Sleep slumbers here, like a great quiet sea Shrunk to this bottle’s compass; sleep that brings Sweet respite from the teeth of pain To those poor tossing things That the white nurses watch so thoughtfully. And here again Dwell the shy souls of Maytime flowers That shall make sweeter still those poignant hours When wide-eyed youth looks on the face of love. And, for those others who have found too late The bitter fruits thereof, Here are cosmetics, powders, paints,—the arts That hunted women use to hunt again With scented flesh for bait. And here is comfort for the hearts Of sucking babes in their first teething pain. Here dwells the substance of huge fervid dreams, Fantastic, many-colored, shot with gleams Of ecstasy and madness, that shall come To some pale, twitching sleeper in a bunk. And here is courage, cheaply bought To cure a blue sick funk, And dearly paid for in the final sum. Here in this powdered fly is caught Desire more ravishing than Tarquin’s.... And at last When the one weary hope is past Here is the sole escape, The little postern in the house of breath Where pallid fugitives keep tryst with death. All this the drug clerk knows and there he stands, Young and dapper and debonair ... He rests a pair of slender hands, Much manicured, upon the counter there And speaks: “No, we don’t carry no pomade, We only cater to the high-class trade.” _Sara Teasdale_ Sara Teasdale was born August 8, 1884, at St. Louis, Missouri, and educated there. After leaving school, she traveled in Europe and the Near East. In 1914, she married Ernst B. Filsinger, who has written several books on foreign trade, and moved to New York City in 1916. Her first book was a slight volume, _Sonnets to Duse_ (1907), giving little promise of the rich lyricism which was to follow. _Helen of Troy and Other Poems_ (1911) contains the first hints of that delicate craftsmanship and authentic loveliness which this poet has brought to such a high pitch. The six monologues which open the volume are splendid delineations written in a blank verse that is as musical as many of her lyrics. At times it suffers from too conscious a cleverness; the dexterity with which Miss Teasdale turns a phrase or twists her last line is frequently too obtrusive to be wholly enjoyable.