The lights of town are blurred with mist, And pale with afternoon,-- Of gold they are, and amethyst: Dull pain is creeping at my wrist.... The world turns homeward soon. A poet of national reputation is William Rose Benét, who was graduated in 1907. Mr. Benét came to Yale from Augusta, Georgia, and since his graduation has been connected with the editorial staff of the _Century Magazine_. At present he is away in service in France, where his adventurous spirit is at home. He may have taken some of his reputation with him, for he is sure to be a favourite over there; but the fame he left behind him is steadily growing. The very splendour of romance glows in his spacious poetry; he loves to let his imagination run riot, as might be guessed merely by reading the names on his books. To every one who has ever been touched by the love of a quest, his title-pages will appeal: _The Great White Wall_, a tale of "magic adventure, of war and death"; _Merchants from Cathay_ (1913), _The Falconer of God_ (1914), _The Burglar of the Zodiac_ (1917). His verses surge with vitality, as in _The Boast of the Tides_. He is at his best in long, swinging, passionate rhythms. Unfortunately in the same measures he is also at his worst. His most potent temptation is the love of noise, which makes some of his less artistic verse sound like organized cheering. But when he gets the right tune for the right words, he is irresistible. There is no space here to quote such a rattling ballad--like a frenzy of snare-drums--as _Merchants from Cathay_, but it is not mere sound and fury, it is not swollen rhetoric, it is an inspired poem. No one can read or hear it without being violently aroused. Mr. Benét is a happy-hearted poet, singing with gusto of the joy of life. ON EDWARD WEBBE, ENGLISH GUNNER He met the Danske pirates off Tuttee; Saw the Chrim burn "Musko"; speaks with bated breath Of his sale to the great Turk, when peril of death Chained him to oar their galleys on the sea Until, as gunner, in Persia they set him free To fight their foes. Of Prester John he saith Astounding things. But Queen Elizabeth He worships, and his dear Lord on Calvary. Quaint is the phrase, ingenuous the wit Of this great childish seaman in Palestine, Mocked home through Italy after his release With threats of the Armada; and all of it Warms me like firelight jewelling old wine In some ghost inn hung with the golden fleece! Arthur Colton, B.A. 1890, is as quiet and reflective as Mr. Benét is strenuous. Has any one ever better expressed the heart of Chaucer's _Troilus and Criseyde_ than in these few words? A smile, of flowers, and fresh May, across The dreamy, drifting face of old Romance; The same reiterate tale of love and loss And joy that trembles in the hands of chance; And midst his rippling lines old Geoffrey stands, Saying, "Pray for me when the tale is done, Who see no more the flowers, nor the sun."