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Blessed with the spiritual power of that world of dreams where men are gods and women are divine--the modern poet tosses his spurs into the air, Pegasus into the clouds, and scales Mt. Olympus with a step-ladder. From one of the current magazines flows fanciful and free the fairest flickers of such fervent fluttering--and there are these delightful lines:

"Afternoon edges toward evening

Like a tired stall on,

Snuffing the yellow grain that the road spreads

Before the bin of the sunset."

Nor is this all. The blithe Babette is not alone in her glimpse of gayglories.

Under the thunder dark, the cicadas icsounds.

The storm in the sky mounts, but is not yet heard.

The shaft and the flash wait, but are not yet found.

The apples that hang and swell for the late comer.

The simple spell, the rite not for the word.

The kisses not for our mouths, light the dark summer."

Truly the romantics are growing gayer every minute. To jest, the canons of art are stilled, hushed the small weapons. But never can an editorial become lyric, even in critical disquisition upon the, was it "kisses not for our mouths." Mix a butter and egg world with New York atmosphere, synthetic gin and the romantic: result--omelette. To put it more plainly, one can quote Rolfe Humphries "Text for a Bitter Vision".

"A thickish gruel, more or less refined, Poured in a bony noggin called the head."

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