Small blue waves straining to meet, never touching, always elusive: mocking, half-virginal lips. Eunice Tietjens mentioned _Flower_ and _Foam_ with this qualification: “Provided Richard Aldington wrote them. Otherwise not. My point is that if he wrote them they are authentic as well as lovely, but if he did not so flagrant an imitator ought not to be encouraged even if he is a successful copyist.” Flower Edward J. O’Brien Here by the pastures of Hybla Dreameth in azure stillness Daphne, a maiden. Her throat was softer than light and honey-haunted. Foam Here by the foaming sky with cloud-capped horses, I, a maiden, lie by the windy ocean, Dreaming of quiet waters Guarded by willows. Dr. Williams’s first choice was _The Master_, “for the reason that it has most imaginative charm while possessing at the same time a fairly even unity of rhythm, a simple straight forward diction and a very subtle depth of thought. The image is progressively developed to a fine and natural conclusion with great simplicity and restraint, without waste of materia, without redundancy of any kind.” What or where is the subtle depth of thought? Almost every kind of person in the world has had this thought: it is not even a poetic thought. And what is there in the treatment to make it poetry? The Master Jeanne D’Orge In the dusk a child sits playing Five-finger exercises Up and down, down and up Jagged notes and even, Down and up, up and down Interminably. About him all unseen In the folds of the shadows Stand the great shades Bach ... Beethoven ... Brahms ... Listening with exquisite attention As to a master. Helen Hoyt mentioned the following: Autumn Ballet Charles Wharton Stork Oh dancers in yellow!— Tall, saffron-garmented poplars with arms uplifted, Slender-limbed beeches Draped in a modester russet, Chestnuts, walnuts and sassafrasses, And ruffle-skirted maples— Why do ye stand at pause? When will the music begin For you, oh dancers in yellow? Dr. Williams’s fourth choice is a poem of Charles Ashleigh’s which he describes as “a spirited and well-constructed defiance.” I think it is a very trite effort—one of those loose though rather happy expressions of mood that has no more to do with art than a man’s exclamation that he means to tramp in the woods on a bright spring day. Once More—The Road Charles Ashleigh The printed page Whispers vainly In my memory.... The locomotive howls! Limping philosophies Murmur weakly And then are silenced By the laughter of wanderers. The sadness of creeds Dies Under tramps’ ribaldry.