THE SPIRES OF OXFORD

Poor Mary Byrne is dead,An' all the world may seeWhere she lies upon her bedJust as fine as quality.She lies there still and white,With candles either handThat'll guard her through the night:Sure she never was so grand.She holds her rosary,Her hands clasped on her breast.Just as dacint as can beIn the habit she's been dressed.In life her hands were redWith every sort of toil,But they're white now she is dead,An' they've sorra mark of soil.The neighbours come and go,They kneel to say a prayer,I wish herself could knowOf the way she's lyin' there.It was work from morn till night,And hard she earned her bread:But I'm thinking she's a rightTo be aisy now she's dead.When other girls were gay,At wedding or at fair,She'd be toiling all the day,Not a minyit could she spare.An' no one missed her face,Or sought her in a crowd,But to-day they throng the placeJust to see her in her shroud.The creature in her lifeDrew trouble with each breath;She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"—But she's lovely in her death.I wish the dead could seeThe splendour of a wake,For it's proud herself would beOf the keening that they make.Och! little Mary Byrne,You welcome every guest,Is it now you take your turnTo be merry with the rest?I'm thinking you'd be glad,Though the angels make your bed,Could you see the care we've hadTo respect you—now you're dead.

Poor Mary Byrne is dead,An' all the world may seeWhere she lies upon her bedJust as fine as quality.

She lies there still and white,With candles either handThat'll guard her through the night:Sure she never was so grand.

She holds her rosary,Her hands clasped on her breast.Just as dacint as can beIn the habit she's been dressed.

In life her hands were redWith every sort of toil,But they're white now she is dead,An' they've sorra mark of soil.

The neighbours come and go,They kneel to say a prayer,I wish herself could knowOf the way she's lyin' there.

It was work from morn till night,And hard she earned her bread:But I'm thinking she's a rightTo be aisy now she's dead.

When other girls were gay,At wedding or at fair,She'd be toiling all the day,Not a minyit could she spare.

An' no one missed her face,Or sought her in a crowd,But to-day they throng the placeJust to see her in her shroud.

The creature in her lifeDrew trouble with each breath;She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"—But she's lovely in her death.

I wish the dead could seeThe splendour of a wake,For it's proud herself would beOf the keening that they make.

Och! little Mary Byrne,You welcome every guest,Is it now you take your turnTo be merry with the rest?

I'm thinking you'd be glad,Though the angels make your bed,Could you see the care we've hadTo respect you—now you're dead.

I saw the spires of OxfordAs I was passing by,The grey spires of OxfordAgainst the pearl-grey sky.My heart was with the Oxford menWho went abroad to die.The years go fast in Oxford,The golden years and gay,The hoary Colleges look downOn careless boys at play.But when the bugles sounded warThey put their games away.They left the peaceful river,The cricket-field, the quad,The shaven lawns of Oxford,To seek a bloody sod—They gave their merry youth awayFor country and for God.God rest you, happy gentlemen,Who laid your good lives down,Who took the khaki and the gunInstead of cap and gown.God bring you to a fairer placeThan even Oxford town.

I saw the spires of OxfordAs I was passing by,The grey spires of OxfordAgainst the pearl-grey sky.My heart was with the Oxford menWho went abroad to die.

The years go fast in Oxford,The golden years and gay,The hoary Colleges look downOn careless boys at play.But when the bugles sounded warThey put their games away.

They left the peaceful river,The cricket-field, the quad,The shaven lawns of Oxford,To seek a bloody sod—They gave their merry youth awayFor country and for God.

God rest you, happy gentlemen,Who laid your good lives down,Who took the khaki and the gunInstead of cap and gown.God bring you to a fairer placeThan even Oxford town.

Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet, and who has been called, byThe Manchester Guardian, "one of the promising evangelists of contemporary poetry," has written much that is both graceful and grave. There is music and a message in his lines that seem to have as their motto: "Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man." Best known as a writer of prose, his most prominent works areMarching on TangaandThe Crescent Moon.

Brett Young'sFive Degrees South(1917) and hisPoems 1916-18(1919) contain the best of his verse.

This is the image of my last content:My soul shall be a little lonely lake,So hidden that no shadow of man may breakThe folding of its mountain battlement;Only the beautiful and innocentWhiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shakeCool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wakeOf churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.For there shall be no terror in the nightWhen stars that I have loved are born in me,And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;But this shall be the end of my delight:—That you, my lovely one, may stoop and seeYour image in the mirrored beauty there.

Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry, F. S. Flint has published several volumes of original imagist poems, besides having translated works of Verhaeren and Jean de Bosschere.

London, my beautiful,it is not the sunsetnor the pale green skyshimmering through the curtainof the silver birch,nor the quietness;it is not the hoppingof birdsupon the lawn,nor the darknessstealing over all thingsthat moves me.But as the moon creeps slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on men.London, my beautiful,I will climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.

But as the moon creeps slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on men.

London, my beautiful,I will climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.

Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is the sister of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In 1914 she came to London and has devoted herself to literature ever since, having edited the various anthologies ofWheelssince 1916. Her first book,The Mother and Other Poems(1915), contains some of her best work, althoughClowns' Houses(1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a sharper turn of mind.

Within your magic web of hair, lies furledThe fire and splendour of the ancient world;The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair;The songs that turned to gold the evening airWhen all the stars of heaven sang for joy.The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth;The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birthTo the soul Phœnix; and the star-bright showerThat came to Danaë in her brazen tower....Within your magic web of hair lies furledThe fire and splendour of the ancient world.

Amid this hot green glowing gloomA word falls with a raindrop's boom....Like baskets of ripe fruit in airThe bird-songs seem, suspended whereThose goldfinches—the ripe warm lightsPeck slyly at them—take quick flights.My feet are feathered like a birdAmong the shadows scarcely heard;I bring you branches green with dewAnd fruits that you may crown anewYour whirring waspish-gilded hairAmid this cornucopia—Until your warm lips bear the stainsAnd bird-blood leap within your veins.

Amid this hot green glowing gloomA word falls with a raindrop's boom....

Like baskets of ripe fruit in airThe bird-songs seem, suspended where

Those goldfinches—the ripe warm lightsPeck slyly at them—take quick flights.

My feet are feathered like a birdAmong the shadows scarcely heard;

I bring you branches green with dewAnd fruits that you may crown anew

Your whirring waspish-gilded hairAmid this cornucopia—

Until your warm lips bear the stainsAnd bird-blood leap within your veins.

Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German prison camp at Gütersloh when he wroteThe Bugler, one of the isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse is haphazard and journalistic, althoughGloucestershire Friendscontains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry.

God dreamed a man;Then, having firmly shutLife like a precious metal in his fistWithdrew, His labour done. Thus did beginOur various divinity and sin.For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,And others—dreaming empires—straightway cutCrowns for their aching foreheads. Others beatLong nails and heavy hammers for the feetOf their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boastThat he is guiltless?) Others coined it: mostDid with it—simply nothing. (Here againWho cries his innocence?) Yet doth remainMetal unmarred, to each man more or less,Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.For me, I do but bear within my hand(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)A simple bugle such as may awakenWith one high morning note a drowsing man:That wheresoe'er within my motherlandThat sound may come, 'twill echo far and wideLike pipes of battle calling up a clan,Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.

For me, I do but bear within my hand(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)A simple bugle such as may awakenWith one high morning note a drowsing man:That wheresoe'er within my motherlandThat sound may come, 'twill echo far and wideLike pipes of battle calling up a clan,Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.

"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several articles under the pseudonymTipuca, a euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name.

When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29.

They left the fury of the fight,And they were very tired.The gates of Heaven were open quite,Unguarded and unwired.There was no sound of any gun,The land was still and green;Wide hills lay silent in the sun,Blue valleys slept between.They saw far-off a little woodStand up against the sky.Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;Some lazy cows went by ...There were some rooks sailed overhead,And once a church-bell pealed."God! but it's England," someone said,"And there's a cricket-field!"

They saw far-off a little woodStand up against the sky.Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;Some lazy cows went by ...There were some rooks sailed overhead,And once a church-bell pealed."God! but it's England," someone said,"And there's a cricket-field!"

W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his appearance inGeorgian Poetry 1916-17, has written no few delicate and fanciful poems.The Hunter(1916) andThe Dark Wind(1918) both contain many verses as moving and musical as his splendid lines on "Death," a poem which is unfortunately too long to quote.

When I was but thirteen or soI went into a golden land,Chimborazo, CotopaxiTook me by the hand.My father died, my brother too,They passed like fleeting dreams,I stood where PopocatapetlIn the sunlight gleams.I dimly heard the master's voiceAnd boys far-off at play,—Chimborazo, CotopaxiHad stolen me away.I walked in a great golden dreamTo and fro from school—Shining PopocatapetlThe dusty streets did rule.I walked home with a gold dark boyAnd never a word I'd say,Chimborazo, CotopaxiHad taken my speech away.I gazed entranced upon his faceFairer than any flower—O shining PopocatapetlIt was thy magic hour:The houses, people, traffic seemedThin fading dreams by day;Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,They had stolen my soul away!

When I was but thirteen or soI went into a golden land,Chimborazo, CotopaxiTook me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,They passed like fleeting dreams,I stood where PopocatapetlIn the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voiceAnd boys far-off at play,—Chimborazo, CotopaxiHad stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dreamTo and fro from school—Shining PopocatapetlThe dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boyAnd never a word I'd say,Chimborazo, CotopaxiHad taken my speech away.

I gazed entranced upon his faceFairer than any flower—O shining PopocatapetlIt was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemedThin fading dreams by day;Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,They had stolen my soul away!

Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote several vivid novels (The Rat Pitis an unforgettable document) and the tragedy-crammedSongs of the Dead End. He joined the editorial staff ofThe Daily Expressin 1911; was in the British army during the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote hisSoldier Songsduring the conflict.

These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, whichI've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch,On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go,Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so,For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies,Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes,Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put,Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.

These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, whichI've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch,On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.

Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go,Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so,For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!

Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies,Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.

Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes,Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.

These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put,Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.

Before I joined the ArmyI lived in Donegal,Where every night the FairiesWould hold their carnival.But now I'm out in Flanders,Where men like wheat-ears fall,And it's Death and not the FairiesWho is holding carnival.

Before I joined the ArmyI lived in Donegal,Where every night the FairiesWould hold their carnival.

But now I'm out in Flanders,Where men like wheat-ears fall,And it's Death and not the FairiesWho is holding carnival.

Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891. His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26 years.

Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.

From its blue vase the rose of evening drops;Upon the streams its petals float away.The hills all blue with distance hide their topsIn the dim silence falling on the grey.A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a sprayHeavy with May's white crop of opening bloom;A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.Night tells her rosary of stars full soon,They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.Upon a silhouette of woods, the moonLeans on one horn as if beseeching easeFrom all her changes which have stirred the seas.Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.I and a marsh bird only make a wail.

Night tells her rosary of stars full soon,They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.Upon a silhouette of woods, the moonLeans on one horn as if beseeching easeFrom all her changes which have stirred the seas.Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.I and a marsh bird only make a wail.

A little flock of clouds go down to restIn some blue corner off the moon's highway,With shepherd-winds that shook them in the WestTo borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array,Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoonsAround the lonesome isle which Brooke has madeA little England full of lovely noons,Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22]Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,What he loved most; for late I roamed a whileThro' English fields and down her rivers sailed;And they remember him with beauty caughtFrom old desires of Oriental SpringHeard in his heart with singing overwrought;And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.

Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22]Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,What he loved most; for late I roamed a whileThro' English fields and down her rivers sailed;And they remember him with beauty caughtFrom old desires of Oriental SpringHeard in his heart with singing overwrought;And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.

FOOTNOTES:[22]The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page194.)

[22]The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page194.)

Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may be found inSongs to Save a Soul(1915) andBefore Dawn(1918). The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Sélincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.

Is love, then, so simple my dear?The opening of a door,And seeing all things clear?I did not know before.I had thought it unrest and desireSoaring only to fall,Annihilation and fire:It is not so at all.I feel no desperate will,But I think I understandMany things, as I sit quite still,With Eternity in my hand.

Is love, then, so simple my dear?The opening of a door,And seeing all things clear?I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desireSoaring only to fall,Annihilation and fire:It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will,But I think I understandMany things, as I sit quite still,With Eternity in my hand.

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover College and London University. His first poems were published in England in 1909;Images Old and Newappeared in 1915. Aldington and "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington'sWar and Love(1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic but warmer and more humanly searching.

How could I love you more?I would give upEven that beauty I have loved too wellThat I might love you better.Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—I can but give you of my flesh and strength,I can but give you these few passing daysAnd passionate words that, since our speech began,All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.I try to think of some one lovely giftNo lover yet in all the world has found;I think: If the cold sombre godsWere hot with love as I amCould they not endow you with a starAnd fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?Could they not give you all things that I lack?You should have loved a god; I am but dust.Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.

How could I love you more?I would give upEven that beauty I have loved too wellThat I might love you better.

Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—I can but give you of my flesh and strength,I can but give you these few passing daysAnd passionate words that, since our speech began,All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.

I try to think of some one lovely giftNo lover yet in all the world has found;I think: If the cold sombre godsWere hot with love as I amCould they not endow you with a starAnd fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a god; I am but dust.Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.

Like a gondola of green scented fruitsDrifting along the dank canals of Venice,You, O exquisite one,Have entered into my desolate city.IIThe blue smoke leapsLike swirling clouds of birds vanishing.So my love leaps forth toward you,Vanishes and is renewed.IIIA rose-yellow moon in a pale skyWhen the sunset is faint vermilionIn the mist among the tree-boughsArt thou to me, my beloved.IVA young beech tree on the edge of the forestStands still in the evening,Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light airAnd seems to fear the stars—So are you still and so tremble.VThe red deer are high on the mountain,They are beyond the last pine trees.And my desires have run with them.VIThe flower which the wind has shakenIs soon filled again with rain;So does my heart fill slowly with tears,O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,Until you return.

Like a gondola of green scented fruitsDrifting along the dank canals of Venice,You, O exquisite one,Have entered into my desolate city.

The blue smoke leapsLike swirling clouds of birds vanishing.So my love leaps forth toward you,Vanishes and is renewed.

A rose-yellow moon in a pale skyWhen the sunset is faint vermilionIn the mist among the tree-boughsArt thou to me, my beloved.

A young beech tree on the edge of the forestStands still in the evening,Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light airAnd seems to fear the stars—So are you still and so tremble.

The red deer are high on the mountain,They are beyond the last pine trees.And my desires have run with them.

The flower which the wind has shakenIs soon filled again with rain;So does my heart fill slowly with tears,O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,Until you return.

I turn the page and read:"I dream of silent verses where the rhymeGlides noiseless as an oar."The heavy musty air, the black desks,The bent heads and the rustling noisesIn the great domeVanish ...AndThe sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,The boat drifts over the lake shallows,The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,And the swallows dive and swirl and whistleAbout the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....

Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse andbelles lettresfor several years for various English publications, and is at present assistant editor ofThe London Mercury. HisThe Queen of China and Other Poemsappeared late in 1919.

When in the mines of dark and silent thoughtSometimes I delve and find strange fancies there,With heavy labour to the surface broughtThat lie and mock me in the brighter air,Poor ores from starvèd lodes of poverty,Unfit for working or to be refined,That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye,I turn away from that base cave, the mind.Yet had I but the power to crush the stoneThere are strange metals hid in flakes therein,Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone,That only cunning, toilsome chemists win.All this I know, and yet my chemistryFails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.

Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for various periods from 1914 to 1917.

His first contributions appeared inWheels(an annual anthology of a few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is strengthened by a reading ofArgonaut and Juggernaut(1920), where Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.

I stand alone through each long dayUpon these pavers; cannot seeThe wares spread out upon this tray—For God has taken sight from me!Many a time I've cursed the nightWhen I was born. My peering eyesHave sought for but one ray of lightTo pierce the darkness. When the skiesRain down their first sweet April showersOn budding branches; when the mornIs sweet with breath of spring and flowers,I've cursed the night when I was born.But now I thank God, and am gladFor what I cannot see this day—The young men cripples, old, and sad,With faces burnt and torn away;Or those who, growing rich and old,Have battened on the slaughter,Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,Are creased in purple laughter!

I stand alone through each long dayUpon these pavers; cannot seeThe wares spread out upon this tray—For God has taken sight from me!

Many a time I've cursed the nightWhen I was born. My peering eyesHave sought for but one ray of lightTo pierce the darkness. When the skies

Rain down their first sweet April showersOn budding branches; when the mornIs sweet with breath of spring and flowers,I've cursed the night when I was born.

But now I thank God, and am gladFor what I cannot see this day—The young men cripples, old, and sad,With faces burnt and torn away;

Or those who, growing rich and old,Have battened on the slaughter,Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,Are creased in purple laughter!

The city's heat is like a leaden pall—Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight airLike mammoth orange-moths that flit and flareThrough the dark tapestry of night. The tallBlack houses crush the creeping beggars down,Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,Of silver bodies bathing in a pool;Or trees that whisper in some far, small townWhose quiet nursed them, when they thought that goldWas merely metal, not a grave of mouldIn which men bury all that's fine and fair.When they could chase the jewelled butterflyThrough the green bracken-scented lanes or sighFor all the future held so rich and rare;When, though they knew it not, their baby criesWere lovely as the jewelled butterflies.

Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first volume,Invocations(1915), was published while he was at the front, Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by shell shock, visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. HisArdours and Endurances(1917) is the most representative work of this poet, although his new volume,The Flower of Flame(1920), shows a steady advance in power.

Nearer and ever nearer ...My body, tired but tense,Hovers 'twixt vague pleasureAnd tremulous confidence.Arms to have and to use themAnd a soul to be madeWorthy, if not worthy;If afraid, unafraid.To endure for a little,To endure and have done:Men I love about me,Over me the sun!And should at last suddenlyFly the speeding death,The four great quarters of heavenReceive this little breath.

Nearer and ever nearer ...My body, tired but tense,Hovers 'twixt vague pleasureAnd tremulous confidence.

Arms to have and to use themAnd a soul to be madeWorthy, if not worthy;If afraid, unafraid.

To endure for a little,To endure and have done:Men I love about me,Over me the sun!

And should at last suddenlyFly the speeding death,The four great quarters of heavenReceive this little breath.

Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13, 1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.

Sorley left but one book,Marlborough and Other Poems. The verse contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint, tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a boy of 20, distinguish his poetry.

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.Poets have whitened at your high renown.We stand among the many millions whoDo hourly wait to pass your pathway down.You, so familiar, once were strange: we triedTo live as of your presence unaware.But now in every road on every sideWe see your straight and steadfast signpost there.I think it like that signpost in my landHoary and tall, which pointed me to goUpward, into the hills, on the right hand,Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,A homeless land and friendless, but a landI did not know and that I wished to know.IISuch, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,A merciful putting away of what has been.And this we know: Death is not Life effete,Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seenSo marvellous things know well the end not yet.Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,"Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"But a big blot has hid each yesterdaySo poor, so manifestly incomplete.And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweetAnd blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.Poets have whitened at your high renown.We stand among the many millions whoDo hourly wait to pass your pathway down.

You, so familiar, once were strange: we triedTo live as of your presence unaware.But now in every road on every sideWe see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I think it like that signpost in my landHoary and tall, which pointed me to goUpward, into the hills, on the right hand,Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,A homeless land and friendless, but a landI did not know and that I wished to know.

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete,Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seenSo marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,"Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"But a big blot has hid each yesterdaySo poor, so manifestly incomplete.And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweetAnd blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,And no man claimed the conquest of your land.But gropers both, through fields of thought confined,We stumble and we do not understand.You only saw your future bigly planned,And we the tapering paths of our own mind,And in each other's dearest ways we stand,And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.When it is peace, then we may view againWith new-won eyes each other's truer formAnd wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warmWe'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

When it is peace, then we may view againWith new-won eyes each other's truer formAnd wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warmWe'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers who, roused by the war and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant new hymns of hate. Like Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm of fury and blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but, fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is violent, Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter, Graves is almost blithe.

An unconquerable gayety rises from hisFairies and Fusiliers(1917), a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. InCountry Sentiment(1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity. But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.

It's hard to know if you're alive or deadWhen steel and fire go roaring through your head.One moment you'll be crouching at your gunTraversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast—No time to think—leave all—and off you go ...To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!It's a queer time.You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"When somehow something gives and your feet drag.You fall and strike your head; yet feel no painAnd find ... you're digging tunnels through the hayIn the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!You're back in the old sailor suit again.It's a queer time.Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ...hullo!Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—Getting her pinafore all over grime.Funny! because she died ten years ago!It's a queer time.The trouble is, things happen much too quick;Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:Even good Christians don't like passing straightFrom Tipperary or their Hymn of HateTo Alleluiah-chanting, and the chimeOf golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...It's a queer time.

It's hard to know if you're alive or deadWhen steel and fire go roaring through your head.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gunTraversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast—No time to think—leave all—and off you go ...To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"When somehow something gives and your feet drag.You fall and strike your head; yet feel no painAnd find ... you're digging tunnels through the hayIn the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!You're back in the old sailor suit again.It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ...hullo!Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—Getting her pinafore all over grime.Funny! because she died ten years ago!It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:Even good Christians don't like passing straightFrom Tipperary or their Hymn of HateTo Alleluiah-chanting, and the chimeOf golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...It's a queer time.

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