varios, poetry i, 1

7/27/2019 Varios, Poetry I, 1

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V O L . 1 Price 15 cents NO . 1

PoetryC O N T E N T SPo et ry - - A r th ur Davison F ickeI am the W o m an W i ll iam Vaughan MoodyT o W his t l e r , Am er ican - E zra Pou ndMiddle Aged - - E zr a Po un dFis h of the F lood Em i l ia S tu ar t Lo r im erT o One Un kno wn - - Helen Du dley

Symphony of a Mexican GardenGrace Hazard ConklingEdi tor ia l CommentAs i t was On the Reading o f P oe t ry The Mo t ive

of the MagazineN o t e s a n d A n n o u n c e m e n t s

543 Cass Street , ChicagoCopy right 1912 by Harr iet Monroe. All rights reserve d.

October MCM XII


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THEUNIVERSITYO F C H I C A G OLIBRARY


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PoetryA Magazine of VerseV O L . IN o . 1

OCTOBER, 1912

P O E T R Y

IT is a little isle am id b leak seasAn isolate realm of garden, circled roundBy importunity of stress and sound,Devoid of empery to master these.At most , the memory of i ts streamsand bees,Borne to the toi l ing 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 worldWhere beauty, l ike the musing dusk of even,Enfolds the spirit in its silver haze;While far away, with gli t tering banners furled,The west l ights fade, and stars come out in heaven.

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseII

It is a sea-gate, trembling with the blastOf powers that from the infinite sea-plain roll,A whelming tide. Up on the waiting soulAs on a fronting rock, thunders the vastGroundswell; i ts spray bursts heavenward, and drives pastIn fume and sound articulate of the wholeOf ocean's heart, else voiceless; on the shoalSilent; upon the headland clear at last.

From darkened sea-coasts without stars or sun,Like trum pet-voices in a holy w ar, Utter the heralds t idings of the deep.And where men slumber, weary and undone,Visions shall com e, incred ible hopes from far ,And with high passion shatter the bonds of sleep.Arthur Davison Ficke

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I A M T H E W O M A NI 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 theybade her seek,Locked up her mouth from scornful speaking: now it isopen to speak.I am she that is terribly fashioned, the creatureWrought 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 crawlAnd whisper down to the secret worm, "O mother,Be no t w roth in the an cient h ouse; th y da ug hte r forgets

not a t a l l !"I am the Woman, fleer away,Soft withdrawer back from the maddened mate,Lurer inward and down to the gates of dayAnd crier there in the gate," W h a t 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,[3]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseGood 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 boreI comfort and feed the slayer, feed and comfort the slain.Did they num ber my daug hters and sons? I am m otherof 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.Stil l would the man come whispering, "Wife!" but manya t ime my breastTook him not as a husband : I soothed him and laid himto restEven 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 swordWhich flamed each way to harry us forth from the Lord,I saw Him young at the portal , weeping and staying therod,And I, even I was His mother, and I yearned as themother of God.I am also the Spirit. T h e Sisters laughedWhen I sat with them dumb in the portals, over myl amp,Half asleep in the doors: for my gown was raught

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m the WomanOff at the shoulder to shield from the wind and the rainThe wick I tended against the mysterious hourWhen 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 withshameI hid my breast away from the rosy flame."Ah!" cried the leaning Sisters, pointing, doing me

wrong,"Do you see?" laughed the wanton Sisters, "She willget her lover ere long!"And it was but a little while till unto my needHe 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 l i t t levillages,Ple asan t to go and lodge in rudely ov er the vin tage-tim e !"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 !

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseA dark and a weary thing is come on our headTo 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 plantedIn 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;T as te of the goodly thing, I have taste d first!"Bringing us noway coolness, but burning thirst,Giving us noway peace, but implacable strife,Loosing upon us the wounding joy and the wastingsorrow of life !I am the Woman, ark of the Law and sacred arm toupbear i t ,Heathen trumpet to overthrow and idolatrous sword toshear i t :Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morningstar at song,Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at thesecret door,"O pe n to m e, O sleeping m othe r! T he gate is heav yand 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 beslothful with thee as before!"William Vaughan Moody

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T O W H I S T L E R , A M E R I C A NOn 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 sl ight, and part gone wrong,And much of little moment, and some fewPerfect as Durer!" In the St ud io" and these two p ortra its? if I had m y choice!And then these sketches in the mood of Greece ?You had your searches, your uncertainties,And this is good to knowfor us, I mean,Who bear the brunt of our AmericaAnd try to wrench her impulse into art .You were not always sure, not always setTo hiding night or tuning "symphonies" ;Had not one style from birth, but tried and priedAnd stretched and tampered with the media.You and Abe Lincoln from that mass of doltsShow us there's chance at least of winning through.Ezra Pound

"Brown and Goldde Race.""Grenat et OrLe Peti t Cardinal."[71


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseM I D D L E - A G E D

A S T U D Y IN A N E M O T I O N

" 'Tis but a vague, invarious delightAs gold that rains about some buried king.As the fine flakes,When tourists frolickingStamp on his roof or in the glazing lightTry photographs, wolf down their ale and cakesAnd start to inspect some further pyramid;As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneathTheir t ransi tory step and merriment ,Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagusGains yet another crustOf useless riches for the occupant,So I, the fires that lit once dreamsNow over and spent,Lie dead within four wallsAnd so now loveRains down and so enriches some stiff" case,And strews a mind with precious metaphors,And so the spaceOf my still consciousnessIs full of gilded snow,The which, no cat has eyes enoughTo see the brightness of." Ezra Pound

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F I S H O F T H E F L O O DFish of the flood, on the banked billowThou layest thy head in dreams;Sliding as slides thy shifting pillow,One with the streamsOf the sea is thy spirit.Gean-tree, thou spreadest thy foaming flourishAbroad in the sky so grey;It not heeding if it thee nourish,Thou dost obey,Happy, i ts moving.So, God, thy love i t not needeth me,Only thy life, that I blessed be.

Emilia Stuart Lorimer

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseT O O N E U N K N O W N

I have seen the proudest starsThat wander on through space,Even the sun and moon,But not your face.I have heard the violin,The winds and waves rejoiceIn endless minstrelsy,Yet not your voice.I have touched the tri l l ium,Pale flower of the land,Coral , anemone,And not your hand.I have kissed the shining feetOf Twilight lover-wise,Opened the gates of DawnOh not your eyes !1 have dreamed unwonted things,Visions that witches brew,Spoken with images,Never with you.

Helen Dudley[ 1 0 ]


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SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN1. THE GARDEN Poco sostenuto in A major

The laving t ide of inart iculate air .Vivace in A major

The ir is people dance.

Allegretto in A minorCool-hearted dim famil iar of the doves.

Presto in F majorI keep a frequent t ryst .

Presto meno assaiThe blossom-powdered orange-tree.

4. TO THE MOON Allegro con brio in A majorMoon tha t shone on Babylon.

T O M O Z A R TWhat junipers are these, inlaidWith flame of the pomegranate tree?The god of gardens must have made

This still unrumored place for theeTo rest from immortality,And dream within the splendid shadeSome more elusive symphonyThan orchestra has ever played.[11]

2 . THE POOL

3 . THE BIRDS


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseI In A majorPoco sostenuto

The laving tide of inarticulate airBreaks here in flowers as the sea in foam,But with no satin lisp of failing wave:The odor-laden winds are very sti l l .An unimagined music here exhalesIn 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 birdsWould feel song at their slender feathered throats,And pour into a grey-winged ariaTheir wrinkled silver fingermarked with pearl;That flight of ivory roses high alongThe airy azure of the larkspur spiresWould be a fugue to puzzle nightingalesWith too-evasive rapture, phrase on phrase.Where the hibiscus flares would cymbals clash,And the black cypress like a deep bassoonWould hum a clouded amber melody.But all across the trudging ragged chordsThat are the tangled grasses in the heat,T h e m arip osa lilies flutteringLike trills upon some archangelic flute,

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Symphony of a Mexican G ardenThe roses and carnations and divineSmall violets that voice the vanished god,There is a lure of passion-poignant toneN o t flower-of-pomegranate that finds th e h ea rtAs stubborn oboes docan breathe in air ,Nor poppies, nor keen lime, nor orange-bloom.What zone of wonder in the ardent duskOf t rees that yearn and cannot understand,Vibrates as to the golden shepherd hornThat st irs some great adagio with i ts cryAnd will not let it rest? O tender trees,Your orchid, l ike a shepherdess of dreams,Calls home her whitest dream from followingElusive laughter of the unmindful god!

VivaceThe iris people danceLike any nimble faun:To rhythmic rad ianceThey foot i t in the dawn.They dance and have no needOf crystal-dripping fluteOr chuckling river-reed,Their music hovers mute .The dawn-lights flutter byAll noiseless, but they know![13]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseSuch children of the skyCan hear the darkness go.But does the morning playWhatever they demandOr amber-barred bourreOr silver saraband ?

THE POOLI I . In A minorAllegretto

Cool-hearted dim familiar of the doves,Thou coiled sweet water where they come to tellTheir mellow legends and rehearse their loves,As what in April or in June befellAnd thou must hear of,friend of DryadesWho lean to see where flower should be setTo 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 myrt le-starred,And thine the heart of wildness quick to beat

At imprint of shy hoof upon thy sward:[ 1 4 ]


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Symphony of a Mexican GardenYet who could know thee wild who art so cool,

So heavenly-minded, templed in thy groveOf plumy cedar, larch and juniper?O strange ecstatic Pool,What unknown country ar t 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 moonWhose disc of perfect pallor half deceivesThe mirror of thy limpid green lagoon,He loveth well thy ripple-feathered moods,Thy whims at dusk, thy ra inbow look a t dawn!Dream thou no more of vales Olympian:Where pale Olympus broodsThere were no orchid white as moon or swan,No sky of leaves, no garden-haunting Pan !

THE BIRDSII I In F majorPresto

I keep a frequent trystWith whirr and shower of wings :Some inward melodistInterpret ing a l l thingsAppoints the place, the hours.[15]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseDazzle 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 whiteHas fire within its breast.What winged mere delightThere hides as in a nestAnd fashions of its flameMusic without a name?So might an opal singIf given thrilling wing,And voice for lyric wildness unexpressed.In grassy dimness thatchedWith tangled growing things,A troubadour rose-patched,With velvet-shadowed wings,Seeks a sustaining fly.Who else unseen goes byQuick-pat ter ing through the hush ?Some twilight-footed thru shOr finch intent on small adventurings?I have no time for gloom,For gloom what t ime have I ?The orange is in bloom;Emerald parrots fly

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Symphony of a Mexican GardenO u t of the cypress-dusk;Morn ing is strange with musk.The wild canary nowJewels the lemon-bough,And mocking-birds laugh in the rose's room.

T H E O R A N G E T R E EIn D MajorPresto meno assaiThe blossom-powdered orange tree,For all her royal speechlessness,O u t of a hea r t of ecstasyIs singing, singing, none the less!

Light as a springing fountain, sheIs spray above the wind-sleek turf:Dream-daugh te r of the moon's white seaAnd sister to its showered surf!

T O THE M O O NIV In A majorAllegro con brio

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

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseWhen you flood with creamy l ightVines that net the sombre pine,Turn the shadowed ir is white,Summon cactus s tars to shine,Do you free in silvered airWistful spiri ts everywhere ?Here they l inger, there they pass,And forget their nat ive heaven:Flit along the dewy grassRare Vit tor ia , Sappho, even!And the hushed magnol ia burnsIncense in her gleaming urns.When the night ingale demandsWord with Keats who answers him,Shakespeare l is tensunderstandsMindful of the cherubim;And the South Wind dreads to knowMozart gone as seraphs go.Moon of poets dead and gone,Moon to gods of music dear,Gardens they have looked uponLet them re-discover here:Restand dream a l i t t le spaceOf some hear t - remembered place!

Grace Hazard Conkling[18]


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E D I T O R I A L C O M M E N TA S I T W A S

ONCE upon a time, when man was new in thewoods of the world, when his feet werescarred with jungle thorns and his handswere red with the blood of beasts, a greatking rose who gathered his neighbors together, and subdued the wa ndering tribes. Strang e cunning was his, for he ground the stones to an edge together,and bound them with thongs to st icks; and he taught hispeople to pry apart the forest, and beat back the ravenousbeasts . And he bade them honeycomb the mou ntain-side w ith caves , to dwell therein w ith their wo m en. Andthe most beautiful women the king took for his own,th at his wisdom m ight no t perish from th e ear th. Andhe led the young men to war and conquered all the warringtribes from the m ou nta ins to the sea. And when firesmote a great tree out of heaven, and raged through theforest till the third sun, he seized a burning brand andlit an al ta r to his god. And ther e, beside the ever-bu rnin g fire, he sa t and ma de laws and did jus tice . Andhis people loved and feared him.

And the king grew old. And for seven jou rne ys ofthe sun from m orn to mo rn he moved not, neither u t tered word. And the he arts of the people were troubled ,but none dared speak to the king's despair; neither wisemen nor warriors dared cry out unto him.[19]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseNow the youngest son of the king was a lad still soft

of flesh, who had never run to battle not sat in councilno r stood before the king . And his he ar t yea rne d forhis father, and he bowed before his mother and said,"G ive me th y blessing, for I ha ve wo rds w ithin me forthe king; yea, as the sea sings to the night with waveswill my words roll in singing unto his grief." And hismother said, "Go, my son; for thou hast words of powerand soothing, and the king shall be healed."So the youth went forth and bowed him toward theking 's seat. And the wise men and wa rriors laid han dsupon him, and said, "Who art thou, that thou shouldstgo in ahead of us to him who sit teth in da rkn ess ?" Andthe king's son rose, and stretched forth his arms, and said,"Unhand me and let me go, ye silent ones, who for sevensun-journeys have watched in darkness and uttered noword of lig ht! U nh an d m e, for as a fig-tree w ith fruit,so my heart is rich with words for the king."

Then he put forth his strength and strode on singingsoftly, and bowed him before the king . An d he spa kethe king's great deeds in cunning wordshis wars andcity-carving s and w ise laws, his dom inion ov er men andbeasts and the thick woods of the earth; his greeting ofthe gods with fire.And lo, the king lifted up his head and stretched forthhis arms and w ept. "Y ea , all these things have I do ne ,"he said, "a nd th ey shall perish with me. M y de ath isupon me, and I shall die, and the tribes I have welded

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As It Wastogether shall be broken apart, and the beasts shall winback their domain, and the green jungle shall overgrowm y m ansio ns. Lo , the fire shall go ou t on the alt ar of thegods, and my glory shall be as a crimson cloud that thenight swallows up in darkness."Then the young man lifted up his voice and cried:"O h, king, be com forted! T h y deeds shall no t pass asa cloud, neither shall thy laws be strewn before the wind.For I will carve thy glory in rich and rounded wordsyea, I will string thy deeds together in jewelled beads ofperfect words that thy sons shall wear on their heartsforever."

"Verily thy words are rich with song," said the king;"b u t thou shalt die, and who will ut ter them ? Liketwinkling foam is the speech of man's mouth; like foamfrom a curling wave that vanishes in the sun.""Nay, let thy heart believe me, oh king my father,"said the yo ut h. "F o r the words of m y m outh shall keepstep with the ripple of waves and the beating of wings;yea, they shall mount with the huge paces of the sun inhea ven , th a t cease no t for m y ceasing. M en shall soundthem on suckling tong ues still soft w ith m ilk, they shallrun into batt le to the tune of thy deeds, and kindle theirfire w ith the bre ath of th y wisd om . And th y gloryshall be ever living, as a jewel of jas pe r from the ea rth yea, as the green jewel of jasper carven into a god forthe rod of thy power, oh king, and of the power of thysons forever."

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseThe 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 whiterth an his, and I shall die. N ow therefore stand a t m yright hand, O son of my wise years, child of my dreams.Stand at my right hand, and fi t thy speech to music, thatmen m ay hold in their hea rts th y rounded wo rds. Forever shalt thou keep thy place, and utter thy true talein the ears of the race. And w oe be un to them th a thea r thee n o t! Verily th a t gene ration shall pass asa cloud, and its glory shall be as a tree th a t w ithe rs. F orthou alone shalt win the flying hours to thee, and keep thebeauty of them for the joy of men forever."H. M.

O N T H E R E A D I N G O F P O E T R Y

In the brilliant pages of his essay on Jean FranoisMillet, Romain Rolland says that Millet, as a boy, usedto read the Bucolics and the Georgics "with enchant-ment" and was "seized by emotionwhen he came to theline, ' It is the hour when the great shadows seek thepla in . 'E t jam summ a procul vi l larum culmina fum antMajoresque cadunt a l t i s de mont ibus umbrae?"

To the lover and student of poetry, this incident hasan especial charm and significance. T he re is som ethingfine in the quick sympathy of an artist in one kind, for[ 2 2 ]


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On the Reading of Poetrybeauty expressed by the master of another medium.The glimpse M. Rolland gives us of one of the mostpassionate art-students the world has ever known, implieswith fresh grace a truth Anglo-Saxons are always forget t ingthat poetry is one of the great humanit ies, thatpoetry is one of the great arts of expression.

Many of our customs conspire to cause, almost toforce, this forgetting. T ho us an ds of us hav e been educated to a d ark and often pe rm an en t ignoranc e of classicpoetry, by being taught in childhood to regard it aswrit ten for the purpose of i l lustrating Hadley's Latin, orGoodwin's Greek grammar, and composed to follow therules of versification at the end of th e boo k. I t seemsindeed one of fate's strangest ironies that the efforts ofthese distinguished grammarians to unveil immortalmasterpieces are commonly used in schools and collegesto enshroud, not to say swaddle up, the images of thegods "forever you ng ," and turn them into mum m ies. Inour own country, far from perceiving in Vergil 's quietmusic the magnificent gesture of nature that thrilled hisNorman readerfar from conceiving of epic poetry asthe simplest universal tongue, one early acquires a warydistrust of i t as something one must constantly laborover.Aside from gaining in childhood this strong, practical objection to famous poetry, people achieve thedeadly habit of reading metrical l ines unimaginatively.After forminggenerally in preparation for entering one

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of Verseof our great universit iesthe habit of blinding the innereye, deafening the inner ear, and dropping into a speciesof mental coma before a page of short lines, it is difficultfor educated persons to read poetry with what is knownas "ordinary human inte l l igence."It does not occur to them simply to listen to thenighting ale. Bu t po etry, I believe, never speaks herbeautycertainly never her scope and variety, except onthe condition that in her presence one sits down quietlywith folded hands, and truly listens to her singing voice.

"So for one the wet sai l 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 aliving art to be enjoyed, but rather as an exact science tobe app rov ed. T o them poetry ma y concern herself onlywith a limited number of subjects to be presented in a

predeterm ined and conven tional m ann er and form. T osuch readers the word "form" means usually only a repeated l i terary effect: and they do not understand thatevery "form" was in its first and best use an originality,employed not for the purpose of following any rule, butbecause it said truly what the artist wished to express.I suppose much of the m onoto ny of subject and tre atment observable in modern verse is due to this belief thatpoetry is merely a fixed way of repeating certain meritorious though highly familiar concepts of existenceand not in the least the infinite music of words meant tospeak the l i t t le and the great tongues of the earth.[ 2 4 ]


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On the Reading of PoetryIt is exhilarating to read the pages of Pope and of

Byron, whether you agree with them or not, because herepoetry does speak the l i t t le and the great tongues of theearth, and sings satires, pastorals and lampoons, l i teraryand dramatic cri t icism, all manner of fun and sparklingprett iness, sweeping judgments, nice discriminations,fashions, politics, the ways of gentle and simpleloveand desire and pain and sorrow, and anguish and death.The impulse which inspired, and the appreciationwhich endowed this magazine, has been a generous symp at hy with poe try as an art . T he existence of a galleryfor poems and verse has an especially attractive socialvalu e in its pow er of recalling or crea ting th e beautifuland clarifying pleasure of truly reading poetry in itsbroad scope and rich va rie ty. T h e ho sp itality of this hallwill have been a genuine source of happiness if somehow

it tells the visitors, either while the y are here, or after the yhave gone to other places, what a delight it is to enjoy apoem, to realize it, to live in the vivid dream it evokes, tohark to its music, to listen to the special magic grace of itsown style and composition, and to know that this spe-cial grace will say as deeply as some revealing hour witha friend one loves, something nothing else can saysome-thing which is life itself sung in free sympathy beyond thebars of t ime and space.

E. W.

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of Verse

T H E M O T I V E O F T H E M A G A Z I N EIn the huge democracy of our age no interest is tooslight to hav e an organ . E ver y spo rt, every little ind us tryrequires its own corner, its own voice, that it may findits friends, greet them, welcome them.The arts especially have need of each an entrenchedplace, a voice of power, if they are to do their work and be

he ard . Fo r as the world grows greater da y by day , as everymember of i t , through something he buys or knows orloves, reaches out to the ends of the earth, things preciousto the race, things rare and delicate, may be overpowered,lost in the criss-cross of modern currents, the confusionof modern immensities.Painting, sculpture, music are housed in palaces in the

great cities of the world; and every week or two a newperiodical is born to speak for one or the other of them,and tenderly nursed at some guard ian's expense. A rch itecture, responding to commercial and social demands, iswhipped into shape by the rough and tumble of lifeand fostered, willy-nilly, by m en's material needs. Po etryalone, of all the fine arts, has been left to shift for herselfin a world unaware of its immediate and desperate needof her, a world whose gr eat deeds, whose tr ium ph s ove rmatter, over the wilderness, over racial enmities anddistances, require her ever-living voice to give them gloryand glamour.

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The Motive of the Magazine

Poetry has been left to herself and blamed for inefficiency, a process as unrea sonab le as blam ing the desert forbarr enn ess. T his art , like every othe r, is no t a miracleof direct creation, but a reciprocal relation between thear tis t and his pub lic. T he people m us t do their par t ifthe poet is to tell their story to the future; they must cultivate and irrigate the soil if the desert is to blossom asthe rose.The present venture is a modest effort to give topoetry her own place, her own voice. The popularmagazines can afford her but scant courtesya Cinderellacorner in the ashesbecause they seek a large publicwhich is not hers, a public which buys them not for theirverse but for their stories, pictures, journalism, rarely fortheir liter atu re, even in prose. M ost magazine editors

say that there is no public for poetry in America; oneof them wrote to a young poet that the verse his monthlyaccepted "must appeal to the barber 's wife of the MiddleWest," and others prove their distrust by printing lessverse from year to year, and that rarely beyond page-endlength and importance.We believe that there is a public for poetry, that it willgrow, and that as it becomes more numerous and appreciative the work produced in this art will grow in power,in be au ty , in significance. In this belief we ha ve beenencouraged by the generous enthusiasm of many subscribers to our fund, by the sympathy of other loversof the art, and by the quick response of many prominent

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of Versepoets, both American and English, who have sent orpromised contributions.W e hope to publish in Poetry some of the bes t work nowbeing done in English verse. W ithin space limitation sset at present by the small size of our monthly sheaf, weshall be able to print poems longer, and of more intimateand serious character, than the popular magazines canafford to use. T h e tes t, limited by ever-fallible h um anjudgment, is to be quality alone; all forms, whetherna rra tive , dra m atic or lyric, will be acceptable. W e hopeto offer our subscribers a place of refuge, a green islein the sea, where Beauty may plant her gardens, andTruth, austere revealer of joy and sorrow, of hiddendelights and despairs, may follow her brave questunafraid.

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N O T E S A N D A N N O U N C E M E N T S

In order that the experiment of a magazine of versemay have a fair trial, over one hundred subscriptions offifty dollars annually for five years have been promisedby the ladies and gentlem en listed below. In a dd ition ,nearly twenty direct contributions of smaller sums havebeen sent or promised. T o all these lovers of the ar t th eeditors would express their grateful appreciation.Mr. H. C. Chat f ie ld-TaylorMr. Howard ShawMr. Arthur T . AldisMr. Edwin S. FechheimerMrs. Char les H. Hamil lMr . D. H. BurnhamMrs. Emmons Bla ine (2)Mr . Wm. S . MonroeM r. E . A. Bancrof tM r s . Bur ton HansonMr . John M. EwenMr. C. L . HutchinsonM r s . W m . V a u g h a n M o o d yHon. Wm. J . Ca lhounMiss Anna MorganMrs. Edward A. LeichtMrs. Louis Bet t sMr . Ra lph CudneyMrs. George BullenMrs. P. A. Valent ineMr. P. A. Valent ineMr. Char les R. CraneMr. Freder ick SargentMrs. Frank G. LoganDr . F . W. Gunsau lusM r s . Emma B. HodgeMr. Wal lace HeckmanMr. Edward B. But le r (2)Miss El izabeth RossM r s . Bryan La th ropMr . Mar t in A. Rye rsonMrs . La Verne NoyesMrs. E . Norman Scot t (2)Mr . Wm. O. GoodmanMrs. Char les Hi tchcockHo n . John B ar ton PayneDeceased.

Mr. Thomas D. JonesMr . H. H. Kohl saa tMr. Andrew M. LawrenceMiss Jul iet GoodrichMr . Henry H. Walke rMr. Char les Deer ingMr. Jas . Harvey Pei rceMr. Char les L . FreerM r s . W . F . D u m m e rMr . Ja s . P . WhedonMr . Ar thur HeunMr . Edward F . Ca r ryMrs. George M. Pul lmanMr. Cyrus H. McCormick (2)Mr . F . S tuyvesan t PeabodyM r s . F. S. WinstonMr. J. J. GlessnerMr. C. C. Cur t i ssMrs , Hermon B. But le rMr. Will H. LyfordMr. Horace S. OakleyMr . Eames Mac VeaghMrs. K. M. H. BeslyMr. Char les G. DawesMr. Clarence BuckinghamMrs . Po t t e r Pa lmerMr. Owen F. AldisMr. Alber t B. DickMr. Alber t H. LoebThe Misses SkinnerMr . Po t t e r Pa lmerMiss Mary Rozet Smi thMisses Alice E. and Margaret D.M o r a nM r s . James B .Waller\Mr.John Borden

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseMr. Vic tor F. LawsonMrs . H. M. Wi lmar thMrs . Norman F . ThompsonMrs. Will iam BlairM r s . Clarence I . PeckMr. Clarence M. WoolleyMr. Edward P. Russe l lM r s . Frank O. LowdenMr. John S. Mi l le rMiss Helen Louise BirchNine members of the For tnight lySix members of the Fr iday ClubSeven members of the ChicagoWoman ' s C lubMr. Will iam L. BrownMr. Rufus G. DawesMr. Gi lber t E . Por te r

Mr. Alfred L. BakerMr. George A. McKinlockMr. John S. FieldMrs. Samuel Insul lMr. Wil l iam T. FentonMr. A. G. BeckerMr. Honor Pa lmerMr. John J . Mi tche l lMrs . F . A ' Ha rdyMr . Mor ton D. Hul lMr. E . F. RipleyM r . E rnes t MacDona ld B owmanMr. John A. KruseMr. Freder ic C. Bar t le t tMr . Frank l in H. HeadM r s . Wm. R . L innThrough the generosity of five gentlemen, Poetrywill give two hundred and fifty dollars in one or twoprizes for the best poem or poems printed in its pagesth e first ye ar. In add ition a subscriber to th e fund offerstwenty-five dollars for the best epigram.

Mr. Maurice Browne, director of the Chicago Litt leTheatre, 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 beadequately presented under the requirements and l imitations of his stage.

We are fortunate in being able, through the courtesyof th e Houg hton-Mifflin Co ., to offer ou r reader s apoem, hitherto unprinted, from advance sheets of thecomplete works of the late William Vaughan Moody,which will be published in N ove m ber. T he lam entab le

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Notes and Announcementsdeath of this poet two years ago in the early prime ofhis gre at powers was a calam ity to l i teratu re. I t isfitting that the first number of a magazine publishedin the city where for years he wrote and taught, shouldcontain an important poem from his hand.Mr. Ezra Pound, the young Philadelphia poet whoserecent distinguished success in London led to wide rec-ognition in his own country, authorizes the statementthat at present such of his poetic work as receivesmagazine publication in America will appear exclusivelyin Poetry. T h a t d isc r imina t ing London publisher,Mr. Elkin Mathews, "discovered" this young poetfrom over seas, and publ ished "Personae," "Exulta t ions"and "Canzoniere," three small volumes of verse fromwhich a selection has been reprinted by the Houghton-Mifflin Co. und er the t i t le "P ro ve n a." M r. Pou nd 'slatest work is a translation from the Italian of "Sonnetsand Bal la te ," by Guido Cavalcant i .

M r. A rth ur Davison Ficke, ano ther contributo r, is agraduate of Harvard, who studied law and entered hisfathe r's office in D av en po rt, Iowa . He is the au tho r of"The Happy Princess" and "The Breaking of Bonds,"and a con tribu tor to leading magazines. An early nu m ber of Poetry will be devoted exclusively to Mr. Ficke'swork.

M r s . Roscoe P. Conkling is a resident of the stateof New York; a young poet who has contributed tovarious magazines.[ 3 1 ]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseMiss Lorimer is a young English poet resident inOxford, who will publish her first volume this autumn.The London Poetry Review, in i ts August number, introduced her with a group of lyrics which were criticizedwith some asperity in the New Age and praised withequal warmth in other periodicals.

J*Miss Dudley, who is a Chicagoan born and bred,is st i l l younger in the art , "To One Unknown" being thefirst of her poems to be printed.

Poetry will acknowledge the receipt of books of verseand works relating to the subject, and will print briefreviews of those which seem for any reason significant.It will endeavor also to keep its readers informed of theprogress of the art throughout the English-speakingworld and continental Eu rope . T he Am erican m etropolitan newspaper prints cable dispatches about post-impressionists, futurists, secessionists and other radicalsin painting, sculpture and music, but so far as its editorsand readers are concerned, French poetry might havedied with Victor Hugo, and English with Tennyson, orat most Swinburne.N O T E . E i g h t mo nths after the first general newspaper annou ncem entof our efforts to secure a fund for a magazine of verse, and three orfour months after our first use of the title Poetry, a Boston firm ofpublishers an nounced a forthcoming periodical of the same kind , tobe issued under the same nam e. T he two are not to be confused.

T H E R A L P H F L E T C H E R S E Y M O U R C O M P A N YP R I N T E R S C H I C A G O

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To have great poets there must be greataudiences, too. Whitman.H E L P us to give the ar t of poe try an organin A m erica. H elp us to give the poe ts achance to be heard in their own place, to offerus the ir best an d m ost serious wo rk instead ofpage-end poems squeezed in between miscellaneous articles and stories.If you love good poetry, subscribe.If yo u believe th a t this a rt , l ike pa intin g,sculpture, music and architecture, requires andd e s e r v e s p u b l i c r e c o g n i t i o n a n d s u p p o r t ,subscribe.I f you bel ieve wi th Whi tman tha t " thetopmost proof of a race is i ts own born poetry,"subscribe. Harriet MonroeHenry B. Fuller EditorEdith Wyatt William T. AbbottH. C. Chatfield-Taylor Charles H. HamillAdvisory Com mittee Adm inistrative Com mittee

P O E T R Y543 Cass Street, ChicagoSend POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) to

N a m e ,Address


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L I S T OF NEW P U B L I C A T I O N ST h e R A L P H F L E T C H E R S E Y M O U R C O M P A N Y

T H E A L D E R B R I N K P R E S SF I N E A R T S B L D G . , C H I C A G OP O E T R Y

THE UPPER TRAIL, by C. G. Blanden . Limited Edition350 copies in blue paper boards, at $ 2.258 copies in vellum, at . . . 10.00SONGS OF INNOC ENCE AND OF E X P E R I E N C E , by W m . Blake

Printed on hand-made paper ; smal l ornamentalini t ials . De corat ive t i t le, printed in two colors.Bound in paper boards and vellum back.Limited to 300 copies on paper, at . . $ 2.001 vellum copy for sale, at 10.00LOVE IN THE VALLEY AND TWO SONGS, by George Meredith300 copies on hand made paper , at . . $1.252 on vellum, at 5.00

ESSAYST he only authorized editions of these books byELLEN KEYT H E M O R A L I T Y OF W O M A N , at $ 1.00T H E T O R P E D O U N D E R THE ARK, at 50" I B S E N AND W O M E N "L O V E AND E T H I C S , at 50Translated from the Swedish, by Mamah BoutonBorthwick with proofs revised and corrected by EllenKey.Ellen Key is today considered to be one of the most significantwomen writers . W hile m any books have been w rit ten on the subjectswhich she t r ea t s , few are so sane, just and carefully considered.W e are glad to be able to announce these added contr ibutions fromso impor tant an author and feel assured of their worth and interes t .Books sent on approval.


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