No More Learning

The Macmillan Co. , New York
CONTEMPORARY VERSE
offers a particularly remarkable series of poems for
the year 1917. Among those forthcoming numbers are:
Conrad Aiken
Louis Untermeyer
Orrick Johns
Margaret Widdemer Percival Allen
William Alexander Percy Scudder Middleton Marguerite Wilkinson John Russell McCarthy Phoebe Hoffman
Elwood Lindsay Haines Esther Morton Smith Howard Buck
Mary Humphreys
Samuel Roth
Mary Eleanor Roberts
who will contribute to
Howard Mumford Jones Clinton Scollard
John Luther Long Clement Wood
Arthur Davison Ficke Joyce Kilmer
Maxwell Struthers Burt John Hall Wheelock Laura Benet
Fullerton L. Waldo Abigail Fithian Halsey Louis Ginsberg Marjorie Allen Seiffert J. M. Batchelor
Mary Morris Duane William Laird
Freshness, strength, beauty and dignity characterize the poems in store for subscribers. The editors are confid ent that the magazine's year will be regarded as notable in American literature.
The Literary Digest says, in a recent issue :
"There are many "poetry magazines,' but so far as we know Contemporary Verse is the only Ameriean magazine devoted wholly to the publication of poetry.
"It contains no criticism, no letters, nothing but verse, and that usually of a high order of excellence. In every issue there is sure to be at least one poem so interesting as to justify the publication of that number of the magazine. "
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CONTEMPORARY VERSE VOtUMK III FEBRUARY, 1917 Number 3
THE MAN TO HIS DEAD POET By John Hall Wheelock
In the small, bare room brimmed up with twilight Hours long in silence I had sat
By the bed on which my youth lay dying And the poet that I once had been.
•
Many and many a day he had been failing, And I knew the end must come at last—
The poor fellow—I had loved him dearly, It was hard for me to see him go.
He was both my rapture and my sorrow — O how love unto its sorrow clings!
Many a bitter hour had he brought me, Loneliness, and shipwreck of the heart;
And I loved him. But my mind was weary Almost as the twilight of the day,
And my soul was sullen, and a little Tired of his everlasting talk.
Still from side to side his eyes went roaming, As in fever earnestly he moaned
Old forgotten ecstasies and splendors Ebbed from out my heart forevermore.
His poor fingers aimlessly and awkward Fumbled with the covers, and a look
On his features, fatuous and fervent, Foolish seemed and laughable enough.
«7
Softly stirred the curtains. From the river Came a sound of whistles. In the street Flared the first few lamps. A barrel-organ
Rasped a mournful measure. Night was here.
"Ah, the cities," cried he, "and the faces Like an endless river rolling on —
From what unknown deeps of being risen
All those myriads, to what shadowy coast
"Of huge doom in sullen grandeur moving, The vast waters of the human soul!
Can you see it still—as in an ocean Every sea-drop sparkles of the sea,
"Foams, and perishes—, so for a moment From each living face the dauntless, dear
Eyes of life look out at us to greet us, Shine —and hurry by into the night!
"Is it beautiful," he cried, "my brother? " With such fiery question burned his glance,
That to quiet him in haste I answered,
"All that you have said is doubtless so;
"But, pray, calm yourself, my dear, good fellow, Let it be, and let it go at that. "
And I drew the covers 'round him closer, Smoothed his pillow for him.