Why do you always stand there shivering Between the white stream and the road? The people pass through the dust On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars; The wagoners go by at dawn; The lovers walk on the grass path at night. Stir from your roots, walk, poplar! You are more beautiful than they are. I know that the white wind loves you, Is always kissing you and turning up The white lining of your green petticoat. The sky darts through you like blue rain, And the grey rain drips on your flanks And loves you. And I have seen the moon Slip his silver penny into your pocket As you straightened your hair; And the white mist curling and hesitating Like a bashful lover about your knees. I know you, poplar; I have watched you since I was ten. But if you had a little real love, A little strength, You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers And go walking down the white road Behind the wagoners. There are beautiful beaches down beyond the hill. Will you always stand there shivering? I wish I had space to quote many more of these poems. _The Faun Sees Snow for the First Time_ is a charming bit of humour, and _Daisy_, very modern, aching, and inevitable. But I will give one more little piece which he calls an epigram: New Love She has new leaves After her dead flowers, Like the little almond-tree Which the frost hurt. This is sophisticated poetry. How often have I not read that in the reviews, couched in terms of reproach! Why? Is it to be desired that the world should not grow? Is it a better art which appeals only to primitive instincts? The primary needs of satisfying hunger, preserving life, procreating life, are all very well, but civilized man has further preoccupations. Mr. Aldington’s is a highly civilized—yes, if you like, a highly sophisticated, art. A certain mellowness of temper is needed to thoroughly appreciate it; crude minds do not react to such delicate stimuli. Admitting that, and admitting it as a feather, not as a rotten egg, we have in Mr. Aldington a lyrist of unusual achievement and fine promise. Café Sketches ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE I. Here amid the night-lights Of the great city, With the laughing crowd around me I sit alone In one of those strange hours Walled in with solitude That are my lot forever amid these lights. Fronting the empty table before me And its cortege of seven waiters— Fronting the restless sea of unknown faces— I mourn for you, boundlessly curious lady, For you and for your esteemed consort— But for you chiefly.