Beloved How can I know What gods are yours, How can I guess the visions of your spirit, Or hear The silent prayers your heart has said— Only by this I feel Your gods akin to mine, That when our lips have met On this last golden autumn afternoon They have confessed In silence Our kisses were less precious than our dreams. To-day Our passion drowned in beauty We turn away our faces toward the hills Where purple haze, like incense, Spreads its veil. Here, I think, are two very interesting ones, the first of which Dr. Williams considers worthy of special mention—“the image evoked is charmingly successful.” The authors are respectively Fritz Peters and his brother, Thomas Willing Peters. The wind blows hard No bird is there And the smoke is drowning in the lake. (_Dictated at the age of two years and ten months._) When it rains it makes beautiful colors It makes red and blue and white And red and blue stripes on the water And the pier goes out to get the sky. (_Dictated at the age of three years and eight months._) The following four were not mentioned by any of the judges, but in my judgment they are better than many of the “honorable mentions.” The Soldiers Horace Holley Whom I long since had known, Long since forgotten; Who cast their names behind them like a dream, Like stagnant water spitting Their tasteless souls away; These are the soldiers, The nameless, the changelings, Monstrous with slow tormenting Number, Pestilent with unremitting Machine. Soldiers ... These are they whom I suspected, guilty and glorious, Crouching in my own thought’s background, Released by the whirlwind of fate To move as winds that scream about the Pole, As darkness of sea-depths, As meeting of ice and flame. Priests of the mystic sensual death, When shall they return? When shall they return, broken, from Hell? The fuse of a thousand years has burned: _Lord, quicken the groping hands of to-morrow!_ The Assault John Cournos You come— black of wing, black of beak, flock on flock— ravenous, cawing. Your cries—arrows— shrill, clamorous, strident, pierce the heart. O wounded reverie on still water, white in faint mist, you spurt red drops. O white swan, shape of magnificent sadness, spread out your wings, flutter white through the air, disperse the black—the raucous. Girl of Jade and Ivory Mitchell Dawson