There is a fine flowing harmony about the poetry of Scharmel Iris that denotes a power far beyond that revealed by many of today’s singers. The poems are colorful and certainly musical and they display an adequate technique. Such a gift as his, revealed in a number of very fine achievements, gives promise of genuine greatness. After many years of discouragement and the hardest work, he has at last found a publisher who bears the cost of the edition, purely on the merit of the work. It contains a preface by Dr. Egan, American minister in Copenhagen, an attractive title-page decoration by Michele Greco, and a photogravure portrait of the author. By advancing the work of living poets like Mr. Iris one can repay the debt he owes to the old poets. This poetry (as THE LITTLE REVIEW remarked) is not merely the sort which interests or attracts; it remains in your mind as part of that art treasure-house which is your religion and your life. The Poetry of T. Sturge Moore In an early number of THE LITTLE REVIEW a correspondent remarked that an article I had the honor of contributing sounded a rather curious note inasmuch as it was a piece of pure criticism in a magazine deliberately given over to exuberance. Well, it is now my turn to stand up for exuberance as against a contributor, A. M., who gives the poetry of T. Sturge Moore criticism only, and, in my humble opinion, criticism as unfair as would be a description of Notre Dame rendered altogether in terms of gargoyles and their relative positions. Would it not be more in the spirit of THE LITTLE REVIEW to point out in the title poem of Mr. Moore’s book, _The Sea is Kind_, such passages as the two following: _Eucritos_— Thou knowest, Menalcas, I built my hut not sheltered but exposed, Round not right-angled. A separate window like a mouth to breathe, No matter whence the breeze might blow,— A separate window like an eye to watch From off the headland lawn that prompting wink Of Ocean musing “Why,” wherever he May glimpse me at some pitiable task. Long sea arms reach behind me, and small hills Have waded half across the bay in front, Dividing my horizon many times But leaving every wind an open gate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There is a sorcery in well loved words: But unintelligible music still Probes to the buried Titan in the heart Whose strength, the vastness of forgotten life, Suffers but is not dead; Tune stirs him as no thought of ours nor aught Mere comprehension grasps, can him disquiet. And these are parts of a dramatic poem full of fresh figures, colorful glimpses of the romance of ancient life, and what a school-boy would describe as a “perfectly corking” description of a sea fight with dead men slowly dropping through the green water—