Edward Thomas, one of the little-known but most individual of modern English poets, was born in 1878. For many years before he turned to verse, Thomas had a large following as a critic and author of travel books, biographies, pot-boilers. Hating his hack-work, yet unable to get free of it, he had so repressed his creative ability that he had grown doubtful concerning his own power. It needed something foreign to stir and animate what was native in him. So when Robert Frost, the New England poet, went abroad in 1912 for two years and became an intimate of Thomas's, the English critic began to write poetry.

Loving, like Frost, the _minutiae_ of existence, the quaint and casual turn of ordinary life, he caught the magic of the English countryside in its unpoeticized quietude. Many of his poems are full of a slow, sad contemplation of life and a reflection of its brave futility. It is not disillusion exactly; it is rather an absence of illusion.

_Poems_ (1917), dedicated to Robert Frost, is full of Thomas's fidelity to little things, things as unglorified as the unfreezing of the "rock-like mud," a child's path, a list of quaint-sounding villages, birds' nests uncovered by the autumn wind, dusty nettles--the lines glow with a deep and almost abject reverence for the soil.

Thomas was killed at Arras, at an observatory outpost, on Easter Monday, 1917.

IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE

If I should ever by chance grow rich I'll buy Codham, c.o.c.kridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, And let them all to my elder daughter.

The rent I shall ask of her will be only Each year's first violets, white and lonely, The first primroses and orchises-- She must find them before I do, that is.

But if she finds a blossom on furze Without rent they shall all for ever be hers, Codham, c.o.c.kridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,-- I shall give them all to my elder daughter.

TALL NETTLES

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough Long worn out, and the roller made of stone: Only the elm b.u.t.t tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most: As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

FIFTY f.a.gGOTS

There they stand, on their ends, the fifty f.a.ggots That once were underwood of hazel and ash In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone 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.

c.o.c.k-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 c.o.c.ks 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 reputation 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 gra.s.s and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The gra.s.s in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising, Dearest, had I Speech as the whispering gra.s.s, 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 s.n.a.t.c.h of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One succ.u.mbs 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

"an idle rainbow No less than laboring seas,"

were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by _Flying Fame_.

EVE

Eve, with her basket, was Deep in the bells and gra.s.s, Wading in bells and gra.s.s Up to her knees.

Picking a dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Down in the bells and gra.s.s Under the trees.

Mute as a mouse in a Corner the cobra lay, Curled round a bough of the Cinnamon tall....

Now to get even and Humble proud heaven and Now was the moment or Never at all.

"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 gra.s.s.

Here was the strangest pair In the world anywhere, Eve in the bells and gra.s.s 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 t.i.tmouse 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?

All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peac.o.c.ks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may.