Duncan Campbell Scott has the fascination of the spontaneous singer, and how all the entrancement of the Dominion is caught into these lines: "Oh, Land of the dusky balsam, And the darling maple-tree, Where the cedar buds and berries, And the pine grows strong and free! My heart is weary and weary For my own country." Something in this song recalls, like remembered music, Katherine Tynan's (Mrs. Hinkson) haunting poem, _Homesick_, of which two lines run: "But my heart flies back to an Abbey gray Where the dead sleep sweet, and the living pray." The professional critic could find many poems of Mr. Scott's with intrinsically greater claim than this lovely little chanson, _To B. W. B._ (now Mrs. Duncan Campbell Scott), but something in the lilting cadence enchains the reader: "The world is spinning for change And life has rapid wings; Oh, one needs a steady heart Not to falter while he sings. "But this is made for my Dear One When we are far apart, That she may have, wherever she goes A song of mine in her heart. "A song that will serve as an anchor, Compass, and pilot, and chart, A song that will bid her remember That Love is the crown of Art. * * * * * {264} "With a star from her open window When the cuckoo wakes with a start: Oh, can she ever forget me With a song of mine in her heart?" In _The Voice and the Dusk_ what a play of colour: "The slender moon and one pale star, A rose leaf and a silver bee From some god's garden blown afar, Go down the gold deep tranquilly. "Within the south there rolls and grows A mighty town with tower and spire, From a cloud bastion masked with rose The lightning flashes diamond fire." A poet's _nom de plume_ is that of "Katherine Hale," so well known in private life as Mrs. John W. Garvin, who to her own charm as a poet must add still another as the wife of a poet and a critic of distinction as well. The gods endowed "Katherine Hale" with a resplendent lyre, and her poems have flown to many lands. Perhaps no poem of the war has more closely touched the universal heart than has "Katherine Hale's" poem, so intense in its restrained power, entitled _Grey Knitting_, so widely known that from it only these three stanzas will be given: "All through the country, in the autumn stillness, A web of grey spreads strangely, rim to rim; And you may hear the sound of knitting needles. Incessant, gentle--dim. "A tiny click of little wooden needles, Elfin amid the gianthood of war; Whispers of women, tireless and patient, Who weave the web afar. * * * * * * {265} "I like to think that soldiers, gayly dying For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep, May hear the fairy click of women's needles As they fall fast asleep." What a spell of potent witchery she weaves in her song _I used to Wear a Gown of Green_: