Before I joined the Army I lived in Donegal, Where every night the Fairies Would hold their carnival.

But now I'm out in Flanders, Where men like wheat-ears fall, And it's Death and not the Fairies Who is holding carnival.

_Francis Ledwidge_

Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891.

His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26 years.

Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.

AN EVENING IN ENGLAND

From its blue vase the rose of evening drops; Upon the streams its petals float away.

The hills all blue with distance hide their tops In the dim silence falling on the grey.

A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom; A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.

Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, They drop from out her dark hand to her knees.

Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas.

Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil.

I and a marsh bird only make a wail.

EVENING CLOUDS

A little flock of clouds go down to rest In some blue corner off the moon's highway, With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made A little England full of lovely noons, Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.

Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22]

Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, What he loved most; for late I roamed a while Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed; And they remember him with beauty caught From old desires of Oriental Spring Heard in his heart with singing overwrought; And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page 194.)

_Irene Rutherford McLeod_

Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918).

The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.

"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"

Is love, then, so simple my dear?

The opening of a door, And seeing all things clear?

I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire Soaring only to fall, Annihilation and fire: It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will, But I think I understand Many things, as I sit quite still, With Eternity in my hand.

LONE DOG

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.

O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

_Richard Aldington_

Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover College and London University. His first poems were published in England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_ (1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic but warmer and more humanly searching.

PRELUDE

How could I love you more?

I would give up Even that beauty I have loved too well That I might love you better.

Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give-- I can but give you of my flesh and strength, I can but give you these few pa.s.sing days And pa.s.sionate words that, since our speech began, All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.

I try to think of some one lovely gift No lover yet in all the world has found; I think: If the cold sombre G.o.ds Were hot with love as I am Could they not endow you with a star And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?

Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a G.o.d; I am but dust.

Yet no G.o.d loves as loves this poor frail dust.

IMAGES

I

Like a gondola of green scented fruits Drifting along the dank ca.n.a.ls of Venice, You, O exquisite one, Have entered into my desolate city.

II