riginal work-Alice Corbin-her philosophy-Sarah Cleghorn-poet of the country village-Jessie B. Rittenhouse-critic and poet-Margaret Widdemer-poet of the factories-Carl Sandburg-poet of Chicago-his care

left hand-Witter Bynner-a country poet-H. Hagedorn-Percy Mackaye-his theories-his possibilities-J. G. Fletcher-monotony of fre

Poems; in 1915 a volume of original lyrics called Rivers to the Sea; some of these were reprinted, together with new material, in Love Poems (1917), which also contained Songs out of Sorrow-verses that won the prize offered by

but the comparatively small number of pages that reach the world are nearly fleckless. Her career is beginning, but her work shows a combination of strength and grace that many a master might envy. It would be an insult to call her poems "promising," for most of them exhibit a consummat

IL

ly traged

its perf

al white e

the red

r unclean; absolute surrender; whole-hearted devotion expressed in pure singing. Nothing is finer than this-to realize that the primal impulse i

I

saw my lo

now our lov

while a w

g like an

r why I do

t strange th

er love was

left so sli

saw my lo

eart's most

hem as a

e never see

PR

ose my so

e beauty of

a lyric wi

a storm

rt is quench

left the

ove with all

if I am l

are not poetry, then I have

ions to various magazines. Her first book of poems, Myself and I, appeared in 1913; two years later came the volume called Crack o' Dawn. She is not much given to metrical adventure, although one of her most original poems, As I Drank Tea Today, has an irregular rime-scheme. For the most part, she follows b

d into all m

night unshutt

treet, in the dark,

llow houses,

at the curtai

eir shadows

ing and reckless

d sleep

an immor

high dreams an

h the hard worn

ummy-cas

ar an im

rain through th

brave-winged heav

mp where p

ed into all

ible houses of

gay, but I canno

ed into all

not only know what it is, but their own limited experience has taught them what rapture it must be to write lines of flawless beauty. This unconquerable covetousness is admirably and artistically expressed in

erhaps the best known is The Joy of Life (1909). At present she is engaged in war work, where her high faith, serene womanliness, and overflow

IL

atient-and the

ilent-and they

uch-abused, h

spe

faltering or

rds we make ou

t wind from the

uble t

lame upon the

glove so arr

ch-abused, hi

eak a

er verses have a direct hitting power that will break open the hardest heart. In her book, The Drums in Our Street (1918), the glory and the tragedy of the world-struggle are express

ago she received the honour of being formally invited to write a poem for the dedication. Accordingly at the ceremony commem

tinct value both in awakening general interest and in giving new poets an opportunity to be heard, Miss Monroe, with the assistance of Alice Corbin Henderson, published in 1917 an anthology of the new varieties of verse. Certain poets are somewhat arbitrarily excluded, althoug

tremists, the form of these verses is surprisingly conservative. To be sure, the first one, The Hotel, is in a kind of polyphonic prose, but it is not at all a fair sample of the contents. Now whether the reading of many manuscripts has dulled Miss Monroe's creative power o

manipulation of different metrical forms; and they reveal as well a shrewd, healthy acceptance of life as it is. This feeling communicates itself in a charming way to the reader; it is too vigorous for acquiesce

er friend, Dorothy Canfield, called Hillsboro People. In 1917 she published a book of verses, Portraits and Protests, where the portraits are better than the protests. No one has more truly or more sympathetically expressed the spirit of George Herbert's poetry than Miss Cleghorn has give

NT'S

l cold befo

brothers and he

washed and dre

the mornin

above her br

e house from

e ran with

the field and

m with the n

he walked, a

through half

feeble cron

he saw the

kes of shado

reams grew b

er pitying

a little tr

ek cat yawne

hours and

st, too tired,

eep-her pray

mmandments? Observe she loves the sister-mother, and she loves the mouse as well as the cat. There is no reason why those who love birds should not love cats

volume of criticism on contemporary verse, and for the last fourteen years has printed many essays of interpretation, dealing with the new poets. I dare say no one in America is more familiar with the English poetry of the twentieth century than she. She has been so occupied with this important and fruitful work that she has had little

ning in addition nearly a hundred lyrics. Although her soul is aflame at the omnipresence of injustice in the world, her work covers a wide range of thought and feeling. Her heart is swollen with pity for the sufferings of women; but she is no sentimentalist. There is an intellectual independence, a clear-headed womanly self-reliance about her way of thinking and writing that is both refreshing and stimulating. In hope and in despa

er once, ere

d the prayer

loved me stood

till I sh

have grieved th

like to count m

ght strove fa

kind drug

n a time, un

tying sigh or

ed in slow

to watch

re was no place for any one except a place to fight the Black Plague of Kaiserism; now when the war is over, suppose the women insist? What then? Before the French Revolution, only a few were invited to sit down and eat, while the maj

ems. I think it has been overrated. It is pretentious rather than important. It is the raw material of poetry, rather than the finished product. Mere passion and imagination are not en

ege; after his Freshman year, he tried to enter West Point, succeeding in every test-physical and mental-except that of arithmetic; there he has my hearty sympathy, for in arithmetic I was always slow but not sure. He returned to Lombard, and took the regular course for the next three years, paying his way by hard work. His literary ambition had already been awakened, and h

in general before the war. We don't know where we're going,-but let's put on more speed. Perhaps the other extreme, so characteristic of our southern African friends, is no better, yet it has a charm absent in the strenuosity of mere

man was a genius; and whilst it is quite possible and at times desirable to imitate his freedom in composition, it is not possible to catch the secret of his power. It would be an ungracious task to quote Mr. Sandburg at his worst; we are all pretty bad at our worst, wh

ate a

t long o

rails and m

stle of

cries un

ome lo

rs and

he harbou

harbou

in the moonlight is a "wide dreaming pansy." This and other pieces show true power of poetic interpretation; which

mehow or other makes a singing voice heard amid the din. In fact he uses the din as an accompaniment; he is a kind of vocal Tubal Cain. He writes about strap-hangers, chorus girls, moving pictures, convicts, hospitals, bridge-builders and construction gangs-a symphony of noise, where everybody plays some

procession thro

ther, fire, se

ons blind of

s black where i

re, was fused

ary marches thr

perished that t

ns raw and red

veman, found th

rs goes marchi

erpreted, is as typical as any of Mr. Underwood's style; an

their bridges high

w th

s across the sky; a h

e

twixt soul and soul

rs n

spirit's goal. I se

fe

t in the sun. The

and

by one, where life e

planet's speed, and

d

shall hear and he

cisc

y of cynical clevernes

might be able to write

essive champion in the

his best work is equa

wni

n 1915 he produced an epic of the American Fur Trade, preparing himself for the task as follows: "I descended the Missouri in an open boat, and also ascended the Yellowstone for a considerable distance. On the upper river the country was practically unchanged;

to me every river is an adventure, ev

men of undoubted genius have succeeded, whereas writers of hardly more than ordinary talent have occasionally turned off something combining brevity and excellence. I feel sure that Mr. Neih

nd Europe, he is at present the editor of Contemporary Verse, a monthly magazine exclusively made up of original poems. This periodical has been of considerable assistance to students of contemporary poetry, for it has given an opportunity to hitherto unknown writers, and often it contains some notable contribution from men of established reputation. Thus th

rt. "We have attempted no propagandism, and acknowledged no revolution," is the sentence that forms the signature to his periodical. Furthermore, we are informed that "the sole aim of The Sonnet is to publish poetry so well thought of by its makers that they were willing to place it within strict confines. The magazine will have nothing to say in defence of

w York, on the ninth of September, 1888, and studied at Columbia. His little book of poetry contains nothing profound, yet there is evidence of undoubted talent w

PO

strong guardian

rkness lies on

kening faith f

e the falling

ow or we bet

e is no wisdom

ely eyes now cl

auty that outla

owing blind a

ds that stand l

ss regions o

ved in friendshi

the light, n

in the sola

ms, with the modest title, Green Fruit. These were mostly written during his last undergraduate year at college, and would not perhaps have been printed now had he not entered the service. The subjects range from the Prin

the English Men of Letters series, and has made many scholarly contributions to the literature of criticism. He has issued two volumes of original verse, of which perhaps the better known is Old Christmas, 1917. This is composed of tales of the Cumberland region in Ke

TU

r grow Nov

ponds beg

rst ice, whil

t leaves the

s spread up

who are u

ng diamonds

close-clipped

ow sun dis

s work begu

int filmy

in softes

woodlands bl

seem to m

15, revised and reissued in 1918. The title of this book appears to be a paradox; but its significance is clear enough after one has read a few pages. It is an original and interesting way of bringing the breath of the country into the town. The scene is a New York Club on a side street; the year is 1914; the

hrough a r

t river sh

ring like a

cities in

rizons so

gainst the

d with a r

ds gather

es hanging h

olours, de

rind, the s

pcaught aga

there, with s

hills an

as the wa

e meadow so

by; the ai

whispers f

token-ju

e rose's me

ields; I ca

and the fres

moss and sta

rains-and

ising, tur

eaves where

trees, then

settles b

shouts, now h

fields the

e darkness c

of the tw

died concision in all his work. It may be that this is a result of his long years of training in journalism; he must have silently implored the writers of manuscripts he was forced to read to leave their damnable faces

Thornton Whitsett, of Whitsett Institute, Whitsett, North Carolina, whose book Saber and Song (1917), exhibits such variations in merit that if one read only a few pages one might be completely deceived as to the author's actual ability. His besetting sin as an artist is moralizing. Fully half the contents of the volume are uninspired, commonplace, flat. Bu

charm of his character, which expressed itself in everything he wrote, and in numberless acts of kindness. He was the ideal American gentleman. One feels in reading the poems of Mrs. Whitney that each one is written both creatively and critically. I mean that she has the primal impulse to write, but that in writing, and more especially in revisi

nowledge born of experience combined with spiritual revelation. She is an excellent illustration of the possibility of living to the uttermost in the crowded avenues of the world without any loss of religious or moral values. It must take a strong nature to absorb so much of the strenuous activities of metropolitan society while keeping the heart's sources as clear as a

the hour tha

h the love whos

I have lost yo

nguish, born

that Love an

ingle joy wou

diance of t

night but dar

ward soul to

ve with lavish

sunlight of m

alk in shado

the cross aga

n, that is Love

days strive for the laurel crown. Mr. Nicholson's poems are a kind of riming journal of his heart. It is clear that he is not a born poet, for the flame of inspiration is not in these pages, nor do we find the perfect phrase or ravishing music; what we do have is well worth preservation in prin

ate. One who knew Mr. Bynner only by the terrific white slave drama Tiger, would be quite unprepared for the sylvan sweetness of the Grenstone poems. Their environment, mainly rural, does not localize the sentiment overmuch; for the poet's mind is a kingdom, even though he is bounded in a nutshell. The environment, however, may be partly responsible for the spirit of healthy cheerfulness that animates these verses; whatever they lack, they c

BEFORE T

ch a place a

hear th

ll we share

t them brea

ndy, sunn

ill-top tur

valley of t

loved

them through o

s crumb

n the dead

willowed

es, pines a

et we sha

ke but lit

shall w

s quite different from the independence of Mr. Underw

has a scholar's knowledge of English literature. He has published plays and books of verse, of which the best known are A Troop of the Guard (1909) and Poems and Ballads, which appe

ork, on the sixteenth of March, 1875, and was graduated from Harvard in 1897. He has travelled much in Europe, and has given many lectures on dramatic art in Americ

can write nothing without explaining his motive, without trying to show himself and others the aim of poetry and drama. However morally noble all this may be-and it surely is that-it ha

Ode on Lincoln, published separately in 1909, was the best out of all the

and no one but a true poet could ever have thought of or have employed such symbolism. Mr. Mackaye's mind is so alert, so inquisitive, so volcanic,

r. Fletcher would use his remarkable power to create gorgeous imagery in the production of orthodox forms of verse. Free verse ought to be less monotonous than constantly repeated sonnets, quatrains,

eral volumes of poems, among which Earth Triumphant (1914) is representative of his ability and philosophy. It certainly represents his abil

e is ever on the quest of Beauty. His sensible preface to Earth Triumphant calls attention to certain similarities between his style in verse-narrative and that of John Masefield. But he is not a copier, and

ellectual content. In the volume Nocturne of Remembered Spring (19

in making us listen; for he understands the magic of words. Thus far his poems are something like librettos; they don't mean much without the music. Let

an eas

te and

e true, unf

ard! O Go

, and give my

well as

e University of the South and at the Harvard Law School. He is now in military service. In 1915, his volume of poems, Sappho in Leukas, attracted immediately the attention of discriminating critics. The pro

, think not of

can do

inviolable

on gold

the huma

ly, will look up,

rapture; measu

k, deliri

o immortal

the shin

c pure a

metime, somewhere, 't

there is not a single poem that could be called crude or flat. Mr. Percy is a poet and an artist; he can be ornate and he can be severe;

scovered that it was written by Mr. Percy, and had first appeared in The Bellman. I know of no poem by any American publi

RTO

bird at br

m the au

mystical

of cer

hink, could

upon hi

as but a s

mong dea

t Harvard; then lived in Paris, and no one has ever loved Paris more than he. He enlisted in the Foreign Legion of Franc

hese words: "I will write you soon if I get through all right. If not, my only earthly care is for my poems.

sonnets, paying poetic tribute to Philip Sidne

hom the heyd

cious and most

urneyed with v

t roundelays to

f some credi

an of what ensl

ideals of ou

se that were es

rom the mob th

ng all life'

e roads of h

or of purse but

strict devo

dols-Love and

in its contrast between the darkness of the unchanging shadow and the apple-blossoms of the sunny air-abov

magnificent Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen in France has a nobility

old soldiers of fortune. There was no pose in all this; his was a brave, uncalculating, forthright nature, that gave everything he had and was, without