We need you now, strong guardians of our hearts, Now, when a darkness lies on sea and land, When we of weakening faith forget our parts And bow before the falling of the sand. Be with us now or we betray our trust And say, "There is no wisdom but in death"-- Remembering lovely eyes now closed with dust-- "There is no beauty that outlasts the breath." For we are growing blind and cannot see, Beyond the clouds that stand like prison bars, The changeless regions of our empery, Where once we moved in friendship with the stars. O children of the light, now in our grief Give us again the solace of belief. A young Princeton student, John Peale Bishop, First Lieutenant of Infantry in the Officers Reserve Corps, who studied the art of verse under the instruction of Alfred Noyes, published in 1917 a little book of original poems, with the modest title, _Green Fruit_. These were mostly written during his last undergraduate year at college, and would not perhaps have been printed now had he not entered the service. The subjects range from the Princeton Inn to Italy. Mr. Bishop is a clear-voiced singer, and there are original songs here, which owe nothing to other poets. Such a poem as _Mushrooms_ is convincing proof of ability; and there is an excellent spirit in him. William Aspenwall Bradley was born at Hartford, Connecticut, on the eighth of February, 1878. He was a special student at Harvard, and took his bachelor's and master's degrees at Columbia. He is now in the Government War Service. He wrote an admirable _Life of Bryant_ in the English Men of Letters series, and has made many scholarly contributions to the literature of criticism. He has issued two volumes of original verse, of which perhaps the better known is _Old Christmas_, 1917. This is composed of tales of the Cumberland region in Kentucky. These poem-stories are not only full of dramatic power, comic and tragic, but they contain striking portraits. I think, however, that I like best Mr. Bradley's nature-pictures. The pleasure of recognition will be felt by everyone who reads the first few lines of AUTUMN Now shorter grow November days, And leaden ponds begin to glaze With their first ice, while every night The hoarfrost leaves the meadows white Like wimples spread upon the lawn By maidens who are up at dawn, And sparkling diamonds may be seen Strewing the close-clipped golfing green. But the slow sun dispels at noon The season's work begun too soon, Bidding faint filmy mists arise And fold in softest draperies The distant woodlands bleak and bare, Until they seem to melt in air.