As dead bird leaf-resisted Shot on tall plane tree’s top, Down, never truly stopping, Through green translucence dropping, They often seemed to stop. And how, again could any thorough searcher of this book fail to mention that delightful recipe for wine “Sent From Egypt with a Fair Robe of Tissue to a Sicilian Vine-dresser, 276 B. C.” And surely no obscurity nor any uncouthness of figure—such as your critic objects to, as if poets did not have the faults of their virtues—mar those beautiful child poems: That man who wishes not for wings, Must be the slave of care; For birds that have them move so well And softly through the air: They venture far into the sky, If not so far as thoughts or angels fly. Were William Cory making a prediction rather than “An Invocation” when he ended his poem of that title with the line: Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek. I would feel like nominating Mr. T. Sturge Moore as its fulfillment. LLEWELLYN JONES. Amy Lowell’s Contribution _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed_, by Amy Lowell. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] ... And Amy Lowell’s new volume of verse refutes all the critical disparagement of _vers libre_, imagism, or “unrhymed cadence,” as Miss Lowell herself chooses to call her work. For she demonstrates that it is something new—that it is a clear-eyed workmanship which belongs distinctly to this keener age of ours. Miss Lowell’s technical debt to the French—to the so-called Parnassian school—has been paid in a poetical production that will put to shame our hackneyed and slovenly “accepted” poets. Most of the poems in her book are written in _vers libre_, and this is the way Miss Lowell analyzes them: “They are built upon ‘organic rhythm,’ or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence; it is constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his Poems, Henley speaks of ‘those unrhyming rythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme.’ The desire to ‘quintessentialize,’ to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly ‘unrhymed cadence’ is unique in its power of expressing this.” Take Miss Lowell’s _White and Green_, for example: