The Year on Parnassus

“POETRY in this latter age,” wrote Ben Jonson in his Discoveries, “hath proved but a meane Mistresse to such as have wholly addicted themselves to her, or given their names up to her family. They who have but saluted her on the by, and now and then tendered their visits shee hath done much for, and advanced in the way of their owne professions (both the Law and the Gospel) beyond all they would have hoped or done for themselves without her favour.” In part, no doubt, this melancholy view of the poetical profession was a personal matter, the sadly lucid conclusion of a man who after laborious years in the service of his Muse still lived in an alley, while Dr. Donne, Dean of Saint Paul’s, dwelt in a house with two courtyards, and many an indifferent sonneteer splashed down Whitehall in his cushioned coach. Yet, after we have made all due allowance for the personal situation involved, the fact remains that Jonson has but stated with characteristic vigor a condition of affairs that is perennial on Parnassus. It is specially observable at the present time, when there is scarcely a single poetic talent of sufficient volume economically to justify its possessor in pursuing poetry as a vocation, while much of the finest and most successful verse that has been written for a quarter of a century has been the work of busy editors, college professors, clergymen, brokers, mothers of families, and mayors of cities “who have but saluted her on the by.”

It is not always, however, in the fine and successful work of these occasional writers that we experience the most quickening encounter with the poetic spirit. The man who devotes himself with a single mind to Poetry, whether economically justified in so doing or not, may perchance know more of her wayward and whimsical heart than the occasional visitor to the Muse’s bower. Whether he can effectively poetize his knowledge or not, his work will not be without its reward for the reader who can approach it, in some measure,

“ With the same spirit that its author writ.”

For some cause of which the determination is apart from the purpose of this paper, the present year has seen an appreciable diminution in the number of volumes of verse published in England and America. In 1906, the record was well toward the five hundred mark. In 1907 the number has probably not been more than half as great; there have been fewer volumes of distinction, and the average of quite negligible sheaflets of rhyme has been higher. It chances, however, that the year has brought forth a group of books by certain young men with whom poetry is a serious, and, in varying degrees, an intelligent pursuit. In the poems of Alfred Noyes, George Sylvester Vicreck, and Madison Cawein, in the poetic dramas of Ridgeley Torrence and Percy Mackaye, and the collected dramas of Mr. Yeats, we have a body of sufficiently diverse material for the study of the poetic temper and attainment of our time as they are exhibited in the work of those with whom poetry is a profession.


Though still on the nether side of thirty, Mr. Alfred Noyes has put a notable variety of published verse to his credit. In England, his muscular epic of Drake, which has been appearing in parts in a magazine, has enjoyed a rather surprising success. To this country he was introduced last year by Mr. H. W. Mabie in a volume of selections remarkable for its evidence of wideranging reading, for an adventurous imagination, and for opulence and ease of metrical expression. Yet that volume, good as it was, was admirable rather for its qualities than for its quality: there was in it no single piece that seemed secure of a place in the safe-deposit vaults of Time.

In the present volume, The Floxoer of Old Japan,1 the situation is pretty much the same. The beverage that Mr. Noyes pours us is still must rather than wine. Mr. Noyes’s enterprise is to recapture “Old Japan,” the land of

“ Dreams and dragons and gingerbread,”

and to set it forth in the temper of a kind of philosophical Alice in Wonderland. In the Prelude he invites us: —

Ah, let ns follow, follow far
Beyond the purple seas;
Beyond the rosy foamingbar,
The coral reef, the trees,
The land of parrots, and the wild
That rolls before the fearless child
Its ancient mysteries:
Onward and onward if we can,
To Old Japan, to Old Japan.

If we accept the invitation we are personally conducted through sixty pages of fantastic marvels that are yet made almost convincing by the poet’s bright imagination, and his gifts of vivid phrase, and fluent, melodious verse, till, at the end, he brings us comfortably home: —

Slowly, as a wavering mist
Waned the: wonder out of sight,
To a sigh of amethyst,
To a wraith of scented light.
Flower and magic glass had gone ;
Near the clutching fire we sat
Dreaming, dreaming, all alone,
Each upon a furry mat.
While the firelight, red and clear,
Fluttered in the black wet pane,
It was very good to hear
Howling winds and trotting rain.
For we found at last we knew
More than all our fancy planned,
All the fairy tales were true,
And home the heart of fairyland.

There is a proficiency in the workmanship that, coupled with Mr. Noyes’s humorous tenderness in approaching his theme, all but disarms criticism. Yet if we look at the matter in a cool objective light, it must be said that the attempt is only partially successful. Since Lafcadio Hearn has revealed to us her delicate, mystical soul, “Old Japan” is scarcely a valid and universal symbol for the fantastic realm of childish romance of which Mr. Noyes is the celebrant.

The second half of the book is given up to a companion piece, “The Forest of Wild Thyme, ” in which the same adventure is assailed by another track. In the course of it occurs a passage which may be taken as suggesting by indirection Mr. Noyes’s poetic creed and ambition: —

“Men toil,” he said, “ from morn till night
With bleeding hands and blinded sight
For gold, more gold ! They have betrayed
The trust that in their souls was laid ;
Their fairy birthright they have sold
For little disks of mortal gold;
And now they cannot even see
The gold upon the greenwood tree,
The wealth of colored lights that pass
In soft gradations through the grass,
The riches of the love untold
That wakes the day from grey to gold;
And howsoe’er the moonlight weaves
Magic webs among the leaves,
Englishmen care little now
For elves beneath the hawthorn bough :
Nor if Robin should return
Dare they of an outlaw learn ;
For them the Smallest Flower is furled,
Mute is the music of the world;
And unbelief has driven away
Beauty from the blossomed spray.”

This indictment of the England that is no longer “Merrie England,” a common theme with contemporary writers of verse, has not often been put more tellingly than this. It recalls a similar indictment of the British temperament by a still younger poet.

The blue
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
OF summer nights collected still to make
The morning precious : Beauty was awake !
Why were ye not awake ?

To turn from the fairy fancies of Mr. Noyes to the Babylonian imaginations of Mr. George Sylvester Viereek is a rather thrilling psychologic adventure.2 “Sonant ” is a favorite word with Mr. Viereek, and it would be hard to find a better one to define the characteristic quality of his poetic personality. Perhaps no poet now writing is more proficient in the loud symphonious lay, and the quality of Mr. Viereek’s vigorous, if unhealthy imagination is of a sort to be expressed very perfectly in his reverberating verse. Take the opening section of his titular poem: —

O Nineveh, thy realm is set
Upon a base of rock and steel
From where the under-rivers fret
High up to where the planets reel.

Clad in a blazing coat of mail,
Above the gables of the town
Huge dragons with a monstrous trail
Have pillared pathways up and down.

And in the bowels of the deep
Where no man sees the gladdening sun,
All night without the halm of sleep
The human tide roils on and on.
The Hudson’s mighty waters lave
In stern caress thy granite shore,
And to thy port, the salt sea wave
Brings oil and wine and precious ore.
Yet if the ocean in its might
Should rise, confounding stream and bay,
The stain of one delirious night
Not all the tides can wash away.

From this beginning unrolls a poetic picture of “Nineveh” that is an impressive if superficial envisagement of that great rock-delving, sky-scaling city of New York that is fast coming to be more than Paris, more than London even, the typical umbilicus gentium, a great Babylonish hive of nations. There is undeniable power in the picture, yet in the conclusion we discover clearly the youthful limitation as well as the perverse literary taint in Mr. Viereck’s talent:—

I, too, the fatal harvest gained
Of them that sow with seed of fire
In passion’s garden— I have drained
The goblet of thy sick desire.

I from thy love had hitter bliss,
And ever in my memory stir
The after-savours of thy kiss —
The taste of aloes and of myrrh.
And yet I love thee, love unblessed
The poison of thy wanton’s art;
Though thou be sister to the Pest
In thy great hands I lay my heart!
And when thy body Titan-strong
Writhes on its giant couch of sin,
Yea, though upon the trembling throng
The very vault of Heaven fall in ;
And though the palace of thy feasts
Sink crumbling in a fiery sea —
I, like the rest of Baal’s priests,
Will share thy doom, O Nineveh.

This is the piece in Mr. Viereck’s volume that must be taken most seriously. His monotonous celebration of Ashtoreth, Lilith, Pasiphae, Sappho, Cleopatra, Faustine, Salome, and their modern sisters is clearly derivative, and the precocious satiety which he discloses so sonantly is, therefore, not so much shocking as amusing. Some day, we may hope, Mr. Viereek will have had enough of Ashtoreth and Baal, and, turning to gods more favorable to English poesy, give us poems in which his admirable endowment of melody and imagination shall serve a nobler meaning.

Beginning with a slender sheaf of Blooms of the Berry some twenty years ago, Mr. Madison Cawein has cultivated his muse with such undeviating constancy that a score of books of poetry now bear his name. These he has brought together in a collected edition in five volumes.3 Mr. Cawein has scarcely been well advised in collecting his work in such, a formidable bulk. Such poetry as his, so largely the poetry of transient mood rather than of thought or dramatic action, cannot but produce a certain impression of ineffective monotony when massed in five stout volumes. Time is the shrewdest anthologist, and may be trusted in the long run to select the things that are worth while. Yet a poet is wise in the measure that he forestalls Time’s judgments.

Mr. Cawein, nevertheless, is perhaps the most poetical of our living American poets. It would be hard to find another in whom poetic temperament is so unintermittent, whose fancy riots so continually among poetic symbols. He is not free from the defects of his qualities. For structural form his work is not preeminent; it abounds in small obscurities and cacophonies; and if syntax constrains him, he treads it underfoot. There is in his verse not quite enough of that sound prose style which is the humdrum basis of poetic style, the solid torch from which the flame aspires. Yet his best work in its fine and individual quality is not easily surpassed. He gives us the sweet Kentucky landscape so poetized by the haze of temperament wherewith he envelops it, that even to Bacchus in a cornfield with chipmunks frisking about his legs we can accord that “willing suspension of disbelief” that Coleridge took to be poetic faith. It is precisely in these Kentucky pieces rather than in his ambitious narrative poems on mediaeval themes that Mr. Cawein is at his very best. There is scarcely a section in his “Intimations of the Beautiful,” for example, in which some mood of nature is not portrayed with a haunting melodious felicity. Take as a single instance this exquisite piece of dissolving color: —

The climbing-cricket in the dusk
Moves wings of moony gossamer;
Its vague, vibrating note I hear
Among the houghs of dew and musk,
Whence, rustling with a mellow thud,
The ripe quince falls, Low, deep and clear,
The west is bound with hurtling blood.
The slanting hats beneath the moon, —
A dark disk edged with glittering white, —
Spin loops of intertangled night:
An owl wakes, hooting over soon,
Within the forest far away :
And now the heav’n fills, light by light,
And all the blood-red west, grows gray.
I hear no sound of wind Or wave;
No sob or song, except the slow
Leaf cricket’s flute-soft tremolo,
Among’ wet walks grown gray and grave. —
In raiment mists of silver sear,
With strange, pale eyes thou comest, O
Thou spirit of the Waning-Year !

Through scenes like these Mr. Cawein continually, like his own hermit thrush,

“ Trails an enchanted flute along,”

and it is a singular refreshment to stop and listen to its plaintive, persistent note.

The volume of Selections from the Verse of John B. Tabb4 made by Mrs. Meynell, would offer to the discursivelyminded some provocative points of comparison with the books that we have been considering. “Quaint” and “pregnant” are the words that first occur to one endeavoring to phrase Father Tabb’s poetic quality, but they are inadequate and misleading unless carefully qualified. Father Tabb’s mind is curiously occupied with the correspondences between the natural and spiritual world, yet his sense of them is not so much the mystic’s feeling of oneness as the modern scientist’s sense of the far-reaching interrelations of life. His imagination winds into odd, sometimes macabresque crannies, of nature and human life. He sees each in a single flash of illumination as part of the whole, as a poetic idea; and this poetic idea refined of all dross or surplusage he has a most remarkable power of conveying in eight or twelve short lines. His imagination is analogical in the extreme. He is as full of similitudes as Herbert or Crashaw; often an entire poem is built upon a single figure. Yet despite the temptations to fantasticality that beset a mind of this type, overstrained and ineffective similitudes are conspicuously few. Ilis tiny poems, like the psychologist’s pin pricks, are very perfect tests of poetic sensibility.

Father Tabb’s quality is not unknown to readers of the Atlantic, yet this page may be happily adorned by one of his characteristic pieces:—


“ Who are thy playmates, boy ? ”
“ My favorite is Joy,
Who brings with him his sister, Peace, to stay
The livelong day.
I love them both, but he
Is most to me.”
“ And where thy playmates now,
O man of sober brow ? ”
“ Alas! dear Joy, the merriest, is dead.
But I have wed
Peace ; and our babe, a boy
New born, is Joy.”


It begins to look as if the poetic drama, after many years of desuetude and relegation to the closet, were winning a fresh foothold in our theatres. Each of the past two seasons has seen successful plays in verse upon the boards and there is even coming to be something like a “dawnenkindled quire” of young poets to win the admiration of the world as much by their capable dealings with actors and managers as by their poetical attainments. During the coming season we are to see among others two plays presenting an interesting partie carrée of passionate lovers.5

In dealing dramatically with the timeworn story of Abelard and Heloise, Mr. Torrence has evidently spared no pains to possess the literature of the subject. In the matter of textme this has been all to his advantage. To his close study of

the sources we owe the thousand vivid historical details that are woven into the vigorous give and take of the dialogue with fine dramatic and poetic effect. In the matter of structure, however, there is a question whether Mr. Torrence’s play has not lost in effectiveness through his endeavor to give the whole story as it is in the books. The piece as it stands is in four acts. In the first we encounter Abélard, the “Socrates of Gaul,” at the zenith of his fame, and in the full sweep of his passion for Heloise. In the second, Heloise declines to marry him, to make him otherwise than

“ Free to pursue that upward path he walks
Toward that high radiance that is his ambition,”

and Fulbert, her uncle, takes his revenge. In the third, the transformed Abelard, after some futile eloquence, goes his priestly way, leaving Heloise to take the veil. In the fourth the lovers meet again after a lapse of twenty years, just as Abelard, excommunicated, dies with a characteristic burst of feverish declamation.

As history, this even division of attention between Abelard the passionate and poetic leader of the new cause, and Abelard the whimpering pawn of fate is wellconsidered, but as dramatic structure it is not successful. The climax Of the piece comes at the end of the second act. From that point onward, save for a tense moment towards the close of the third act, the play is nothing more or less than a drame pathologique, that makes no appeal to our sympathies, and has but a slender intellectual interest. If instead of beginning in medias res there had been an initial act setting forth the growth of Abelard’s love for Heloise, with the progressive disturbance of his scholarly habit udes by the perturbations of passion, and had the last fortuitous meeting been omitted, and the play concluded with the parting at the close of the present third act, it might have been considerably more memorable. This redistribution of the material would have given us the essential tragedy of the love of Abélard and Heloise more compactly and coherently. The tragical climax would then have come at the end of the third act, and the single final act of pallid renunciation would have been not only tolerable, but tragically telling. More than that, we should have had, if I mistake not, a more complete and convincing portrayal of Peter Abelard, who, whatever his weakness and wavering, was perhaps the most interesting and modern man of that germinal middle-age, the Hamlet rather than the Socrates of Gaul. The passion of Heloise would have been more credible so, and the play as a whole less obviously built with an eye to the requirements of a leading lady.

A fine imaginative scholarship is the first quality that impresses the reader of any of Mr. Percy Mackaye’s poetic plays. In The Canterbury Pilgrims, Fenris the Wolf, and Jeanne d’Arc, the striking thing was Mr. Mackaye’s acquaintance with the life that there is in old books. In Sappho and Phaon this quality is still more largely in evidence. One approaches the play by an elaborate series of terraces, porticoes, and vestibules which are all compact of eager learning. Taking a hint from Horace’s ex noto fictum, Mr. Mackaye strives to give a greater reality to his age-old theme by leading us backward from the present and actuality by easy, imperceptibly merging gradations. In the Prologue an American, an Italian, and a German savant excavating at Herculaneum find the make-up box of the ancient actor, Actius, and at the end of the Prologue, by the aid of dissolving scenes, Medbery, the American, suffers a sea-change into Actius himself. Then follows the Induction in which Actius and his mistress Naevoleia prepare to play Sappho and Phaon in the presence of Horace, Virgil, and Varius the author of the piece. Finally, after an erudite and entertaining Prelude, the tragedy is enacted. At its end Phaon, impersonated by Actius, dissolves back into Medbery, and we wake up, as it were, rubbing our inward eyes. How effective all this would be on the stage is a dubious question.6 To the imagination of the closet-reader, it gives a fine fillip like the telescopic vistas in some of Calderon’s dramas; yet even to the reader the machinery is not quite convincing. Despite the great ingenuity of the contrivance the last step from Actius and Naevoleia to Sappho and Phaon is an awkward one; it is a step from Vamonr to passionate love, from one civilization to another; and the tragedy itself is so purely Greek in setting, in development, and in tragic temper that Varius is scarcely a credible author. We hardly forget that it is a play of a play.

With a careful instinct for appropriateness, Mr. Mackaye has kept his action to a single scenic setting and compassed it within twenty-four hours, though he has allowed for some picturesque modern stage effects by the succession upon the scene of afternoon and twilight, dark and dawn. The Greek temper of the piece is still further enhanced by the skill with which in the more emotional parts Mr. Mackaye has varied his blank verse with Sapphic metres. Witness this passage in which Phaon the slave tells Sappho of his early vision of Aphrodite: —


Oft ere the day, while all the slaves are sleeping,
I and my boat put out ou the black water ;
Under us there and over us. the stars sing
Song’s of that silence.
Soon then the sullen, brazen-horned oxen
Rise in the east, and slowly with their windploughs
Break in the acres of the broad Ægean
Furrows of fire.
So, many a time there, as I leaned to watch them
Yoked in their glory, sudden ’gainst the sunrise
Seemed there stood a maiden — a bright shadow —


Ah you beheld her !

Greek, too, in intention if not altogether in effect, is the way in which the catastrophe is brought about. The tragic coil idly started by Sappho’s freeing of a dove due to Poseidon ends in making Phaon the unwitting slayer of Bion, his child by his slave wife, and in Sappho’s self-destruction. Throughout the last act we feel the true tragic pity and terror, if not in their highest potency, at any rate with an admirable consistency. Mr, Mackaye has revived excellently well the Sapphic spirit

“ Of amorous hours
Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers ; ”

but the trait that lingers in the mind as of the finest promise is the way in which he has invested the old passionate story with intimations of tender and wistful humanity.

The fine flair for romantic situation that Miss Mary Johnston has shown so notably in her novels has lost none of its keenness in The Goddess of Reason, her first play in verse.7 Indeed, the piece is conceived in terms of romantic situation, and for that reason it is the most readable poetic drama, in the popular sense of the word, that has lately been seen. Miss Johnston’s imaginative historic sense and her gift of weaving a poetic setting for romantic story were never more capably demonstrated than in this play of the stirring early years of the French Revolution. The polished Arcadianism of the ancien regime, Breton lore, the red passion of the Revolution, these are the elements that she employs in the development of her tragic story of Love find Death. One must not suppose, however, that the piece is but an historical novel broken into blank. It is conceived and executed entirely in the poetic temper. Indeed there is a question if the temper of the author in its composition has not been, in a sense, too poetic. As her prose in her novels seemed sometimes aspiring to be poetry, so here her poetry sometimes aspires to the estate

of music. Her mood is so lyrical that her feet are continually floated off the firm iambic ground into anapaestic rhythms and even into rhyme. This is most common in the speeches of her heroine, Yvette, “The right of the Seigneur,” who later impersonates The Goddess of Reason. Here the change of metre is not ineffective, as in this climax of a long emotional speech in the iambic pentameter: —

O love ! is it love that stifles me so ?
O love! is it love that makes me weep ?
I thought that love was all splendor and light,
The bow in the sky, the bird at its height,
The glory and state of an angel bright!

But when in the middle of a narrative speech in blank verse by a male character we come upon a pure anapaestic couplet,

“ Green, reverend and dim as the light may be
In a sea king’s palace under the sea ”

the dramatic effect is blurred. This, however, is purely an objective criticism. It is clear that this metrical phase of the drama is of a piece with the curiously lyrical mood of its conception, which is perhaps the chief source of the highly individual interest. It is romance mixed with music.

As we have been considering the work of those latter-day poets who have meditated their muse without regard to advancement in “their owne professions” whether “the Law or the Gospel,” one rough similarity should have become apparent, — the ultra lyricism of their mood, their impatience alike of the labor of the file and of severe reflection. Lyric and dramatic poets alike are chiefly preoccupied with the appealing, the picturesque, the romantic, the traditionally tragic, and in none of them, save perhaps in the work of Father Tabb, is there any very searching criticism of life, anv compelling sense of that tragicalcomical world of labor, compromise, dreams, and frustrations which is actuality for most of us. We have, however, at the end to deal wnth two poets, perhaps the most lyrical in temper of them all, who have yet contrived to stir emotions that relate themselves a little less remotely to our business and bosoms.

The work of Mr. W. B. Yeats needs no description to the readers of the Atlantic. Yet in view of the recent publication of an edition of his Poetical Works8 a word may be said as to his quality and significance. The volume of the complete Lyrical Poems does not show Mr. Yeats quite to the best advantage. Verse so mystical and shadowy, so “symbolic” as his, gains by selection and segregation rather than collection. The symbols come, by too frequent repetition, to seem a little childish. It is all very well for the poet to be

“ Changed into a hound with one red ear ”

once. The first time this engaging phenomenon occurs we experience a pleasurable thrill, but when it is repeated again and yet again it ceases to delight us poetically. Not all Mr. Yeats’s gifts of music and Celtic magic avail to make the volume other than a little tedious. But the Dramatical Poems are another matter. “Dramatic art,” says Mr. Yeats finely, if debatably, in his Preface, “is a method of expression, and neither an hairbreadth escape nor a love affair more befits it than the passionate, exposition of the most delicate and strange intuitions.” This is plainly the ideal of a coterie, and it is not likely that the. poetic dramas of Mr. Yeats will ever permanently please the large luxurious audiences that throng the theatres, ’twixt dinner and bedtime. Nor is it necessary to apprehend great results from the campaign for the reestablishment of musical speech that Mr. A eats outlines in his Appendix. But in the plays themselves, “The Countess Cathleen, “The Shadowy Waters,” “The Land of Heart’s Desire,” he has admirably achieved the expression in wavering, wind-swayed verse, of intuitions “the most delicate and strange” yet as real to our hearts as weariness or hope.

In the death of Richard Hovey .seven years ago American poetry lost a figure of the richest promise, a poet who in addition to a fine lyric faculty and a passionate sensibility to beauty possessed the philosophic mind. How sincere and profound his preoccupations were has just become more plainly evident through the republication of the four plays of his incomplete Arthurian cycle, with a fifth volume edited by Mrs. Hovey, containing his plan for the whole, with preliminary studies and elucidations.9 From this we discover that the poem was to be complete in nine dramas arranged in three parts of three plays each, each part to consist of a Masque, a Tragedy, and to end, respectively, with a Romantic Drama, an Idyllic Drama, and a “Harmonody.” Despite the elaboration of the contrivance, it grows clear as we ponder these pathetic notes and fragments that it was a sincere and single poetic conception which might have resulted in a poetic monument of great emotional power and far-reaching ethical significance. For “Avalon,” the “harmonody” wherein all the contending forces of the cycle were to find reconciliation and solution, Hovey had written at the time of his death but a few brief versified notes. So illuminative are they of the brooding creative process in a poetic mind of large calibre that four of them may be printed here:—


I have laid in a long mistake.
But now at last and suddenly I see.

(States the great law of suddenness in appearance. Reconciliation of Plutonic and Neptunian theories (vide Hartmann’s Unconscious). Slow preparation in the unconscious. Conscious
sudden at end of process.)


And Galahad, thy son, who died a maid ? Shall he he ever lonely ?


For him too
Some mystic lady waits in Avalon,
That dim mysterious mother-land of forms.


Arthur in Avalon has found his bride,
And there is peace between his soul and. mine.


It doth not now repent me of my sins ;
They oft were my salvation. But for them
I might have lain forever in my dream
In the child-hearted valleys. They, like wolves,
Housed me from my as yet unearned repose
And drove me toiling up this arduous hill
Where from the summit now mine eyes look out
At peace upon a peaceful universe.
Nay, sweet, our sins are but God’s thunderclouds,
That hide the glorious sun a little while ;
And afterwards the fields bring forth their fruit.

Mrs. Hovey tells us that these last lines, intended to form the concluding passage of the entire poem, were the first of all to be written. Read with the four plays previously published, so full of “ brave translunary things,” — they give us some conception of the vastness of the enterprise and of its ethical bearing. Had Hovey lived we should have had a poem in which a psychology of sin, in deep consonance with the trend of modern thought, would have been presented with a fervor of poetic passion and a wealth of poetic beauty, a completeness of embodiment, that must have carried its meaning home. More effectually perhaps than any other book of the year this volume of fragmentary literary remains reawakens us to a sense of the reality, the permanence and power of the poetic spirit.

  1. The Flotver of Old Japan. By ALFRED NOYES. New York : The Macmillan Co. 1907.
  2. Nineveh and Other Poems. By GEORGE SYLVESTER VIEKKCK. New York: Moffat, Yard & Co. 1907.
  3. The Poems of Madison Cawein. Five volumes. With illustrations by ERIC PAPE. Indianapolis : The Bohbs Merrill Co. Louisville: Ben La Bree. 1907.
  4. Selections from the Verses of John B. Tabb. Made by ALICE MEVNELL. London: Burns & Oates. 1907.
  5. Abelard and Heloise. By RIDGELEY TORRENCE. New York ; Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1907.
  6. Sappho and Phaon. A tragedy set forth with a Prologue, Induction, Prelude, Interludes, and Epilogue. By PERCY MACKAYE. New York: The Macmillan Co. 1907.
  7. Since this was written the play has been produced in New York minus Prologue, Induction, Prelude, Interludes, and Epilogue.
  8. The Goddess of Reason. By MARY JOHNSTON. Boston : Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1907.
  9. The Poetical Works of William B. Yeats. In two volumes. Volume I, Lyrical Poems. Volume II, Dramatical Poems. New York : The Macmillan Co. 1907.
  10. Launcelot and Guenevere. A Poem in Dramas. By RICHARD HOVEY. Five volumes. New York : The Duffield Co. 1907.