy, it is worth quite seri- 
ous attention. Out of it, who can tell, Mr. Lindsay may 
proceed to newer conquests in his poetic career. 

The Door of Dreams. By Jessie B. Tiittenhouse. 
(Houghton Miiflin Company.) For some time there have 


been glimmerings in the pages of her magazines that Miss 
Rittenhouse was poet as well as critic. I have noted these 
pieces, but they have seemed to me the work of a very ac- 
complished woman, rather than the accomplished work of 
a poet. Now that she has gathered a volume, one finds the 
impression heightened, and that the total effect assumes the 
air of a very neat and sincere talent. The quality of Miss 
Rittenhouse's songs appears at times in a slightly over- 
strained perfection. She allows no rift through which 
might flow a current of unpremeditated warmth; what 
comes is precisely what the psychology might invoke, but 
it leaves, as the song single in its substance should not 
leave, the emotion errant. Firm and beautiful as the sur- 
face of her songs appear, one feels that it is most cun- 
ningly, and often very exquisitely designed like a mosaic, 
and not woven together. It is so difficult to tell, sometimes, 
where simplicity is put to such rigid service, as Miss Rit- 
tenhouse puts it, just where the echo tapers into the silence 
of dreams, but it is certain as the title of her volume mod- 
estly declares, the greater number of these songs take one 
no further than to the " door of dreams." Now and then 
she lures you beyond into the dim and mysterious rooms 
of the house of life, which is also the house of dreams. 
Then she is at her best, and her talents take on a tinge of 
glory. It is then that she locks her song at precisely the 
second of its fullest suggestion, and leaves with the reader 
the golden key of the imaginative symbol. On the whole 
the volume gives one the agreeable satisfaction of a well- 
balanced and well-accomplished talent. 

The Last Blackbird, and Other Lines. By Ralph Hodg- 
son. (The Macmillan Company.) Mr. Hodgson, like Mr. 
Gibson, and all the younger English poets of to-day, must 
feel as Mr. Gibson sings in a song called "Lament," the 
"heartbreak in the heart of things," but what he does is 
precisely to " turn to little things " and paint his hopes 
large upon them. We see his way out in the poem after 
which his volume is named, " The Last Blackbird," a 
dream-dialogue between the spirit of the poet and the spirit 
of nature. In this poem is a symbol to be read with com- 
forting faith. There may be a dash of melancholy in the 
poem but there Is compensation in the conviction that 
nature will not desert the faith that hangs on. All this, 
however, is far from any memory of the war. Mr. Hodgson 
apparently has not deviated one inch from his poetic pur- 
pose since the war came. His is still the same haunting 

and quaintly musical art, with the exception that in this 
collection his metrics have grown more tractable than in the 
last, and his humor has blossomed into a fantasia of the 
most exquisite and satiric. The first two-thirds of this vol- 
ume is made up of poems full of Mr. Hodgson's character- 
istic delicacy of imagination, with a mystical and symbolic 
note; the last third, of poems that I can best describe by 
saying that they are Charles Lamb turned into verse. 
" An Erring Muse," " An Elegy Upon a Poem Ruined by 
a Clumsy Metre," " The Vanity of Human Ambition and 
Big Behavious," " Dulcina, a Bull-Terrier," and " To My 
Muse," are exceptional performances of a whimsicality 
whose bloom is a rare kind of spiritual logic, which no one 
among the younger English poets has accomplished. 

The Lover's Rosary. By Brookes More. (The Cornhill 
Company.) In his foreword which takes the form of "The 
Lover's Apology," Mr. More asks " Is it not the poet's 
business to record the desires of the heart as well as the 
calculations of the mind? When Life turns," he continues, 
"its kaleidoscope, contrasting shapes and colours unite in 
harmonious designs; and so, the apparent contradictions of 
the mind and heart may be combined to form a completed 
destiny." So in these sonnets Mr. More gives us once again 
the " old, old story," but with the lustre of a spirit which 
turns its vari-colored emotions into a compelling and ar- 
tistic work. Of late there has not been presented in Ameri- 
can verse a sonnet-sequence with rarer distinction than this 
possesses. The form of the sonnet which Mr. More has 
produced with extraordinarily fine modelling, sets him 
among the most accomplished practitioners in American 
verse. The lyrical quality he has given it in keeping with 
the best traditions of its history shows what fine capabilities 
it possesses in the hands of a trained craftsman. The se- 
quence is divided into two parts, " Pearls " and " Ashes," 
and into each the poet pours with appropriate understand- 
ing and intensity, the moods of joy and anguish, elaborat- 
ing them with many a figure and image of the imagination. 

The Old Huntsman, and Other Poems. By Siegfried 
Sassoon. (E. P. Dutton and Company.) No English poet 
of late, with the exception of Walter de la Mare, has a 
purer strain of magic than Mr. Siegfried Sassoon. Un- 
known to American readers, this poet comes out of war- 
stricken England, with a gift of incomparable beauty, 
awakening our spirits to gleaming vistas beyond the ruck 
and gloom of the present. Only too sensible of the war, 


since he has taken an active part in it, he deals with it in 
the compellingly important manner of looking beyond it, 
into and through human nature, to ideals against which 
all its horror and grimness, misery and futility will shatter 
themselves, to the eternal glory of the spirit of man. The 
war poems of Mr. Sassoon have this significant value — 
they show the way out of a crucial dilemma by transform- 
ing the fact into a vision, by creating round the tragic ex- 
perience an illusion, to secure hopes for the future. He 
is the " Mystic as Soldier " of his own poem, who despis- 
ing, hating this monstrous folly, can yet regard it as a 
crusade in which God himself is taking part for the liber- 
ation of humanity. The spiritual attitude assumed by Mr. 
Sassoon towards the war, and what he has experienced and 
observed of its appalling results, seems to me less a concern 
of the immediate present, than a force created to lift the 
curtain of the future. The prophetic note is everywhere 
sounded. There has not been, in any collection of verse 
touching the war, before this, which had in it so much of 
what is new in meaning and significance. Time and again 
one finds in these pages such witchery and enchantment as 
no other contemporary poet in England except Walter 
de la Mare or William H. Davies have achieved. Mr. Bas- 
soon's genius is as unmistakable as either these other two 
poets, so well known in America; but beyond them this poet 
goes in spiritual comprehension, in a certain power to 
evoke a mood which is thoroughly human, while at the 
same time full of symbolic implications. This is indeed, 
a rare volume of poems, and should serve to acquaint 
American readers with a poet hitherto unknown to them, 
who deserves their admiration and affection, along with 
Masefield, de la Mare, Davies and Gibson. 

The Silver Trumpet. A Boole of Verse. By Amelia 
Josephine Burr. (George H. Doran Company.) Miss Burr 
has given all her gifts as a poet to the service of the coun- 
try at war. " Who shall interpret, who shall justify," she 
sings in one of these poems, and with this impulse she also 
exhorts and inspires, glorifies and celebrates, causes and 
incidents of the Entente Allies in the war. Miss Burr ac- 
complishes in these poems two specific and important 
things: she "illuminates," as it has been said, "the psy- 
chology of those who are left at home," and she dramatizes 
with a poignant force episodes of the camp, the battle- 
front, the desolated villages of France and Belgium, the 
hospital, and the human side of many an historic event 


which has taken place in the Allied nations during the war. 
AH of these poems are based upon actualities; personal 
experiences that have come direct to the poet, incidents 
that have been recorded in books, in the daily or periodical 
press. This collection is, then, a veritable transcript of 
experiences which reveal the most human side of the war. 
Expressed with all Miss Burr's customary music in the deft 
handling of rhythms and her always vivid sense of substance 
and spirit this collection stirs "with the heroic appeal to 
sacrifice, and the glory of those who, in losing their souls, 
find them." 

Toward the Gulf. By Edgar Lee Masters. (The Mac- 
millan Company.) In "Toward the Gulf" we find that 
same uncovering of the flesh on the organism of our demo- 
cratic civilization that has come to be Mr. Masters' peculiar 
gift. He is the surgical technician in this, for he seems to 
take it for granted that there is a malignant growth or 
infection in the various social bodies which compose our 
civilization. With him there is no remedy except in the 
knife of truth. But he refrains from torturing his pa- 
tients more often in " Toward the Gulf " than in " The 
Great Valley." He is more consistently committed to the 
anaesthesia of beauty in the operation of his ideas. In 
other words, he realizes more profoundly that his covenant 
is with art and not science in the manner and method of 
dealing with his material. I don't know but what in this 
he has come to resemble Browning more than any other 
poet. If Browning was writing to-day as a mid-Western 
American, I think he would write exactly as Mr. Masters, 
and would deal with very much the same themes and make 
them yield very much the same significance; if Mr. Mas- 
ters had lived as a Victorian poet, I can very well conceive 
of his having prodiiced " The Ring and the Book," " Para- 
celsus," the dramatic monologues and lyrics of that English 
speculative poetic vision. The American has a way even 
in his titles of revealing kinship to the Englishman. But 
the restlessness of Browning in exploring the regions, the 
manifestations of experience, was largely to expose and 
rationalize the mental abstractions overwhelming character 
and passion; in this Browning recedes from our stationary 
perceptions; Mr. Masters starts, as it were, from his dis- 
tance, but unfolding as he approaches us, enlarges our con- 
tact, not by swift flights into remoteness, but gathers from 
all sources experiences to give meaning and wonder and 
vision to the realities at our feet. The irony and tragedy 


of life Mr. Masters does not hesitate to probe, in poem 
after poem in this volume. Go through these pages and 
see how keen the imagination and truth cuts into the con- 
sciousness of human experience. The " Dialogue at 
Perko's," "Sir Galahad," "St. Deseret," "Heaven is But 
an Hour," "Victor Rafolski," "DelUah," "The World- 
Saver," " Bertrand and Gourgaud Talk Over Old Times," 
" Widow La Rue," " Dr. Scudder's Clinical Lecture," and 
"The Bishop's Dream of the Holy Sepulchre." One can 
only add that these poems give us a new evidence of Mr. 
Masters' powers, that he has reached again close to the 
level of the " Spoon River Anthology," and dissipated com- 
pletely the idea of having produced only a single first-rate 

Trackless Regions. Poems. By G. O. Warren. (Long- 
mans, Green and Company.) Throughout Mrs. Warren's 
book runs a thoughtful and serious strain on the destiny 
of human life. With a very exact sense of realities she 
manages nevertheless to give them a touch of mysticism, 
and in a language that has much of the severity and a 
great deal of the passionate imagery of Biblical phrasing. 
There is an urgent and illuminating fire running through 
her substance, which breaking to the surface transforms 
an apparently insignificant mood into a vital experience. 
While on the one hand the moon, strange as it seems in 
view of Mrs. Warren's profoimdity, is a cherished symbol, 
the dark planet groping through infinity is, on the other 
hand, more precisely the symbolization of both her thought 
and feeling. Life is like the earth pursuing its way through 
the trackless regions of experience, but there is a light of 
the spirit, which I venture to suggest, is symbolized in her 
mind by the moon throwing its radiance upon those regions 
of experience through which the human soul pursues its 
destiny. With an artistry of great refinement Mrs. Warren 
builds her poems; they all possess a distinction of music 
and phrase. 

Tropical Towns, and Other Poems. By Salomon De La 
Selva. (John Lane Company.) In regards to this volume 
I cannot present it better than by quoting these sentences 
describing the poet and his work: "It is perhaps the mix- 
ture, not rare in Latin America, of Indian, Spanish and 
English blood in his veins, that has made Salomon de la 
Selva the representative poet of the Tropics that he is: 
savage in his passion for nature, proud in his love of 
country, subtle In his perception of spiritual values in all 


things. To his strong individualism he adds a culture un- 
usual in one so young, and thereby succeeds in interpreting 
to people of different traditions the very soul of his Latin 
America. He possesses a rich and faultless command of 
English, and at times employs resources of English proFody 
that reveal his scholarship. He has nurtured his innate 
gift in the art and literature of all countries, but whether 
he sings a Rumanian folk-ballad or a lyric in the manner 
of the Elizabethans, he is a Latin American through and 
through, and, vi^hatever the form he uses, the soul of the 
poem is always his soul. Nor is he merely a singer of 
songs ; he has an ideal to give utterance to — he is the 
poet of Pan-Americanism, and equally dear to him are the 
volcanoes of Nicaragua and the white birches of New Eng- 



Armstrong, Hamilton Fish. Born in New York, April 
7, 1893, son of Maitland Armstrong, the artist, educated at 
Princeton University. For a short time magazine and 
newspaper writer, connected with The New Bepublic. En- 
tered the army at the beginning of the war. First Lieu- 
tenant in Regular Army, now with 2^d U. S. Infantry. 
From Dec, 1917, to Feb., 1918, Military Attache to the 
Serbian War Mission. Contributor to The Book of Prince- 
ton Verse and editor of The Book of New York Verse 
(1918). Home, New York City. 

The College, 1917 97 

Baker, Karle Wilson. Born in Little Rock, Ark., Oct. 
13, 1878, educated at Little Rock Academy and University 
of Chicago. Home, Nacogdoches, Texas. 

Vanity 60 

The Ploughman 147 

Barnes, Djtjna. Born Cornwall-on-Hudson, June 12, 
1893, educated at home. Author. Has published the Pas- 
sion Play, and The Book of Repulsive Women. 

Lines to a Lady 53 

Benet, William Rose. Born at Fort Hamilton, New 
York Harbor, July 2, 1886, educated at the Albany Acad- 
emy and Sheffield Scientific School, Yale University. Was 
for a number of years assistant editor of the Century 
Magazine, and is now in the army. He is the author of 
Merchants from Cathay, The Falconer of God, The Great 
White Wall, The Burglar of the Zodiac, and Other Poems 
(1918), and with his wife translated Paul Claudel's The 
East I Know. Home, Port Washington, Long Island. 

Tricksters 67 

On Edward Webbe, English Gunner . . 78 

Front Line 119 

BiDDLE, Virginia. Born at Parkersburg, W. Va., in 
1895, educated at the University of Cincinnati. With war 
councU of Y. M. C. A. Interests, literary. Home, New 
York City. 

Silence 107 


BnADFoao, Gamaliel. Born at Boston, Oct. 9, 1863, was 
at Harvard University for a few months with class of 1886, 
but educated " mainly by ill-health and a vagrant imagina- 
tion." Writer, whose interests are writing and human na- 
ture. Is author of A Pageant of Life (verse), Unmade in 
Heaven (drama), Lee, the American, Union Portraits, Con- 
federate Portraits, and various novels. Home, Wellesley 
Hills, Mass. 

Heinelet 55 

The Pursuit 55 

Ardor 75 

The Divagator 75 

Robert E. Lee 79 

Exit God 145 

Things of Clay 149 

Branch, Anna Hempstead. Born at Hempstead House, 
New London, Conn., educated at Smith College. Won the 
first prize offered by the Century Magazine for the best 
poem written by a college graduate. Author of The Heart 
of the Road, and Other Poems, The Shoes that Danced, and 
Bose of the Wind. Home, New London, Conn. 

The Name 3 

Brown, Abbie Farwell. Born at Boston, educated at 
the Girls' Latin School (Boston), and Radcliffe College. 
Is interested in out-door life, music, the theatre, and clubs. 
Is an active member of the Vigilantes. Author of Book of 
Saints and Friendly Beasts, In the Days of Giants, The 
Curious Book of Birds, The Flower Princess, The Star 
Jeivels, Brothers and Sisters, Friends and Cousins, Their 
City Christmas, John of the Woods, The Christmas Angel, 
The Lonesomest Doll, Kismeton Town, Surprise House, The 
Lucky Stone, St. Christopher, Tales of the Red Children 
(prose), A Pocketful of Posies, Fresh Posies, Songs of Six- 
pence (verse). Home, Boston, Mass. 

The Cross-Current 88 

Bunker, John. Born at Cincinnati, O., April 11, 1884, 
educated at St. Francis Xavier College, Cincinnati. Is jour- 
nalist, lecturer and critic, and has special interest in reli- 
gion and poetry. Author of The Nativity (poem in blank 
verse), 1912. Home, New York City. 

Saints' Gold 86 

Crawford, Nelson Antrim. Born at Miller, S. Dak., 
May 4, 1888, educated at the State University of Iowa, A.B., 
and University of Kansas, A.M. Is Head of Department of 

Industrial Journalism and Printing, Kansas State Agricul- 
tural College. His interests are "primarily in journalism 
and the fine arts. Recreations are fishing and photogra- 
phy." He is Associate Editor of The Midland: A Magazine 
of the Middle West, and author of several monographs on 
journalism. Rendering war service as Director of Pub- 
licity, Kansas State Council of Defense. Home, Manhattan, 

Glories 68 

The Mathematician 77 

Burr, Amelia Josephine. Born in New York, in 1878, 
educated at Hunter College. Pursues literature as a pro- 
fession. Has published two volumes of plays. The Point 
of Life and Plays in the Market-Place, five volumes of verse, 
Afterglow, The Roadside Fire, In Deep Places, Life and 
Living, and The Silver Trumpet (1918) ; a novel, A Dealer 
in Empire, and has edited Sylvander and Clarinda, The Love 
Letters of Robert Burns and Agnes McLehose. Is a valued 
member of the Vigilantes, and is very actively engaged in 
various war interests. Home, Englewood, N. J. 

On the Way of the Cross 135 

The Meeting 130 

Father O'Shea 136 

Burt, Maxweli, Struthers. Born in Philadelphia, Oct. 
18, 1882, educated at Princeton University, 1904, and Mer- 
ton College, Oxford, Eng. He is a ranchman. The author 
of a book of poems. In the High Hills, he has also published 
a good many short stories, but they have not yet been col- 
lected in book form. Home, Bar B. C. Ranch, Teton P. O., 
Jackson Hole, Wyoming. 

The Young Dead 150 

Carlin, Francis. Bom at Bay Shore, Long Island, 
April 7, 1881, educated at the Parochial School, Norwalk, 
Conn. Is floor-walker at R. H. Macy and Co., New York. 
His interests are, he says, "the day's job and the night's 
business with Beauty." Is author of My Ireland: Rhymes 
and Simple Songs (1918). Home, New York City. 

By Clodagh's Stream 22 

The Booted Hens 34 

Alchemy 38 

Maureen Oge 52 

The Deaf-Mute Sermon 82 

Clark, Badger. Born in Albia, Iowa, Jan. 1, 1883, edu- 
cated at the Deadwood (S. D.) Public Schools, and Dakota 
Wesleyan University. Is writer, reader and lay preacher. 

Takes deep interest in boolis, men and open country. Has 
published two volumes of verse, Sun and Saddle Leather and 
Grass Grown Trails. Home, Hot Springs, South Dakota. 

A Night Trail 62 

The Drafted Man 104 

Cobb, Ann. Born at Plymouth, Mass., Sept. 15, 1873, 
educated at Wellesley College (B.A., '96). Is teacher and 
settlement worker, Hindman Settlement School, Hindman, 
Kentucky. Deeply interested in the survival of ballads and 
old English customs in the Kentucky mountains. Home, 
Newton Centre, Mass., address part of the year, Hindman, 

War-Time in the Mountains 109 

CoATES, Archie Austin. Born at Dayton, Ohio, Oct. 21, 
1891, educated in the Public Schools of Dayton and New 
York, and Columbia University (A.B., 1913; A.M., 1914). 
Is Associate Editor of Life. His interests are in "human- 
ity and the Seven Arts." Author of Odes and Episodes, 
privately printed by Columbia University Society for sub- 
scription list, 1914, and City Tides, issued this autumn. 
Now Chief Yeoman, U. S. N. R. P., at the District Com- 
munication's OflBce, 3rd Naval District, N. Y, Home, win- 
ter, New York City, summer, Mohegan Lake, N. Y. 

Lavender 54 

Crafton, Allen. Born at Quincy, Illinois, in 1889, edu- 
cated at Knox College, B.A., and Harvard University, M.A. 
Theatrical producer. Is interested in the theatre, music, 
art and literature. Is the author of The Stranger Star, A 
Christmas Fantasy, and a one act play, Sea Pride, which 
has been produced. Joined the Illinois National Guard, 
August, 1916, became Top Sergt. Hdq. Co. 6th 111. Inf. 
(Drum Major), May, '17, 2nd Lieut. 123 F. A., Nov., '17, 
1st Lieut. 123 P. A., Dec, '17, and 1st Lieut. A. S. S. R. C. 
(Observer), Over Seas, July, 1918. Home, Galesburg, 111. 

In Time of War I Sing 100 

Cromwell, Gladys. Born in New York City, in 1889, 
educated at The Brearley School, and in Prench Schools. 
Since February has served in Red Cross Canteen in Prench 
town near the front and under fire for two months. Author 
of a volume of verse. Gates of Utterance. Home, New 
York City. 

Autumn Communion . 30 

The Mould 83 

Folded Power 91 

Star Song 158 


Ctjeran, Edwin. Born at Zanesville, Ohio, May 10, 1892, 
educated at St. Thomas Parochial School, and self-educated 
after one year in the High School. Railroad Telegraph 
Operator. Author of First Poems (1917), Home, Zanes- 
ville, Ohio. 

The March Thaw 6 

Davies, Mahy Caeolyn. Born in the State of Washing- 
ton, received her early training at Kasle, British Columbia, 
and Portland, Ore., and was a student at the University of 
California and New York University. "I make my living 
by writing verse alone," she says, "therefore my occupa- 
tion is dodging creditors. My interests are chiefly broncho- 
riding, canoeing, and basketball; and in the East, where I 
cannot have these, free verse." Her first volume of verse is 
promised for this autumn. Home, Portland, Ore. 

Traps 8 

Spring Sows Her Seeds : Nineteen Eighteen 18 

The Blood-Stained Cross 105 

A Casualty List 131 

DoDD, Lee Wilsok. Born at Franklin, Pa., July 11, 1879, 
educated at Yale University, '99 S. As a playwright he 
has produced Speed, His Majesty Bunker Bean, Pals First, 
The Jack-Knife Man, and other plays. He has published 
two volumes of verse, A Modern Alchemist, and Other 
Poems, and The Middle Years. Now in France. Home, 
Whitneyville, Conn. 

The Parting 133 

Eastman, Max. Born at Canandaigua, N. Y., in 1883, 
educated at Mercersburg Academy, Williams College, and 
Columbia University. He is author, lecturer, and editor of 
The Liberator. Author of several prose works: The Enjoy- 
ment of Poetry, Journalism Versus Art, Understanding 
Germany, The Only Way to End War, and Other Essays, 
and a volume of verse, Child of the Amazons. Home, The 
Manor, Croton-on-Hudson, N. Y. 

Rainy Song 24 

Edgett, Edwin Francis. Born at Boston, Jan. 12, 1867, 
educated at Harvard University, A.B., 1894. Is literary 
editor of the Boston Transcript. His interests are reading, 
writing, gardening, and motoring. Author of Plays of the 
Present, Players of the Present, and a Life of Edward L. 
Davenport. Home, Arlington, Mass. 

Old Books for New 77 

For Belgium 134 

Thus Spake the Prophet Isaiah .... 134 

EowAHDS, Eli. Personal facts about this poet have been diffi- 
cult to obtain. His real name, I understand, is Claude Mc- 
Kay; he is a young colored man who, when he sent his poems 
to The Seven Arts Magazine, was employed as a waiter in a 
New York Club. He has an undoubted gift for poetry. 

The Harlem Dancer 60 

Invocation 74 

Fauset, Jessie. Born at Snow Hill, N, J., educated in 
the Philadelphia Public Schools, Cornell, University of 
Pennsylvania, and in France. Is teacher of French and 
Latin at the Dunbar High School, Washington, D. C. Her 
interests are literary and linguistic. Has published several 
excellent short stories. Has rendered civilian relief in war 
work. Home, Philadelphia. 

Christmas Eve in France 117 

Fisher, Mahlon Leonard. Born in Williamsport, Pa., 
in 1874, educated in Williamsport. Practiced architecture 
for more than seventeen years, and is still active in a con- 
sulting capacity. Is founder and editor of The Sonnet. 
Author of Sonnets: A First Series, the first volume in a 
projected trilogy. Home, Williamsport, Pa. 

Oxen 37 

Love of Children 64 

My Song, Be Silent 75 

Stairways 88 

Garesche, S.J., Edward F. Born at St. Louis, Mo., 
Dec. 27, 1876, educated at St. Louis University (A.M.), 
Washington University (LL.B.). Editor of The Queen's 
Work. Is interested in literature. Catholic social service, 
and organization. Author of two volumes of verse, The 
Four Gates and The World and the Waters (1918), and in 
prose, Your Neighbor and Yon, Your Interests Eternal, and 
Your Soul's Salvation. Is rendering war service as organ- 
izer of Sodalities for soldiers in the camps, and lectures at 
various camps and cantonments throughout the country. 
Home, St. Louis, Mo. 

The Young Priest to His Hands . . .140 
GiLTiNAN, Caroline. Born in Philadelphia, April 19, 
1884, educated in the Public Schools there, and at the 
University of Pennsylvania. Author of a delicate volume 
of verse, The Divine Image, A Book of Lyrics. Now in 
France as secretary to Base Hospital, 38. Home, West 
Philadelphia, Pa. 

The Revealer .141 


Gorman, Herbert S. Born in Springfield, Mass., Jan. 1, 
1893, educated at the Technical High vSchool, Springfield. 
Newspaper man, at present assistant night city editor of 
the New York 8un. His interests are poetry, criticism, and 
music. Was employed in Press Bureau of Liberty Loan 
Committee, Second Federal Reserve District, during the 
Third Liberty Loan. Home, New York City. 

The Burning Bush 80 

Hagedorn, Hermakn. Born in New York City, July 18, 
1882, educated at Bedford Academy, The Hill School, and 
Harvard University. He is engaged in writing and farm- 
ing, but at present in propaganda work in connection with 
the war, and on the Executive Committee, The Vigilantes. 
In fiction he has published Faces in the Dawn and Barbara 
Picks a Husband, brought out in the summer of 1918; two 
volumes in the Macmillan's National Problems Series, You 
Are the Hope of the World, An Appeal to the Boys and 
Oirls of America, and Where Do You Stand? An Appeal to 
Americans of German Origin; his poems and plays are: 
The Silver Blade, The Woman of Corinth, The Horse 
Thieves (plays). Poems and Ballads, A Troop of the Guard, 
and Other Poems, Makers of Madness, The Great Maze 
and The Heart of Youth. He has edited Fifes and Drums, 
a collection of war poems, for The Vigilantes. Home, Sun- 
nytop Farm, Fairfield, Conn. 

How Spring Came to New York .... 12 

HiLLMAK, Gordon M. Born at Evanston, 111., August 31, 
1900, educated at the Noble and Greenough School, prepar- 
ing for Harvard College. Worked as a reporter. Inter- 
ested in short story writing, tennis, and " going to col- 
lege." Author, with his mother, Carolyn Hillman, of a 
volume of verse. Rhymes Grave and Gay, published this 
autumn. Home, Cambridge, Mass. 

'Is Missus 136 

Hooker, Brian. Born at New York, Nov. 3, 1880, edu- 
cated at Yale University, A.B., 1902, A.M., 1904, M.A., 
honoris causa, Yale, 1912. Has taught at Yale and Colum- 
bia. Author The Right Man, The Professor's Mystery (with 
Wells Hastings), Mona, an opera, awarded the prize in the 
Metropolitan Opera Co. competition (music by Horatio 
Parker), won the Cook prize, 1901, and the Heald prize, 
1907; also a volume of verse, Poems. Home, Farmington, 

To Any Woman 38 

Jackson, Catharine Emma. (Mrs. Philip L. Alger.) 


Born at New York City, Nov, 16, 1891, educated at Rad- 
cliffe College. Interested in Social Service. Address, Aber- 
deen Proving Grounds, Maryland. 

Piping 17 

Jennings, Leslie Nelson. 

Inscription 160 

Johns, Orrick. Born in St. Louis, Mo., June 2, 1887, 
educated at the University of Missouri, and Washington 
University. His vocation is writing advertisements. He is 
active in Little Theatre work, with the Little Theatre of 
the St. Louis Artists' Guild, and a director of the Players' 
Club of St. Louis. Mr. Johns won the Lyric Year Prize a 
few years ago with his poem. Second Avenue. Is author of 
Asphalt, and Other Poems. Home, St. Louis, Mo. 

Bess 35 

Johnson, Fenton. Born at Chicago, 111., May 7, 1888, 
educated at the University of Chicago, and Northwestern 
University. Engaged in journalism and literature, and at 
present edits The Favorite Magazine. His chief interest is 
the Negro Race. Author of A Little Dreaming, Songs of 
the Soil, and Visions of the Dusk, all verse. " Whatever I 
can do," he says in regard to war service, " with my pen or 
otherwise to urge my people to aid in the prosecution of the 
war." Home, Chicago, 111. 

The Lost Love 56 

Kilmer, Aline. Born in Norfolk, Va., in 1888, educated 
at the Vaile Deane School, Elizabeth, N. J. She is the wife 
of Joyce Kilmer, the poet and essayist, and will soon pub- 
lish a volume of her own poems. The Garden Child. Home, 
Larchmont, N. Y. 

In Spring 15 

High Heart .112 

Kilmer, Joyce. Born in New Brunswick, N. J., in 1886, 
educated at Columbia University. Engaged in journalism, 
his higher vocation as a poet and essayist is well-known. 
In prose he has published The Circus, and Other Essays, and 
Literature in the Making; in verse. Trees, and Other Poems, 
and Main Street, and Other Poems; has edited Dreams and 
Images, An Anthology of Catholic Verse. As Sergeant Kil- 
mer, he is in France with the Rainbow Division. Home, 
Larchmont, N. Y. (Since the foregoing was written Ser- 
geant Joyce Kilmer was killed in action, in the Second Bat- 
tle of the Marne, July 30, 1918.) 

Prayer of a Soldier in France . . . .111 
Lindsay, Vachel. Born in Springfield, 111., Nov. 10, 


1879, educated at the Springfield High School, Hiram Col- 
lege, Chicago Art Institute, and the New York School of 
Art. Mainly a writer of verse, though he spent ten years 
as an art student, and lectured three winters at the Metro- 
politan Museum. Lately Moving Picture critic for The 
New Republic. Gives recitals of his verse in the winter, 
but lives eight or nine months in the year in the house in 
which he was born, giving, as he says, "ninety per cent of 
energy to the writing of verse." In prose he has published 
(and they should be read in order given, to fully grasp 
Mr. Lindsay's democratic art theories), A Handy Gvide for 
Beggars, Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty, 
and The Art of the Moving Picture (in which a demo- 
cratic aesthetic system is applied to a special art; in verse 
his volumes are. General William. Booth Enters into Heaven, 
and Other Poems, The Congo, and Other Poems, and The 
Chinese Nightingale, and Other Poems. Home, Springfield, 

The Eyes of Queen Esther, and How They 

Conquered King Ahasuerus .... 49 
How Samson Bore Away the Gates of Gaza, 

A Negro Sermon 143 

How I Walked Alone in the Jungles of 

Heaven 146 

Long, Haniel. Born at Rangoon, Burmah, March 9, 
1888, educated at Exeter and Harvard University. Is As- 
sociate Professor in English, School of Fine Arts, Carnegie 
Institute, Pittsburgh. Is interested in art and education. 
Home, " Endiom," Naples, N. Y. 

The Cause of This I Know Not ... 39 

Song 150 

Dead Men Tell No Tales 152 

LowELi., Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874, 
educated at private schools. Makes literature her profes- 
sion. She has published two prose volumes. Six French 
Poets, and Tendencies in Modern American Poetry; her 
volumes of verse are, A Dome of Many-Colored Glass, 
Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, Men, Women and Ghosts, 
and Can Grande's Castle, issued this autumn. Home, 
" Sevenels," Brookline, Mass, 

Free Fantasia on Japanese Themes . . 44 

Madonna of the Evening Flowers ... 61 

The Cornucopia of Red and Green Comfits 121 

M., S. M. Sister of Holy Cross. Born at Cumberland, 

Wis., May 27, 1887, educated at University of Wisconsin, 


1906, St. Mary's College, Notre Dame, B.A., 1909, University 
of Notre Dame, M.A,, 1918. Is teacher in the English De- 
partment, St. Mary's College, Notre Dame. Takes great in- 
terest in teaching, reading, writing, things literary and philo- 
sophical. Author of The Familiar Essay in College English, 
and is a contributor of poems and prose articles to various 
weekly and monthty magazines. In connection with the war 
is doing editorial work on education and the war for vari- 
ous Indiana schools and papers. Home, St. Mary's College, 
Notre Dame, Indiana. 

Knights-Errant 93 

To My Favorite Author 14:? 

Mann, Dorothea Lawrance. Born at Gloucester, Mass., 
Jan. 26, 1887, educated at the Maiden High School and 
Wellesley College. Engaged in writing poetry, short stories, 
and literary criticism. Interests, books and the drama. 
WiU publish this autumn a volume of poems. Home, 
Maiden, Mass. 

Spring-Song 9 

Masters, Edgar Lee. Born at Garnet, Kan., August 23, 
1869, attended the Lewiston, 111., High School, later studying 
law. He is a lawyer and writer. Author of the following 
books, two of which are prose: A Book of Verse, 1898, 
Maximilian, A Drama, 1902, The New Star Chamber, 1904, 
Blood of the Prophets, 1905, The Trifler, 1907, Songs and 
Sonnets, 1910, Songs and Sonnets, Second Series, 1912, Spoon 
Biver Anthology, 1915, Songs and Satires, 1916, The Great 
Valley, 1916, and Toward the Gulf, 1918. Home, Chicago, 111. 

Recessional, In Time of War .... 96 
Mavity, Nancy Babr. Born at Bridgeport, 111., Oct. 22, 
1890, educated in the Public and High Schools, Keokuk, 
Iowa, Western College (A.B.), Wellesley College (Graduate 
School), Cornell University (A.M., Ph.D.). Is on the edi- 
torial staff of George H. Doran Co., publishers. Interests, 
" picnics, auction bridge, cats, husband, psycho-analysis." 
Contributor to Philosophical Essays in Honor of J. E. 
Creighton, 1917, The Masque of Poets, 1918, and author of 
verse and essays in The Bookman, Unpopular Review, etc. 
Home, New York City. 

A Pilgrimage 16 

MiDDLETON, ScuDDER. Bom in New York City, Sept. 9, 
1888, educated at Columbia University. He is engaged in 
the publishing business. Author of Streets and Faces, 1917. 
Home, New York City. 

The Prisoners 39 


Miller, J. Corson. Born at Buffalo, N. Y., Nov. 13, 1883, 
educated at Canisius College, Buffalo, N. Y. Executive As- 
sistant, engaged in Electric Railway Transportation. Con- 
tributor of verse to various magazines and newspapers, 
and will publish soon a volume of poems. Home, Buffalo, 
N. Y. 

Sacrifice 141 

MiNOT, John Clair. Born at Belgrade, Maine, Nov. 30, 
1872, educated at Bowdoin College, A.B., 1896. Associate 
Editor of The Youth's Companion since 1909. Interests, 
" hard work and my home." Author of the histories of 
Belgrade, Me., of Augusta, Me., of the Class of Bowdoin, 
'96, of the D. K. E. Fraternity of Bowdoin; also of many 
papers, addresses, poems, and has edited compilations of 
stories and poems. Just finished Maine's Contribution to 
Literature, soon to be published by the Maine State Library. 
Home, Watertown, Mass. 

The Brook that Runs to France . . . .113 

More, Brookes. Born at Dayton, Ohio, March 29, 1859, 
educated at St. Louis, Mo. Is author and financier. In- 
terests, literature, and especially poetry. Author of Gods 
and Heroes, Great War Ballads, Ovid's Metamorphoses, 
translated into English Blank Verse (included in the two 
preceding volumes), The Lover's Rosary, Son^s of a Bed 
Cross Nurse, and A Beggar's Vision, Home, Fort Smith, 

Celestial Signs 160 

MoRTOK, David. Born at Elkton, Ky., Feb. 21, 1886, 
educated at Vanderbilt University. Is on the staff of the 
Louisville Herald, and on the faculty of the Louisville Boys' 
High School. Has not yet published a book. Home, Louis- 
ville, Ky. 

A Road in Flanders 117 

Mount, Richard. 

Villanelle 52 

McDoNOUGH, Patiiick. 

Via Longa 93 

NiCHOLL, Louise Townsend. Born at Scotch Plains, N. J., 
Oct. 25, 1890, educated at Smith College. Newspaper 
writer. Engaged on an important book soon to be pub- 
lished. Home, Scotch Plains, N. J. 

The Child's Mother .63 

For a Child Named Katharine .... 64 

O'Brien, Edward J. Born at Boston, Mass., Dec. 10, 
1890, educated at Boston College, and Harvard University. 

Has devoted himself entirely to literature. Edited, The 
Man Forbid, and Other Essays, by John Davidson, The 
Renegade Poet, and Other Essays, by Francis Thompson, 
Essays in Criticism: Third Series, by Matthew Arnold, The 
Best Short Stories for 1915, The Best Short Stories for 
1916, The Best Short Stories for 1917, and will issue subse- 
quent annual volumes in the same series. Has just pub- 
lished a translation of Henri Barbusse The Inferno. His 
first volume of verse. White Fovntains : Odes and Lyrics, 
was issued in 1917. Home, South Yarmouth, Mass. P. O, 
Bass River, Mass. 

Hymn to Light 6 

The Path 8 

The Meeting 31 

Oliver, Iax. 

Love's Island 91 

CNeil, David. Born at St. Louis, July 23, 1874, edu- 
cated at Washington University. Engaged in the lumber 
business. Author of A Cabinet of Jade. Home, St. Louis, 

The Ascent 23 

The Beach 67 

The Unquiet 90 

O'Neil, George. Born at St. Louis, Mo., in 1896, edu- 
cated at Smith Academj^, St. Louis. Has joined the Naval 
Service. Home, St. Louis, Mo. 

On the Light Reeds 22 

They Pass 105 

Parker, Elizabeth West. Born at Woburn, Mass., Oct. 
4, 1874, educated at the Woburn and Salem Normal School. 
Has engaged in teaching; at present occupied in "making 
a home for my family and friends," and takes an interest 
in " everything ! " Home, Woburn, Mass. 

Nora 46 

Paul, Dorothy. 

The Threshing-Floor 87 

Perct, William Alexander. Born in Greenville, Miss., 
May 4, 1885, educated at the University of the South, and 
the Harvard Law School. By profession a lawyer. Now 
in the Army. Author of Sappho in Leukas, and Other 
Foems. Home, Greenville, Miss. 

A Wood Song 20 

Poppy Fields 21 

To an Old Tune 56 

Piper, Edwin Ford. Born at Auburn, Neb., Feb, 8, 1871, 


educated at the University of Nebraska, and Harvard Uni- 
versity. Teaclies English, has a vital interest in collecting 
ballads, farms, and is a lover of outdoor sports. Author 
of an extraordinary book of poems. Barbed Wire, and Other 
Poems (1917). Home, Iowa City, la. 

Have You an Eye 32 

Road and Path . 33 

The Games 69 

The Banded 83 

Moon-Worship 156 

PuLsiFER, Harold Trowbridge. Born at Manchester, 
Conn., Nov. 18, 1886, educated at the Pomfret School, and 
Harvard College. Won the Lloyd McKim Garrison Prize 
in Junior Year for poem. Conquest of the Air, and was 
Class Poet, 1911. Member of the editorial staff of The 
Outlook. Served in two Plattsburg Camps, summer of 1916; 
voluntarily inducted into the National Army, Jan. 31, 1918; 
promoted to the grade of Master Signal Electrician, Signal 
Corps, U. S, N. A., Feb. 7, 1918; now on detached service 
in New York City. Author of Mothers of Men, a volume of 
poems. Home, Mountainville, N. Y. 

Wild Bird 28 

The Shadow of Silence 92 

To a Schoolmate — Killed in Action . . 132 
Reese, Lizette Woodworth. Born in Baltimore County, 
Md., in 1856, educated in Baltimore. Teacher by profession. 
Has published four books of verse much beloved and ad- 
mired by discriminating lovers of poetry: A Branch of May, 
A Handful of Lavender, A Quiet Road, and A Wayside 
Lute. Home, Baltimore, Md. 

Ellen Hanging Clothes 48 

Rowland, Eron O. (Mrs. Dunbar Rowland). Born in 
Mississippi, a descendant of the early Colonial families of 
Hamptons, Rowlands and Hairstons, of Virginia. Has for 
many years been assistant secretary of the Mississippi His- 
torical Society, of which her husband is president. Was 
carefully educated by her father, an honor graduate of 
La Grange College, and a Professor of Greek and Latin. 
Her historical monographs and researches have attracted 
the favorable attention of the historians and scholars of her 
State. Her poems have won the commendation of critics, 
and she has in preparation a volume of poems to be pub- 
lished this autumn. Home, Jackson, Miss. 

Youth in Arms Ill 

Robinson, Eloise. Born in Amelia, Ohio, in 1889, edu- 

cated at Western College, Oxford, O., Mount Holyoke, and 
"Wellesley College. Her occupation is writing, interests, 
" everything," she says. Edited The Minor Poems of Joseph 
Beaumont, and is soon to publish a volume of her own 
poems. Home, Cincinnati, O. 

Blue Roses 127 

Sampson, Henry A. Born in King William Co., Va., 
April, 1870, educated at Shelbyville, Ky. Engaged in the 
Fire Insurance business. Interests, Literature. It is of 
interest to know that he is a great-great-grandson of Pat- 
rick Henry, and in 1896 married Emma Keats Speed, who 
is a great-niece of John Keats. Home, Richmond, Va. 
After Reading an Anthology of Fugitive 

Verse xxviii 

Stephen Phillips, Bankrupt 79 

To H. M.: In Memoriam 152 

Shepard, Odell. Born at Rock Falls, 111., July 22, 1884, 
educated at Northwestern, Chicago, and Harvard Universi- 
ties (degrees, A.M. and Ph.D.). Is Goodwin Professor, 
and Head of the Department of English, Trinity College, 
Hartford, Conn. His chief interests are poetry, literary 
criticism, and music. Is author of a prose volume of Shake- 
speare Questions, a volume of verse, A Lonely Flute, and 
Other Poems, and was contributor to Edward J. O'Brien's 
The Masque of Poets, Home, Hartford, Conn. 

An Old Inn by the Sea 98 

The Flock at Evening 157 

Speyee, Leonora. Born at Washington, D. C, in 1872, 
educated at Washington. Before marriage was a profes- 
sional violinist, having played with Anton, Seidl, Nikisch, 
Sir Henry Wood, etc. Interests, music and poetry. Home, 
New York City. 

A Crabbed Song of Spring 11 

April on the Battlefields 120 

Stoutenburgh, Eugenia. 

The Dream-Selier Man 73 

Teasdaxe, Sara. Born in St. Louis, Mo., August 8, 1884, 
educated at private schools in St. Louis. Her chief inter- 
est is poetry, and her chief occupation in writing it. In 
private life she is Mrs. Ernest FUsinger, wife of the author 
of Trading in South America. Author of Helen of Troy, 
and Other Poems, Rivers to the Sea, and Love Sonf/s, the 
latter being awarded in June the prize of $500 by Columbia 
University for being adjudged the best volume of poems 
by an American poet published Juring 1917 — an honor 


which won the general approbation of poetry lovers. She 
has edited The Answering Voice: One Hundred Love Lyrics 
by Women. Home, New York City. 

The Cup 5 

Red Maples 20 

Blue Squills 46 

Spray 63 

Spring, 1918 99 

In a Burying Ground 154 

Winter Stars 159 

ToNKiK, Kathariste. Bom at Mallow, Paradise Co., O., 
educated privately. Engaged in creative handicrafts. In- 
terests, mysticism, poets as human beings more than artists, 
and the catholicity of human opinion. Has in preparation a 
volume of poems. Home, Mallow. 

The Way the Trees Break the Skyline . 39 

By Some Strange Way 41 

ToRRENCE, RiDGELY. Born in Xenia, Ohio, educated at 
Princeton University, Writer and dramatist. Author of 
Oranny Maumee, and Other Plays. Home, New York City. 

Sea Dream 1 

Twiss, Blanche Olin. Born at Manhattan, Kansas, Jan. 
27, 1888, educated at Buchtel College, Ph.B., Akron, Ohio, 
1907, B.S., Teachers College, Columbia University, 1911. 
Some time teacher of Home Economics, Akron, O., Wheel- 
ing, W. Va., Edmonton, Alberta, State Demonstrator Home 
Economics, Wyoming. Married June 28, 1915, Professor 
George R. Twiss of Ohio State University. Interests, Home 
Economics and Literature. In war work, Red Cross Surgi- 
cal Dressings. Home, Columbus, O. 

His Mother Speaks 115 

Untermeyee, Lotris. Born at New York City, Oct. 1, 
1886, educated in the New York Grammar Schools. De- 
clares himself as " Jeweler, Designer, Husband, Factory 
Superintendent, Reviewer — sometimes a poet," and that 
his favorite pursuits are Swimming, Socialism, Playing Ten- 
nis, and the Piano." Author of, in verse. First Love, Chal- 
lenge, — And Other Poets, These Times; was one of the 
contributors to The Younger Quire, and has translated 
Heinrich Heine — SS5 Poems; this autumn is publishing a 
volume of critical essays on American poets and poetry. 
Home, New York City. 

You . . . ' 40 

Hands 41 

The Wise Woman 59 


Prayer for a New House 72 

Phantasy 156 

Waldron, Marion Patton. Born at Oberlin, Ohio, Nov. 
17, 1885, educated at Smith College. Engaged in writing. 
Home, New York City. 

Holiday 27 

Wattles, Willard. Born at Baynesville, Kan., June 8, 
1888, educated at the University of Kansas, A.B., A.M. 
Describes himself as " University Instructor, harvest-hand, 
critic, hobo, poet," and interested in " practical Christianity, 
but not in creeds." Co-author with Harry Kemp, of a vol- 
ume of verse. Songs from the Hill, and editor of Sunflowers, 
A Book of Kansas Poems, A volume of his poems, Lan- 
terns of Oethsemane, has just been issued. Now in the 
Army. Home, Lawrence, Kan. 

I Have Had Great Pity 42 

Hrolf's Thrall — His Song 73 

"Against My Second Coming" . . . .137 
Welles, Winifred. Born at Norwich Town, Conn., Jan. 
26, 1893. Interests, Poetry, Child Welfare, Home. Is en- 
gaged in Home Red Cross and Canteen work. Home, Nor- 
wich Town, Conn. 

Threnody 158 

Wheelock, John Hall. Born at Far Rockaway, Long 
Island, N. Y., in 1886, educated at Harvard University, 
1908. He is manager of the Library Department, Charles 
Scribner's Sons, New York. Has contributed poems to all 
the leading magazines, and has published three books. The 
Human Fantasy, The Beloved Adventure, and Love and 
Liberation. Home, New York City. 

Exile from God 148 

White, Viola Chittenden. Born Hancock, N. Y., 
August 3, 1890, educated at Girls' High School, Brooklyn, 
and Wellesley College. Secretary to " Forward," a radicsil 
monthly magazine. Interests, socialism, literature, pe 
Home, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

The Litany of the Comfortable .... 85 
Widdemer, Margaret. Born in Doylestown, Pa., edu- 
cated at home. Literature is her profession. Interests, ca- 
noeing, folksongs. Her novels are. The Rose Garden Hus- 
band, Why Not? The Wishing-Ring Man, You're Only 
Young Once (autumn, 1918) ; two juveniles, Winona of the 
Camp Fire and Winona at Camp Karenyaj in verse. Fac- 
tories, and the Old Road to Paradise (autumn, 1918). In 
connection with the war, engaged in War Camp Community 

Service, department of publicity. Home, Larchmont, N. Y. 

Warning 57 

Swan-Child 66 

WooDBEEaT, George Edward. Born at Beverly, Mass., 
May 13, 1855, educated at Harvard College, Class 1877. A 
retired professor who has had a distinguished and influen- 
tial career, with a wide European recognition. The author 
of numerous volumes in prose and verse, essays, literary 
interpretation, and biography. His important volumes of 
verse are, Poems, The Wild Flight, and Other Poems, and 
Ideal Passion: Sonnets. A study of Mr. Woodberry's 
poetry, by Louis V. Ledoux, has lately been issued by 
Dodd, Mead and Co., and includes a bibliography of great 
value to the students of this distinguished writer. Home, 
Beverlv, Mass. 

Allies 94 

Worth, Patiexce. In regard to this author I can only 
quote what Mrs. Curran writes : " Nothing is definitely 
known of Patience Worth's life except that she seems to have 
lived during the middle of the 17th century and was not an 
author. She was a spinster whose mother was a sempstress 
to certain neighborhood nobility. They seemed to have lived 
in Dorset, England, near the sea, but in her efi'ort to hide 
herself and withdraw her personality in favor of her work, 
she has been so meager in her facts relating to her life and 
surroundings that what we know is almost nil." As all the 
literature ascribed to Patience Worth has been transmitted 
through Mrs. John H. Curran, it is of vital interest to know 
something of her, and I hereby quote the biographical facts 
of her life: "I was born April 15, 1883," she writes, "at 
Mound City, 111. Family moved to Texas soon after and 
spent fourteen years there, where I attended public school 
and for a few months, a local convent. Came to Missouri 
at ten, and entered the public schools, and advanced as far 
as the 8th grade when we moved to an inland town 65 miles 
away, where we lived some six years, during which time I 
took trips to Chicago, and studied voice. Married Jan. 27, 
1907, to John Howard Curran of St. Louis. Maiden name 
Pearl Lenore Pollard, only child of George and Mary Pol- 
lard. Xo literary experience," she adds, " more than writing 
letters. Read the ordinary line of current books and maga- 
zines. Patience Worth came July 14th, 1913. I have 1500 
poems, seven short stories, three complete novels, one in 
blank verse of 70,000 words, five other stories and a one 
act play in process of writing, in aU about 1,500,000 words. 


Three books published to date, Patience Worth, The Sorry 
Tale, and Hope Trueblood." Mrs. Curran's home is in 
St. Louis. 

The Weeping Earth 24 

Tutored Not, Unlearned Am I .... 81 

The One Thing 139 

The Shadow Land 149 

Sweet Hath Hung the Eve 154 

Wynne, Annette. Born at Brooklyn, N. Y., educated 
at New York University, and Columbia University. Teacher 
of English Literature, High School, New York City. Au- 
thor of For Days and Days, A Book of Child Verse (au- 
tumn, 1918). Home, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

When the Song is Done 76 

In a Factory 84 

YotJNG, William. Born at Monmouth, 111., in 1847, edu- 
cated at Monmouth College, and abroad. Dramatist. Au- 
thor of Wishmaker's Town (1885; republished, with a pref- 
ace by Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1898) ; Jonquil (produced 
1871); The Rogue's March (produced 1872); Pendragon, 
poetic drama (produced 1881); The House of Maupret, 
with John G. Wilson (produced 1882); The Bajah (pro- 
duced 1883) ; Ganelon, poetic drama (produced 1888) ; Joan 
of Arc, an adaptation in verse (produced 1890) ; If I Were 
You (produced 1892) ; Young America (produced 1894) ; 
The Princess of Bagdad, an adaptation (produced 1896) ; 
Woman's Wiles (produced 1898) ; Ben Hur, a dramatiza- 
tion (produced 1899); Ah, What Biddies These Women Be! 
narrative poem (1900) ; The Sprightly Romance of Marsac, 
a dramatization (produced 1900) ; A Japanese Nightingale, 
a dramatization (produced 1903) ; The Sea-Green Man 
(produced 1907). Homes, Summer, Burkehaven, N. H., 
address, Author's Club, New York City. 

Journeys to Go 25 



A bird ran up the onyx steps of night. 

Louis Unteemeyee 156 

A black cross and a bloody. 

Maey Caeolyk Davies 105 

A cripple woman has a sight of time to grieve and fret. 

Anit Cobb 110 

A trap's a very useful thing, 

Maey Caeolyx Davies 8 

" Against my second coming." 

WiLLAED Wattles 137 

AU day long I have been working. 

Amy Lowell 61 

All night long we had heard the voice of the sea. 

Odell Shepabd 98 

All the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds. 

Amy Lowell 44 

Ancestral Spirit, hidden from my sight. 

Eli Edwaeds 74 

An island in an inland sea. 

Ian Olivee 91 

April now walks the fields again. 

Leoxoea Speyee 120 

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes. 

Eli Edwaeds 60 

As long as you never marry me, and I never marry you. 

Mabgaeet Widdemee 57 

Because of the light of the moon. 

Feancis Caelin 38 

Between the windy dusk and the first pale light. 

Heemank Hagedoen 12 

Beyond the valleys flushed with almond-buds. 

DoEOTHY Paul 86 

By some strange way the truth emerges. 

Kathaeine Tonkin 41 

Currants and Honey! 

Amy Lowell 121 


Dear God, 

S. M. M 142 

Death is no foreman, we were born together. 

S. M. M 93 

Down from the rocky western steep. 

Odell Shepaed 157 

Down the dripping pathway dancing through the rain. 

Max Eastman 24 

Dulcimore over the fireboard, a-hanging sence allus-ago. 

Ann Cobb 109 

Even I as see, and share with you in seeing. 

Edgar Lee Masters 96 

Except of barges with red sails. 

Haniel Long 153 

Father O'Shea was his regiment's pride. 

Amelia Josephine Burr .... 135 
For Belgium. 

Edwin Francis Edgett 134 

God and the Fairies, be true, be true! 

Louise Townsend Nichoul .... 64 
God will not let my field lie fallow. 

Karle Wilson Baker 147 

Gordon Rand, we saw you last. 

Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer . . . 132 
Have you an eye for the trails, the trails. 

Edwin Ford Piper 32 

He died in France! 

Blanche Olin Twiss 115 

He followed the curve of the sunrise. 

Edward J. O'Brien 8 

He harried lions up the peaks. 

Vachel Lindsay 49 

He met the Danske pirates off Tuttee. 

William Rose Benet 78 

He talks of kings and in his eyes at times. 

Herbert S. Gorman 80 

He thought to solve. 

David O'Neil 90 

His eyes grow hot, his words grow wild. 

Louis Untermeyer 59 

How many million Aprils came. 

Sara Teasdale 46 

How shall men call you " bankrupt," you who hold. 

Henry A. Sampson 79 


I am bewildered still and teased by elves. 

William Rose Benet 67 

I am filled of compassion. 

Patience Worth . 139 

I cannot die who drink delight. 

Sara Teasdaxe 5 

I cannot find the truth that men have told. 

George O'Neil 02 

I do not fear to lay my body down. 

John Hall Wheelock 148 

I do not know which is worse when you are away. 

Aline Kilmer 15 

I had visited her often. 

Gamaliel Bradford 55 

I have had great pity of forgiven lovers. 

WiLLARD Wattles 42 

I hear them singing in the open spaces. 

Edwin Ford Piper 156 

I knew you thought of me all night. 

Sara Teasdale 63 

I know why ladies dress themselves. 

Karle Wilson Bakeb 60 

I met a Fairy in the Dawn. 

Francis Carlin 32 

I never have knovni anyone so proud. 

Winifred Welles 153 

I never longed so hungrily for spring. 

Sara Teasdale 99 

I put off my smoke-dimmed garment. 

Nancy Barr Mavity 16 

I sit beside the window sill. 

Eloise Robinson 127 

I sing of Song ! of Spontaneity ! 

Allen Crafton 100 

I went out at night alone. 

Sara Teasdale 159 

I who was with her all the time, a child. 

Louise Townsend Nicholl .... 63 
I wonder, will the guelder-roses bloom. 

Richard Mount 52 

If you made your picture. 

Annette Wynne 84 

In secret places strange and wild. 

Francis Carlin ....... 34 


In silence which no weighted sound could plumb. 

Francis Carlin 82 

In the dark of the mine. 

George Edward Woodberry ... 94 
In the last year I have learned. 

Sara Teasdale 20 

In this. 

Edwin Francis Edgett 134 

Is this your body that my fingers touch? 

Louis Untermeyer 40 

It's far I must be going. 

Patrick MacDonough 93 

Joe 'e is a hero, a-wearin' of his cross. 

Gordon M. Hillman 136 

Kissed me from the saddle, and I stiU can feel it 

Badger Clark 104 

Lay her under the rusty grass. 

Djuna Barnes . . . . . . .53 

Luck makes him head, he meets it pranksomely. 

Edwin Ford Piper 69 

Massive and grand are those old houses now. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher .... 88 
May nothing evil cross this door. 

Louis Untermeyer 72 

Muse, we have rhymed of Liberty. 

Lee Wilson Dodd 133 

My feet have touched the Dancing Water. 

Margaret Widdebier ...... 66 

My love is a bush in bloom. 

William Alexander Percy ... 30 
My shoulders ache beneath my pack. 

Joyce Kilmer Ill 

My Song, be silent, for a bird has died. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher .... 75 
My tired horse nickers for his own home bars. 

Badger Clark 62 

Never teU me what you are. 

Brian Hooker 38 

No doubt this active wiU. 

Gladys Cromwell 82 

O, piper, pipe; and I shall dance. 

Catharine Emma Jackson .... 17 
O, road and path, and path and road. 

Edwin Ford Piper 33 


O Robert Lee, you paladin, 

Gamaliel Bradford TJ) 

O Youth who erstwhile stood before thy elders. 

EaoN O. Rowland ...... Ill 

Of old our fathers' God was real, 

Gamaliel Bradford 145 

Oh I have seen the valiant ones go by. 

George O'Neii 105 

Oh little Christ, why do you sigh. 

Jessie Fauset . 117- 

Oh Maureen Oge across the foam, 

Francis Carlin 52 

Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all alone. 

Vachel Lindsay 146 

Oh, where has my honey gone? 

Fenton Johnson 56 

On the way of the cross we were comrades, 

Amelia Josephine Bttrr 125 

On — turgid, bellowing — tramp from the freshet rills. 

Edwin Cuhran 6 

Once, in a night as black as ink. 

Vachel Lindsat 143 

Others make verses of grace. 

Gamaliel Bradford 75 

Poppies paramour the girls, 

Haniel Long 150 

Remembering Thy sacrificial throne. 

Viola Chittenden WHrrE .... 85 
Ruddy, and golden-bright, 

William Young 35 

She came among us and we lived, 

Scudder Middleton 39 

She was a blossoming slip of English May, 

Amelia Josephine Burr .... 130 
Sing a little, play a little. 

Gamaliel Bradford 149 

Sing not to me of earthly power. 

J, Corson Miller 141 

Sometimes at night a song comes flying. 


Sorrow can wait. 

Gladys Cromwell 91 

Spring comes earliest in flower-shops, 

Dorothea Lawrance Mann ... 9 


Spring, I am tired. 

Leonoba Speyeb 11 

Standing on the fire-step. 

William Rose Beni^t 119 

Strange, how this smooth and supple joint can be. 

Louis Uktermever 41 

Stranger alike to traffic's clamor crude. 

Nelson Antrim Crawford .... 77 
Sunlight dancing, and the Earth. 

Patience Worth 149 

Sweet hath hung the eve. 

Patience Worth 154 

The battle raged with hellish spite. 

Virginia Biddle 107 

The blue wistaria hovers 'round her door. 

Henry A. Sampson 152 

The brook that threads the meadow. 

John Clair Minot 113 

The cause of this I know not. 

Haniel Long 39 

The chill clung to the water. 

David O'Neil 67 

The collie girl had the sense bred out of her. 

Orrick Johns .35 

The darkness is full of well-remembered sounds. 

Hamilton Fish Armstrong ... 97 
The Dream Seller came to the little by-street. 

Eugenia Stoutensbourgh .... 73 
The Love of Children lives ; it never dies. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher .... 64 
The maid is out in the soft April light, 

LizETTE Woodworth Reese .... 48 
The occult Magian, versed in subtle art. 

Brookes More 160 

The sea that I watch from my window. 

Aline Kilmer . . . . . . . . 113 

The shoreline of infinities. 

Katharine Tonkin 39 

The twilight hangs like smoke in the streets. 

Archie Austin Coates 54 

The wind no longer sings to me. 

Harold Trowbridge Pulsifeb ... 93 
There are twisted roots that grow. 

Gladys Cromwell 158 


There be five things to a man's desire. 

WiLLARD Wattles . . . . . . .73 

There is a road in Flanders. 

David Morton ........ 117 

There was always waiting in our mother's eyes. 

Mary Carolyn Davies 131 

These have survived the sea's vicissitudes. 

Henry A. Sampson xxviii 

These Who were born so beautifully. 

Maxwell Struthers Burt .... 150 
They met, as it were, in a mist. 

Gamaliel Bradford 55 

This autumn afternoon. 

Gladys Cromwell .30 

This is the spot where I will lie. 

Sara Teasdale 154 

Three fir trees climbing against the sky. 

Edward J. O'Brien 21 

Through the half open door. 

Nelson Antrim Crawford .... 68 
Through the streets and bazaars. 

Edwin Francis Edgett 77 

Through twelve stout generations. 

Abbie Farwell Brown ..... 88 
Time was I saw Christ's body. 

Caroline Giltinan ^1 

Time was when ye were powerless. 

Edward F. Garesche, S. J 140 

Tutored not, unlearned am I. 

Patience Worth 81 

Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher .... 37 
What has been written secretly in these. 

Leslie Nelson Jennings .... 160 
What! Is Earth sodden of anguish? 

Patience Worth 24 

When I came back from Nora's burial. 

E. W. Parker 46 

When I come back from secret dreams. 

Anna Hempstead Branch .... 3 
When the song is done. 

Annette Wynne 76 

Who are the banded? Gather from the four. 

Edw«n Ford Piper 83 


Whoso is faithful warden of desire. 

John Bunker 86 

"Why are you doing it this year, Spring? 

Mary Carolyn Davies 18 

Wild bird with frightened eyes. 

Harold Trowbridge Pulsifeb ... 28 
Wind-loving daughter of eternal day. 

Edward J. O'Brien 6 

With following the paths that ascend. 

David O'Neil 23 

With pilgrim staff and scrip. 

Marion Patton Waldron .... 27 
You cannot choose but love, lad. 

William Alexander Percy . ... 66 
You say the poppy blooms so red, 

William Alexander Peect .... 21 
You think my songs are strange. 

Gamaliel Bradford 75 


Date Loaned 



-;. ';o9^> 



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"■ 1. 



1719 03012 8864 

Boston University Libraries 

Not to be removed 
from the Library