By day and night this street is not still: Omnibuses with red tail-lamps, Taxicabs with shiny eyes, Rumble, shunning its ugliness. It is corrugated with wheel-ruts, It is dented and pockmarked with traffic, If has no time for sleep. It heaves its old scarred countenance Skyward between the buildings And never says a word. On rainy nights It dully gleams Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake: And over it hang arc-lamps, Blue-white death-lilies on black stems. I think only a poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling could see in our municipal arc lamps “blue-white death-lilies on black stems,” but I am going to look more carefully after this. F. S. Flint has given us more beauty in his earlier work, notably in _London My Beautiful_ and _The Swan_, than is to be found here, save perhaps in _Chalfont Saint Giles_, which has simplicity and dignified stateliness. It is a picture of village folk gravely filing into church, past ivy and lilac, as the bell rings. The sadness of England in war-time is in the picture. Here are two stanzas: Walk quietly along the mossy paths; the stones of the humble dead are hidden behind the blue mantle of their forget-me-nots; and before one grave so hidden a widow kneels, with head bowed, and the crape falling over her shoulders. The bells for evening church are ringing, and the people come gravely and with red, sun-burnt faces through the gates in the wall. D. H. Lawrence contributes what may be considered, except for _Patterns_, the most notable poem in the book, _Erinnyes_, although again why it should be called Imagism is a mystery. It is certainly, however, a poem, and a profound and beautiful one. In its form and its long, slow, melancholy rhythm it suggests Aldington’s _Choricos_, and the theme is the same—Death. Here are five stanzas: There are so many dead, Many have died unconsenting, Theirs ghosts are angry, unappeased. They come back, over the white sea, in the mist, Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea. What do they want, the ghosts, what is it They demand as they stand in menace over against us? How shall we now appease whom we have raised up? Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home, And in the silence, reverently, welcome them, And give them place and honour and service meet? For one year’s space, attend on our angry dead, Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet, Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence, Then lead them to the gates of the unknown, And bid farewell, oh stately travellers, And wait till they are lost upon our sight.