Gifts of money for the American Hostels for Refugees, and the Children of Flanders Rescue Committee should be addressed to Mrs. Wharton, 53 rue de Varenne, Paris, or to Henry W. Munroe, Treasurer, care of Mrs. Cadwalader Jones, 21 East Eleventh Street, New York. Gifts in kind should be forwarded to the American War Relief Clearing House, 5 rue François Iᵉʳ, Paris (_with Mrs. Wharton’s name in the left-hand corner_), _via_ the American offices of the Clearing House, 15 Broad Street, New York. [Illustration: I POETRY] CONTRIBUTORS OF POETRY AND MUSIC LAURENCE BINYON RUPERT BROOKE PAUL CLAUDEL JEAN COCTEAU ROBERT GRANT THOMAS HARDY W. D. HOWELLS FRANCIS JAMMES ALICE MEYNELL COMTESSE DE NOAILLES JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY LILLA CABOT PERRY HENRI DE RÉGNIER EDMOND ROSTAND GEORGE SANTAYANA EDITH M. THOMAS HERBERT TRENCH ÉMILE VERHAEREN BARRETT WENDELL EDITH WHARTON MARGARET L. WOODS W. B. YEATS * * * * * IGOR STRAVINSKY VINCENT D’INDY THE ORPHANS OF FLANDERS Where is the land that fathered, nourished, poured The sap of a strong race into your veins,-- Land of wide tilth, of farms and granaries stored, And old towers chiming over peaceful plains? It is become a vision, barred away Like light in cloud, a memory, a belief. On those lost plains the Glory of yesterday Builds her dark towers for the bells of Grief. It is become a splendour-circled name For all the world. A torch against the skies Burns from that blood-spot, the unpardoned shame Of them that conquered: but your homeless eyes See rather some brown pond by a white wall, Red cattle crowding in the rutty lane, Some garden where the hollyhocks were tall In the Augusts that shall never be again. There your thoughts cling as the long-thrusting root Clings in the ground; your orphaned hearts are there. O mates of sunburnt earth, your love is mute But strong like thirst and deeper than despair. You have endured what pity can but grope To feel; into that darkness enters none. We have but hands to help: yours is the hope Whose silent courage rises with the sun. LAURENCE BINYON THE DANCE A SONG As the Wind and as the Wind In a corner of the way, Goes stepping, stands twirling, Invisibly, comes whirling, Bows before and skips behind In a grave, an endless play-- So my Heart and so my Heart Following where your feet have gone, Stirs dust of old dreams there; He turns a toe; he gleams there, Treading you a dance apart. But you see not. You pass on. RUPERT BROOKE [Illustration: _THÉO VAN RYSSELBERGHE_ PORTRAIT OF ANDRÉ GIDE FROM A PENCIL DRAWING] _PAUL CLAUDEL_