There is a land uncharted of meadows and shimmering mountains, Stiller than moonlight silence brooding and wan, The land of long-wandering music and dead unmelodious fountains Of singing that rose in the dreams of them that are gone. That rose in the dreams of the dead and that rise in the dreams of the living, Fleeting, bodiless songs that passed in the night, Winging away on the moment of wonder their cadence was giving Into the deeps of the valleys of stifled delight. Richard Butler Glaenzer, B.A. 1898, whose verses have frequently been seen in various periodicals, collected them in _Beggar and King_, 1917. His poems cover a wide range of thought and feeling, but I like him best when he is most whimsical, as in COMPARISONS Jupiter, lost to Vega's realm, Lights his lamp from the sun-ship's helm: Big as a thousand earths, and yet Dimmed by the glow of a cigarette! Mr. Glaenzer has published a number of verse criticisms of contemporary writers, which he calls _Snapshots_. These display considerable penetration; perhaps the following is fairly illustrative. CABLE To read your tales Is like opening a cedar-box Of ante-bellum days, A box holding the crinoline and fan And the tortoise-shell diary With flowers pressed between the leaves Belonging to some languid _grande dame_ Of Creole New Orleans. Benjamin R. C. Low, B.A. 1902, a practising lawyer, has published four or five volumes of poems, including _The Sailor who has Sailed_ (1911), _A Wand and Strings_ (1913) and _The House that Was_ (1915). He is seen at his best in _These United States_, dedicated to Alan Seeger, which appeared in the _Boston Transcript_, 7 February, 1917. This is an original, vigorous work, full of the unexpected, and yet seen to be true as soon as expressed. His verses show a constantly increasing grasp of material, and I look for finer things from his pen. Although Mr. Low seems to be instinctively a romantic poet, he is fond of letting his imaginative sympathy play on common scenes in city streets; as in _The Sandwich Man_. The lights of town are pallid yet With winter afternoon; The sullied streets are dank and wet, The halted motors fume and fret, The world turns homeward soon. There is no kindle in the sky, No cheering sunset flame; I have no help from passers-by,-- They part, and give good-night; but I.... Walk with another's name. I have no kith, nor kin, nor home Wherein to turn to sleep; No star-lamp sifts me through the gloam, I am the driven, wastrel foam On a subsiding deep. I do not toil for love, or fame, Or hope of high reward; My path too low for praise or blame, I struggle on, each day the same, My panoply--a board. Who gave me life I do not know, Nor what that life should be, Or why I live at all; I go, A dead leaf shivering with snow, Under a worn-out tree.