Two Anthologies, H. M.

Some Imagist Poets:

Georgian Poetry:

New Books of Verse

1916

1913-1915

Cadences, by F. S. Flint, Max Michelson

In the Town and On the Road, by Douglas Goldring, Dorothy
Dudley

The Middle Miles and Other Poems, by Lee Wilson Dodd, H. M.
The Jew to Jesus and Other Poems, by Florence Kiper Frank, H.M.
Today and Tomorrow, by Charles Hanson Towne, H. M.
The Nameless One, by Anne Cleveland Cheney, H. M.

The Spirit of '76 in Poetry

The Spirit of the American Revolution, as Revealed in the Poetry of
the Period, by Samuel White Patterson

CORRESPONDENCE:

The Dead Irish Poets:

I, Padraic Colum

II, Joseph Campbell

James Whitcomb Riley, H. M.
Of Editors and Poets, A. C. H.

REVIEWS:

260

267

268

272

305

308

Modern Monologues, Amy Lowell

Flash-lights, by Mary Aldis

A Parodist, H. B. F.

-and Other Poets, by Louis Untermeyer

OUR CONTEMPORARIES:

A New Quarterly, A. C. H.

Artist versus Amateur

Robert Frost's Quality, A. C. H.
The New Dial, H. M.

What Will He Do With It?

Thomas Macdonagh as Critic, Ewa Pound
Literature in Ireland, by Thomas Macdonagh
The Tradition of Magic, Louis Untermeyer
The Listeners, by Walter De La Mare

309

312

318

321

Notes

323

326

327

328

329

53, 107, 161, 217, 273, 329

[viii

Doetry

A Dagazine of Verse

VOL. VIII

No. I

APRIL, 1916

POEMS

APRIL ROMANCE

SAW the sunlight in a leafy place

Bathing itself in liquid green and amber,
Where every flower had tears hid in its

petals,

And every leaf was lovely with the rain.

With wondering eyes I saw how leaf and flower
Held up their hands, and trembled with delight,
While on the gleaming bough the alighting bird
Shook its wet wings like something fresh from heaven.

And when it sang, it told how earth to heaven

Was turned; and how the miracle of morning Had made of leaf and flower a deathless maiden To be my mate and teach eternity.

She took my hand: I understood each thing
The leaf says to the flower when, both adoring,
See like themselves, leaf-shaped and flower-painted,
The sun descend, to bathe in painted shade.

She led me out—we left the leafy croft,

And its wet fragrance, for the treeless town;

But she picked up a dead leaf in the mud, And she found flowers in the children's hair.

Then she was gone and I am seeking her:

And every time at evening when it rains, And every time at morning, when the sun Bathes in the beauty of that leafy place,

Or when he looks into an urchin's eyes

To see if April tears or smiles are there,
And the wet dust scents summer leagues away,
I hold my breath-the Eternal Maid returns.

A BRETON NIGHT

The winter seal is on the door.
Three women sit beside the fire
Silent, and watch their shadows sprawl
Like sombre wolfhounds on the floor.

One "Christus," nailed upon the wall,
Pities the young wife great with child,

A Breton Night

Whose mate lies drowned beneath the sea.

She cannot tell how to bear it all,

Or live till Noel sets her free,

When she need not fear the quick and dead,
That every nightfall step the stair,
Awaiting the Nativity.

Now she will rise in her despair

To look out through the leaden panes Between the wall-bed and the hearth; And hear the wind like sea-waves there.

She does not know how, in the earth,

The dark blind seed doth hear the wind,
And think of death, and dream of birth,
As the window sends the firelight forth.

SONNETINA: PUNCH AND JUDY

This is the play of plays. Come, boys,
Old men, and little girls, and see
The rogue outdone in roguery,
And hear his lovely dreadful noise!
There is a catch in Punch's voice

When he escapes the gallows-tree,
That takes the heart outrageously
And makes the rascal street rejoice.
This is that antic play that made
The mummy laugh (when he had blood),

That shall outlive the tragedy
In time of war with sables played:
The beggar's masque, and gamin's mood;
The first, last laugh of comedy.

THE WOMAN OF SORROWS

To bed I went for rest, no rest there to find:

Day might sleep, nor I; midnight waked my mind.

Oh a heavy wall has sorrow, a gloomy hedge has care:
They kept me close, kept me fast; held and bound me there.

The wind in the keyhole, it whimpered bitterly,

And I got up to open to my crying baby.

I'm not ashamed to cry myself, but I'm too proud to pray To have the only things I've left rolled up and put away.

That was a babeless woman-Helen of Troy:

She never knew the sorrow, and never half the joy.

I pity the poor women that childing never knew,
And the nestling of the babe, that crying hungry grew.

Would you take from my bosom the feeling of my child?
As soon take the curlew, crying from the wild.

Oh my sorrow for my babe is become my baby.
The one they have taken, the other cannot be.

When you see the dog cast for the ewe in the snow;

When you watch the mother-thrush, with her nest broke

below;