O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, I am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace. Out of a new sorrow it is, That my hunting hath brought me. White Poppy, heavy with dreams, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows --And it is white they are-- But if one should look at me with the old hunger in her eyes, How will I be answering her eyes? For I have followed the white folk of the forest. Aye! It's a long hunting And it's a deep hunger I have when I see them a-gliding And a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart. But oh, it is sorrow and sorrow When love dies-down in the heart. BY THE SAME AUTHOR Personae _Choicely Printed at the Chiswick Press on fine paper. Foolscap Octavo, 2s. 6d. net_ SOME EARLY REVIEWS _The Observer_ says:--"It is something, after all, intangible and indescribable that makes the real poetry. Criticism and praise alike give no idea of it Everyone who pretends to know it when he sees it, should read and keep this little book." _The Bookman_:--"No new book of poems for years past has had such a freshness of inspiration, such a strongly individual note, or been more alive with undoubtable promise." _The Daily Chronicle_:--" All his poems are like this, from beginning to end, and in every way, his own, and in a world of his own. For brusque intensity of effect we can hardly compare them to any other work. It is the old miracle that cannot be defined, nothing more than a subtle entanglement of words, so that they rise out of their graves and sing." From a 3 1/2 page detailed critique, by Mr. Edward Thomas, in _The English Review_.--"He has ... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of modern versifiers;... He has not the current melancholy or resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of feeling for nature that runs to minute description and decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any living writers;... full of personality and with such power to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure, grave, passionate world.... The beauty of it ('In praise of Ysolt') is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of beautiful words and images and suggestions;... the thought dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here ('Idyl for Glaucus') the effect is full of human passion and natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a subject. This admirable poet...." _The Oxford Magazine_:--"This is a most exciting book of poems." _The Evening Standard_:--"A queer little book which will irritate many readers." _The Morning Post_:--" Mr. Ezra Pound ... immediately compels our admiration by his fearlessness and lack of self-consciousness."