{"product_id":"2940148634454","title":"Poetry: A Magazine of Verse (Illustrated)","description":"Poetry: A Magazine of Verse\u003cbr\u003eOctober~March, 1912-13\u003cbr\u003eHarriet Monroe ~ Editor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePOETRY\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is a little isle amid bleak seas—\u003cbr\u003eAn isolate realm of garden, circled round\u003cbr\u003eBy importunity of stress and sound,\u003cbr\u003eDevoid of empery to master these.\u003cbr\u003eAt most, the memory of its streams and bees,\u003cbr\u003eBorne to the toiling mariner outward-bound,\u003cbr\u003eRecalls his soul to that delightful ground;\u003cbr\u003eBut serves no beacon toward his destinies.\u003cbr\u003eIt is a refuge from the stormy days,\u003cbr\u003eBreathing the peace of a remoter world\u003cbr\u003eWhere beauty, like the musing dusk of even,\u003cbr\u003eEnfolds the spirit in its silver haze;\u003cbr\u003eWhile far away, with glittering banners furled,\u003cbr\u003eThe west lights fade, and stars come out in heaven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is a sea-gate, trembling with the blast\u003cbr\u003eOf powers that from the infinite sea-plain roll,\u003cbr\u003eA whelming tide. Upon the waiting soul\u003cbr\u003eAs on a fronting rock, thunders the vast\u003cbr\u003eGroundswell; its spray bursts heavenward, and drives past\u003cbr\u003eIn fume and sound articulate of the whole\u003cbr\u003eOf ocean's heart, else voiceless; on the shoal\u003cbr\u003eSilent; upon the headland clear at last.\u003cbr\u003eFrom darkened sea-coasts without stars or sun,\u003cbr\u003eLike trumpet-voices in a holy war,\u003cbr\u003eUtter the heralds tidings of the deep.\u003cbr\u003eAnd where men slumber, weary and undone,\u003cbr\u003eVisions shall come, incredible hopes from far,—\u003cbr\u003eAnd with high passion shatter the bonds of sleep.\u003cbr\u003eArthur Davison Ficke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEditor's  Comment:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs It Was\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time, when man was new in the woods of the world, when his feet were scarred with jungle thorns and his hands were red with the blood of beasts, a great king rose who gathered his neighbors together, and subdued the wandering tribes. Strange cunning was his, for he ground the stones to an edge together, and bound them with thongs to sticks; and he taught his people to pry apart the forest, and beat back the ravenous beasts. And he bade them honeycomb the mountainside with caves, to dwell therein with their women. And the most beautiful women the king took for his own, that his wisdom might not perish from the earth. And he led the young men to war and conquered all the warring tribes from the mountains to the sea. And when fire smote a great tree out of heaven, and raged through the forest till the third sun, he seized a burning brand and lit an altar to his god. And there, beside the ever-burning fire, he sat and made laws and did justice. And his people loved and feared him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the Reading of Poetry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the brilliant pages of his essay on Jean François Millet, Romain Rolland says that Millet, as a boy, used to read the Bucolics and the Georgics \"with enchantment\" and was \"seized by emotion—when he came to the line, 'It is the hour when the great shadows seek the plain.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEt jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant\u003cbr\u003eMajoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the lover and student of poetry, this incident has an especial charm and significance. There is something fine in the quick sympathy of an artist in one kind, for beauty expressed by the master of another medium. The glimpse M. Rolland gives us of one of the most passionate art-students the world has ever known, implies with fresh grace a truth Anglo-Saxons are always forgetting—that poetry is one of the great humanities, that poetry is one of the great arts of expression.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMany of our customs conspire to cause, almost to force, this forgetting. Thousands of us have been educated to a dark and often permanent ignorance of classic poetry, by being taught in childhood to regard it as written for the purpose of illustrating Hadley's Latin, or Goodwin's Greek grammar, and composed to follow the rules of versification at the end of the book. It seems indeed one of fate's strangest ironies that the efforts of these distinguished grammarians to unveil immortal masterpieces are commonly used in schools and colleges to enshroud, not to say swaddle up, the images of the gods \"forever young,\" and turn them into mummies. In our own country, far from perceiving in Vergil's quiet music the magnificent gesture of nature that thrilled his Norman reader.","brand":"Lost Leaf Publications","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47067928494320,"sku":"2940148634454","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940148634454_p0.jpg?v=1763706566","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940148634454","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}