Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next

Spring

A blackbird or a robin will nest there,

Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain
Whatever is for ever to a bird.

This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,
'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:

Better they will never warm me, though they must
Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done
The war will have ended, many other things
Have ended, maybe, that I can no more
Foresee or more control than robin and wren.

COCK-CROW

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:-
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

Seumas O'Sullivan

James Starkey was born in Dublin in 1879. Writing under the pseudonym of Seumas O'Sullivan, he contributed a great variety of prose and verse to various Irish papers. His repu

tation as a poet began with his appearance in New Songs, edited by George Russell (“A. E.”). Later, he published The Twilight People (1905), The Earth Lover (1909), and Poems (1912).

PRAISE

Dear, they are praising your beauty,

The grass and the sky:

The sky in a silence of wonder,

The grass in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising,
Dearest, had I

Speech as the whispering grass,

Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the praising

Beauty so high.

Sweet, you are praised in a silence,
Sung in a sigh.

Ralph Hodgson

This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879. One of the most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare and timeless songs as his. It is difficult to think of any anthology of English poetry compiled after 1917 that could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor," and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One succumbs to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is the

oldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and still more surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious sinner nor the Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's candid lines, any young, English country girl-filling her basket, regarding the world and the serpent itself with a mild and childlike wonder.

Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that goes out to

66 an idle rainbow

No less than laboring seas,"

were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by Flying Fame.

"Eva!" Each syllable

Light as a flower fell,
"Eva!" he whispered the
Wondering maid,

Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
"Eva!" he said.

Picture that orchard sprite;
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips;
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,

Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.

Oh, had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!

Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.

Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he

Telling his story low. . .
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.

Oh, what a clatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!

How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied

Poor motherless Eve!

Picture her crying

Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain.

Picture the lewd delight

Under the hill to-night-
"Eva!" the toast goes round,

"Eva!" again.

TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan
Just for one day?