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Crouched over the war-path steals he,
Lynx on-moving steals he,
Wind words steals he from me.

Heart-tree, I have but one love—
Hear—me!

Long the days and weary!

Restless hours and weary,

Hungered, wearied, wake me. 2
Listener of the maid's prayer—
Hear—me!
Messenger of the heart-beat—
Hear—me!
Flute-tree, I have but one call—
Hear—me!

Long the days and dreary!
Lone tree, I have but one love—
Hear—me, hear!

STARTLED WATERS

In the rice-field he nears thee,
Stealing to thee.
Hear the startled loon's brood—
Hide, little Four-stars!

Soft-paddling comes he singing,
Lone and singing—
This one of the moon's low glow,
This one of the flute's low singing.

O'er the wild rice his call-notes go,
O'er the startled waters, singing . . .

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Leaping waters call afar there,
Weeping rapids moan to sea-waves.
These, but waves rushing unabated—
Down they go—

Go—

In the place, the place where I sit, I am called to enter
Spirit waters.

Spirit waters call afar there,
Spirit rapids moan to sea-waves.
Rush they on, headlong, unabated—
Down they go—go.

BY GENESSERET

And who is this that walks
By the sea of Genesseret,
By my heart at ebb tide,
By the surging hosts of many people?

It is He who stills,
Full-glorious in pure serenity,

The rage, the roar of lions,
The sea uplifted cloud-ward.

It is He who is
Music unto me, and sweet
As radiance planet-wafted
On the eve at eventide.

A chord I thought it was I heard;
But it was His words,
Fresh-fallen, unperturbéd by
The din of centuries.

His words are notes unspent,
That hang upon the waters
When twilight-mystery walks,
Empurpled there.

A harmony that moves upon
The rage of waves—
A song unending, unbegun,
Bewitching-borne.

And I forgot that it was hunger-time—
The fawn and the timid doe,
They passed near me -
Grazing, unafraid.

And they spoke of no more slaying,
Neither war nor servitude,
Since He who stills the lions

Had passed by. Frank S. Gordon

COMMENT

vo ATHE saw stersationalism FTER-THE-WAR predictions are a temptation to the facile thinker. In the ferment of this chaotic moment the world seems in process of being made over; the imagination lightly foresees the design which the new minting will bear, and as lightly underestimates the power of forces which tend to run the molten metal back into old molds. Prophecy is never cautious; indeed, caution is an unheroic virtue, quite incapable, no doubt, of designing the new stamp. Yet a certain amount of caution may be recommended as we listen to the seers and visionaries who cry out their hopes and theories in as many tongues as once before, according to the Book of Genesis, halted a monumental effort of the race toward unity. However, certain tendencies would seem to be inevitably accelerated by the war. The presence of many nations in the western battle-line, the union of the powerful youth of these nations in the same death-grapple with a formidable enemy, can not fail to enforce and increase international sympathies throughout that group. When peace comes our boys will come home, and poilu and Tommie and all the others will go back to their civilian jobs; but in the hearts of all, till the last aged survivor dies, these fiery years will be a memory of horror and splendor—a memory growing more romantic from year to year, until the horror fades away and only the splendor remains. Thus the men of these nations

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will remain united at heart by the fierce ordeal through
which they have passed together, and to a certain degree they
will pass on their sense of comradeship in the stories they tell
to their children and grandchildren.
The tie between this country and France must become, one
would think, especially strong. Lafayette and Franklin be-
gan it long ago; and now our soldiers are dying on French
, soil, and their heroic blood will fertilize the new spiritual
growth of a nation whose spirit has fertilized the world.
And lesser agencies will contribute inevitably to this sym-
pathy—the adopting of French war-orphans, the rehabilita-
tion of French towns, all the numerous contributions of
American money and energy to the restoration of France
and its French-speaking neighbor Belgium.
Thus after the war our splendid isolation is like to disap-
pear. Some league of nations, in all probability, will express
this fact politically, and a closer interaction in the arts
and literature will express it intellectually. It would seem
that our educational systems should prepare for the inevita-
ble by urging more attention to modern languages, especially
French and Spanish, the languages of our nearest intellectual
and political neighbors.
In the arts and literature it may be said, with a certain
justice, that Americans have been too much aware, rather
than too little, of influences from over-seas. We have been
too colonial, too respectful of the foreign verdict; even
when most arrogantly boastful, we have had too little self-
confidence, too little competent and informed appreciation of

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