smith and Christopher Smart I should have included in the third section, but here again space forbade.

Since the aim is to give the reader nothing but the pure joy of reading good poetry, the book has been encumbered by no critical apparatus, a mere list of the poets with their dates seeming to be enough.

In the matter of text, my first instinct was to use modernised versions in all instances, and yet I cannot but think that a Shakespeare sonnet, for example, gains definitely in beauty when read in the actual form of its first appearance, and so, at the risk of putting what I believe will be but a momentary difficulty in the way of some readers, I have decided to print original texts always. Such texts have been taken from what seem to me to be the best sources available, often from the original editions, sometimes from later editings when these had authority.

A last problem has been the inclusion of living writers. There are already in existence a number of admirable anthologies of contemporary work easily accessible to everybody. It is no part of this book to compete with these, but, on the other hand, one wished to guard against the rather common superstition that poetry was something that stopped at the end of the last generation. So, as a mere indication of what is being done to-day, I have included just twelve poems by writers later, say, than Meredith and Swinburne. I need not say that there are another twelve, and yet another twelve, that are in every way just as good and might have been chosen. And, finally, I hope that the book may bring quietness and joy to many hours.

LONDON, October, 1922.

JOHN DRINKWATER.

AN ANTHOLOGY OF

ENGLISH VERSE

BOOK I

QUI BIEN AIME A TARD OUBLIE
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy onlofte;
Thus singen smale foules for thy sake-

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake.

Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

CAPTIVITY

Your yen two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

MY LUTE AWAKE! PERFOURME
THE LAST

My Lute awake! perfourme the last
Labor that thou and I shall wast,
And end that I have now begon;
For when this song is song and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

As to be herd where ere is none,
As lede to grave in marbill stone,
My song may perse her hert as sone;
Should we then sigh or sing or mone?
No! no! my lute, for I have done.

The Rokkes do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continuelly
As she my suyte and affection;
So that I ame past remedy,

Whereby my lute and I have done.

Prowd of the spoyll that thou hast gott
Of simple hertes, thorough loves shot;
By whome, unkynd, thou hast theim wone.
Thinck not he hath his bow forgot,
All tho my lute and I have done.

Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on ernest pain;
Thinck not alone under the sonne
Unquyt to cause thy lovers plain,
All tho my lute and I have done.

Perchaunce the lye wethered and old
The wynter nyght that are so cold,
Playning in vain unto the mone;
Thy wisshes then dare not be told;
Care then who lyst, for I have done.

And then may chaunce the to repent
The tyme that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swone;
Then shalt thou knowe beaultie but lent,

And wisshe and want as I have done.

Now cesse, my lute: this is the last
Labor that thou and I shall wast,
And ended is that we begon;
Now is this song boeth song and past
My lute be still, for I have done.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.