varios, poetry i, 2

7/27/2019 Varios, Poetry I, 2

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C O N T E N T SThe Piper - - Joseph CampbellBeyond the Stars - Charles Hanson TowneThree Poems - - Richard AldingtonUnder Tw o W indowsMrs. Schuyler Van RennselaerT wo Poems - - Lily A. LongNogi . . . Harriet MonroeT wo Poem s - Margaret WiddemerReviews and CommentsMoody's Poems Bohemian Poetry "The Music ofthe Human Heart"The Open DoorNotes and Announcements

543 Cass Street, ChicagoCop yright 1912 by H arriet Monroe. All righ ts reserved.

November M CM XIIEdited and Published byHarriet Monroe. Applicationmadefor entrance as second-class matter a t Postoffice, Chicago.


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The University of Chicago Library

Gift ofRobert Scholeson Behalf of theModernist Journals Project


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V O L . IN o . 2

N O V E M B E R , 1 9 1 2

T H E P I P E RGE OR GE BOR ROW in his Lavengro

Tells us of a Welshman, whoBy some excess of m oth er-w itFramed a harp and played on i t ,Built a ship and sailed to sea,And steered i t home to melodyOf his own m akin g. I, indeed,Might write for Everyman to readA thaumalogue of wondermentMore wonderful, but rest contentWith celebrating one I knewWho built his pipes, and played them, too:No more . Ah , played ! Th erein is al l :The hounded thing, the hunter 's ca l l ;The shudder , when the quarry 's breathIs drowned in blood and stilled in death;The marriage dance, the pulsing vein,

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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseThe kiss that must be given again;The hope that Ireland, l ike a rose,Sees shining thro' her tale of woes;The batt le lost , the long lamentFor blood and spirit vainly spent;And so on, thro' the varying scaleOf passion that the western GaelKnows, and by miracle of artDraws to the chanter from the heartLike water from a hidden spring,To leap or murmur, weep or sing.I see him now, a little manIn proper black, whey-bearded, wan,With eyes that scan the eastern hillsT h r o ' thick, gold-rimmd spectacles.His han d is on the ch ante r. Lo,The hidden spring begins to flowIn wav es of m agic. (H e is deadThese seven years, but bend your headAnd listen.) Rising from th e clayThe Maste r p lays The Ring of Day.It mounts and falls and floats awayO ver the sky-line . . . th en is goneInto the silence of the dawn!

Joseph Campbell

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B E Y O N D T H E S T A R SThree 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 seeT he April th at his spiri t bath ed in! BirdsAre singing in the orchard, and the grassThat soon will cover him is growing green.The daisies whiten on the emerald hills,And the immortal magic that he lovedWakens againand he has fallen asleep."A nother sa id: "L a s t night I saw the moonLike a tremendous lantern shine in heaven,And I could only think of himand sob.For I remembered evenings wonderfulWhen he was faint with Life's sad loveliness,And watched the si lver ribbons wandering farAlong the shore, and out upon the sea.Oh, I remembered how he loved the world,The sighing ocean and the flaming stars,

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseThe everlasting glamour God has givenHis tapestr ies that wrap the earth 's wide room.I minded me of mornings filled with rainWhen he would sit and listen to the soundAs 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 beesT h a t boomed across the meadow s. He was gladAt dawn or sundown; glad when Autumn cameWith 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 blowingWith 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 spiri t f lew,There was no night beyond the teeming world.Their April was l ike winter where I roamed;Their flowers were like stones where now I fared.Earth 's day! i t was as if I had not knownW h at sunlight m ea nt ! . . . Ye a, even as the y grievedFor 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,

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Beyond the StarsMyself the ether, yet a matchless beingWhom God had snatched from penury and painTo 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 eternityI whirled in wonder and untrammeled joy,An atom, yet a portion of His dreamHis 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 flowerFor one to pluck who loved me; I was bliss,And rapture, splendid moments of delight;And I was prayer, and soli tude, 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 sightI saw beyond the ult imate bounds of space.I was all things that I had loved on earthThe very moonbeam in that quie t room,The very sunlight one had dreamed I lost ,The soul of the returning April grass,The spiri t of the evening and the dawn,

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseThe 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),T h ey grieved for me . . I should hav e grieved for the m !

Charles Hanson Towne

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X 0 P I K 0 2The ancient songsPass dea thw ard mou rnfully.Cold l ips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wingsSymbols of ancient songsMournfully passingDown to the great white surges,Watched of noneSave the frail sea-birdsAnd the lithe pale girls,Daughters of Okeanos.And the songs passFrom the green landWhich lies upon the waves as a leafOn 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 landsThat she keeps for us all ,That she wrought for us all for sleepIn the si lver days of the earth's dawningProserpine, daughter of Zeus.

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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseAnd we turn from the Kuprian's breasts,And we turn from thee,Phoibos Apollon,And we turn from the music of oldAnd the hills that we loved and the meads,And we turn from the fiery day,And the lips that were over-sweet;For silentlyBrushing the fields with red-shod feet,With purple robeSearing the flowers as with a sudden flame,D e a t h ,Thou hast come upon us.And of all the ancient songsPassing to the swallow-blue hallsBy the dark streams of Persephone,This only remains:That in the end we turn to thee,Dea th ,That we turn to thee, singingOne last song.O Dea th ,Thou art an healing windThat blowest over white flowersA-tremble with dew;Thou art a wind flowing

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chorixosOver long l eagues o f l one ly sea ;T h o u a r t t h e d u s k a n d t h e f r a g r a n c e ;T h o u a r t t h e l i p s o f l o v e m o u r n f u l l y s m i l i n g ;Thou a r t t he pa l e peace o f oneS a t i a t e w i t h o l d d e s i r e s ;T h o u a r t t h e s il en c e o f b e a u t y ,A n d w e l o o k n o m o r e f o r t h e m o r n i n g ;W e y e a r n n o m o r e f o r t h e s u n ,S i n ce w i t h t h y w h i t e h a n d s ,D e a t h ,T h o u c r o w n e s t u s w i t h t h e p a l li d c h a p l e t s ,The s l im co lo r l e s s popp ie sW h i c h i n t h y g a r d e n a l o n eS o f t l y t h o u g a t h e r e s t .A n d s i l e n t l y ;A n d w i t h s lo w f ee t a p p r o a c h i n g ;A n d w i t h b o w e d h e a d a n d u n l i t e y e s ,W e k n e e l b e f o r e t h e e :A n d t h o u , l e a n i n g t o w a r d s u s ,C a r e s s i n g l y l a y e s t u p o n u sF l o w e r s f r o m t h y t h i n c o l d h a n d s ,A n d , s m i l i n g a s a c h a s t e w o m a nK n o w i n g l o v e i n h e r h e a r t ,T h o u s e a l e s t o u r e y e sA n d t h e i l li m i t a b l e q u i e t u d eC o m e s g e n t l y u p o n u s . Richard Aldington

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseT O A G R E E K M A R B L E

Potnia, potnia,White grave goddess,Pity my sadness,O silence of Paros.I 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 solitudesOf our loves in Phrygia,The far ecstasy of burning noonsWhen the fragile pipesCeased in the cypress shade,And the brown fingers of the shepherdMoved over slim shoulders;And only the cicada sang.I have told thee of the hillsAnd the lisp of reedsAnd the sun upon thy breasts,And thou hearest me not,Potnia, potniaThou hearest me not .

Richard Aldington[421


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A U V I E U X J A R D I N .I have sat here happy in the gardens,Watching the still pool and the reedsAnd the dark cloudsWhich the wind of the upper airTore like the green leafy boughsOf the divers-hued trees of late summer;But though I greatly delightIn these and the water-lilies,That which sets me nighest to weepingIs the rose and w hite color of the sm ooth flag-stones,And the pale yellow grassesAmong them. Richard Aldington

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseU N D E R T W O W I N D O W S

T. AUBADEThe dawn is hereand the long night through I havenever seen thy face,Though my feet have worn the patient grass at the gateof thy dwelling-place.

While the white moon sailed till , red in the west, it foundthe far world-edge,No leaflet stirred of the leaves that climb to garland thywindow ledge.Yet the vine had quivered from root to tip, and openedits 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 barrierstood ajar,And the curtain shook with i ts gentle breath, white asyoung lilies are;But there came no hand all the slow night through to drawthe folds aside,(I longed as the moon and the vine-leaves longed!) or toset the casement wide.

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Under Two WindowsThree times in a low-hung nest there dreamed his fivesweet notes a bird,And thrice my heart leaped up at the sound I thoughtthou hadst surely heard.But now that thy praise is caroled aloud by a thousandthroats awake,Shall I watch from afar and silently, as under the moon,for thy sake?Naybold in the sun I speak thy name, I too, and I waitno moreThy hand, thy face, in the window niche, but thy kiss atthe open door!

I I . NOCTURNEMy darling, come!The wings of the dark have waftedthe sunset away,And ther e 's room for m uch in a summ er nigh t, bu t noroom for delay.A still moon looketh down from the sky, and a waveringmoon looks upFrom every hollow in the green hills that holds a pool inits cup.The woodland borders are wreathed with bloomelder,viburnum, rose; [45]


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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseThe young trees yearn on the breast of the wind thatsighs of love as it goes.The small stars drown in the moon-washed blue but thegreater ones abide,With Vega high in the midmost place, Altair not far aside.The glades are dusk, and soft the grass, where the flowerof the elder gleams,Mist-white, moth-like, a spiri t awake in the dark of forestd reams .Arcturus beckons into the east , Antares toward the south,That sendeth a zephyr sweet with thyme to seek for thysweeter mouth.Shall the blossom wake, the star look down, all night andhave naught to see?Shall the reeds that sing by the wind-brushed pool saynothing of thee and me? M y darling comes! M y arm s are co nten t, m y feet areguiding her way;Th ere is room for much in a summ er nig ht, b ut no room

for delay! Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer

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T H E S I N G I N G P L A C ECold may lie the day,And bare of grace;At night I slip awayTo the Singing Place.A border of mist and doubtBefore the gate,And the Dancing Stars grow stillAs hushed I wait .Then faint and far awayI catch the beatIn broken rhythm and rhymeOf joyous feet,Lifting waves of soundThat will rise and swell(If the prying eyes of thoughtBreak not the spell),Rise and swell and retreatAnd fall and flee,As over the edge of sleepThey beckon me.And I wait as the seaweed waits

For the lifting tide;

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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseTo ask would be to awake,To be denied.I cloud my eyes in the mistThat veils the hem,And then with a rush I am past,I am Theirs , and of Them!And the pulsing chant swells upTo touch the sky,And the song is joy, is life,And the song am I !The thunderous music pealsAround, o 'erheadThe dead would awake to hearIf there were dead;But the life of the throbbing SunIs in the song,And we weave the world anew,

And the Singing ThrongFill every corner of spaceOver the edge of sleepI bring but a traceOf the chants that pulse and sweepIn the Singing Place.Lily A. Long

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I M M U R E DWithin 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 findIt is my breast I beat, O bond and blind!

Lily A. Long

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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseN O G I

Great soldier of the fighting clan,Across Port Arthur's frowning face of stoneYou drew the batt le sword of old Japan,And struck the White Tsar from his Asian throne.Once more the samurai swordStruck 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,G ran dly at last you followed. O u t it leadsTo that high heaven where all the heroes are,Lovers of death for causes and for creeds.Harriet Monroe

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T H E J E S T E RI have known great gold Sorrows:Majestic Griefs shall serve me watchfullyThrough the slow-pacing morrows:I have knelt hopeless where sea-echoingDim endless voices cried of sufferingVibrant and far in broken l i tany:Where white magnolia and tuberose hauntinglyPulsed their regretful sweets along the airAll things most tragical, most fair,H av e still encom passed me . . .I dance where in the screaming market-placeThe dusty world that watches buys and sells,With painted merriment upon my face,Whirling my bells,Thrusting my sad soul to i ts mockery.I hav e know n gre at gold Sorrows . . .Shall they not mock me, these pain-haunted ones,If it shall make them merry, and forgetThat grief shall rise and setWith the unchanging, unforgett ing sunsOf their relentless morrows? Margaret Widdemer

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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseT H E B E G G A R S

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,H urry ing to the picture-place. T he re curledA 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 himFrom the brief wealth of pay-night, and went inTo the cheap laughter and the tawdry thoughtsThrown on the screen; in to the seeking handCovered by darkness, to the luring voiceOf Horror, boy-masked, whispering of rings,Of silks, of feathers, boughtso cheap!with justTheir slender starved child-bodies, palpitantFor 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, withinThe 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!

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The BeggarsThe old man crouched there, eyeless, horrible,Compiacerl i in the marketable maskThat earned his comfortsand they gave to him!But ah, the little painted, wistful facesQuestioning Life for Joy! Margaret Widdemer


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P O E T R Y : A M agazine of Verse

R E V I E W S A N D C O M M E N T SM O O D Y ' S P O E M S

HE Poems and Plays of William VaughnMoody will soon be published in twovolum es by the Houghton-Mifflin C o. O urpresent interest is in the volume of poems,which are themselves an absorbing drama.Moody had a slowly maturing mind; the vague vastnessof his young dreams yielded slowly to a man's moredefinite vision of the sp iritua l magnificence of life. W he nhe died at two-score years, he was just beginning tothink his problem through, to reconcile, after the mannerof the great poets of the earth, the world with God.Apparently the unwritten poems cancelled by deathwould have rounded out, in art of an austere perfection,the record of that reconciliation, for nowhere do we feelthis passion of high serenity so strongly as in the firstact of an uncompleted drama, The Death of Eve.

Great-minded youth must dream, and modern dreamsof the meaning of life lack the props and pillars of theold dog m atism . Vagu eness, confusion an d despa ir area natural inference from the seeming chaos of evil andgood, of pain and jo y. M oo dy from th e beginning tookthe whole scheme of things for his province, as a trulyheroic poet should; there are always large spaces on his

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Moody's Poemscan va s. In his earlier poetry , both the symbolic Masqueof Judgment and the shorter poems derived from present-day subjects, we find him picturing the confusion, statingthe case, so to speak , aga inst God. Som ewh at in theterms of modern science is his statementthe universeplunging on toward its doom of darkness and lifelessness,divin e fervor of creation laps ing , divin e fervor of lovedoubting, despairing of the life it made, sweeping allaway 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 l ines. The poetbroods over the earthThe earth, that has the blue and l i t t le f lowersw ith all its pass iona te pa ge an try of life and love. Likehis own angel he is a truant s t i l lWhile batt le rages round the heart of God.

The lamps are spent a t the end of judgment day,and naked from their seatsThe stars ar ise with l i f ted hands, and wait .

This conflict between love and doubt is the motivealso of Gloucester Moors, The D aguerreotype, Old P our-quoithose three noblest , perhaps, of the present-daypoemsalso of The Brute and The Menagerie, and of thatfine poem manqu, the Ode in Time of Hesitation. TheFie-Bringer is an effort at ano ther them e redem ption,light after darkn ess . B ut it is no t so spo ntan eou s asthe Masque; though simpler, clearer, more dramatic in

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of Verseform, it is more deliberate and intellectual, and not sostar-l i t with memorable l ines. The Fire-Bringer is anexpression of aspiration; the poet longs for light, demandsit, will wrest it from God's right hand like Prometheus.B ut his trium ph is still theo ry, not experience. T h ereader is hardly yet convinced.

If one feels a grander motive in such poems as theone-act Death of Eve and The Fountain, or the less perfectly achieved I Am the Wom an, it is not because of thetales they tell but because of the spirit of faith that isin thema spirit intangible, indefinable, but indomitableand triu m ph an t. A t last , we feel, this poet, alreadyunder the shadow of death, sees a terrible splendid sunrise, and offers us the glory of it in his art.

The Fountain is a truly magnificent expression ofspiritual triumph in failure, and incidentally of thegrandeur of Arizona, that tragic wonderland of ancientand future gods. Tho se Spanish wa nderers, dying in thedesert, in whose half-madness dreams and realitiesmingle, assume in those stark spaces the stature ofuniversal humanity, contending to the last againstrelentless fate. In the tw o version s of The Death of Eve,both narrative and dramatic, one feels also this wild,fierce tr iu m ph , this faith in the glory of life. Especiallyin the dramatic fragment, by its sureness of touch andsimple austerity of form, and by the majesty of its figureof the aged Eve, Moody's art reached its most heroicheig ht. W e hav e here the beginning of gre at things .

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Bohemian PoetryThe spiri t of this poet may be commended to thosefacile bards who lift up their voices between the feast

and the cigars, whose muses dance to every vague emotion and strike their flimsy lutes for every light-o'-love.Here was one who went to his desk as to an altar, resolvedthat the fire he lit, the sacrifice he offered, should beperfect and com plete. H e would burn ou t his he art likea tap er th a t the world mig ht possess a living light. Hewould tell once more the grandeur of life; he would singthe immortal song.That such devotion is easy of attainment in thisclamorou s age wh o can believe? P oe try like some ofMoody's, poetry of a high structural simplicity, strictand bare in form, pure and austere in ornament, impliesa grappling with giants and wrestling with angels; it isnot to be achieved without deep living and high thinking, without intense persistent intellectual and spiri tual

struggle. H. M.BOHEMIAN POETRY

An Anthology of M odern Bohemian Poetry, t ransla ted byP . Selver (Henry J . Drane, London).This is a good anthology of modern Bohemian poetry,accurately translated into bad and sometimes evenridiculous Eng lish. G rea t credit is due the youn g trans lat or for his care in research and selection. T h e fa ults

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P O E T R Y : A M agazine of Verseof his style, though deplorable, are not such as to obscurethe force and beauty of his originals.One is glad to be thus thoroughly assured that contemporary Bohemia has a literature in verse, sensitiveto the outer world and yet national. Mr. Selver'sgreatest revelation is Petr Bezruc, poet of the mines.The poetry of Brezina, Sova and Vrchlicky is interesting, but Bezruc's Songs of Silesia have the strengthof a voice coming de profundis.

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

T h a t is the tem per of i t . Palaces grow by the Dan ubenou rished by his blood. H e goes from labo r 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.Th ey follow the strang er 's plough, the slaves fare down wards.

He thanks God he is not in the place of the oppressor,and ends:T hu s ' tw as done. Th e Lord wills i t . N igh t 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.

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"The Music of the Hum an Heart'Th is poet is dist inctly worth know ing. H e is thetruth where our "red-bloods" and magazine socia l is ts

are usually a rather boresome pose.As Mr. Selver has tried to make his anthology representative of all the qualities and tendencies of contemporary Bohemian work i t is not to be supposed thatthey are all of the mettle of Bezruc.One hears with deep regret that Vrchlicky is justdea d, after a life of unce asing acti vi ty . H e ha s been aprime mover in the revival of the Czech nationality andliter atu re. H e has given the m , besides his own w ork, analmost unbelievable number of translations from theforeign classics, D an te , Schiller, Le opa rdi. Fo r the restI must refer the reader to Mr. Selver's introduction.Ezra Pound

" T H E M U S IC O F T H E H U MA N H E A R T "

This title-phrase has not been plucked from thespacious lawn of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. It grewin the agreeable midland yard of Mr. Walt Mason'snewspaper verse, and appeared in a tribute of his to Mr.Jam es W hitco m b Riley, whose fifty-ninth bir thd ayan niv ers ary , falling on t he seve nth of O ctob er, hasbeen widely celebrated in the American public librariesand daily press.

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseMr. Riley's fine gift to his public, the special happinesshis genius brings to his readers, cannot, for lack of space,

be ad equ ately described, or even indica ted, here. Perhaps a true, if incomplete, impression of the beauty ofhis service may be conveyed by repeating a well-knownpassage of Mr. Lowes Dickinson's Letters from JohnChinaman a passage which I can never read w itho utthinking very gratefully of James Whitcomb Riley, andof what his art has done for American poetry-readers.Mr. Dickinson says:In China our poets and l i terary men have taught their successorsfor long generations, to look for good not in wealth, not in power, notin miscellaneous ac tivity , bu t in a train ed , a choice, an exquisiteapp reciatio n of the m ost simple and un iversal relations of life. Tofeel, and in order to feel, to express, or at least to understand theexpression, of all th a t is lovely in na tu re , of all th at is po ign ant andsen sitive in m an , is to us in itself a sufficient end . . . . T h e pa tho sof life and de ath , the long em brace, the h and stretched out in vain,the moment that glides forever away, with its freight of music andlight , into the shadow and bush of the haunted past , al l that we have,all that eludes us, a bird on the wing, a perfume escaped on the galetoall these things we are trained to respond, and the response is what wecall l i terature.Among Mr. Riley's many distinguished faculties ofexecution in expressing, in stimulating, "an exquisiteappreciation of the most simple and universal relationsof life," one faculty has been, in so far as I know, very

li t t le mentioned I mean his mastery in creating character. M r. Riley has expressed, has inca rna ted in themelodies and harmonies of his poems, not merely several[60]


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" The M usic of the Hum an Heart"l iving, breathing human creatures as they are made bytheir destinies, but a whole world of his own, a vividworld of country-roads, and country-town streets,peopled with farmers and tramps and step-mothers andchildren, trailing clouds of glory even when they boastof the superiorities of "Renselaer," a world of hard-working women and hard-luck men, and poverty andprosperity, and drunkards and raccoons and dogs andgran dm other s and lovers. T o have presented throughthe medium of rhythmic chronicle, a world so sharplylimned, so funny, so tragic, so mean, so noble, seems tous in itself a striking achievement in the craft of verse.

No mere word of criticism can of course evoke, at allas example can, Mr. Riley's genius of identification withvaried human experiences, the remarkable concentrationand lyr ic skill of his chara cterization. Here are two poemsof his on the same general themegrief in the presenceof de ath . W e m ay well speak ou r pride in the wonderfulrange of inspiration and the poetic endowment whichcan create on the same subject musical stories of thesoul as diverse, as searching, as fresh and true, as thebeloved poems of Bereaved and His Mother.

B E R E A V E DLet me come in where you si t weeping; aye,Let me, who have not any child to die,Weep with you for the little one whose loveI have known nothing of .

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P O E T R Y : A Magazine of VerseThe little arms that slowly, slowly loosedTheir pressure round your neck; the hands you usedT o kiss . Such arm s, such han ds I never knew.May I not weep wi th you.Fain would I be of service, say somethingBetween the tears , that would be comfort ing;But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I ,Who have no child to die.

H I S M O T H E RDead! my wayward boy-my ownN o t the Law's, but mine; the goodGod's free gift to me alone,Sanctif ied by motherhood."B a d ," you say: wel l, who is not?" B r u t a l " " W i t h a h e a r t o f s t o n e " And "red-h and ed." Ah! the hotBlood upon your own!I come not with downward eyes,To plead for him shamedly:God did not apologizeWhen He gave the boy to me.Simply, I make ready now

For His verdict . You prepa reYou have kil led us bothand howWill you face us There! E. W.T H E O P E N D O O R

Fears have been expressed by a number of friendlycrit ics that P O E T R Y may become a house of refuge forminor poets.T he phrase is som ewhat worn. Para grap hers havedone their worst for the minor poet, while they have

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The Open Doorallowed the minor painter, sculptor, actorworst of all,arc hite ct to go scot-free. T he world which laugh s atthe experimenter in verse, walks negligently through ourstreets, and goes seriously, even reverently, to the annualexhibitions in our cities, examining hundreds of picturesand statues without expecting even the prize-winners tobe masterpieces.

During the past year a score of more of cash prizes,ranging from one hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, wereawarded in Pi t tsburgh, Chicago, Washington, New Yorkand Boston for m inor wo rks of m odern ar t. N o word ofsuperlative praise has been uttered for one of them:the first prize-winner in Pittsburgh was a delicatelypretty picture by a second-rate Englishman; in Chicagoit was a clever landscape by a promising young American.If a single prize-winner in the entire list, many of whichwere bought at high prices by public museums, was amasterpiece, no critic has yet dared to say so.

In fact, such a word would be presumptuous, sinceno contemporary can utter the final verdict. Our solicitouscritics should remember that Coleridge, Shelley, Keats,Burns, were minor poets to the subjects of King Georgethe Fourth, Poe and Whitman to the subjects of KingLongfellow. M oreover, we m ight remind them th a tDrayton, Lovelace, Herrick, and many another delicatelyrist of the anthologies, whose perfect songs showsingular tenacity of life, remain minor poets through the

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P O E T R Y : A M agazine of Verseslightness of their motive; they created little master-pieces, not great ones.

The Open Door wil l be the pol icy of this magazine-may the great poet we are looking for never find it shut,or half-shu t, agains t his am ple gen ius! T o this end theeditors hope to keep free of entangling alliances with anysingle class or school. T h ey desire to pr in t the bestEnglish verse which is being written today, regardlessof where, by whom, or under what theory of art it isw ritt en . N or will the magazine promise to limit itseditorial comm ents to one set of opinions. W itho utmuzzles and braces this is manifestly impossible unlessall the critical articles are written by one person.

N O T E S A N D A N N O U N C E M E N T SMr. Ezra Pound has consented to act as foreign

correspondent of POETRY, keeping its readers informedof the present interests of the art in England, Franceand elsewhere.The response of poets on both sides of the Atlantichas been most encouraging, so that the quality of thenex t few nu m bers is assured. One of our m ost im po rta ntcontributions is Mr. John G. Neihardt 's brief recently

finished tragedy, The Death of Agrippina, to which anentire number will be devoted within a few months.Mr. Joseph Campbell is one of the younger poets

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Notes and Announcem entsc lose ly a s soc ia t ed w i th th e r ena i s san ce o f a r t and l e t t e r sin I r e l an d . H is first bo ok of po em s w as The Gilly ofChrist; a l a t e r v o l u m e i n c l u d i n g t h e s e i s T h e M o u n t a i n ySinger ( M a u n s e l & C o . ) .

M r . C h a r l e s H a n s o n T o w n e , t h e N e w Y o r k p o e t a n dm a g a z i n e e d i t o r , h a s p u b l i s h e d t h r e e v o l u m e s o f v e r s e ,The Quiet Singer ( R i c k e y ) , Manhattan, a n d Youth andOther Poems; a lso f ive song-cyc les in col labora t ion wi tht w o c o m p o s e r s .

M r . R i c h a r d A l d i n g t o n is a y o u n g E n g l i s h p o e t , o n eo f t h e " I m a g i s t e s , " a g r o u p o f a r d e n t H e l l e n i s t s w h o a r ep u r s u i n g i n t e r e s t i n g e x p e r i m e n t s i n vers libre; t r y i n g t oa t t a in in Engl i sh ce r t a in sub t l e t i e s o f cadence o f t he k indw h i c h M a l l a r m a n d h i s f o l l o w e r s h a v e s t u d i e d i n F r e n c h .M r . A l d i n g t o n h a s p u b l i s h e d li t t l e a s y e t , a n d n o t h i n gi n A m e r i c a .

M r s . V a n R e n s s e l a e r , t h e w e l l - k n o w n w r i t e r o n a r t ,b e g a n c o m p a r a t i v e l y l a t e t o p u b l i s h v e r s e i n t h e m a g a z ines . H e r v o l u m e , Poems ( M a c m i l l a n ) , w a s i s s u e d i n1910 .

M i s s L o n g a n d M i s s W i d d e m e r a r e y o u n g A m e r i c a n s ,s o m e o f w h o s e p o e m s h a v e a p p e a r e d in v a r i o u s m a g a z i n e s .

The l a s t i s sue o f P O E T R Y a c c r e d i t e d M r . E z r a P o u n d ' sProvenca t o t h e H o u g h t o n - M i f f li n C o . T h i s w a s a n e r r o r ;S m a l l, M a y n a r d & C o . ar e M r . P o u n d ' s A m e r i c a n p u b l i she r s . [65]


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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseBOOKS RECEIVED

The Iscariot, by Eden Ph i l l po t t s . John Lane .The Poems of Rosamund Marriott Watson. Jo h n L a n e .Lyrical Poems, by Lucy Ly t t e l t on . Thom as B . Moshe r .The Silence of Amor, by Fiona Macleod. Tho mas B. Mo sher .Spring in T uscany and Other Lyrics. Thomas B . Moshe r .Interpretations: A Book of First Poems, by Zo Ak ins. M itchell Ke nnerley .A Round of Rimes, by Denis A. M acC arthy . Li t t le , Brown & Co.Voices from Erin and Other Poems, by Denis A. M acC arthy . Li t t le , Brown & Co.Love and The Year and O ther Poems, by Grace Grisw old. Duffield & Co .Songs and Sonnets, by W ebster Fo rd. The Rooks Press , Chicago.The Quiet Courage and Other Songs of the Unafraid, by Everard Jack Apple ton.S tewar t and Kidd Co .In Cupid's Chains and Other Poems, by Benjamin F. Woodcox. Woodcox & F a n n e r .Maverick, by Hervey W hi t e . Mave r i ck Pre ss .

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NEW NOTEWORTHYVOLUMES OF POETRYThe Poems and Plays of William Vaughn MoodyMr. Moody's complete works are now for the first time published in two volumes.With frontispiece por trai ts in photogravure and a biographical introduction byJOHN M. MANLY. Each volume, $1.50 net. Postage 11 cents.Poems and Ballads BY HERMANN HAGEDORNOf the younger American poets few have made a deeper or wider impression onreaders of contemporary verse than Mr. Hagedorn. His new collection shows astill wider range and a dist inct advance in poetical achievement. $1.25 net. Postage 7 cents.Uriel and Other Poems BY PER C Y MA C K A Y EIn this, his latest volume, Mr. MacKaye brings together his important recentoccasional poems. The pieces include, among others, a eulogy on the late WilliamVaughn Moody, poems to Edward Gordon Craig, on the return of Ellen Terry,to Peary at the Pole, on the Browning and Thackeray centenaries, and otheroccasions of academic and public interest. $1.00 net. Postage 7 cents.

B Y FLORENCE EARLE COATESThe Unconquered Airand Other PoemsThis brilliant and appealing volume of poems contains Mrs. Coates's latest work.It begins with the strong and suggestive piece inspired by the wonders of aviation,which attracted so much attention when originally published in a magazine a yearor two ago, and contains numerous other poems of significance. $1.25 net. Postageextra.A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass BY AMY LOWELLThis collection of unusual poems, many of which have appeared in The AtlanticMonthly, combines marked technical ability with a rare and individual poeticalfeeling. $1.50 net. Postage 6 cents.Villa Mirafiore BY FREDERIC CROWNINSHIELDMr. Crowninshield, though perhaps best known as an artist and teacher of artat one time Director of the American Academy in Romeis a poet of distinctionand charm. His new collection of poems will be particularly pleasing, both tolovers of poetry and to lovers of Italy. $1.25 net. Postage 7 cents.

Boston H O U G H T O N M I F F L I N C O M P A N Y New York


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THE HOME BOOK OF VERSEAmerican andEnglish (1580-1912)Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSONCollects in one volume the best short poetry of the Engl ish languagethemasterpieces and " favor i t e s , " the poetry that everybody says is good and theverses everybody readsfrom the t ime of Spenser, with especial at tention to

American verse.The most comprehensive and representative collection of American and Englishpoetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from some 1,100 authors.The copyright deadline has been passed and some three hundred recent authorsare included, very few of whom appear in any other general anthologysuch asLionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell , Yeats, Dobson, Lang, Watson,Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne, Van Dyke, Woodberry, Riley, etc.e tc .The poems are arranged by subject , and the classification is unusually closeand searching. Some of the most comprehensive sections are : Childre n's rhym es(300 pages) ; love poems (800 pages) ; nature poetry (400 pages) ; humorous verse(500 pages) ; patriotic and historical poems (600 pages) ; reflective and descriptivepoetry (400 pages).No other collection includes so many popular favorites and fugit ive verses.Three complete indices (author, title, and first line) include over 11,000 entries.The use of India paper makes possible a single column to a page instead of th etwo-column arrangement of theolder anthologies, andgives a compact , handyvolume for reading or the shelf instead of an unwieldy book merely for the table.This one volume is the equivalent of a ten-volume set of octavo volumes, eachof 386 pages.One volume, octavo, 3,742 pages, India paper, $7.50 net,carriage 40 cents extra.DELIGHTFUL POCKET ANTHOLOGIESThe following books areuniform, with full gilt flexible covers and picturedcover linings. 16mo. Each, cloth, $1.50; leather, $2.50.THE OPEN ROAD

A lit t le book for wayfarers.Compiled by E. V . L U C A S .THE FRIENDLY TOWNA little book for the urbane .Compiled by E, V. L U C A S .LETTERS THAT LIVE

Compiled by L A U R A E. LOCKWOODand AM Y R. K E L L Y .Some 150 letters from W alter Pasto nto Lewis Carroll.THE VISTA OF ENGLISHVERSECompiled by H E N R Y S. P A N C O A S T .From Spenser to Kipling, based onthe edi tor ' s Standard Engl ishPoems wi th addi t ions .

THE GARLAND OF CHILD-HOODA little book for all lovers of children.Compiled by P E R C Y W I T H E R S .THE POETIC OLD-WORLD

Compiled by L U C Y H. H U M P H R E Y .Covers Europe, including Spain,Belgium and the British Isles.THE POETIC NEW-WORLDCompiled by L U C Y H. H U M P H R E Y .A companion volume to MissH u m p h r e y ' s "The Poetic Old-W o r l d . "POEMS FOR TRAVELERSCompiled by M A R Y R. J. D u B o i s .Covers France, Germany, Austr ia ,Switzerland, Italy, andGreece insome 300 poems.HE NR Y HOLT & CO., 34 W. 33d St., NE W YORK


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A SELECTED LIST OF BOOKS FORR E A D E R S O F T H I S M A G A Z I N E

THE SUNSET OF THECONFEDERACYBy Morris Schaff[With Maps.) A utho r of "T h e Spiri tof Old West Point ," "The Bat t leof the Wilderness."The present volume covers thecampaign from Five Forks to Appo-matox and is wri t ten in the sameint imate and charming s ty le tha t hasdist inguished General Schaff 's previousvolumes. One of the im po rtan t booksof th e ye ar. N et $2.00ON THE DEATH OFMADONNA LAURA

THE INTRODUCTION TOA NEW PHILOSOPHYBy Henri Bergson

Under the above t i t le is now published for the first time in EnglishProfessor Bergson's original statementof the fundamental principles of histhought. This remarkable essay isthe best possible introduction to hisphilosophy. Published in France as"An In t roduc t ion to Me taphys i c s . "Frontispiece po rtra i t . Cloth. Net $1.00NIETZSCHE AND ARTBy Anthony M. Ludovic iEngland possesses no higher authori-ty on Nie tzche than Anthony Ludo-vici, who for the first t ime expoundsNietzche 's theories of art , bothtechnically and in their wider sociological significance. C lot h. $1.50

hoi polloiBy Francesco Pet rarcaA poetical trans lat ion b y A gnesTobin. One of th e most able contributions to American poetry inrecent years . Ne t $1.75THE POEMS OFOSCAR WILDEIn one volume. This edit ion iscomplete and the only one that is

author ized in America . ' ' P an ' ' and*' Desespoir " are published only inthis edi t ion. Cloth . N et $1.50A NIGHT IN THELUXEMBOURGBy Remy De GourmontTransla ted by Arthur Ransome.(Ready Nov. 5th.) The sensuousbeauties of Paganism and the moralvirtues of Christ iani ty are daringlyblended in this romance of esthet icemotions and intel lectual speculat ions,which in style reminds one of Pater 's"M ar iu s . " Ve llum and boa rds .Net $1.50If you would like to receive circulars and anno uncem ents of our new publicat ionsfrom t ime to t ime

212 Summer St.

THE ARTISTBy Henry L. Mencken

A dramat ic sa t i re wi thout words.A record of the thoughts and emotionsof the audience and the art ist a t apiano recital. Special page decorat ions . Bou nd in boa rds. Price, net 50c.THE COMPLETE WORKSOF J. M. SYNGEAuthorized l ibrary edit ion; fourvolumes including the Synge poems.This author has been proclaimed asthe prose poet of modern drama and

is easily the most important figure ofthe Irish renaissance. Net $7.50

Please Address J O H N W . L U C E & C O .BOSTON, MASS.


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THE POETRY REVIEW(Founded Janua ry , 1912)

A M O N T H L Y P E R I O D I C A L d e v o t e d t o t h e s t u d y a n d a p p re c ia t io nof modern poe try o f a l l countr ie s .

Each issue contains:I. Articles on subjects connected w ith

poetry.I I . Original work by one individual

modern poet, with prefatory note.I I I . Reviews of current books of poetry,

poetic criticism and biography.PRICE SIXPENCE NETAnnual Subscr ipt ion 5s .Post Free .

THE ST. CATHERINE PRESS34, Norfolk Street , Strand, W. C.Editorial Offices: 93, Chancery Lane.L O N D O N

S p e c i a l A n n o u n c e m e n tOn the F ir s t o f January , 1913 , The Poe try Rev iew wi l l open, in

an o ld quar ter in London, a bookshop for the sa le o f poe try .A lounge wi l l be prov ided for the conve nien ce o f cus tom ers . Pu r-

chase , how ever , wi l l be s tr i c t ly o pt iona l .Du r ing 1913 T he Po e try R ev i ew wi ll be cons iderab ly enlarged

and wi l l a p p e a r quarter ly ins tead o f monthly a t the pr ice o f 2s . 6d .per copy .

Those w ho have n ot y et secured copies of th e Au gust num ber, containingM r. F. S. Fl in t ' s br i l l iant s tudy of Co ntemp orary French Poe t ry , should orderimmediately from their booksellers, as, owing to the large demand, the edit ion isnearly exhausted, and the price wil l short ly be raised.


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POETRY OF DISTINCTIONBY J. E. PATTERSON

TH E LURE OF TH E SEA and other poems12 mo. Boards. Gilt Top . Net, 31.25.In this volume of poems the incomparable tramp, the master-vagebond ofmod ern l i teratu re, sets to music the impressions of his ma ny voyages. In v ariousmeasures, st i rr ing and resonan t with the w ash of w aves breaking, he cha nts astory of Greek pirates, merm aids and ocean dei t ies. Th is poe try comes nearerto Kipling than any other poet that could be named Kipling singing the war-songs of the corsairs and g entle me n-rank ers of Pla to 's age.

BY MAY BYRONTH E W IND ON TH E HEA TH. Ballads and Lyrics.12 mo. Gilt Top. Net, 31.00.

No wom an wr iter in En gland no wa days has a higher poetic gift , a t ruer inspirat ion, tha n has M ay Byro n. H er verse h as a glow of imagin ation, a thri l l ingtrumpet-note, a strength and nervous mastery that are very rare in the poetry ofa wo man . Th is collection of her bal lad s, lyrics and son nets represen ts her ather very best . BY A. J. BURR

TH E ROAD SIDE FIR E : Poems and Ballads.12 mo. Boards. Gilt Top. Net, $1.00.Miss Bu rr 's po etry is already widely kno wn thro ugh i ts appe aranc e in suchperiodicals as Scribner's, The Century, etc . In this volu me she includes the finestof these cont r ibut ion s. No contem porary poet in th is coun t ry has w ri t ten moredel ica te poet ry , ful le r of wistfulness and colour , tha n V E N IC E , W H E R E LOV EIS, an d T H E R O A D S I D E F I R E .

GEO RGE H. DORAN COMPANY, New YorkPUBLISHER S IN AM ERICA FOR HOD DER & STOUGHTON


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LIST OF PUBLICATIONSR A L P H F L E T C H E RS E YMOUR CO.THE ALDERBRINK PRESSF I N E A R T S B L D G . , C H I C A G OTHE BIRTH OF ROLANDBy M A U R IC E Original edi tionH E W L E T T li mited t o 400 copiesHand-made paper

Price, $3.00VOICES OF THE DUNES A large handsome. . . book of fac-simileA BOOK OF ET CH I N G S e tch ings w i th appro-By EARL H. REED priate versesPrice, $6.00THE JAPANESE PRINT Printed on Japan-- VellumAN ESSAY, Price, $1.00By FRANK LLOYD WRIGHTTWO GIFT BOOKS Limited editions.------------------------------ Hand-made Paper,T H E T H R E E K I N G S Handsome littleBooksC H R I S T IN F L A N D E R S P r i c e e a c h , $1.25

This firm is prepared to design and print privately issuedand LIMITED EDITIONS OF BOOKS of verse or prose; alsoMEMORIAL BOOKS, CARDS OF GREE TING a n d BOOK PLATE S.Designs and terms promptly furnished on application.

BOOKS SENT ON APPROVAL


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T h e Po et ica l W or ks of Geo rge M eredi thW i t h S om e N o t e s b y G . M . T R E V E L Y A N

C o m p l e t e in o n e v o l u m e . W i t h p o r -t r a i t . $ 2 . 0 0 n e t ; p o s t p a i d $ 2 . 1 9George Meredith was one of the great poetsin th e succession of English poetic ma sters .It is therefore righ t th at all of his po etryshould be made available in one volume bywhich his eminence can be appreciated andjud ge d. Fo un de d on the carefully revisedtext of the Memorial Edit ion (in which thepo etr y fills t hre e large volumes) this isan impressive volume containing moreth an 600 pages. Th e volume is the stand -ard defini t ive edit ion of M eredith a s a poet .The Call of Brother-hood and Other Poems

B y C O R I N N E R O O S E V E L TR O B I N S O N$ 1 .2 5 n e t ; p o s t a g e e x t r a .

The poems by M rs . Dougla ss Rob inson , GE OR GE M ER ED IT Happearing from t ime to t ime in the maga-zines, have at tracted the at tent ion of thosewho love serious thou gh t expressed in melodious verse. It is therefore with everyassurance of an appreciat ive audience that this volume of her poems is published.The author classifies them under four divisionsLife, Heroism, Love and Grief.British Poems F r o m C a n t e r b u r y T a l e s t o R e c e s s i o n a l

E d i te d b y P E R C Y A D A M S H U T C H I S O N , P h . D .Formerly Inst ruc tor in Engl i sh , Harvard Universi ty$ 1 . 50 n e t ; p o s t a g e e x t r a .This convenient volume comprises the best of Great Bri tain 's poetry from Chaucerto Kipling , skilfully selected in accordance with the relativ e im po rtan ce of thevarious periods and of the different poets.The Poems of Henry Van DykeN o w F i r s t C o l l e c te d a n d R e v i s e d , w i t h M a n y H i t h e r t o U n p u b l i s h e d .

I n o n e v o l u m e , w i t h p o r t r a i t , 8 v o . $ 2 . 0 0 n e t ; p o s t a g e e x t r a ."T hi s volume justifies and explains a repu tation which is both pop ular and p ro-fessional, for D r. va n Dy ke has won the suffrages of the few as well as th e ap-plause of the m an y. Read as a whole, his collected work can no t fail to adv anc ehis repu tat ion as a poet who und erstand s his art an d knows th e secrets of skil l aswell as of inspiration." The Outlook.C H A S . S C R IB N E R 'S SON S, 153 5th Ave. , New York


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To have great poets there must be greataudiences, too. Whitman.

Will endeavor to publish the best poems nowwrit ten in English;Will review and discuss new books of verse ;Will promote in every possible way the interestsof the art.Give P O E T R Y to yo ur friends. All lovers ofthe art should endeavor to increase i ts publicity.One ye ar 's subscription as a C hris tm as presentwill be a co ns tan t rem inde r of y ou r good will.Fill ou t this blan k w ith you r friend's n am e andsend it in.

P O E T R Y543 Cass Street, Chicago

Send POETRY for one year (31.50 enclosed) toN a me .Address


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