O, England is an island, The fairest ever seen: They say men come to England To learn that grass is green. That needs only supporting music to be a fine song of the pleasant boisterousness and exaggeration that it should be. Of the others, _The Drowned Sailor_ and _Soldier, Soldier_, have caught a wonderful and touching note of the folk-song. Mr. Hewlett’s work here is not ambitious, he has profited enormously by not keeping in his mind the necessity of producing a fine piece of literature. He has tried honestly to produce “something that will do” and much good poetry has been written in that way. Mr. Harold Monro’s new book, _Children of Love_, which he has published himself at the Poetry Bookshop, contains also four gloomy war poems as far removed from Mr. Hewlett’s as from the verse of the newspapers. They are vivid and real impressions of fighting and, as appeals for recruiting, enormously inapt. But poetry does not exist for that. The title poem is a lovely piece, Mr. Monro’s very best, the composition which settled, or should have settled, all our doubts concerning his genius. The others display that sombre misery which is the characteristic note of his writing, which is extremely uncomfortable and, after a little while, extremely impressive. I may seem to have devoted too much space to the publications of the Poetry Bookshop. But I think that, with luck, as time goes on, it may bulk yet more largely in English letters. Mr. Monro, if he is careful, may have the position that the _Mercure de France_ held in Paris until quite recently: that is, he may publish about ninety per cent of all the good poetry that is published.