Shriveled them, with a thought, to a small diamond:
And tried to sell it to men who call it glass.
It was glass in a sense—
Glass which with terrible exactness,
Showed them big, hideous souls
Dwarfed by the splendor of its immense clarity,
Like forests pressed to specks by the height of a mountain.
His first acceptance came from Miss Harriet Monroe, who prints five of his poems in the August issue of Poetry. “My creed,” says Mr. Bodenheim “(if I can be said to have one), is this: Most of the things which men call beautiful are ugly to me, and some of the things they call ugly are beautiful. Men and deeds are subjects for prose, not poetry. I am not concerned with life, but with that which lies behind life. I am an intense admirer of Ezra Pound’s,” he always adds; “I worship him.”
Sade Iverson, Unknown
We wish the mysterious poet who sent us The Milliner—which we liked profoundly and printed in our last issue—would come in to see us. The poem arrived one day in April with a modest little note: “Something about your magazine—perhaps the essential actuality of it—has moved me to make ‘the simple confession’ which I enclose. Print it if it is good enough; throw it in the waste basket if it is not.” But though we have tried various investigations we have not been able to find out who this remarkable Sade Iverson is. She was the first person to send us a congratulatory letter about The Little Review. In it she warned us that restraint is better than expression; but The Milliner will stand as a stronger refutation of that advice than anything we can say. We want very much to know Sade Iverson. After reading her poem Mr. Bodenheim wrote the following: