In the same spirit are Joyce Kilmer's words, written shortly before his
death in the trenches: "I see daily and nightly the expression of beauty
in action instead of words, and I find it more satisfactory." [Footnote:
Letter, May 7, 1918. See Joyce Kilmer's works, edited by Richard Le
Gallienne.] Also we have the decision of Francis Ledwidge, another poet
who died a soldier:

A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart,
Are greater than a poet's art,
And greater than a poet's fame
A little grave that has no name.
[Footnote: _Soliloquy_.]

Is not our idealization of poets who died in war a confession that we
ourselves believe that they chose the better part,--that they did well
to discard imitation of life for life itself?

It is not fair to force an answer to such a question till we have more
thoroughly canvassed poets' convictions on this matter. Do they all
admit the justice of Plato's characterization of poetry as a sport,
comparable to golf or tennis? In a few specific instances, poets have
taken this attitude toward their own verse, of course. There was the
"art for art's sake" cry, which at the end of the last century surely
degenerated into such a conception of poetry. There have been a number
of poets like Austin Dobson and Andrew Lang, who have frankly regarded
their verse as a pastime to while away an idle hour. There was
Swinburne, who characterized many of his poems as being idle and light
as white butterflies. [Footnote: See the _Dedication to Christina
Rossetti_, and _Envoi_.] But when we turn away from these
prestidigitators of rhymes and rhythms, we find that no view of poetry