dark tapestry of night. The tall
Black houses crush the creeping beggars down,
Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,
Of silver bodies bathing in a pool;
Or trees that whisper in some far, small town
Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold
Was merely metal, not a grave of mould
In which men bury all that's fine and fair.
When they could chase the jewelled butterfly
Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh
For all the future held so rich and rare;
When, though they knew it not, their baby cries
Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.

_Robert Nichols_

Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first
volume, _Invocations_ (1915), was published while he was at the front,
Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at
Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant
in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by shell shock,
visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. His _Ardours and
Endurances_ (1917) is the most representative work of this poet,
although his new volume, _The Flower of Flame_ (1920), shows a steady
advance in power.

NEARER

Nearer and ever nearer ...
My body, tired but tense,
Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure
And tremulous confidence.

Arms to have and to use them
And a soul to be made
Worthy, if not worthy;
If afraid, unafraid.

To endure for a little,
To endure and have done:
Men I love about me,
Over me the sun!

And should at last suddenly
Fly the speeding death,
The four great quarters of heaven
Receive this little breath.

_Charles Hamilton Sorley_

Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the
younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at
Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing
his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the
Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an
immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In
August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13,
1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.

Sorley left but one book, _Marlborough and Other Poems_. The verse
contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired
Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint