one artist's soul. And this in Duse's acting satisfies and feeds them, because it partakes of the nature and function of all arts and of every single art.

And for all people for whom Duse's art is a power and a new impulse of life, Duse's supreme quality is what lies behind no art in particular but behind all art, the response to life. The poet, the musician, the painter and architect and actor or dancer, and the saint also, whose life and ways possess the continuity and creative passion of art, all draw life to them by their capacity for it. In them life is gathered, it refracts, simplifies, finds out its essential and eternal principle or idea and a new body for it, and so goes on. And in Duse of all artists people most feel the thing they most respond to in all living, an infinity of tragic wonder and tenderness.

STARK YOUNG.

And forever our tongues shall be dry
For the nurture her breasts cannot give.
She is ours and not ours, and we die
From the lack of her love, as we live
Through the pitiful waste of renewal
As she scatters our hopes to decay,
And we make our faint music of silence,
And braid up her dimness in day.

I will lock my hot lips on lament,
I will bid my lax fingers let fall
The illusion of beauty she lent
To allure or to blind me withal.

I have that she has given not, nor taketh,

Like a star in black waters, the gleam

Of the light that lies drowned in her darkness, The dream that is more than a dream.

THE CHARITY OF FROST

BY JOSEPH AUSLANDER

Love came to me as came to me

The cool clear meaning of your hands:

So quietly-as quietly

As water when it stands.

It cannot end as all things end,

Grow old and sicken and be lost;

Like water it will comprehend
The charity of frost.

LINES BY THE BOSPHORUS

BY HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG

Five hundred years since, Osman's fiery son,
Led his nomadic warriors in the night

Down in the curving shadows of the Straits,
Silently crossed, and owned thenceforth the roads
To all the western world,-five hundred years-

I see Byzantium's walls tossed in the dust.
I see Pope Urban bless the hopeful bond
Of Hungary's ruler with the Emperor John,
And their joint force tumultuously driven
Like the Maritza's muddy spring-time flood
Beside whose banks they fought before they fled.
The last Serb princes meet on Kossovo,-
I see their swords flash out, and all is dark.
I hear Bayazid's threat to feed his steed
From off St. Peter's altar when the tide
Of conquest should engulf the Seven Hills.
Corsairs I see, harrying all the coasts
From Spain beyond the Lizard to the North:
Buda becomes the Sultan's, and his hordes
Surge up around Vienna's inmost walls.

Five hundred years of darkness and decay,
Of death and waste and almost of despair;

Five hundred years of night-five hundred years

The nations eye the slow-receding tide;

They wonder at the corpses that will show
When all the troubled beach is bare at last,
And who will have the pick and choose thereof.
But what, for envy, emperors would not do
I see well done by hunted peasant chiefs
From rocky crags and bogs and little isles.
I see Black George summon his mountaineers
And smite Semendria's crenelated walls.
Hellas awakes-an Englishman exclaims

"The World's at war with tyrants-shall I crouch?”The guns at Missolonghi one by one

Sound slowly for his death, but not defeat.
I feel again the thrill of that strange name
Australia's sons belted the world to win
At Anzac, under savage Turkish fire.

I see the landing boats at Suvla Bay,

The heights enplumed with caustic puffs of smoke,— The sand, the rocks, the desperate, desperate boats

I see this day a Turk upon the heights

Pause and survey the gleaming Bosphorus,

The needle minarets, Sophia's dome,

Turn and descend through crooked lanes, and crossCross back to Europe,-back five hundred years.

POSSESSION

BY ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

I would possess you with that certitude
Which is the sole prerogative of Death-
Subdue to one fixed mood your many a mood-
Catch in one song your many a hurrying breath—
Make of your dear diversity such a whole,
So welded, that you never might again
Retrieve your rainbow brokenness of soul
But must my white eternal dawn remain.
And I would do such violence to you, dear,
As only Death, corrupting Death, can do—
Bury your body, to have you always near-
And stop your heart, to keep it ever true—
And hide you in such darkness of embrace
That none, not even I, could see your face.