CONTRIBUTORS TO THE OCTOBER NUMBER

BERNARDINE ALGERT is a Californian who has not contributed to the Review heretofore.

EDA LOU WALTON of California wrote several poems for the Review of October, 1920.

JAY B. HUBBELL is professor of English in Southern Methodist University, Dallas, and is a native of North Carolina. CLYDE CHEW GLASCOCK is a professor of romance languages in Rice Institute, Houston.

A. J. MORRISON of Washington, D. C., is a well-known contributor to the Review.

STANLEY T. WILLIAMS, assistant professor of English in Yale University, has written several essays on Victorian literature for this Journal.

L. W. PAYNE, JR., Professor of English in the University of Texas, had edited several text-books on American literature. KARLE WILSON BAKER of Nacogdoches, Texas, is already well known to readers of the Review and other periodicals.

B. H. LEHMAN is a professor in the University of California.

VERSES

BY BERNARDINE ALGERT

Blue Waters

Blue waters, blue waters,

And in the West a sail,
A pirate-ship of sandalwood
Black, where day grows pale.

Oh, pirates ten clink, all a-scheming,
Golden earringed,

Bangles jade.

Moonstone-eyed the dragon-ship

Slides, gleaming

In blue waters.

Blue waters, blue waters,

And glint of shining flake,

One last breath of sandalwood

Clinging in her wake.

Oh, wild geese in the West are dipping;

Saffron-banded

Flames the sky.

Still fainter fall the oars,

A-dripping

In blue waters.

Devil to a Ghost

How white you are,

Poor Ghost!

The street-light glows

Through all your swathed linen folds

And in the dusk your deep eyes make appeal

That you are lost

Poor Ghost!

How gay you are,

Poor Fiend!

Yet boredom shows

Reply

In every leathern smile your wan face holds;
But I, though tombstone proves me all unreal,
Yet have my dreams-

Poor Fiend!

To Common-Sense

I will return

As surely as lie

Three pale stars, panting

Against the Autumn sky
At dawn.

In the faint light

When gold leaves sigh

Down to the hungry grass

Below, perhaps so I,

Some time.

O, later call

When streams and youth are dry.

In shadowy reaches I would

My winged feet try

Awhile.

When Warriors Die

The long meadow is wet with dew,

And purple stars hang heavily

Above;

But the river is silent

And the canoe rocks, empty.

Sumach blazes amongst gray rocks,
And the white birch, like naked nuns,
March down to the pool;

There is not a little cloud in all the aching
Blue sky,

And the wind has died.

Cease your weaving, O weaver of baskets,
And dance solemnly to the setting sun.
Where the distant river meets the sky,

Fling the firebrand far out into the circling waters.
It is so warriors die

And rivers say nothing.

THREE POEMS

BY EDA LOU WALTON

Locked Room

On this day's end this day is ended,
Blotted into the flow of night;
Here is the most of me, most blended
Into the emptiness of light.

Into this room shall no one enter,
No one, for I shall lose the key;
No word shall pry into the center
Where I have met the most of me.

At Dawn

How, down the green monotony of days.
Which we must travel ere we die,
Can this night beautify the ways
We take apart, Love, you and I?

How, through an agony of nights,
Can this night be remembered fair?
Even memories wing twisted flights
When wounded by despair.

Only this perfect night is ours,

Only its beauty we possess;

Now stillness creeps across the stars,

Into your kiss, my loneliness.