A direct result of the spiritual influence of A. E. is seen in the poetry of Susan Mitchell. She is not an imitator of his manner, but she reflects the mystical faith. Her little volume, _The Living Chalice,_ is full of the beauty that rises from suffering. It is not the spirit of acquiescence or of resignation, but rather dauntless triumphant affirmation. Her poems of the Christ-child have something of the exaltation of Christina Rossetti; for to her mind the road to victory lies through the gate of Humility. Here is a typical illustration: THE HEART'S LOW DOOR O Earth, I will have none of thee. Alien to me the lonely plain, And the rough passion of the sea Storms my unheeding heart in vain. The petulance of rain and wind, The haughty mountains' superb scorn, Are but slight things I've flung behind, Old garments that I have out-worn. Bare of the grudging grass, and bare Of the tall forest's careless shade, Deserter from thee, Earth, I dare See all thy phantom brightness fade. And, darkening to the sun, I go To enter by the heart's low door, And find where Love's red embers glow A home, who ne'er had home before. Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916) was, like so many of the young Irish writers of the twentieth century, both scholar and poet. In 1916 he published a prose critical work, _Literature in Ireland,_ in which his two passions, love of art and love of country, are clearly displayed. His books of original verse include _The Golden Joy,_ 1906; _Songs of Myself,_ 1910, and others. He was a worshipper of Beauty, his devotion being even more religious than aesthetic. The poems addressed to Beauty--of which there are comparatively many--exhibit the familiar yet melancholy disparity between the vision in the poet's soul and the printed image of it. This disparity is not owing to faulty technique, for his management of metrical effects shows ease and grace; it is simply the lack of sufficient poetic vitality. Although his ambition as an artist appears to have been to write great odes and hymns to Beauty, his simple poems of Irish life are full of charm. The _Wishes to My Son_ has a poignant tenderness. One can hardly read it without tears. And the love of a wife for "her man" is truly revealed in the last two stanzas of _John-John._ The neighbours' shame of me began When first I brought you in; To wed and keep a tinker man They thought a kind of sin; But now this three years since you're gone 'Tis pity me they do, And that I'd rather have, John-John, Than that they'd pity you. Pity for me and you, John-John, I could not bear. Oh, you're my husband right enough, But what's the good of that? You know you never were the stuff To be the cottage cat, To watch the fire and hear me lock The door and put out Shep-- But there now, it is six o'clock And time for you to step. God bless and keep you far, John-John! And that's my prayer.