G.o.d made a garden, it was men built walls; But the wide sea from men is wholly freed; Freely the great waves rise and storm and break, Nor softlier go for any landlord's need, Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed, But all things give themselves, yet none may take.

_Moira O'Neill_

Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of only twenty-five lyrics, _Songs from the Glens of Antrim_ (1900), simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; melodious without falling into the tinkle of most "popular" sentimental verse.

A BROKEN SONG

'_Where am I from?_' From the green hills of Erin.

'_Have I no song then?_' My songs are all sung.

'_What o' my love?_' 'Tis alone I am farin'.

Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.

'_If she was tall?_' Like a king's own daughter.

'_If she was fair?_' Like a mornin' o' May.

When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather, When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.

'_Where did she dwell?_' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.

'_Who loved her best?_' There's no one now will know.

'_Where is she gone?_' Och, why would I be tellin'!

Where she is gone there I can never go.

BEAUTY'S A FLOWER

_Youth's for an hour, Beauty's a flower, But love is the jewel that wins the world._

Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet, Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet; In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she, I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.

Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long, There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song; For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife, An' Mary--G.o.d be good to her!--is all I love in life.

_Youth's for an hour, Beauty's a flower, But love is the jewel that wins the world._

_John McCrae_

John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January, 1918, his volume _In Flanders Fields_ (1919) appearing posthumously.

Few who read the t.i.tle poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

_Ford Madox Hueffer_

Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873 and is best known as the author of many novels, two of which, _Romance_ and _The Inheritors_, were written in collaboration with Joseph Conrad. He has written also several critical studies, those on Rossetti and Henry James being the most notable. His _On Heaven and Other Poems_ appeared in 1916.

CLAIR DE LUNE

I

I should like to imagine A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!

For, it is possible To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins: To see the black perspective of long avenues All silent.

The white strips of sky At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks: The white strips of sky Above, diminishing-- The silence and blackness of the avenue Enclosed by immensities of s.p.a.ce Spreading away Over No Man's Land....

For a minute ...

For ten ...

There will be no star sh.e.l.ls But the untroubled stars, There will be no _Very_ light But the light of the quiet moon Like a swan.

And silence....

Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams "_Wukka Wukka_" will go the machine-guns, And, far away to the left _Wukka Wukka_.

And sharply, _Wuk_ ... _Wuk_ ... and then silence For a s.p.a.ce in the clear of the moon.

II

I should like to imagine A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble Will be silent....

Do you remember, my dear, Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight, Looking over to Flatholme We sat ... Long ago!...

And the things that you told me ...

Little things in the clear of the moon, The little, sad things of a life....

We shall do it again Full surely, Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.

Then, far away to the right Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble _Wukka-wukka!_ And, far away to the left, under Flatholme, _Wukka-wuk!..._

I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?

As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"

In the dark of the moon, Going over....