Bright angel-bands that dance in paths of earth When our despairs are gone, long overpast-- When men and maidens give fair hearts to Christ And white streets flame in righteous peace at last! The Stubborn Mouse The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down Began his task in early life, He kept so busy with his teeth He had no time to take a wife. He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain, When the ambitious fit was on, Then rested in the sawdust till A month in idleness had gone. He did not move about to hunt The coteries of mousie-men; He was a snail-paced stupid thing Until he cared to gnaw again. The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down When that tough foe was at his feet-- Found in the stump no angel-cake Nor buttered bread, no cheese, nor meat-- The forest-roof let in the sky. "This light is worth the work," said he. "I'll make this ancient swamp more light"-- And started on another tree! The Sword-Pen of the Rhymer I'll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men The darling few, my friends and loves today. My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen When far off children of their children play. That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire; I'll write upon the church-doors and the walls; And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher Though drunk already with their own love-calls. Still led of love, and arm in arm, strange gold Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black-- On tree-trunks black, 'mid orchard-blossoms white-- Just as the phospherent merman, struggling home, Jewels his fire-paths in the tides at night While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam. And, in the winter, when the leaves are dead And the first snow has carpeted the street, While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red, And young eyes glisten with youth's fervor sweet-- My pen will cut in snow my hopes of yore, Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine-- My village gospel--living evermore 'Mid those rejoicing loyal friends of mine. Futurism and Pseudo-Futurism ALEXANDER S. KAUN That Futurism is not a mere fad, a capricious bubble, is apparent from the fact that after five years of stormy existence the movement does not disappear or abate, but, on the contrary, continually gains soil and spreads deep and wide over all fields of European art. The critics of the new school no longer find it possible to dismiss it with a contemptuous smile as a silly joke of over-satiated modernists, but they either attack the Futurists with the vehemence and fury of a losing combatant, or they discuss the doctrine earnestly and apprehensively.