How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be! That the insensate rock dared dream of me, And take to bursting out and burgeoning— Oh, long ago——yo ho!—— And wearing green! How stark and strange a thing That life should be! Oh mystic mad, a rigadoon of glee, That dust should rise, and leap alive, and flee Afoot, awing, and shake the deep with cries— Oh, far away—yo hay! What moony mask, what arrogant disguise That life should be! Scharmel Iris: Italian Poet MILO WINTER Scharmel Iris, the first of the Italians in America to write poetry in English is a Florentine who was brought to Chicago when but an infant. Before his tenth year his poems attracted attention and were warmly praised by such men as Ruskin, Swinburne and Gosse. Later Francis Thompson and Richard Le Gallienne expressed appreciation. These poems which originally appeared in leading publications of England and America are gathered together for the first time and printed by the Ralph Fletcher Seymour Company (Fine Arts Building, Chicago; $1.00 net). The volume, entitled _Lyrics of a Lad_, contains his most desirable and characteristic lyrics and is a serious contribution to our poetic literature. These poems came to be respected as art through their freshness and originality—there are no trite, worn-out, meaningless phrases, or words of an abstract, generalized significance. Immortal beauty is a vision in his eyes and a passion in his heart, and he has labored to reveal it to the world. Art is a creation of men’s minds, and because Mr. Iris’s creation is direct and spontaneous it becomes greater art. This volume is not post-Miltonic or post-Swinburnian or post-Kiplonian. This young poet has the good sense to speak naturally and to paint things as he sees them. Because this book is Scharmel Iris it is distinctive. It is without sham and without affectation. The announcement of its publication and his poems in THE LITTLE REVIEW brought the publisher three-hundred orders. The book, slender and well-printed, has more real poetry than any volume of modern verse it has been our good fortune to read. It is difficult to do an important book justice in a short article. Perhaps a miscellaneous quotation of lines will help: The thrush spills golden radiance From boughs of dusk; The day was a chameleon; In sweat and pangs the pregnant, Night Brings forth the wondrous infant, Light; Within the sunset-press, incarnadine, The sun, a peasant, tramples out his wine; You are the body-house of lust; Where twilight-peacocks lord the place Spendthrifts of pride and grace; And lo, at Heaven’s blue-windowed house God sets the moon for lamp; The sunbeams sought her hair, And rested there; These mute white Christs—the daily crucified;