Current literature, from the freshly printed book to the literary columns of the daily press, affords certain unique opportunities for reviewing woman's work in the light of past achievement and future promise. Take, for instance, the single factor of woman in poetry--where past centuries number their woman poets by the twos and threes, as the last generation has done by little more than the threes and fours, the present finds them springing up thicker than clover in a fallow field and in many cases with a sweetness and fragrance in their songs as of clover blossoms themselves. To the thinking mind this has a certain significance as relating to the inner unseen tides of that spiritual awakening now so seeming near for all mankind. For what holds poesy at its heart holds music there, and harmony and rhythm and something of that divine potency that lies in number; and with Theosophy at our doors we do not need Plato to tell us that rhythm and harmony find their way into the secret places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten, bearing grace in their movements and making the soul graceful in him who is rightly educated. The following are a handful of poems by women--most of them, significantly enough, by wholly or comparatively unknown writers--from among the last month's journals and papers, by no means a representative list, but just a few that found their way in the natural course to the study desk. Some compel attention because of the wholesomeness of sentiment and a certain honest openness in their delivery, others because of their musical lilt and flow, still others because of both. There are a few that may live, some that of a certainty will not and that yet have a value now. But that may be said of a hastily gathered handful of anything in its era. They are typical of a surprisingly large class, while none of those whose poems are herewith quoted, with the exception of Edith M. Thomas, have so far written very much. The first, by Angela Morgan in the _Cosmopolitan_, is a real Theosophical challenge, a veritable battle-cry, with something of the trenchant force and fire that flashes and thunders from out the lines of the old _Beowulf_: Reined by an unseen tyrant's hand, Spurred by an unseen tyrant's will, Aquiver at the fierce command That goads you up the danger hill, You cry: "O Fate, O Life, be kind! Grant but an hour of respite--give One moment to my suffering mind; I cannot keep the pace and live." But Fate drives on and will not heed The lips that beg, the feet that bleed. Drives, while you faint upon the road, Drives, with a menace for a goad; With fiery reins of circumstance Urging his terrible advance The while you cry in your despair, "The pain is more than I can bear."