The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century

himsies-poems of the Great War-their contrast to conventional sentimental ditties-the accusation-his contribution to the advance of poetry.-Ralph Hodgson-his shyness-his slender output-his fastidious

les Abe

of sin preceding regeneration. Whether he could ever succeed in bringing his verse down to earth, he did not then know; but so far as he was concerned, he not only got down to earth, but got under it. He made subterranean expeditions with the miners, he followed his nose into slums, he talked long hours

is is pastoral poetry of a new and refreshing kind-as unlike to the conventional shepherd-shepherdess mincing, intolerable dialogue as could well be imagined. For, among all the groups of verse, in which, for sacred order's sake, we arrange English literature, pastoral poetry easily takes first place in empty, tinkling artificiality. In Stonefolds, we have six tiny plays, never containing more than four characters, and usually less, which represent, in a rasping style, the unending daily struggle of generation after generation with the relentless forces of nature. It is surprising to see how, in four or five pages, the author gives a clea

open; you ar

arry? Are yo

e you. I'll n

ave you bound

leave me; rath

am my father

while yet

ng the door).

ll; and yet, I

have a singl

sband; yet, I d

ther spoke. I

am not

lamb and a child are born on the same night, and both die before dawn. The lamb is a poetic symbol of babyhood. Nicholas, the aged shepherd, wh

beast! We two

of life, thoug

this rough worl

ready has me

us can stir t

leat for others

bitter to t

bitter to the

is ever one difference between life and "art"-between drama and theatre-that Mr. Gibson has, I suppose, tried to cancel in these poems of daily bread. In art, the bigger the drama, the bigger the stage; one could not mount G?tterd?mmerung in a village schoolhouse. But Life does not fit the splendour of the setting to the grandeur of the struggle. In bleak farm cottages, in dull dwellings in city blocks, in slum tenements, the greatest of life's tragedies and comedies are enacted-love, hate, avarice, jealousy, revenge, birth, death-the most

r may be the case with the private soldiers, the Captain of Industry does not, and by the nature of things cannot, confine his labours to an eight-hour day-when he finally comes home, he brings the business with him, forming a more well-founded cause of jealousy than the one usually selected for conventional drama. Mr. Gibson, however, is not interested in the tragic few, but in the tragic many, and in his poems the man of the house leaves early and return

childbirth, sits u

e stop tha

t sleep

omeone is shut

ing to

one let

p the t

n tapping,

ap … ta

scarcely

ness is

tifl

so heavil

ps, and

is wet

er all abou

t rocks were h

ping, dr

t lift

er hold

g … creeping

air drag

,

e stop tha

not s

woul

e come

ap … ta

Mr. Gibson represents young, able-bodied, healthy and temperate men as unable to find work of any kind; their wives and childr

ma, Women Beware Women. Here the two young women, one the mistress-mother, and one the bride, join forces against the man, and walk out of his house on the wedding-day. They feel that the tie between them is stronger than the tie which had u

woman. The Flute, The Lighthouse, and The Money mean more than their definition. Mr. Gibson is somewhat kinder to his readers in this collection, for the monotony of woe, that hangs over his work like a cloud, is rifted here and there by a ray of happiness. In The Shop, the little boy actually recovers from pneumonia, and our share in the father's delight is heightened by surprise, for whenever any of our poet's characters falls into a sickness, we have learned to expect the worst. Still, the

one has

rowed i

r touche

y saw the de

steer the b

n they foun

was col

of the window the giant crane swinging vast weights through the sky. One night, while he is half-dead with fear, the great

slowness of approaching death. The same theme, with an even more terrible termination, is selected by Mr. Gibson in Solway Ford, where the carter is pinned by the heavy, overturned wagon on the sands; while the tide gradually brings the water toward his helpless body. He dies a thousand deaths in imagination, but is rescued just as the waves are lapping the wheels. Now he lies in

, timidest

the cheerie

rt of innoce

zest for prie

y of the a

score or so

et who used it supremely well. Yet some of the verses in Thoroughfares are

order to write unconventional thoughts, it is not necessary to use unconventional forms. The ideas expressed here can be found in no other war-poet; they are idiosyncratic to the highest degree; yet the verse-forms in which they are written are stanzaic, as traditional as the most conservat

rage, are omitted, not because they do not exist, but simply because they are taken for granted; these boys are aflame with such feelings at the proper time. But Mr. Gibson is more interested in the strange, fantastic thoughts, waifs of memory, that wander across the surface of the mind in the

FA

ot to put th

e over me…. A

not care if w

mping-mad abo

ning full. He

. I'd give my

say if I'm

s me told abo

from "Just before the battle, mother," which was so popular during our Civil War. Never before has the psychology of the soldier been so acutely studied by national poets. And instead of representing the soldier as a man swayed by a few elemental passions and lush sentiment, he is presented as an extraordinarily complex individual, with every part of his brain abnormally alert. Modern poetry, in this respect, has, I think, followed the lead of the realistic prose novel. Such books as Tolstoi's Sevastop

ll if the obsession of self-con

to the emotional surface are saved by some specific touch, like the sense of smell,

y're sittin

of me,

r in the i

and Meg

sudden pu

s my ear

he reek of

he Belgi

helley, who had bee

ight with thy pa

who knew him by Rupert Brooke. No young poet of the twentieth century has left such a flaming glory

s g

ot und

nly

he tur

ved hi

eyes a sudden

azzled by a

e was

g the pale glimmer of the London garret with the brilliant apparition of Brooke at the open door, "like sudden April," is poignant in its beauty. The verses in this vol

for the most part in regular pentameter rime. The best of them is In the Orchestra, where the poor fiddler in the band at the cheap music-hall plays mechanically every ni

r seem to say J'accuse! Yet he nowhere says it explicitly. He never interrupts his narrati

ment. Only, whom does he accuse? Is it

say an "attempt" with deliberation, for song is not the most natural expression of this realistic writer, and not more than half of the fifty lyrics in this handsome volume are successfully melodious. Some are trivial, and hardly deserve such beauty of type and paper; others, however, will be gladly

HUMB

and and

and and

me to Nort

d of my

singin

from off

me to Nort

where I

and and

ys rich w

me to Nort

where I

s volume, and the last poem expresses not the local bu

ft, how shall

he sun, or f

mbering how

ingly,

s, loved, too,

the rain-we

all we turn to

he birds and wi

y by the

rt-break in the

They produce an impression of grey monotony which is hardly fair to the poet. The individuals change their names, but they pass through the same typical woe of childbirth, deserti

ade, which itself harks back to Drayton's stirring Ballad of Agincourt, has not the slightest echo in these volumes; and ordinary songs of labour are equally remote. Face to face with Life-that is where the poet leads us, and where he leaves us. He is far indeed from possessing the splendid lyrical gift of John

print his songs as it is for a bird to sing them. His favourite companions are Shelley, Wordsworth, and a bull terrier, and he is said to play billiards with "grim earnestness." In 1907 he published a tiny volume called The Last Blackbird, and in 1917 another and tinier one called Poems. During this decad

it is obscure, which it is not, but because it presupposes much background. Lovers of nature and lovers of books will love these verses, and reread them many times; but they are not for all markets. No contemporary poet is more truly original than he; but his originality is seen in his mental attitude rather than in newness of form or strangeness of language. The standard metres are good enough for him, and so are the words in common use. His subjects are the world-old subjects of poetry-birds, flowers, men and women. Religion is as conspicuously absent as it is in the works of Keats; its place is take

MY

d took me

red ro

s meaning

e a ros

pray Him t

stery

ose was Heav

own face

eyed. His eyes are achromatic. He has lost his illusions gladly; every time he has lost an illusion he has gained a new idea. The world as it is seems to him more beautiful, more interesting than any false-coloured picture of it or any longing to remould it nearer to the

F

ou when you

see on my p

nough," I a

r me where

owers and the

me on the

I saw and s

s of the ci

trace of mysticism. And still less of that modern attitude m

e woods. He is as much of a recluse among books as he is among flowers. No poet of today seems more self-sufficient. Although a lover of humanity, he seems to require no companionship. He is no more lonely than a

B

olks have

amp is bu

ire burns

rned an

urn abou

I can

dark corn

modest

y and volu

umes hav

mes thoug

umes hav

t the rar

on,

n-pursed

k had long

"Wit's In

antique

strange

pagit

muse of

meditati

cut to

he knave'

oleridge, bo

still won

Kubla Kha

rly Wordsw

ws a faith

ubject-mat

the loved

ee and Cum

h tribute to Shelley, "mor

trifle is exce

AT AUK'

k's ghost ro

e and three

nd poached a

red, "I'm

; surprisingly, because we almost resent being made to feel such ardent sympathy for the poor old Bull, when there are so many other and more important objects to be sorry for.

w that there is no road to greatness of character except through pain. But what can compensate the dumb animals for their physical anguish? It is certainly difficult to see their reward, unless they have immortal souls. That this is no slight obstacle in the way of those who earnestly desire to believe in an ethical universe, may be seen from the fact that it was the

ally inferior to man. Even their God may be no more amused by human a

personality of birds and beasts. And their cruelty to animals

DITY

with o

g bird

in th

people

n the

dity

in v

m in th

he shops

ople t

g for

dity

e petting, for love and sympathy are often mingled-consciously or unconsciously-with condescension. There is no trace of condescension in the

LLS OF

ng the bel

st peal f

n lost h

le came

nd they

n with an

and shab

ng dogs a

ed, blind

le hunte

turned by the lion or tiger with a dull look of infinite boredom. Nor is it pleasant to see small boys pushing sticks through the safe bars, in an endeavour to irritate the royal captives. One remembers Browning's s

reason for this is clear. Instead of printing everything he writes, and leaving the employment of the cream-separator to

prefer to leave the criticism of that to those who enjoy reading it. If I should attempt to "do jus