y those impressions to
minds other than his own. When language is used without appropriateness,
harmony, or precision, it can mean but little save to the person who
writes it. The soul of a poem lies not in words but in meaning; and if
the author have any skill at all in recording thought through language,
he will be able to refine the uncouth mass of spontaneous verbiage
which first comes to him as representing his idea, but which in its
original amorphous state may fail entirely to suggest the same idea to
another brain. He will be able to preserve and perpetuate his idea in a
style of language which the world may understand, and in a rhythm which
may not offend the reader's sense of propriety with conspicuous
harshness, breaks, or sudden transitions.

"Flames of the Shadow", Mrs. Renshaw's longest poetical contribution to
this issue, is a powerful piece which, despite the author's theory,
seems in no way injured by its commendably regular structure.
"Immortality of Love" is likewise rather regular, though the plan of
rhyming breaks down in the last stanza. "For You" and "Sacrament of
Spirit" are short pieces, the former containing an "allowable" rhyming
of "tongue" and "long", which would not meet with the approval of the
Kleiner type of critic, but upon which this department forbears to
frown.

James T. Pyke's two poems, "To a Butterfly" and "Life and Time" are gems
of incomparable beauty. "Ole Gardens", by Winifred V. Jordan, is a
haunting bit of semi-irregular verse which deserves warm applause for
the cleverness of its imagery and the aptness of its phraseology. "The
Reward of it All", by Emilie C. Holladay, is a potent but pathetic poem
of sentiment, whose development is highly commendable, but whose
metrical construction might be improved by judicious care. "A
Mississippi Autumn" was written as prose by Mrs. Renshaw, and set in
heroic verse without change of ideas by the present critic. The metaphor
is uniformly lofty and delicate, whilst the development of the sentiment
is facile and pleasing. It is to be hoped that the original thoughts of
the author are not impaired or obscured by the technical turns of the
less inspired versifier. "My Dear, Sweet, Southern Blossom", dedicated
to Mr. and Mrs. Renshaw with Compliments of the Author, James Laurence
Crowley, is a saccharine and sentimental piece of verse reminiscent of
the popular ballads which flourished ten or more years ago. Triteness is
the cardinal defec