The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century

tion-a genius-his poems of death-his affected cynicism-his nature poems-war sonnets-his supreme sacri

s definition of the aim of poetry.-Walter De La Mare-the poet of shadow-Hawthorne's tales-his persistence-his reflective mood-his descriptive style-his Shakespeare characters-his sketches from life.-D. H. Lawrence-his lack of discipline-his subjectivity

on, like a kitten or a puppy; but Rupert Brooke was as self-consciously young as a decrepit pensioner is self-consciously old. He rejoiced in the strength of his youth, and rolled it as a sweet morsel under his tongue. He was so glad to be young, and to know every morning on rising from sleep that he was still young! His passionate love of beauty made him see in old age only ugliness; he could not foresee the joys of the mellow years. All he saw consisted of grey hairs, wrinkles, double chins, paunches. To him all old people were Struldbrugs. We smile at the insolence of youth, because we know it will pass with the beauty and strength that support it. O

e cradle, his bringing-up could not have been better adapted to the purpose. He was born at Rugby, on the third of August, 1887, where his father was one of the masters in the famous school. He won a poetry prize there in 1905. The next year he entered King's College, Cambridge; his influence as an undergraduate was notable. He took honours in classics, went abroad to study in Munich, and returned to Grantchester, which he was later to celebrate in his best poem. He had travelled somewhat

There is no doubt that he had the indefinable but unmistakable touch of genius. Only a portion of his slender production is of high rank, but it is enough to preserve his name. His Letters, which have been un

st conventional side of his work. His cynicism toward the love of the sexes was a youthful affectation, strengthened by his reading. He was deeply read in the seventeenth-century poets, who delighted in imagining themselves pass

houghts I ha

s the wor

get, in Nin

er hur

ssion, and that the best part of it can and often does survive the early flames. Such poems as Menelaus

ations glow with enduring beauty, but they leave in the spectator something even greater than beauty, something that is food for reflection and imagination, the source of quick-coming fancies. Compare the picture of t

sad west tur

s against the

, and still, a

ack heads agai

ing w

commune, and ha

ey assemble

ps behind their

rates

nation the second passage is

and sincere, speaking from the depths of high-hearted self-sacrifice. He poured out his young life freely and generously, knowing what it meant to say good-bye to his fancy. There is always something e

ch fine poetry; but seldom has the expression of it been mingled more exquisitely with humour and longing. By the rivers of Babylon he sat down and laughed when he remembered Zion. And his lau

bloom as t

out those

h unoffic

the unre

to rest when

vague unpu

Hesper; an

d Haslingfl

etreten'_s n

water swe

brown, abov

the immorta

mill, unde

re Beauty y

nty? and Q

ws yet, fo

truths, and

urch clock at

e honey sti

e language of the press-agent. To my mind, the pious memoir of Tennyson is injured by the inclusion of a long list of "testimonials," which assure us that Alfred Tennyson was a remarkable poet. Mr. J. C. Squire, under whose auspices the works of Flecker appear in one handsome volume, is an admirable editor. His introduction is a model of its kind, giving the necessary biographical information, explaining the chronology, the origin, the background of the poems, and showing how the poet revised his earlier work; the last pa

d a halfe; Madrigall fellowes, whose onely business in verse, is to rime a poore six-penny soule a Suburb sinner into hell;-May such arrogant pretenders to Poetry vanish, with their prodigious issue of tumorous heats, and flashes of their adulterate braines, and for ever after, may this our Poet fill up the better roome of man. Oh! when the generall arraignment of Poets shall be, to give an accompt of their higher soules, with what a tri

910. In that same year signs of tuberculosis appeared, but after some months at an English sanatorium, he seemed to be absolutely well. In 1911 he was in Constantinople, Smyrna, and finally in Athens, where he was married to Miss Skiadaressi, a Greek. In March the dreaded illness returned, and the r

ng many poems, essays, short stories, and two plays, in manuscript.

he interesting results of the process. I must say, however, that of the two versions of Tenebris Interlucentem,

e of any of the modern poets. His ideas and his style are his own; he thought deeply on the art of writing, and was given to eager and passionate discussion of it with those who had his confidence. His originality is the more remarkable when we remember his fondness for translating verse from a variety of for

land where bloo

leam the gol

blows down fro

e myrtle and t

the land? So

ove, and I wil

house with all

hall and col

atues stand a

d, what have th

the land? So

hou and I will

mountain with its

warily: the whi

caves the brood

ls the rock fro

the land? So

! Our road i

ntemporary verse reads and sounds like undisciplined thinking out loud, where each poet feels it imperative to tell the reader in detail not only all his adventures, and passions, but even the most minute whimsies and caprices. When the result of th

eory of art for art's sake, it is by that theory alone that their work has been, or can be, judged;-and rightly so if we remember that art embraces all lif

a consumptive's longing for sunshine, and his sojourns on the Mediterranean

PHA

haze of str

low, the su

d weave a d

clasp it roun

with those b

the Sun acr

with the s

s in the o

gold that

h our garden

that goes

world, as

t glory o

ur soft on t

crown of t

fore your fe

great pinewo

fore the l

ch forest-c

at glimmer

oodland, do

t paths I l

s quieter

re secret th

steal that

dreams and s

Night, a ma

ozen moun

m down, for

Lady ther

silver, crow

eyes the

wrote little worth preserval. The Collected Poems show an extraordinary command of his instrument. He had the orthodox virtues of the orthodox poet-rime and rhythm, cunning in words, skill in nature-painting, imagination. The richness of his colour

own the Glo

are deaf

turn their

ads leap

ear the fire

y hear t

chased the

anham's so

sat on Pa

mph upon

s rosy as

d as the

aganism would, I think, have given place to something deeper and more fruitful. Before he went to Constantinople, he had, as it is a fashion for some modern Occidentals to have, a great admiration for Mohammedanism. A friend reports a rather na?ve remark of his, "this intercourse with Mohammedans had led him to find more good in Christianity than he had previously suspected." I have sometimes wondere

ave shaken him to the depths-and perhaps given him the spiritual experience necessary for his further advance-seems not improbable. One of his letters on the subj

s poem A Sacred Dialo

ack cannons

e crusadi

Way shall swin

alem vomit

as Day preferr

mas Day of

ng to the first Balkan War, this poem contains in the last speech of Christ words that ring like a prophecy of ev

is talents. There is not an unworthy page in the Collected Poems. In a memorable passage, he stated

much miscellaneous prose-critical articles for periodicals, short stories, and a few plays. His first poetry-book, Songs of Childhood, appeared in 1902; in 1906, Poems; in 1910, The Return, which won the Edmond de Polignac prize; The Listeners, which gave him a wide reputation, appeared

would be sure to notice in his tales. "They have the pale tint of flowers that blossom in too retired a shade,-the coolness of a meditative habit, which diffuses itself through the feeling and observation of every sketch. Instead of passion there is sentiment; and, even in what purport to be pictures of actual life, we have allegory, not always so warmly dressed in its habiliments of flesh a

ry of animal passion to the still, sad music of humanity, it would not be advisable to recommend a poem like The Listeners, where the people are ghosts and the sounds only echoes. Yet there are times when it would seem that every one must weary of strident voices, of p

ith flowers, with autumn and winter, with ghosts of memory, with figures in literature, and has finally obtained a respectable audience without once raising his voice. He has written surprisingly little love poetry; the notes of passion, as we are accustomed to hear them, seldom sound from his lute; nor do we hear the agonizing cries of doubt, remorse, or despai

k in the 'forties prophesied would be the highest class of poetry in the immediate future (which prophecy was fulfilled), does not interest Mr. De La Mare; maybe he feels that it has been done so well that he prefers to let it a

RC

venue of a

hattering of their

utio, with B

philosophic

d twig of thou

ll still as whe

lters lonely

in the furthe

m were hid, the

hat eyes he had!

entleman!" a

w, what misch

ree also Apr

pring faint w

could even have remotely imitated; but I know of no poet today who c

aling with Shakespearean characters he uses repeatedly in making po

SU

work was do

t guttering

w opened

night air

a thumb to k

ith stern and

yes glidin

letters t

the guttering

hat through t

mes in the

le a sente

er head as

souls, to a

sound from n

far-off cock

huffling thu

e; and rapt

great glasse

ance int

r round old

thought you

ilt her b

d in Roma

s so that she would have been a repugnant, even an offensive, figure. But Mr. De La Mare has the power-possessed in the supreme degree by J. M. Barrie-of taking just such

Every household ought to have that delightful quarto, delightfully and abundantly illustrated, called Peacock Pie: A Book of Rhymes. With

e heart or in the head-and the best poetry should touch either one or the other or both. Mr. De La Mare owes his present eminence simply to merit-his endeavour has been

nition. He has strength, he has fervour, he has passion. But while his strength is sometimes the happy and graceful play of rippling muscles, it is often contortion. If Mr. De La Mare may seem too delicate, too restrained, Mr. Lawrence cares comparat

. And yet-if he only knew it-his finest work is in a subdued mood. He is a master of colouring-and I like his quieter work as a painter better than his feverish, hectic cries of desire. Despite his dialect poems, he is more su

OF ALL

e avenue o

scarlet capes

the chaunti

gold and black,

g the path t

heads of men

ed faces of wom

nner of death,

t of a grave a

d and forgotten

t of a grave a

ace, nor neither

f the chaunt

e avenue o

of the man

ames beside t

of sound and fury, and instead of being thrilled, we are, as Stevenson said of Whitman's poorer poems, somewhat indecorously amused. All poets, I suppose, are thrilled by their own work; they read it to themselves with s

never see

if they t

se the heavens

ter the frame of t

break the Syst

onvulsion, the s

gear from high to low

, not even with his muf

he same volume the following passage, where the w

it in my mouth, my

ll

alt, burning, eating

edn

ust into white

isting, supe

wife, Lo

he whirling, horrible

ters

s envel

ld that we had Pistol to deliver it. I cite it here, not for the graceless task of showing Mr. Lawrence at his worst, but because such stuff symptomat

has wisely collected in one volume-though I regret the omission of Malvern Lyrics-the best of his poems that had previously appeared in four separate works, containing the cream of his production from 1908 to 1914. His preface to this little book, published in 1917, is excellent in its manly modesty. "Apart from the Cromwell poem itself, the present selection contains all tha

to follow, though it is somewhat lacking in the technique

ory in a p

each and a g

bed, and a s

f thorns: in

easureless t

space in a

ure of all go

seed that th

had driven an

at ever had

he glory of

that went by t

-another tribute to this "calm acclivity, salubrious spot" is paid in Mr. Drinkwater's cheerful song, At Grafton. The spirit of his work in general is the spirit of health-take life as it is, and enjoy it. It is the open-air verse of broad, windswept English counties. Its surest claim to distinction lies in its excellent,

actised this interesting profession six years; he made eight or nine trips to England on cattle-ships, working his passage; he walked about England selling pins and needles. He remarks that "he sometimes varied this life by singing hymns in the street." At t

ays on familiar scenes in town and country with a lambent flame, illuminating and glorifying c

TWO

going to now

he green

t whiter fl

re thei

ou are, you

arrive

that whiter

in th

erience of life. An original defence of the solitary existence

t play one g

o live

strike me

a belo

kes my neig

es a lit

n his brea

Night-win

our its voi

where is

play that g

o live

ms-have an excellent virtue-they are interesting, good companions for a day in the country. There is alw

published a long list of literary critiques, biographies, interpretations of nature, and introspective essays. He took many solitary journeys afoot; his books The Sout

y are original, imaginative, whimsical, and reveal a rich personality. Indeed we feel in reading these rimes that the author was greater than any

stere and aloof; but exactly the type of mind that would give all he had to those who possessed his confidence. It must have been a privilege to know him intimately. I have said that his poems resem

ted for the trenches. Yet, although no soldier by instinct, and having a family dependent upon his writings for support, he gave himself freely to the Great

up, r

he trumpe

he dream

dawn

s that l

nd and

p and

w that

f last nigh

it, sc

ou are

clear

men, e

earth

hat it i

ny mys

r eyes t

hed the eyes

ll the de

h the

e old

e, a

er were the things they sacrificed than the creature comforts ordinarily emphasiz

s is Cock-Crow; beauty of conception mingled wit

of thoughts th

by the sharp

ht, two cocks

darkness with

e my eyes twin t

lendour, one

each as in a

e their boots u

nation, seen on every page

1915, exhibiting the face of a dreamy-looking boy. No one who reads the pages of this book can doubt the author's gift. In his trench-poetry he somehow manages to combine the realism of Barbusse with an almost holy touch of imagination;

FULL

re in the pause

hear the long

llations quietly,

fall in the hu

dead, ended this

whose heart h

sweetness hush,

Wind, Waters, S

the work of Mr. Nichols, though inferior in beauty of expression. Mr. Weaving was invalided home in 1915, and his first book has an introduction by Robert Bridges. In The Bub

O

ter

re, how cold is

thee fuel and light

f thee there, shive

fire lacketh the

see thee again,

the fire, or poking

ggy ash from the bar

more cold or here

as well-the four volumes Oxford Verse, running from 1910 to 1917, contain many excellent things. And in addition to these, there are original adventures in the art of poetry, sometime