hich have been offered us
to-day of the historic decline of the American poetry-lover. We weigh
them, and find them wanting. Why? Because they have sought, like
radiographers, far beneath the surface; whereas the real trouble has
been only skin deep. I shall try to show the nature of this trouble;
and how, by beginning to cure it, we have already brought on a poetic
renaissance.

Most of us who care for poetry frequently have one experience in
common. During our summer vacations in the country we suddenly
re-discover the well-thumbed "Golden Treasury" of Palgrave, and the
"Oxford Book of Verse" which have been so unaccountably neglected
during the city winter. We wander farther into the poetic fields and
revel in Keats and Shakespeare. We may even attempt once more to get
beyond the first book of the "Faerie Queene," or fumble again at the
combination lock which seems to guard the meaning of the second part
of "Faust." And we find these occupations so invigorating and joyful
that we model and cast an iron resolution to the effect that this
winter, whatever betide, we will read a little poetry every day, or
every week, as the case may be. On that we plunge back into the
beautiful, poetic, inspiring city, and adhere to our poetry-reading
program--for exactly a fortnight. Then, unaccountably, our resolve
begins to slacken. We cannot seem to settle our minds to ordered
rhythms "where more is meant than meets the ear." Our resolve
collapses. Once again Palgrave is covered with dust. But vacation time
returns. After a few days in green pastures and beside still waters
the soul suddenly turns like a homing-pigeon to poetry. And the old,
perplexing cycle begins anew.

A popular magazine once sent a certain young writer and ardent
amateur of poetry on a long journey through the Middle West. He took
but one book in his bag. It was by Whitman (the poet of cities, mark).
And he determined to read it every evening in his bedroom after the
toils of the day. The first part of the trip ran in the country.
"Afoot and light-hearted" he took to the open road every morning, and
reveled every evening in such things as "Manahatta," "The Song of
Joys," and "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry." Then he carried his poet of
cities to a city. But the two would have nothing to do with one
another. And to the traveler's perplexity, a place no larger than
Columbus, Ohio, put a violent end to poetry on that trip.

In our day most poetry-lovers have had such