An’ its golden pinions tested for their flight across the Deep—
Lord, I know my soul will flutter up to heaven, an’ will utter
In a clearer note the songs it only tried to sing below;
An’ these fitful, fiery flashes from the pale hope of my ashes
Will be altars of star incense in the glory of Thy glow—
When I wake up in the mornin’.
John Trotwood Moore.
TWO NOVELS OF THE YEAR
I read two novels by two women not long ago. I believe I should say what my critical deductions were:
Too many novels are a dangerous thing and two a year are pabulum enough for a man. For men must fight the life around them. Women may dream, thank God, and right beautifully do they dream.