.

He was listening; he was there;
Flash! he went. To the air
He a waiting ear had bent,
Silent; but before he went
Something somewhere else to seek,
He moved his lips as though to speak.

And we wait, and in vain,
For he will not come again.
Earth, grass, wood, and air,
As we stare, and we stare,
Which that fierce life did hold,
Tired, dim, void, cold.

Milton Raison is a young writer, known especially to readers of The
Bookman, whose verse has appeared in various magazines. A Russian, Milton
Raison went to sea as a boy--he is scarcely more than a boy now. His first
book of verse, _Spindrift_, carries a preface by William McFee. I quote:

"There is a Latin sharpness of mentality manifested in these clearly,
sardonically etched portraits of a ship's crew. The whimsical humour
revealed in final lines is a portent, in the present writer's opinion, of
a talent which will probably come to maturity in a very different field.
Indeed it may be, though it is too early to dogmatise, that these poems
are but the early efflorescence of a gift for vigorous prose narrative.

"Mr. Milton Raison has settled for himself, with engaging promptitude,
that a seafaring career provides the inspiration he craves. The influence
of Masefield is strong upon him, and some of his verses are plainly
derivative. As already hinted, it is too early to say definitely how this
plan will succeed. In his diary, kept while on a voyage to South America,
a document remarkable for its descriptive power and a certain crude and
virginal candour, one may discover an embryo novelist struggling with the
inevitable limitations of youth. But in his simple and naive poems,
whether they give us some bizarre and catastrophic picture of seamen, or
depict the charming emotions of a sensitive adolescence, there is a
passion for experiment and humility of intellect which promises well
enough for a young man in his teens."

I find it particularly difficult to choose a poem for citation from this
book. Perhaps I shall do as well as I can, with only space to quote one
poem, if I give you "Vision":

Have I forgotten beauty, and the pang
Of sheer delight in perfect visioning?
Have I forgotten how the spirit sang
When shattered breakers sprayed their ocean-tang
To ease the blows with which the great cliffs rang?
Have I forgotten how the fond stars fling
Their naked children to the faery ring
Of some dark pool, and watch them