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THE

*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:

ing,

one which appeared in the New York
I went rejoicing to the House of Prayer, Herald stand for the group:
ALONE

Joining with rapture in the reverent singing,
Soaring on wings of faith to mansions fair.

CONQUERORS
By OSBERT SITWELL
And now, with downcast eyes and ever grieving,

BY KATHRYN WHITE RYAN
From my high window,

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
And shadowed by mantillas,
that lies in the Irish people.

As love went by, and pain.
Shall in the evening
Rain down upon men's hearts

THE GHOST

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,
Of rain-washed air,

Around him like tossed daffodils
I am his ghost.

The millions stood, the millions massed,
Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue,

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,

Love alight.
That child
Ye deem I show not as an airy sprite

One conqueror was marching across the stars that
Draws his stick along the railings.
Or phantom thinly shuddering again

night.
The sound of it brings my eye down to him. To its old shape.
Oh, heart, dry heart,
It is yourself again!
From now your senses all are witched away,

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
Him ye know not ye greet as he were known!
From me to him,

By Maude GOLDRING
Ye greet a goblin! Woe to him that shall
I should be shown
Be haunted by me!

There came a seaman up from the sea.
Above, ini a straight line

'Sailor, what is your will of me?' A logical growth,

Ye dream, although I tell and tell the tale,
And yet,
He is not dead-but I remember well

He rolled in his gait as seamen use,
I wave, but he will not look up;
The day he died.

His eye was stern, that I might not choose.
I call, but he will not answer.
Should be complain who by an angel face,

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
And must be dead.

'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,
While pools,
A very wildest wildness of delight

Now which of these laughing lads shall be
The cold eyes of the gods,
Hath killed him.

Seamen to learn the ways of the sea?'
Are cradled in those hollows.
Cool are the clouds,

Not misery nor hate häd fetched him down, He looked at the lads, and they left their game,
Anchored in the heaven;
Not love, nor love for her-terror it was

And wide-eyed over the grass they came; Green as ice are they,

That blinded him.
To temper the heat in the valleys

And each one spoke, and thus said he:
With arches of violet shadow.
The terror of her beauty slew that man:

Sailor, what is your will of me?'
All icily new come from life he hears
He is not dead.

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
infrequent visitor from the religious press:
Remembering him, let no man brood upon

BY SARA TEASDALE
Her brow, her cheek—a ghost, a wailing woe
WHERE IS THY GOD?
That dolt will be.

Rebellion against death, the old rebellion.

Is over; I have nothing left to fight;
(Psalm 42)

This death was painless, death by her again Battles have always had their meed of music,
By J. LEWIS MILLIGAN
Might well be dreadful-0 God, forbid

But Peace is quiet as a windless night.
She raise her dead!
Like as the hart, athirst in desert dreary.

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.

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