Harpy O keen of scent, You who have found me in my slough, Not your beak, but your green eyes Have torn to the center of me. Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor. Termaggio In the asylum at Termaggio Reside a dozen poets— So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling; Will none of them be caught By the arm of a strong wind, Down and outward through the open window? We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio, In the sun our balloons would burst.... Perhaps we had better close the window. Under the Cypresses Under the cypresses No nightingales will sing this spring; For I have strewn the ground With the shards of broken illusions, And I will build of them a citadel of austerity With towers whence I can search the sky For a rainbow that is stronger than painted china. Dear nightingales, There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona, Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings. What We Are Fighting For MARGARET C. ANDERSON I have been much criticised for an article on Gabrilowitsch in the last issue. I have been told rather violently that I didn’t know what I was talking about; that to say Gabrilowitsch had stood still artistically or that the music critics were deaf because they didn’t like Scriabin’s _Prometheus_ was simply to brand THE LITTLE REVIEW again as the kind of magazine which delights in any sort of snap-shot judgment that may sound startling or “new.” But the fact of the matter is this: if THE LITTLE REVIEW is ready to stand behind any of its judgments (and it is very ready), I can think of nothing that has appeared which I will so eagerly and convincingly defend as that article on Gabrilowitsch or my remark that _Prometheus_ was extraordinarily beautiful. I can “prove” the first in at least three ways, and I have some one in mind (a Russian) who will write a poem on his reactions to _Prometheus_ that will make you all wish you had imaginations too.