the sands that lie so meek and still ...
But man is great and strong and wise—
And so he dies.
But in the main it is unfortunate that Mr. Untermeyer, who writes so much and so readably on the subject of poetry, should put out so pretentious and undeveloped a volume as this is. It is inevitable that it should affect his standing as a critic, and there seems little doubt that his work in that field is really valuable to the cause of poetry in America today.
—Eunice Tietjens.
TWO BIOGRAPHIES: VERLAINE AND TOLSTOY
Paul Verlaine, by Wilfred Thorley; Tolstoy: His Life and Writings, by Edward Garnett. [Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.]
When autumn is in your heart—not that of the golden delirium of exotic agony, but bleak weeping autumn of crucifixion and dead leaves—what dirge, what note haunts you in accompaniment to your grief? Maddening darts from Tchaikowsky’s Pathétique, or Weltschmerz-moans from Beethoven’s Marchia Funebre, or an unuttered accord known only to your soul? Or, if you are a brother of mine, do your lips soundlessly mutter this?
Les sanglots longs
Des violons