the bramble spray?
Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,
And each consent a lucky gasp for life?

FOOTNOTES:

[17] From _The Story of a Round-House_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
publishers.

[18] From _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by John Masefield. Copyright,
1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the
publishers.

_Lord Dunsany_

Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, was born July 24,
1878, and was educated at Eton and Sandhurst. He is best known as an
author of fantastic fairy tales and even more fantastic plays. _The
Gods of the Mountain_ (1911) and _The Golden Doom_ (1912) are highly
dramatic and intensely poetic. _A Night at an Inn_ (1916) is that
peculiar novelty, an eerie and poetical melodrama.

Dunsany's prime quality is a romantic and highly colored imagination
which is rich in symbolism. After the World War, in which the
playwright served as captain in the Royal Innis-killing Fusiliers,
Dunsany visited America and revised the reissue of his early tales and
prose poems collected in his _The Book of Wonder_.

SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD

I

There is no wrath in the stars,
They do not rage in the sky;
I look from the evil wood
And find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream out
And grapple star against star,
Seeking for blood in the wood
As all things round me are?

They do not glare like the sky
Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
But they shine softly on
In their sacred solitude.

To their high, happy haunts
Silence from us has flown,
She whom we loved of old
And know it now she is gone.

When will she come again,
Though for one second only?
She whom we loved is gone
And the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants come
Sometimes, tramping from far
Through the weird and flickering light
Made by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club,
And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
And the elder giants from far,
They are all the children of Death.

They are all abroad to-night
And are breaking the hills with their brood,--
And the birds are all asleep
Even in Plug Street Wood!

II

Somewhere lost in the haze
The sun goes down in the cold,
And birds in this evil wood
C