MODERN VERSE DURING the past decade there has been a remarkable renascence of poetry both in England and America. A new poetry has risen, differing from the old in particulars but like it in its attempt to express the spirit of the age and in its appeal to the popular taste of the time. The difference is not merely in form, for here we find the same rhymeschemes and the same measures. It is different not merely in its rejection of "poetic language," for poetry of any period uses a terminology which is characteristic of its respective age. It is not markedly different in its use of subjects, for at particular eras poetry turns to material which at the time seems unsuitable to verse. This new poetry, like the old poetry, strives for a direct realization of life; it discards forms, language, and subjects that would introduce any barrier to a complete understanding of the concrete or would prevent the simple expression of the individual emotion. It has set before itself an ideal of absolute simplicity and sincerity. And here it is well to remember that the new poetry does not discard tradition, for it is aware of the fact that it is merely following the best literary tradition when it attempts to find a speech and express a mood suited to the time. The best poetry has always been written in the language of its time and even when it has adopted legends or romances of some earlier period it has always sought to use them as the skeletons for the body and spirit of the particular era. The ultimate justification for a new poetry is to be found in the study of such masters as Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning, and if we may find some of these more or less congenial to our modern taste, it is because the age which was reflected in their verse would have pleased us just as much or as little as their respective age. In so far as each wrote poetry of a high order, in that proportion was the poet a spokesman of his age. It should be a source of encouragement, then, that the poetry of to-day should be "new," that, superficially at least, it should seem to discard traditions and should seem to be different. We should not expect it or wish it to be Victorian in an un-Victorian age. As one poet has said, W. B. Yeats, who has been a strong force in the new movement, "We were weary of all this. We wanted to get rid not only of rhetoric but of poetic diction. We tried to strip away everything that was artificial, to get a style like speech, as simple as the simplest prose, like a cry of the heart." With all things contemporary it is impossible to pass a final judgment. It is best to read and enjoy and be slow in saying, "This is great and will last," or "This is trivial and will soon pass." It is inspiring to be able to select such a substantial amount of interesting verse fron so many worthy and sincere writers who are doing much to make the world a better place in which to live. It is inspiring to be able to turn the pages of this book and find this great tradition of English literature still abounding in richness and full of promise for the future. . LAURENCE BINYON FOR THE FALLEN WITH proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were stanch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the daytime; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; RAIN-SUNKEN roof, grown green and thin The light pales at the spider's lust, The smell of apples stored in hay F. W. BOURDILLON LIGHT THE night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies The mind has a thousand eyes, ROBERT BRIDGES THE WINNOWERS BETWIXT two billows of the downs And nothing sees but the bald crowns Clustering beneath the long descent We found it in the mid-day sun Basking, what time of year The thrush his singing has begun, Ere the first leaves appear. High from his load a woodman pitched Sweet hay from crib and rack: And from the barn hard by was borne A steady muffled din, By which we knew that threshèd corn Was winnowing, and went in. The sunbeams on the motey air Streamed through the open door, And on the brown arms moving bare, And the grain upon the floor. One turns the crank, one stoops to feed We watched the good grain rattle down, Merry they were, because the wheat It chanced we from the city were, In spirit from the store and stir But here we found ourselves again. Where humble harvests bring After much toil but little grain, 'Tis merry winnowing. SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED So sweet love seemed that April morn But I can tell let truth be told And in the end 'twill come to pass His little spring, that sweet we found NIGHTINGALES BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long. THE MOON THY beauty haunts me heart and soul, That cries aloud to own thy light: Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats Let my deep silence speak for me. More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails Is greater than thy nightingales. LEISURE WHAT is this life if, full of care, No time to stand beneath the boughs No time to see, when woods we pass, No time to see, in broad daylight, No time to turn at Beauty's glance, No time to wait till her mouth can A poor life this if, full of care, RICH DAYS WELCOME to you, rich Autumn days, All standing arm-in-arm entwined; With mellow pears that cheat our teeth, Which melt that tongues may suck them in With cherries red, and blue-black plums, WALTER DE LA MARE "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: |