The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century

chard Burton-his healthy optimism-his growth-Edwin Markham and his famous poem-Ella Wheeler Wilcox-her additions to our language-Edmund Vance Cooke-Edith M. Thomas-Henry van Dyke-George E. Wood

on Robinson-a forerunner of the modern advance-his

the earth, it may become as impossible to distinguish the note of a new imagist as the note of an individual robin. When the publishers advertise the initial appearance of a poet, we simply say Another!

ory, poets who were winter residents, were sufficiently uncommon. I

the next Maytime would bring forth. Had William Vaughn Moody lived longer, it is probable that America would have had another major poet. He wrote verse to please

s graduated at Harvard, and after teaching there, he became a member of the English Department

hich make for immortality. This dignity is never assumed; it is not worn like an academic robe; it is an integral part of the poetry. An Ode in Time of Hesitation has already become a classic, both

om Harvard in 1886, and later became Professor of Philosophy, which position he resigned in 1912, because academic life had grown less and less con

ely written. He is an artist in prose and verse, and it seems unfortunate that his professorial activity-as in the case of A. E. Housman-choked his M

Other Poems; and in 1899 a less important book, Lucifer: a Theological Tragedy. No living American has written fin

ll around my

n from the dis

e of all the m

ean in its v

ane insatiat

gion of his pa

battle all th

al sunlight g

sacred to t

iety that mo

inmost heart

rine; in peace

w tides pulse fr

iet broods fro

choosest not t

isdom to be

ward vision c

sdom to beli

d a world, an

faith decipher

soul's invi

science and

e is a torch

e pathway but

id of myste

tender light of

ne the morta

king of the t

OF SCHOLASTI

loister or wh

ight upon this

mpulsive held t

matin bell o

of the Heave

s in youth, or

heresy keep g

od, to write

at irrecov

hantoms, sense

rouble or the

stirred his lips

haos, and

husks of his

rs old, he became a member of the editorial staff of the Century Magazine, and remained there exactly forty years. His first volume of poems, The Winter Hour, was published in 1891, si

rt, politics, morality, and religion. Certainly his services to his country have been important; and many good causes that he advocated are no

ks, and poems attacking the omnipresent and well-organized forces of evil. I am quite aware that in the eyes of many critics such praise as t

y in harmony with contemporary historical judgment (1918) but has a Do

f the fathe

Lincoln what th

rst sentence of the preface to these verses, written by Nikola Tesla, has a reinforced emphasis-"Hardly is there a nation which has met with a sadder fate than the Servian." How curious today seems the individual or national pessimism

t can say "I am

e than e'

e took the doctor's degree in Anglo-Saxon. For the last twenty years he has been Professor of English Literature at the University of Minnesota, and is one of the best teachers and lecturers in the countr

itles), which came out in 1917, is his high-water mark. I am glad that he reprinted in this v

re than many pretentious diagnosticians; and his gladness in living communicates itself to the reader. Occasionally, as in Spring Fantasies,

852) who has produced many books, but seems destined to be remembered for The Man With the Hoe (1899). His other works are by no means negligible, but that one poem made the whole world kin. To a certain extent, the same may be said o

e world laug

d you we

e all owe her a debt of gratitude for being th

on is eve

is sett

philosophy of cheerful kindliness, founded on a shrewd knowledge of human nature. Verse is his mot

far talent can go unaccompanied by the divine breath of inspiration. She has perhaps almost too much facility; she has dignity, good taste, an excellent command of a wide variety of metrical effects; she has read ancient and modern authors, she is a keen observer, she is a

ought to be remembered, now that

. His versatility is so remarkable that it has somewhat obscured his parti

e swift,

e strong,

ighteous, pe

e wise, t

n falter

est to t

o walk in d

ise of t

nd times

n hosts h

imes the van

sen, gl

by wise

ken by

ster box

ing hands

he torch,

the sta

eart, life's

the depth

aphy. I do not mean to say anything unpleasant about Mr. Woodberry or the public, when I say that his poetry is too fine for popularity. It is not the raw material of poetry, like that of Carl Sandburg, yet it is not exactly the finished product that passes by the common name. It is rather the essence of poetry, the spirit of poetry, a clear flame-almost impalpable. "You may not b

otion like a

to the young-e

y is in imm

his muddy ve

lose it in, we

and social service, but the soul of the man is found in his books of verse, most of which have been first printed in England. He is a lifelong student of Petrarch, and has made man

ity great? Hug

ard? Vast mult

cling walls? Pa

st the count

n? Nay, these

s where glorious

rise whose names

turies gleam

rta, Florence,

ity's bright,

of the spirit

the unconqu

ity that I l

tone shall h

nd beauty of The Inn of the Silver Moon. In everything that he wrote, Mr. Vielé revealed a winsome whimsicality, and a lightness of touch impossible except to true artists. It should also be remembered to his credit that he love

ving produced many dramas and lyrics, which were collected in two stout volumes in 1915. In 1917 appeared two new works, Trails Sunward and Wraiths and Realities, with interesting prefaces, in which the antholog

remely good; and I find it difficult to read either blank verse or rimed drama, unless

uld think, to be more often than not, commonplace; but the fact is that most of his poems could not be turned into prose without losing their life. He has limitations instead of faults; within hi

(1901) gave her something like fame, though I have always thought it was overrated; it is certainly inferior to The Death of Marlowe (1837), by Richard Hengist Horne. In 1910 her play The Piper won the Stratford-o

ect happy, almost a golden age; homesickness for the England, France, Italy, America that existed before 1914 is almost a universal sentiment; yet when we read the verse composed during those days of prosperous tranquillity, when youth seemed comic rather than tragic, we find that half th

an really go down to business in the morning with his jaw set? Does every woman begin the day with compressed lips, determined somehow to pull through till afternoon? Even the

ese divagations by the number of cheery lyrics that she has felt it necessary to write. Now

r Sorrow

e down t

m everyth

at him th

ow, give m

tle sign

e given a

e I far

charmed my

wed them

enough in

hall see

excel-I mean child poetry. Her Cradle Song is as good as anything of hers I know, though I could wish she had omitted the parenthetical refrain

on the twenty-second of December, 1869, and studied at Harvard University. In 1896 he published two poems, The Torrent and The Night Before; these were included the next year in a volume called The Children of the Night. His suc

omewhat delicate health. But if Mr. Robinson is not a germinal writer, he is at all events a precursor of the modern advance. The year 1896 was not opportune for a venture in verse, but the Ga

he is a full-grown man, whose voice of resonant hope and faith is heard in the darkness. His chief reason for believing in God is that it is more sensible to believe in Him t

e creed, an

fies God's

that His w

creed of co

crimson, n

the twilight

promise

the starry

faith with

s to the lif

in ourse

hich is th

Children o

cloak that h

Children o

he ages wh

ther striking portraits of individuals, of which the most impressive is Richard Cory. More than on

ectual energy expended on him. Yet this volume contained what is on the whole, Mr. Robinson's masterpiece-Isaac and Archibald. We are given a striking picture of these old men, and I suppos

tly speaking, till the end of the book. Yet in reality the first poem, Flammonde, is the man against the sky-line

pt diluted Tennyson, and it won't do to dilute Tennyson. One might almost as well try to polish him. It is of course possible that Mr. Robinson wished to try something in a roman

excellent draughtsman; everything that he has done has beauty of line; anything pretentious is to him abhorrent. He is more map-maker than pa