Words are such silly things! too rough,
Too smooth, they boil up or congeal,
And neither of us likes emotion --
But I can't measure my devotion!
And you know how I really feel --
And we're together. There, enough, . . . !






Foreword by Chauncey Brewster Tinker



In these days when the old civilisation is crumbling beneath our feet,
the thought of poetry crosses the mind like the dear memory of things
that have long since passed away. In our passionate desire for the new era,
it is difficult to refrain oneself from the commonplace practice
of speculating on the effects of warfare and of prophesying all manner
of novel rebirths. But it may be well for us to remember that the era
which has recently closed was itself marked by a mad idealisation
of all novelties. In the literary movements of the last decade --
when, indeed, any movement at all has been perceptible -- we have witnessed
a bewildering rise and fall of methods and ideals. We were captivated
for a time by the quest of the golden phrase and the accompanying cultivation
of exotic emotions; and then, wearying of the pretty and the temperamental,
we plunged into the bloodshot brutalities of naturalism.