Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast
That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
Did with it-simply nothing. (Here again
Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.

For me, I do but bear within my hand
(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)
A simple bugle such as may awaken

With one high morning note a drowsing man:
That wheresoe'er within my motherland

That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide
Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,
Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.

T. P. Cameron Wilson

"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several articles under the pseudonym Tipuca, a euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name.

When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29.

SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE

They left the fury of the fight,
And they were very tired.

The gates of Heaven were open quite,
Unguarded and unwired.

There was no sound of any gun,
The land was still and green;
Wide hills lay silent in the sun,
Blue valleys slept between.

They saw far-off a little wood
Stand up against the sky.

Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood;

Some lazy cows went by

There were some rooks sailed overhead,
And once a church-bell pealed.
"God! but it's England," someone said,
"And there's a cricket-field!"

W. J. Turner

W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his appearance in Georgian Poetry 1916-17, has written no few delicate poems. The Hunter (1916) and The Dark Wind (1918) both contain many imaginative and musical

verses.

ROMANCE

When I was but thirteen or so

I went into a gold land,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,

They passed like fleeting dreams,

I stood where Popocatapetl

In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far-off at play,-
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream
To and fro from school-

Shining Popocatapetl

The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy
And never a word I'd say,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had taken my speech away.

I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower-

O shining Popocatapetl

It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed
Thin fading dreams by day;

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,

They had stolen my soul away!

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.

Irene Rutherford McLeod

Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct 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 Sélincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.

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), is somewhat more regular in pattern, more humanized in its warmth.

IMAGES

I

Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Drifting along the dank canals of Venice,
You, O exquisite one,

Have entered into my desolate city.

II

The blue smoke leaps

Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
So my love leaps forth toward you,
Vanishes and is renewed.