Ulysse regarde par le trou ouvert, dans la pierre Ils sont mille autour du mur rond Et il entend que les hommes disent “A-t-il ses armes? Vous savez combien des la mamelle il fut malin Habile aux armes Et méchant” Il voit que les hommes sont chargés de fagots. Il y a un bûcher autour de la maison. Les femmes l’arrosent avec l’huile des lampes Et y versent celles de leur toilette, Les cuisiniers l’huile des poissons conservés, Les charrons la poix des charrettes, Le batelier apporte une marmite de goudron, Et un capitaine, vêtu de ses médailles de sioux Pousse la flamme d’une torche sous le bûcher. Ils cuisent Ulysse Car il est bien à eux. Au loin les statutes sont traîneés vers la mer. Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule trahie. Il paie trois guinées pour boire en paix. Ulysse cuit Les jeunes filles chantent Rougies par la lueurs des flammes Et les mères ravies, sourient. Modernity Exposed —And Gone One Better[1] CAESAR ZWASKA It has come to be that on the stage, where once we watched for artists, we find only vainly strutting weak-willed human beings. We are not held, and the light within the sacred space grows dimmer. We lose all interest in places where once we have found Art. And how desperate we have become! The procession of the Imagists has been the only sacred thing before our eyes—thin and fragrant. Their fragility has the sap of eternity; blustering winds, blowing through the gaps back-stage, tear at them in vain. The Imagists have grown straight and strong. The beauty of their tiny procession strikes into our very hearts the emptiness, the appalling desolation, of our position. * * * * * Carl Sandburg has understood the failures and the lies and exposed the cause. He has shown the lie of your government and the farce and folly of monuments to those who kill to keep it alive. He exposes your little deaths and their perfumed sorrow and the bunk of words and antics of your Billy Sunday and fellow citizens. He has heard the “fellows saying here’s good stuff for a novel or it might be worked up into a good play,” when speaking of an Italian widow living in city slums. He has the courage and the knack of giving them the challenge—calling their bluff; and he declares with strong conviction that he’s able to back up his defiance. Who of the scatter-brains living could put her or her daughter-in-law or the working girls or the entire mob, for that matter, into a play? But _he_ has put them, their spirit, into lines, gaunt and vivid as their lives. And I declare he is the only modern that has got it across. * * * * *