Puslapio vaizdai

Dear Lord, shall I remember up in Heaven

How all the world grows sweet when leaves are wet,

How the warm summer rain is dashed and driven

Across my beds of fern and mignonette?

Shall I remember there, when angels wander

Shining, across Thy fields and singing still,

How the wind sways the willow branches yonder,

And the rain murmurs over field and hill?

Shall I remember there, in Heaven, beholding

The light that rises not, nor sets, nor pales,

How all this day the mists are folding, folding,

Saintly and white, along the silent vales?

When all the Heavenly courts are
hushed and holy

With Thy deep peace, that stills the
sound of praise,

Will it be like the benediction lowly
Breathed in the blessedness of rainy

Isn't anything worth while that puts such glory into nature for those who, so unchallenged, scarce might note the gray wonder, the soft, dim loveliness of wet weather? Edith Franklin Wyatt, in "City Whistles." "City Vespers," "A City Swallow," and "November in the City," performs a kindred miracle in behalf of the busy townsmen to whom thronging streets and metropolitan. bustle too often suggest only the harder and harsher aspects of trade and barter, her inspiring contemporary note but echoing those of many other city singers and purveyors of poetic magic. Hood, Wordsworth, Towne, Kilmer, Howells, it were vain to dream of enumerating those who have thus provided. sight for the poetically blind.

Poems about roads, the sea, the fields, the forest, the desert, the prairies, the mountains are many and beloved as humanity's passion for travel, as the wanderlust that redeems from cloddish inertia countless comfortclogged children of modernity. The mighty underlying impulses of love, death, sin, and sorrow are interpreted, softened, hallowed, by unnumbered and many-veined poems and lyrics, the persistent if sometimes belittled appeal of Tennyson or Longfellow or Whittier or Wordsworth lies in their power of evoking sympathetic feeling, of visioning vivid pictures, of turning to black and gold and rainbow colorings the universal life figments and pigments more commonly presented as dingy, dreary, drab.

Poetry, moreover, not only makes us feel, but makes us feel in universal manner. "The Colonel's lady and Julia O'Grady are sisters under their skins" is Kipling's way of

expressing a truth we must all realize upon occasion. Needless to say the Colonel himself and Julia's husband are of equally intrinsic kinship. Poetry, wide as the world, flexible as

the winds, fluid as water, not only expresses but interprets for the inarticulate the great general human emotions. It says for us things that few of us can say for ourselves, that, in naked prose, few of us would say were the saying conventionally possible. It endows the emotionally dumb with vicarious eloquence, it lends to the unlettered the gift of strange tongues.

Through the medium of poetry the voiceless, whose most fervent moods and emotions must remain personally unexpressed, who perhaps never have been blessed with fervent moods and emotions, may rejoice in the simple sweetness of "Annie Laurie," the kindly power of all old and new heroes, the splendid pride and prowess of all those through all the ages celebrated in enshrining song.

The childless, the bereaved woman may live through experiences never directly her own in the lullabies and child poems quick with the sacred mother impulse; the desolate may find the lost grace of gladness, the sustenance of faith in lyrics hymning the joyous hope of others.

The lame, the halt, the blind may know the bliss of open space, wide skies, free motion. The prisoned may delight in sea and land and mountains. Even the soldier heart shut in the inadequate body may share the thrills of the fighter. The aged may be youthful, the timid may be brave.

All this through prose too? Yes, but in lessened, inferior measure. "Friendship," runs the wise French proverb, "is love without wings." Just so, prose sentiment too often is wingless. Poetry is capable of wondrous flights, usually, even when of uninspired variety, can fly a little, at least can suggest the illusion of leaving prosaic earth behind.

That's why we all love it- for surely, now, you willingly admit the prevailing love and need of poetry. From the minstrels of earliest antiquity down to the newest of "new poetry" singers, the poet's public always has been more or less assured him, though not always during his lifetime. Successful magazine editors are quite cognizant of the general fondness for poetry. Magazine verses

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