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*HE best of the "new poetry" from the By day and night my inmost heart is shaken So much verse called out by the Presiother side, it seems to us, comes from
With grief and fearing, while the scoffers say: dent's death has reached our desk that the Sitwells. It is puzzling to those grown Where is thy God, that thou art thus forsaken?"
we can not possibly reproduce it all. case-hardened in old verse forms, but the And in my shame I turn my face away.
Most of it exhibits the gift of heart possest new must be welcomed and understood. There was a time, when Sabbath bells were ring by the American people. We will let this This is from the London Spectator:
one which appeared in the New York
Joining with rapture in the reverent singing,
BY KATHRYN WHITE RYAN
I go reluctant and with heavy tread,
Three conquerors were marching across the land From my high window in a southern city, Why, O my soul, art thou so unbelieving?
that day, I peep through the slits of the shutters,
Trust thou in God, He shall lift up thy head. Three conquerors were marching and all the land Whose steps of light
made way. Span darkness like a ladder. The Lord will yet command His loving kindness,
Death in his black robes, Love in his shining, Throwing wide the shutters Even when the day of toil is hard and long;
Leading in between them a nation bowed in I let the streets into the silent room And when the night enshrouds my soul with
grief. With sudden clatter;
blindness, Walk out upon the balcony
His presence shall rise in me like a song.
They marched through the mountains, Whose curving irons are bent
They marched through the grain, Like bows about to shoot
And in and out the hearts of men Bows from which the mortal arrows
The New Republic brings us this infre
And up and down the lane. Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed
quent writer who touches off the ghostlore And each man felt the brush of wings
As love went by, and pain.
Three conquerors were marching, the Nation, Paraded here, in southern climes,
Love and Death. More openly.
BY JAMES STEPHENS
One traveler was resting now where winds have But, at this early moment of the day,
ho least breath. (after the Irish of Cú Connacht O'Cléirí) The balconies are empty;
One friend had lain his life down now,Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered,
To Osborn Bergin
Unclamped the crown that hurts the brow. Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, Do not salute me, I am not your friend;
Around him like inclosing hills, Draws out of them faint music
The man whose face I seem to bear is dead,
Around him like tossed daffodils
The millions stood, the millions massed,
The millions—they who asked so much When Time lets drop his cruel scythe,
If it could grieve his friends or had he been They sing in sympathy.
Death softly loosed their tightening clutch. In debt to them, how quickly they had heard The sun, then, plucks these irons, That he was dead.
Three conquerors were marching, Death, Nation, As, far below,
One conqueror was marching across the stars that
VERY English in its ballad spirit is this How nearly are we come together!
The shape that ye salute is but the ghost, from the London Saturday Review: If, at this moment,
The soulless one. One long ribbon was unfurled
THE DROWNED SEAMAN
By Maude GOLDRING
There came a seaman up from the sea.
'Sailor, what is your will of me?' A logical growth,
Ye dream, although I tell and tell the tale,
He rolled in his gait as seamen use,
His eye was stern, that I might not choose.
But fetch him baccy, and make him tea. From where I stand And angel vision, was translated
'Sailor, what is your will of me?' The beauty of the early morning
Deathlesslyi Suffocates me;
He puffed at a pipe that gave no smoke, Could he outlive the wonder and the beauty It is as if fingers closed round my heart.
Then this strange word from his lips there broke: The light flows down the hills in rivulets,
That slays all men! he saw that loveliness
'I was drowned in the Skagger-Rack, So you could gather it up in the cup of your
But we fought 'em fair, and we beat 'em back. hands,
He fell not out in strife nor died in woe,
Now which of these laughing lads shall be
Seamen to learn the ways of the sea?'
Not misery nor hate häd fetched him down, He looked at the lads, and they left their game,
And wide-eyed over the grass they came; Green as ice are they,
That blinded him.
And each one spoke, and thus said he:
Sailor, what is your will of me?'
HOWEVER we view death, we welcome the There is dignity, sincerity and verbal He will not tell her lips that did not dare
picture in the last two lines of this from magic in this; also a note of modern doubt. To look on them—but what his eye dared not
The Atlantic: The Presbyterian Witness supplies this His mind's eye saw.
THE OLD ENEMY
BY SARA TEASDALE
Rebellion against death, the old rebellion.
Is over; I have nothing left to fight;
This death was painless, death by her again Battles have always had their meed of music,
But Peace is quiet as a windless night.
Therefore I make no songs--I have grown certain, Pants for the brooklet and the soft green sod, The Hound of Connacht once that man was called: Save when he comes too late, death is a friend. So doth my soul, with toil and sorrow weary, His name and fame were known
A shepherd leading home his flock serenely Yearn for the presence of the living God. Among the wise.
Under the planet at the evening's end.