people, you know. But get interested in everything, and stay interested."

If young poets were to accept this advice at its face value they would be nourishing impossible ambitions. But the thing that Mr. Benét means, the thing he is trying to emphasize in this paragraph, is a thing that young poets can achieve if they will, a certain breadth of sympathy and understanding that reaches through all pursuits and vocations to the common heart of mankind, and a certain breadth of interest in all that happens in the world, all that has happened or is likely to happen.

When Mr. Benét goes on to talk of the actual process of making poems, we find that what he has to say is very interesting in relation to the kind of poems he writes, which ought to be the case, of course. He suggests, first of all, the acquisition of a good vocabulary, then a practice in visualization. "Hunt up all the great paintings ancient or modern that you can see and saturate yourself in their mysteries of color. That will help your visualization to be more than a cheap lithograph. Then, when you come to make a poem, visualize intensely. Try to see it as if it were a living scene with more than 'shadow shapes that come and go' moving through it. Then think of your visualization in terms of the greatest music you know. Hold that thought! Wrestle with it until you feel that somehow-God alone knows how you can express it in words."

Mr. Benét offers young poets several other bits of excellent advice. "Get your poems by heart," he says, "and go around annoying people by mouthing to yourself." This is really very important, for it is almost the only way that the young poet has of learning how words sound in sequences. Mr. Benét has some good things to say, also, about writing for the love of expression and writing for money.

"If you want to write for money, all right. I have written for money and served God and Mammon. It is pleasanter serving God, but Mammon is more remunerative-possibly. I'm not yet sure. One thing I am sure of. A poem that is not written

out of an enthusiasm quite above the consideration of personal gain, though that element may figure, can never be a great poem. Poets have never made money at poetry. I don't believe they ever will. That means-when you are writing poetry try to write great poetry-don't try to write verse. Don't mix the two things. You can write verse also if you like. But don't make shandygaff of your poetry. There is no pleasure like the writing of poetry, and no despair like it."

Mr. Benét's last bit of advice is this: "Do not be didactic in words if you can help it. If your poem is a great poem it will be powerfully didactic in effect. And that is all that is worth anything. If you preach outright in words the chances are that you will weaken the 'drive' of your poem and circumscribe the scope of its influence."

Another poet who is careful to warn young poets of the dangers of didacticism is Edwin Markham, the famous maker of "The Man With The Hoe." His warning is the more valuable because indiscriminating people sometimes call "The Man With The Hoe" didactic poetry, failing to understand that everything that might have been dry and didactic in such a poem was consumed in this poet's great social passion, transmuted into pure flame of emotion before it was expressed in virile poetry. No poet in America is better known or better loved than Mr. Markham. His advice will surely be welcomed by young poets of to-morrow. This is what he says:

"The poet comes to behold and to express the hidden loveliness of the world, to point out the ideal that is ever seeking to push through the husk of things and to reveal the inner spiritual reality. So all of life is material for his seeing eye and his thinking heart, as he makes the wonderful familiar and makes the familiar wonderful.

Young poet, I command you to be critical of your own work, to reach a ground where you can not be easily satisfied. Make a serious study of the art of poetry and become acquainted at first hand with the best poetry of the world. Read constantly the great masters; dwell with loving heart upon their great lines,

their great passages, their great poems. These will become touchstones for testing the value of your own verse. There is nothing that takes the place of work. The kingdom of song can be taken only by industry, by patient resolve led on by the wings of inspiration.

"Listen to a few warnings: the greatest of all poetic heresies is the heresy of the Didactic. We who have a serious purpose in our poetry, must, as far as possible, beware of the bare-bones of moral preachment. We must not be so intent on capturing the truth as to forget the beauty that is the veil of truth. Indeed, beauty is so essential to truth that we do not really possess the truth unless we have the beauty. So we are forced to keep seeking until we find some symbol that will express the beauty that is the eternal vesture of truth. This is not always an easy task, yet it is the stern task that is laid upon the poet by the austere Muse.

"The poet must avoid the threadbare, the commonplace, and the scientifically exact. He seeks to rise on the wings of words to that high level where the kindled imagination can create forms of ideal loveliness and find space for unhindered flight. To this end the poet must avoid words like 'visualize' as being too precise for his purpose, too cold for his emotion. As far as possible he must use words that have been long lavendered by time and are therefore surrounded by an atmosphere of association and suggestiveness.

"Be especially careful, then, to avoid all worn-out phrases and clauses. I have just come upon one in a recent poet's work: 'Things are not what they seem.' Hackneyed expression is the death of poesy. Seek for the fresh phrase that will send upon the mind the surprise of unexpected beauty.

"There are three planes in the poet's work-the ground of imagination, the highest of all grounds; the ground of winsome fancy; and the yet lower ground of freakish conceit. A flash of imagination gives you the sense of the ultimate truth, a glimpse of the universe as God sees it. An airy bubble of fancy gives you a pleasing glitter; if it is not the truth, it is at least