Are one with all that in a moment dies,
A little under-said and over-sung;

But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies
Unchanged from what they were when I was young.

THE PEAR TREE

In this squalid, dirty dooryard,
Where the chickens scratch and run,
White, incredible, the pear tree
Stands apart and takes the sun,

Mindful of the eyes upon it,
Vain of its new holiness,
Like the waste-man's little daughter
In her first communion dress.

WILD SWANS

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over;— And what did I see I had not seen before?

Only a question less or a question more;

Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.

Tiresome heart, forever living and dying!

House without air! I leave you and lock your door!

Wild swans, come over the town, come over

The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Mary Carolyn Davies was born at Sprague, Washington, and was educated in the schools at and about Portland, Oregon. At college (the University of California) she won the Emily Chamberlin Cook prize for Poetry in 1912, being the first freshman to win it. In the same year, she established another precedent by being the first woman to win the Bohemian Club prize. With the proceeds, the young poet went to New York, arriving with the remnants of her fortune-four dollars and eighty-five cents.

The long struggle with the city began. Miss Davies wrote short stories, two serials, reams of sentimental verses-anything to keep alive. She turned finally to verse, chiefly because "when the rent is due there's no time to write a story, only verse can save one in time."

Her work divides itself into two distinct classes: the hackwork which she does for a living and the genuine poetry which she creates for its own sake. Her first volume The Drums in Our Street (1918) was a mixture of loud bombast and quiet beauty, of blatant war-verse and unaffected lyrics. Youth Riding (1919), although as uneven as its predecessor, is simpler and surer. The poems in vers libre are clearly musical, and her eight-line lyrics are particularly wistful and delicate.

THE DAY BEFORE APRIL1

The day before April,

Alone, alone,

I walked in the woods

And I sat on a stone.

1 Reprinted by permission of the Publishers, The Macmillan Company. From Youth Riding by Mary Carolyn Davies.

I sat on a broad stone
And sang to the birds.
The tune was God's making
But I made the words.

THE APPLE TREE SAID:1

My apples are heavy upon me.
It was the Spring;

And proud was I of my petals,

Nor dreamed this thing:

That joy could grow to a burden,
Or beauty could be

Changed from snow-light to heavy
To humble me.

Winifred Welles

Winifred Welles was born at Norwich Town, Connecticut, January 26, 1893, and educated in the vicinity of her home.

Her frail and delicately fashioned lyrics are the distinguishing feature of The Hesitant Heart (1920). This first volume, so appropriately named, has a frank tenderness that never grows maudlin, a wistful introspection that never forgets to sing.

1 Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company. From Youth Riding by Mary Carolyn Davies.

FROM A CHINESE VASE

Roaming the lonely garden, he and I

Pursue each other to the fountain's brim,
And there grow quiet-woman and butterfly—
The frail clouds beckon me, the flowers tempt him.

My thoughts are rose-like, beautiful and bright,
Folded precise as petals are, and wings
Uplift my dreaming suddenly in flight,
And fill my soul with jagged colorings.

The waters tangle like a woman's hair
Above the dim reflection of a face-
He thinks those are his own lips laughing there,
His own breasts curving under silk and lace.

How shall we know our real selves, he and I,
Which is the woman, which the butterfly?

HUMILIATION

How nakedly an animal

Lies down on earth to die,
Unmindful of the shining air,
And unashamed of sky.

But men and women under roofs
Draw shades and hush the floor,
And furtively they lay their dead
Behind a darkened door

LOVE SONG FROM NEW ENGLAND

In every solemn tree the wind

Has rung a little lonesome bell,
As sweet and clear, as cool and kind
As my voice bidding you farewell.

This is an hour that gods have loved
To snatch with bare, bright hands and hold.
Mine, with a gesture, grey and gloved,
Dismiss it from me in the cold.

Closely as some dark-shuttered house

I keep my light. How should you know,
That, as you turn beneath brown boughs,
My heart is breaking in the snow?

Herbert S. Gorman

Herbert S. Gorman was born at Springfield, Massachusetts, January 1, 1893. After attending Technical High School he became an actor for two seasons, deserting the stage for the newspaper. He became assistant literary and dramatic editor of the Springfield Union, reporter on the New York Sun and reviewer for the New York Post, The Freeman and other journals.

His first book, The Fool of Love (1920), shows, above an indebtedness to E. A. Robinson, a keen talent and fresh personality.