O dark great mother-globe so close beneath me.... It was she with her inexhaustible grief, Ages of blood-drenched jungles, and the smoking of craters, and the roar of tempests, And moan of the forsaken seas, It was she with the hills beginning to walk in the shapes of the dark-hearted animals, It was she risen, dashing away tears and praying to dumb skies, in the pomp-crumbling tragedy of man.... It was she, container of all griefs, and the buried dust of broken hearts, Cry of the christs and the lovers and the child-stripped mothers, And ambition gone down to defeat, and the battle overborne, And the dreams that have no waking. My heart became her ancient heart: On the food of the strong I fed, on dark strange life itself: Wisdom-giving and somber with the unremitting love of ages.... There was dank soil in my mouth, And bitter sea on my lips, In a dark hour, tasting the Earth. This is enough to make one grateful to Mr. Oppenheim. But not always plays the cosmic symphony; sometimes the spheric strains relax for a few slender lyrics to a moving-picture lady or for the tender song to Annie, the working-girl. We leave the book with the conception of a manly and impressionable personality with a healthy lust for life, a deep insight into the world-soul and his own soul (which, after all, are the same), and great power to communicate his findings to us through a plastic and peculiarly individual medium. CHARLES ASHLEIGH. An American Anarchist _Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre._ [Mother Earth Publishing Association, New York.]