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+<head>
+<meta charset="UTF-8">
+<title>The Little Review, June-July 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 4) | Project Gutenberg</title>
+   <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg"  type="image/x-cover">
+   <!-- TITLE="The Little Review, June-July 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 4)" -->
+   <!-- AUTHOR="Margaret C. Anderson" -->
+   <!-- LANGUAGE="en" -->
+   <!-- PUBLISHER="Margaret C. Anderson" -->
+   <!-- DATE="1916" -->
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+</head>
+
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75854 ***</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<h1 class="title">
+<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+</h1>
+
+<p class="subt">
+<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="ed">
+<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br>
+<span class="line2">EDITOR</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="issue">
+JUNE-JULY, 1916
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+<table class="tocn">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#MALMAISON">Malmaison</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Amy Lowell</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEPHILOSOPHER">The Philosopher</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Sherwood Anderson</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#SONGOFTHEKILLINGOFLIARS">Song of the Killing of Liars</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Richard Hunt</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#MLLEPOETRYMEETSMEATTHECHURCH">Mlle. Poetry Meets Me at the Church</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Roscoe Brink</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#SILHOUETTES">Silhouettes</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Harriet Dean</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#ANNOUNCEMENTS">Our Migratory Address</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#PSYCHOANALYSIS">Psycho-Analysis</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Florence Kiper Frank</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#ADYPTICH">A Dyptich:</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Skipwith Cannell</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#WONDERSONG">Wonder Song</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#SCORN">Scorn</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEDEEPERSCORN">The Deeper Scorn</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#HOKKU">Hokku</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Edgar Lee Masters</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems:</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Mark Turbyfill</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THINDAY">Thin Day</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEROSEJAR">The Rose Jar</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEIRISHREVOLUTIONISTS">The Irish Revolutionists</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Padraic Colum</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#BRINGOUTYOURDEAD">Bring Out Your Dead:</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#BRAITHWAITESDEATHCART">Braithwaites Death-Cart</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Mitchell Dawson</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#HERBERTTREESMERCHANTOFVENICE">Tree’s “Merchant of Venice”</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Rollo Peters</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#SOMEIMAGISTPOETS1916YAY">Some Imagist Poets, 1916</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Mary Aldis</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THREEIMAGISTPOETS">Three Imagist Poets</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>John Gould Fletcher</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">A Vers Libre Prize Contest</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+  </div>
+<p class="monthly">
+Published Monthly
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+    <div class="footer">
+<p class="pricel">
+15 cents a copy
+</p>
+
+<p class="pub">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br>
+Montgomery Block<br>
+SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
+</p>
+
+<p class="pricer">
+$1.50 a year
+</p>
+
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<p class="postoffice">
+Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, San Francisco, Cal.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a>
+<p class="tit">
+<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+    <div class="issue">
+<p class="vol">
+VOL. III
+</p>
+
+<p class="issue">
+JUNE-JULY, 1916
+</p>
+
+<p class="number">
+NO. 4
+</p>
+
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<p class="cop">
+Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="article1" id="MALMAISON">
+Malmaison
+</h2>
+
+<p class="aut">
+AMY LOWELL
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="I">
+I
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">ow</span> the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there,
+beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and
+windings, over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside!
+Like ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the
+sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving
+river. A breeze quivers through the linden trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison.
+Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne
+Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered
+with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with
+smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves.... Roses.... They
+have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders and
+makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back in
+time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
+in the sun.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="II">
+<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a>
+II
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good
+people, and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs,
+and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come
+in a calèche and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates,
+you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your
+master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle
+and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fi! It is for
+joy at her husband’s return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman
+here for two months? Fi! Fi, then! Since when have you taken to
+gossiping? Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That—all green,
+and red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony—that is a slave; a
+blood-thirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries
+to cure your tongue of idle whispering.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+“Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I
+pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember
+her prophecy. My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching;
+send them away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb—Imperial,
+but.... My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching
+me! No, no, Bonaparte, not that—spare me that—did we not bury
+that last night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong.
+Not long, Dear, no, thank God, not long.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting
+dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely
+milkily white.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What
+need for roses? Smooth, open petals—her arms. Fragrant, outcurved
+petals—her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch
+the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open
+roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden trees, and the
+tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with
+canvas.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="III">
+III
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The
+gravel of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An
+officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with
+his charger kicking. Valets-de-pied run about in ones, and twos, and
+groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is
+changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging
+along the roads toward Paris.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a>
+The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely,
+the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone and onyx now
+for the sun’s mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New
+rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing
+antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone,
+bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere,
+new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed,
+the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and
+advancing, trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop.
+Laughter, and spur janglings in tesselated vestibules. Tripping of
+clocked and embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth
+grassplots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide through
+trees—mingle—separate—white day-fireflies flashing moon-brilliance in
+the shade of foliage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The kangeroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangeroos.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden
+alley and feeding the cockatoos.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They say that Madame Bonaparte’s breed of sheep is the best in
+all France.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted
+when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <a id="corr-2"></a>Marengo?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over
+the trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line bright
+with canvas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Prisoner’s-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping.
+The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls.
+But he picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late,
+M. Le Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you.
+Quickly, my dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager,
+and as graceful as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too,
+but lightly, warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon
+the air than running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up
+above her guests as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles.
+A blown rose, smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging
+back and down. A rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes
+it, resting upon its leaves in a faintness of perfume.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of
+women, and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte
+stands on the wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing
+the pink and silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its
+smoothness into pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame
+Bonaparte presses against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed
+roses at her belt melt, petal by petal, into the pink water.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="IV">
+<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a>
+IV
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress
+will soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best
+not consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce
+is not for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are
+muddy. The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart
+down and down, edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage
+grows out of the mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat.
+It is only Her Majesty’s dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies
+in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose
+it is, but the blinds are drawn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before
+passed the gate without giving me a smile!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head
+in the pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think
+about.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be
+coming to Malmaison tonight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the
+antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to
+dust. Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over the glass domes of the hot houses drenches the rain. Behind
+her a clock ticks—ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought
+with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her
+ears, but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years
+to come each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years,
+and tears, and cold pouring rain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that
+I am no more.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="V">
+V
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips,
+myrtles, geraniums, camellias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths.
+All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand,
+die, and give way to others, always others. From distant countries
+they have been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of
+France. There is the <em>Bonapartea</em> from Peru; the <em>Napoleone Impériale</em>;
+the <em>Josephinia Imperatrix</em>, a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the
+calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as
+a lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself
+to hide the hollow within.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a>
+The glass-houses grow and grow and every year fling up hotter
+reflexions to the sailing sun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to
+console herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and
+patience, and then patience and backgammon, and stake gold Napoleons
+on each game won. Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could
+ask better. With her jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred
+and twenty dresses, her fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her
+birds. It is absurd that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts
+under the thought of her ingratitude. What could he do more? And
+yet she spends, spends as never before. It is ridiculous. Can she not
+enjoy life at a smaller figure? Was ever monarch plagued with so
+extravagant an ex-wife? She owes her chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant,
+her sweetmeat purveyor; her grocer, her butcher, her poulterer;
+her architect, and the shopkeeper who sells her rouge; her perfumer,
+her dressmaker, her merchant of shoes. She owes for fans,
+plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes masons and carpenters, vintners,
+lingères. The lady’s affairs are in sad confusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And why? Why?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Can a river flow when the spring is dry?
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one.
+The clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old
+bit of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year’s wearing. She is
+soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing
+against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress
+crushes her breasts with her hands, and weeps. And the tall clouds
+sail over Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the
+moon.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of
+soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial harnesses,
+four caparisoned postillions, a carriage with the Emperor’s arms
+on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where
+else under the Heavens could you see such splendour!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a
+colonel of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seedpod, and
+as pale. The house has memories. The satin seedpod holds his germs
+of Empire. We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted
+white clouds. She draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him
+to replenish it. Her soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering.
+He speaks to her of debts, of resignation; of her children, and
+his; he promises that she shall see the King of Rome; he says some
+harsh things and some pleasant. But she is there, close to him, rose
+<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a>
+toned to amber, white shot with violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed
+rose-leaves in a twilit room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the
+looping Seine.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="VI">
+VI
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks
+and ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they
+have forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom!
+Boom! It is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses
+bloom at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves,
+rotting beneath them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen
+flowers for a fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws
+back and watches. Snatches of music—snarling, sneering music of
+bagpipes. They say a Scotch regiment is besieging St. Denis. The
+Emperor wipes his face, or is it his eyes? His tired eyes which see
+nowhere the grace they long for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a
+question, he does not answer, somebody else does that. There are
+voices, but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears it all the time.
+Josephine! The Emperor puts up his hand to screen his face. The
+white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden trees.
+“Vive l’Empereur!” There are troops passing beyond the wall, troops
+which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose is jarred off its stem and
+falls at the Emperor’s feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well. I go.” Where! Does it matter? There is no sword
+to clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts
+with a click.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Quick, fellow, don’t spare your horses.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one’s eyes following a fleck
+of dust.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="VII">
+VII
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along
+the sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights
+are broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds.
+Wreckage and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old
+recollections.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in
+the gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you
+touch it the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through
+a chink in the shutters one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky
+toward the Roman arches of the Marley Aqueduct.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEPHILOSOPHER">
+<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a>
+The Philosopher
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+SHERWOOD ANDERSON
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">e</span> was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and hands.
+Long before the time during which we will know him he was a
+doctor, and drove a jaded white horse from house to house through the
+streets of Winesburg, Ohio. Later he married a girl who had money.
+She had been left a large fertile farm when her father died. The girl
+was quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed very beautiful.
+Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she married the doctor. Within
+a year after the marriage she died.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The knuckles of the doctor’s hands were extraordinarily large.
+When the hands were closed they looked like clusters of unpainted
+wooden balls as large as walnuts fastened together by steel rods. He
+smoked a cob pipe, and after his wife’s death sat all day in his empty
+office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs. He never
+opened the window. Once, on a hot day in August, he tried but found
+it stuck fast, and after that he forgot all about it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doctor Reefy there
+were the seeds of something. Alone in his musty office in the Heffner
+block, above the Paris Dry Goods Company’s store, he worked ceaselessly,
+building up something that he himself destroyed. Little pyramids
+of truth he erected and after erecting knocked them down again that
+he might have the truths to erect other pyramids.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of clothes
+for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and little holes had appeared
+at the knees and elbows. In the office he wore also a linen duster with
+huge pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of paper. After
+some weeks the scraps of paper became little hard round balls and when
+the pockets were filled with these he dumped them out upon the floor.
+For ten years he had but one friend, another old man named John
+Spaniard, who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes in a playful mood old
+Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a handful of the paper balls and
+threw them at the nurseryman. “That is to confound you, you blithering
+old sentimentalist,” he cried, shaking with laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The story of Doctor Reefy and of his courtship of the tall dark
+girl, who became his wife and left her money to him, is a very curious
+story. It is delicious like the twisted little apples that grow in the
+orchards of Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the orchards and the
+<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a>
+ground is hard with frost underfoot. The apples have been taken from
+the trees by the pickers. They have been put in barrels and shipped to
+the cities where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled with
+books, magazines, furniture and people. On the trees are only a few
+knarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the
+knuckles of Doctor Reefy’s hands. One nibbles at them and they are
+delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been
+gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted
+ground picking the knarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with
+them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a summer
+afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice
+of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls
+and were thrown away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his
+buggy behind the jaded gray horse and went slowly along country
+roads. On the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings
+of thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the thoughts. Out
+of many of them he formed a truth that rose gigantic in his mind. The
+truth clouded the world. It became terrible and then faded away and
+the little thoughts began again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because she was going
+to have a child and had become frightened. She was in that condition
+because of a series of circumstances also curious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The death of her father and mother and the rich acres of land that
+had come down to her had set a train of suitors on her heels. For two
+years she saw suitors almost every evening. With the exception of two
+they were all alike. They talked to her of passion and there was a
+strained eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when they looked
+at her. The two who were different were much unlike the others. One
+of them, a slender young man with white hands, the son of a jeweler
+in Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was with her
+he was never off the subject. The other, a black-haired boy with large
+ears, said nothing at all, but always managed to get her into the darkness
+where he began to kiss her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry the jeweler’s
+son. For hours she sat in silence listening as he talked, and then she
+began to be afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she
+began to think there was a lust greater than in all of the others. At
+times it seemed to her that as he talked he was holding her body in his
+hands. She imagined him turning it slowly about in the white hands
+and staring at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her
+body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream three times,
+then she became pregnant by the one who said nothing at all, but who
+<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a>
+in the moment of his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for
+days the marks of his teeth showed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it seemed to
+her that she never wanted to leave him again. She went into his office
+in the morning and without her saying anything he seemed to know
+what had happened to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife of the man
+who kept the bookstore in Winesburg. Like all old-fashioned country
+practitioners Doctor Reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who waited
+held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. Her husband was with
+her and when the tooth was taken out they both screamed and blood
+ran down on the woman’s white dress. The tall dark girl did not pay
+any attention. When the woman and the man had gone the doctor
+smiled. “I will take you driving into the country with me,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor were together
+almost every day. The condition that had brought her to him passed
+in an illness, but she was like one who has discovered the sweetness of
+the twisted apples and could not again get her mind fixed again upon
+the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the apartments. In the fall after
+the beginning of her acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor
+Reefy and in the following spring she died. During the winter he read
+to her all the odds and ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of
+paper. After he had read them he laughed and stuffed them away in
+his pockets to become round hard balls.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="SONGOFTHEKILLINGOFLIARS">
+<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a>
+Song of the Killing of Liars
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+RICHARD HUNT
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">My hands have grown strong</p>
+    <p class="verse">Wanting to clutch throats.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I have looked about me, Love,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And you are the only one</p>
+    <p class="verse">I do not want to kill.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">They tried to kill me</p>
+    <p class="verse">When I was young and helpless:</p>
+    <p class="verse">They almost did for me,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I cannot forgive them.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Whom shall I choke first?—</p>
+    <p class="verse">The minister who told me a piece of bread</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was Christ’s body to be chewed weepingly?</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or my father who nearly frightened me to death</p>
+    <p class="verse">Because I dreamed about a girl?</p>
+    <p class="verse">Then there is my old teacher</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who made me write five hundred times,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“A man’s first duty is to his flag.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Liars!</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">First I will insult them</p>
+    <p class="verse">And strip them naked of their lies:</p>
+    <p class="verse">Then I will choke them dead,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And burn their institutions.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">There will be nothing left</p>
+    <p class="verse">But the clean earth and some children—</p>
+    <p class="verse">Our child, Love, and a child for it to mate with.</p>
+    <p class="verse">The air they breathe will be pure</p>
+    <p class="verse">For the lies will be all dead.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="MLLEPOETRYMEETSMEATTHECHURCH">
+<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a>
+Mlle. Poetry Meets Me at the Church
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+ROSCOE WILLIAM BRINK
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> a New York poetry society one night with a friend of a friend....
+I had always wanted to see that society. Long have I
+listened in awe to the unutterable rhythms of the city itself: the daily
+ictus of the workward crowds in the morning, the beat again in the homeward
+evening, lyric activity of the weeks rising to a crest like an Elizabethan
+sonnet to end in a Saturday-Sunday couplet of application to the
+heart of man, involved quatrains of the seasons, free verse epochs and
+tensions, years and decades. As I listened to these bigger canticles of
+New York City I have wanted to see its poetry society, fancying it some
+homely cricket on its communal hearth—my pleasant heart-warming
+dream. You see, also, besides listening in on this great, loud city voice,
+I once wanted to write poetry myself—but that was long ago before,
+under penalty of death by starvation, they took me and put me to work
+and rediscovered vers libre.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I sat beside the friend of a friend, gazing in glad surmise at an
+elegant assembly of ladies and gentlemen, the poetry society meeting
+came to order. Not since I was fourteen-fifteen, and went to prayer-meeting
+because the girl I adored would be there, have I experienced
+such emotions as I experienced then.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I don’t suppose you know my particular old white church prayer-meeting.
+I used to go, rain or shine, every Friday night, and sit where
+I could watch the door admit the pretty upward toss of curls of my affections’
+desire. Sometimes she didn’t come and didn’t come. The opening
+hymn would be sung and I would hear it not, for my eyes were upon
+the door. Another hymn and the preacher would begin to speak with a
+gentle, gushing, splashing sound at the mouth, but the door would remain
+closed; and knotted, stifling disappointment be clutching at my
+throat. Another hymn, and the discussion would be thrown open to the
+congregation. Well, the door was stolid; I would slide back from the
+edge of my chair and breathe thickly of the resisting air. So late, she
+would not come now. To be sure, the congregation was some comfort:
+there were the frisky young lady and the frisky middle-aged lady who
+would pop to their feet with a squeal of enthusiasm, the deacons and
+the elders, the sincere girls, the succinct young men with a duty to perform,
+the conservatives and the infirm—all of them to speak. There came
+one night when there was rejoicing in heaven’s hour. Somebody had
+sent a check to pay for a new coat of white paint for the church. The
+<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a>
+treasurer arose from his chair and lifted up the check for all to see.
+Then were hymns and glad talks with God and with woman and man.
+The banks next day refused to honor the check.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the New York poetry society meeting appeared no novelty for
+me. I had been there before, so it seemed. Then, as of old, the meeting-room
+was more charming, the congregation more elegant, but the same,
+even to the frisky ones, with an exception in the authors’ literary agent
+I saw just a few feet from me. Otherwise the same—a prayer-meeting,
+the great American habit, a community impulse boiled down to four-square-wallsful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the meeting progressed I knew I had been there before. Absently
+I looked toward the door for the pretty upward toss of curls again,
+but I caught myself in time. Notices were read—again I looked toward
+the door, and stopped. Jokes were made about vers libre; several very
+interesting recitations were given; restlessly my eyes wandered doorward
+again. One always forms such bad habits when he is young. Poems
+now were being read, and criticized. But I had given up: I was looking
+toward the door and willing to acknowledge it. But she for whom I
+looked, came not. Then the leader with pleasure read a list of several
+new members—one of them with the name of a certain rich person, a
+name I had often seen associated with the millions of commerce but never
+with the measures of verse. An uncrushed sigh of self-congratulation
+went up over the room. I took my last look at the stolid door, slid back
+from the edge of my chair; gave up. I knew She would not come. My
+heart beat as of old, whimsically and sadly. She would not come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took my friend of a friend by the hand and sidled out of the room
+into the night. A few corners away we came upon a news-stand, full
+of magazines, upon every magazine a cover, upon every cover a girl,
+one and the same forever and ever. “If She had come, would She have
+been so grown that She would have looked like them?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who come?” asked my friend of a friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The Spirit of Poetry,” says I. “She hadda right, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+American modernity, I bless thee through closed teeth—get thee to
+thy prayer-meetings or some Billy Sunday will Carl Sanburg thee.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="SILHOUETTES">
+<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a>
+Silhouettes
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+HARRIET DEAN
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="BARNYARDING">
+Barn-Yarding
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">I</span> cannot joyously write little things. Perhaps that is why I write
+none at all. The little people about me fill me with disgust. They
+are cocksure bantam hens, loose and fertile, laying egg-thoughts carelessly.
+The crack of shells is loud, but tiny wet chicks roll out, smaller
+than the rest. God forbid that I am of the same breed! If I must linger
+in the barn-yard for a few days, studying the swagger of these hens and
+silently measuring my own, may I in the end fly away to my mountain-top—alone
+in the night. Strut, if I must, but quite alone.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Their voices are splinters of sound which prick my desolation to
+shreds. My one great fear is that clumsily they may stumble against my
+loneliness. What matter if the tongue be unknown to me! These tone
+arrows beat at my door like undesired rain; they hurl themselves against
+my tissue walls until I shall go mad with their urgence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The only true friendliness near me is the blank brick wall of the
+house next door. I wrap myself in its unresponsiveness and stop up
+my ears with its cold silence that I may have courage to go on with
+my work.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Flame curtains flap in my grate and send grey indistinctness shivering
+and stumbling over my walls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A dusty mirror in a lonely house waits....
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="DEPARTURE">
+Departure
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+“And now you, too, must go,” she said to me; I who had already
+gone, silently, tenderly lest my steps break the stairs of her heart.
+</p>
+
+<div class="editorials chapter">
+<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a>
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="editorials" id="ANNOUNCEMENTS">
+Announcements
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="THEMIGRATORYMAGAZINE">
+<em>The Migratory Magazine</em>
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+We have been invited to spend the summer in San Francisco,
+so we decided to carry <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> along and publish
+it there until October or November. Then we shall go back
+to Chicago for a couple of months, and by the first of the year we
+plan to establish ourselves in New York, where all good things
+seem to turn at last. Our travels have been so exciting that it was
+impossible to get out a June issue on the way. (In all honesty I
+should add that the chronic low state of the treasury had even
+more to do with it.) So we have combined the June and July
+issues, as we did last year. Subscriptions will be extended accordingly.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="CHARLESKINNEYSARTICLE">
+<em>Charles Kinney’s Article</em>
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Mr. Kinney’s exposure of conditions at the Chicago Art
+Institute, which was advertised in the last issue, has not
+come in time to go in. The court procedures have taken much of
+Mr. Kinney’s time. It will be published in the August issue.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="PSYCHOANALYSIS">
+<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a>
+Psycho-Analysis
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="subt">
+Some Random Thoughts Thereon
+</p>
+
+<p class="aut">
+FLORENCE KIPER FRANK
+</p>
+
+<div class="linespace">
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hy</span> not history rewritten from the researches of the Freudians?
+We have our economic determinism; why not our psycho-sexual?
+The tendencies of the individual studied in their relations to world-breaking
+and world-making! Hannibal and his mother, Queen Elizabeth
+and her nurse, Frederick the Great and the Oedipus complex!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The priest of the future will be the Inspired Physician. All tendencies
+seem so to point. The Christian Scientist and New Thought
+healers are vague and emotional answers to this social demand, the
+psycho-analytic physician a more sophisticated and precise one. The
+functions of those who now minister separately to soul and to body
+will, as in primitive society, again be united. The modern medicine-man
+shall be the priest of the new order!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To the adolescent, the value of the Inspired Physician can scarcely
+be over-stated. Jeanne D’Orge has thus written of the sixteen-year-old
+period:
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I wish there were Someone</p>
+      <p class="verse">Who would hear confession:</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not a priest—I do not want to be told of my sins;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not a mother—I do not want to give sorrow;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not a friend—she would not know enough;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not a lover—he would be too partial;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not God—he is far away;</p>
+      <p class="verse">But Someone that should be friend, lover, mother, priest, God all in one,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And a Stranger besides—who would not condemn nor interfere,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Who when everything is said from beginning to end</p>
+      <p class="verse">Would show the reason of it all</p>
+      <p class="verse">And tell you to go ahead</p>
+      <p class="verse">And work it out your own way.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="linespace">
+<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a>
+<p>
+What of the functions of the physician-priest in marriage! The
+possibilities are, to say the least, interesting. As substitute for the
+churchly bunk talked at the average churchly ceremony, an intimate
+tete-a-tete between, say, the Inspired Physician and the woman. It
+might do much to validate the “sacredness” of wedlock. And, incidentally,
+I wonder what data the Freudians are going to contribute
+during the next ten years to feminism. Ellis states that sexual normality
+isn’t possible to determine because there isn’t enough material by
+which to base a norm. Especially, says he, is this true of the sexual
+psychology of women. Valuable, then, will be the testimony of those
+who have been hearing confessions!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the most powerful functions of the Catholic Church united
+with modern scientific research! I wonder if the need for the confessional
+isn’t eternal.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Amazing, isn’t it, that the most remarkable contributions to the
+study of personality come out of the modern Prussianized Teutonic
+empires? On the one hand men mowed down by the socialized thousands;
+on the other this incredibly patient and exhaustive searching
+into the bewildering complexities of the individual soul.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Break through the crust of any man as he thinks he is, and you
+are plunged into currents undreamed of. And isn’t one amazed at how
+much alike we all of us are—and how different!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Freudian searching into motives is the accredited material of
+the novelist; the use of dream symbols the very stuff of the poet. The
+successful psycho-analytic physician ought to combine the adroitness of
+the fictionist with the imagination of the versifier.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From the standpoint of medical technique Freud and Jung may
+have diverged importantly—philosophically the younger man builds on
+the Freudian researches and there is no break in the continuity. Freud
+is perhaps more valuable to the physician; to the layman Jung opens up
+a realm of speculation and discovery more fascinating than that of
+Darwinism.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old sweet mythos, as friend Browning says, has been rediscovered.
+We are more wonderful than we thought. We are carrying
+about in our compassed personalities all dreams and imaginings. What
+avails the modernity of elevators and skyscrapers! You, betrousered
+one, walking Michigan Avenue—in your psyche are the ancient Hindus
+and the dancing sun-worshippers. You with the hand-bag and that
+<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a>
+1916 model frock, do you truly think you are thinking in terms of
+American asphalted Chicago? Indeed! It was the symbolism of the
+Eleusinian mysteries that was used in the image which flashed into your
+mind just then. How was it recreated? Heaven knows—or Dr. Jung!
+And in your dreams, when the censor is quite off guard—how did you,
+prosaic being, become suddenly the wildest of poets?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The average man—by that I mean the average man of cultivation—is
+not at all cognizant yet of the large significance of the psycho-analytic
+studies. He thinks them some libidinous sex-stuff come out of
+Germany, or perhaps one of the many new methods to be tried on the
+insane and the neurotic. Their immense import for the normal (whatever
+<em>he</em> is!) he has not yet understood. It will take perhaps another
+five years, for the discoveries of psycho-analysis to penetrate the popular
+consciousness. Perhaps less—for some Augustus Thomas (God save
+us from such!) may before then write a play about it.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="ADYPTICH">
+A Dyptich
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+SKIPWITH CANNELL
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="WONDERSONG">
+Wonder Song
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">No man who borrows</p>
+    <p class="verse">Should return the exact debt;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Let him return more,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or let him return less.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I borrowed twelve dollars</p>
+    <p class="verse">From a rich uncle of mine:</p>
+    <p class="verse">I paid him back a hundred’s worth of poetry.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">He is not satisfied.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I am not forgotten.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a>
+    <p class="verse">I borrowed from a stranger</p>
+    <p class="verse">An old coat full of lice;</p>
+    <p class="verse">The cloth became strong serge,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The lice became buttons.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">The stranger</p>
+    <p class="verse">Wanted his old coat back again,</p>
+    <p class="verse">He got an old joke instead</p>
+    <p class="verse">And went away laughing.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I gave my God some second-hand prayers,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Prayers that were used and fingered and worn;</p>
+    <p class="verse">In return He gave me</p>
+    <p class="verse">My heart’s desire.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I gave my God all the love that’s in me....</p>
+    <p class="verse">He put it in His pocket,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Absently,</p>
+    <p class="verse">With talk of the weather:</p>
+    <p class="verse">He’s a wise God, knowing His own worth.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">No one who borrows</p>
+    <p class="verse">Should make exact payment;</p>
+    <p class="verse">If he does as I say</p>
+    <p class="verse">He’ll be remembered forever.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="SCORN">
+Scorn
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I will not lay bricks for the homes of other men;</p>
+    <p class="verse">I prefer to fell trees in the forest,</p>
+    <p class="verse">To fell them and let them lie.</p>
+    <p class="verse">If I go to the forests, I will starve;</p>
+    <p class="verse">If I lay bricks for those others,</p>
+    <p class="verse">They will feed me soup and black bread and onions.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I will fell trees</p>
+    <p class="verse">Angrily,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I will let them lie.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="THEDEEPERSCORN">
+<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a>
+The Deeper Scorn
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I will lay many bricks:</p>
+    <p class="verse">And that I may lay them better,</p>
+    <p class="verse">I will take their bread and their soup ...</p>
+    <p class="verse">Courteously returning thanks</p>
+    <p class="verse">For the wages they offer....</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I will lay many bricks,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And in a straight row,</p>
+    <p class="verse">As befits one who has knowledge of his freedom.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="HOKKU">
+Hokku
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+EDGAR LEE MASTERS
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I lift my eyes from the humus</p>
+    <p class="verse">Up the sea-green stalk to the flower.</p>
+    <p class="verse">The base of the petals is red as blood;</p>
+    <p class="verse">But I cannot see the line that divides</p>
+    <p class="verse">The rim of the petals from the sun light.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="POEMS">
+<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a>
+Poems
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+MARK TURBYFILL
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="THINDAY">
+Thin Day
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Bright, alert,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Arise these wild blue buds</p>
+    <p class="verse">Above this crystal jar.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">But they have no soul,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And bear no sweetness</p>
+    <p class="verse">On their lips.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Oh pity of azure days</p>
+    <p class="verse">Like these blue flowers!</p>
+    <p class="verse">We cannot endure in their thinness:</p>
+    <p class="verse">Our hearts sink</p>
+    <p class="verse">Through their petal-gauze.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="THEROSEJAR">
+The Rose Jar
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">O Earth,</p>
+    <p class="verse">You have brought me out too soon!</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">He whom I love</p>
+    <p class="verse">Still clings upon the branch,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Firm, a slender bud.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But you have spread me wide.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Take these broken leaves,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Now fallen from the core.</p>
+    <p class="verse">(O Earth,</p>
+    <p class="verse">You have brought me out too soon!)</p>
+    <p class="verse">Drop them into your Jar</p>
+    <p class="verse">For him who shall surely pass this way,</p>
+    <p class="verse">At last!</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEIRISHREVOLUTIONISTS">
+<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a>
+The Irish Revolutionists
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+PADRAIC COLUM
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> British Government, which was quite willing to exploit the sympathy
+felt here on the premature death of the young English poet,
+Rupert Brooke, shot to death three Irish poets, Padraic Pearse, Thomas
+MacDonagh, and Joseph Plunkett.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not only in Ireland, but the whole world is at a loss by the extinction
+of these three brave, honorable, and distinguished lives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The English illustrated journals that have just come to New York
+enable us to estimate by a contrast the world’s loss. They have published
+the photographs of the Irish revolutionary leaders; and with them
+they have published the photograph of the man who ordered their
+execution, General Maxwell. On one side they give you intellectual and
+spiritual faces—the faces of men who liberate the world. On the other
+side they give you a heavy, non-intellectual, non-spiritual face—the
+face of a man who could never liberate himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The vision and the aspiration of Pearse, MacDonagh, and Plunkett
+is on record for the world to know. A man cannot lie when he speaks
+of his vision or his aspiration in poetry. We know what Padraic Pearse
+thought of personal life. He has recorded it in his poem <em>To Death</em>,
+which has been translated from the Irish:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I have not gathered gold;</p>
+      <p class="verse">The fame that I won perished;</p>
+      <p class="verse">In love I found but sorrow</p>
+              <p class="verse4">That withered my life.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Of wealth or of glory</p>
+      <p class="verse">I shall leave nothing behind me</p>
+      <p class="verse">(I think it, O God, enough!)</p>
+              <p class="verse4">But my name in the heart of a child.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+And what vision of life had Thomas MacDonagh? We know, for
+it is in his poem <em>Wishes For My Son</em>:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">But I found no enemy,</p>
+      <p class="verse">No man in a world of wrong,</p>
+      <p class="verse">That Christ’s word of Charity</p>
+      <p class="verse">Did not render clean and strong—</p>
+<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Who was I to judge my kind,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Blindest groper of the blind?</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">God to you may give the sight</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the clear undoubting strength</p>
+      <p class="verse">Wars to knit for single right,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Freedom’s war to knit at length;</p>
+      <p class="verse">And to win, through wrath and strife,</p>
+      <p class="verse">To the sequel of my life.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">But for you, so small and young,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Born of Saint Cecilia’s Day,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I in more harmonious song</p>
+      <p class="verse">Now for nearer joys should pray—</p>
+      <p class="verse">Simple joys: the natural growth</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of your childhood and your youth,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Courage, innocence, and truth:</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">These for you, so small and young,</p>
+      <p class="verse">In your hand and heart and tongue.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+And we know the vision of life that Joseph Plunkett had—it was
+the same vision that the great mystics and the great religious had. It
+is in his poem <em>I See His Blood Upon the Roses</em>:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I see his blood upon the rose</p>
+      <p class="verse">And in the stars the glory of his eyes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">His body gleams amid eternal snows,</p>
+      <p class="verse">His tears fall from the skies.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I see his face in every flower;</p>
+      <p class="verse">The thunder and the singing of the birds</p>
+      <p class="verse">Are but his voice—and carven by his power</p>
+      <p class="verse">Rocks are his written words.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">All pathways by his feet are worn,</p>
+      <p class="verse">His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,</p>
+      <p class="verse">His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,</p>
+      <p class="verse">His cross is every tree.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+These three men had a vision for their country that could not be
+expressed in a proclamation, no matter how nobly worded that proclamation
+might be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a>
+Padraic Pearse gave all his thought and all his effort to bring
+back a chivalry to Ireland—the Heroic Age of Celtic History, when,
+as he said, “the greatest honor was for the hero with the most childlike
+heart, for the King who had the largest pity, and for the poet who
+visioned the truest image of beauty.” The first thing you saw when you
+entered his school in Cullenswood House was a fresco representing the
+boy Cuchullain taking arms. The Druid has warned him that the youth
+who takes arms that day will make his name famous, but will have a
+short life. And written round the fresco, in the old Irish words, was
+Cuchullain’s answer, “I care not if my life have only the span of a day
+and a night if my deeds be spoken of by the men of Ireland.” This
+was the spirit that Padraic Pearse sought to kindle in his boys—this
+was the spirit that he tried to bring back again into Ireland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas MacDonagh strove to create an Ireland that would be
+free as his intelligence was free, as eager for deeds as he himself was
+eager. Those who knew MacDonagh in his literary expression thought
+of him as a poet with a tendency towards abstractions, as a scholar with
+a bent towards philology. Those who knew him intimately knew him
+as a man who was the best of comrades. And they knew that there was
+something in MacDonagh that he never expressed. What was fundamental
+in him was an eager search for the thing to which he could give
+the whole devotion of his life. He found it in his vision of the Irish
+Republic.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Joseph Mary Plunkett strove to bring back the spirit and the defiance
+of the martyrs. He came of a family whose name has been
+in Irish history for six hundred years. The proudest memory of his
+people was the memory of martyrdom. The last priest martyred in
+England—the Venerable Oliver Plunkett—was of his blood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These men, with their comrades—the good and brave Connolly,
+who gave all of his will and all of his ability to the workers of Ireland,
+the upright Eamonn Ceant, the soldierly O’Rahilly, the adventurous
+MacBride, Shaun MacDermott, “kindly Irish of the Irish,” and the
+others—have done a great thing for our country at this great moment
+of history.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They have made Ireland not a British question but a European
+question.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They have shown us that the country should be redeemed by the
+heroic spirit as well as by the political intelligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They have belittled danger and death for generations of Irish
+nationalists.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="BRINGOUTYOURDEAD">
+<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a>
+Bring Out Your Dead
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="BRAITHWAITESDEATHCART">
+Braithwaite’s Death-Cart
+</h3>
+
+<p class="note">
+<em>The Poetry Review of America, edited by William Stanley Braithwaite,
+Cambridge, Massachusetts.</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> plague being upon us—God knows whence it came—the plague
+being upon us, poisoning men and women, and turning them into
+minor and sub-minor poets, and catching some in their youth so that
+they can never become men and women—the plague being upon us, I
+suppose there must be men brave enough to fashion death-carts for the
+corpses. It is a sanitary precaution. The more carts the better. The
+builders should be commended; the drivers medalled and ultimately
+pensioned. We should not bother much about the wheels—how they
+bang and rattle. Let the corpses leer and quarrel. But keep the carts
+well burdened and speed them to the pyres of oblivion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This is not criticism, but the exaggeration of bitterness; and you,
+Mr. Braithwaite, should not complain if our lips writhe back at the cup
+which you have held out to us and if our tongues are twisted to a sincerity
+that sounds like malice. When <em>Contemporary Verse</em> issued from
+Philadelphia like an ancient tumbril reconstructed by children we
+laughed and said, “God speed you while you last.” But when rumors
+came of a new poetry magazine in Boston we waited with the wonderful
+hope of eager youth. Ah, the new Poetry Review! The new Poetry
+Review! And what have you done? You have given us the old doll
+without even new tinsel. Do you wonder that I would smash your doll
+and tear its frayed and tawdry clothing?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To serve the art we all love,” you say. Does Benjamin R. C.
+Low serve it with sentimental buncombe like <em>Jack O’Dreams</em>? Does
+Amelia Josephine Burr serve it with a library tragedy like <em>Vengeance</em>?
+And you, Mr. Braithwaite, do you serve it by writing a muddled article
+on <em>The Substance of Poetry</em>? The bad grammar and proofreading
+can be forgiven, but who can cleave his way through the jungle of incoherent
+thought? And I may add seriously that Mr. Edwin F. Edgett,
+with his puerile remarks about Shakespeare, sounds very much like your
+younger brother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is the beginning of service in the competently written criticisms
+by Messrs. Untermeyer, O’Brien and Colum, and especially in the
+tantalizing quotations in fine print from Donald Evan’s new book <em>Two</em>
+<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a>
+<em>Deaths in the Bronx</em>. Amy Lowell contributes a short story in her
+recent colloquial vein and Sara Teasdale a sincere lyric.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If live men and women have been sand-bagged and put in the
+death-cart, let them awake and revive the corpses of their companions.
+Let them turn the cart into a tally-ho and gallop on with daring and
+exuberance, cracking a whip at critics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I do not know your age, Mr. Braithwaite, but I feel that I have
+the wisdom of greater youth. You have not quite killed hope in me,
+for I know your true devotion to your work. What will you give us in
+the forthcoming numbers of your magazine?
+</p>
+
+<p class="attr">
+<span class="smallcaps">Mitchell Dawson.</span>
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="HERBERTTREESMERCHANTOFVENICE">
+Herbert Tree’s “<em>Merchant of Venice</em>”
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Could I invent some acid, bitter-stinging speech, some new tongue
+far beyond English in sharpness, I might begin to describe the spectacle
+of incredible vulgarity—of miserable intent and culmination—which is
+to be viewed upon the New Amsterdam stage this month. English
+shrinks—becomes the prattled language of babes—at thought of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Is the great wind which has blown the dust from the theatres of
+Germany, bearing Craig and Reinhart and Barker upon its back, echoing
+even here in America, to be completely discounted, silenced, by this vulgarian,
+this soulless, thoughtless, casual, shambling buffoon?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To <em>The Merchant of Venice</em>—a rambling, untidy comedy at best,
+a play for reading, or only to be played by a man of genius—he brings
+a graceless cast, a marvelous pot-pourri of music (tom-toms for “Morrocco”
+and Spanish jingles for “Arragon”), a quite distended and “improved”
+version of the original play, himself (God save us), and a
+theory of decoration quite incomprehensibly fearful. Brown palaces
+shaking to the conversation of the players—brown palaces with hangings
+of decayed green, a sham, paper Venice, elaborately stenciled, a Portia
+in landlady’s pink, a <a id="corr-10"></a>Jessica (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume,
+roysterers garbed with all the delicate art of Timbuctoo, a Shylock
+in old dressing gown. No detail, no fragment of the picture of vulgarity
+is lacking—from red-plush curtains to modern rattle-jacks for
+the Carnival, from mouthed speeches to maudlin groupings—a complete
+whole.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This to an apparently delighted audience, to a receptive press.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Barker departed from America, a semi-success, embittered towards
+us. <em>The Weavers</em>, finely played and brilliantly produced, clung to the
+shadow of an audience at the Garden Theatre, got as far as Chicago and
+failed completely there. The two great things in the theatre of the past
+year trodden out of sight of the easy public at the absurd and dolorous
+prancing, at the loud cajoling of popularity of bourgeois neighbor Tree.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a>
+How long is the theatre to cling to ragged precedent; to these
+mournful gentlemen of a dusty yesterday, raving through their paper
+and lattice Venices, showing us their entrail-colored Belmonts, barring
+sun and light and poetry and singing from the song-starved people of
+America?
+</p>
+
+<p class="attr">
+<span class="smallcaps">Rollo Peters.</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="SOMEIMAGISTPOETS1916YAY">
+Some Imagist Poets, 1916<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a>
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+MARY ALDIS
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> is a matter of speculation why six poets of widely dissimilar viewpoints,
+if similar technique, should <a id="corr-11"></a>choose to band themselves together
+to publish in a yearly anthology selections from their works.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+An examination into the prefaces and poems of the three anthologies
+sent forth by the Imagists and a study of various articles on the subject
+by individual members of the group fail to give adequate explanation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The principle tenets of Imagism, i. e., clear presentation, the abolishing
+of outworn phrases and extra adjectives, the necessity of rhythm
+in all poetry, the absence of reflective comment, are those common
+to most of the modern serious writers of verse; and although the
+Imagists have done well to lay fresh emphasis on the difficulty and
+desirability of putting these tenets into practice, this hardly constitutes
+a new school. As for a definite understanding of the term
+Imagism, God help the man who thinks he can explain to another its
+meaning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Imagists, all six of them (there were more in the first
+anthology, but seemingly some fell from grace), write poetry. That
+they choose to employ a sub-title need not concern us; nor does their
+exposition of certain theoretical ideals. What does concern us is the
+quality of the poems they write. If it seems well to these six poets
+to publish together a collection of chosen poems, let us pay our seventy-five
+cents for the modest green paper volume, to read and re-read
+those that please us best; or, let us go our way untroubled, giving our
+affection to safe and sure collections—Rittenhouse, Braithwaite, or even
+good Edmund Clarence Stedman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a>
+There is a patient note discernible in the preface of this third
+volume which seems to say, “Once again we will endeavor to make clear
+what we are trying to do. Kindly make an effort to understand.” One
+may question the desirability of any preface, but it is not surprising
+that the Imagists wish to make clear their aims and purposes. One
+wonders at the breath expended in attacks on them. There are disadvantages
+in this banding together: if one of the group makes a misstep
+the whole six are anathematized; but, after all, it is quite futile,
+this effort to kill by ridicule. Denunciation, however fierce, has never
+yet crushed anything which had in it the living flame of beauty, as
+much Imagist poetry has.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Amy Lowell is represented in this 1916 Anthology by three
+poems. The first is her <em>Patterns</em>, named by Braithwaite as the first of
+the five best poems of 1915. It is difficult to quote, as the poem must
+be taken in its entirety to appreciate its beauty. Here are the first two
+stanzas:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I walk down the garden paths,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And all the daffodils</p>
+      <p class="verse">Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.</p>
+      <p class="verse">I walk down the patterned garden paths</p>
+      <p class="verse">In my stiff, brocaded gown.</p>
+      <p class="verse">With my powdered hair and jewelled fan.</p>
+      <p class="verse">I too am a rare</p>
+      <p class="verse">Pattern. As I wander down</p>
+      <p class="verse">The garden paths.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">My dress is richly figured,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the train</p>
+      <p class="verse">Makes a pink and silver stain</p>
+      <p class="verse">On the gravel, and the thrift</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of the borders.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Just a plate of current fashion,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Not a softness anywhere about me,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Only whale-bone and brocade.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Studying it again one finds new beauties—the delicacy of the occasional
+rhyme, used as a musician uses the flute in an orchestra, the
+curious “pattern” of the rhythm, which cannot be defined and yet fits
+the theme with inimitable grace; the unforgettable picture of the garden
+with its stiff paths, its white fountain, its carelessly gorgeous flowers,
+and the woman walking down the path with slow and stately tread.
+Her head is straight and high, pink and silver is her stiff brocaded
+gown, yet one knows that underneath it throbs a human heart for which
+there is no place in the pattern. Here is certainly a new way of conveying
+emotion. We are stirred by the passion of the poem up to its
+terrible climax—“Christ! what are patterns for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a>
+A masterpiece this poem, one to learn and repeat and make one’s
+own. There follows by Miss Lowell <em>A Spring Day</em> in polyphonic prose,
+a series of word pictures scintillating with color and dancing light. The
+day has five color divisions: the Bath, where “little spots of sunshine
+lie on the surface of the water and dance, and their reflections wabble
+deliciously over the ceiling”; the Breakfast Table, where golden coffee,
+yellow butter and silver and white make another symphony. Then
+comes the Walk, with more color, from boys with black and red,
+amber and blue marbles, “spitting crimson” when they are hit, to a
+man’s hat careering down the street in front of white dust “jarring
+the sunlight into spokes of rose-color and green.” Next comes Midday
+and Afternoon, then Night and Sleep. “Wrap me close, sheets of
+lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears.... Pale
+blue lavender, you are the color of the sky when it is fresh-washed and
+fair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Lowell also includes her amazing paraphrase of Stravinsky’s
+<em>Grotesques</em>, too amazing for an unmusical person’s comment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Richard Aldington has seven poems. The finest is a short Elizabethan
+lyric named <em>After Two Years</em>. It is a lovely bit, but why it
+should be published in an “Imagist” collection no man may say. Its
+delicate beauty is indefinable.
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+<h3 class="excerpt" id="AFTERTWOYEARS">
+After Two Years
+</h3>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">She is all so slight</p>
+      <p class="verse">And tender and white</p>
+            <p class="verse3">As a May morning.</p>
+      <p class="verse">She walks without hood</p>
+      <p class="verse">At dusk. It is good</p>
+            <p class="verse3">To hear her sing.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">It is God’s will</p>
+      <p class="verse">That I shall love her still</p>
+            <p class="verse3">As He loves Mary.</p>
+      <p class="verse">And night and day</p>
+      <p class="verse">I will go forth to pray</p>
+            <p class="verse3">That she loves me.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">She is as gold</p>
+      <p class="verse">Lovely, and far more cold.</p>
+            <p class="verse3">Do thou pray with me,</p>
+      <p class="verse">For if I win grace</p>
+      <p class="verse">To kiss twice her face</p>
+            <p class="verse3">God has done well to me.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Aldington’s <em>Eros and Psyche</em> has both beauty and distinction, but
+no one of the seven poems by him can compare with his <em>Choricos</em> in
+the Anthology of 1915. That is an achievement not easily repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a>
+Perhaps H. D. is the purest Imagist of the group. To the uninitiated
+she is the most obscure because the most abstract. She loves
+the sea and high, windy places and her poems catch something of the
+freshness one feels standing on a headland, beaten and buffeted by the
+wind and the salt spray. Nature is to her as a living presence, sometimes
+gentle, more often cruel. She vibrates to beauty as sensitively as
+a Greek dryad, and in reading her poems one has a curious sense of a
+worshipper offering incense to the gods. Here are some lines from the
+last one of the four poems she contributes. It is called <em>Temple—The
+Cliff</em>:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">High—high and no hill-goat</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tramples—no mountain-sheep</p>
+      <p class="verse">Has set foot on your fine grass.</p>
+      <p class="verse">You lift, you are the world-edge,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Pillar for the sky-arch.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">The world heaved—</p>
+      <p class="verse">We are next to the sky.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Over us, sea-hawks shout,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Gulls sweep past.</p>
+      <p class="verse">The terrible breakers are silent.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Shall I hurl myself from here.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Shall I leap and be nearer you?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Shall I drop, beloved, beloved.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Over me the wind swirls.</p>
+      <p class="verse">I have stood on your portal</p>
+      <p class="verse">And I know—</p>
+      <p class="verse">You are further than this,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Still further on another cliff.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+In their passion for clearness, for the exact word, Imagists often
+use certain words which sound ugly. In this poem of fourteen stanzas,
+the word “lurch” occurs three times. It is not a pretty word, it does
+not suggest a graceful action, yet apparently no other will do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+John Gould Fletcher is, first of all, pictorial. His conception of
+Imagism differs slightly, it would seem, from his confreres. His imagination
+is so strong he sees significance in every changing image of this
+changing world. His rhythm is so vague that sometimes it is hardly
+discoverable. His poetry could be printed about as well in block as in
+line, as doubtless he would admit. He loves color—revels, glories, riots
+in color; and he has a way of seeing resemblances to dragons and
+serpents and other ungodly things in the simplest of natural phenomena—trees
+or clouds or rain or even sunrise. His vocabulary is astonishing.
+He plunges into a sea of words and plays with them, tossing them
+up like jewels to sparkle in the sun, or burying them in pits to see if
+they will still shine. He loves words, caresses them with a lover’s
+touch, kisses them for luck, and then hurls them together in such an
+<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a>
+incredible combination that the critics blink. A serious workman withal,
+with much to say seething in his mind and a determination to say it in
+his own way. There is perhaps no line in the six poems in this
+Anthology equal to the much-quoted “Vermillion pavilion against a
+jade balustrade.” <em>The Mexican Quarter</em> is a poem of forty-two lines
+wherein is depicted and symbolized the very spirit of Mexican life and
+love. It ends with an unexpected little lyric. One can almost hear the
+twang of the guitar. Here is Fletcher’s picture of <em>An Unquiet Street</em>:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">By day and night this street is not still:</p>
+      <p class="verse">Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Taxicabs with shiny eyes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Rumble, shunning its ugliness.</p>
+      <p class="verse">It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,</p>
+      <p class="verse">It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,</p>
+      <p class="verse">If has no time for sleep.</p>
+      <p class="verse">It heaves its old scarred countenance</p>
+      <p class="verse">Skyward between the buildings</p>
+      <p class="verse">And never says a word.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">On rainy nights</p>
+      <p class="verse">It dully gleams</p>
+      <p class="verse">Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:</p>
+      <p class="verse">And over it hang arc-lamps,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+I think only a poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling could see in our
+municipal arc lamps “blue-white death-lilies on black stems,” but I am
+going to look more carefully after this.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+F. S. Flint has given us more beauty in his earlier work, notably
+in <em>London My Beautiful</em> and <em>The Swan</em>, than is to be found here, save
+perhaps in <em>Chalfont Saint Giles</em>, which has simplicity and dignified
+stateliness. It is a picture of village folk gravely filing into church, past
+ivy and lilac, as the bell rings. The sadness of England in war-time is
+in the picture. Here are two stanzas:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Walk quietly</p>
+      <p class="verse">along the mossy paths;</p>
+      <p class="verse">the stones of the humble dead</p>
+      <p class="verse">are hidden behind the blue mantle</p>
+      <p class="verse">of their forget-me-nots;</p>
+      <p class="verse">and before one grave so hidden</p>
+      <p class="verse">a widow kneels, with head bowed,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the crape falling</p>
+      <p class="verse">over her shoulders.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">The bells for evening church are ringing,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the people come gravely</p>
+      <p class="verse">and with red, sun-burnt faces</p>
+      <p class="verse">through the gates in the wall.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a>
+D. H. Lawrence contributes what may be considered, except for
+<em>Patterns</em>, the most notable poem in the book, <em>Erinnyes</em>, although again
+why it should be called Imagism is a mystery. It is certainly, however,
+a poem, and a profound and beautiful one. In its form and its long,
+slow, melancholy rhythm it suggests Aldington’s <em>Choricos</em>, and the
+theme is the same—Death. Here are five stanzas:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">There are so many dead,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Many have died unconsenting,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Theirs ghosts are angry, unappeased.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts</p>
+      <p class="verse">Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">What do they want, the ghosts, what is it</p>
+      <p class="verse">They demand as they stand in menace over against us?</p>
+      <p class="verse">How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And give them place and honour and service meet?</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">For one year’s space, attend on our angry dead,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And wait till they are lost upon our sight.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+There is another poem of Lawrence’s called <em>Perfidy</em> that gives an
+elusive sense of horror and calamity. This effect lies partially in the
+five-line stanza formation with the first, third, and fourth lines rhyming.
+There is no particular reason for calling this poem Imagism either; but
+we have agreed by now, I trust, that is not our first consideration. No
+less a person than Miss Lowell herself gives us justification in this
+viewpoint, for in a review of the poems of Aldington and Flint in the
+June <em>Poetry Review</em> she says, “Let us take these little volumes as
+poetry pure and simple, forgetting schools and creeds.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There are thirty-two poems in all in the book. One person will like
+this one best, another that. Suffice that the book is a valuable contribution
+to contemporary literature.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>Some Imagist Poets, 1916: An Annual Anthology. Boston:
+Houghton Mifflin.</em>
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THREEIMAGISTPOETS">
+<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a>
+Three Imagist Poets
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+</p>
+
+<p class="note">
+(<em>Continued from the May issue</em>)
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="III3">
+III
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> pass from the poetry of Mr. Aldington to the poetry of H. D. is to
+pass into another world. For H. D. not only is a modern poet,
+she is in the best sense of the word a primitive poet. She deals with
+Greek themes in the same way as the Greeks of the seventh century
+B. C. might have dealt with them. She is not like Mr. Aldington, a
+sceptic enamoured of their lost beauty. In a sense she is indifferent to
+beauty. Something speaks to her in every rock, wave, or pine tree of
+those sunlit landscapes in which she seems to live. For her the decadence
+of antiquity, the Middle Ages, the modern world seem never to
+have existed. She is purely and frankly pagan.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+How is it that so many people interested in Imagism seem never to
+have grasped this essential distinction between her work and Mr. Aldington’s?
+I must suppose it is because very few people have ever tried to
+analyze and rank the Imagist poets on any other basis than that of form.
+But as I have already pointed out, the form of the Imagists is, after all, a
+matter of lesser importance than the spirit, with which they approach that
+form. Aldington writes about life: H. D. is almost completely a nature
+poet. Nature to her is not mere inanimate scenery or beautiful decoration:
+it is packed with a life and significance which is beyond our individual
+lives, and all her poems are in a sense acts of worship towards it.
+Civilization for her does not exist, in our modern sense: she seeks a
+civilization based only on the complete realization of natural and physical
+law, without any ethical problems except the need of merging and compounding
+all one’s desires and emotions in that law. Her poetry is like
+a series of hymns of some forgotten and primitive religion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I like to think that this primitive quality in H. D.’s poetry comes
+from the fact that she is an American. There can be no doubt that we
+are an uncultivated, a barbarous people. Our ancestors, by migrating to
+an immense and utterly undeveloped continent, without traditions, were
+thrown face to face with nature and lost, in consequence, nearly all feeling
+<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a>
+for their previous culture. If you take a child of civilized parents
+and bring him up among savages, he will revert to savagery, and in the
+same way our forefathers, as soon as they ceased to cling to the Atlantic
+seaboard, changed, through contact with the immense wilderness of the
+interior, not only mentally but physically. For example, Washington
+was physically and mentally an English squire of his period: Lincoln,
+about a hundred years later, was, in appearance and habits of thought,
+like a man of another race. The Indian, although conquered, gave to his
+conquerors the Indian way of thinking; or rather the Indian’s surroundings—the
+endless forest—produced in the newcomers’ minds something
+of the same way of thinking as the Indian had before their coming.
+What a pity it has been for art that we, as a nation, did not admit without
+shame this return to nature! But instead, we were ashamed of our
+barbarism, and we have striven and are still striving to outdo Europe on
+its own grounds, with the result that so much of our art seems merely
+transplanted, exotic, and false. We might have been the Russians of the
+western hemisphere; instead of that we were almost the provincial
+English. Instead of Fenimore Cooper and <em>The Song of Hiawatha</em>, we
+might have given to the world a new national epic. But the opportunity
+is now lost and whatever fragments of that epic may be written will have
+to be very sophisticated and in a sense artificial products.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To make an end of this long digression, I can truly say that I find
+nothing transplanted in H. D.’s poetry. She has borrowed a few names
+of gods from the early Greek, but that was because she found herself in
+complete sympathy with this people, who, if we are to believe the
+modern school of archaeology, were quite as barbarian themselves in the
+Homeric period as the Red Indians, and who lived in the closest contact
+with nature. Let us take an early example:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+<h4 class="excerpt" id="HERMESOFTHEWAYS">
+Hermes of the Ways
+</h4>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">The hard sand breaks,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the grains of it</p>
+      <p class="verse">Are clear as wine.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Far off over the leagues of it,</p>
+      <p class="verse">The wind,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Playing on the wide shore,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Piles little ridges,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the great waves</p>
+      <p class="verse">Break over it.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">But more than the many-foamed ways</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of the sea,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I know him</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of the triple path-ways,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Hermes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Who awaiteth.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Dubious,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Facing three ways,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Welcoming wayfarers,</p>
+      <p class="verse">He whom the sea-orchard</p>
+      <p class="verse">Shelters from the west,</p>
+      <p class="verse">From the east,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Weathers sea-wind:</p>
+      <p class="verse">Fronts the great dunes.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Wind rushes</p>
+      <p class="verse">Over the dunes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the coarse salt-crusted grass</p>
+      <p class="verse">Answers.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Heu,</p>
+      <p class="verse">It whips round my ankles!</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+This is only one-half of the poem, but it will serve to show this
+poet’s method. Here Hermes is identified with the yellow barrier of
+sand dunes which breaks the wind, and splits it into three directions, as
+it comes in from the sea. The scenery and the feeling are not Greek.
+In fact, as someone has pointed out, the whole poem might have been
+called “The Coast of New Jersey.” But just as Coleridge found a way
+to give a feeling of the emptiness of the sea by narrating the tale of a
+legendary voyage on it, so H. D. has given us the eternal quality of the
+New Jersey coast by identifying its savagery with Greek myth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The difference between H. D.’s poetry and Aldington’s is therefore
+a difference between an apparent complexity which cannot be analysed,
+since it is really the simplest synthesis of primitive feeling, and a studied
+simplicity which on analysis, reveals itself as something very complex
+and modern. Aldington’s work when studied carefully, raises questions
+about our life: H. D. goes deeper and offers us an eternal answer.
+With the single exception of the <em>Choricos</em>, I know of no work of H. D.’s
+which is not superior to Aldington’s in rhythm, as I know of no work
+of Aldington’s which does not seem to have more unsolved problems
+underlying its thought. Aldington is monodic, H. D. is strophaic:
+Aldington writes on many themes: H. D. on two or three: H. D.’s art is
+more perfect within its limits; Aldington’s is more interesting because of
+its very human imperfection.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is another short thing of H. D.’s which fulfils perfectly the
+Greek dictum that a picture is a silent poem, a poem a speaking picture:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Whirl up, sea—</p>
+      <p class="verse">whirl your pointed pines,</p>
+      <p class="verse">splash your great pines,</p>
+      <p class="verse">over our rocks.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Hurl your green over us,</p>
+      <p class="verse">cover us with your pools of fir.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a>
+A chorus of Oreads might very well have sung that to the wind.
+Over and over again, H. D. never tires of giving us the sea, the rocks,
+the pines, the sunlight. There is such a hard brightness of sunlight in
+some of the poems that it makes us fairly dizzy with its intensity:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">O wind,</p>
+      <p class="verse">rend open the heat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">cut apart the heat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">rend it sideways.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Fruit cannot drop</p>
+      <p class="verse">through this thick air:</p>
+      <p class="verse">fruit cannot fall into heat</p>
+      <p class="verse">that presses up and blunts</p>
+      <p class="verse">the points of pears</p>
+      <p class="verse">and rounds the grapes.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Cut the heat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">plough through it,</p>
+      <p class="verse">turning it on either side</p>
+      <p class="verse">of your path.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+These poems are like cries to unknown gods. Some are simply
+stark in their dramatic magnificence:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+<h4 class="excerpt" id="THEWINDSLEEPERS">
+The Wind Sleepers
+</h4>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Whiter</p>
+      <p class="verse">than the crust</p>
+      <p class="verse">left by the tide,</p>
+      <p class="verse">we are stung by the hurled sand</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the broken shells.</p>
+      <p class="verse">We no longer sleep,</p>
+      <p class="verse">sleep in the wind,</p>
+      <p class="verse">we awoke and fled</p>
+      <p class="verse">through the Peiraeic gate.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Tear,</p>
+      <p class="verse">tear us an altar,</p>
+      <p class="verse">tug at the cliff-boulders,</p>
+      <p class="verse">pile them with the rough stones.</p>
+      <p class="verse">We no longer</p>
+      <p class="verse">sleep in the wind.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Propitiate us.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Chant in a wail</p>
+      <p class="verse">that never halts;</p>
+      <p class="verse">pace a circle and pay tribute</p>
+      <p class="verse">with a song.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">When the roar of a dropped wave</p>
+      <p class="verse">breaks into it,</p>
+      <p class="verse">pour meted words</p>
+      <p class="verse">of sea-hawks and gulls</p>
+      <p class="verse">and sea-birds that cry</p>
+      <p class="verse">discords.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a>
+Recently H. D. has been giving us longer and more complex poems—condensed
+dramas of nature and life. Her style has become broader
+and deeper, and her thought more weighty. I wish I could quote all of a
+poem of this nature called <em>Sea-Gods</em>. I can only give a brief analysis
+of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The entire poem is a sort of invocation and service of propitiation
+to the powers of the sea. In its opening lines the poet cries out:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">They say there is no hope—</p>
+      <p class="verse">sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea,</p>
+      <p class="verse">the broken hulk of a ship,</p>
+      <p class="verse">hung with shreds of rope,</p>
+      <p class="verse">pallid under the cracked pitch.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">They say there is no hope</p>
+      <p class="verse">to conjure you.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+In short, the gods are merely broken wrecks of the past. The forces
+of nature cannot help us, it is useless to cry out to them, for they are
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">—cut, torn, mangled,</p>
+      <p class="verse">torn by the stress and beat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">no stronger than the strips of sand</p>
+      <p class="verse">along your ragged beach.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+But, says the poet, in a beautiful passage:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">But we bring violets,</p>
+      <p class="verse">great masses, single, sweet:</p>
+      <p class="verse">wood-violets, stream-violets,</p>
+      <p class="verse">violets from a wet marsh,</p>
+      <p class="verse">violets in clumps from the hills.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Every kind of violet is brought and strewn on the sea. For what
+reason? Here is the answer:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">You will yet come,</p>
+      <p class="verse">you will yet haunt men in ships—</p>
+      <p class="verse">you will thunder along the cliff,</p>
+      <p class="verse">break—retreat—get fresh strength—</p>
+      <p class="verse">gather and pour weight upon the beach.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">You will bring myrrh-bark,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and drift laurel wood from hot coasts;</p>
+      <p class="verse">when you hurl, high—high—</p>
+      <p class="verse">We will answer with a shout.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">For you will come,</p>
+      <p class="verse">you will answer our taut hearts,</p>
+      <p class="verse">you will break the lie of men’s thoughts,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and shelter us for our trust.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a>
+Has the sea, then, in this poem been used in some way as a symbol
+of the eternal drift, change and reflux of our life which we have tried
+to conceal under theories of ethics, of progress, of immortality, of civilization?
+Perhaps it has. And the violets—what, then, are they but simply
+the recollections of our earlier sea-state, of our endless, unconscious
+drift with the tides of life?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I do not propose here to examine H. D.’s mystic philosophy. That
+philosophy cannot be disengaged from its context. But from a quite
+recent poem of hers—a poem very beautiful and baffling, I may perhaps
+be permitted to quote these few lines, wrenched from their context, without
+comment:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Sleepless nights,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I remember the initiates,</p>
+      <p class="verse">their gesture, their calm glance,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I have heard how, in rapt thought,</p>
+      <p class="verse">in vision they speak</p>
+      <p class="verse">with another race</p>
+      <p class="verse">More beautiful, more intense than this—</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I reason:</p>
+      <p class="verse">another life holds what this lacks:</p>
+      <p class="verse">a sea, unmoving, quiet,</p>
+      <p class="verse">not forcing our strength</p>
+      <p class="verse">to rise to it, beat on beat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">a hill not set with black violets,</p>
+      <p class="verse">but stones, stones, bare rocks,</p>
+      <p class="verse">dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty,</p>
+      <p class="verse">to distract—to crowd</p>
+      <p class="verse">madness upon madness.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Only a still place,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and perhaps some outer horror,</p>
+      <p class="verse">some hideousness to stamp beauty—</p>
+      <p class="verse">on our hearts.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="IV3">
+IV
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The third poet whose work I have to examine, Mr. F. S. Flint, was
+already an accomplished writer of rhymed vers libre before he joined the
+Imagist movement. Mr. Flint’s early work is contained in a volume
+entitled, <em>In the Net of the Stars</em>, a volume which is still worth reading.
+<em>The Net of the Stars</em> told a love-story in rather uncommon fashion. The
+poet and his beloved were presented throughout the book, against the
+background of the starry sky:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Little knots in the net of light</p>
+      <p class="verse">That is held by the infinite Dragon, Night.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+This bringing into relation of a quite human love-story, with the
+impassive and changeless order of the Universe, threw a flavour of
+supreme irony over the whole book. The work is otherwise remarkable
+<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a>
+technically. At the date when it was published, 1909, Mr. Flint already
+revealed that he was an assiduous student of Verhaeren, De Regnier,
+and other French vers-librists. Hence its importance as a document in
+the Imagist movement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But to come to Mr. Flint’s later work which has been assembled
+under the title of <em>Cadences</em>. We find here a poet, first of all, of sentiment.
+What, you say, an Imagist who deals with sentiment? My reply
+to that is, that it is time people understood that an Imagist is free to
+deal with whatever he chooses, so long as he is sincere and honest about
+it. Mr. Flint’s sincerity is his finest point. He is in some sense the
+Paul Verlaine of the Imagist movement. His work gives one the same
+delicacy of nuance, the same fresh fragrance, the same direct simplicity,
+the same brooding melancholy. He lacks the strain of coarseness which
+ruined Verlaine; he has, in place of it, a refined nobility. He has not
+humour. At times he has attempted irony, but I cannot think he has
+altogether succeeded in it. He feels life too poignantly to ever mock at
+life. There remains tenderness, wistful pathos, imaginative beauty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On reading Mr. Flint one obtains a very distinct impression of Mr.
+Flint’s personality. One pictures him as a shy, sensitive, lonely dreamer
+filled with a desire to attain to the noblest and finest life, but somehow
+kept back from it. Mr. Flint is one of the few poets I know who have
+preserved intact today a spark of the old lyrical idealism. He is, perhaps,
+though he may not realize it, even closer to Keats and Shelley than
+to Verlaine—he might almost be called a modern Shelley. His affiliation
+with these earlier and greater romantics is more marked because it is
+an affiliation of spirit, not of form. Mr. Flint’s form has always been
+his own, and by holding conscientiously to his own form, he has come
+closer, to my way of thinking, to poets like Keats and Shelley than the
+innumerable tribe of imitators who have rashly taken the form for the
+substance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here is an early example of Mr. Flint’s work:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">London, my beautiful,</p>
+      <p class="verse">it is not the sunset,</p>
+      <p class="verse">nor the pale green sky</p>
+      <p class="verse">shimmering through the curtain</p>
+      <p class="verse">of the silver birch,</p>
+      <p class="verse">nor the quietness;</p>
+      <p class="verse">it is not the hopping</p>
+      <p class="verse">of the little birds</p>
+      <p class="verse">upon the lawn,</p>
+      <p class="verse">nor the darkness</p>
+      <p class="verse">stealing over all things</p>
+      <p class="verse">that moves me.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a>
+      <p class="verse">But as the moon creeps slowly</p>
+      <p class="verse">over the treetops</p>
+      <p class="verse">among the stars;</p>
+      <p class="verse">I think of her,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the glow her passing</p>
+      <p class="verse">sheds on men.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">London, my beautiful,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I will climb</p>
+      <p class="verse">into the branches</p>
+      <p class="verse">to the moonlit treetops</p>
+      <p class="verse">that my blood may be cooled</p>
+      <p class="verse">by the wind.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+And here is another, equally beautiful:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Under the lily shadow,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the gold,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the blue, and the mauve,</p>
+      <p class="verse">that the whin and the lilac</p>
+      <p class="verse">pour down upon the water,</p>
+      <p class="verse">the fishes quiver.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Over the green cold leaves,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the rippled silver,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the tarnished copper</p>
+      <p class="verse">of its neck and beak,</p>
+      <p class="verse">toward the deep black water,</p>
+      <p class="verse">beneath the arches,</p>
+      <p class="verse">the swan floats slowly.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Into the dark of the arch the swan floats,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and the black depths of my sorrow</p>
+      <p class="verse">bears a white rose of flame.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+If Mr. Flint had written nothing else but these two poems he would
+be immortal for their sake, in spite of his disregard—shared by H. D.—of
+the convenient device which begins each line of a poem with a capital
+letter, and of the laws of punctuation. They weave a perfect hypnotic
+spell in my mind, and they fulfill completely a recent definition of Mr.
+E. A. Robinson, that poetry is a language which expresses through an
+emotional reaction something which cannot be said in ordinary speech.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Flint has given us other poems not less beautiful, but with a
+strain of greater pathos:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Tired faces,</p>
+      <p class="verse">eyes that have never seen the world,</p>
+      <p class="verse">bodies that have never lived in air,</p>
+      <p class="verse">lips that have never minted speech;</p>
+      <p class="verse">they are the clipped and garbled</p>
+      <p class="verse">blocking the highway.</p>
+      <p class="verse">They swarm and eddy</p>
+<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a>
+      <p class="verse">between the banks of glowing shops</p>
+      <p class="verse">towards the red meat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">the potherbs,</p>
+      <p class="verse">the cheapjacks,</p>
+      <p class="verse">or surge in</p>
+      <p class="verse">before the swift rush of the charging teams;</p>
+      <p class="verse">pitiful, ugly, mean,</p>
+      <p class="verse">encumbering.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Immortal?</p>
+      <p class="verse">In a wood</p>
+      <p class="verse">watching the shadow of a bird,</p>
+      <p class="verse">leap from frond to frond of bracken,</p>
+      <p class="verse">I am immortal,</p>
+      <p class="verse">perhaps.</p>
+      <p class="verse">But these?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Their souls are naphtha lamps,</p>
+      <p class="verse">guttering in an odour of carious teeth,</p>
+      <p class="verse">and I die with them.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Perhaps the last poem in Mr. Flint’s book will give the most complete
+exposition of his art and vision:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+<h4 class="excerpt" id="THESTAR">
+The Star
+</h4>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Bright Star of Life,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Who shattered creeds at Bethlehem,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And saw</p>
+      <p class="verse">In the irradiance of your vision shining,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Children and maidens, youths and men and women,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Dancing barefoot among the grasses, singing,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Dancing,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Over the waving flowery meadows;</p>
+      <p class="verse">So calmly watched the universe and men,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And yet</p>
+      <p class="verse">So fiery was the heart behind the light;</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">The creeds have been re-made by men</p>
+      <p class="verse">Who followed as you walked abroad,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And gathered up their shattered shards;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Then with a wax of sticky zeal,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Each little piece unto its fellow joined;</p>
+      <p class="verse">But over the meadows comes the wind</p>
+      <p class="verse">Remembering your voice:</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse"><em>O my love,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>O my golden-haired, my golden-hearted,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>I will sing this song to you of Him,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>This golden afternoon.</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>This song of you;</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>For where love is, is He,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Whose name has echoed in the halls of Time,</em></p>
+<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Who caught the wise eternal music, ay,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>And passed it on—</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>For men to sing it since</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>In false and shifting keys—</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Who hears it now?</em></p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">But the hearts of those who have heard it rightly,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Grew great;</p>
+      <p class="verse">And behind the walls and barriers of the world,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Their voices have gone up in sweetness</p>
+      <p class="verse">Unheeded,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Yet imminent in the wings and flight of change;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Comes there a time when men shall shout it,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And say to Life:</p>
+      <p class="verse">You have the strength of the seas,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And the glory of the vine;</p>
+      <p class="verse">You shall have the wisdom of the hills,</p>
+      <p class="verse">The daring of the eagle’s wings,</p>
+      <p class="verse">The yearning of the swallow’s quest.</p>
+      <p class="verse">And, in the <a id="corr-13"></a>mighty organ of the world,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Great men shall be as pipes and nations stops</p>
+      <p class="verse">To harmonize your Song.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse"><em>O my love,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Like a cornfield in summer</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Is your body to me;</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Golden and bending with the wind,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>And on the tallest ear a bird is piping</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>The lonely song.</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>And scarlet poppies thread the golden ways.</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Out of the purple haze of the sea behind it</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>Appears a white ship sailing,</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>And its passengers are harvesters.</em></p>
+      <p class="verse"><em>But who dares sing of love?</em></p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">The jackals howl; the vultures gorge dead flesh.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+In despite of the last line, which is undoubtedly true, and, under
+the present circumstances, certainly necessary to the context of all that
+precedes it, yet I feel I cannot share Mr. Flint’s despair of this world.
+For as long as there is any poet who can have such visions as this is, in
+such a world as ours, the earth cannot be altogether given over to crime
+and slaughter. Which one of the Imagists could have given us with so
+direct and poignant sincerity—scorning all artifice—such a vision of
+beauty? Or, for that matter, which one of the poets of today?
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC">
+<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a>
+The Reader Critic
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="letters">
+<h3 class="section" id="WHATISANARCHY">
+What Is Anarchy?
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>Alan Adair, London</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the March number of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, Miss Alice Groff criticises Anarchy.
+She criticises it badly and unfairly. She writes as though she did not understand
+what anarchy is. Have you room in your paper for me to tell her?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Anarchy is the name given to those periods in the life of a people during which
+the principle of domination is held in abeyance and men are no longer accountable
+to any magistracy. It is properly a political word. It has no philosophical significance.
+All it means is absence of material government. It is in that sense that
+Milton uses it and Swift uses it. It is in that sense that writers of history books
+employ it. It is a term, and the only correct term, for a certain condition of society.
+That condition has occurred in the past and will doubtless occur in the future. It is
+the result of an equality of strength among the different elements, or “social-egos”
+that make up a community. There is Anarchy only so long as these forces remain
+equal. Once they cease to be equal, so soon as one begins to tend towards dominance,
+so soon does the Anarchy end. According to the “social-ego” that has triumphed,
+the changed commonwealth becomes an oligarchy or a kingdom; a military
+republic, an ochlocracy or a federation of communes. But until then, while there is
+still absence of supreme coercive power, while there is still <em>no dominant “social-ego,”</em>
+so long is the community correctly termed an Anarchy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Between this, the Anarchy of fact and of history, and the Anarchy of theory
+and modern revolutionists, there is no substantial difference. The anarchist, in any
+age, is simply and without qualification, a man who desires an end put to the political
+power under which he lives. The reason <em>why</em> he desires such a thing does not
+matter. He may think government to be eternally an evil or only presently an evil.
+He may be egoist or communist. What makes him an anarchist is that he hates the
+social order around him and would precipitate its destruction by paralyzing the centers
+of its administrative and legislative authority.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The theoretical case against government has little part in the mind of the modern
+anarchist. Miss Groff altogether overestimates the importance that he attaches to it.
+The war against authority <em>as authority</em> is past. We are beyond that kind of mysticism.
+Scepticism is a big ingredient of Anarchy and the anarchist knows only too
+well that we know too little of psychology and too little of philosophy to judge the
+worth of abstractions like justice or liberty or the principle of domination. We can
+only fix temporary, conditional values to such things. Actual, modern authority is
+the only sphinx that troubles the contemporary anarchist. He has no desire to control
+the destinies of his people and, as anarchist, he has no theories about the future
+form of its political institutions. His business is solely with present facts. His task
+is simply destruction. It may be that he does not start from a “basis of reason.” He
+has seen and thought too much to trouble greatly about reason. He knows too many
+books to have much optimism. He sees sprawled across the earth a tragic and incoherent
+civilization and he sees the most virile of the races of man lose under its
+influence the spontaneity of their actions and the region of their instincts. That,
+possibly more than the desire to “complete a circuit of reason,” is at the root of his
+attitude to society. The question of the moral significance of archist or an-archist
+is beyond the answering of Miss Groff or any one else. The question of whether it
+is well to endure the present order; to be dwarfed and poisoned by its ideals; to be
+<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a>
+devoted by its economy to contemptible pursuits; to be forced to conjunction with
+base influences by every circumstance that past power has created for the control of
+present humanity; that is at least an answerable question. Of the value of the anarchist
+answer there may be many opinions, but that it is an intelligible answer is not to
+be denied. It is simple and coherent. Society is sick of its many counsellors and
+rulers. Its sources of spiritual vitality are dried up. It is full of confusion; bereft
+of consistent purpose; continuing only in mechanical existence. To precipitate its
+decay is the one wise action possible to mankind. All things are grown fatigued;
+without simplicity of soul or rigour of desire. Religions, institutions and codes of
+law are no longer animated; solely the dead weight of the past holds them in position.
+Of what use to plan, meditate or invent, to conquer elements or to evoke from
+the earth new, fantastic and wonder-working metals, when that which has custody
+of all such things, that which alone can give continuity to the works and achievements
+of man our mother civilization itself is in dissolution?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To the mind of the anarchist, there are but two courses open to humanity.
+First: there may be a continuance of the present conditions: a society stratified as
+now, <a id="corr-14"></a>stupidified as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually
+enfeebled in spirit, the current of its vitality becoming attenuated until lost
+in the morass of an enormous racial degeneracy. Or else, secondly, the mechanism
+of civilization may break and a period of administrative and moral chaos not easily
+distinguishable from barbarism supervene upon dilatory decadence. It is this second
+course that commends itself to the anarchist. Only in a partial cessation of its continuity,
+only in a barbaric forgetfulness of its eternal problems and speculations can
+an exhausted humanity come once more to a zest for existence and the will to achievement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And an Anarchy is commonly an epoch of such confusion and recovery.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="IMPRESSIONSOFTHELOOP">
+Impressions of the Loop
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>A Boy Reader, Chicago</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Is the following good enough for you to print?
+</p>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">As I walk through the streets of the Loop,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Big, fat, double-chinned women fan by;</p>
+      <p class="verse">They reek of Melba perfume:</p>
+      <p class="verse">They might have used some other kind,</p>
+      <p class="verse">But they like Melba: fat women, I mean.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Then there are whining old ladies;</p>
+      <p class="verse">They look disdainfully at the gay styles,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Whining, because they are disgusted—</p>
+      <p class="verse">(Envious disgust).</p>
+      <p class="verse">They are old, you know, and can’t do such things.</p>
+      <p class="verse">And drunken men tumble from the corner saloons;</p>
+      <p class="verse">I envy them, for they are very happy.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Miserable, begging men and women sit in comfort</p>
+      <p class="verse">On every corner.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Some have <em>an</em> arm, some <em>a</em> leg,</p>
+      <p class="verse">But they had <em>another</em> once.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Why don’t the rich people take care of them?</p>
+      <p class="verse">They might lose their arms and legs!</p>
+      <p class="verse">Big limousines glide by;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Painted blonde ladies sit on soft cushions.</p>
+<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a>
+      <p class="verse">They must sit there!</p>
+      <p class="verse">What would the jewelry stores do without them!</p>
+      <p class="verse">Diamonds glitter on their perfumed hands;</p>
+      <p class="verse">They cannot smile, for the paint would crack</p>
+      <p class="verse">And fall from their faces. Besides, they are select.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ragamuffins weave in and out.</p>
+      <p class="verse">They hop cars, scream, and envy the blossoming windows</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of cheap Delicatessens.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Flip stenographers flit by;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Their ankles are gay with many-colored stilty shoes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">But their stockings are full of holes and Jacob’s ladders</p>
+      <p class="verse">Under it all.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Terrible odors fill the air:</p>
+      <p class="verse">Fish, gasoline, booze, sachet-powder (lots of Melba),</p>
+      <p class="verse">Gas, cheap roses, and peanuts; coffee, smoke,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And other things.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Dirty men, clean men, dudes, street mashers,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Cheap Musicians and Artists....</p>
+      <p class="verse">This is life!</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="impressum">
+<p class="b c">
+Statement of Ownership, Management, Circulation, Etc., Required by
+the Act of Congress of August 24, 1912
+</p>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, published monthly at Chicago, Ill., for April 1st, 1916.
+</p>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+State of Illinois, County of Cook—ss:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personally appeared
+Margaret C. Anderson, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that she
+is the Editor of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, and that the following is, to the best of her knowledge
+and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation),
+etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act
+of August 24, 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse
+of this form, to wit:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business
+managers are:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building; Editor, Margaret C. Anderson,
+834 Fine Arts Building; Managing editor, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building; Business
+manager, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of individual owners, or, if a corporation,
+give its name and the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 per cent
+or more of the total amount of stock.)
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding
+1 per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: (If there are
+none, so state.) None.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders, and
+security holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they
+appear upon the books of the company but also, in cases where the stockholders or security
+holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the
+name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said
+two paragraphs contain statements embracing affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances
+and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon
+the books of the company as trustee, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a
+bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person, association, or
+corporation has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as
+so stated by him.
+</p>
+
+<p class="sign">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sworn to and subscribed before me this 31st day of March, 1916.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+(SEAL)
+</p>
+
+<p class="sign">
+MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public.<br>
+(My commission expires December 20, 1917.)
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="editorials chapter">
+<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a>
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="editorials" id="AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">
+A Vers Libre Prize Contest
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hrough</span> the generosity of a friend, <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+is enabled to offer an unusual prize for poetry—possibly the
+first prize extended to free verse. The giver is “interested in all
+experiments, and has followed the poetry published in <span class="smallcaps">The Little
+Review</span> with keen appreciation and a growing admiration for the
+poetic form known as <em>vers libre</em>.”
+</p>
+
+  <div class="linespace">
+<p>
+The conditions are as follows:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Contributions must be received by August 15th.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They must not be longer than twenty-five lines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They must be sent anonymously with stamps for return.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The name and address of the author must be fixed to the
+manuscript in a sealed envelope.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse
+having beauty of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There will be three judges: William Carlos Williams, Zoë
+Aikens and Helen Hoyt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not
+as a first and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in
+free verse form.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As there will probably be a large number of poems to read,
+we suggest that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of
+the contest.
+</p>
+
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+THE NEW POETRY SERIES
+</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+A successful attempt to give the best of contemporary verse a wide reading in its own generation.
+</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+NEW VOLUMES NOW READY
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A new collection of the work of this interesting group of poets—Richard Aldington, “H. D.”, John Gould
+Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, and Amy Lowell—showing increased scope and power and confirming
+their important position in modern poetry. The volume includes Miss Lowell’s “Patterns” and
+“Spring Day,” and Mr. Fletcher’s Arizona poems.
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+GOBLINS AND PAGODAS<br>
+By JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This volume includes “Ghosts of an Old House” and ten “Symphonies” interpreting in terms of color
+the inner life of a poet. In originality of conception, in sheer tonal beauty, and in the subtlety with
+which moods are evoked, these poems mark a distinct advance in the development of the art of poetry.
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+</p>
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+<p>
+The author of “The Little Gray Songs from St. Joseph’s” writes in the old metres but with all the
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+</p>
+
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+TURNS AND MOVIES<br>
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+IDOLS<br>
+By WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Contains many interesting experiments in new metres and reflective verse of much beauty as well as
+novel and effective renderings of Mallarmé’s “Afternoon of a Faun,” and of Dante’s Fifth Canto.
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+been in Nancy, within a few kilometres of the
+firing-line, since August, 1914.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+THE EGOIST, in publishing these poems by
+as well known an author as M. Spire, hopes to
+reach that fairly numerous public in England
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+up this book with other small collections of
+new French poetry by the younger poets.
+</p>
+
+  </div>
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+The Centenary of Charlotte Brontë<br>
+<em>By E. Basil Lupton</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+Synge and Borrow: A Contrast in Method<br>
+<em>By Miriam Allen deFord</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+Dickens as a Student of Scott<br>
+<em>By E. Basil Lupton</em>
+</p>
+
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+</p>
+
+<p class="u">
+SUNDAY, JULY 23rd, 8 P. M.<br>
+“The Philosophy of Atheism”<br>
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+<div class="trnote chapter">
+<p class="transnote">
+Transcriber’s Notes
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the
+headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors
+were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):
+</p>
+
+
+
+<ul>
+
+<li>
+... when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <span class="underline">Merengo</span>?” ...<br>
+... when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <a href="#corr-2"><span class="underline">Marengo</span></a>?” ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... in landlady’s pink, a <span class="underline">Jessicca</span> (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume, ...<br>
+... in landlady’s pink, a <a href="#corr-10"><span class="underline">Jessica</span></a> (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume, ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... if similar technique, should <span class="underline">chose</span> to band themselves together ...<br>
+... if similar technique, should <a href="#corr-11"><span class="underline">choose</span></a> to band themselves together ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... And, in the <span class="underline">mightly</span> organ of the world, ...<br>
+... And, in the <a href="#corr-13"><span class="underline">mighty</span></a> organ of the world, ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... now, <span class="underline">stupified</span> as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually ...<br>
+... now, <a href="#corr-14"><span class="underline">stupidified</span></a> as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually ...<br>
+</li>
+</ul>
+</div>
+
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75854 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-04-13 23:21:03 -0700
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-04-13 23:21:03 -0700
commit	1644cb1751bc672f205961b605e73e850bb9ea00 (patch)
tree	efdfef1dcdd2c833abe4eda54a1d8fc1392b109e /75854-h