Puslapio vaizdai


In Flanders' fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders' fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

you from falling hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies blow In Flanders' fields.





ERE, then, is the conclusion of the


whole matter:

Everybody should read poetry.

Because everybody loves it. (For particulars see Chapter 1.)

Again, why?

Because everybody loves, needs, desires, seeks enjoyment, and the reading of poetry, properly performed and pursued, makes for universal enjoyment of high, rich, rare, inexpensive, highly diversified, never-ending and ever-vernal order. (For further particulars see Chapter II.

How, then, to extract this enjoyment from poetry, to cause poetry reading to yield its rare treasures in plain and painless manner, in a word, "How to Read Poetry?"

Why, good sir or madam, perfectly simple
Read poetry just as you would

and easy.


bathe or dress or write a letter or eat your dinner or play golf or take a car down town.

Suit the action to the time, the food to the appetite, the clothing to the weather, the poetry to the mood, the nature, the taste.

If you like "old" poetry, read "old" poetry and don't be ashamed to admit that you like and read it.

If you prefer "new" poetry, read that and don't be ashamed of reading it, either.

If you naturally enjoy standard poetry of grave or classic order, so much the better; you have much to enjoy and may rejoice in a life supply of the preferred poetic dainty.

If your taste runs to the simplest of verse, to tender love lyrics, the least impressive of "home and mother" jingles, the most primitive of war songs or "poems of passion," why, have you not still great cause for rejoicing? You are indubitably fortunate in that the supply always will more than equal the demand.

If you like poetry of all kinds, read poetry of all kinds and don't think the case requires apology, explanation, nor any attention other

than matter-of-fact, pleased and natural acceptance. Why should one deprecate or explain intellectual, emotional likings any more than physical appetites in the way of food or drink?

In a word, once more, read whatever poetry you like, and if you don't think you really like any begin at once to experiment, to read all kinds until you discover—as you surely will sooner or later and probably sooner which kind you like best. (For encouraging assistance read Chapters III, IV, v, and vi.)

But don't, as you would do yourself justice, read Byron when your soul hungers for spiritual sustenance, nor Keats with the war-guns roaring, nor Masters when you long to be stirred or stimulated or soothed. The music of a pipe organ, remember, is admirably fitted for inspiring or encouraging religious meditation, but it is not well suited to quickstep marching or the dancing of a fandango; a fife and drum corps, similarly, would provide but a poor lullaby or waltz measure. There are times when Noyes'

lovely lilting cloys the stiffened senses like honey, when the rhythmic realism of Sandburg is maddening, the Tennysonian sentimentality quite too much to bear.

In a word, yet once more, read poetry with reason, with the invaluable support of this chapter, and, in addition, with the aid of this (softly whispered) watchword and secret:

Use Your Common Sense.

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