_Poetry_ is another matter. Miss Monroe’s magazine has printed some bad verse. But this is not, as its most envious critics imagine, its distinction. Every magazine prints bad verse. _Poetry_ has printed poetry that nobody else dared to print. _Poetry_ has boldly discussed the poetic controversy when everybody else hid behind language. _Poetry_ introduced us to Rabindranath Tagore, to Vachel Lindsay, in a way, to Edgar Lee Masters. _Poetry_ printed Ford Hueffer’s poem _On Heaven_. _Poetry_ has heard of Remy de Gourmont and the _Mercure de France_—an incredible achievement for a Chicago literary journal. _Poetry_ has done more than any other paper to furnish a meeting ground for writers in Chicago. If _Poetry_ were concerned about novels it would not decide two or three years after intelligent people had discovered _Jean Christophe_ that M. Romain Rolland is a successor to Tolstoi and, for the first time, print a few paragraphs about him. If _Poetry_ were interested in psychology it would not ignore Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. But _Poetry_ is not interested in these things. Its great wealth is devoted only to poetry and it comes out only once a month. It is a pity. For the spirit of _Poetry_ is nearer to the spirit of the old _Friday Literary Review_ than anything else in Chicago. That is the spirit I like, that seems suited to the place and the occasion. But it needs a weekly paper of wide scope to express itself. A man is an artist to the extent to which he regards everything that inartistic people call “form” as the actual substance, as the “principal” thing.—_Nietzsche._ Epigrams RICHARD ALDINGTON Blue (_A Conceit_) The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail; The sea, a parquet of coloured wood; The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges; Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames; Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering, Eyelids winking over watchet eyes. The Retort Discourteous They say we like London—O Hell!— They tell Us we shall never sell Our works (as if we cared). We’re “high brow” and long-haired Because we don’t Cheat and cant. We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme, Just because their rag-time Bores us. These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense; So they chime, Rhyme And time, And Slime, All praise their virtuous impotence. Christine I know a woman who is natural As any simple cannibal; This is a great misfortune, for her lot Is to reside with people who are not. Education by Children WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT