_Winifred M. Letts_

Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in her immediate surroundings. Her _Songs from Leinster_ (1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books for children, a later volume of _Poems of the War_ and, during the conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.

GRANDEUR

Poor Mary Byrne is dead, An' all the world may see Where she lies upon her bed Just as fine as quality.

She lies there still and white, With candles either hand That'll guard her through the night: Sure she never was so grand.

She holds her rosary, Her hands clasped on her breast.

Just as dacint as can be In the habit she's been dressed.

In life her hands were red With every sort of toil, But they're white now she is dead, An' they've sorra mark of soil.

The neighbours come and go, They kneel to say a prayer, I wish herself could know Of the way she's lyin' there.

It was work from morn till night, And hard she earned her bread: But I'm thinking she's a right To be aisy now she's dead.

When other girls were gay, At wedding or at fair, She'd be toiling all the day, Not a minyit could she spare.

An' no one missed her face, Or sought her in a crowd, But to-day they throng the place Just to see her in her shroud.

The creature in her life Drew trouble with each breath; She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"-- But she's lovely in her death.

I wish the dead could see The splendour of a wake, For it's proud herself would be Of the keening that they make.

Och! little Mary Byrne, You welcome every guest, Is it now you take your turn To be merry with the rest?

I'm thinking you'd be glad, Though the angels make your bed, Could you see the care we've had To respect you--now you're dead.

THE SPIRES OF OXFORD

I saw the spires of Oxford As I was pa.s.sing by, The grey spires of Oxford Against the pearl-grey sky.

My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die.

The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The h.o.a.ry Colleges look down On careless boys at play.

But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river, The cricket-field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford, To seek a b.l.o.o.d.y sod-- They gave their merry youth away For country and for G.o.d.

G.o.d rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown.

G.o.d bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town.

_Francis Brett Young_

Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet, and who has been called, by _The Manchester Guardian_, "one of the promising evangelists of contemporary poetry," has written much that is both graceful and grave. There is music and a message in his lines that seem to have as their motto: "Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man." Best known as a writer of prose, his most prominent works are _Marching on Tanga_ and _The Crescent Moon_.

Brett Young's _Five Degrees South_ (1917) and his _Poems 1916-18_ (1919) contain the best of his verse.

LOCHANILAUN

This is the image of my last content: My soul shall be a little lonely lake, So hidden that no shadow of man may break The folding of its mountain battlement; Only the beautiful and innocent Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.

For there shall be no terror in the night When stars that I have loved are born in me, And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair; But this shall be the end of my delight:-- That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see Your image in the mirrored beauty there.

_F. S. Flint_

Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry, F. S. Flint has published several volumes of original imagist poems, besides having translated works of Verhaeren and Jean de Bosschere.

LONDON

London, my beautiful, it is not the sunset nor the pale green sky shimmering through the curtain of the silver birch, nor the quietness; it is not the hopping of birds upon the lawn, nor the darkness stealing over all things that moves me.

But as the moon creeps slowly over the tree-tops among the stars, I think of her and the glow her pa.s.sing sheds on men.

London, my beautiful, I will climb into the branches to the moonlit tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind.

_Edith Sitwell_

Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is the sister of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In 1914 she came to London and has devoted herself to literature ever since, having edited the various anthologies of _Wheels_ since 1916. Her first book, _The Mother and Other Poems_ (1915), contains some of her best work, although _Clowns' Houses_ (1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a sharper turn of mind.

THE WEB OF EROS

Within your magic web of hair, lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world; The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair; The songs that turned to gold the evening air When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.

The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.

The maenad fire of spring on the cold earth; The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower That came to Danae in her brazen tower....

Within your magic web of hair lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world.

INTERLUDE