Great joys or sorrows never came To set her placid soul astir; Youth's leaping torch, Love's sudden flame Don't you believe it, Mr. Untermeyer! Even in his "serious" volumes of verse, there is much satire and saline humour; so that his delightful book of parodies, called and Other Poets is as spontaneous a product of his Muse as his utterances ex cathedra. The twenty-seven poems, called The Banquet of the Bards, with which the book begins, are excellent fooling and genuine criticism. He wrote these things for his own amusement, one reason why they amuse us. A roll-call of twenty-seven contemporary poets, where each one comes forward and "speaks his piece," is decidedly worth having. John Masefield "tells the true story of Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son"; William Butler Yeats "gives a Keltic version of Three Wise Men in Gotham"; Robert Frost "relates the Death of the Tired Man," and so on. I had rather possess this volume than any other by the author; it is almost worthy to rank with the immortal Fly Leaves. Furthermore, in his serious work Mr. Untermeyer has only begun to fight. And while we are considering poems "in lighter vein," let us not forget the three famous initials signed to a column in the Chicago Tribune, Don Marquis of the Evening Sun, who can be either grave or gay but cannot be ungraceful, and the universally beloved Captain Franklin P. Adams, whose Conning Tower increased the circulation of the New York Tribune and the blood of its readers. Brightest and best of the sons of the Colyumnists, his classic Muse made the Evening Mail an evening blessing, sending the suburbanites home to their wives "always in good humour"; then, like Jupiter and Venus, he changed from evening star to morning star, and gave many thousands a new zest for the day's work. Skilful indeed was his appropriation of the methods of Tom Sawyer; as Tom got his fence whitewashed by arousing an eager competition among the boys to do his work for him, each toiler firmly persuaded that he was the recipient rather than the bestower of a favour, so F. P. A. incited hundreds of well-paid literary artists to compete with one another for the privilege of writing his column without money and without price. His two books of verse, By and. Large and Weights and Measures, have fairly earned a place in contemporary American literature; and the influence of his column toward precision and dignity in the use of the English language has made him one of the best teachers of English composition in the country. CHAPTER X SARA TEASDALE, ALAN SEEGER, AND OTHERS Sara Teasdale-her poems of love-her youth-her finished art-Fannie Stearns Davis-her thoughtful verse-Theodosia Garrison-her war poem-war poetry of Mary Carolyn Davies -Harriet Monroe her services-her original work-Alice Corbin-her philosophy-Sarah Cleghorn-poet of the country village-Jessie B. Rittenhouse-critic and poet-Margaret. Widdemer-poet of the factories-Carl Sandburg-poet of Chicago-his career-his defects-J. C. Underwood-poet of city noises-T. S. Eliot―J. G. Neihardt-love poems-C. W. Stork-Contemporary Verse-M. L. Fisher-The Sonnet-S. Middleton-J. P. Bishop-W. A. Bradley-nature poems-W. Griffith-City Pastorals-John Erskine-W. E. Leonard-W. T. Whitsett-Helen Hay Whitney-Corinne Roosevelt Robinson-M. Nicholson-his left hand-Witter Bynner-a country poet-H. Hagedorn-Percy Mackaye-his theories-his possibilities-J. G. Fletcher-monotony of free verse-Conrad Aiken-his gift of melody-W. A. Percy-the best American poem of 1917-Alan Seeger-an Elizabethan-an inspired poet. Sara Teasdale (Mrs. Filsinger) was born at St. Louis (pronounced Lewis), on the eighth of August, 1884. Her first book appeared when she was twenty-three, and made an impression. In 1911 she published Helen of Troy, and Other Poems; in 1915 a volume of original lyrics called Rivers to the Sea; some of these were reprinted, together with new material, in Love Poems (1917), which also contained Songs out of Sorrow-verses that won the prize offered by the Poetry Society of America for the best unpublished work read at the meetings in 1916; and in 1918 she received the Columbia University Poetry Prize of five hundred dollars, for the best book produced by an American in 1917. In spite of her youth and the slender amount of her production, Sara Teasdale has won her way to the front rank of living American poets. She is among the happy few who not only know what they wish to accomplish, but who succeed in the attempt. How many manuscripts she burns, I know not; but the comparatively small number of pages that reach the world are nearly fleckless. Her career is beginning, but her work shows a combination of strength and grace that many a master might envy. It would be an insult to call her poems "promising," for most of them exhibit a consummate control of the art of lyrical expression. Give her more years, more experience, wider range, richer content, her architecture may become as massive as it is fine. She thoroughly understands the manipulation of the material of poetry. It would be difficult to suggest any improvement upon TWILIGHT The stately tragedy of dusk Although she gives us many beautiful pictures of nature, she is primarily a poet of love. Whitehot passion without a trace of anything common or unclean; absolute surrender; whole-hearted devotion expressed in pure singing. Nothing is finer than this-to realize that the primal impulse is as strong as in the breast of a cave-woman, yet illumined by clear, high intelligence, and pouring out its feeling in a voice of gracious charm. PITY They never saw my lover's face, They only know our love was brief, And passing like an autumn leaf. They wonder why I do not weep, They think it strange that I can sing, They never saw my love nor knew I pity them as angels do Men who have never seen God's face. A PRAYER Until I lose my soul and lie Blind to the beauty of the earth, Until my heart is quenched at length |