In _A Family Album_ (1918) one sees the impress of a tense and original mind, of imagination that is fed by strengthening fact, of sight that is sharpened by insight. Many of Brody’s lines are uncouth and awkward; what music he achieves is mostly fortuitous, the melody accidental. And yet his pages are filled with a picturesque honesty and uncompromising beauty. Much of this work is an interpretation of the modern world against a background of old dreams: young America seen through the eyes of old Russia. It is a romantic realism that uplifts such poems as “Kartúshkiya-Beróza” (a record of boyhood which is one of Brody’s finest achievements though, unfortunately, too long to quote), “A Row of Poplars: Central Park,” “Ghetto Twilight” and the poignant “Lamentations.” It is, to be more accurate, a romanticism that springs from reality and, after a fantastic flight, settles back with a new vision. A CITY PARK Timidly Against a background of brick tenements Some trees spread their branches Skyward. They are thin and sapless, They are bent and weary— Tamed with captivity; And they huddle behind the fence Swaying helplessly before the wind, Forward and backward, Like a group of panicky deer Caught in a cage. SEARCHLIGHTS Tingling shafts of light, Like gigantic staffs Brandished by blind, invisible hands, Cross and recross each other in the sky, Frantically— Groping among the stars—stubbing themselves against the bloated clouds— Tapping desperately for a sure foothold In the fluctuating mists. Calm-eyed and inaccessible. The stars peer through the blue fissures of the sky, Unperturbed among the panic of scurrying beams; Twinkling with a cold, acrid merriment. GHETTO TWILIGHT An infinite weariness comes into the faces of the old tenements, As they stand massed together on the block, Tall and thoughtfully silent, In the enveloping twilight. Pensively, They eye each other across the street, Through their dim windows— With a sad recognizing stare; Watching the red glow fading in the distance, At the end of the street, Behind the black church spires; Watching the vague sky lowering overhead, Purple with clouds of colored smoke; From the extinguished sunset; Watching the tired faces coming home from work— Like dry-breasted hags Welcoming their children to their withered arms. _Stephen Vincent Benét_ Stephen Vincent Benét, the younger brother of William Rose Benét, was born at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, in July, 1898. He was educated in various parts of the country, graduating from Yale in 1919.