"makers" of old, no matter how humble he may be. The primitive singer of the cavemen, the first bards and minstrels, the epic masters, all have passed on to him a part of their gift of the Word.

This pride, furthermore, will not permit even the youngest and humblest of the poets to hear poetry underrated without protest. His protest may be humorous, but he will make it, gently, in a thoughtless world, whenever it may be necessary. Then mankind, as a whole, will come at last to perceive something of the grandeur of poetry. The story of a poet's pride in poetry is most magically told in "At The King's Threshold" by William Butler Yeats. Mr. Yeats tells the story of Seanchan, poet of ancient Ireland, who lay down to die of starvation on the threshhold of the king, to cast shame upon him, because that unwise king had denied to him, a representative of poetry, a place with the bishops and the lawgivers at the royal table. That unwise king had to learn that poetry must be respected. He humbled himself before Seanchan. To-day the people are kings. It is for poets to command their respect.

But for himself the poet must be humble. Fame is something which may come to him with its advantage of association with the world's great folk and its disadvantages of stress and burdensome publicity and misunderstanding and the unkindness of many commentators. But fame is not what should be hungrily sought. The thing to be hungrily sought is beauty of expression. When a poet is seeking that he will be content to say, very, humbly, with Robert Bridges, Laureate of England,

"I have loved flowers that fade
Within whose magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
With sweet unmemoried scents:
A honeymoon delight,-

A joy of love at sight,

That ages in an hour:—
My song be like a flower!"

PART II

THE SPIRIT OF CONTEMPORARY POETRY

DEMOCRACY AND THE NEW THEMES

At the Author's Congress of The Panama-Pacific International Exposition in 1915, Edwin Markham, who is often called "The Dean of American Poetry," gave an address on the subject of contemporary verse. Those who listened felt that, in spite of his venerable appearance, he was one of the youngest and most promising poets present. In the course of his discussion he told the following story. A young man once went to Mr. Markham and said, "Mr. Markham, I feel sure that I have it in me to write a great poem. I know that I can do it. But I have not been able to think of a subject worthy of my powers. Now, Mr. Markham, if you will suggest the subject, I will write the poem." Mr. Markham fumbled in his pocket, and, after a moment's deliberation, drew thence a rusty nail. "This is as good a subject as any," said he to the young man. And the young man was properly rebuked.

For a man who, in a world of physical and spiritual miracles, could think of no subject "worthy of his powers," would write no better of the grand march of the galaxies in the milky way than of a little piece of metal covered with rust. After all, the little piece of iron has been a part of the procession of stars and planets. And, if our minds are so dull and unimaginative that we find no cause for wonder in near and familiar objects, why should we dare to suppose that we can fathom, describe, and interpret marvels vast and remote? Mr. Markham knew very well that a rusty nail in the pocket of a genius may be anything that the genius wishes it to be. It may be the very nail that held down the first plank in the floor of the house that Jack built. Or a leprachaun may have used it in cobbling the boot of a giant. But in the pocket of a dull, uninteresting man a rusty nail becomes a dull, uninteresting object. Now the moral of Mr. Markham's story is simply this: It is the poet who makes

the poem, not the theme! A poor poetaster will make poor poetry, or slipshod verse out of the greatest theme of all-if there be any greatest theme. And indeed his inadequacy will be the more apparent when he strains after that which his intellect can not reach. A great poet, on the other hand, will make great poems out of things that others pass by heedlessly. The beauty of the poem is not in the theme but in the poet's power to present it.

This truth can be convincingly illustrated by reading and comparing good and bad poems on the same subject. Let us read and compare three poems on the same theme, the mature woman who has known the sorrows and joys of life and found her serene fulfillment. Probably the three men who wrote these poems had felt the same feeling. Probably they had the same ideal in mind. They differ from one another in their skill as poets.

The first stanzas quoted are dull and prosy, directly stated abstractions. We are willing to believe that the worthy woman Roscoe Gilmore Stott describes has lived a worthy life and merits praise. But we do not care. We are not interested.

THE STRONG WOMAN

Somehow her very delicacy was strength,

With which she met the tempest-tide of life;
Frail craft that did not fear the journey's length
Nor dread the billow's strife.

Somehow her gentle tenderness was pow'r,
With which she did the larger task alone;-
Frail toiler fashioned for the leisure hour,
A sturdy workman grown.

Somehow her unfeigned purity was rule,

With which she wrought in meek yet regal mien;-
Frail monarch acting as her Maker's tool-

Unknown, uncrowned, unseen!

Hundreds of verses like this are written daily. It does no harm provided no one is led to suppose that they are poetry.