But in his more representative work, the intellectual realism which comes from an acute sense of fact is clearly operative. We have seen, too, from the earliest published verse of this poet, the continual struggle of what one may call a religion of reality--belief in the sanctity and beauty and value of the real world--for spiritual mastery. In the later poems the two elements become deepened and are more closely combined: they are, too, seeking expression through a technique which is directed to the same realistic purpose. And as a result we get such a piece of quiet fidelity as "London Interior"; or a tragedy like "Carrion," in which the logic of life and death, controlling emotion with beautiful gravity, is suddenly broken by a sob. It is the last of four war-poems; a series representing the call of battle to the soldier, his departure, a fighting retreat, and finally, in "Carrion," his death-- It is plain now what you are. Your head has dropped Into a furrow. And the lovely curve Of your strong leg has wasted and is propped Against a ridge of the ploughed land's watery swerve. ..... You are fuel for a coming spring if they leave you here; The crop that will rise from your bones is healthy bread. You died--we know you--without a word of fear, And as they loved you living I love you dead. No girl would kiss you. But then No girls would ever kiss the earth In the manner they hug the lips of men: You are not known to them in this, your second birth. ..... Hush, I hear the guns. Are you still asleep? Surely I saw you a little heave to reply. I can hardly think you will not turn over and creep Along the furrows trenchward as if to die. _Sarojini Naidu_ Mrs Naidu is one of the two Indian poets who within the last few years have produced remarkable English poetry. The second of the two is, of course, Rabindranath Tagore, whose work has come to us a little later, who has published more, and whose recent visit to this country has brought him more closely under the public eye. Mrs Naidu is not so well known; but she deserves to be, for although the bulk of her work is not so large, its quality, so far as it can be compared with that of her compatriot, will easily bear the test. It is, however, so different in kind, and reveals a genius so contrasting, that one is piqued by an apparent problem. How is it that two children of what we are pleased to call the changeless East, under conditions nearly identical, should have produced results which are so different?