or its rhyming arrangement, each rhyme being carried through
four lines instead of the usual couplet. The sentiments are just, the
images well drawn, and the technique correct; the whole forming a highly
commendable addition to amateur literature. "The Melody and Colour of
'The Lady of Shalott'", by Mary Faye Durr, is a striking Tennysonian
critique, whose psychological features, involving a comparison of
chromatic and poetic elements, are ingenious and unusual. Miss Durr is
obviously no careless student of poesy, for the minute analyses of
various passages give evidence of thorough assimilation and intelligent
comprehension. "On Being Good", by Newton A. Thatcher, contains sound
sense and real humour, whilst its pleasingly familiar style augurs well
for Mr. Thatcher's progress in this species of composition. "War
Reflections", by Herbert Albing, is an apt and thoughtful epitome of the
compensating benefits given to mankind by the present belligerent
condition of the world. The cogent and comprehensive series of reviews
by Miss Edna M. Haughton, and the crisp and pertinent paragraphs by
Editor Fritter, combine with the rest of =The Woodbee's= contents to
produce an issue uniformly meritorious.

H. P. LOVECRAFT,
Chairman.

THE POETRY OF THE MONTH

CONTENT.

An Epistle to RHEINHART KLEINER, Esq., Poet-Laureate, and Author of
"Another Endless Day".

_Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis._
--HORACE.

KLEINER! in whose quick pulses wildly beat
The youth's ambition, and the lyrist's heat,
Whose questing spirit scorns our lowly flights,
And dares the heavens for sublimer heights:
If passion's force will grant an hour's relief,
Attend a calmer song, nor nurse thy grief.
What is true bliss? Must mortals ever yearn
For stars beyond their reach, and vainly burn;
Must suff'ring man, impatient, seek to scale
Forbidden steeps, where sharper pangs prevail?
Alas for him who chafes at soothing ease,
And cries for fever'd joys and pains to please:
They please a moment, but the pleasure flies,
And the rack'd soul, a prey to passion, dies.
Away, false lures! and let my spirit roam
O'er sweet Arcadia, and the rural home;
Let my sad heart with no new sor