Sad November, lady of rain
Sends the goose-wedge over again.
Wilder now, for the verdure's birth,
Fails the sunlight over the earth;
Kildees call from the fields where now
The banding black-birds follow the plow
Rustling poplar and brittle weed
Whisper low to the river-reed.
Days departing linger and sigh;
Stars come soon to the quiet sky;
Buried voices, intimate, strange,
Cry to body and soul of change;
Beauty, eternal fugitive,
Seeks the home that we cannot give.
A POET OF THE 'NINETIES
For some undivulged reason the American edition of this book is published without the preface written by the editor of the volume, Ezra Pound.
The following passages taken from this introduction furnish on excellent criticism of the poems of Lionel Johnson; and we quote them here in place of a review:
A traditionalist of traditionalists, his poems are criticism for the most part. One might almost say they are literary criticism in verse, for that is the impression which they
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