FOOTNOTES:

By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyesOn colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire—Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire,Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,And apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.And as I lingered, lost in divine delight,My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sightAnd all youth's lively senses keen and quick ...When suddenly, behind me in the night,I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.

And as I lingered, lost in divine delight,My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sightAnd all youth's lively senses keen and quick ...When suddenly, behind me in the night,I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.

FOOTNOTES:[15]FromFiresby Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1912, by The Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.[16]FromBorderlands and Thoroughfaresby Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

[15]FromFiresby Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1912, by The Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

[16]FromBorderlands and Thoroughfaresby Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

John Masefield was born June 1, 1878, in Ledbury, Hertfordshire. He was the son of a lawyer but, being of a restless disposition, he took to the sea at an early age and became a wanderer for several years. At one time, in 1895, to be exact, he worked for a few months as a sort of third assistant barkeeper and dish-washer in Luke O'Connor's saloon, the Columbia Hotel, in New York City. The place is still there on the corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues.

The results of his wanderings showed in his early works,Salt-Water Ballads(1902),Ballads(1903), frank and often crude poems of sailors written in their own dialect, andA Mainsail Haul(1905), a collection of short nautical stories. In these books Masefield possibly overemphasized passion and brutality but, underneath the violence, he captured that highly-colored realism which is the poetry of life.

It was not until he publishedThe Everlasting Mercy(1911) that he became famous. Followed quickly by those remarkable long narrative poems,The Widow in the Bye Street(1912),Dauber(1912), andThe Daffodil Fields(1913), there is in all of these that peculiar blend of physical exulting and spiritual exaltation that is so striking, and so typical of Masefield. Their very rudeness is lifted to a plane of religious intensity. (See Preface.) Pictorially, Masefield is even more forceful. The finest moment inThe Widow in the Bye Streetis the portrayal of the mother alone in her cottage; the public-house scene and the passage describing the birds following the plough are the most intense touches inThe Everlasting Mercy. Nothing more vigorous and thrilling than the description of the storm at sea inDauberhas appeared in current literature.

The war, in which Masefield served with the Red Cross in France and on the Gallipoli peninsula (of which campaign he wrote a study for the government), softened his style;Good Friday and Other Poems(1916) is as restrained and dignified a collection as that of any of his contemporaries.Reynard the Fox(1919) is the best of his new manner with a return of the old vivacity.

Masefield has also written several novels of whichMultitude and Solitude(1909) is the most outstanding; half a dozen plays, ranging from the classical solemnity ofPompey the Greatto the hot and racyTragedy of Nan; and one of the freshest, most creative critiques ofShakespeare(1911) in the last generation.

Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteersRiding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,—Rather the scorned—the rejected—the men hemmed in with the spears;The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;—Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold—Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.Amen.

Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteersRiding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,—Rather the scorned—the rejected—the men hemmed in with the spears;

The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.

Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.

Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.

The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.

Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;—Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!

Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold—Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.

Amen.

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails; someSang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world...."Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laidOut on the yard, gripping the yard, and feelingSick at the mighty space of air displayedBelow his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWhile idiotic promptings came and went.Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.Darkness came down—half darkness—in a whirl;The sky went out, the waters disappeared.He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurlThe ship upon her side. The darkness spearedAt her with wind; she staggered, she careered;Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go,He saw her yard tilt downwards. Then the snowWhirled all about—dense, multitudinous, cold—Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,Which whiffled out men's tears, defeated, took hold,Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's soundHad devilish malice at having got her downed.How long the gale had blown he could not tell,Only the world had changed, his life had died.A moment now was everlasting hell.Nature an onslaught from the weather side,A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hailPlastered his oilskins with an icy mail...."Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"The Dauber followed where he led; belowHe caught one giddy glimpsing of the deckFilled with white water, as though heaped with snow.He saw the streamers of the rigging blowStraight out like pennons from the splintered mast,Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,An utter bridle given to utter vice,Limitless power mad with endless rageWithering the soul; a minute seemed an age.He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,Told long ago—long, long ago—long sinceHeard of in other lives—imagined, dreamed—There where the basest beggar was a prince.To him in torment where the tempest screamed,Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemedThings that a man could know; soul, body, brain,Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.

"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laidOut on the yard, gripping the yard, and feelingSick at the mighty space of air displayedBelow his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.

The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWhile idiotic promptings came and went.Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.

Darkness came down—half darkness—in a whirl;The sky went out, the waters disappeared.He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurlThe ship upon her side. The darkness spearedAt her with wind; she staggered, she careered;Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go,He saw her yard tilt downwards. Then the snow

Whirled all about—dense, multitudinous, cold—Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,Which whiffled out men's tears, defeated, took hold,Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's soundHad devilish malice at having got her downed.

How long the gale had blown he could not tell,Only the world had changed, his life had died.A moment now was everlasting hell.Nature an onslaught from the weather side,A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hailPlastered his oilskins with an icy mail....

"Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"The Dauber followed where he led; belowHe caught one giddy glimpsing of the deckFilled with white water, as though heaped with snow.He saw the streamers of the rigging blowStraight out like pennons from the splintered mast,Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.

Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,An utter bridle given to utter vice,Limitless power mad with endless rageWithering the soul; a minute seemed an age.He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,

Told long ago—long, long ago—long sinceHeard of in other lives—imagined, dreamed—There where the basest beggar was a prince.To him in torment where the tempest screamed,Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemedThings that a man could know; soul, body, brain,Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.

The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.The sack of many-peopled townsIs all their dream:The way they takeLeaves but a ruin in the brake,And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.The Merchants reckon up their gold,Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories:The profits of their treasures soldThey tell and sum;Their foremen driveTheir servants, starved to half-alive,Whose labours do but make the earth a hiveOf stinking glories; a tale, a dream.The Priests are singing in their stalls,Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours;Yet God is as the sparrow falls,The ivy drifts;The votive urnsAre all left void when Fortune turns,The god is but a marble for the kernsTo break with hammers; a tale, a dream.O Beauty, let me know againThe green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,The one star risen.So shall I pass into the feastNot touched by King, Merchant, or Priest;Know the red spirit of the beast,Be the green grain;Escape from prison.

The Merchants reckon up their gold,Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories:The profits of their treasures soldThey tell and sum;Their foremen driveTheir servants, starved to half-alive,Whose labours do but make the earth a hiveOf stinking glories; a tale, a dream.

The Priests are singing in their stalls,Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours;Yet God is as the sparrow falls,The ivy drifts;The votive urnsAre all left void when Fortune turns,The god is but a marble for the kernsTo break with hammers; a tale, a dream.

O Beauty, let me know againThe green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,The one star risen.So shall I pass into the feastNot touched by King, Merchant, or Priest;Know the red spirit of the beast,Be the green grain;Escape from prison.

Is there a great green commonwealth of ThoughtWhich ranks the yearly pageant, and decidesHow Summer's royal progress shall be wrought,By secret stir which in each plant abides?Does rocking daffodil consent that she,The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?Does spotted cowslip with the grass agreeTo hold her pride before the rattle burst?And in the hedge what quick agreement goes,When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay,That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose,Before the flower be on the bramble spray?Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,And each consent a lucky gasp for life?

FOOTNOTES:[17]FromThe Story of a Round-Houseby John Masefield. Copyright, 1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.[18]FromGood Friday and Other Poemsby John Masefield. Copyright, 1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

[17]FromThe Story of a Round-Houseby John Masefield. Copyright, 1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

[18]FromGood Friday and Other Poemsby John Masefield. Copyright, 1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, was born July 24, 1878, and was educated at Eton and Sandhurst. He is best known as an author of fantastic fairy tales and even more fantastic plays.The Gods of the Mountain(1911) andThe Golden Doom(1912) are highly dramatic and intensely poetic.A Night at an Inn(1916) is that peculiar novelty, an eerie and poetical melodrama.

Dunsany's prime quality is a romantic and highly colored imagination which is rich in symbolism. After the World War, in which the playwright served as captain in the Royal Innis-killing Fusiliers, Dunsany visited America and revised the reissue of his early tales and prose poems collected in hisThe Book of Wonder.

There is no wrath in the stars,They do not rage in the sky;I look from the evil woodAnd find myself wondering why.Why do they not scream outAnd grapple star against star,Seeking for blood in the woodAs all things round me are?They do not glare like the skyOr flash like the deeps of the wood;But they shine softly onIn their sacred solitude.To their high, happy hauntsSilence from us has flown,She whom we loved of oldAnd know it now she is gone.When will she come again,Though for one second only?She whom we loved is goneAnd the whole world is lonely.And the elder giants comeSometimes, tramping from farThrough the weird and flickering lightMade by an earthly star.And the giant with his club,And the dwarf with rage in his breath,And the elder giants from far,They are all the children of Death.They are all abroad to-nightAnd are breaking the hills with their brood,—And the birds are all asleepEven in Plug Street Wood!

There is no wrath in the stars,They do not rage in the sky;I look from the evil woodAnd find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream outAnd grapple star against star,Seeking for blood in the woodAs all things round me are?

They do not glare like the skyOr flash like the deeps of the wood;But they shine softly onIn their sacred solitude.

To their high, happy hauntsSilence from us has flown,She whom we loved of oldAnd know it now she is gone.

When will she come again,Though for one second only?She whom we loved is goneAnd the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants comeSometimes, tramping from farThrough the weird and flickering lightMade by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club,And the dwarf with rage in his breath,And the elder giants from far,They are all the children of Death.

They are all abroad to-nightAnd are breaking the hills with their brood,—And the birds are all asleepEven in Plug Street Wood!

Somewhere lost in the hazeThe sun goes down in the cold,And birds in this evil woodChirrup home as of old;Chirrup, stir and are still,On the high twigs frozen and thin.There is no more noise of them now,And the long night sets in.Of all the wonderful thingsThat I have seen in the woodI marvel most at the birdsAnd their wonderful quietude.For a giant smites with his clubAll day the tops of the hill,Sometimes he rests at night,Oftener he beats them still.And a dwarf with a grim black maneRaps with repeated rageAll night in the valley belowOn the wooden walls of his cage.

Somewhere lost in the hazeThe sun goes down in the cold,And birds in this evil woodChirrup home as of old;

Chirrup, stir and are still,On the high twigs frozen and thin.There is no more noise of them now,And the long night sets in.

Of all the wonderful thingsThat I have seen in the woodI marvel most at the birdsAnd their wonderful quietude.

For a giant smites with his clubAll day the tops of the hill,Sometimes he rests at night,Oftener he beats them still.

And a dwarf with a grim black maneRaps with repeated rageAll night in the valley belowOn the wooden walls of his cage.

I met with Death in his country,With his scythe and his hollow eye,Walking the roads of Belgium.I looked and he passed me by.Since he passed me by in Plug Street,In the wood of the evil name,I shall not now lie with the heroes,I shall not share their fame;I shall never be as they are,A name in the lands of the Free,Since I looked on Death in FlandersAnd he did not look at me.

I met with Death in his country,With his scythe and his hollow eye,Walking the roads of Belgium.I looked and he passed me by.

Since he passed me by in Plug Street,In the wood of the evil name,I shall not now lie with the heroes,I shall not share their fame;

I shall never be as they are,A name in the lands of the Free,Since I looked on Death in FlandersAnd he did not look at me.

Edward Thomas, one of the little-known but most individual of modern English poets, was born in 1878. For many years before he turned to verse, Thomas had a large following as a critic and author of travel books, biographies, pot-boilers. Hating his hack-work, yet unable to get free of it, he had so repressed his creative ability that he had grown doubtful concerning his own power. It needed something foreign to stir and animate what was native in him. So when Robert Frost, the New England poet, went abroad in 1912 for two years and became an intimate of Thomas's, the English critic began to write poetry. Loving, like Frost, theminutiæof existence, the quaint and casual turn of ordinary life, he caught the magic of the English countryside in its unpoeticized quietude. Many of his poems are full of a slow, sad contemplation of life and a reflection of its brave futility. It is not disillusion exactly; it is rather an absence of illusion.Poems(1917), dedicated to Robert Frost, is full of Thomas's fidelity to little things, things as unglorified as the unfreezing of the "rock-like mud," a child's path, a list of quaint-sounding villages, birds' nests uncovered by the autumn wind, dusty nettles—the lines glow with a deep and almost abject reverence for the soil.

Thomas was killed at Arras, at an observatory outpost, on Easter Monday, 1917.

If I should ever by chance grow richI'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,And let them all to my elder daughter.The rent I shall ask of her will be onlyEach year's first violets, white and lonely,The first primroses and orchises—She must find them before I do, that is.But if she finds a blossom on furzeWithout rent they shall all for ever be hers,Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,—I shall give them all to my elder daughter.

Tall nettles cover up, as they have doneThese many springs, the rusty harrow, the ploughLong worn out, and the roller made of stone:Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.This corner of the farmyard I like most:As well as any bloom upon a flowerI like the dust on the nettles, never lostExcept to prove the sweetness of a shower.

Tall nettles cover up, as they have doneThese many springs, the rusty harrow, the ploughLong worn out, and the roller made of stone:Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most:As well as any bloom upon a flowerI like the dust on the nettles, never lostExcept to prove the sweetness of a shower.

There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggotsThat once were underwood of hazel and ashIn Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedgeClose packed, they make a thicket fancy aloneCan creep through with the mouse and wren. Next SpringA blackbird or a robin will nest there,Accustomed to them, thinking they will remainWhatever is for ever to a bird.This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:Better they will never warm me, though they mustLight several Winters' fires. Before they are doneThe war will have ended, many other thingsHave ended, maybe, that I can no moreForesee or more control than robin and wren.

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by nightTo be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—Out of the night, two cocks together crow,Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,Each facing each as in a coat of arms:—The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

James Starkey was born in Dublin in 1879. Writing under the pseudonym of Seumas O'Sullivan, he contributed a great variety of prose and verse to various Irish papers. His reputation as a poet began with his appearance inNew Songs, edited by George Russell ("A. E."). Later, he publishedThe Twilight People(1905),The Earth Lover(1909), andPoems(1912).

Dear, they are praising your beauty,The grass and the sky:The sky in a silence of wonder,The grass in a sigh.I too would sing for your praising,Dearest, had ISpeech as the whispering grass,Or the silent sky.These have an art for the praisingBeauty so high.Sweet, you are praised in a silence,Sung in a sigh.

Dear, they are praising your beauty,The grass and the sky:The sky in a silence of wonder,The grass in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising,Dearest, had ISpeech as the whispering grass,Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the praisingBeauty so high.Sweet, you are praised in a silence,Sung in a sigh.

This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879. One of the most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare and timeless songs as his. It is difficult to think of any anthology of English poetry compiled after 1917 that could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor," and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One succumbs to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is theoldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and still more surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious sinner nor the Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's candid lines, any young, English country girl—filling her basket, regarding the world and the serpent itself with a mild and childlike wonder.

Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that goes out to

"an idle rainbowNo less than laboring seas,"

were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed byFlying Fame.

Eve, with her basket, wasDeep in the bells and grass,Wading in bells and grassUp to her knees.Picking a dish of sweetBerries and plums to eat,Down in the bells and grassUnder the trees.Mute as a mouse in aCorner the cobra lay,Curled round a bough of theCinnamon tall....Now to get even andHumble proud heaven andNow was the moment orNever at all."Eva!" Each syllableLight as a flower fell,"Eva!" he whispered theWondering maid,Soft as a bubble sungOut of a linnet's lung,Soft and most silverly"Eva!" he said.Picture that orchard sprite;Eve, with her body white,Supple and smooth to herSlim finger tips;Wondering, listening,Listening, wondering,Eve with a berryHalf-way to her lips.Oh, had our simple EveSeen through the make-believe!Had she but known thePretender he was!Out of the boughs he came,Whispering still her name,Tumbling in twenty ringsInto the grass.Here was the strangest pairIn the world anywhere,Eve in the bells and grassKneeling, and heTelling his story low....Singing birds saw them goDown the dark path toThe Blasphemous Tree.Oh, what a clatter whenTitmouse and Jenny WrenSaw him successful andTaking his leave!How the birds rated him,How they all hated him!How they all pitiedPoor motherless Eve!Picture her cryingOutside in the lane,Eve, with no dish of sweetBerries and plums to eat,Haunting the gate of theOrchard in vain....Picture the lewd delightUnder the hill to-night—"Eva!" the toast goes round,"Eva!" again.

Eve, with her basket, wasDeep in the bells and grass,Wading in bells and grassUp to her knees.Picking a dish of sweetBerries and plums to eat,Down in the bells and grassUnder the trees.

Mute as a mouse in aCorner the cobra lay,Curled round a bough of theCinnamon tall....Now to get even andHumble proud heaven andNow was the moment orNever at all.

"Eva!" Each syllableLight as a flower fell,"Eva!" he whispered theWondering maid,Soft as a bubble sungOut of a linnet's lung,Soft and most silverly"Eva!" he said.

Picture that orchard sprite;Eve, with her body white,Supple and smooth to herSlim finger tips;Wondering, listening,Listening, wondering,Eve with a berryHalf-way to her lips.

Oh, had our simple EveSeen through the make-believe!Had she but known thePretender he was!Out of the boughs he came,Whispering still her name,Tumbling in twenty ringsInto the grass.

Here was the strangest pairIn the world anywhere,Eve in the bells and grassKneeling, and heTelling his story low....Singing birds saw them goDown the dark path toThe Blasphemous Tree.

Oh, what a clatter whenTitmouse and Jenny WrenSaw him successful andTaking his leave!How the birds rated him,How they all hated him!How they all pitiedPoor motherless Eve!

Picture her cryingOutside in the lane,Eve, with no dish of sweetBerries and plums to eat,Haunting the gate of theOrchard in vain....Picture the lewd delightUnder the hill to-night—"Eva!" the toast goes round,"Eva!" again.

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ring,Peacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may.Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein—Only a moment,And off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ring,Peacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may.Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein—Only a moment,And off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

When flighting time is on, I goWith clap-net and decoy,A-fowling after goldfinchesAnd other birds of joy;I lurk among the thickets ofThe Heart where they are bred,And catch the twittering beauties asThey fly into my Head.

When flighting time is on, I goWith clap-net and decoy,A-fowling after goldfinchesAnd other birds of joy;

I lurk among the thickets ofThe Heart where they are bred,And catch the twittering beauties asThey fly into my Head.

He came and took me by the handUp to a red rose tree,He kept His meaning to HimselfBut gave a rose to me.I did not pray Him to lay bareThe mystery to me,Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,And His own face to see.

He came and took me by the handUp to a red rose tree,He kept His meaning to HimselfBut gave a rose to me.

I did not pray Him to lay bareThe mystery to me,Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,And His own face to see.

The publisher of the various anthologies of Georgian Poetry, Harold Monro, was born in Brussels in 1879. He describes himself as "author, publisher, editor and book-seller." Monrofounded The Poetry Bookshop in London in 1912, a unique establishment having as its object a practical relation between poetry and the public, and keeping in stock nothing but poetry, the drama, and books connected with these subjects. His quarterlyPoetry and Drama(discontinued during the war and revived in 1919 asThe Monthly Chapbook), was in a sense the organ of the younger men; and his shop, in which he has lived for the last seven years except while he was in the army, became a genuine literary center.

Of Monro's books, the two most important areStrange Meetings(1917) andChildren of Love(1919). "The Nightingale Near the House," one of the loveliest of his poems, is also one of his latest and has not yet appeared in any of his volumes.

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;And all the night you sing.My dreams are flowers to which you are a beeAs all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song; then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise,Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.

That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;And all the night you sing.

My dreams are flowers to which you are a beeAs all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song; then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.

Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise,Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.

Since man has been articulate,Mechanical, improvidently wise,(Servant of Fate),He has not understood the little criesAnd foreign conversations of the smallDelightful creatures that have followed himNot far behind;Has failed to hear the sympathetic callOf Crockery and Cutlery, those kindReposeful TeraphimOf his domestic happiness; the StoolHe sat on, or the Door he entered through:He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!What is he coming to?But you should listen to the talk of these.Honest they are, and patient they have kept;Served him without his Thank you or his Please ...I often heardThe gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,Murmuring, before I slept.The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,Then bowed,And in a smoky argumentInto the darkness went.The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:—"Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't knowWhy; and he always says I boil too slow.He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh,I wonder why I squander my desireSitting submissive on his kitchen fire."Now the old Copper Basin suddenlyRattled and tumbled from the shelf,Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;Without a woman's handTo patronize and coax and flatter me,I understandThe lean and poise of gravitable land."It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,Twisted itself convulsively about,Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,It stares and grins at me.The old impetuous Gas above my headBegins irascibly to flare and fret,Wheezing into its epileptic jet,Reminding me I ought to go to bed.The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard doorSwings open; now a wild Plank of the floorBreaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.Down from the chimney, half a pound of SootTumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.The Putty cracks against the window-pane.A piece of Paper in the basket shovesAnother piece, and toward the bottom moves.My independent Pencil, while I write,Breaks at the point: the ruminating ClockStirs all its body and begins to rock,Warning the waiting presence of the Night,Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plainTicking of ordinary work again.You do well to remind me, and I praiseYour strangely individual foreign ways.You call me from myself to recognizeCompanionship in your unselfish eyes.I want your dear acquaintances, althoughI pass you arrogantly over, throwYour lovely sounds, and squander them alongMy busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.It well becomes our mutual happinessTo go toward the same end more or less.There is not much dissimilarity,Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,Between the purposes of you and me,And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

But you should listen to the talk of these.Honest they are, and patient they have kept;Served him without his Thank you or his Please ...I often heardThe gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,Murmuring, before I slept.The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,Then bowed,And in a smoky argumentInto the darkness went.

The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:—"Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't knowWhy; and he always says I boil too slow.He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh,I wonder why I squander my desireSitting submissive on his kitchen fire."

Now the old Copper Basin suddenlyRattled and tumbled from the shelf,Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;Without a woman's handTo patronize and coax and flatter me,I understandThe lean and poise of gravitable land."It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,Twisted itself convulsively about,Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,It stares and grins at me.

The old impetuous Gas above my headBegins irascibly to flare and fret,Wheezing into its epileptic jet,Reminding me I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard doorSwings open; now a wild Plank of the floorBreaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.Down from the chimney, half a pound of SootTumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.The Putty cracks against the window-pane.

A piece of Paper in the basket shovesAnother piece, and toward the bottom moves.My independent Pencil, while I write,Breaks at the point: the ruminating ClockStirs all its body and begins to rock,Warning the waiting presence of the Night,Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plainTicking of ordinary work again.

You do well to remind me, and I praiseYour strangely individual foreign ways.You call me from myself to recognizeCompanionship in your unselfish eyes.I want your dear acquaintances, althoughI pass you arrogantly over, throwYour lovely sounds, and squander them alongMy busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.

Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.It well becomes our mutual happinessTo go toward the same end more or less.There is not much dissimilarity,Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,Between the purposes of you and me,And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

If suddenly a clod of earth should rise,And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,How one would tremble, and in what surpriseGasp: "Can you move?"I see men walking, and I always feel:"Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?"I can't learn how to know men, or concealHow strange they are to me.

If suddenly a clod of earth should rise,And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,How one would tremble, and in what surpriseGasp: "Can you move?"

I see men walking, and I always feel:"Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?"I can't learn how to know men, or concealHow strange they are to me.

Thomas M. Kettle was born at Artane County, Dublin, in 1880 and was educated at University College, where he won the Gold Medal for Oratory. His extraordinary faculty for grasping an intricate problem and crystallizing it in an epigram, or scoring his adversaries with one bright flash, was apparent even then. He was admitted to the bar in 1905 but soon abandoned the law to devote himself to journalism, which, because of his remarkable style, never remained journalism in his hands. In 1906 he entered politics; in 1910 he was re-elected for East Tyrone. Even his bitterest opponents conceded that Tom Kettle (as he was called by friend and enemy) was the most honorable of fighters; they acknowledged his honesty, courage and devotion to the cause of a United Ireland—and respected his penetrating wit. He once spoke of a Mr. Healy as "a brilliant calamity" and satirized a long-winded speaker by saying, "Mr. Long knows a sentence should have a beginning, but he quite forgets it should also have an end."

"An Irish torch-bearer" (so E. B. Osborn calls him), Kettle fell in action at Ginchy, leading his Fusiliers in September, 1916. The uplifted poem to his daughter was written shortly before his death.

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