I have seen many who go about with supplications, Afraid to say how they hate you HERE is the taste of my BOOT, CARESS it, lick off the BLACKING. To attempt to lay the entire onus of so flagrant a spiritual and cerebral degeneration to the writing of _vers libre_ alone is of course impossible. But the tendency is clear. Fortunately, however, we are not all Ezra Pounds and there are still poets balanced enough to appreciate these dangers and to make of free verse the wonderful vehicle it can be in the hands of a genius. Union RABINDRANATH TAGORE (_Translated from the original Bengali by Basanta Koomar Roy, author of “Rabindranath Tagore: The Poet and His Personality.”_) Beloved, every part of my being craves for the corresponding part of yours. My heart is heavy with its own restlessness, and it yearns to fall senseless on yours. My eyes linger on your eyes, and my lips long to attain salvation by losing their existence on your lips. * * * * * My thirsty heart is crying bitterly for the unveilment of your celestial form. * * * * * The heart is deep in the ocean of being, and I sit by the forbidding shore and moan for ever. But to-night, beloved, I shall enter the mysteries of existence with a bosom heaving with love supreme, and my entire being shall find its eternal union in thine. War, the Only Hygiene of the World F. T. MARINETTI (_Translated from the French by Anne Simon_) I want to explain to you the difference between Futurism and Anarchism. Anarchism, denying the infinite principle of human evolution, suspends its impulse at the ideal threshold of universal peace, and before the stupid paradise of interlocked embraces in the open fields and midst the waving of palms. We, the Futurists, on the contrary, affirm as one of our absolute principles the continuous growth and the unlimited physiological and intellectual progress of Man. We aim beyond the hypothesis of the amicable fusion of the different races, and we admit the only possible hygiene of the World: War. The distant goal of the anarchistic conception (a kind of sweet tenderness, sister to baseness) appears to us as an impure gangrene preluding the agony of the races. The anarchists are satisfied in attacking the political, judicial, and economical branches of the social tree. We strive to do much more than that. We want to uproot and burn its very deepest roots; those that are planted in the brain of man, and are called: Mania for order. The desire for the least effort. The fanatical adoration of the family. The undue stress laid on sleep, and the repast at a fixed hour. Cowardly acquiescence or quietism. Love for the antique and the old. The unwise preservation of everything that is wicked and sick.