And my road-thirst, Avid and aching, Conquers the muttering Of puling scholarship. Let my heart blossom in journeying; And my maw be well stuffed With delectable incident! Eunice Tietjens would have been willing to give _Lovescape_ a prize if either of the other judges had chosen it, but they did not. And in spite of its cadenced mounting and falling—which is an attribute of technique, not necessarily of art—it remains merely a slight puff of poetic feeling, not a good poem. Lovescape Adolf Wolff Sky Deep blue sky Clouds Thin clouds Drifting drifting Grass Soft cool grass Breeze Soft warm breeze Hands pressing Mouths mingling Love Passion Ecstacy Faintness Calm Resting Sky Deep blue sky Clouds Thin clouds Drifting drifting. Helen Hoyt chose the two following for the prizes. Now I hope these judges will not get provoked with me or feel that I am being personal or any of the other things that one is usually accused of when one is most impersonally talking his “cause.” I am simply overflowing with criticism of their valuations and I must speak it out. These two poems are pretty awful, I think. Where are the winged words that make poetry something beyond thoughts or ideas of emotions? Victory Sarah Bard Field When we were lifted high on the crest of the wave And Passion made you oblivious, I reached above you for a star And caught it. When we sank deep into the trough of the wave And satisfied desire over-flooded you, I reached below you for a pearl And possessed it. You have nothing left from that night But a memory, chained to yourself. I have something left from that night That will one day fill his eyes with star-dust, Measuring the heavens, And tangle his feet in sea-weed, Searching the Ocean. Because of that night A thought stirs in you. It will grow weaker with Time It will be dead when you are dead. Because of that night, A child stirs in me. He will grow stronger with Time He will plant pansies on our graves When we are dead. Art Is Born Miriam van Waters