Skip to main content

Full text of "Poetry"

See other formats


of Verse 

October-March, 1912-13 

Harriet Monroe^EdiioT 

Reprinted with the permission 
of the original publisher, 

New York, New York 



. I 


IDggasine of Verse 

No. 1 

OCTOBER, 1912 


is a little isle amid bleak seas 
An isolate realm of garden, circled round 
By importunity of stress and sound, 
Devoid of empery to master these. 
At most, the memory of its streamsand bees, 

Borne to the toiling mariner outward-bound, 

Recalls his soul to that delightful ground; 

But serves no beacon toward his destinies. 

It is a refuge from the stormy days, 
Breathing the peace of a remoter world 
Where beauty, like the musing dusk of even, 
Enfolds the spirit in its silver haze; 
While far away, with glittering banners furled, 
The west lights fade, and stars come out in heaven. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


It is a sea-gate, trembling with the blast 
Of powers that from the infinite sea-plain roll, 
A whelming tide. Upon the waiting soul 
As on a fronting rock, thunders the vast 
Groundswell; its spray bursts heavenward, and drives past 
In fume and sound articulate of the whole 
Of ocean's heart, else voiceless; on the shoal 
Silent; upon the headland clear at last. 

From darkened sea-coasts without stars or sun, 
Like trumpet-voices in a holy war, 
Utter the heralds tidings of the deep. 
And where men slumber, weary and undone, 
Visions shall come, incredible hopes from far, 
And with high passion shatter the bonds of sleep. 

Arthur Davison Ficke 



I am the Woman, ark of the law and its breaker, 
Who chastened her steps and taught her knees to be meek, 
Bridled and bitted her heart and humbled her cheek, 
Parcelled her will, and cried "Take more!" to the taker, 
Shunned what they told her to shun, sought what they 

bade her seek, 
Locked up her mouth from scornful speaking: now it is 

open to speak. 

I am she that is terribly fashioned, the creature 
Wrought in God's perilous mood, in His unsafe hour. 
The morning star was mute, beholding my feature, 
Seeing the rapture I was, the shame, and the power, 
Scared at my manifold meaning; he heard me call 
"O fairest among ten thousand, acceptable brother!" 
And he answered not, for doubt; till he saw me crawl 
And whisper down to the secret worm, "O mother, 
Be not wroth in the ancient house; thy daughter forgets 

not at all!" 

I am the Woman, fleer away, 
Soft withdrawer back from the maddened mate, 
Lurer inward and down to the gates of day 
And crier there in the gate, 
"What shall I give for thee, wild one, say! 
The long, slow rapture and patient anguish of life, 
Or art thou minded a swifter way? 
Ask if thou canst, the gold, but oh if thou must, 


POETRY: A Magazine of Perse 

Good is the shining dross, lovely the dust! 

Look at me, I am the Woman, harlot and heavenly wife; 

Tell me thy price, be unashamed; I will assuredly pay!" 

I am also the Mother: of two that I bore 

I comfort and feed the slayer, feed and comfort the slain. 

Did they number my daughters and sons? I am mother 

of more ! 

Many a head they marked not, here in my bosom has lain, 
Babbling with unborn lips in a tongue to be, 
Far, incredible matters, all familiar to me. 
Still would the man come whispering, "Wife!" but many 

a time my breast 
Took him not as a husband : I soothed him and laid him 

to rest 

Even as the babe of my body, and knew him for such. 
My mouth is open to speak, that was dumb too much! 
I say to you I am the Mother; and under the sword 
Which flamed each way to harry us forth from the Lord, 
I saw Him young at the portal, weeping and staying the 

And I, even I was His mother, and I yearned as the 

mother of God. 

I am also the Spirit. The Sisters laughed 

When I sat with them dumb in the portals, over my 


Half asleep in the doors: for my gown was raught 


/ Am the Woman 

Off at the shoulder to shield from the wind and the rain 
The wick I tended against the mysterious hour 
When the Silent City of Being should ring with song, 
As the Lord came in with Life to the marriage bower. 
"Look!" laughed the elder Sisters; and crimson with 


I hid my breast away from the rosy flame. 
"Ah!" cried the leaning Sisters, pointing, doing me 

"Do you see?" laughed the wanton Sisters, "She will 

get her lover ere long!" 

And it was but a little while till unto my need 
He was given indeed, 

And we walked where waxing world after world went by; 
And I said to my lover, "Let us begone, 
"Oh, let us begone, and try 
"Which of them all the fairest to dwell in is, 
"Which is the place for us, our desirable clime!" 
But he said, "They are only the huts and the little 


Pleasant to go and lodge in rudely over the vintage-time!" 
Scornfully spake he, being unwise, 
Being flushed at heart because of our walking together. 
But I was mute with passionate prophecies; 
My heart went veiled and faint in the golden weather, 
While universe drifted by after still universe. 
Then I cried, "Alas, we must hasten and lodge therein, 
One after one, and in every star that they shed ! 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

A dark and a weary thing is come on our head 
To search obedience out in the bosom of sin, 
To listen deep for love when thunders the curse; 
For O my love, behold where the Lord hath planted 
In every star in the midst His dangerous Tree! 
Still I must pluck thereof and bring unto thee, 
Saying, "The coolness for which all night we have panted; 
Taste of the goodly thing, I have tasted first!" 
Bringing us noway coolness, but burning thirst, 
Giving us noway peace, but implacable strife, 
Loosing upon us the wounding joy and the wasting 
sorrow of life ! 

I am the Woman, ark of the Law and sacred arm to 

upbear it, 
Heathen trumpet to overthrow and idolatrous sword to 

shear it: 
Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morning 

star at song, 
Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at the 

secret door, 
"Open to me, O sleeping mother! The gate is heavy 

and strong. 
"Open to me, I am come at last; be wroth with thy child 

no more. 
"Let me lie down with thee there in the dark, and be 

slothful with thee as before!" 

William Vaughan Moody 


On the loan exhibit of his paintings at the Tate Gallery. 

You also, our first great, 

Had tried all ways; 

Tested and pried and worked in many fashions, 

And this much gives me heart to play the game. 

Here is a part that's slight, and part gone wrong, 
And much of little moment, and some few 
Perfect as Durer! 

"In the Studio" and these two portraits? if I had my choice! 
And then these sketches in the mood of Greece? 

You had your searches, your uncertainties, 
And this is good to know for us, I mean, 
Who bear the brunt of our America 
And try to wrench her impulse into art. 

You were not always sure, not always set 
To hiding night or tuning "symphonies"; 
Had not cne style from birth, but tried and pried 
And stretched and tampered with the media. 

You and Abe Lincoln from that mass of dolts 
Show us there's chance at least of winning through. 

Ezra Pound 

"Brown and Gold de Race." 
"Grenat et Or Le Petit Cardinal." 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


" 'Tis but a vague, invarious delight 

As gold that rains about some buried king. 

As the fine flakes, 

When tourists frolicking 

Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light 

Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes 

And start to inspect some further pyramid; 

As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneath 

Their transitory step and merriment, 

Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus 

Gains yet another crust 

Of useless riches for the occupant, 

So I, the fires that lit once dreams 

Now over and spent, 

Lie dead within four walls 

And so now love 

Rains down and so enriches some stiff case, 

And strews a mind with precious metaphors, 

And so the space 

Of my still consciousness 

Is full of gilded snow, 

The which, no cat has eyes enough 

To see the brightness of." Ezra Pound 



Fish of the flood, on the banked billow 

Thou layest thy head in dreams; 
Sliding as slides thy shifting pillow, 

One with the streams 

Of the sea is thy spirit. 

Gean-tree, thou spreadest thy foaming flourish 

Abroad in the sky so grey; 
It not heeding if it thee nourish, 

Thou dost obey, 

Happy, its moving. 

So, God, thy love it not needeth me, 
Only thy life, that I blessed be. 

Emilia Stuart Lorimtr 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


I have seen the proudest stars 
That wander on through space, 
Even the sun and moon, 
But not your face. 

I have heard the violin, 
The winds and waves rejoice 
In endless minstrelsy, 
Yet not your voice. 

I have touched the trillium, 
Pale flower of the land, 
Coral, anemone, 
And not your hand. 

I have kissed the shining feet 
Of Twilight lover-wise, 
Opened the gates of Dawn 
Oh not your eyes ! 

1 have dreamed unwonted things, 
Visions that witches brew, 
Spoken with images, 
Never with you. 

Helen Dudley 



1. THE GARDEN Poco sostenuto in A major 

The laving tide of inarticulate air. 

Vivace in A major 

The iris people dance. 

2. THE POOL Allegretto in A minor 

Cool-hearted dim familiar of the doves. 

3. THE BIRDS Presto in F major 

I keep a frequent tryst. 

Presto meno assai 

The blossom- powdered orange-tree. 

4. TO THE MOON Allegro con brio in A major 

Moon that shone on Babylon. 


What junipers are these, inlaid 

With flame of the pomegranate tree? 
The god of gardens must have made 

This still unrumored place for thee 
To rest from immortality, 

And dream within the splendid shade 
Some more elusive symphony 

Than orchestra has ever played. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

I In A major 
Poco sostenuto 

The laving tide of inarticulate air 

Breaks here in flowers as the sea in foam, 

But with no satin lisp of failing wave: 

The odor-laden winds are very still. 

An unimagined music here exhales 

In upcurled petal, dreamy bud half-furled, 

And variations of thin vivid leaf: 

Symphonic beauty that some god forgot. 

If form could waken into lyric sound, 

This flock of irises like poising birds 

Would feel song at their slender feathered throats, 

And pour into a grey- winged aria 

Their wrinkled silver fingermarked with pearl; 

That flight of ivory roses high along 

The airy azure of the larkspur spires 

Would be a fugue to puzzle nightingales 

With too-evasive rapture, phrase on phrase. 

Where the hibiscus flares would cymbals clash, 

And the black cypress like a deep bassoon 

Would hum a clouded amber melody. 

But all across the trudging ragged chords 
That are the tangled grasses in the heat, 
The mariposa lilies fluttering 
Like trills upon some archangelic flute, 


Symphony of a Mexican Garden 

The roses and carnations and divine 

Small violets that voice the vanished god, 

There is a lure of passion-poignant tone 

Not flower-of-pomegranate that finds the heart 

As stubborn oboes do can breathe in air, 

Nor poppies, nor keen lime, nor orange-bloom. 

What zone of wonder in the ardent dusk 
Of trees that yearn and cannot understand, 
Vibrates as to the golden shepherd horn 
That stirs some great adagio with its cry 
And will not let it rest? 

O tender trees, 

Your orchid, like a shepherdess of dreams, 
Calls home her whitest dream from following 
Elusive laughter of the unmindful god ! 


The iris people dance 
Like any nimble faun: 
To rhythmic radiance 
They foot it in the dawn. 
They dance and have no need 
Of crystal-dripping flute 
Or chuckling river-reed, 
Their music hovers mute. 
The dawn-lights flutter by 
All noiseless, but they know! 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Such children of the sky 
Can hear the darkness go. 
But does the morning play 
Whatever they demand 
Or amber-barred bourree 
Or silver saraband ? 

II. In A minor 


Cool-hearted dim familiar of the doves, 

Thou coiled sweet water where they come to tell 
Their mellow legends and rehearse their loves, 

As what in April or in June befell 
And thou must hear of, friend of Dryades 
Who lean to see where flower should be set 
To star the dusk of wreathed ivy braids, 

They have not left thy trees, 
Nor do tired fauns thy crystal kiss forget, 

Nor forest-nymphs astray from distant glades. 

Thou feelest with delight their showery feet 
Along thy mossy margin myrtle-starred, 

And thine the heart of wildness quick to beat 
At imprint of shy hoof upon thy sward : 


Symphony of a Mexican Garden 

Yet who could know thee wild who art so cool, 
So heavenly-minded, templed in thy grove 
Of plumy cedar, larch and juniper? 

O strange ecstatic Pool, 

What unknown country art thou dreaming of, 
Or temple than this garden lovelier? 

Who made thy sky the silver side of leaves, 
And poised its orchid like a swan-white moon 

Whose disc of perfect pallor half deceives 
The mirror of thy limpid green lagoon, 

He loveth well thy ripple-feathered moods, 
Thy whims at dusk, thy rainbow look at dawn! 
Dream thou no more of vales Olympian: 

Where pale Olympus broods 
There were no orchid white as moon or swan, 
No sky of leaves, no garden-haunting Pan! 


III In F major 


I keep a frequent tryst 
With whirr and shower of wings : 
Some inward melodist 
Interpreting all things 
Appoints the place, the hours. 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Dazzle and sense of flowers, 
Though not the least leaf stir. 
May mean a tanager: 
How rich the silence is until he sings! 

The smoke-tree's cloudy white 

Has fire within its breast. 

What winged mere delight 

There hides as in a nest 

And fashions of its flame 

Music without a name? 

So might an opal sing 

If given thrilling wing, 

And voice for lyric wildness unexpressed, 

In grassy dimness thatched 

With tangled growing things, 

A troubadour rose-patched, 

With velvet-shadowed wings, 

Seeks a sustaining fly. 

Who else unseen goes by 

Quick-pattering through the hush? 

Some twilight-footed thrush 

Or finch intent on small ad ven tarings? 

I have no time for gloom, 
For gloom what time have I ? 
The orange is in bloom; 
Emerald parrots fly 


Symphony of a Mexican Garden 

Out of the cypress-dusk; 

Morning is strange with musk. 

The wild canary now 

Jewels the lemon-bough, 

And mocking-birds laugh in the rose's room. 


In D Major 
Presto meno assai 

The blossom-powdered orange tree, 

For all her royal speechlessness, 
Out of a heart of ecstasy 

Is singing, singing, none the less! 

Light as a springing fountain, she 

Is spray above the wind-sleek turf: 
Dream-daughter of the moon's white sea 

And sister to its showered surt! 


IV In A major 

Allegro con brio 

Moon that shone on Babylon, 
Searching out the gardens there, 
Could you find a fairer one 
Than this garden, anywhere? 
Did Damascus at her best 
Hide such beauty in her breast? 


POETRY: A Magaiine of Verse 

When you flood with creamy light 
Vines that net the sombre pine, 
Turn the shadowed iris white, 
Summon cactus stars to shine, 
Do you free in silvered air 
Wistful spirits everywhere? 

Here they linger, there they pass, 
And forget their native heaven: 
Flit along the dewy grass 
Rare Vittoria, Sappho, even! 
And the hushed magnolia burns 
Incense in her gleaming urns. 

When the nightingale demands 
Word with Keats who answers him, 
Shakespeare listens understands 
Mindful of the cherubim; 
And the South Wind dreads to know 
Mozart gone as seraphs go. 

Moon of poets dead and gone, 
Moon to gods of music dear, 
Gardens they have looked upon 
Let them re-discover here: 
Rest and dream a little space 
Of some heart-remembered place! 

Grace Hazard Conkling 



NCE upon a time, when man was new in the 
woods of the world, when his feet were 
scarred with jungle thorns and his hands 
were red with the blood of beasts, a great 
king rose who gathered his neighbors to- 
gether, and subdued the wandering tribes. Strange cun- 
ning was his, for he ground the stones to an edge together, 
and bound them with thongs to sticks; and he taught his 
people to pry apart the forest, and beat back the ravenous 
beasts. And he bade them honeycomb the mountain- 
side with caves, to dwell therein with their women. And 
the most beautiful women the king took for his own, 
that his wisdom might not perish from the earth. And 
he led the young men to war and conquered all the warring 
tribes from the mountains to the sea. And when fire 
smote a great tree out of heaven, and raged through the 
forest till the third sun, he seized a burning brand and 
lit an altar to his god. And there, beside the ever- 
burning fire, he sat and made laws and did justice. And 
his people loved and feared him. 

And the king grew old. And for seven journeys of 
the sun from morn to morn he moved not, neither ut- 
tered word. And the hearts of the people were troubled, 
but none dared speak to the king's despair; neither wise 
men nor warriors dared cry out unto him. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Now the youngest son of the king was a lad still soft 
of flesh, who had never run to battle not sat in council 
nor stood before the king. And his heart yearned for 
his father, and he bowed before his mother and said, 
"Give me thy blessing, for I have words within me for 
the king; yea, as the sea sings to the night with waves 
will my words roll in singing unto his grief." And his 
mother said, "Go, my son; for thou hast words of power 
and soothing, and the king shall be healed." 

So the youth went forth and bowed him toward the 
king's seat. And the wise men and warriors laid hands 
upon him, and said, "Who art thou, that thou shouldst 
go in ahead of us to him who sitteth in darkness?" And 
the king's son rose, and stretched forth his arms, and said, 
"Unhand me and let me go, ye silent ones, who for seven 
sun-journeys have watched in darkness and uttered no 
word of light! Unhand me, for as a fig-tree with fruit, 
so my heart is rich with words for the king." 

Then he put forth his strength and strode on singing 
softly, and bowed him before the king. And he spake 
the king's great deeds in cunning words his wars and 
city-carvings and wise laws, his dominion over men and 
beasts and the thick woods of the earth; his greeting of 
the gods with fire. 

And lo, the king lifted up his head and stretched forth 
his arms and wept. "Yea, all these things have I done," 
he said, "and they shall perish with me. My death is 
upon me, and I shall die, and the tribes I have welded 


As It Was 

together shall be broken apart, and the beasts shall win 
back their domain, and the green jungle shall overgrow 
my mansions. Lo, the fire shall go out on the altar of the 
gods, and my glory shall be as a crimson cloud that the 
night swallows up in darkness." 

Then the young man lifted up his voice and cried: 
"Oh, king, be comforted! Thy deeds shall not pass as 
a cloud, neither shall thy laws be strewn before the wind. 
For I will carve thy glory in rich and rounded words 
yea, I will string thy deeds together in jewelled beads of 
perfect words that thy sons shall wear on their hearts 

"Verily thy words are rich with song," said the king; 
"but thou shalt die, and who will utter them? Like 
twinkling foam is the speech of man's mouth; like foam 
from a curling wave that vanishes in the sun." 

"Nay, let thy heart believe me, oh king my father," 
said the youth. "For the words of my mouth shall keep 
step with the ripple of waves and the beating of wings; 
yea, they shall mount with the huge paces of the sun in 
heaven, that cease not for my ceasing. Men shall sound 
them on suckling tongues still soft with milk, they shall 
run into battle to the tune of thy deeds, and kindle their 
fire with the breath of thy wisdom. And thy glory 
shall be ever living, as a jewel of jasper from the earth 
yea, as the green jewel of jasper carven into a god for 
the rod of thy power, oh king, and of the power of thy 
sons forever." 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The king sat silent till the going-down of the sun. 
Then lifted he his head, and stroked his beard, and spake: 
"Verily the sun goes down, and my beard shines whiter 
than his, and I shall die. Now therefore stand at my 
right hand, O son of my wise years, child of my dreams. 
Stand at my right hand, and fit thy speech to music, that 
men may hold in their hearts thy rounded words. For- 
ever shalt thou keep thy place, and utter thy true tale 
in the ears of the race. And woe be unto them that 
hear thee not! Verily that generation shall pass as 
a cloud, and its glory shall be as a tree that withers. For 
thou alone shalt win the flying hours to thee, and keep the 
beauty of them for the joy of men forever." 

H. M. 


In the brilliant pages of his essay on Jean Francois 
Millet, Romain Rolland says that Millet, as a boy, used 
to read the Bucolics and the Georgics "with enchant- 
ment" and was "seized by emotion when he came to the 
line, 'It is the hour when the great shadows seek the 
plain. ' 

Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant 
Majoresque cadunt altia de montibus umbrae?" 

To the lover and student of poetry, this incident has 
an especial charm and significance. There is something 
fine in the quick sympathy of an artist in one kind, for 


On the Reading of Poetry 

beauty expressed by the master of another medium. 
The glimpse M. Rolland gives us of one of the most 
passionate art-students the world has ever known, implies 
with fresh grace a truth Anglo-Saxons are always for- 
getting that poetry is one of the great humanities, that 
poetry is one of the great arts of expression. 

Many of our customs conspire to cause, almost to 
force, this forgetting. Thousands of us have been edu- 
cated to a dark and often permanent ignorance of classic 
poetry, by being taught in childhood to regard it as 
written for the purpose of illustrating Hadley's Latin, or 
Goodwin's Greek grammar,, and composed to follow the 
rules of versification at the end of the book. It seems 
indeed one of fate's strangest ironies that the efforts of 
these distinguished grammarians to unveil immortal 
masterpieces are commonly used in schools and colleges 
to enshroud, not to say swaddle up, the images of the 
gods "forever young," and turn them into mummies. In 
our own country, far from perceiving in Vergil's quiet 
music the magnificent gesture of nature that thrilled his 
Norman reader far from conceiving of epic poetry as 
the simplest universal tongue, one early acquires a wary 
distrust of it as something one must constantly labor 

Aside from gaining in childhood this strong, prac- 
tical objection to famous poetry, people achieve the 
deadly habit of reading metrical lines unimaginatively. 
After forming generally in preparation for entering one 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

of our great universities the habit of blinding the inner 
eye, deafening the inner ear, and dropping into a species 
of mental coma before a page of short lines, it is difficult 
for educated persons to read poetry with what is known 
as "ordinary human intelligence." 

It does not occur to them simply to listen to the 
nightingale. But poetry, I believe, never speaks her 
beauty certainly never her scope and variety, except on 
the condition that in her presence one sits down quietly 
with folded hands, and truly listens to her singing voice. 

"So for one the wet tail arching through the rainbow round the bow. 
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust." 

Many people do not like poetry, in this way, as a 
living art to be enjoyed, but rather as an exact science to 
be approved. To them poetry may concern herself only 
with a limited number of subjects to be presented in a 
predetermined and conventional manner and form. To 
such readers the word "form" means usually only a re- 
peated literary effect: and they do not understand that 
every "form" was in its first and best use an originality, 
employed not for the purpose of following any rule, but 
because it said truly what the artist wished to express. 
I suppose much of the monotony of subject and treat- 
ment observable in modern verse is due to this belief that 
poetry is merely a fixed way of repeating certain meri- 
torious though highly familiar concepts of existence 
and not in the least the infinite music of words meant to 
speak the little and the great tongues of the earth. 


On the Reading of Poetry 

It is exhilarating to read the pages of Pope and of 
Byron, whether you agree with them or not, because here 
poetry does speak the little and the great tongues of the 
earth, and sings satires, pastorals and lampoons, literary 
and dramatic criticism, all manner of fun and sparkling 
prettiness, sweeping judgments, nice discriminations, 
fashions, politics, the ways of gentle and simple love 
and desire and pain and sorrow, and anguish and death. 

The impulse which inspired, and the appreciation 
which endowed this magazine, has been a generous sym- 
pathy with poetry as an art. The existence of a gallery 
for poems and verse has an especially attractive social 
value in its power of recalling or creating the beautiful 
and clarifying pleasure of truly reading poetry in its 
broad scope and rich variety. The hospitality of this hall 
will have been a genuine source of happiness if somehow 
it tells the visitors, either while they are here, or after they 
have gone to other places, what a delight it is to enjoy a 
poem, to realize it, to live in the vivid dream it evokes, to 
hark to its music, to listen to the special magic grace of its 
own style and composition, and to know that this spe- 
cial grace will say as deeply as some revealing hour with 
a friend one loves, something nothing else can say some- 
thing which is life itself sung in free sympathy beyond the 
bars of time and space. 

E. W. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


In the huge democracy of our age no interest is too 
slight to have an organ. Every sport, every little industry 
requires its own corner, its own voice, that it may find 
its friends, greet them, welcome them. 

The arts especially have need of each an entrenched 
place, a voice of power, if they are to do their work and be 
heard. For as the world grows greater day by day, as every 
member of it, through something he buys or knows or 
loves, reaches out to the ends of the earth, things precious 
to the race, things rare and delicate, may be overpowered, 
lost in the criss-cross of modern currents, the confusion 
of modern immensities. 

Painting, sculpture, music are housed in palaces in the 
great cities of the world; and every week or two a new 
periodical is born to speak for one or the other of them, 
and tenderly nursed at some guardian's expense. Archi- 
tecture, responding to commercial and social demands, is 
whipped into shape by the rough and tumble of life 
and fostered, willy-nilly, by men's material needs. Poetry 
alone, of all the fine arts, has been left to shift for herself 
in a world unaware of its immediate and desperate need 
of her, a world whose great deeds, whose triumphs over 
matter, over the wilderness, over racial enmities and 
distances, require her ever-living voice to give them glory 
and glamour. 


The Motive of the Magazine 

Poetry has been left to herself and blamed for ineffi- 
ciency, a process as unreasonable as blaming the desert for 
barrenness. This art, like every other, is not a miracle 
of direct creation, but a reciprocal relation between the 
artist and his public. The people must do their part if 
the poet is to tell their story to the future; they must cul- 
tivate and irrigate the soil if the desert is to blossom as 
the rose. 

The present venture is a modest effort to give to 
poetry her own place, her own voice. The popular 
magazines can afford her but scant courtesy a Cinderella 
corner in the ashes because they seek a large public 
which is not hers, a public which buys them not for their 
verse but for their stories, pictures, journalism, rarely for 
their literature, even in prose. Most magazine editors 
say that there is no public for poetry in America; one 
of them wrote to a young poet that the verse his monthly 
accepted "must appeal to the barber's wife of the Middle 
West," and others prove their distrust by printing less 
verse from year to year, and that rarely beyond page-end 
length and importance. 

We believe that there is a public for poetry, that it will 
grow, and that as it becomes more numerous and apprecia- 
tive the work produced in this art will grow in power, 
in beauty, in significance. In this belief we have been 
encouraged by the generous enthusiasm of many sub- 
scribers to our fund, by the sympathy of other lovers 
of the art, and by the quick response of many prominent 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

poets, both American and English, who have sent or 
promised contributions. 

We hope to publish in Poetry some of the best work now 
being done in English verse. Within space limitations 
set at present by the small size of our monthly sheaf, we 
shall be able to print poems longer, and of more intimate 
and serious character, than the popular magazines can 
afford to use. The test, limited by ever-fallible human 
judgment, is to be quality alone; all forms, whether 
narrative, dramatic or lyric, will be acceptable. We hope 
to offer our subscribers a place of refuge, a green isle 
in the sea, where Beauty may plant her gardens, and 
Truth, austere revealer of joy and sorrow, of hidden 
delights and despairs, may follow her brave quest 



In order that the experiment of a magazine of verse 
may have a fair trial, over one hundred subscriptions of 
fifty dollars annually for five years have been promised 
by the ladies and gentlemen listed below. In addition, 
nearly twenty direct contributions of smaller sums have 
been sent or promised. To all these lovers of the art the 
editors would express their grateful appreciation. 

Mr. H. C. Chatfield-Taylor 
Mr. Howard Shaw 
Mr. Arthur T. Aldis 
Mr. Edwin S. Fechheimer 
Mrs. Charles H. Hamiil 
Mr. D. H. Burnham 
Mrs. Emmons Blaine (2) 
Mr. Wm. S. Monroe 
Mr. E. A. Bancroft 
Mrs. Burton Hanson 
Mr. John M. Ewen 
Mr. C. L. Hutchinson 
Mrs. Wm. Vaughan Moody 
Hou. Wm. J. Calhoun 
/Miss Anna Morgan 
\Mrs. Edward A. Lcicht 
Mrs. Louis Betts 
Mr. Ralph Cudney 
Mrs. George Bullen 
Mrs. P. A. Valentine 
Mr. P. A. Valentine 
Mr. Charles R. Crane 
Mr. Frederick Sargent 
Mrs. Frank G. Logan 
Dr. F. W. Gunsaulus 
Mrs. Emma B. Hodge 
Mr. Wallace Heckman 
Mr. Edward B. Butler (2) 
Miss Elizabeth Ross 
Mrs. Bryan Lathrop 
Mr. Martin A. Ryerson 
Mrs. La Verne Noyes 
Mrs. E. Norman Scott (2) 
Mr. Wm. O. Goodman 
Mrs. Charles Hitchcock 
Hon. John Barton Payne 

Mr. Thomas D. Jones 

Mr. H. H. Kohlsaat 

Mr. Andrew M. Lawrence 

Miss Juliet Goodrich 

Mr. Henry H. Walker 

Mr. Charles Deering 

Mr. Jas. Harvey Peirce 

Mr. Charles L. Freer 

Mrs. W. F. Dummer 

Mr. Jas. P. Whedon 

Mr. Arthur Heun 

Mr. Edward F. Carry 

Mrs. George M. Pullman 

Mr. Cyrus H. McCormick (2) 

Mr. F. Stuyvesant Peabody 

Mrs. F. S. Winston 

Mr. J. J. Glessner 
/Mr. C. C. Curtiss 
\Mrs. Hermon B. Butler 

Mr. Will H. Lyford 

Mr. Horace S. Oakley 

Mr. Eames Mac Veagh 

Mrs. K. M. H. Besly 

Mr. Charles G. Dawea 

Mr. Clarence Buckingham 

Mrs. Potter Palmer 

Mr. Owen F. Aldis 

Mr. Albert B. Dick 

Mr. Albert H. Loeb 

The Misses Skinner 

Mr. Potter Palmer 

Miss Mary Rozet Smith 

Misses Alice E. and Margaret 


/Mrs. James B. Waller 
\Mr. John Borden 



POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Mr. Victor F. Lawson 
/Mrs. H. M. Wihnarth 
IMrs. Norman F. Thompson 
/Mrs. William Blair 
\Mrs. Clarence I. Peck 

Mr. Clarence M. Woolley 

Mr. Edward P. Russell 

Mrs. Frank O. Lowden 

Mr. John S. Miller 

Miss Helen Louise Birch 

Nine members of the Fortnightly 

Six members of the Friday Club 

Seven members of the Chicago 
Woman's Club 

Mr. William L. Brown 

Mr. Rufus G. Dawes 

Mr. Gilbert E. Porter 

Mr. Alfred L. Baker 

Mr. George A. McKinlock 

Mr. John S. Field 

Mrs. Samuel Instill 

Mr. William T. Fenton 

Mr. A. G. Becker 

Mr. Honor4 Palmer 

Mr. John I. Mitchell 

Mrs. F. A' Hardy 

Mr. Morton D. Hull 

Mr. E. F. Ripley 

Mr. Ernest MacDonald Bowman 

Mr. John A. Kruse 

Mr. Frederic C. Bartlett 

Mr. Franklin H. Head 

Mn. Wm. R. Linn 

Through the generosity of five gentlemen, Poetry 
will give two hundred and fifty dollars in one or two 
prizes for the best poem or poems printed in its pages 
the first year. In addition a subscriber to the fund offers 
twenty-five dollars for the best epigram. 


Mr. Maurice Browne, director of the Chicago Little 
Theatre, offers to produce, during the season of 1913-14, 
the best play in verse published in, or submitted to, 
Poetry during its first year; provided that it may be 
adequately presented under the requirements and limita- 
tions of his stage. 


We are fortunate in being able, through the courtesy 
of the Houghton-Mifflin Co., to offer our readers a 
poem, hitherto imprinted, from advance sheets of the 
complete works of the late William Vaughan Moody, 
which will be published in November. The lamentable 


Notes and Announcements 

death of this poet two years ago in the early prime of 
his great powers was a calamity to literature. It is 
fitting that the first number of a magazine published 
in the city where for years he wrote and taught, should 
contain an important poem from his hand. 

Mr. Ezra Pound, the young Philadelphia poet whose 
recent distinguished success in London led to wide rec- 
ognition in his own country, authorizes the statement 
that at present such of his poetic work as receives 
magazine publication in America will appear exclusively 
in Poetry. That discriminating London publisher, 
Mr. Elkin Mathews, "discovered" this young poet 
from over seas, and published "Personae," "Exultations" 
and "Canzoniere," three small volumes of verse from 
which a selection has been reprinted by the Houghton- 
Mifflin Co. under the title "Provenca." Mr. Pound's 
latest work is a translation from the Italian of "Sonnets 
and Ballate," by Guido Cavalcanti. 

Mr. Arthur Davison Ficke, another contributor, is a 
graduate of Harvard, who studied law and entered his 
father's office in Davenport, Iowa. He is the author of 
"The Happy Princess" and "The Breaking of Bonds," 
and a contributor to leading magazines. An early num- 
ber of Poetry will be devoted exclusively to Mr. Ficke's 

Mrs. Roscoe P. Conkling is a resident of the state 
of New York; a young poet who has contributed to 
various magazines. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Miss Lorimer is a young English poet resident in 
Oxford, who will publish her first volume this autumn. 
The London Poetry Review, in its August number, intro- 
duced her with a group of lyrics which were criticized 
with some asperity in the New Age and praised with 
equal warmth in other periodicals. 


Miss Dudley, who is a Chicagoan born and bred, 
is still younger in the art, "To One Unknown" being the 
first of her poems to be printed. 


Poetry will acknowledge the receipt of books of verse 
and works relating to the subject, and will print brief 
reviews of those which seem for any reason significant. 
It will endeavor also to keep its readers informed of the 
progress of the art throughout the English-speaking 
world and continental Europe. The American metro- 
politan newspaper prints cable dispatches about post- 
impressionists, futurists, secessionists and other radicals 
in painting, sculpture and music, but so far as its editors 
and readers are concerned, French poetry might have 
died with Victor Hugo, and English with Tennyson, or 
at most Swinburne. 

NOTE. Eight months after the first general newspaper announcement 
of our efforts to secure a fund for a magazine of verse, and three or 
four months after our first use of the title Poetry, a Boston firm of 
publishers announced a forthcoming periodical of the same kind, to 
be issued under the same name. The two are not to be confused. 



No. 2 




EORGE BORROW in his Lavtngro 
Tells us of a Welshman, who 
By some excess of mother-wit 
Framed a harp and played on it, 
Built a ship and sailed to sea, 

And steered it home to melody 

Of his own making. I, indeed, 

Might write for Everyman to read 

A thaumalogue of wonderment 

More wonderful, but rest content 

With celebrating one I knew 

Who built his pipes, and played them, too: 

No more. 

Ah, played! Therein is all: 
The hounded thing, the hunter's call; 
The shudder, when the quarry's breath 
Is drowned in blood and stilled in death; 
The marriage dance, the pulsing vein, 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The kiss that must be given again; 
The hope that Ireland, like a rose, 
Sees shining thro' her tale o,f woes; 
The battle lost, the long lament 
For blood and spirit vainly spent; 
And so on, thro' the varying scale 
Of passion that the western Gael 
Knows, and by miracle of art 
Draws to the chanter from the heart 
Like water from a hidden spring, 
To leap or murmur, weep or sing. 

I see him now, a little man 
In proper black, whey-bearded, wan, 
With eyes that scan the eastern hills 
Thro* thick, gold-rimmed spectacles. 
His hand is on the chanter. Lo, 
The hidden spring begins to flow 
In waves of magic. (He is dead 
These seven years, but bend your head 
And listen.) Rising from the clay 
The Master plays The Ring of Day. 
It mounts and falls and floats away 
Over the sky-line . . . then is gone 
Into the silence of the dawn! 

Joseph Campbell 



Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead, 
(It was so strange to me that they should weep!) 
Tall candles burned about me in the dark, 
And a great crucifix was on my breast, 
And a great silence filled the lonesome room. 

I heard one whisper, "Lo! the dawn is breaking, 

And he has lost the wonder of the day.*' 

Another came whom I had loved on earth, 

And kissed my brow and brushed my dampened hair. 

Softly she spoke: "Oh that he should not see 

The April that his spirit bathed in! Birds 

Are singing in the orchard, and the grass 

That soon will cover him is growing green. 

The daisies whiten on the emerald hills, 

And the immortal magic that he loved 

Wakens again and he has fallen asleep." 

Another said: "Last night I saw the moon 

Like a tremendous lantern shine in heaven, 

And I could only think of him and sob. 

For I remembered evenings wonderful 

When he was faint with Life's sad loveliness, 

And watched the silver ribbons wandering far 

Along the shore, and out upon the sea. 

Oh, I remembered how he loved the world, 

The sighing ocean and the flaming stars, 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The everlasting glamour God has given 

His tapestries that wrap the earth's wide room. 

I minded me of mornings filled with rain 

When he would sit and listen to the sound 

As if it were lost music from the spheres. 

He loved the crocus and the hawthorn-hedge, 

He loved the shining gold of buttercups, 

And the low droning of the drowsy bees 

That boomed across the meadows. He was glad 

At dawn or sundown; glad when Autumn came 

With her worn livery and scarlet crown, 

And glad when Winter rocked the earth to rest. 

Strange that he sleeps today when Life is young, 

And the wild banners of the Spring are blowing 

With green inscriptions of the old delight." 

I heard them whisper in the quiet room. 
I longed to open then my sealed eyes, 
And tell them of the glory that was mine. 
There was no darkness where my spirit flew, 
There was no night beyond the teeming world. 
Their April was like winter where I roamed; 
Their flowers were like stones where now I fared. 
Earth's day! it was as if I had not known 
What sunlight meant! . . . Yea, even as they grieved 
For all that I had lost in their pale place, 
I swung beyond the borders of the sky, 
And floated through the clouds, myself the air, 


Beyond the Stars 

Myself the ether, yet a matchless being 
Whom God had snatched from penury and pain 
To draw across the barricades of heaven. 
I clomb beyond the sun, beyond the moon; 
In flight on flight I touched the highest star; 
I plunged to regions where the Spring is born, 
Myself (I asked not how) the April wind, 
Myself the elements that are of God. 
Up flowery stairways of eternity 
I whirled in wonder and untrammeled joy, 
An atom, yet a portion of His dream 
His dream that knows no end. . 

I was the rain, 

I was the dawn, I was the purple east, 
I was the moonlight on enchanted nights, 
(Yet time was lost to me) ; I was a flower 
For one to pluck who loved me; I was bliss, 
And rapture, splendid moments of delight; 
And I was prayer, and solitude, and hope; 
And always, always, always I was love. 
I tore asunder flimsy doors of time, 
And through the windows of my soul's new sight 
I saw beyond the ultimate bounds of space. 
I was all things that I had loved on earth 
The very moonbeam in that quiet room, 
The very sunlight one had dreamed I lost, 
The soul of the returning April grass, 
The spirit of the evening and the dawn, 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The perfume in unnumbered hawthorn-blooms. 
There was no shadow on my perfect peace, 
No knowledge that was hidden from my heart. 
I learned what music meant; I read the years; 
I found where rainbows hide, where tears begin; 
I trod the precincts of things yet unborn. 

Yea, while I found all wisdom (being dead), 

They grieved for me . . I should have grieved for them ! 

Charles Hanson Towne 



The ancient songs 

Pass deathward mournfully. 

Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths, 

Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings 

Symbols of ancient songs 

Mournfully passing 

Down to the great white surges, 

Watched of none 

Save the frail sea-birds 

And the lithe pale girls, 

Daughters of Okeanos. 

And the songs pass 

From the green land 

Which lies upon the waves as a leaf 

On the flowers of hyacinth; 

And they pass from the waters, 

The manifold winds and the dim moon, 

And they come, 

Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk, 

To the quiet level lands 

That she keeps for us all, 

That she wrought for us all for sleep 

In the silver days of the earth's dawning 

Proserpine, daughter of Zeus. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

And we turn from the Kuprian's breasts, 

And we turn from thee, 

Phoibos Apollon, 

And we turn from the music of old 

And the hills that we loved and the meads, 

And we turn from the fiery day, 

And the lips that were over-sweet; 

For silently 

Brushing the fields with red-shod feet, 

With purple robe 

Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame, 


Thou hast come upon us. 

And of all the ancient songs 

Passing to the swallow-blue halls 

By the dark streams of Persephone, 

This only remains: 

That in the end we turn to thee, 


That we turn to thee, singing 

One last song. 

O Death, 

Thou art an healing wind 

That blowest over white flowers 

A-tremble with dew; 

Thou art a wind flowing 


Over long leagues of lonely sea; 

Thou art the dusk and the fragrance; 

Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling; 

Thou art the pale peace of one 

Satiate with old desires; 

Thou art the silence of beauty, 

And we look no more for the morning; 

We yearn no more for the sun, 

Since with thy white hands, 


Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets, 

The slim colorless poppies 

Which in thy garden alone 

Softly thou gatherest. 

And silently; 

And with slow feet approaching; 

And with bowed head and unlit eyes, 

We kneel before thee: 

And thou, leaning towards us, 

Caressingly layest upon us 

Flowers from thy thin cold hands, 

And, smiling as a chaste woman 

Knowing love in her heart, 

Thou sealest our eyes 

And the illimitable quietude 

Comes gently upon us. 

Richard Aldington 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


F[dTvici 9 iroTvidj 
White grave goddess, 
Pity my sadness, 

silence of Paros. 

1 am not of these about thy feet, 
These garments and decorum; 

I am thy brother, 

Thy lover of aforetime crying to thee, 

And thou hearest me not. 

I have whispered thee in thy solitudes 

Of our loves in Phrygia, 

The far ecstasy of burning noons 

When the fragile pipes 

Ceased in the cypress shade, 

And the brown fingers of the shepherd 

Moved over slim shoulders; 

And only the cicada sang. 

I have told thee of the hills 

And the lisp of reeds 

And the sun upon thy breasts, 

And thou hearest me not, 

TloTVia, TTOTVia, 

Thou hearest me not. 

Richard Aldington 


I have sat here happy in the gardens, 

Watching the still pool and the reeds 

And the dark clouds 

Which the wind of the upper air 

Tore like the green leafy boughs 

Of the divers-hued trees of late summer; 

But though I greatly delight 

In these and the water-lilies, 

That which sets me nighest to weeping 

Is the rose and white color of the smooth flag-stones, 

And the pale yellow grasses 

Among them. 

Richard Aldington 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 



The dawn is here and the long night through I have 

never seen thy face, 
Though my feet have worn the patient grass at the gate 

of thy dwelling-place. 

While the white moon sailed till, red in the west, it found 

the far world-edge, 
No leaflet stirred of the leaves that climb to garland thy 

window ledge. 

Yet the vine had quivered from root to tip, and opened 

its flowers again, 
If only the low moon's light had glanced on a moving 

casement pane. 

Warm was the wind that entered in where the barrier 

stood ajar, 
And the curtain shook with its gentle breath, white as 

young lilies are; 

But there came no hand all the slow night through to draw 

the folds aside, 
(I longed as the moon and the vine-leaves longed!) or to 

set the casement wide. 


Under Two Windows 

Three times in a low-hung nest there dreamed his five 

sweet notes a bird, 
And thrice my heart leaped up at the sound I thought 

thou hadst surely heard. 

But now that thy praise is caroled aloud by a thousand 

throats awake, 
Shall I watch from afar and silently, as under the moon, 

for thy sake? 

Nay bold in the sun I speak thy name, I too, and I wait 

no more 
Thy hand, thy face, in the window niche, but thy kiss at 

the open door! 


My darling, come! The wings of the dark have wafted 

the sunset away, 
And there's room for much in a summer night, but no 

room for delay. 

A still moon looketh down from the sky, and a wavering 

moon looks up 
From every hollow in the green hills that holds a pool in 

its cup. 

The woodland borders are wreathed with bloom elder, 
viburnum, rose; 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The young trees yearn on the breast of the wind that 
sighs of love as it goes. 

The small stars drown in the moon-washed blue but the 

greater ones abide, 
With Vega high in the midmost place, Altair not far aside. 

The glades are dusk, and soft the grass, where the flower 

of the elder gleams, 
Mist-white, moth-like, a spirit awake in the dark of forest 


Arcturus beckons into the east, Antares toward the south, 
That sendeth a zephyr sweet with thyme to seek for thy 
sweeter mouth. 

Shall the blossom wake, the star look down, all night and 

have naught to see? 
Shall the reeds that sing by the wind-brushed pool say 

nothing of thee and me ? 

My darling comes! My arms are content, my feet are 

guiding her way; 
There is room for much in a summer night, but no room 

for delay! 

Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer 



Cold may lie the day, 

And bare of grace; 
At night I slip away 

To the Singing Place. 

A border of mist and doubt 

Before the gate, 
And the Dancing Stars grow still 

As hushed I wait. 
Then faint and far away 

I catch the beat 
In broken rhythm and rhyme 

Of joyous feet, 
Lifting waves of sound 

That will rise and swell 
(If the prying eyes of thought 

Break not the spell), 
Rise and swell and retreat 

And fall and flee, 
As over the edge of sleep 

They beckon me. 
And I wait as the seaweed waits 

For the lifting tide; 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

To ask would be to awake, 

To be denied. 
I cloud my eyes in the mist 

That veils the hem, 
And then with a rush I am past, 

I am Theirs, and of Them! 
And the pulsing chant swells up 

To touch the sky, 
And the song is joy, is life, 

And the song am I ! 
The thunderous music peals 

Around, overhead 
The dead would awake to hear 

If there were dead; 
But the life of the throbbing Sun 

Is in the song, 
And we weave the world anew, 

And the Singing Throng 
Fill every corner of space 

Over the edge of sleep , 

I bring but a trace 
Of the chants that pulse and sweep 

In the Singing Place. 

Lily A. Long 



Within this narrow cell that I call "me", 
I was imprisoned ere the worlds began, 
And all the worlds must run, as first they ran, 

In silver star-dust, ere I shall be free. 

I beat my hands against the walls and find 

It is my breast I beat, O bond and blind! 

Lily A. Long 


POETRY: A Magazine of Perse 


Great soldier of the fighting clan, 
Across Port Arthur's frowning face of stone 
You drew the battle sword of old Japan, 
And struck the White Tsar from his Asian throne. 

Once more the samurai sword 
Struck to the carved hilt in your loyal hand, 
That not alone your heaven-descended lord 
Should meanly wander in the spirit land. 

Your own proud way, O eastern star, 
Grandly at last you followed. Out it leads 
To that high heaven where all the heroes are, 
Lovers of death for causes and for creeds. 

Harriet Monroe 



I have known great gold Sorrows: 

Majestic Griefs shall serve me watchfully 

Through the slow-pacing morrows: 

I have knelt hopeless where sea-echoing 

Dim endless voices cried of suffering 

Vibrant and far in broken litany: 

Where white magnolia and tuberose hauntingly 

Pulsed their regretful sweets along the air 

All things most tragical, most fair, 

Have still encompassed me . . . 

I dance where in the screaming market-place 
The dusty world that watches buys and sells, 
With painted merriment upon my face, 
Whirling my bells, 
Thrusting my sad soul to its mockery. 

I have known great gold Sorrows . . . 

Shall they not mock me, these pain-haunted ones, 

If it shall make them merry, and forget 

That grief shall rise and set 

With the unchanging, unforgetting suns 

Of their relentless morrows? 

Margaret Widdcmer 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The little pitiful, worn, laughing faces, 
Begging of Life for Joy ! 

I saw the little daughters of the poor, 

Tense from the long day's working, strident, gay, 

Hurrying to the picture-place. There curled 

A hideous flushed beggar at the door, 

Trading upon his horror, eyeless, maimed, 

Complacent in his profitable mask. 

They mocked his horror, but they gave to him 

From the brief wealth of pay-night, and went in 

To the cheap laughter and the tawdry thoughts 

Thrown on the screen; in to the seeking hand 

Covered by darkness, to the luring voice 

Of Horror, boy-masked, whispering of rings, 

Of silks, of feathers, bought so cheap! with just 

Their slender starved child-bodies, palpitant 

For Beauty, Laughter, Passion, that is Life: 

(A frock of satin for an hour's shame, 

A coat of fur for two days' servitude; 

"And the clothes last," the thought runs on, within 

The poor warped girl-minds drugged with changeless days; 

"Who cares or knows after the hour is done?") 

Poor little beggars at Life's door for Joy! 


The Beggars 

The old man crouched there, eyeless, horrible, 

Complacent in the marketable mask 

That earned his comforts and they gave to him! 

But ah, the little painted, wistful faces 
Questioning Life for Joy ! 

Margaret Widdtmer 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


\HE Poems and Plays of William Vaughn 
Moody will soon be published in two 
volumes by the Houghton-Mifflin Co. Our 
present interest is in the volume of poems, 
which are themselves an absorbing drama. 
Moody had a slowly maturing mind; the vague vastness 
of his young dreams yielded slowly to a man's more 
definite vision of the spiritual magnificence of life. When 
he died at two-score years, he was just beginning to 
think his problem through, to reconcile, after the manner 
of the great poets of the earth, the world with God. 
Apparently the unwritten poems cancelled by death 
would have rounded out, in art of an austere perfection, 
the record of that reconciliation, for nowhere do we feel 
this passion of high serenity so strongly as in the first 
act of an uncompleted drama, The Death of Eve. 

Great-minded youth must dream, and modern dreams 
of the meaning of life lack the props and pillars of the 
old dogmatism. Vagueness, confusion and despair are 
a natural inference from the seeming chaos of evil and 
good, of pain and joy. Moody from the beginning took 
the whole scheme of things for his province, as a truly 
heroic poet should; there are always large spaces on his 


Moody s Poems 

canvas. In his earlier poetry, both the symbolic Masque 
of Judgment and the shorter poems derived from present- 
day subjects, we find him picturing the confusion, stating 
the case, so to speak, against God. Somewhat in the 
terms of modern science is his statement the universe 
plunging on toward its doom of darkness and lifelessness, 
divine fervor of creation lapsing, divine fervor of love 
doubting, despairing of the life it made, sweeping all 
away with a vast inscrutable gesture. 

This seems to be the mood of the Masque of Judgment, 
a mood against which that very human archangel, 
Raphael, protests in most appealing lines. The poet 
broods over the earth 

The earth, that has the blue and little flowers 
with all its passionate pageantry of life and love. Like 

his own angel he is 

a truant still 
While battle rages round the heart of God. 

The lamps are spent at the end of judgment day, 

and naked from their seats 
The stars arise with lifted hands, and wait. 

This conflict between love and doubt is the motive 
also of Gloucester Moors, The Daguerreotype, Old Pour- 
quoi those three noblest, perhaps, of the present-day 
poems also of The Brute and The Menagerie, and of that 
fine poem manque, the Ode in Time of Hesitation. The 
Fit-Bringer is an effort at another theme redemption, 
light after darkness. But it is not so spontaneous as 
the Masque; though simpler, clearer, more dramatic in 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

form, it is more deliberate and intellectual, and not so 
star-lit with memorable lines. The Fire-Bringer is an 
expression of aspiration; the poet Iongs4br light, demands 
it, will wrest it from God's right hand like Prometheus. 
But his triumph is still theory, not experience. The 
reader is hardly yet convinced. 

If one feels a grander motive in such poems as the 
one-act Death of Eve and The Fountain, or the less per- 
fectly achieved / Am the Woman, it is not because of the 
tales they tell but because of the spirit of faith that is 
in them a spirit intangible, indefinable, but indomitable 
and triumphant. At last, we feel, this poet, already 
under the shadow of death, sees a terrible splendid sun- 
rise, and offers us the glory of it in his art. 

The Fountain is a truly magnificent expression of 
spiritual triumph in failure, and incidentally of the 
grandeur of Arizona, that tragic wonderland of ancient 
and future gods. Those Spanish wanderers, dying in the 
desert, in whose half-madness dreams and realities 
mingle, assume in those stark spaces the stature of 
universal humanity, contending to the last against 
relentless fate. In the two versions of The Death of Eve, 
both narrative and dramatic, one feels also this wild, 
fierce triumph, this faith in the glory of life. Especially 
in the dramatic fragment, by its sureness of touch and 
simple austerity of form, and by the majesty of its figure 
of the aged Eve, Moody's art reached its most heroic 
height. We have here the beginning of great things. 


Bohemian Poetry 

The spirit of this poet may be commended to those 
facile bards who lift up their voices between the feast 
and the cigars, whose muses dance to every vague emo- 
tion and strike their flimsy lutes for every light-o'-love. 
Here was one who went to his desk as to an altar, resolved 
that the fire he lit, the sacrifice he offered, should be 
perfect and complete. He would burn out his heart like 
a taper that the world might possess a living light. He 
would tell once more the grandeur of life; he would sing 
the immortal song. 

That such devotion is easy of attainment in this 
clamorous age who can believe? Poetry like some of 
Moody's, poetry of a high structural simplicity, strict 
and bare in form, pure and austere in ornament, implies 
a grappling with giants and wrestling with angels; it is 
not to be achieved without deep living and high think- 
ing, without intense persistent intellectual and spiritual 

H. M. 


An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry, translated by 
P. Selver (Henry J. Drane, London). 

This is a good anthology of modern Bohemian poetry, 
accurately translated into bad and sometimes even 
ridiculous English. Great credit is due the young trans- 
lator for his care in research and selection. The faults 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

of his style, though deplorable, are not such as to obscure 
the force and beauty of his originals. 

One is glad to be thus thoroughly assured that con- 
temporary Bohemia has a literature in verse, sensitive 
to the outer world and yet national. Mr. Selver's 
greatest revelation is Petr Bezruc, poet of the mines. 

The poetry of Brezina, Sova and Vrchlicky is inter- 
esting, but Bezruc's Songs of Silesia have the strength 
of a voice coming de profundis. 

A hundred years in silence I dwelt in the pit, 
The dust of the coal has settled upon my eyes 
Bread with coal is the fruit that my toiling bore; 

That is the temper of it. Palaces grow by the Danube 
nourished by his blood. He goes from labor to labor, 
he rebels, he hears a voice mocking: 

I should find my senses and go to the mine once more 

And in another powerful invective: 

I am the first who arose of the people of Teschen. 

They follow the stranger's plough, the slaves fare downwards. 

He thanks God he is not in the place of the oppressor, 
and ends: 

Thus 'twas done. The Lord wills it. Night sank o'er my people. 
Our doom was sealed when the night had passed; 
In the night I prayed to the Demon of Vengeance, 
The first Beskydian bard and the last. 


"The Music of the Human Heart" 

This poet is distinctly worth knowing. He is the 
truth where our "red-bloods" and magazine socialists 
are usually a rather boresome pose. 

As Mr. Selver has tried to make his anthology repre- 
sentative of all the qualities and tendencies of con- 
temporary Bohemian work it is not to be supposed that 
they are all of the mettle of Bezruc. 

One hears with deep regret that Vrchlicky is just 
dead, after a life of unceasing activity. He has been a 
prime mover in the revival of the Czech nationality and 
literature. He has given them, besides his own work, an 
almost unbelievable number of translations from the 
foreign classics, Dante, Schiller, Leopardi. For the rest 
I must refer the reader to Mr. Selver's introduction. 

Ezra Pound 

This title-phrase has not been plucked from the 
spacious lawn of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. It grew 
in the agreeable midland yard of Mr. Walt Mason's 
newspaper verse, and appeared in a tribute of his to Mr. 
James Whitcomb Riley, whose fifty-ninth birthday 
anniversary, falling on the seventh of October, has 
been widely celebrated in the American public libraries 
and daily press. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Mr. Riley's fine gift to his public, the special happiness 
his genius brings to his readers, cannot, for lack of space, 
be adequately described, or even indicated, here. Per- 
haps a true, if incomplete, impression of the beauty of 
his service may be conveyed by repeating a well-known 
passage of Mr. Lowes Dickinson's Letters from John 
Chinaman a passage which I can never read without 
thinking very gratefully of James Whitcomb Riley, and 
of what his art has done for American poetry-readers. 

Mr. Dickinson says: 

In China our poets and literary men have taught their successors 
for long generations, to look for good not in wealth, not in power, not 
in miscellaneous activity, but in a trained, a choice, an exquisite 
appreciation of the most simple and universal relations of life. To 
feel, and in order to feel, to express, or at least to understand the 
expression, of all that is lovel}' in nature, of all that is poignant and 
sensitive in man, is to us in itself a sufficient end. . . . The pathos 
of life and death, the long embrace, the hand stretched out in vain, 
the moment that glides forever away, with its freight of music and 
light, into the shadow and bush of the haunted past, all that we have, 
all that eludes us, a bird on the wing, a perfume escaped on the gale to 
all these things we are trained to respond, and the response is what we 
call literature. 

Among Mr. Riley's many distinguished faculties of 
execution in expressing, in stimulating, "an exquisite 
appreciation of the most simple and universal relations 
of life," one faculty has been, in so far as I know, very 
little mentioned I mean his mastery in creating charac- 
ter. Mr. Riley has expressed, has incarnated in the 
melodies and harmonies of his poems, not merely several 


"The Music of the Human Heart" 

living, breathing human creatures as they are made by 
their destinies, but a whole world of his own, a vivid 
world of country-roads, and country-town streets, 
peopled with farmers and tramps and step-mothers and 
children, trailing clouds of glory even when they boast 
of the superiorities of "Renselaer," a world of hard- 
working women and hard-luck men, and poverty and 
prosperity, and drunkards and raccoons and dogs and 
grandmothers and lovers. To have presented through 
the medium of rhythmic chronicle, a world so sharply 
limned, so funny, so tragic, so mean, so noble, seems to 
us in itself a striking achievement in the craft of verse. 

No mere word of criticism can of course evoke, at all 
as example can, Mr. Riley's genius of identification with 
varied human experiences, the remarkable concentration 
and lyric skill of his characterization. Here are two poems 
of his on the same general theme grief in the presence 
of death. We may well speak our pride in the wonderful 
range of inspiration and the poetic endowment which 
can create on the same subject musical stories of the 
soul as diverse, as searching, as fresh and true, as the 
beloved poems of Bereaved and His Mother. 


Let me come in where you sit weeping; aye, 
Let me, who have not any child to die, 
Weep with you for the little one whose love 
I have known nothing of. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 
Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used 
To kiss. Such arms, such hands I never knew. 
May I not weep with you. 

Fain would I be of service, say something 
Between the tears, that would be comforting; 
But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, 
Who have no child to die. 


Dead! my waywaid boy my own 

Not the Law's, but mine; the good 
God's free gift to me alone, 

Sanctified by motherhood. 

"Bad," you say: well, who is not? 

"Brutal" "With a heart of stone" 
And "red-handed." Ah! the hot 

Blood upon your own! 

I come not with downward eyes, 

To plead for him shamedly: 
God did not apologize 

When He gave the boy to me. 

Simply, I make ready now 

For His verdict. You prepare 
You have killed us both and how 

Will you face us There! 

E. W. 


Fears have been expressed by a number of friendly 
critics that POETRY may become a house of refuge for 
minor poets. 

The phrase is somewhat worn. Paragraphers have 
done their worst for the minor poet, while they have 


The Open Door 

allowed the minor painter, sculptor, actor worst of all, 
architect to go scot-free. The world which laughs at 
the experimenter in verse, walks negligently through our 
streets, and goes seriously, even reverently, to the annual 
exhibitions in our cities, examining hundreds of pictures 
and statues without expecting even the prize-winners to 
be masterpieces. 

During the past year a score of more of cash prizes, 
ranging from one hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, were 
awarded in Pittsburgh, Chicago, Washington, New York 
and Boston for minor works of modern art. No word of 
superlative praise has been uttered for one of them: 
the first prize-winner in Pittsburgh was a delicately 
pretty picture by a second-rate Englishman; in Chicago 
it was a clever landscape by a promising young American. 
If a single prize-winner in the entire list, many of which 
were bought at high prices by public museums, was a 
masterpiece, no critic has yet dared to say so. 

In fact, such a word would be presumptuous, since 
no contemporary can utter the final verdict. Our solicitous 
critics should remember that Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, 
Burns, were minor poets to the subjects of King George 
the Fourth, Poe and Whitman to the subjects of King 
Longfellow. Moreover, we might remind them that 
Drayton, Lovelace, Herrick, and many another delicate 
lyrist of the anthologies, whose perfect songs show 
singular tenacity of life, remain minor poets through the 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

slightness of their motive; they created little master- 
pieces, not great ones. 

The Open Door will be the policy of this magazine 
may the great poet we are looking for never find it shut, 
or half-shut, against his ample genius! To this end the 
editors hope to keep free of entangling alliances with any 
single class or school. They desire to print the best 
English verse which is being written today, regardless 
of where, by whom, or under what theory of art it is 
written. Nor will the magazine promise to limit its 
editorial comments to one set of opinions. Without 
muzzles and braces this is manifestly impossible unless 
all the critical articles are written by one person. 


Mr. Ezra Pound has consented to act as foreign 
correspondent of POETRY, keeping its readers informed 
of the present interests of the art in England, France 
and elsewhere. 

The response of poets on both sides of the Atlantic 
has been most encouraging, so that the quality of the 
next few numbers is assured. One of our most important 
contributions is Mr. John G. Neihardt's brief recently 
finished tragedy, The Death of Agrippina, to which an 
entire number will be devoted within a few months. 

Mr. Joseph Campbell is one of the younger poets 


Notes and Announcements 

closely associated with the renaissance of art and letters 
in Ireland. His first book of poems was The Gilly of 
Christ; a later volume including these is The Mountainy 
Singer (Maunsel & Co.). 

Mr. Charles Hanson Towne, the New York poet and 
magazine editor, has published three volumes of verse, 
The Quiet Singer (Rickey), Manhattan, and Youth and 
Other Poems; also five song-cycles in collaboration with 
two composers. 

Mr. Richard Aldington is a young English poet, one 
of the "Imagistes," a group of ardent Hellenists who are 
pursuing interesting experiments in vers libre; trying to 
attain in English certain subtleties of cadence of the kind 
which Mallarme and his followers have studied in French. 
Mr. Aldington has published little as yet, and nothing 
in America. 

Mrs. Van Rensselaer, the well-known writer on art, 
began comparatively late to publish verse in the maga- 
zines. Her volume, Poems (Macmillan), was issued in 

Miss Long and Miss Widdemer are young Americans, 
some of whose poems have appeared in various magazines. 

The last issue of POETRY accredited Mr. Ezra Pound's 
Provenca to the Houghton-Mifflin Co. This was an error; 
Small, Maynard & Co. are Mr. Pound's American pub- 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The Iscoriot, by Eden Ph ill potts. John Lane. 

The Poems of Rosamund Marriott Watson. John Lane. 

Lyrical Poems, by Lucy Lyttelton. Thomas B. Mosher. 

The Silence of Amor, by Fiona Macleod. Thomas B. Mosher. 

Spring in Tuscany and Other Lyrics. Thomas B. Mosher. 

Interpretations: A Book of First Poems, by Zo Akins. Mitchell Kennerley. 

A Round of Rimes, by Denis A. MacCarthy. Little, Brown & Co. 

Voices from Erin and Other Poems, by Denis A. MacCarthy. Little, Brown & Co. 

Love and The Year and Other Poems, by Grace Griswold. Duffield & Co. 

Songs and Sonnets, by Webster Ford. The Rooks Press, Chicago. 

The Quiet Courage and Other Songs of the Unafraid, by Everard Jack Appleton. 

Stewart and Kidd Co. 

In Cupid's Chains and Other Poems, by Benjamin F. Woodcox. Woodcox & Fanner. 
Maverick, by Hervey White. Maverick Press. 



A IDqgasine of Verse 

No. 3 



UR wine and dance, if manhood still 

have pride, 

Bring roses, if the rose be yet in bloom; 
The cataract smokes on the mountain 

Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb. 

Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet, 
Let there be no foot silent in the room, 
Nor mouth with kissing nor the wine unwet. 
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb. 

In vain, in vain; the cataract still cries, 
The everlasting taper lights the gloom, 
All wisdom shut into its onyx eyes. 
Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb. 

William Butler Yeats 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Dance there upon the shore; 
What need have you to care 
For wind or water's roar? 
And tumble out your hair 
That the salt drops have wet; 
Being young you have not known 
The fool's triumph, nor yet 
Love lost as soon as won. 
And he, the best warrior, dead 
And all the sheaves to bind! 
What need that you should dread 
The monstrous crying of wind ? 

William Butler Yeats 


Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face 
And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone, 
Like some last courtier at a gipsy camping place 
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone. 
The lineaments, the heart that laughter has made sweet, 
These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd 
Will gather and not know that through its very street 
Once walked a thing that seemed, as it were, a burning 

William Butler Yeats 



The moments passed as at a play, 
I had the wisdom love can bring, 
I had my share of mother wit; 
And yet for all that I could say, 
And though I had her praise for it, 
And she seemed happy as a king, 
Love's moon was withering away. 

Believing every word I said 

I praised her body and her mind, 

Till pride had made her eyes grow bright, 

And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, 

And vanity her footfall light; 

Yet we, for all that praise, could find 

Nothing but darkness overhead. 

I sat as silent as a stone 

And knew, though she'd not said a word, 

That even the best of love must die, 

And had been savagely undone 

Were it not that love, upon the cry 

Of a most ridiculous little bird, 

Threw up in the air his marvellous moon. 

William Butler Yeats 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Hope that you may understand. 
What can books, of men that wive 
In a dragon-guarded land; 
Paintings of the dolphin drawn; 
Sea nymphs, in their pearly waggons, 
Do but wake the hope to live 
That had gone 
With the dragons. 

William Butler Yeats 




Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale 

Smelling of war; most curiously named 

"The Mad Recreant Knight of the West." 

Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, 

Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly 

Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong 

Harried the weak . 

Long past, long past, praise God 
In these fair, peaceful, happy days. 

The Tale: 
Eastward the Huns break border, 

Surf on a rotten dyke; 
They have murdered the Eastern Warder 

(His head on a pike). 
"Arm thee, arm thee, my father! 
"Swift rides the Goddes-bane, 
"And the high nobles gather 
"On the plain!" 

"O blind world-wrath!" cried Sangar, 

"Greatly I killed in youth, 
"I dreamed men had done with anger 

"Through Goddes truth!" 
Smiled the boy then in faint scorn, 

Hard with the battle-thrill; 
"Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn 

"And shrill!" 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

He has bowed to the voice stentorian, 

Sick with thought of the grave 
He has called for his battered morion 

And his scarred glaive. 
On the boy's helm a glove 

Of the Duke's daughter 
In his eyes splendor of love 

And slaughter. 

Hideous the Hun advances 

Like a sea-tide on sand; 
Unyielding, the haughty lances 

Make dauntless stand. 
And ever amid the clangor, 

Butchering Hun and Hun, 
With sorrowful face rides Sangar 

And his son 

Broken is the wild invader 

(Sullied, the whole world's fountains); 
They have penned the murderous raider 

With his back to the mountains. 
Yet tho' what had been mead 

Is now a bloody lake, 
Still drink swords where men bleed, 

Nor slake. 



Now leaps one into the press 

The Hell 'twixt front and front 
Sangar, bloody and torn of dress 

(He has borne the brunt). 
"Hold!" cries "Peace! God's Peace! 

"Heed ye what Christus says 
And the wild battle gave surcease 

In amaze. 

"When will ye cast out hate? 

" Brothers my mad, mad brothers 
"Mercy, ere it be too late, 

"These are sons of your mothers. 
" For sake of Him who died on Tree, 

"Who of all Creatures, loved the Least,'*- 
"Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!" 

Cried a priest. 

"Peace!" and with his two hands 

Has broken in twain his glaive. 
Weaponless, smiling he stands 

(Coward or brave?) 
"Traitor!" howls one rank, "Think ye 

"The Hun be our brother?" 
And "Fear we to die, craven, think ye?" 

The other. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Then sprang his son to his side, 

His lips with slaver were wet, 
For he had felt how men died 

And was lustful yet; 
(On his bent helm a glove 

Of the Duke's daughter, 
In his eyes splendor of love 

And slaughter) 

Shouting, "Father no more of mine! 

"Shameful old man abhorr'd, 
"First traitor of all our line!" 

Up the two-handed sword. 
He smote fell Sangar and then 

Screaming, red, the boy ran 
Straight at the foe, and again 

Hell began . 

Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came. 
Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds, 
And God the Father healed him of despair, 
And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed . . 

John Reed 



Soft from the linden's bough, 
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon, 

Eve's dove laments her now: 
"Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?" 

That yearning in his voice 
Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale: 

As other birds rejoice 
He sang, a brother to the nightingale. 

By twilight on her breast 
He saw the flower sleep, the star awake; 

And calling her from rest, 
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake. 

And then the Tempter's breath, 
The sword of exile and the mortal chain 

The heritage of death 
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain. . . 

In Eden desolate 
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon, 

As now, reiterate; 
"Ah gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?" 

George Sterling 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Thou settest splendors in my sight, O Lord! 

It seems as tho' a deep-hued sunset falls 

Forever on these Cyclopean walls 
These battlements where Titan hosts have warred, 
And hewn the world with devastating sword, 

And shook with trumpets the eternal halls 

Where seraphim lay hid by bloody palls 
And only Hetl and Silence were adored. 

Lo! the abyss wherein great Satan's wings 

Might gender tempests, and his dragons' breath 

Fume up in pestilence. Beneath the sun 
Or starry outposts on terrestrial things, 
Is no such testimony unto Death 
Nor altars builded to Oblivion. 

Georgf Sterling 



Musing, between the sunset and the dark, 
As Twilight in unhesitating hands 
Bore from the faint horizon's underlands, 

Silvern and chill, the moon's phantasmal ark, 

I heard the sea, and far away could mark 
Where that unalterable waste expands 
In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands, 

And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark. 

There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought: 
Star, by an ocean on a world of thine, 

May not a being, born like me to die, 
Confront a little the eternal Naught 
And watch our isolated sun decline 
Sad for his evanescence, even as I ? 

George Sterling 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


The years are a falling of snow, 

Slow, but without cessation, 

On hills and mountains and flowers and worlds that 


But snow and the crawling night in which it fell 
May be washed away in one swifter hour of flame. 
Thus it was that some slant of sunset 
In the chasms of piled cloud 
Transient mountains that made a new horizon, 
Uplifting the west to fantastic pinnacles 
Smote warm in a buried realm of the spirit, 
Till the snows of forgetfulness were gone. 

Clear in the vistas of memory, 

The peaks of a world long unremembered, 

Soared further than clouds, but fell not, 

Based on hills that shook not nor melted 

With that burden enormous, hardly to be believed. 

Rent with stupendous chasms, 

Full of an umber twilight, 

I beheld that larger world. 

Bright was the twilight, sharp like ethereal wine 
Above, but low in the clefts it thickened, 
Dull as with duskier tincture. 


Remembered Light 

Like whimsical wings outspread but unstirring, 

Flowers that seemed spirits of the twilight, 

That must pass with its passing 

Too fragile for day or for darkness, 

Fed the dusk with more delicate hues than its own. 

Stars that were nearer, more radiant than ours, 

Quivered and pulsed in the clear thin gold of the sky. 

These things I beheld, 

Till the gold was shaken with flight 

Of fantastical wings like broken shadows, 

Forerunning the darkness; 

Till the twilight shivered with outcry of eldritch 

Like pain's last cry ere oblivion. 

Clark Ashton Smith 


POETRY: A Magazine of V etsc 


O winds that pass uncornforted 

Through all the peacefulness of spring, 
And tell the trees your sorrowing, 

That they must moan till ye are fled! 

Think ye the Tynan distance holds 
The crystal of unquestioned sleep ? 
That those forgetful purples keep 

No veiled, contentious greens and golds ? 

Half with communicated grief, 

. Half that they are not free to pass 

With you across the flickering grass, 
Mourns each vibrating bough and leaf. 

And I, with soul disquieted, 

Shall find within the haunted spring 
No peace, till your strange sorrowing 

Is down the Tyrian distance fled. 

Clark Ashton Smith 



/ hear America singing . . . 
And the great prophet passed, 
Serene, clear and untroubled 
Into the silence vast. 

When will the master-poet 
Rise, with vision strong, 
To mold her manifold music 
Into a living song? 

/ hear America singing . . . 
Beyond the beat and stress, 
The chant of her shrill, unjaded, 
Empiric loveliness. 

Laughter, beyond mere scorning, 
Wisdom surpassing wit, 
Love, and the unscathed spirit, 
These shall encompass it, 

Alice Corbin 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Who was it built the cradle of wrought gold ? 

A druid, chanting by the waters old. 

Who was it kept the sword of vision bright? 

A warrior, falling darkly in the fight. 

Who was it put the crown upon the dove? 

A woman, paling in the arms of love. 

Oh, who but these, since Adam ceased to be, 

Have kept their ancient guard about the Tree? 

Alice Corbin 


I saw a star fall in the night, 
And a grey moth touched my cheek; 
Such majesty immortals have, 
Such pity for the weak. 

Alice Corbin 



The endless, foolish merriment of stars 
Beside the pale cold sorrow of the moon, 
Is like the wayward noises of the world 
Beside my heart's uplifted silent tune. 

The little broken glitter of the waves 
Beside the golden sun's intense white blaze, 
Is like the idle chatter of the crowd 
Beside my heart's unwearied song of praise. 

The sun and all the planets in the sky 
Beside the sacred wonder of dim space, 
Are notes upon a broken, tarnished lute 
That God will someday mend and put in place. 

And space, beside the little secret joy 
Of God that sings forever in the clay, 
Is smaller than the dust we can not see, 
That yet dies not, till time and space decay. 

And as the foolish merriment of stars 
Beside the cold pale sorrow of the moon, 
My little song, my little joy, my praise, 
Beside God's ancient, everlasting rune. 

Alice Corbin 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 



THOU hast made me known to friends whom I knew 
not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my 
own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a 
brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I 
have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forgot that there 
abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. 
Through birth and death, in this world or in others, 
wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one 
companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart 
with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows 
thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, 
grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss 
of the touch of the One in the play of the many. 


No more noisy, loud words from me, such is my 
master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech 
of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. 

Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers 
and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in 
the middle of the day, in the thick of work. 

Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though 
it is not their time, and let the midday bees strike up 
their lazy hum. 



Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the 
good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my play- 
mate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him, 
and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless 


On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind 
was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty 
and the flower remained unheeded. 

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I 
started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a 
strange smell in the south wind. 

That vague fragrance made my heart ache with 
longing, and it seemed to me that it was the eager breath 
of the summer seeking for its completion. 

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, 
and this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth 
of my own heart. 


By all means they try to hold me secure who love me 
in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love, which 
is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I 
forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But 
day passes by after day and thou are not seen. 

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in 
my heart thy love for me still waits for my love. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed 
the threshold of this life. What was the power that 
made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in 
the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked 
upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger 
in this world, that the inscrutable without name and 
form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own 
mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will 
appear as ever known to me. And because I love this 
life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries 
out when from the right breast the mother takes it away 
to find in the very next moment its consolation in the 
left one. yj 

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. Oh, 
thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that en- 
closes the soul with colours and sounds and odours. 
There comes the morning with the golden basket in her 
right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to 
crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the 
lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless 
paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden 
pitcher from the western ocean of rest. 

But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul 
to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. 
There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never 
never a word. Rabindranath Tagore 




is curious that the influence of Poe upon 
Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Mallarme, and 
through them upon English poets, and then 
through these last upon Americans, comes 
back to us in this round-about and indirect 
way. We have here an instance of what Whitman calls 
a "perfect return." We have denied Poe, we do not 
give him his full meed of appreciation even today, and 
yet we accept him through the disciples who have fol- 
lowed or have assimilated his tradition. And now that 
young Englishmen are beginning to feel the influence of 
Whitman upon French poetry, it may be that he too, 
through the imitation of vers libre in America, will begin 
to experience a "perfect return." 

Must we always accept American genius in this 
round-about fashion? Have we no true perspective 
that we applaud mediocrity at home, and look abroad 
for genius, only to find that it is of American origin? 

This bit of marginalia, extracted from a note-book 
of 1909, was relieved of the necessity of further elaboration 
by supplementary evidence received in one day from 
two correspondents. One, a brief sentence from Mr. 
Allen Upward: "It is much to be wished that America 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

should learn to honor her sons without waiting for the 
literary cliques of London." 

The other, the following "news note" from Mr. Paul 
Scott Mowrer in Paris. The date of Leon Bazalgette's 
translation, however, is hardly so epochal as it would 
seem, since Whitman has been known for many years in 
France, having been partly translated during the nineties. 

Mr. Mowrer writes: 

"It is significant of American tardiness in the develop- 
ment of a national literary tradition that the name of 
Walt Whitman is today a greater influence with the 
young writers of the continent than with our own. Not 
since France discovered Poe has literary Europe been so 
moved by anything American. The suggestion has 
even been made that 'Whitmanism' is rapidly to super- 
sede 'Nietzscheism' as the, dominant factor in modern 
thought. Leon Bazalgette translated Leaves of Grass 
into French in 1908. A school of followers of the Whit- 
man philosophy and style was an almost immediate con- 
sequence. Such of the leading reviews as sympathize 
at all with the strong 'young movement to break the 
shackles of classicism which have so long bound French 
prosody to the heroic couplet, the sonnet, and the alex- 
andrine, are publishing not only articles on 'Whitman- 
ism* as a movement, but numbers of poems in the new 
flexible chanting rhythms. In this regard La Nouvelle 
Revue Francaise, La Renaissance Contemporaine, and 
VEffort Libre have been preeminently hospitable. 


A Perfect Return 

"The new poems are not so much imitations of Whit- 
man as inspirations from him. Those who have achieved 
most success in the mode thus far are perhaps Georges 
Duhamel, a leader of the 'Jeunes/ whose plays are at 
present attracting national notice; Andre Spire, who 
writes with something of the apostolic fervor of his 
Jewish ancestry; Henri Franck, who died recently, 
shortly after the publication of his volume, La Danse 
Devant TArche\ Charles Vildrac, with Le Livre d* Amour \ 
Phileas Lebesgue, the appearance in collected form of 
whose Les Servitudes is awaited with keen interest; and 
finally, Jean Richard Bloch, editor of L'Effort Libre, 
whose prose, for example in his book of tales entitled 
Levy, is said to be directly rooted in Whitmanism. 

"In Germany, too, the rolling intonations of the 
singer of democracy have awakened echoes. The 
Moderne Weltdichtung has announced itself, with Whitman 
as guide, and such apostles as Wilhelm Schmidtbonn, 
in Lobegesang des Lebens, and Ernst Lissauer in Der 
Acker and Der Strom. 

"What is it about Whitman that Europe finds so 
inspiriting? First, his acceptance of the universe as he 
found it, his magnificently shouted comradeship with all 
nature and all men. Such a doctrine makes an instant 
though hardly logical appeal in nations where socialism 
is the political order of the day. And next, his disregard 
of literary tradition. Out of books more books, and out 
of them still more, with the fecundity of generations. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

But in this process of literary propagation thought, 
unfortunately, instead of arising like a child ever fresh 
and vigorous as in the beginning, grows more and more 
attenuated, paler, more sickly. The acclaim of Whitman 
is nothing less than the inevitable revolt against the 
modern flood of book-inspired books. Write from 
nature directly, from the people directly, from the 
political meeting, and the hayfield, and the factory 
that is what the august American seems to his young 
disciples across the seas to be crying to them. 

"Perhaps it is because America already holds as 
commonplaces these fundamentals seeming so new to 
Europe that the Whitman schools have sprung up 
stronger on the eastern side of the Atlantic than on the 

It is not that America holds as commonplaces the 
fundamentals expressed in Whitman that there have 
been more followers of the Whitman method in Europe 
than in America, but that American poets, approaching 
poetry usually through terms of feeling, and apparently 
loath to apply an intellectual whip to themselves or 
others, have made no definite analysis of the rhythmic 
units of Whitman. We have been content to accept 
the English conception of the "barbaric yawp" of Whit- 
man. The curious mingling of the concrete and the 
spiritual, which is what certain modern painters, perhaps 
under the Whitman suggestion, are trying to achieve, 
was so novel as to be disconcerting, and the vehicle so 


A Perfect Return 

original as to appear uncouth uncadenced, unmusical. 
The hide-bound, antiquated conception of English 
prosody is responsible for a great deal of dead timber. 
It is a significant fact that the English first accepted the 
spirit of Whitman, the French his method. The rhythmic 
measure of Whitman has yet to be correctly estimated 
by English and American poets. It has been sifted and 
weighed by the French poets, and though Whitman's 
influence upon modern French poetry has been questioned 
by English critics, the connection between his varied 
rhythmic units and modern vers libre is too obvious to 
be discounted. There may be an innate necessity suf- 
ficient to cause a breaking-up of forms in a poetic language, 
but there is no reason to believe that Paris, the great 
clearing-house of all the arts, would not be quick to adopt 
a suggestion from without. English poets, certainly, 
have not been loath to accept suggestions from Paris. 

At any rate this international acceptance of the two 
greatest American poets, and the realization of their 
international influence upon us, may awaken us to a 
new sense of responsibility. It would be a valuable 
lesson, if only we could learn to turn the international 
eye, in private, upon ourselves. If the American poet 
can learn to be less parochial, to apply the intellectual 
whip, to visualize his art, to separate it and see it apart 
from himself; we may learn then to appreciate the great 
poet when he is "in our midst." and not wait for the 

approval of English or French critics. . u 

A. Li. ti . 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


The appearance of the poems of Rabindranath Tagore, 
translated by himself from Bengali into English, is an 
event in the history of English poetry and of world 
poetry. I do not use these terms with the looseness of 
contemporary journalism. Questions of poetic art are 
serious, not to be touched upon lightly or in a spirit of 

Bengal is a nation of fifty million people. The great 
age of Bengali literature is this age in which we live. 
And the first Bengali whom I heard singing the lyrics 
of Tagore said, as simply as one would say it is four 
o'clock, "Yes, we speak of it as the Age of Rabindranath." 

The six poems now published were chosen from a 
hundred lyrics about to appear in book form. They might 
just as well have been any other six, for they do not 
represent a summit of attainment but an average. 

These poems are cast, in the original, in metres 
perhaps the most finished and most subtle of any known 
to us. If you refine the art of the troubadours, combine 
it with that of the Pleiade, and add to that the sound- 
unit principle of the most advanced artists in vers libre, 
you would get something like the system of Bengali 
verse. The sound of it when spoken is rather like good 
Greek, for Bengali is daughter of Sanscrit, which is a 
kind of uncle or elder brother of the Homeric idiom. 

All this series of a hundred poems are made to music, 
for "Mr." Tagore is not only the great poet of Bengal, 


TagoTc's Poems 

he is also their great musician. He teaches his songs, 
and they are sung throughout Bengal more or less as 
the troubadours' songs were sung through Europe in 
the twelfth century. 

And we feel here in London, I think, much as the 
people of Petrarch's time must have felt about the 
mysterious lost language, the Greek that was just being 
restored to Europe after centuries of deprivation. That 
Greek was the lamp of our renaissance and its perfec- 
tions have been the goal of our endeavor ever since. 

I speak with all seriousness when I say that this 
beginning of our more intimate intercourse with Bengal 
is the opening of another period. For one thing the 
content of this first brief series of poems will destroy 
the popular conception of Buddhism, for we in the 
Occident are apt to regard it as a religion negative and 

The Greek gave us humanism; a belief in mens sana 
in corporf sano, a belief in proportion and balance. The 
Greek shows us man as the sport of the gods; the sworn 
foe of fate and the natural forces. The Bengali brings 
to us the pledge of a calm which we need overmuch in 
an age of steel and mechanics. It brings a quiet proc- 
lamation of the fellowship between man and the gods; 
between man and nature. 

It is all very well to object that this is not the first 
time we have had this fellowship proclaimed, but in the 
arts alone can we find the inner heart of a people. There 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

is a deeper calm and a deeper conviction in this eastern 
expression than we have yet attained. It is by the arts 
alone that one people learns to meet another far distant 
people in friendship and respect. 

I speak with all gravity when I say that world- 
fellowship is nearer for the visit of Rabindranath Tagore 
to London. Ezra Pound 

The Poems of Rosamund Marriott Watson (John Lane.) 

This English poet, whose singing ceased a year ago, 
had a real lyric gift, though a very slight one. The 
present volume is a collection of all her poems, from the 
first girlish sheaf Tares, to The Lamp and the Lute, which 
she was preparing for publication when she died. 

Through this whole life-record her poetry ripples 
along as smoothly and delicately as a meadow rill, 
with never a pause nor a flurry nor a thrill. She sings 
prettily of everyone, from the Last Fairy to William 
Ernest Henley, and of everything, from Death and Justice 
to the Orchard of the Moon, but she has nothing arresting 
or important to say of any of these subjects, and no 
keen magic of phrase to give her warbling that intense 
vitality which would win for her the undying fame 
prophesied by her loyal husband in his preface. 

Nevertheless, her feeling is genuine, her touch light, 
and her tune a quiet monotone of gentle soothing music 
which has a certain soft appeal. Perhaps the secret of 



it is the fine quality of soul which breathes through these 
numerous lyrics, a soul too reserved to tell its whole 
story, and too preoccupied with the little things around 
and within her to pay much attention to the thinking, 
fighting, ever-moving world without. 

A big-spirited, vital, headlong narrative poem is 
The Adventures of Young Maverick, by Hervey White, 
who runs a printing press at Woodstock, N. Y., and 
bravely publishes The Wild Hawk, his own little magazine. 
The poem has as many moods as Don Juan, which is 
plainly, though not tyrannically, its model. 

The poem is long for these days five cantos and 
nearly six hundred Spenserian stanzas. Yet the most 
casual reader, one would think, could scarcely find it 
tedious, even though the satirical passages run heavily 
at times. The hero is a colt of lofty Arabian lineage, 
and the poem becomes eloquently pictorial in setting 
forth his beauty: 

Young Maverick in the upland pastures lay 
Woven as in the grass, while star-like flowers, 
Shaking their petals down in sweet array 
Dappled his flanks with gentle breathless showers. 
The thread green stems, tangled in bending bowers, 
Their pollen plumes of dust closed over him, 
Enwoofing through the drowse of summer hours, 
The pattern of his body, head and limb; 
His color of pale gold glowed as with sunshine dim. 

The spirit of the West is in this poem, its freedom, 
spaciousness, strong sunshine; also its careless good 
humor and half sardonic fun. The race between the 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

horse and the Mexican boy is as swift, vivid and rhyth- 
mical as a mountain stream; and the Mexican family, 
even to the fat old Gregorio, are characterized to the 
life, with a sympathy only too rare among writers of the 
Anglo-Saxon race. 

Certain other characterizations are equally incisive, 
this for example: 

Sometimes I peep into a modern poet 

Like Arthur Symons, vaguely beautiful, 

Who loves but love, not caring who shall know it; 

I wonder that he never finds it dull. 

Mr. White is so profoundly a democrat, and so whole- 
heartedly a poet of the broad, level average American 
people, that both social and artistic theories sit very 
lightly upon him. He achieves beauty as by chance 
now and then, because he can not help it, but always he 
achieves a warm vitality, the persuasive illusion of life. 

The Iscariot, by Eden Phillpotts (John Lane), is the 
ingenious effort of a theorist in human nature to unroll 
the convolutions of the immortal traitor's soul. And 
it is as ineffectual as any such effort must be to remould 
characters long fixed in literary or historic tradition. 
In the art of the world Judas is Judas; anyone who tries 
to make him over into a pattern of misguided loyalty 
has his labor for his pains. 

The blank verse in which the monologue is uttered 
is accurately measured and sufficiently sonorous. 

[96] H. M. 


Interpretations: A Book of First Poems, by Zoe Akins 
(Mitchell Kennerley). 

The poems in this volume are creditable in texture, 
revealing a conscious sense of artistic workmanship which 
it is a pleasure to find in a book of first poems by a young 
American. A certain rhythmic monotony may be men- 
tioned as an impression gained from a consecutive reading, 
and a prevailing twilight mood, united, in the longer 
poems, with a vein of the emotionally feminine. 

Two short lyrics, however, / Am the Wind and The 
Tragedienne, stand apart in isolated perfection, even as 
the two Greek columns in the ruined theater at Aries; 
an impression recalled by the opening stanza of The 

Upon a hill in Thessaly 

Stand broken columns in a line 

About a cold forgotten shrine 
Beneath a moon in Thessaly. 

This is the first of the monthly volumes of poetry to 
be issued by Mr. Kennerley. It awakens pleasant 
anticipation of those to follow. 

Lyrical Poems, By Lucy Lyttelton. (Thomas B. Mosher.) 

The twilight mood also prevails in the poems of 
Lucy Lyttelton, although the crest of a fine modern 
impulse may be traced in A Vision, The Japanese Widow, 
The Black Madonna, and A Song of Revolution. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

"Where is Owen Griffiths?" Broken and alone 
Crushed he lies in darkness beneath Festiniog stone. 
" Bring his broken body before me to the throne 
For a crown. 

"Oftentimes in secret in prayer he came to me, 
Now to men and angels I know him openly. 
I that was beside him when he came to die 
Fathoms down. 

"And, Evan Jones, stand forward, whose life was shut 

in gloom, 
And a narrow grave they gave you 'twixt marble tomb 

and tomb. 

But now the great that trod you shall give you elbow room 
And renown." 

These poems unite delicacy and strength. They 
convince us of sincerity and intensity of vision. 

A. C. H. 



It is hardly necessary to introduce to the lovers of 
lyric and dramatic verse Mr. William Butler Yeats, who 
honors the Christmas number of Poetry by his presence. 
A score or more of years have passed since his voice, 
perfect in quality, began to speak and sing in high loyalty 
to the beauty of poetic art, especially the ancient poetic 
art of his own Irish people. His influence, reinforced 
by the prompt allegiance of Lady Gregory, Mr. Douglass 
Hyde, the late J. M. Synge, and many other Irish men 
and /women of letters, has sufficed to lift the beautiful 
old Gaelic literature out of the obscurity of merely local 
recognition into a position of international importance. 
This fact alone is a sufficient acknowledgment of Mr. 
Yeats' genius, and of the enthusiam which his leadership 
has inspired among the thinkers and singers of his race. 

Mr. George Sterling, of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, 
is well known to American readers of poetry through his 
two books of verse, Wine of Wizardry and The House of 

Mr. Clark Ashton Smith, also of California, is a 
youth whose talent has been acclaimed quite recently 
by a few newspapers of his own state, and recognized by 
one or two eastern publications. 

Mr. John Reed, of New York, and Alice Corbin, the 
wife of William P. Henderson, the Chicago painter, are 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Americans. The latter has contributed verse and prose 
to various magazines. The former is a young journalist, 
born in 1887, who has published little verse as yet. 

Rabindranath Tagore, the poet of Bengal, is suf- 
ficiently introduced by Mr. Pound's article. 


The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems, by William Ellery Leonard. B. W. Huebsch 

Romance, Vision and Satire: English Alliterative Poems of the XIV Century, 
Newly Rendered in the Original Metres, by Jessie L. Weston. Houghton 
Mifflin Co. 

Etain The Beloved, by James H. Cousins. Maunsel & Co. 

Uriel and Other Poems, by Percy MacKaye. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

The Unconquered Air, by Florence Earle Coates. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, by Amy Lowell. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

The Lure of the Sea, by J. E. Patterson. George H. Doran Co. 

The Roadside Fire, by Amelia Josephine Burr. George H. Doran Co. 

By the Way. Verses, Fragments and Notes, by William Allingham. Arranged 
by Helen Allingham. Longmans, Green & Co. 

Gabriel. A Pageant of Vigil, by Isabella Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher. 

Pilgrimage to Haunts of Browning, by Pauline Leavens. The Bowrons, Chicago. 

The Wind on the Heath, Ballads and Lyrics, by May Byron. George H. Doran. 

Valley Song and Verse, by William Hutcheson. Fraser, Asher & Co. 

The Queen of Orplede, by Charles Wharton Stork. Elkin Mathews. 

Pocahontas, A Pageant, by Margaret Ullman. The Poet Lore Co. 

Poems, by Robert Underwood Johnson. The Century Co. 

Songs Before Birth, Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher. 

Book Titles From Shakespeare, by Volney Streamer. Thomas B. Mosher. 

A Bunch of Blossoms. Little Verses for Little Children, by E. Gordon Browne. 
Longmans, Green & Co. 

June on the Miami, by William Henry Venable. Stewart & Kidd. 

The Tragedy of Etarre, A Poem, by Rhys Carpenter. Sturgis & Walton Co. 

In Other Words, by Franklin P. Adams. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

Verses and Sonnets, by Julia Stockton Dinsmore. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

Anna Mar cello's Book of Verses, by Cyrenus Cole. Printed for Personal Dis- 

Atala. An American Idyl, by Anna Olcott Commelin. E. P. Dutton & Co. 

Spring in Tuscany, an Anthology. Thos. B. Mosher. 



oetry No 4 

A ID^gaztne of Verse 

JANUARY, 1913 


{To be sung to the tune of THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB with 
indicated instruments.) 

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum. 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 
The saints smiled gravely, and they said, " He's come." 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 
Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, 
Lurching bravos from the ditches dank, 
Drabs from the alleyways and drug-fiends pale 
Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail! 
Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, 
Unwashed legions with the ways of death 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 

Every slum had sent its half-a-score 

The round world over Booth had groaned for more. 

Every banner that the wide world flies 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. 
Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang! 
Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang, 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 
Hallelujah! It was queer to see 
Bull-necked convicts with that land make free! 
Loons with bazoos blowing blare, blare, blare 
On, on, upward through the golden air. 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 

Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod, 
Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. 
Booth led boldly and he looked the chief: 
Eagle countenance in sharp relief, 
Beard a-flying, air of high command 
Unabated in that holy land. 

Jesus came from out the Court-House door, 
Stretched his hands above the passing poor. 
Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there 
Round and round the mighty Court-House square. 
Yet in an instant all that blear review 
Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. 
The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled 
And blind eyes opened on a new sweet world. 

Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! 
Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl; 



General William Booth Enters into Heaven 

Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, 
Rulers of empires, and of forests green! 

The hosts were sandalled and their wings were fire 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 
But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 

/^vi i n 1 1 i 

Oh, shout Salvation ! it was good to see * fan 

Kings and princes by the Lamb set free. 
The banjos rattled, and the tambourines 
Jihg-j ing-jingled in the hands of queens! 

And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer 

He saw his Master through the flag-filled air. Reverent 

x^i . 1*11 sung no 

Christ came gently with a robe and crown instrume 

For Booth the soldier while the throng knelt down. 
He saw King Jesus they were face to face, 
And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. 

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Briar and fennel and chincapin, 
And rue and ragweed everywhere; 

The field seemed sick as a soul with sin, 
Or dead of an old despair, 
Born of an ancient care. 

The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr, 
And the note of a bird's distress, 

With the rasping sound of the grasshopper, 
Clung to the loneliness 
Like burrs to a trailing dress. 

So sad the field, so waste the ground, 
So curst with an old despair, 

A woodchuck's burrow, a blind mole's mound, 
And a chipmunk's stony lair, 
Seemed more than it could bear. 

So lonely, too, so more than sad, 

So droning-lone with bees 
I wondered what more could Nature add 

To the sum of its miseries . 

And then I saw the trees. 


Waste Land 

Skeletons gaunt that gnarled the place, 

Twisted and torn they rose 
The tortured bones of a perished race 

Of monsters no mortal knows, 

They startled the mind's repose. 

And a man stood there, as still as moss, 

A lichen form that stared; 
With an old blind hound that, at a loss> 

Forever around him fared 

With a snarling fang half bared. 

I looked at the man; I saw him plain; 
Like a dead weed, gray and wan, 

Or a breath of dust. I looked again 
And man and dog were gone, 
Like wisps of the graying dawn. . . . 

Were they a part of the grim death there 

Ragweed, fennel, and rue? 
Or forms of the mind, an old despair, 

That there into semblance grew 

Out of the grief I knew? 

Madison Cawein 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Here among the beeches 

Winds and wild perfume, 

That the twilight pleaches 
Into gleam and gloom, 
Build for her a room. 

Her, whose Beauty cometh, 
Misty as the morn, 

When the wild bee hummeth, 
At its honey-horn, 
In the wayside thorn. 

As the wood grows dimmer, 
With the drowsy night, 

Like a moonbeam glimmer 
Here she walks in white, 
With a firefly-light. 

Moths around her flitting, 
Like a moth she goes; 

Here a moment sitting 
By this wilding rose, 
With my heart's repose. 


My Lady of the Beeches 

Every bough that dances 

Has assumed the grace 
Of her form : and Fancies, 

Flashed from eye and face, 

Brood about the place. 

And the water, shaken 

In its plunge and poise, 
To itself has taken 

Quiet of her voice, 

And restrains its joys. 

Would that these could tell me 

What and whence she is; 
She, who doth enspell me, 

Fill my soul with bliss 

Of her spirit kiss. 

Though the heart beseech her, 

And the soul implore, 
Who is it may reach her 

Safe behind the door 

Of all woodland lore ? 

Madison Cawein 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Earth, I dare not cling to thee 
Lest I should lose my precious soul. 

' Tis not more wondrous than the fluff 
Within the milkweed's autumn boll. 

Earth, shall my sacred essences 
But sink into thy senseless dust? 

The springtide takes its way with them 
And blossoms blow as blossoms must. 

Earth, I swear with solemn vow, 
I feel a greatness in my breath! 

The grass-seed hath its dream of God, 
Its visioning of life and death. 

Anita Fitch 



Two lovers wakened in their tombs 
They had been dead a hundred years 
And in the langue of old Provence 
They spoke of ancient tears. 

"M' amour," she called, "I've pardoned you;" 
(How sad her dreaming seemed to be!) 
"When I had kissed your dead face once 
Love's sweet returned to me." 

"M 9 amour," he called, "it was too late." 
(How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!) 
"Blessed the soul that love forgives," 
He whispered, "ere it dies." 

And then they turned again and slept 
With must and mold in ancient way; 
And so they'll sleep and wake, 'tis told, 
Until the Judgment Day. 


damoiseau et damoiselle, 
Guard ye your loving while ye live! 
Sin not against love's sacred flame 
While yet ye may, forgive. 

Anita Fitch 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 



The morning wind is wooing me; her lips have swept my 


Was ever dawn so sweet before? the land so fair as now? 
The wanderlust is luring to wherever roads may lead, 
While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but 


The forest whispers of its shades; of haunts where we have 

And where may friends be better made than under God's 

green inn? 
Your mouth is warm and laughing and your voice is calling 

While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but go? 


The bees are humming, humming in the clover; 

The bobolink is singing in the rye; 
The brook is purling, purling in the valley, 

And the river's laughing, radiant, to the sky! 

The buttercups are nodding in the sunlight; 

The winds are whispering, whispering to the pine; 
The joy of June has found me; as an aureole it's 
crowned me 

Because, oh best beloved, you are mine! 


Love-Songs of the Open Road 


In Arcady by moonlight, 

(Where only lovers go), 
There is a pool where only 

The fairest roses grow. 

Why are the moonlit roses 

So sweet beyond compare? 
Among their purple shadows 

My love is waiting there. 
* * * * * 

To Arcady by moonlight 

The roads are open wide, 
But only joy can enter 

And only joy abide. 

There is the peace unending 

That perfect faith can know 
In Arcady by moonlight, 

Where only lovers go. 

Kendall Banning 


POETRY: 'A Magazine of Verse 

As one within a moated tower, 

I lived my life alone; 
And dreamed not other granges' dower, 

Nor ways unlike mine own- 
I thought I loved. But all alone 

As one within a moated tower 
I lived. Nor truly knew 

One other mortal fortune's hour. 
As one within a moated tower, 

One fate alone I knew. 
Who hears afar the break of day 

Before the silvered air 
Reveals her hooded presence gray, 

And she, herself, is there? 
I know not how, but now I see 

The road, the plain, the pluming tree, 
The carter on the wain. 

On my horizon wakes a star. 
The distant hillsides wrinkled far 

Fold many hearts' domain. 
On one the fire-worn forests sweep, 

Above a purple mountain-keep 
And soar to domes of snow. 

One heart has swarded fountains deep 
Where water-lilies blow: 

And one, a cheerful house and yard, 



With curtains at the pane, 

Board-walks down lawns all clover-starred, 
And full-fold fields of grain. 

As one within a moated tower 
I lived my life alone; 

And dreamed not other granges' dower 
Nor ways unlike mine own. 

But now the salt-chased seas uncurled 
And mountains trooped with pine 

Are mine. I look on all the world 
And all the world is mine. 

Edith Wyatt 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Ah Happiness: 

Who called you "Earandel"? 

(Winter-star, I think, that is) ; 

And who can tell the lovely curve 

By which you seem to come, then swerve 

Before you reach the middle-earth ? 

And who is there can hold your wing, 

Or bind you in your mirth, 

Or win you with a least caress, 

Or tear, or kiss, or anything 

Insensate happiness ? 

Once I thought to have you 
Fast there in a child: 
All her heart she gave you, 
Yet you would not stay. 
Cruel, and careless, 
Not half reconciled, 
Pain you cannot bear; 
When her yellow hair 
Lay matted, every tress; 
When those looks of hers, 
Were no longer hers, 
You went: in a day 
She wept you all away. 


A Song of Happiness 

Once I thought to give 
You, plighted, holily 
No more fugitive, 
Returning like the sea: 
But they that share so well 
Heaven must portion Hell 
In their copartnery: 
Care, ill fate, ill health, 
Came we know not how 
And broke our commonwealth. 
Neither has you now. 

Some wait you on the road, 

Some in an open door 

Look for the face you show'd 

Once there no more. 

You never wear the dress 

You danced in yesterday; 

Yet, seeming gone, you stay, 

And come at no man's call: 

Yet, laid for burial, 

You lift up from the dead 

Your laughing, spangled head. 

Yes, once I did pursue 

You, unpursuable; 

Loved, longed for, hoped for you 

Blue-eyed and morning brow'd. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Ah, lovely happiness! 
Now that I know you well, 
I dare not speak aloud 
Your fond name in a crowd; 
Nor conjure you by night, 
Nor pray at morning-light, 
Nor count at all on you: 

But, at a stroke, a breath, 
After the fear of death, 
Or bent beneath a load; 
Yes, ragged in the dress, 
And houseless on the road, 
I might surprise you there. 
Yes: who of us shall say 
When you will come, or where? 
Ask children at their play, 
The leaves upon the tree, 
The ships upon the sea, 
Or old men who survived, 
And lived, and loved, and wived. 
Ask sorrow to confess 
Your sweet improvidence, 
And prodigal expense 
And cold economy, 
Ah, lovely happiness! 

Ernest Rhys 



When she is ill my laughter cowers; 
An exile with a broken rhyme, 
My head upon the breast of time, 
I hear the heart-beat of the hours; 
I close my eyes without a sigh; 
The vision of her flutters by 
As glints the light of Mary's eyes 
Upon the lakes in Paradise. 

I seem to reach an olden town 

And enter at the sunset gate; 

And as the streets I hurry down, 

I find the men are all elate, 

As if an angel of the Lord 

Had passed with dearest word and nod, 

Remembered like a yearning chord 

Of songs the people sing to God ; 

I come upon the sunrise gate 

As silent as her listless room 

There seven beggers sing and wait 

And this the song that breaks the gloom: 

God a 'mercy is most kind; 
She the fairest passed this way; 
We the lowest were not blind; 
God a 'mercy bless the day. 

Roscoe W. Brink 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 



The hard sand breaks, 
And the grains of it 
Are clear as wine. 

Far off over the leagues of it, 

The wind, 

Playing on the wide shore, 

Piles little ridges, 

And the great waves 

Break over it. 

But more than the many-foamed ways 

Of the sea, 

I know him 

Of the triple path-ways, 


Who awaiteth. 


Facing three ways, 
Welcoming wayfarers, 
He whom the sea-orchard 
Shelters from the west, 


Hermes of the Ways 

From the east 
Weathers sea-wind; 
Fronts the great dunes. 

Wind rushes 

Over the dunes, 

And the coarse, salt-crusted grass 



It whips round my ankles! 


Small is 

This white stream, 
Flowing below ground 
From the poplar-shaded hill, 
But the water is sweet. 

Apples on the small trees 

Are hard, 

Too small, 

Too late ripened 

By a desperate sun 

That struggles through sea-mist. 


POETRY: A Magazine of 

The boughs of the trees 

Are twisted 

By many bafflings; 

Twisted are 

The small-leafed boughs. 

But the shadow of them 

Is not the shadow of the mast head 

Nor of the torn sails. 

Hermes, Hermes, 
The great sea foamed, 
Gnashed its teeth about me; 
But you have waited, 
Where sea-grass tangles with 

H. D. 


From "The Anttwlogy" 


Keeper-of -Orchards 

I saw the first pear 

As it fell. 

The honey-seeking, golden-banded, 

The yellow swarm 

Was not more fleet than I, 

(Spare us from loveliness!) 

And I fell prostrate, 


Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms; 

Spare us the beauty 

Of fruit-trees! 

The honey-seeking 
Paused not, 

The air thundered their song, 
And I alone was prostrate. 

God of the orchard, 

1 bring thee an offering; 
Do thou, alone unbeautiful 
(Son of the god), 

Spare us from loveliness. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Perse 

The fallen hazel-nuts, 

Stripped late of their green sheaths, 

The grapes, red-purple, 

Their berries 

Dripping with wine, 

Pomegranates already broken, 

And shrunken fig, 

And quinces untouched, 

I bring thee as offering. 

H. D. 


(After the Greek) 

The golden one is gone from the banquets; 

She, beloved of Atimetus, 

The swallow, the bright Homonoea: 

Gone the dear chatterer; 

Death succeeds Atimetus. 

H. Z>., 




London, December 10, 1912 

|HE state of things here in London is, as I 
see it, as follows: 

I find Mr. Yeats the only poet worthy 
of serious study. Mr. Yeats' work is already 
a recognized classic and is part of the 
required reading in the Sorbonne. There is no need 
of proclaiming him to the American public. 

As to his English contemporaries, they are food, 
sometimes very good food, for anthologies. There are 
a number of men who have written a poem, or several 
poems, worth knowing and remembering, but they do 
not much concern the young artist studying the art of 

The important work of the last twenty-five years 
has been done in Paris. This work is little likely to gain 
a large audience in either America or England, because 
of its tone and content. There has been no "man with 
a message," but the work has been excellent and the 
method worthy of our emulation. No other body of 
poets having so little necessity to speak could have 
spoken so well as these modern Parisians and Flemings. 
There has been some imitation here of their manner 
and content. Any donkey can imitate a man's manner. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

There has been little serious consideration of their 
method. It requires an artist to analyze and apply a 

Among the men of thirty here, Padraic Colum is the 
one whom we call most certainly a poet, albeit he has 
written very little verse and but a small part of that is 
worthy of notice. He is fairly unconscious of such 
words as "aesthetics," "technique" and "method." 
He is at his best in Garadh, a translation from the 
Gaelic, beginning: 

woman, shapely as a swan, 

On your account I shall not die. 
The men you've slain a trivial clan 

Were less than I: 

and in A Drover. He is bad whenever he shows a trace 
of reading. I quote the opening of A Drover, as I 
think it shows "all Colum" better than any passage he 
has written. I think no English-speaking writer now 
living has had the luck to get so much of himself into 

twelve lines. 

To Meath of the pastures, 

From wet hills by the sea, 
Through Leitrim and Longford 
Go my cattle and me. 

I hear in the darkness 

Their slipping and breathing. 
I name them the bye-ways 

They're to pass without heeding. 

Then the wet, winding roads, 

Brown bogs with black water; 
And my thoughts on white ships 

And the King o' Spain's daughter. 


Status Rerum 

I would rather talk about poetry with Ford Madox 
Hueffer than with any man in London. Mr. Hueffer's 
beliefs about the art may be best explained by saying 
that they are in diametric opposition to those of Mr. 

Mr. Yeats has been subjective; believes in the glamour 
and associations which hang near the words. "Works of 
art beget works of art." He- has much in common with 
the French symbolists. Mr. Hueffer believes in an exact 
rendering of things. He would strip words of all "asso- 
ciation" for the sake of getting a precise meaning. He 
professes to prefer prose to verse. You would find his 
origins in Gautier or in Flaubert. He is objective. This 
school tends to lapse into description. The other tends 
to lapse into sentiment. 

Mr. Yeats' method is, to my way of thinking, very 
dangerous, for although he is the greatest of living poets 
who use English, and though he has sung some of the 
moods of life immortally, his art has not broadened 
much in scope during the past decade. His gifts to 
English art are mostly negative; i. e., he has stripped 
English poetry of many of its faults. His "followers" 
have come to nothing. Neither Synge, Lady Gregory 
nor Colum can be called his followers, though he had 
much to do with bringing them forth, yet nearly every 
man who writes English verse seriously is in some way 
indebted to him. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Mr. Hueffer has rarely "come off." His touch is so 
light and his attitude so easy that there seems little 
likelihood of his ever being taken seriously by anyone 
save a few specialists and a few of his intimates. His 
last leaflet, High Germany, contains, however, three 
poems from which one may learn his quality. They are 
not Victorian. I do not expect many people to under- 
stand why I praise them. They are The Starling, In the 
Little Old Market-Place and To All the Dead. 

The youngest school here that has the nerve to call 
itself a school is that of the Imagistes. To belong to 
a school does not in the least mean that one writes poetry 
to a theory. One writes poetry when, where, because, 
and as one feels like writing it. A school exists when 
two or three young men agree, more or less, to call certain 
things good; when they prefer such of their verses as have 
certain qualities to such of their verses as do not have 

Space forbids me to set forth the program of the 
Imagistes at length, but one of their watchwords is 
Precision, and they are in opposition to the numerous 
and unassembled writers who busy themselves with dull 
and interminable effusions, and who seem to think that 
a man can write a good long poem before he learns to 
write a good short one, or even before he learns to pro- 
duce a good single line. 

Among the very young men, there seems to be a 
gleam of hope in the work of Richard Aldington, but 
it is too early to make predictions. 


Status Rerum 

There are a number of men whose names are too 
well known for it to seem necessary to tell them over. 
America has already found their work in volumes or 
anthologies. Hardy, Kipling, Maurice Hewlett, Binyon, 
Robert Bridges, Sturge Moore, Henry Newbolt, McKail, 
Masefield, who has had the latest cry; Abercrombie, 
with passionate defenders, and Rupert Brooke, recently 
come down from Cambridge. 

There are men also, who are little known to the general 
public, but who contribute liberally to the "charm" or 
the "atmosphere" of London: Wilfred Sea wen Blunt, 
the grandest of old men, the last of the great Victorians; 

great by reason of his double sonnet, beginning 
He who has once been happy is for aye 
Out of destruction's reach; 

Ernest Rhys, weary with much editing and hack work, 
to whom we owe gold digged in Wales, translations, 
transcripts, and poems of his own, among them the fine 
one to Dagonet; Victor Plarr, one of the "old" Rhymers' 
Club, a friend of Dowson and of Lionel Johnson. His 
volume, In The Dorian Mood, has been half forgotten, 
but not his verses Epitaphium Citharistriae. One would 
also name the Provost of Oriel, not for original work, 
but for his very beautiful translations from Dante. 

In fact one might name nearly a hundred writers 
who have given pleasure with this or that matter in 
rhyme. But it is one thing to take pleasure in a man's 
work and another to respect him as a great artist. 

Ezra Pound 



The Lyric Year, Mr. Kennerley's new annual, con- 
tains among its hundred contributions nearly a score of 
live poems, among which a few excite the kind of keen 
emotion which only art of real distinction can arouse. 

Among the live poems the present reviewer would 
count none of the prize-winners, not even Mr. Sterling's, 
the best of the three, whose rather stiff formalities in 
praise of Browning are, however, lit now and then by 
shining lines, as 

Drew as a bubble from old infamies. . . . 
The shy and many-colored soul of man. 

The other two prize-poems must have been measured 
by some academic foot-rule dug up from the eighteenth 
century. Orrick Johns' Second Avenue is a Gray's Elegy 
essay of prosy moralizing, without a finely poetic line 
in it, or any originality of meaning or cadence. And the 
second prize went to an ode still more hopelessly acad- 
emic. Indeed, To a Thrush, by Thomas Augustine Daly, 
is one of the most stilted poems in the volume, a far-away 
echo of echoes, full of the approved "poetic" words 
throstle, pregnant, vernal, cerulean, teen, chrysmal, even 
paraclete and quite guiltless of inspiration. 

But one need not linger with these. As we face the 
other way one poem outranks the rest and ennobles the 
book. This is The Renascence, said to be by Edna St. 
Vincent Millay, who, according to the editor, is only 



twenty years old. This poem is the daring flight of a wide- 
winged imagination, and the art of it, though not faultless, 
is strong enough to carry us through keen emotions of 
joy and agony to a climax of spiritual serenity. Though 
marred by the last twelve lines, which should be struck 
out for stating the thesis too explicitly, this poem arouses 
high hopes of its youthful author. 

Among the other live poems trees, saplings or flowers 
are various species. Kisa-Gotami, by Arthur Davison 
Ficke, tells its familiar story of the Buddha in stately 
cadences which sustain the beauty of the tale. Jetsam, a 
"Titanic" elegy by Herman Montagu Donner, carries the 
dread and dangerous subject without violating its terrors 
and sanctities with false sentiment or light rhythm. 
Ridgeley Torrence's Ritual for a Funeral is less sure of 
its ground, sometimes escaping into vapors, but on the 
whole noble in feeling and flute-like in cadence. Mrs. 
Conkling's bird ode has now and then an airy delicacy, 
and Edith Wyatt's City Swallow gives the emotion of 
flight above the roofs and smoke of a modern town. 

Of the shorter poems who could ignore Harry Kemp's 
noble lyric dialogue, / Sing the Battle; The Forgotten 
Soul by Margaret Widdemer, Selma, by Willard H. 
Wright; Comrades by Fannie Stearns Davis, or Nicholas 
Vachel Lindsay's tribute to O. Henry, a more vital elegy 
than Mr. Sterling's? These are all simple and sincere 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

straight modern talk which rises into song without the aid 
of worn-out phrases. Paternity, by William Rose Benet, 
To My Vagrant Love, by Elouise Briton, and Dedication, 
by Pauline Florence Brower, are delicate expressions of 
intimate emotion; and Martin, by Joyce Kilmer, touches 
with grace a lighter subject. 

To have gathered such as these together is perhaps 
enough, but more may be reasonably demanded. As a 
whole the collection, like the prizes, is too academic; 
Georgian and Victorian standards are too much in evi- 
dence. The ambition of The Lyric Year is to be "an 
annual Salon of American poetry;" to this end poets and 
their publishers are invited to contribute gratis the best 
poems of the year, without hope of reward other than 
the three prizes. That so many responded to the call, 
freely submitting their works to anonymous judges, 
shows how eager is the hitherto unfriended American muse 
to seize any helping hand. 

However, if this annual is to speak with any authority 
as a Salon, it should take a few lessons from art exhibitions. 
Mr. Earle's position as donor, editor and judge, is as if Mr. 
Carnegie should act as hanging committee at the Pitts- 
burg show, and help select the prize-winners. And 
Messrs. Earle, Braithwaite and Wheeler, this year's 
jury of awards, are not, even though all have written verse, 
poets of recognized distinction in the sense that Messrs. 
Chase, Alexander, Hassam, Duveneck, and other jurymen 
in our various American Salons, are distinguished painters. 



In these facts lie the present weaknesses of The Lyric 
Year. However, the remedy for them is easy and may be 
applied in future issues. Meantime the venture is to be 
welcomed; at last someone, somewhere, is trying to do 
something for the encouragement of the art in America. 
Poetry, which is embarked in the same adventure, rejoices 
in companionship. H. M. 


Already many books of verses come to us, of which a 
few are poetry. Sometimes the poetry is an aspiration 
rather than an achievement; but in spite of crude materials 
and imperfect artistry one may feel the beat of wings and 
hear the song. Again one searches in vain for the magic 
touch, even though the author has interesting things to 
say in creditable and more or less persuasive rhymed 

Of recent arrivals Mr. John Hall Wheelock has the 
most searching vision and appealing voice. In The 
Human Fantasy (Sherman, French & Co.) his subject 
is New York, typified in the pathetic little love-affair 
of two young starvelings, which takes its course through a 
stirring, exacting milieu to a renunciation that leaves the 
essential sanctities intact. The poet looks through the 
slang and shoddy of the lovers, and the dust and glare 
of the city, to the divine power of passion in both. In 
The Beloved Adventure the emotion is less poignant; or, 
rather, the poet has included many indifferent pieces which 
obscure the quality of finer lyrics. More rigorous tech- 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

nique and resolute use of the waste-basket would make more 
apparent the fact that we have here a true poet, one with 
a singing voice, and a heart deeply moved by essential 
spiritual beauty in the common manifestations of human 
character. At his best he writes with immense concen- 
tration and unflagging vigor; and his hearty young appe- 
tite for life in all its manifestations helps him to transmute 
the repellant discords of the modern town into harmony. 
The fantasy of Love in a City is a "true thing" and a vital. 

Mr. Hermann Hagedorn is also a true poet, capable of 
lyric rapture, but sometimes, when he seems least aware, 
his muse escapes him. The Infidel, the initial poem of 
his Poems and Ballads (Hough ton Mifflin Co.), recalls his 
Woman of Corinth, and others in this book remind one of 
this and of his Harvard class poem, The Troop of the Guard, 
in that the words do not, like colored sands, dance inevit- 
ably into the absolute shape determined by the wizardry 
of sound. He is still somewhat hampered by the New 
England manner, a trend toward an external formalism 
not dependent on interior necessity. This influence 
makes for academic and lifeless work, and it must be 
deeply rooted since it casts its chill also over the Boston 
school of painters. 

But now and then Mr* Hagedorn frees himself; perhaps 
in the end he may escape altogether. In such poems as 
Song, Doors, Broadway, Discovery, The Wood-Gatherer, 
The Crier in the Night and A Chant on the Terrible Highway, 
we feel that he begins to speak for himself, to sing with 



his own voice. Such poems are a challenging note that 
should arrest the attention of all seekers after sincere 
poetic expression. 

Mr. Percy MacKaye, in Uriel and Other Poems 
(Hough ton Mifflin Co.), shows also the Boston influence, 
but perhaps it is difficult to escape the academic note in 
such poems for occasions as these. With fluent eloquence 
and a ready command of verse forms he celebrates dead 
poets, addresses noted living persons, and contributes 
to a number of ceremonial observances. The poems in 
which he is most freely lyric are perhaps In the Bohemian 
Redwoods and To the Fire-Bringer, the shorter of his elegies 
in honor of Moody, his friend. 

In two dramatic poems, The Tragedy of Etarre, by Rhys 
Carpenter (Sturgis & Walton Co.), and Gabriel, a Pageant 
of Vigi^ by Mrs. Isabelle Howe Fiske (Mosher), the 
academic note is confidently insisted on. The former 
shows the more promise of ultimate freedom. It is an 
Arthurian venture of which the prologue is the strongest 
part. In firm-knit iambics Mr. Carpenter strikes out 
many effective lines and telling situations. Indeed, they 
almost prompt the profane suggestion that, simplified 
and compressed, they might yield a psychological libretto 
for some "advanced" composer. 

Mrs. Fiske's venture is toward heaven itself; but her 
numerous archangels are of the earth earthy. 

In The Unconquered Air and Other Poems (Houghton 
Mifflin Co.), Mrs. Florence Earle Coates shows not inspir- 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

ation but wide and humane sympathies. Her verse is 
typical of much which has enough popular appeal and 
educative value to be printed extensively in the magazines; 
verse in which subjects of modern interest and human sent- 
iment are expressed in the kind of rhymed eloquence which 
passes for poetry with the great majority. 

These poets may claim the justification of illustrious 
precedent. The typical poem of this class in America, 
the most famous verse rhapsody which stops short of 
lyric rapture, is Lowell's Commemoration Ode. 


Our poets this month play divers instruments. The 
audience may listen to H. D.'s flute, the 'cello of 
Mr. Rhys, the big bass drum of Mr. Lindsay, and so 
on through the orchestra, fitting each poet to his special 
strain. Some of these performers are well known, others 
perhaps will be. 

Mr. Ernest Rhys is of Welsh descent. In 1888-9 he 
lectured in America, and afterward returned to London, 
where he has published A London Rose, Arthurian plays 
and poems, and Welsh ballads, and edited Everyman's 

Mr. Madison Cawein, the well-known Kentucky poet 
resident in Louisville, scarcely needs an introductory 
word. His is landscape poetry chiefly, but sometimes, as 
in Wordsworth, figures blend with the scene and become 



a part of nature. A volume of his own selections from his 
various books has recently been published by The Mac- 
Millan Company. 

Mr. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay is the vagabond poet who 
loves to tramp through untravelled country districts with- 
out a cent in his pocket, exchanging "rhymes for bread" 
at farmers' hearths, The magazines have published en- 
gaging articles by him, but in verse he has been usually 
his own publisher as yet. 

"H. D., Imagiste," is an American lady resident 
abroad, whose idenity is unknown to the editor. Her 
sketches from the Greek are not offered as exact transla- 
tions, or as in any sense finalities, but as experiments in 
delicate and elusive cadences, which attain sometimes a 
haunting beauty. 

Mr. Kendall Banning is an editor and writer of songs. 
"The Love Songs of the Open Road," with music by 
Lena Branscord, will soon be published by Arthur 
Schmidt of Boston. 

Mrs. Anita Fitch of New York has contributed poems 
to various magazines. 

The February number of POETRY will be devoted 
to the work of two poets, Messrs. Arthur Davison Ficke 
and Witter Bynner. 



The Lyric Year. Mitchell Kennerley. 

Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

Shadows of the Flowers, by T. B. Aldrich. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

Poems and Plays, by William Vaughn Moody. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

Nimrod, by Francis Rolt-Wheeler. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard. 

The Shadow Garden and Other Plays, by Madison Cawein. G. P. Putman's Sous. 

Via Lucis, by Alice Harper. M. E. Church South, Nashville, Tenn. 

Songs of Courage and Other Poems, by Bertha F. Gordon. The Baker & Taylor Co 

Narrative Lyrics, by Edward Lucas White. G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

The Dance of Dinwiddie, by Marshall Moreton. Stewart & Kidd Co. 

The Three Visions and Other Poems, by John A. Johnson. Stewart & Kidd Co. 

Hands Across The Equator, by Alfred Ernest Keet. Privately printed. 

Songs Under Open Skies, by M. Jay Flannery. Stewart & Kidd Co. 

Denys Of Auxerre, by James Barton. Christophers, London. 

Songs in Many Moods, by Charles Washburn Nichols. L. H. Blackmer Press. 

The Lord's Prayer. A Sonnet Sequence by Francis Howard Williams, n George 

W. Jacobs & Co. 

The Buccaneers, by Don C. Seitz. Harper & Bros. 
The Tale of a Round-House, by John Masefield. The MacMillan Co. 
XXXIII Love Sonnets, by Florence Brooks. John Marone. 
The Poems of Ida Ahlborn Weeks. Published By Her Friends, Sabula, Iowa. 
The Poems of LeRoy Titus Weeks. Published by the author. 
Ripostes, by Ezra Pound. Stephen Swift. 

The Spinning Woman of the Sky, by Alice Corbin. The Ralph Fletcher Seymour Co. 
The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves. Maunsel & Co. 
Welsh Poetry Old and New, in English Verse, by Alfred Perceval Graves. 

Longmans, Green & Co. 



& fDagazine of Verse 

No. 5 







| HE autumn dusk, not yearly but eternal, 
Is haunted by thy voice. 
Who turns his way far from the valleys 


And by dark choice 
Disturbs those heights which from the low-lying land 
Rise sheerly toward the heavens, with thee may stand 
And hear thy thunders down the mountains strown. 
But none save him who shares thy prophet-sight 
Shall thence behold what cosmic dawning-light 
Met thy soul's own. 


Master of music! unmelodious singing 
Must build thy praises now. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verst 

Master of vision! vainly come we, bringing 
Words to endow 

Thy silence, where, beyond our clouded powers, 
The sun-shot glory of resplendent hours 
Invests thee of the Dionysiac flame. 
Yet undissuaded come we, here to make 
Not thine enrichment but our own who wake 
Thy echoing fame. 


Not o'er thy dust we brood, we who have never 
Looked in thy living eyes. 
Nor wintry blossom shall we come to sever 
Where thy grave lies. 

Let witlings dream, with shallow pride -elate, 
That they approach the presence of the great 
When at the spot of birth or death they stand. 
But hearts in whom thy heart lives, though they be 
By oceans sundered, walk the night with thee 
In alien land. 


For them, grief speaks not with the tidings spoken 
That thou art of the dead. 
No lamp extinguished when the bowl is broken, 
No music fled 

When the lute crumbles, art thou nor shalt be; 
But as a great wave, lifted on the sea, 
Surges triumphant toward the sleeping shore, 


Poems: Arthur Davison Ficke 

Thou fallest, in splendor of irradiant rain, 
To sweep resurgent all the ocean plain 


The seas of earth with flood tides filled thy bosom; 
The sea-winds to thy voice 

Lent power; the Grecian with the English blossom 
Twined, to rejoice 

Upon thy brow in chaplets of new bloom; 
And over thee the Celtic mists of doom 
Hovered to give their magics to thy hand; 
And past the moon, where Music dwells alone, 
She woke, and loved, and left her starry zone 
At thy command. 


For thee spake Beauty from the shadowy waters; 
For thee Earth garlanded 

With loveliness and light her mortal daughters; 
Toward thee was sped 
The arrow of swift longing, keen delight, 
Wonder 'that pierces, cruel needs that smite, 
Madness and melody and hope and tears. 
And these with lights and loveliness illume 
Thy pages, where rich Summer's faint perfume 
Outlasts the years. 


Outlasts, too well ! For of the hearts that know thee 
Few know or dare to stand 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

On thy keen chilling heights; but where below thee 

Thy lavish hand 

Has scattered brilliant jewels of summer song 

And flowers of passionate speech, there grope the throng 

Crying "Behold! this bauble, this is he!" 

And of their love or hate, the foolish wars 

Echo up faintly where amid lone stars 

Thy soul may be. 


But some, who find in thee a word exceeding 
Even thy power of speech 

To whom each song, like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding, 
Fallen, can teach 

Tidings of that high forest whence it came 
Where the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flame 
Burns as the Autumn kindles on its quest 
These rapt diviners gather close to thee: 
Whom now the Winter holds in dateless fee 
Sealed of rest. 


Strings never touched before, strange accents 


Strange quivering lambent words, 
A far exalted hope serene or panting 
Mastering the chords, 

A sweetness fierce and tragic, these were thine, 
O singing lover of dark Proserpine! 
O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song! 


Poems: Arthur Davison Fickf 

O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine, 
Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shine 
Down on the throng. 


Not thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding glory 
Maketh men blind to thee. 
For them thou hast no evening fireside story. 
But to be free 

But to arise, spurning all bonds that fold 
The spirit of man in fetters forged of old 
This was the mighty trend of thy desire; 
Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mould 
No longer idols, but aloft to hold 
The soul's own fire. 


Yea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture; 
And thy strong heart has passed 
From youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture, 
Into the vast 

Desolate bleakness of life's iron spaces; 
And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces, 
Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control. 
In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven, 
Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge woven 
From thine own soul. 


The faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning, 
Dropping, like leaves. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complaining: 

As Time bereaves 

Pitiful hearts of all that they thought holy. 

The icy stars look down on melancholy 

Shelterless creatures of a pillaged day: 

A day of disillusionment and terror, 

A day that yields no solace for the error 

It takes away. 


Thee with no solace, but with bolder passion 
The bitter day endowed. 

As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashion 
At last the proud 

Indomitable master of their tides, 
Who with exultant power splendidly rides 
The terrible summit of each whelming wave, 
So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain; 
Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main, 
Strength that shall save. 


Here where old barks upon new headlands shatter, 
And worlds seem torn apart, 
Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatter 
The mortal heart, 

Where the wild welter of strange knowledge won 
From grave and engine and the chemic sun 
Subdues the age to faith in dust and gold: 
The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth, 


Poems: Arthur Davison Ficke 

In living witness of the spirit's truth, 
Like prophets old. 


Thee shall the future time with joy inherit. 
Hast thou not sung and said : 
"Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit, 
None ever led"? 

Tjme shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod, 
Where the soul speaks authentically of God, 
Sustained by glories strange, and strong and new. 
Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heart 
Only to kindred can thy speech impart; 
And they are few. 


Few men shall love thee, whom fierce powers 

have lifted 

High beyond meed of praise. 
But as some bark whose seeking sail has drifted 
Through storm of days, 
We hail thee, bearing back thy golden flowers 
Gathered beyond the Western Isles, in bowers 
That had not seen, till thine, a vessel's wake. 
And looking on thee from our land-built towers 
Know that such sea-dawn never can be ours 
As thou sawest break. 


Now sailest thou dim-lighted, lonelier water. 
By shores of bitter seas 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Low is thy speech with Ceres' ghostly daughter, 

Whose twined lilies 

Are not more pale than thou, O bard most sweet, 

Most bitter; for whose brow sedge-crowns were mete 

And crowns of splendid holly green and red; 

Who passest from the dust of careless feet 

To lands where sunrise thou hast sought shall greet 

Thy holy head. 

Thou hast followed after him whose hopes were 


That meteor-soul divine; 

Near whom divine we hail thee: thou the latest 
Of that bright line 

Of flame-lipped masters of the spell of song, 
Enduring in succession proud and long, 
The banner-bearers in triumphant wars: 
Latest; and first of that bright line to be, 
For whom thou also, flame-lipped, spirit-free, 
Art of the stars. 


You shall remember dimly, 
Through mists of far-away, 
Her whom, our lips set grimly, 
We carried forth today. 


Poems: Arthur Davison Fickf 

But when, in days hereafter, 
Unfolding time shall bring 
Knowledge of love and laughter 
And trust and triumphing, 

Then from some face the fairest, 
From some most joyous breast, 
Garner what there is rarest 
And happiest and best, 

The youth, the light the rapture 
Of eager April grace, 
And in that sweetness, capture 
Your mother's far-off face. 

And all the mists shall perish 
That have between you moved. 
You shall see her you cherish; 
And love, as we have loved. 


She limps with halting painful pace, 
Stops, wavers, and creeps on again; 
Peers up with dim and questioning face 
Void of desire or doubt or pain. 

Her cheeks hang gray in waxen folds 
Wherein there stirs no blood at all. 
A hand like bundled cornstalks holds 
The tatters of a faded shawl. 

[US I 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps; 
A knot jerks where were woman-hips; 
A ropy throat sends writhing gasps 
Up to the tight line of her lips. 

Here strong the city's pomp is poured . . 
She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast: 
An empty temple of the Lord 
From which the jocund Lord has passed. 

He has builded him another house, 
Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, 
Shines stark upon these weathered brows 
Abandoned to the final night. 


Gone are the three, those sisters rare 
With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. 
One was wise and one was fair, 
And one was mine. 

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair 
Of only two your ivy vine. 
For one was wise and one was fair, 
But one was mine. 


Poems: Arthur Davison Ficke 


In halls of sleep you wandered by, 
This time so indistinguishably 
I cannot remember aught of it, 
Save that I know last night we met. 
I know it by the cloudy thrill 
That in my heart is quivering still; 
And sense of loveliness forgot 
Teases my fancy out of thought. 
Though with the night the vision wanes 
Its haunting presence still may last 
As odour of flowers faint remains 
In halls where late a queen has passed. 


Oh, let me take your lily hand, 
And where the secret star-beams shine 
Draw near, to see and understand 
Pierrot and Columbine. 

Around the fountains, in the dew, 
Where afternoon melts into night, 
With gracious mirth their gracious crew 
Entice the shy birds of delight. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Of motley dress and masked face, 
Of sparkling unrevealing eyes, 
They track in gentle aimless chase 
The moment as it flies. 

Their delicate beribboned rout, 
Gallant and fair, of light intent, 
Weaves through the shadows in and out 
With infinite artful merriment. 

Dear Lady of the lily hand, 
Do then our stars so clearly shine 
That we, who do not understand, 
May mock Pierrot and Columbine? 

Beyond this garden-grove I see 
The wise, the noble and the brave 
In ultimate futility 
Go down into the grave. 

And all they dreamed and all they sought, 
Crumbled and ashen grown, departs; 
And is as if they had not wrought 
These works with blood from out their hearts. 

The nations fall, the faiths decay, 
The great philosophies go by, 
And life lies bare, some bitter day, 
A charnel that affronts the sky. 


Poems: Arthur Davison Ficke 

The wise, the noble and the brave, 
They saw and solved, as we must see 
And solve, the universal grave, 
The ultimate futility. 

Look, where beside the garden-pool 
A Venus rises in the grove, 
More suave, more debonair, more cool 
Than ever burned with Paphian love. 

'Twas here the delicate ribboned rout 
Of gallants and the fair ones went 
Among the shadows in and out 
With infinite artful merriment. 

Then let me take your lily hand, 
And let us tread, where starbeams shine, 
A dance; and be, and understand 
Pierrot and Columbine. 

Arthur Davison Ficke 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 




HEN a wandering Italian 

Yesterday at noon 

Played upon his hurdy-gurdy 

Suddenly a tune, 

There was magic in my ear-drums; 
Like a baby's cup and spoon 
Tinkling time for many sleigh-bells, 
Many no-school, rainy-day-bells, 
Cow-bells, frog-bells, run-away-bells, 
Mingling with an ocean medley 
As of elemental people 
More emotional than wordy, 
Mermaids laughing off their tantrums, 
Mermen singing loud and sturdy, 
Silver scales and fluting shells, 
Popping weeds and gurgles deadly, 
Coral chime from coral steeple, 
Intermittent deep-sea bells 
Ringing over floating knuckles, 
Buried gold and swords and buckles, 
And a thousand bubbling chuckles, 
Yesterday at noon, 


Poems: Witter Bynner 

Such a melody as star-fish, 
And all fish that really are fish, 
In a gay, remote battalion 
Play at midnight to the moon! 

Could any playmate on our planet, 

Hid in a house of earth's own granite, 

Be so devoid of primal fire 

That a wind from this wild crated lyre 

Should find no spark and fan it? 

Would any lady half in tears, 

Whose fashion, on a recent day 

Over the sea, had been to pay 

Vociferous gondoliers, 

Beg that the din be sent away 

And ask a gentleman, gravely treading 

As down the aisle at his own wedding, 

To toss the foreigner a quarter 

Bribing him to leave the street; 

That motor-horns and servants' feet 

Familiar might resume, and sweet 

To her offended ears, 

The money-music of her peers ! 

Apollo listened, took the quarter 

With his hat off to the buyer, 

Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy, 

Led away his hurdy-gurdy 

Street by street, then turned at last 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Toward a likelier piece of earth 

Where a stream of chatter passed, 

Yesterday at noon; 

By a school he stopped and played 

Suddenly a tune .... 

What a melody he made! 

Made in all those eager faces, 

Feet and hands and fingers! 

How they gathered, how they stayed 

With smiles and quick grimaces, 

Little man and little maid! 

How they took their places, 

Hopping, skipping, unafraid, 

Darting, rioting about, 

Squealing, laughing, shouting out! 

How, beyond a single doubt, 

In my own feet sprang the ardour 

(Even now the motion lingers) 

To be joining in their paces! 

Round and round the handle went, 

Round their hearts went harder; 

Apollo urged the happy rout 

And beamed, ten times as well content 

With every son and daughter 

As though their little hands had lent 

The gentleman his quarter. 

(You would not guess nor I deny 

That that same gentleman was I !) 


Poems: Witter Bynner 

No gentleman may watch a god 

With proper happiness therefrom; 

So street by street again I trod 

The way that we had come. 

He had not seen me following 

And yet I think he knew; 

For still, the less I heard of it, 

The more his music grew: 

As if he made a bird of it 

To sing the distance through. . . . 

And, O Apollo, how I thrilled, 

You liquid-eyed rapscallion, 

With every twig and twist of Spring, 

Because your music pose and filled 

Each leafy vein with dew, 

With melody of olden sleigh-bells, 


And the heart of an Italian, 

And the tinkling cup and spoon, 

Such a melody as star-fish, 

And all fish that really are fish, 

In a gay remote battalion 

Play at midnight to the moon! 


Oh I longed, when I went in the woods today, 
To see the fauns come out and play, 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

To see a satyr try to seize 

A dryad's waist and bark his knees, 
To see a river-nymph waylay 

And shock him with a dash of spray! 
And I teased, like a child, by brooks and trees: 

"Come back again! We need you! Please! 
Come back and teach us how to play!" 

But nowhere in the woods were they. 

I found, when I went in the town today, 

A thousand people on their way 
To offices and factories 

And never a single soul at ease; 
And how could I help but sigh and say: 

"What can it profit them, how can it pay 
To strain the eye with rivalries 

Until the dark is all it sees? 
Or to manage, more than others may, 

To store the wasted gain away?" 

But one of the crowd looked up today, 

With pointed brows. I heard him say: 

"Out of the meadows and rivers and trees 
We fauns and many companies 

Of nymphs have come. And we are these, 
These people, each upon his way, 


Poems: Witter Bynner 

Looking for work, working for pay 

And paying all our energies 
To earn true love . . . For, seeming gay, 

"Once we were sad," I heard him say. 


Neighbors are not neighborly 

Who close the windows tight,- 

Nor those who fix a peeping eye 
For finding things not right. 

Let me have faith, is what I pray, 
And let my faith be strong! 

But who am I, is what I say, 

To think my neighbor wrong? 

And though my neighbor may deny 
That faith could be so slight, 

May call me wrong, yet who am I 
To think my neighbor right? 

Perhaps we wisely by and by 

May learn it of each other, 

That he is right and so am I 
And save a lot of bother. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Ve?sc 


I look at the long low hills of golden brown 

With their little wooded canyons 

And at the haze hanging its beauty in the air 

And I am caught and held, as a ball is caught and held 

by a player 

Who leaps for it in the field. 
And as the heart in the breast of the player beats toward 

the ball, 
And as the heart beats in the breast of him who shouts 

toward the player, 
So my heart beats toward the hills that are playing ball 

with the sun, 

That leap to catch the sun 
And to throw it to other hills 
Or to me ! 


Grieve not for the invisible, transported brow 

On which like leaves the dark hair grew, 

Nor for the lips of laughter that are now 

Laughing inaudibly in sun and dew, 

Nor for those limbs that, fallen low 

And seeming faint and slow, 

Shall yet pursue 

More ways of swiftness than the swallow dips 


Poems: Witter Bynner 

Among . . and find more winds than ever blew 
The straining sails of unimpeded ships! 
Mourn not! yield only happy tears 
To deeper beauty than appears! 


By seven vineyards on one hill 

We walked. The native wine 

In clusters grew beside us two, 
For your lips and for mine, 

When, "Hark!" you said, "Was that a bell 
Or a bubbling spring we heard ?" 

But I was wise and closed my eyes 
And listened to a bird; 

For as summer leaves are bent and shake 
With singers passing through, 

So moves in me continually 

The winged breath of you. 

You tasted from a single vine 

And took from that your fill 

But I inclined to every kind, 
All seven on one hill. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


I had not till today been sure, 

But now I know: 
Dead men and women come and go 

Under the pure 

Sequestering snow. 

And under the autumnal fern 

And carmine bush, 
Under the shadow of a thrush, 

They move and learn; 

And in the rush 

Of all the mountain-brooks that wake 

With upward fling 
To brush and break the loosening cling 

Of ice, they shake 

The air with Spring! 

I had not till today been sure, 

But now I know: 
Dead youths and maidens come and go- 

Below the lure 

And undertow 

Of cities, under every street 
Of empty stress, 


Poems: Witter Bynner 

Or heart of an adulteress: 
Each loud retreat 
Of lovelessness. 

For only by the stir we make 

In passing near 
Are we confused, and cannot hear 

The ways they take 

Certain and clear. 

Today I happened in a place 

Where all around 
Was silence; until, underground, 

I heard a pace, 

A happy sound. 

And people whom I there could see 

Tenderly smiled, 
While under a wood of silent, wild 


Wandered a child, 

Leading his mother by the hand, 

Happy and slow, 
Teaching his mother where to go 

Under the snow. 
Not even now I understand 

I only know. 

Witter Bynner 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


The Story of a Round House and other Poems > 
by JOHN MASEFIELD (Macmillan) 

long ago I chanced to see upon a 
well-known page, reflective and sincere, 
these words: "The invisible root out of 
which the poetry deepest in and dearest 
to humanity grows is Friendship." 
A recent volume may well serve as a distinguished 
illustration of the saying's truth. Few persons, I think, 
will read The Story of a Round House and other Poems 
without a sense that the invisible root of its deep poetry 
is that fine power which Whitman called Friendship, the 
genius of sympathetic imagination. 

This is the force that knits the sinews of the chief, the 
life-size figure of the book. Dauber is the tale of a man 
and his work. It is the story of an artist in the making. 
The heroic struggles of an English farmer's son of twenty- 
one to become a painter of ships and the ocean, form the 
drama of the poem. The scene is a voyage around the 
Horn, the ship-board and round-house of a clipper where 
Dauber spends cruel, grinding months of effort to become 
an able seaman on the road of his further purpose 

Of beating thought into the perfect line. 

Masefield's Poems 

His fall from the yard-arm toward the close of the 
conquered horrors of his testing voyage; the catastrophe 
of his death after 

He had emerged out of the iron time 

And knew that he could compass his life's scheme 

these make the end of the tragedy. 

Tragedy? Yes. But a tragedy of the same temper 
as that of the great Dane, where the pursuit of a mortal 
soul's intention is more, far more, than his mortality. 
Unseen forever by the world, part of its unheard melodies, 
are all the lines and colors of the Dauber's dreaming. 
At Elsinore rules Fortinbras, the foe: the fight is lost; 
the fighter has been slain. These are great issues, hard, 
unjust and wrong. But the greatest issue of all is that 
men should be made of the stuff of magnificence. You 
close the poem, you listen to the last speech of its deep 
sea-music, thinking: Here is death, the real death we 
all must die; here is futility, and who knows what we all 
are here for?. But here is glory. 

Only less powerful than the impression of the strain 
of Dauber's endeavor, is the impression of its loneliness. 
The sneers of the reefers, their practical jokes, the dulness, 
the arrogance, the smugness and endless misunderstand- 
ing, the meanness of man on the apprentice journey, has 
a keener tooth than the storm-wind. 

The verities of Dauber are built out of veracities. 
The reader must face the hardship of labor at sea. He 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

must face the squalors, the miseries. If he cannot find 
poetry in a presentment of the cruel, dizzying reality of 
a sailor's night on a yard-arm in the icy gale off Cape 
Horn, then he will not perhaps feel in the poem the un- 
compromising raciness inherent in romances that are true. 
For the whole manner of this sea-piece is that of bold, 
free-hand drawing of things as they are. Its final event 
presents a genuinely epic subject from our contemporary 
history the catastrophic character of common labor, 
and one of its multitudinous fatalities. 

Epic rather than lyric, the verse of Dauber has an 
admirable and refreshing variety in its movement. It 
speaks the high, wild cry of an eagle: 

the eagle's song 
Screamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars. 

It speaks thick-crowding discomforts on the mast with a 
slapping, frozen sail: 

His sheath-knife flashed, 

His numb hand hacked with it to clear the strips; 
The flying ice was salt upon his lips. 
The ice was caking on his oil-skins; cold 
Struck to his marrow, beat upon him strong. 
The chill palsied his blood, it made him old; 
The frosty scatter of death was being flung. 

Some of the lines, such as 

The blackness crunched all memory of the sun 

have the hard ring, the thick-packed consonantal beauty 
of stirring Greek. 


Masefield's Poems 

Dauber will have value to American poetry-readers 
if only from its mere power of revealing that poetry is 
not alone the mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells, though 
it be that also, but may have music of innumerable kinds. 

Biography, the next poem in the book, sings with a 
different voice and sees from a different point of view, 
the difficulty of re-creating in expression here expression 
through words, not through colors 

This many-pictured world of many passions. 

Biography y too, rises from the invisible root of friendship 
and bears with wonderfully vivid arborescence an appre- 
ciative tale of the fine contribution of different com- 
panionships to a life. 

Among the two-score shorter lyrics of the collection are 
songs of the sea or of the country-side; chants of coast-town 
bells and ports, marine ballads, and love-poems. This 
is, however, the loosest entitling of their kinds; nothing 
but the work itself in its entirety, can ever tell the actual 
subject of any true poem. Of these kinds it is not to the 
marine ballads that one turns back again and again, not 
to the story of "Spanish Waters" nor to any of the jin- 
gling-gold, the clinking-glass, the treasure-wreck verses of 
the book. Their tunes are spirited, but not a tenth as 
spirited as those of "The Pirates of Penzance." Indeed, 
to the conventionally villainous among fictive sea-faring 
persons of song, Gilbert and Sullivan seem to have done 
something that cannot now ever be undone. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The poems in the volume one does turn back to again 
and again are those with the great singing tones, that 
pour forth with originality, with inexpressible free grace 
and native power. Again and again you will read A 
Creed, C. L. M., Born for Nought Else, Roadways, Truth, 
The Wild Duck, Her Heart, and 

But at the falling of the tide 

The golden birds still sing and gleam. 

The Atlanteans have not died, 

Immortal things still give us dream. 

The dream that fires man's heart to make. 

To build, to do, to sing or say 
A beauty Death can never take. 

An Adam from the crumbled clay. 

Wonderful, wonderful it is that in the hearing of our 
own generation, one great voice after another has called 
and sung to the world from the midst of the sea-mists of 
England. From the poetry of Swinburne, of Rudyard 
Kipling, of John Masefield immortal things still give us 

Among the poems of this new book, more than one 
appear as incarnations of the beauty Death can never 
take. Of these, perhaps, none is more characteristic of 
the poet, nor will any more fittingly evince his volume's 
quality than Truth. 

Man with his burning soul 
Has but an hour of breath 
To build a ship of Truth 
In which his soul may sail, 
Sail on the sea of death. 
For death takes toll 
Of beauty, courage, youth. 
Of all but Truth. 


Presen ces 

Life's city ways are dark. 
Men mutter by, the wells 
Of the great waters moan. 

death, O sea, O tide. 
The waters moan like bells. 
No light, no mark. 

The soul goes out alone 
On seas unknown. 

Stripped of all purple robes. 
Stripped of all golden lies, 

1 will not be afraid. 

Truth will preserve through death; 
Perhaps the stars will rise. 
The stars like globes. 
The ship my striving made 
May see night fade. 

Edith Wyatt 

Presences, par P. J. Jouve: Georges Cres, Paris. 

I take pleasure in welcoming, in Monsieur Jouve, a 
contemporary. He writes the new jargon and I have 
not the slightest doubt that he is a poet. 

Whatever may be said against automobiles and aero- 
planes and the modernist way of speaking of them, and 
however much one may argue that this new sort of work 
is mannered, and that its style will pass, still it is indis- 
putable that the vitality of the rime exists in such work. 

Here is a book that you can read without being dead 
sure of what you will find on the next page, or at the end 
of the next couplet. There is no doubt that M. Jouve 
sees with his own eyes and feels with his own nerves. 
Nothing is more boresome than an author who pretends 
to know less about things than he really does know. It 
is this silly sort of false naivete that rots the weaker pro- 
ductions of Maeterlinck. Thank heaven the advance 
guard is in process of escaping it. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

It is possible that the new style will grow as weak in 
the future in the hands of imitators as has, by now, the 
Victorian manner, but for the nonce it is refreshing. 
Work of this sort can not be produced by the yard in 
stolid imitation of dead authors. 

I defy anyone to read it without being forced to think, 
immediately, about life and the nature of things. I have 
perused this volume twice, and I have enjoyed it. 

E. P. 


The Poetry Society of America, organized in 1910, 
was a natural response, perhaps at the time unconscious, 
to the reawakened interest in poetry, now so widely ap- 

There seemed no reason why poetry, one of the noblest 
of the arts, should not take to itself visible organization 
as well as its sister arts of music and painting, since it 
was certain that such organization contributed much to 
their advancement and appreciation. Poetry alone 
remained an isolated art, save through the doubtful value 
of coteries dedicated to the study of some particular 
poet. In the sense of fellowship, of the creative sym- 
pathy of contact, of the keener appreciation which must 
follow the wider knowledge of an art, poetry stood alone, 
detached from these avenues open from the beginning to 
other arts. 


The Poetry Society of America 

The Society was therefore founded, with a charter 
membership of about fifty persons, which included many 
of the poets doing significant work to day, together with 
critics and representatives of other arts, the purpose 
from the outset being to include the appreciators of poetry 
as well as its producers. It has grown to nearly two 
hundred members, distributed from coast to coast, and 
eventually it will probably resolve itself into branch 
societies, with the chief organization, as now, in New 
York. Such societies should have a wide influence upon 
their respective communities in stimulating interest in 
the work of living poets, to which the Poetry Society as 
an organization is chiefly addressed. 

Since the passing of the nineteenth-century poets, 
the art of poetry, like the art of painting, has taken on 
new forms and become the vehicle of a new message. 
The poet of to-day speaks through so different a medium, 
his themes are so diverse from those of the elder genera- 
tion, that he cannot hope to find his public in their linger- 
ing audience. He must look to his contemporaries, to 
those touched by the same issues and responsive to the 
same ideals. To aid in creating this atmosphere for the 
poet, to be the nucleus of a movement for the wider 
knowledge of contemporaneous verse, the Poetry Society 
of America took form and in its brief period has, I think, 
justified the idea of its promoters. 

Its meetings are held once a month at the National 
Arts Club in New York, with which it is affiliated, and 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

are given chiefly to the reading and discussion of poetry, 
both of recently published volumes and of poems sub- 
mitted anonymously. This feature has proved perhaps 
the most attractive, and while criticism based upon one 
hearing of a poem cannot be taken as authoritative, it is 
often constructive and valuable. 

The Society is assembling an interesting collection 
of books, a twentieth century library of American 
poetry. Aside from its own collection, it is taking steps 
to promote a wider representation of modern poets in 
public libraries. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. 



Mr. Pound's phrase in his poem To Whistler, 
American, has aroused more or less resentment, some of 
it quite emphatic. Apparently we of "these states" have 
no longing for an Ezekiel; our prophets must give us, not 
the bitter medicine which possibly we need, but the 
sugar-and-water of compliment which we can always 
swallow with a smile. 

Perhaps we should examine our consciences a little, 
or at least step down from our self-erected pedestals long 
enough to listen to this accusation. What has become 
of our boasted sense of humor if we cannot let our young 
poets rail, or our sense of justice if we cannot cease smiling 
and weigh their words ? In certain respects we Americans 


"That Mass of Dolts" 

are a "mass of dolts," and in none more than our huge, 
stolid, fundamental indifference to our own art. Mr. 
Pound is not the first American poet who has stood with 
his back to the wall, and struck out blindly with clenched 
fists in a fierce impulse to fight. Nor is he the first whom 
we, by this same stolid and indifferent rejection, have 
forced into exile and rebellion. 

After a young poet has applied in vain to the whole 
list of American publishers and editors, and learned that 
even though he were a genius of the first magnitude they 
could not risk money or space on his poetry because the 
public would not buy it after a series of such rebuffs our 
young aspirant goes abroad and succeeds in interesting 
some London publisher. The English critics, let us say, 
praise his book, and echoes of their praises reach our 
astonished ears. Thereupon the poet in exile finds that 
he has thus gained a public, and editorial suffrages, in 
America, and that the most effective way of increasing 
that public and those suffrages is, to remain in exile and 
guard his foreign reputation. 

Meantime it is quite probable that a serious poet will 
have grown weary of such open and unashamed colonial- 
ism, that he will prefer to stay among people who arc 
seriously interested in aesthetics and who know their 
own^minds. For nothing is so hard to meet as indiffer- 
ence; blows are easier for a live man to endure than neglect. 
The poet who cries out his message against a stone wall 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

w 111 be silenced in the end, even though he bear a seraph's 
wand and speak with the tongues of angels. 


One phase of our colonialism in art, the singing of 
opera in foreign languages, has been persistently opposed 
by Eleanor E. Freer, who has set to music of rare 
distinction many of the finest English lyrics, old and 
new. She writes: 

In the Basilikon Doron, King James I of England writes to his 
son: "And I would, also, advise you to write in your own language; 
for there is nothing left to be said in Greek and Latin already * * 
and besides that, it best becometh a King to purify and make famous 
his own tongue." Might we add, it best becometh the kings of art 
in America and England to sing their own language and thus aid in the 
progress of their national music and poetry? 


Messrs. Arthur Davison Ficke and Witter Bynner 
belong to the [younger group of American poets, both 
having been born since 1880, the former in Davenport, 
Iowa, and the latter in Brooklyn. Both were graduated 
from Harvard early in this century, after which Mr. Ficke 
was admitted to the bar, and Mr. Bynner became assist- 
ant editor of McClure's. 

Mr. Ficke has published From the Isles, The Happy 
Princess, The Earth Passion and The Breaking of Bonds; 
also Mr. Faust, a dramatic poem, and a series of poems 
called Twelve Japanese Painters, will be published this 



year. Mr. Bynner has published An Ode to Harvard and 
Other Poems, and An Immigrant. His play, His Father's 
House, was recently produced in California. 

The March number of Poetry will contain The Silent 
House, a one-act play, by Agnes Lee, and poems by Alice 
Meynell, Alfred Noyes, Fannie Stearns Davis and others. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Bugle Notes of Courage and Love, by Althea A. Ogden. Unity Publishing Co. 

Altar-Side Messages, by Evelyn H. Walker. Unity Publishing Co. 

Dream Harbor, by J. W. Vallandingham. Privately printed. 

Hopeful Thoughts, by Eleanor Hope. Franklin Hudson Publishing Co. 

The Youth Replies, by Louis How. Sherman, French & Co. 

Songs of the Love Unending, A Sonnet Sequence, by Kendall Banning. Brothers 

of the Book. 

William AUingham, The Golden Treasury Series. The Macmillan Co. 
Idylls Beside the Strand, by Franklin F. Phillips. Sherman. French & Co. 
The Minstrel with the Self-Same Song, by Charles A. Fisher. The Eichelberger 

Book Co. 
The Wife of Potiphar, with Other Poems, by Harvey M. Watts. The John C. 

Winston Co. 
A'ScroU of Seers, A Wall Anthology. Peter Paul & Son. 


No. 6 


MARCH, 1913 


David. [Re-reading a letter.} How may a letter bring 

such darkness down 

With this: "She dallied with your love too long!" 
And this: "It is the word of all the town: 
"Corinna has no soul, for all her song!" 

Martha. [Entering with flowers.] O sir, I bring you 

flaming bergamot, 

And early asters, for your window-sill. 
And where I found them ? Now you'll guess it not. 
I visited the garden on the hill, 
And gathered till my arms could hold no more. 

David. The garden of the little silent house! 

Martha. The city lured her from her viny door. 
But see, the flowers have stayed ! 

David. They seem to drowse 

And dream of one they lost, a paler-blown. 
How fares the house upon the hill ? 

Martha. The blinds 

Are fast of late, and all are intergrown 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

With weedy havoc tossed by searching winds. 

David. How somber suddenly the sky! A shower 
Is in the air. 

Martha. I'll light the lamps. 

David. Not yet. 

Leave me the beauty of the twilit hour. 

Martha. Hear the wind rising! How the moorings 


More than a shower is on its way through space. 
I would not be aboard of yonder barque. 
[She goes out.] 

David. Corinna! Now may I recall her face. 
It is my light to think by in the dark. 
Yes, all my years of study, all the will 
Tenacious to achieve, the tempered strife, 
The victories attained through patient skill, 
Lie at the door of one dear human life. 
And yet ... the letter . . . 

Often have I read 

How love relumes the flowers and the trees. 
True! For my world is newly garmented: 
Rewards seem slight, and slighter penalties. 
Daily companionship is more and more. 
To make one little good more viable, 
To lift one load, is worth the heart's outpour. 
And she she has made all things wonderful. 
And yet . . . the letter . 

O to break a spell 

The Silent House 

Wherein the stars are crumbling unto dust! 

There never was a hope I know it well, 

And struggle on, and love because I must. 

Never a hope? Shall ever any scheme, 

Her silence, or alarm of written word, 

Or voiced asseveration, shake my dream? 

She loves mel By love's anguish, I have heard! 

We two from our soul-towers across a vale 

Are calling each to each, alert, aware. 

Shall one of us one day the other hail, 

And no reply be borne upon the air? 

Corinna, come to light my heart's dim place! 

O come to me, Beloved and Besought, 

O'er grief, o'er gladness, even o'er death apace, 

For I could greet your phantom, so it brought 

Love's own reality! . 

A song of hers 

Seems striving hither, a faint villanelle 
Half smothered by the gale's mad roisterers. 
She used to sing it in the bracken dell. 
Here is the rain against the window beating 
In heavy drops that presage wilder storm. 
The lake is lost within a lurid sheeting; 
The house upon the hill has changed its form. 
The melancholy pine-trees weep in rocking. 
And what's that clamor at the outer door? 
Martha! O Martha! Somebody is knocking! [Calling.} 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Martha. [Re-entering.] You hear the rills that down 
the gutters roar. 

David. And are you deaf? The door go open it! 
This is no night to leave a man outside! 

Martha. [Muttering and going toward the door.} And 

is it I am growing deaf a bit, 
And blind a bit, with other ill-betide! 
Well, I can see to thread a needle still, 
And I can hear the ticking of the clock, 
And I can fetch a basket from the mill. 
But hallow me if ever I heard knock! 

[She throws the door open. David starts up and rushes 
forward with outstretched arms.] 

David. Corinna! You, Corinna! Drenched and cold ! 
At last, at last! But how in all the rain! 

\Martha stands motionless, unseeing.] 
Good Martha, you are growing old! 
Draw fast the shades shut out the hurricane. 
Here, take the dripping cloak from out the room; 
Bring cordial from the purple damson pressed, 
And light the lamps, the candles fire the gloom. 
Why stand you gaping? See you not the guest? 

Martha. I opened wide the door unto the storm. 
But never heard I step upon the sill. 
All the black night let in no living form. 
I see no guest. Look hard as e'er I will, 
I see none here but you and my poor self. 


The Silent House 

David. The room that was my mother's room prepare. 
Spread out warm garments on the oaken shelf 
Her gown, the little shawl she used to wear. 

[Martha, wide-eyed, bewildered, lights the lamps and 
candles and goes out, raising her hands.] 

Corinna. The moments I may tarry fade and press. 
Something impelled me hither, some clear flame. 
They said I had no soul! O David, yes, 
They said I had no soul! And so I came. 
I have been singing, singing, all the way, 
O, singing ever since the darkness grew 
And I grew chill and followed the small ray. 
Lean close, and let my longing rest in you! 

David. Dear balm of light, I never thought to win 
From out the pallid hours for ever throbbing! 
How did you know the sorrow I was in? 

Corinna. A flock of leaves came sobbing, sobbing, 

David. O, now 1 hold you fast, my love, my own, 
My festival upleaping from an ember! 
But, timid child, how could you come alone 
Across the pathless woods? 

Corinna. Do you remember? 

Over the summer lake one starry, stilly, 
Sweet night, when you and I were drifting, dear, 
I frighted at the shadow of a lily! 
It is all strange, but now I have no fear. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

David. Your eyes are weary, drooping. Sleep, then, 


Corinna. I must go over to the silent house. 
David. The dwelling stands forsaken up the steep, 
With never beast nor human to arouse! 

Corinna. Soon will the windows gleam with many 

Hark! heavy wheels are toiling to the north. 

David. I will go with you where the darkness ramps. 
Corinna. Strong arms are in the storm to bear me 


David. Not in these garments dripping as the trees! 
Not in these clinging shadows! 

Corinna. Ah, good-night! 

Dear love, dear love, I must go forth in these. 
Tomorrow you shall see me all in white. 

Agnes Lee 



(To the New Telescope on Mt. Wilson) 

Of old sat one at Delphi brooding o'er 

The fretful earth; ironically wise, 

Veiling her prescience in dark replies, 

She shaped the fates of men with mystic lore. 

The oracle is silent now. No more 

Fate parts the cloud that round omniscience lies. 

But thou, O Seer, dost tease our wild surmise 

With portents passing all the wealth of yore. 

For thou shalt spell the very thoughts of God! 

Before thy boundless vision, world on world 

Shall multiply in glit'ring sequence far; 

And all the little ways which men have trod 

Shall be as nothing by His star-dust whirled 

Into the making of a single star. 


With angel's wings and brutish-human form, 
Weathered with centuries of sun and storm, 
He crouches yonder on the gallery wall, 
Monstrous, superb, indifferent, cynical: 
And all the pulse of Paris cannot stir 
Her one immutable philosopher. 

Edmund Kemper Broadus 


POETRY: A Magazine of V erst 


Now while the sunset offers, 
Shall we not take our own: 

The gems, the blazing coffers, 
The seas, the shores, the throne? 

The sky-ships, radiant-masted, 
Move out, bear low our way. 

Oh, Life was dark while it lasted, 
Now for enduring day. 

Now with the world far under, 
To draw up drowning men 

And show them lands of wonder 
Where they may build again. 

There earthly sorrow falters, 
There longing has its wage; 

There gleam the ivory altars 
Of our lost pilgrimage. 

Swift flame then shipwrecks only 
Beach in the ruined light; 

Above them reach up lonely 
The headlands of the night. 

A hurt bird cries and flutters 
Her dabbled breast of brown; 

The western wall unshutters 
To fling one last rose down. 



A rose, a wild light after 

And life calls through the years, 
"Who dreams my fountains' laughter 

Shall feed my wells with tears." 

Ridgely Torrence 


One wept, whose only babe was dead, 

New-born ten years ago. 
"Weep not; he is in bliss," they said. 

She answered, "Even so. 

"Ten years ago was born in pain 

A child, not now forlorn; 
But oh, ten years ago in vain 

A mother, a mother was born." 

Alice Meynell 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Yes, stars were with me formerly. 
(I also knew the wind and sea; 
And hill-tops had my feet by heart. 
Their shagged heights would sting and start 
When I came leaping on their backs. 
I knew the earth's queer crooked cracks, 
Where hidden waters weave a low 
And druid chant of joy and woe.) 
But stars were with me most of all. 
I heard them flame and break and fall. 
Their excellent array, their free 
Encounter with Eternity, 
I learned. And it was good to know 
That where God walked, I too might go. 
Now, all these things are passed. For I 
Grow very old and glad to die. 
What did they profit me, say you, 
These distant bloodless things I knew? 
Profit? What profit hath the sea 
Of her deep-throated threnody? 
What profit hath the sun, who stands 
Staring on space with idle hands? 
And what should God Himself acquire 
From all the aeons' blood and fire? 
My profit is as theirs: to be 
Made proof against mortality: 

Poems: Fannie Stearns Davis 

To know that I have companied 

With all that shines and lives, amid 

So much the years sift through their hands, 

Most mortal, windy, worthless sands. 

This day I have great peace. With me 
Shall stars abide eternally! 



I will go up the mountain after the Moon: 
She is caught in a dead fir-tree. 
Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl, 
Like a great pale apple is she. 

I will leap and will clasp her in quick cold hands 

And carry her home in my sack. 

I will set her down safe on the oaken bench 

That stands at the chimney-back. 

And then I will sit by the fire all night, 

And sit by the fire all day. 

I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart's delight, 

Till I gnaw her slowly away. 

And while I grow mad with the Moon's cold taste, 
The World may beat on my door, 
Crying "Come out!" and crying "Make haste! 
And give us the Moon once more!" 
But I will not answer them ever at all; 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

I will laugh, as I count and hide 

The great black beautiful seeds of the Moon 

In a flower-pot deep and wide. 

Then I will lie down and go fast asleep, 

Drunken with flame and aswoon. 

But the seeds will sprout, and the seeds will leap: 

The subtle swift seeds of the Moon. 

And some day, all of the world that beats 

And cries at my door, shall see 

A thousand moon-leaves sprout from my thatch 

On a marvellous white Moon-tree! 

Then each shall have moons to his heart's desire: 

Apples of silver and pearl: 

Apples of orange and copper fire, 

Setting his five wits aswirl. 

And then they will thank me, who mock me now: 

"Wanting the Moon is he!" 

Oh, I'm ofF to the mountain after the Moon, 

Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree! 


You must do nothing false 

Or cruel-lipped or low; 
For I am Conn the Fool, 

And Conn the Fool will know. 


Poems: Fannie Stearns Davis 

I went by the door 

When Patrick Joyce looked out. 
He did not wish for me 

Or any one about. 
He thought I did not see 

The fat bag in his hand. 
But Conn heard clinking gold, 

And Conn could understand. 
I went by the door 

Where Michael Kane lay dead. 
I saw his Mary tie 

A red shawl round her head. 
I saw a dark man lean 

Across her garden-wall. 
They did not know that Conn 

Walked by at late dusk-fall. 
You must not scold or lie, 

Or hate or steal or kill, 
For I shall tell the wind 

That leaps along the hill; 
And he will tell the stars 

That sing and never lie; 
And they will shout your sin 

In God's face, bye and bye. 
And God will not forget, 

For all He loves you so. 
He made me Conn the Fool, 

And bade me always know! 
[ 185 1 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The water came up with a roar, 

The water came up to me. 
There was a wave with tusks of a boar, 

And he gnashed his tusks on me. 
I leaned, I leapt, and was free. 

He snarled and struggled and fled. 
Foaming and blind he turned to the sea, 

And his brothers trampled him dead. 

The water came up with a shriek, 

The water came up to me. 
There was a wave with a woman's cheek, 

And she shuddered and clung to me. 
I crouched, I cast her away. 

She cursed me and swooned and died. 
Her green hair tangled like sea-weed lay 

Tossed out on the tearing tide. 

Challenge and chase me, Storm! 

Harry and hate me, Wave! 
Wild as the wind is my heart, but warm, 

Sudden and merry and brave. 
For the water comes up with a shout, 

The water comes up to me. 
And oh, but I laugh, laugh out! 

And the great gulls laugh, and the sea! 

Fannie Stearns Davis 

Poems: Samuel McCoy 

What woman but would be 
Rid of thy mastery, 
Thou bully of the sea ? 

No more the gray sea's breast 
Need answer thy behest; 
No more thy sullen gun 
Shall greet the risen sun, 
Where the great dreadnaughts ride 
The breast of thy cold bride; 
Thou hast fulfilled thy fate: 
Need trade no more with hate! 

Nay, but I celebrate 
Thy long- to-be-lorn mate, 
Thy mistress and her state, 
Thy lady sea's lorn state. 
She hath her empery 
Not only over thee 
But o'er our misery. 

Hark, doth she mourn for thee? 

Nay, what hath she of grief? 
She knoweth not the leaf 
That on her bosom falls, 
Thou last of admirals! 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Under the winter moon 
She singeth that fierce tune, 
Her immemorial rune; 
Knoweth not, late or soon, 
Careth not 
Any jot 

For her withholden boon 
To all thy spirit's pleas 
For infinite surcease! 

If, on this winter night, 

O thou great admiral 

That in thy sombre pall 

Liest upon the land, 

Thy soul should take his flight 

And leave the frozen sand, 

And yearn above the surge, 

Think'st thou that any dirge, 

Grief inarticulate 

From thy bereaved mate, 

Would answer to thy soul 

Where the waste waters roll? 

Nay, thou hast need of none! 
Thy long love-watch is done! 

Poems: Samuel McCoy 


Early some morning in May-time 

I shall awaken 

When the breeze blowing in at the window 

Shall bathe me 

With the delicate scents 

Of the blossoms of apples, 

Filling my room with their coolness 

And beauty and fragrance 

As of old, as of old, 

When your spirit dwelt with me, 

My heart shall be pure 

As the heart that you gave me. 


Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue 

Stretches her slender limbs 
From the great Arch of Triumph, on, 

On, where the distance dims 

The splendors of her jewelled robes, 

Her granite draperies; 
The magic, sunset-smitten walls 

That veil her marble knees; 

For ninety squares she lies a queen, 

Superb, bare, unashamed, 
Yielding her beauty scornfully 

To worshippers unnamed. 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

But at her feet her sister glows, 

A daughter of the South: 
Squalid, immeasurably mean, 

But oh! her hot, sweet mouth! 
My Thompson Street! a Tuscan girl, 

Hot with life's wildest blood; 
Her black shawl on her black, black hair, 

Her brown feet stained with mud; 

A scarlet blossom at her lips, 

A new babe at her breast; 
A singer at a wine-shop door, 

(Her lover unconfessed). 

Listen! a hurdy-gurdy plays 

Now alien melodies: 
She smiles, she cannot quite forget 

The mother over-seas. 

But she no less is mine alone, 

Mine, mine! . . . Who may I be? 
Have / betrayed her from her home? 

I am called Liberty! 


The skies are sown with stars tonight, 
The sea is sown with light, 
The hollows of the heaving floor 
Gleam deep with light once more, 
The racing ebb-tide flashes past 
And seeks the vacant vast, 

Poems: Samuel McCoy 

A wind steals from a world asleep 
And walks the restless deep. 

It walks the deep in ecstasy, 

It lives! and loves to free 

Its spirit to the silent night, 

And breathes deep in delight; 

Above the sea that knows no coast, 

Beneath the starry host, 

The wind walks like the souls of men 

Who walk with God again. 

The souls of men who walk with God! 

With faith's firm sandals shod, 

A lambent passion, body-free, 

Fain for eternity! 

O spirit born of human sighs, 

Set loose 'twixt sea and skies, 

Be thou an Angel of mankind, 

Thou night-unfettered wind! 

Bear thou the dreams of weary earth, 
Bear thou Tomorrow's birth, 
Take all our longings up to Him 
Until His stars grow dim; 
A moving anchorage of prayer, 
Thou cool and healing air, 
Heading off-shore till shoreless dawn 
Breaks fair and night is gone. 

Samuel McCoy 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

"/ will lift up mine eyes to the hills." 

Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, 

Ere I waken in the city Life, thy dawn makes all 

things new! 

And up a fir-clad glen, far from all the haunts of men, 
Up a glen among the mountains, oh my feet are wings 


Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, 
O mountains of my boyhood, I come again to you, 
By the little path I know, with the sea far below, 
And above, the great cloud-galleons with their sails 
of rose and snow; 

As of old, when all was young, and the earth a song 

And the heather through the crimson dawn its Eden 

incense flung 
From the mountain-heights of joy, for a careless-hearted 

And the lavrocks rose like fountain sprays of bliss 

that ne'er could cloy, 

From their little beds of bloom, from the golden gorse 
and broom, 

f 192] 

"The H ill-Flow f rs f 

With a song to God the Giver, o'er that waste of 

wild perfume; 

Blowing from height to height, in a glory of great light, 
While the cottage-clustered valleys held the lilac last of 


So, when dawn is in the skies, in a dream, a dream, I rise, 
And I follow my lost boyhood to the heights of Paradise. 
Life, thy dawn makes all things new! Hills of Youth, I 

come to you, 
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew. 


Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, 
Floats a brother's face to meet me! Is it you? Is it you? 
For the night I leave behind keeps these dazzled eyes 

still, blind! 
But oh, the little hill-flowers, their scent is wise and kind; 

And I shall not lose the way from the darkness to the 

While dust can cling as their scent clings to memory 

for aye; 

And the least link in the chain can recall the whole again, 
And heaven at last resume its far-flung harvests, grain by 


I 193 ] 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

To the hill-flowers clings my dust, and tho' eyeless Death 

may thrust 

All else into the darkness, in their heaven I put my trust; 
And a dawn shall bid me climb to the little spread of 

Where first I heard the ripple of the fountain-heads 

of rhyme. 

And a fir-wood that I know, from dawn to sunset-glow, 
Shall whisper to a lonely sea, that swings far, far below. 
Death, thy dawn makes all things new. Hills of Youth, 

I come to you, 
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew. 

Alfred Noyes 




OETRY as the inspiration of the Balkan 
war was the theme of a recent talk given 
by Madame Slavko Grouitch before the Fri- 
day Club in Chicago, and elsewhere, during 
her brief sojourn in her native country. 
Madame Grouitch was a student at the American School 
of Archaeology in Athens when she married the young 
Servian diplomat who now represents his nation in 

According to the speaker, the Servian national songs 
have kept alive the heroic spirit of the people during 
'more than four centuries of Turkish oppression. Through 
them each generation of the illiterate peasantry has 
fought once more the ancient wars, and followed once 
more the ancient leaders even to the final tragedy of the 
battle of Kossovo, where in 1377 they made their last 
brave stand against the Mohammedan invader. When- 
ever a few people assemble for a festival, some local 
bard, perhaps an old shepherd or soldier, a blind beggar 
or reformed brigand, will chant the old songs to the 
monotonous music of the gusle, while the people dance 
the Koto. 

"There are thousands of songs in the Servian epic," 
says Mme. Grouitch, "and each has many variants 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

according to whether it is sung in Bosnia, Herzegovina, 
Montenegro, Dalmatia, Servia, Bulgaria or Macedonia; 
for all these political divisions are peopled by the Servian 
race descended from the heroes whose deeds are the 
theme of such unwearied narration. The bard is called 
the Guslar from his one-stringed instrument, whose 
melancholy cadence a sighing-forth of sound affects 
the emotions and increases the pathos of the words. 
For the story is usually sad, even when it proclaims the 
triumph of great deeds." 

These songs invariably begin: 

Once it was so ; now it is told. 

And they as invariably end: 

From me the song; from God health to you. 

A number of poems were read from Mme. Mijato- 
vich's rather uninspired translation of the Kossovo 
series, published in London in 1881. Extreme simplicity 
and vividness characterize the old epic, which follows the 
hopeless struggle of the noble Czar Lazar against the 
foe without, and suspicions, dissensions, blunders, even 
treacheries, within. Certain characters stand out with 
the uncompromising exactness of some biblical story: 
the Czar himself; his over-zealous Vojvode; Milosh 
Obilich, whose murder of Sultan Murad precipitated the 
disaster; and certain haughty and passionate women, 
like the Empress Militza and her two daughters. Also 
"Marko, the King's son," whose half-mythical figure is 
of the race of Achilles. 


The Servian Epic 

"There was one thing," said Mme. Grouitch, "which 
the Turk could not take away from the Serb the 
heavenly gift of poetry; that continued to dwell hidden 
in the breast of the southern Slav. His body was en- 
slaved, but his soul was not; his physical life was 
oppressed, but his spiritual being remained free. In 
the eighteenth century Europe re-discovered the Servian 
national poetry, and became conscious that the race 
survived as well as its ideals. Then Serb and Bulgar 
again appeared in current history, and began to retrace 
the ancient boundaries. 

"All the conferences of all the powers can never 
diminish the hopes, nor eclipse the glory of the Serb 
race in the minds of the Balkan peoples; because the 
Guslar, who is their supreme national leader, is forever 
telling them of that glory, and urging them to concerted 
action against all outside foes. It was the Guslar who 
led the Montenegrin Serbs from one heroic victory to 
another, so that 'their war annals/ as Gladstone said, 
'are more glorious than those of all the rest of the world/ 
It was the Guslar who inspired Kara George and his 
heroic band of Servian peasants to keep up their battle 
until free Servia was born. 

"Amid the roar of cannon at Lule Burgas and 
Monastir, I could hear the mighty voice of the Guslar 
reminding Serb and Bulgar that their fight was for 'the 
honored cross and golden liberty.' And they obeyed 
because it was the voice of their nation. It is this irre- 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

sistible national spirit which leads their armies, and 
beside it the spirit of German training behind the Turk 
is a lifeless shadow. The Ottoman power in Europe is 
in ruins now, a wreck in the path of a national earth- 
quake which the Guslar has prophesied for five hundred 
years. The Guslar has done his duty, and he stands 
today in a blaze of glory at the head of the united and 
victorious nations of the Balkans." 

The speaker told of an impressive ceremony at the 
Servian legation in London. Young Servians, recalled 
home for military service last autumn, met there on the 
eve of departure. Wine being served, the minister and 
his young patriots rose with lifted glasses, and chanted 
the ancient summons of Czar Lazar to his people: 

Whoever born of Serbian blood or kin 
Comes not to fight the Turk on Kossovo. 
To him be never son or daughter born. 
No child to heir his lands or bear his name ! 
For him no grape grow red, no corn grow white; 
In his hands nothing prosper I 

May he live 
Alone, unloved ! and die un mourned, alone! 

H. M. 


Some curiosity has been aroused concerning Imagisme y 
and as I was unable to find anything definite about it in 
print, I sought out an imagistt, with intent to discover 

*Editor's Note In response to many requests for information regarding 
Imagism and the Imagistfs, we publish this note by Mr. Flint, supplementing it 
with further exemplification by Mr. Pound. It will be seen from these that Imagism 
is not necessarily associated with Hellenic subjects, or with vers libre as a pre- 
scribed form. 



whether the group itself knew anything about the "move- 
ment." I gleaned these facts. 

The imagistes admitted that they were contem- 
poraries of the Post Impressionists and the Futurists; 
but they had nothing in common with these schools. 
They had not published a manifesto. They were not a 
revolutionary school; their only endeavor was to write 
in accordance with the best tradition, as they found it 
in the best writers of all time, in Sappho, Catullus, 
Villon. They seemed to be absolutely intolerant of all 
poetry that was not written in such endeavor, ignorance 
of the best tradition forming no excuse. They had a 
few rules, drawn up for their own satisfaction only, and 
they had not published them. They were: 

1. Direct treatment of the "thing," whether sub- 
jective or objective. 

2. To use absolutely no word that did not contribute 
to the presentation. 

3. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of 
the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome. 

By these standards they judged all poetry, and found 
most of it wanting. They held also a certain * Doctrine 
of the Image/ which they had not committed to writing; 
they said that it did not concern the public, and would 
provoke useless discussion. 

The devices whereby they persuaded approaching 
poetasters to attend their instruction were: 

1. They showed him his own thought already 

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

splendidly expressed in some classic (and the school 
musters altogether a most formidable erudition). 

2. They re-wrote his verses before his eyes, using 
about ten words to his fifty. 

Even their opponents admit of them ruefully 
"At least they do keep bad poets from writing!" 

I found among them an earnestness that is amazing 
to one accustomed to the usual London air of poetic 
dilettantism. They consider that Art is all science, all 
religion, philosophy and metaphysic. It is true that 
snobisme may be urged against them; but it is at least 
snobisme in its most dynamic form, with a great deal of 
sound sense and energy behind it; and they are stricter 
with themselves than with any outsider. 

F. S. Flint 

An "Image" is that which presents an intellectual 
and emotional complex in an instant of time. I use the 
term "complex" rather in the technical sense employed 
by the newer psychologists, such as Hart, though we 
might not agree absolutely in our application. 

It is the presentation of such a "complex" instantane- 
ously which gives that sense of sudden liberation; that 
sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that 


A Few Don'ts by an Imagiste 

sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the 
presence of the greatest works of art. 

It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than 
to produce voluminous works. 

All this, however, some may consider open to debate. 
The immediate necessity is to tabulate A LIST OF DONT'S 
for those beginning to write verses. But I can not put 
all of them into Mosaic negative. 

To begin with, consider the three rules recorded 
by Mr. Flint, not as dogma never consider anything as 
dogma but as the result of long contemplation, which, 
even if it is some one else's contemplation, may be worth 

Pay no attention to the criticism of men who have 
never themselves written a notable work. Consider the 
discrepancies between the actual writing of the Greek 
poets and dramatists, and the theories of the Graeco- 
Roman grammarians, concocted to explain their metres. 


Use no superflous word, no adjective, which does not 
reveal something. 

Don't use such an expression as "dim lands of peace." 
It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the 
concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that 
the natural object is always the adequate symbol. 

Go in fear of abstractions. Don't retell in mediocre 
verse what has already been done in good prose. Don't 
think any intelligent person is going to be deceived when 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

you try to shirk all the difficulties of the unspeakably 
difficult art of good prose by chopping your composition 
into line lengths. 

What the expert is tired of today the public will be 
tired of tomorrow. 

Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler 
than the art of music, or that you can please the expert 
before you have spent at least as much effort on the art 
of verse as the average piano teacher spends on the 
art of music. 

Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, 
but have the decency either to acknowledge the debt 
outright, or to try to conceal it. 

Don't allow "influence" to mean merely that you 
mop up the particular decorative vocabulary of some 
one or two poets whom you happen to admire. A 
Turkish war correspondent was recently caught red- 
handed babbling in his dispatches of "dove-gray" hills, 
or else it was "pearl-pale," I can not remember. 

Use either no ornament or good ornament. 


Let the candidate fill his mind with the finest cadences 
he can discover, preferably in a foreign language so that 
the meaning of the words may be less likely to divert 
his attention from the movement; e. g., Saxon charms, 


A Few Don is by an Imagiste 

Hebridean Folk Songs, the verse of Dante, and the lyrics 
of Shakespeare if he can dissociate the vocabulary from 
the cadence. Let him dissect the lyrics of Goethe 
coldly into their component sound values, syllables long 
and short, stressed and unstressed, into vowels and 

It is not necessary that a poem should rely on its 
music, but if it does rely on its music that music must be 
such as will delight the expert. 

Let the neophyte know assonance and alliteration, 
rhyme immediate and delayed, simple and polyphonic, 
as a musician would expect to know harmony and counter- 
point and all the minutiae of his craft. No time is too 
great to give to these matters or to any one of them, even 
if the artist seldom have need of them. 

Don't imagine that a thing will "go" in verse just 
because it's too dull to go in prose. 

Don't be "viewy" leave that to the writers of pretty 
little philosophic essays. Don't be descriptive; remember 
that the painter can describe a landscape much better 
than you can, and that he has to know a deal more 
about it. 

When Shakespeare talks of the "Dawn in russet 
mantle clad" he presents something which the painter 
does not present. There is in this line of his nothing 
that one can call description; he presents. 

Consider the way of the scientists rather than the way 
of an advertising agent for a new soap. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

The scientist does not expect to be acclaimed as a 
great scientist until he has discovered something. He 
begins by learning what has been discovered already. 
He goes from that point onward. He does not bank 
on being a charming fellow personally. He does not 
expect his friends to applaud the results of his freshman 
class work. Freshmen in poetry are unfortunately not 
confined to a definite and recognizable class room. They 
are " all over the shop." Is it any wonder "the public 
is indifferent to poetry?" 

Don't chop your stuff into separate iambs. Don't 
make each line stop dead at the end, and then begin 
every next line with a heave. Let the beginning of the 
next line catch the rise of the rhythm wave, unless you 
want a definite longish pause. 

In short, behave as a musician, a good musician, when 
dealing with that phase of your art which has exact 
parallels in music. The same laws govern, and you are 
bound by no others. 

Naturally, your rhythmic structure should not destroy 
the shape of your words, or their natural sound, or their 
meaning. It is improbable that, at the start, you will 
be able to get a rhythm-structure strong enough to affect 
them very much, though you may fall a victim to all 
sorts of false stopping due to line ends and caesurae. 

The musician can rely on pitch and the volume of 
the orchestra. You can not. The term harmony is 
misapplied to poetry; it refers to simultaneous sounds of 


A Few Don'ts by an Imagiste 

different pitch. There is, however, in the best verse a 
sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the 
hearer and acts more or less as an organ-base. A rhyme 
must have in it some slight element of surprise if it is to 
give pleasure; it need not be bizarre or curious, but it 
must be well used if used at all. 

Vide further Vildrac and DuhameFs notes on rhyme 
in "Technique Poetique." 

That part of your poetry which strikes upon the 
imaginative eye of the reader will lose nothing by trans- 
lation into a foreign tongue; that which appeals to the 
ear can reach only those who take it in the original. 

Consider the definiteness of Dante's presentation, as 
compared with Milton's rhetoric. Read as much of 
Wordsworth as does not seem too unutterably dull. 

If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, 
Catullus, Villon, Heine when he is in the vein, Gautier 
when he is not too frigid ; or, if you have not the tongues, 
seek out the leisurely Chaucer. Good prose will do you 
no harm, and there is good discipline to be had by trying 
to write it. 

Translation is likewise good training, if you find that 
your original matter "wobbles" when you try to rewrite 
it. The meaning of the poem to be translated can not 

If you are using a symmetrical form, don't put in 
what you want to say and then fill up the remaining 
vacuums with slush. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Don't mess up the perception of one sense by trying 
to define it in terms of another. This is usually only the 
result of being too lazy to find the exact word. To this 
clause there are possibly exceptions. 

The first three simple proscriptions* will throw out 
nine-tenths of all the bad poetry now accepted as standard 
and classic; and will prevent you from many a crime of 

. Mais d'abord il faut eire un poete" as 
MM. Duhamel and Vildrac have said at the end of 
their little book, "Notes sur la Technique Poetique"', but in 
an American one takes that at least for granted, other- 
wise why does one get born upon that august continent! 

Ezra Pound 


Agnes Lee (Mrs. Otto Freer) who has lived much in 
Boston, but is now a resident of Chicago, is known as 
the author of various books of poetry, the most rep- 
resentative, perhaps, being The Border of the Lake, 
published about two years ago by Sherman, French & Co. 
She has translated Gautier's Emaux et Camees into 
English poetry; and has contributed to the magazines. 
Her long poem, The Asphodel, which appeared in The 
North American Review several years ago, attracted 
wide attention. 

Mr. Edmund Kemper Broadus is a member of the 
faculty of the University of Alberta, Canada. 

*Noted by Mr. Flint. 



Miss Fannie Stearns Davis is a young American who 
has written many scngs and lyrics, a collection of which 
is to be published this spring. She was born in Cleve- 
land, Ohio, but now lives in the East. 

Mrs. Meynell, who is the wife of Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, 
editor of one of the leading English Catholic reviews, 
hardly needs an introduction in America, where her ex- 
quisite art is well known. Her small volumes of essays 
The Rhythm of Life, The Color of Life, The Children, etc., 
and her Poems are published by The John Lane Company. 

Mr. Ridgely Torrence is the author of El Dorado, A 
Tragedy, Abelard and Eloise, a poetic drama, and Rituals 
for The Events of Life. He contributes infrequently to 
the magazines, several of his longer poems having never 
been republished. He lives in New York. 

Mr. Samuel McCoy was born, thirty-one years ago, 
at Burlington, Iowa. He now lives at Indianapolis, and 
devotes himself wholly to literary work. He was educated 
at Princeton, and from 1906 to 1908 was associate editor 
of The Reader. A collection of Mr. McCoy's poems 
will be issued in book form this year by the Bobbs-Merrill 

Mr. Alfred Noyes, a young English poet, is a well 
known contributor to English and American magazines, 
and has published many books of poetry. The Loom of 
Years; The Flower of Old Japan; Poems; The Forest of 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Wild Thyme; Drake, English An Epic; Forty Singing 
Seamen, and The Enchanted Island are among the titles 
of his published works; and a new volume, The Tales of 
the Mermaid Tavern, is to be published this spring by the 
Frederick A. Stokes Co. 

Early numbers of Poetry will contain poerns by John 
G. Neihardt, Ezra Pound, Harriet Monroe, William 
Carlos Williams, Allen Upward, and others. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 


Songs of a Syrian Lover, by Clinton Scollard. Elkin Mathews. 

Annates of Song, by George M. P. Baird. Privately Printed. 

Pearls of Thought, A Collection of Original Poems, by Samuel M. Fleishman. Pri- 
vately Printed. 

The Summons of the King, A Play, by Philip Becker Goetz. The MacDowell 

Drake, An English Epic, by Alfred Noyes. Frederick A. Stokes O. 

Sherwood, or Robin Hood and the Three Kings, A Play in Five Acts, b/ Alfred Noyes. 
Frederick A. Stokes Co. 

The Enchanted Island and Other Poems, by Alfred Noyes. Frederick A Stokes Co. 

Songs of the City, by DeCamp Leland. The Westende Publishing Co. 

In Vivid Gardens, by Marguerite Wilkinson. Sherman, French & Co. 

A Book of Verse, by Alice Hathaway Cunningham. Cochrane Publishing Co. 

Chilhmvee, A Legend of the Great Smoky Mountains, by Henry V. Maxwell. Knox- 
ville Printing Co. 

Sappho, A nd the Island of Lesbos, by Mary Mills Patrick. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

Harp of Milan, by Sister M. Fides Shepperson. J. H. Yewdale & Sons. 

Two Legends, A Souvenir of Sodus Bay, by Mrs. B. C. Rude. Privately Printed. 

Moods, by David M. Cory. The Poet Lore Co. 

Poems, by Charles D. Platt. Charles D. Platt, Dover, New Jersey. 

Poems, Old and New, by A. H. Beesly. Longmans, Green & Co. 

Paroles devant la Vie, par Alexandre Mcrcereau. E. Figuiere 

Alexandre Mercereau, par Jean Metzinger. E. Figui6re, Paris. 

Anthologie-Crilique, par Florian-Parmentier. Gastien-Serge, Paris. 


The Wild Hawk, Hervey White. The Maverick Press, Woodstock. N. Y. 

The Bihelot, Thos. B. Mosher, Portland, Maine. 

The Idl*r, Robert J. Shores. New York City. 

The Century, New York City. 

The Forum, New York City. 

The Conservator, Horace Traubel, Philadelphia. 

The Nation, New York City. 

The Poetry Review, Harold Munro, London. 

The Poetry Review (New Series), Stephen Phillips, London. 

The Literary Digest, New York City. 

Current Opinion. New York City. 

The International, New York City. 

The Dial, Chicago. 

The Survey, New York City. 

The Nation, New York City. 

The Music News, Chicago. 

Mercure de France, 26 Rue de Conde, Paris. 

L' Effort Libre, Galerie Vildrac, 11 Rue de Seine, Paris. 

Les Pofles, E. Basset, 3 Rue Dante, Paris. (This number devoted to poems 

selected from the work of Nicolas Beauduin, Paroxyste.) 
L'lle Sonnante. 21 Rue Rousselet, Paris. 




Aldington, Richard: 


To a Greek Marble 42 

Au Vieux Jardin 43 

Banning, Kendall: 

Love Songs of the Open Road 110 

Brink, Roscoe W.: 

Helen Is 111 117 

Broadus, Edmund Kemper: 

The Oracle 179 

A Gargoyle on Notre Dame 179 

Bynner, Witter: 

Apollo Troubadour 150 

One of the Crowd 153 

Neighbors 155 

The Hills of San Jos 156 

Grieve Not for Beauty 156 

The Mystic 157 

Passing Near 158 

Campbell, Joseph: 

The Piper 33 

Conkling, Grace Hazard: 

Symphony of a Mexican Garden 11 

Cawein, Madison: 

Waste Land 104 

My Lady of the Beeches 106 

Corbin, Alice: 

America 81 

Symbols 82 

The Star 82 

Nodes 87 

Davis, Fannie Stearns: 

Profits 182 

Two Songs of Conn the Fool 183 

Storm Dance 186 

Dudley, Helen: 

To One Unknown 10 

Ficke, Arthur Davison: 

Poetry . 1 

Swinburne, An Elegy 137 

To a Child Twenty Years Hence 144 

Portrait of an Old Woman 145 

The Three Sisters 146 

Among Shadows 147 

A Watteau Melody 147 

Fitch, Anita: 

The Wayfarers 108 

Les Cruels Amoureux 109 


H. D. "Jmagiste": 

Verses, Translations and Reflections from "The Anthology" . . . .118 

Lee, Agnes: 

The Silent House 173 

Lindsay, Nicholas Vachel: 

General Booth Enters into Heaven 101 

Long, Lily A.: 

The Singing Place 47 

Immured 49 

Larimer, Emilia Stuart: 

Pish of the Flood 

McCoy, Samuel: 

Dirge for a Dead Admiral 187 

Spring Song 189 

A Sweetheart: Thompson Street 189 

Off-shore Wind 190 

Meynell. Alice: 

Maternity 181 

Monroe, Harriet: 

Nogi 50 

Moody, William Vaughn: 

I Am the Woman 3 

Noyes, Alfred: 

The Hill Flowers 192 

Pound, Ezra: 

To Whistler, American 7 

Middle-aged 8 

Reed, John: 

Sangar 71 

Rensselaer, Mrs. Schuyler Van: 

Under Two Windows 44 

Rhys, Ernest: 

A Song of Happiness 114 

Smith. Clark Ashton: 

Remembered Light 77 

Sorrowing of Winds 78 

Sterling, George: 

A Legend of the Dove 75 

At the Grand Canon 76 

Kindred 77 

Tagore, Rabindranath: 

Poems 84 

Torrence, Ridgely: 

Santa Barbara Beach 180 

Tovme, Charles Hanson: 

Beyond the Stars 35 

Widdemer, Margaret: 

The Tester 51 

The Beggars 52 

Wyatt, Edith: 

Sympathy 112 

Yeats, William Butler: 

The Mountain Tomb 67 

To a Child Dancing upon the Shore 68 

Fallen Majesty 68 

Love and the Bird 69 

Th Realists ... 70 



As It Was, H. M 19 

On the Reading of Poetry, E. W 22 

The Motive of the Magazine, H. M 26 

Moody's Poems, H. M 64 

Bohemian Poetry, Ezra Pound 57 

"The Music of the Human Heart," E. W 59 

The Open Door . . 62 

A Perfect Return, A.C.H..' 87 

Tagore's Poems, Ezra Pound 92 


The Poems of Rosamund Marriott Watson 94 

The Adventures of Young Maverick, by Hervey White 95 

The Iscariot, by Eden Phillpotts 96 

Interpretations, by Zo Akins 97 

Lyrical Poems, by Lucy Lyttelton 97 

Status Rerum, Ezra Pound 123 


The Lyric Year 128 

The Human Fantasy, and The Beloved Adventure, by John Hall Wheelock 131 

Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn 132 

Uriel and Other Poems, by Percy MacKaye 133 

The Tragedy of Etarre, by Rhys Carpenter 133 

Gabriel, by Isabelle Howe Fiske 133 

The Unconquered Air, by Florence Earle Coates 133 

The Story of a Round House and Other Poems, by John Masefield . . 160 

Presences, by P. J. Jouve 165 

The Poetry Society of America, Jessie B. Rittenhouse 166 

"That Mass of Dolts" 168 

The Servian Epic, H. M 195 

Imagisme, F. S. Flint -. 199 

A Few Don'ts by an Imagiste, Ezra Pound 202 

Notes 29, 64, 99, 134, 168, 206 


Advisory Committee HENRY B. FULLER 



Foreign Correspondent EZRA POUND 
Administration Committee WlLLIAM T. ABBOTT 






p S Poetry