whom the Spectric theory originated, has
found the best expression of his genius in regular metrical forms
and rhyme. Anne Knish, on the other hand, has used only free
verse. We wish to make it clear that the Spectric manner does
hot necessitate the employment of either of these metrical systems
to the exclusion of the other.

Although the members of our group would by no means attempt to
establish a claim as actual inventors of the Spectric method,
yet we can justifiably say that we have for the first time
used the method consciously and consistently, and formulated
its possibilities by means of elaborate experiment. Among
recent poets in English, we have noted few who can be regarded
in a sure sense as Spectrists.
ANNE KNISH.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 50_

THE piano lives in a dusk
Where rich amber lights
Quiver obscurely.

It exists only at twilight;
And somewhere afar
In the depths of a tropic forest
The sun is now setting, and the phoenix looks
Mysteriously toward the gold.

I think I must have been born in such a forest,
Or in the tangle of a Chinese screen.

There is indigo in this music;
This dusk is filled with amber lights;
Through the tangled evening of heavy flower-scents
Come footfalls
That surely I can almost remember.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 41_

SPECTRES came dancing up the wind,
Trailing down the long grass,
Shooting high, undisciplined,
To join the sun and see you pass . . .
The colors of the pointed glass.

Under a willow-maze you went
Unsaddened . . . But a violet beam
Fell on the white face, backward bent,
Of a body in a stream.

Into the sun you came again,
With sun-red light your feet were shod . . .
And round you stood a ring of feathered men
With naked arms acknowledging a god.

Indigo-birds and squirrels on a tree
And orioles flashed in and out . . .
The yellow outline of Eurydice
Waited for Orpheus in a black redoubt

With a beaded fern you waved away a gnat . . .
And maidens, hung with vivid beads of green,
One of them bearing in her arms an orange cat,
Held palms about a queen.

Then you were lost to sight
And locking trees became the clouds of you,
Till you emerged, the moon upon your shoulder, and the night
Bloomed blue.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 76_

YEARS are nothing;
Days alone count;
These, and the nights.
I have seen the grey stars marching,
And the green bubbl