The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century

ion-his devotion to art-his theories-his love poetry-resemblance to Maeterlinck-the lyrical element paramount-the psaltery-pure rather than applied poetr

es Stephens-poet and novelist-realism and fantasy-Padraic Colum-Francis Ledwidge-Susan Mitchell-Thomas MacDonagh-Joseph

e and continuous blessing to the world that the locality of their birth pales in comparison with the glory of it, a glory in which we all profit. We need original writers in America; but I had rather have a star of the first magnitude appear in London than a star of lesser power appear in Los Angeles. Every one who writes good English contributes something to English literature and is a benefactor to English-speaking people. An Irish or Americ

ly an impoverished language incapable of directly expressing thought." I am greatly unimpressed by such a statement. The chief reason why there is really a Celtic Dawn, or

of Ireland's contributions to English prose and to English drama. Possibly, if one had prophecy rather than history to settle the question, one might predict that Irishmen would naturally write more and better poetry than Englishmen; for the common supposition is that the poe

n fact, common sense was the basis of their mental life. And no one can read the letters of Byron without seeing how well supplied he was with the shrewd common sense of the Englishman. He was more selfish than any one of the men enumerated above-but he was no fool. There is nothing inconsistent in his being at

lass poetry than any other nation in the history of the world. English literature is instinctively romantic, as French

etry does not spring from natures too volatile, too susceptible, too easily swept by gusts of emotion. Landor was one of the most violent men we have on record; he was a prey to uncontrollable outbursts of rage, caused by trivial vexations; but his poetry aimed at cold, classical

n his Recollections, placed on opposite pages-all the more striking to me because unintentional-illuminating testimony to the difference between the Irish and the British temperament. And this

to the warder: "What's all that he says?" Warder: "He says ye hit Pat Curry with yer spade on the side of his head."

feeling all through, winding up in two stanzas at the close. These are among the pieces that make Wordsworth a poet to live with; he

ers, summed up in two stanzas the difference between the popular conception of a poet and the real truth

so lightly, int

eceptive,-not o

st fell but strai

tue: song woul

ntaneous-prov

de

oil rather, surfa

mildness, storm an

end,-few flower

left broods-wh

s a pine, a na

ists; they grow up faster than the average. The maturity of Keats is astonishing…. Mr. Yeats's wonderful lamentation, September 1913, that sounds li

ou, being c

e in a gr

halfpence

o shivering

d the marrow

e born to p

eland's dea

O'Leary in

re of a dif

t stilled you

e about the w

time had

hangman's r

help us, cou

eland's dea

O'Leary in

his the wild

ing upon e

t all that b

dward Fitz

Emmet and

elirium of

eland's dea

O'Leary in

e turn the

ose exiles

ir lonelin

some woman'

d every mot

so lightly wh

be, they're d

h O'Leary i

English language that Ireland has ever produced. He is a notable figure in contemporary literature, having made ad

er, which profession he still adorns. The future poet studied art for three years, but when twenty-one years old definitely devoted himself to literature. In addition to his original work, one of his fore

with the management of the Abbey Theatre, he has produced a long list of works in ver

hip seldom prevents the enthusiast from issuing and spreading dogmatic propaganda, a merely elementary conception of the principle of division of labour should make us all rejoice when the artist confines himself to art. True artists are scarce and

k in which he writes. The reason why it is interesting to read what Mr. Yeats says about his love of magic and of symbols is not because there is any truth or falsehood in these will-o'-the-wisps, but because he is such an artist that even when he writes in prose, his style is so beautiful, so harmonious that one is forced to listen. Literary art has enormous power in propelling a projectile of thought. I do not doubt that the chief reason for the immense effect of such a philosophy as that of Schopenhauer or that of Nietzsche is because each man wa

ke an overture without the opera. Perhaps it is not too fanciful to observe that The Wind Among the Reeds suggests better than any other arrangement of words the lovely minor melodies of our poet, while The Shadowy Waters gives exactly the picture that comes into one's m

ree, and intimacies that once took months to develop, now need only minutes, so much contemporary verse-tribute to women is so detailed, so bold, so cock-sure, that the elaborate compliments only half-conceal a sneer. In all such work lo

hair with

every wand

rt build thes

t them, day

sorrowful

battles o

lift a pear

your long ha

hearts must

ike foam on

mbing the dew

light your p

oem is the one which gleams with t

avens' embro

h golden and

the dim and t

light and t

the cloths un

poor, have on

my dreams un

ecause you tre

he seems to turn away from the real sorrows of life, yes, even from its real joys, to dwell in a world of his own creation. He invites us thither, if we care to go; and if we go not, we cannot understand either his art or his ideas. But if we wander with him in the shadowy darkness, like the lonely man in Titanic

the dramatic aspect of art, that he carried the drama even into its seemingly contradictory form, the lyric. Every lyric is a little one-act play, and he called them dramatic

of his most significant articles of faith, written in shining prose. Mr. Yeats cannot write on any subject without illuminating it by the light of his own imagination; a

t art; but Mr. Yeats comes near to possessing its secret. This book is like a deep pool in its limpidity and mystery; no man without genius could have written it. I mean to read it many times, for there are pages that I am not sure that I understand. One looks into its depths

as one may choose to name it, comes but to those who are no longer deceived, whose passion is reality. The sentimentalists are practical men who believe in money, in position, in a marriage bell, and whose understanding of happiness is to be so busy whether at work or at play, that all is forgotten but the momentary aim. They will find their pleasure in a cup that is filled from Lethe's wharf, and for the awakening, for the vision, for the revelation of reality, tradition offers us a different word-ecstasy…. We m

science, where there should have been the reveries of the common heart, ennobled into some raving Lear or unabashed Don Quixote…. I have been reading through a bundle of German plays, and have found everywhere a desire not to express hopes and alarms common to every man that ever came into the world, but politics or social passion, a veiled or open propaganda…. If Homer were alive today, he would only resist, after a deliberate struggle, the temptation t

an applied poetry, he is not turning his back on great issues to do filigree work, but is merely

inally studied another form of art than literature. Mr. Yeats studied painting for years; A. E. is a painter of distinction; Synge an accomplished musician before he became a of letters. There is not the slightest doubt the effect of these sister arts upon the

y revival in his country, but he has the satisfaction of kn

ly have mastered the note of every human being, as in addition to his knowledge of ancient languages, he seems to have become proficient in German, French, and Italian with singular speed and ease. He was an excellent performer on the piano, flute, and violin, did conjuring tricks, and delighted the natives of the Aran Islands with his penny whistle. He must have had a positive genius for concent

ity of the shallow-minded. Synge was like a mastiff who bites without warning. Irony was the common chord in his composition. He studied life and hated death; hated the gossip of the world, which seemed to him the gabble of fools. Physically he was a sick man, and felt his tether. He thought it frightful that he should have to die, while so many idiots lived long. He never forgave men and women

CU

nemy of the author'

Pla

und this su

ow with blotc

arynx, lung

s a gallin

ve to earn

y with see

judgment qu

servant, Jo

oy is a

repartee; and the blessings are doubtless commingled with irony. But Synge had a savage heart. He was essentially a wild man, and a friend of mine had a vision of him that seems not without signifi

respect for the quality of his intellect that it is almost laughable to think how eagerly they must have awaited criticism of the books they gave him-criticism that never came. Yet he never seems to have given the impression of surliness; he wa

ality they have a deep and melancholy interest; and every word of his short Preface, written in December, 1908, a few months before his death, is valuable. He knew he was a dying man, and not only wished to collect these fugitive bits of verse

her Mr. Yeats or Mr. Russell-it has influenced other Irish poets, and many that are not Irish. Indeed much aggressively

, and thieves, and deacons, not by little cliques only. Then, in the town writing of the eighteenth century, ordinary life was put into verse that was not poetry, and when poet

it is the timbre of poetry that wears most surely, and there i

life are needed in poetry also, to show that what is exalted or tender is not made by feeble

self, for he knew that much biography

ANNI

the dates in a

-ninety or S

tes, Marot, N

irteen till two

che, that honey

all my littl

came in Eighte

lin…. What year

ssage to the s

UES

got sick and

k funeral go

close to hear t

own in that ste

said, for if

ots pressing

hey alive, I

rave and rend the

e abandoned all hope of a life beyond the grave, that they cling to bodily existence with almost gluttonous passion, and are filled with self-pity at the thought of their own death and burial. To my mind, there is something unworthy, something childish, in all this. When a child has been rebuked or punished by its father or mother,

l of either of the two men whose work we have considered; but he is by all odds the greatest Personality. He holds over his contemporaries a spi

intellectual life. At one time his house was kept open every Sunday evening, and any friend, stranger, or foreigner had the right to walk in without knocking, and take a part in the conversation. A. E. used to subscribe to every literary journal, no matter how obscure, that was

onical laughter; I cannot imagine A. E. putting on coat and trousers; and although I once had the honour-which I gratefully remember-of a long talk with W. B. Yeats, I never felt that I was listening to a man of

n intellectually, sincere. The mysticism of Mr. Russell is fully as intellectual as it is emotional; it is more than his creed; it is his life. His poetry and his prose are not shadowed by his mysticism, they emanate from it. He does not have to live in anothe

U

m in their

ebukes the t

embers wrap

obler than

ouched the l

hy rudest

with fire of

ed by all

who is certain of his speedy return thither. This homesickness has more anticipation than regret; it is like healthy hunger when one is assured of the next meal. For assurance is the prime thing in A. E.'s temperament and in his work; it partly accounts for his strong influence. Many writers today are like sheep having no shepherd; A. E. is a shephe

Why He spake to humanity in the language of pain, rather than in the language of delight? Was it not simply be

LE

yes with tear

the path

ew, the ho

shining

arkness wa

es, your p

our wand

stic hear

knew of th

ning in it

e could

stery told

ngth is seen in the following two stanzas

be better

in purple i

steel be mor

hat we are

the starry g

those who w

e made of ea

eed, for hop

hose can l

g Initiat

hat mighty

of immo

s, and extraordinarily diversified activity, travelling on life's common way in cheerful godl

and general curiosity about the author became rampant. It was speedily discovered that he was a poet as well as a novelist; that three years before his reputation he had issued a slim book of verse, boldly named Insurrections, the title being the boldest thing in it. By 1915 this

es of slimy city streets with slimy creatures crawling on the pavements. It is an interesting fact that they appeared the same year of Synge's Poems with Synge's famous Preface counselling brutality, counselling anything to bring poetry away from the iridescent dreams of W. B. Yeats down to the stark realities of life and nature. They bear testi

earer and purer. But the author of The Crock of Gold and The Demi-Gods appears again in The Adventures of Seumas Beg. In these charming poems we have that triple combination of realism, humour, and fantasy that gave so original a flavour to th

EVIL'

vil walking

use.-There wa

y on his should

it hit him. H

ound and put i

ubbed his hands.

e the bag up

been a soul!

out inside,

r escape. Oh

outed out, "Let

und, and, sure,

and down, and

. Oh, mammy!

nother side of his literary powers. There is organ-like music in these noble lines.

ent illustration of this may be found in Mr. Stephens' latest volume, Reincarnations. There is no doubt that th

EOUS

of a she in the

or asking the loan

p the whey-faced

ners out of her

p, with the harde

and a voice that w

raging the minute

of the house on t

aster he'd give

eer at hand, not a

host and bear him

Glory permit her

agricultural. His most important book is Wild Earth, published in Dublin in 1901, republished with additions in New York in 1916. The smell of the earth is pungent in such poems as The Plougher and The Drover; while his masterpiece, An Old Woman of the Roads, voices the primeval and universal longing for the safe shelter of a home. I wonder what those who

ve a lit

earth and st

up sods upo

turf again

ck with weigh

m swinging

lled with sh

white and b

e busy al

sweeping hear

on their

blue and sp

rst of August, 1917. Ledwidge's poetry is more conventional than that of most of his Irish contemporaries, and he is at his best in describing natural objects. Such poems as A Rainy Day in April, and A Twilight in Midd

nd is the imp

aspiration

strivings for

ut like snow m

ke our Heaven w

ngs. Oh! can the

we moan, or

the woods wher

falling in the

on the fasteni

lume, The Living Chalice, is full of the beauty that rises from suffering. It is not the spirit of acquiescence or of resignation, but rather dauntless triumphant affirmation. Her p

ART'S

will have n

me the lo

ugh passio

nheeding he

nce of rai

mountains' s

t things I've

s that I ha

grudging gra

forest's car

om thee, Ea

phantom brig

ning to th

the heart'

re Love's re

ne'er had

a worshipper of Beauty, his devotion being even more religious than aesthetic. The poems addressed to Beauty-of which there are comparatively many-exhibit the familiar yet melancholy disparity between the vision in the poet's soul and the printed image of it. This disparity is not owing to faulty technique, for his management of metrical effects shows ease and grace; it

urs' shame

t I broug

d keep a

ght a kin

hree years sin

ty me t

rather have

t they'd

e and you,

ld no

my husband

s the goo

u never wer

he cott

e fire and

and put

now, it is

for you

d keep you f

t's my

res, their pains, and their superstitions. No deadness of conventionality dulls the edge of his art-he is an original man. His fancy is bold, and he makes no attempt to repress it. Perhaps his most striking poem is I am the Gi

ughman,

aring

eadow

untain

ife i

h your

s in your

orses

aight a

broken f

ength y

blos

glory to

me for the County of Wicklow, but it includes also a stretch to the northwest, reaching close to Dublin. Mr. Campbell's description of it in his preface makes a musical overture t

les his famous countryman than many another master. His best poems are collected in a volume published in 1912, and the most interesting of these give pictures of various city streets, Mercer Street (three), Nelson Street, Cuffe Street, and so on. In other words, the most original part of this

ow of All Souls. His poetical reputation, which began with the appearance of Apollo and the Seaman, in 1907, has been perceptibly heightened by the publication in 1918 of his collected works in two volumes, Poems, with Fables in Prose, saluted rapturously by a London critic under the heading "Un

92, exhibits the range of his work as well as anything that he has written. It is founded on a deep and pure religious faith…. Norreys Jephson O'Conor is a young Irish-American, a graduate of Harvard, and has already published three volumes of verse, Celtic Memories, which appeared in England in 1913, Beside the Blackwater, 1915, and Songs

rancis Carlin. This is the work of a young Irishman, a New York business man, who, out

is quite conspicuous by his absence. He still gives his song and dance, and those who prefer musical-comedy to orchestral compositio

land. The last twenty-five years have seen an awakening of poetic activity in that island unlike anything known there before; and Dublin has become one of the literary centres of the