I will lay many bricks: And that I may lay them better, I will take their bread and their soup ... Courteously returning thanks For the wages they offer.... I will lay many bricks, And in a straight row, As befits one who has knowledge of his freedom. Hokku EDGAR LEE MASTERS I lift my eyes from the humus Up the sea-green stalk to the flower. The base of the petals is red as blood; But I cannot see the line that divides The rim of the petals from the sun light. Poems MARK TURBYFILL Thin Day Bright, alert, Arise these wild blue buds Above this crystal jar. But they have no soul, And bear no sweetness On their lips. Oh pity of azure days Like these blue flowers! We cannot endure in their thinness: Our hearts sink Through their petal-gauze. The Rose Jar O Earth, You have brought me out too soon! He whom I love Still clings upon the branch, Firm, a slender bud. But you have spread me wide. Take these broken leaves, Now fallen from the core. (O Earth, You have brought me out too soon!) Drop them into your Jar For him who shall surely pass this way, At last! The Irish Revolutionists PADRAIC COLUM The British Government, which was quite willing to exploit the sympathy felt here on the premature death of the young English poet, Rupert Brooke, shot to death three Irish poets, Padraic Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, and Joseph Plunkett. Not only in Ireland, but the whole world is at a loss by the extinction of these three brave, honorable, and distinguished lives. The English illustrated journals that have just come to New York enable us to estimate by a contrast the world’s loss. They have published the photographs of the Irish revolutionary leaders; and with them they have published the photograph of the man who ordered their execution, General Maxwell. On one side they give you intellectual and spiritual faces—the faces of men who liberate the world. On the other side they give you a heavy, non-intellectual, non-spiritual face—the face of a man who could never liberate himself. The vision and the aspiration of Pearse, MacDonagh, and Plunkett is on record for the world to know. A man cannot lie when he speaks of his vision or his aspiration in poetry. We know what Padraic Pearse thought of personal life. He has recorded it in his poem _To Death_, which has been translated from the Irish: I have not gathered gold; The fame that I won perished; In love I found but sorrow That withered my life. Of wealth or of glory I shall leave nothing behind me (I think it, O God, enough!) But my name in the heart of a child.