George E. Woodberry (born 1855), graduate of Harvard, a scholar, literary biographer, and critic of high standing, has been eminent among contemporary American poets since the year 1890, when appeared his book of verse, _The North Shore Watch._ In 1917 an interesting and valuable _Study_ of his poetry appeared, written by Louis V. Ledoux, and accompanied by a carefully minute bibliography. I do not mean to say anything unpleasant about Mr. Woodberry or the public, when I say that his poetry is too fine for popularity. It is not the raw material of poetry, like that of Carl Sandburg, yet it is not exactly the finished product that passes by the common name. It is rather the essence of poetry, the spirit of poetry, a clear flame--almost impalpable. "You may not be worthy to smoke the Arcadia mixture," well--we may not be worthy to read all that Mr. Woodberry Writes. And I am convinced that it is not his fault. His poems of nature and his poems of love speak out of the spirit. He not only never "writes down" to the public, it seems almost as if he intended his verse to be read by some race superior to the present stage of human development. But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. William Dudley Foulke may fairly be classed with the Indiana group. He was born at New York in 1848, but has lived in Indiana since 1876. He has been conspicuous in much political and social service, but the soul of the man is found in his books of verse, most of which have been first printed in England. He is a lifelong student of Petrarch, and has made many excellent translations. His best independent work may be found in a group of poems properly called _Ad Patriam._ I think such a sonnet as _The City's Crown_ is fairly representative: What makes a city great? Huge piles of stone Heaped heavenward? Vast multitudes who dwell Within wide circling walls? Palace and throne And riches past the count of man to tell, And wide domain? Nay, these the empty husk! True glory dwells where glorious deeds are done, Where great men rise whose names athwart the dusk Of misty centuries gleam like the sun! In Athens, Sparta, Florence, 'twas the soul That was the city's bright, immortal part, The splendour of the spirit was their goal, Their jewel, the unconquerable heart! So may the city that I love be great Till every stone shall he articulate.