Here by the fire's ruddy streamers, Hark to the song of our years. Cry our despair and delight, Harry Kemp Harry (Hibbard) Kemp, known as "the tramp-poet," was born in Youngstown, Ohio, December 15, 1883. He came East at the age of twelve, left school to enter a factory, but returned to high school to study English. A globe-trotter by nature, he went to sea before finishing his high school course. He shipped first to Australia, then to China, from China to California, from California to the University of Kansas. After a few months in London in 1909 (he crossed the Atlantic as a stowaway) he returned to New York City, where he has lived ever since, founding his own theatre in which he is actor, stage-manager, playwright and chorus. Kemp's first book was a play, Judas (1910), a reversion of the Biblical figure along the lines of Paul Heyse's Mary of Magdala. His first collection of poems, The Cry of Youth (1914), like the subsequent volume, The Passing God (1919), is full of every kind of poetry except the kind one might imagine Kemp would write. Instead of crude and boisterous verse, here is a precise and almost overpolished poetry. Kemp has, strangely enough, taken the classic formalists for his models-one can even detect timid whispers of Pope and Dryden among his lines. Chanteys and Ballads (1920) is riper and more representative. The notes are more varied, the sense of personality is more pronounced; the lyrics have a particular delicacy of execution. Tramping on Life (1922) is an autobiographical narrative, especially ingratiating in its presentation of Kemp's childhood. The Love Rogue (1923) is an adaptation from the Spanish of Tirso de Molina, a drama that Kemp insists is "the original Don Juan play." STREET LAMPS Softly they take their being, one by one, From the lamp-lighter's hand, after the sun Has dropped to dusk . . . like little flowers they bloom Set in long rows amid the growing gloom. Who he who lights them is, I do not know, A PHANTASY OF HEAVEN Perhaps he plays with cherubs now, Slumbers on guard; how they will run As fruit more golden than the sun And riper than the full-grown moon, Conglobed in clusters, weighs them down, Perhaps the seraph, swift to pounce, CAPE'S END There is battle here, there is clean and vigorous war, There are long, barren slopes of encampment burned clean by the sun, And ramparts of strange new dreams to be stormed and won. The ocean shines like many disks of brass, Or between white hollows it lapses, great and green ... The hills of sparkling waste and rise and fall— And the sky, mother of infinity Yet greatness on smallness jostles till both are one Max Eastman Max Eastman was born in Canandaigua, New York, January 4, 1883. Both his father and mother had been Congregationalist preachers, so it was natural that the son should turn from scholasticism to a definitely social expression. Eastman received his A.B. at Williams in 1905; from 1907 to 1911 he was Associate in Philosophy at Columbia University. But in the latter part of 1911, he devoted all his time to writing, studying the problems of economic inequality and voicing the protests of the dumb millions in a style that was all the firmer for being philosophic. In 1913, he became editor of The Masses which, in 1917, changed its name to The Liberator. Child of the Amazons (1913) reveals the quiet lover of beauty as well as the fiery hater of injustice. The best of these poems, with many new ones, were incorporated in Colors of Life (1918). Besides Eastman's poems and essays, he has written one of the most clarifying-and most readable-studies of the period. Enjoyment of Poetry (1913) is invaluable as a new kind of text-book, the chief purpose of which, in the words of its preface, is to increase enjoyment. Eliminating the usual academic and literary classifications, Eastman accomplishes his object, which is to show that the poetic in everyday perception and conversation should not be separated from the poetic in literature. The Sense of Humor, a companion volume of analysis, appeared in 1921. COMING TO PORT Our motion on the soft still misty river From watching them your eyes in tears are gleaming, In silence is your stillness in the streaming Where happy passengers are homeward bound. Their sunny journey is in safety ending, But for you no journey has an end. The tears that to your eyes their light are lending Beyond the search of any eye they tend. There is no nest for the unresting fever Like time, and like the river's fateful flowing, The ship draws softly to the place of waiting, All flush forward with a joyful aim, And while their hands with happy hands are mating, AT THE AQUARIUM Serene the silver fishes glide, The people peering, peering there: And know not why or where they go, Wallace Stevens Wallace Stevens, of Hartford, Connecticut, is a poet of peculiar reticences. His attitude to his work is, in itself, significant. Although most of it appeared in the two best known poetry magazines of the period, Others and Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, as |