work with the work of other translators to be immediately aware of how much she has gained by her prudence, her artistry had better be said. That Miss Lowell had all the equipment for a task of this kind, her own two books of poems left no doubt at all. In them you will find the same delight in beautiful word and phrase which has undoubtedly led her to modern French poetry as to a friendly country, and to the achievement in these translations. If she had done nothing more than just publish these, she would have earned our gratitude; but she offers them to you as the least of her book (as an appendix!) after you have been amused, interested, instructed and moved. I can conceive of no greater pleasure—my pleasure in the book is of a different kind—than that of the lover of poetry who reads in Miss Lowell’s book about modern French poetry for the first time; it must be like falling into El Dorado. I should add that the book contains an excellent signed photograph of each poet. The Picnic MARJORIE SEIFFERT Here they come in pairs, carrying baskets, Pale clerks with brilliant neckties and cheap serge suits Steering girls by the arm, clerks too, Pretty and slim and smart Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind. They take the electric cars far into the country; They descend, gaily chattering, at the Amusement Park. Under the trees they eat the lunch they have carried— Potato salad and boiled sausages, cream puffs, pretzels, warm beer. They ride in the roller-coaster, two in a seat— Glorious danger, warm delicious proximity! The unaccustomed beer floods their veins like heady wine, And smothered youth awakens with shrill screams of joy. The sun sets, and evening is drowned in electric lights; Arm in arm they wander under the trees Everywhere meeting others wandering arm in arm In the same wistful wonder, seeking they know not what. They have left the park and the crowds, the stars shine out, A river runs at their feet, behind them a leafy copse, Away on the other shore the fields of grain Lie sleeping peacefully in the starlight. Tonight the world is theirs, a legacy From those who lived familiar friends with river, field and forest— Their forebears— Through the night the same earth-magic moves them That swayed those ancient ones, long dead— And these, too, lean and drink, Drink deeply from the river, the flowing river of life. Slowly they return to the crowds and the brilliant lights, Dazzled they look aside, silently climb on the cars— They cling to the swaying straps, weary, inert, confused. The lurching car makes halt, they are thrown in each other’s arms,— Alien and unmoved they sway apart again,— The car moves on through the fields and suburbs back to the town.