play and sing
In silent silver chords I too could hear?
Or smile to see a starlet shake with fear
Whenever winds disturbed the lake's repose,
Or when in mocking mood they form in rows,
And stare up at their parents--so sedate--
Then break up laughing 'neath a ripple's weight?

It seems as if, _The First Person Singular_ having been published, more
people now know William Rose Benet as a novelist than as a poet. I cannot
help feeling that to be something of a pity. I am not going to quote one
of Mr. Benet's poems--indeed all his best work is in quite long and
semi-narrative verse--but I will give you what Don Marquis was inspired to
write after reading Benet's _Moons of Grandeur_. On looking at it again, I
see that Mr. Marquis has quoted eight lines, so you shall have your taste
of William Rose Benet, the poet, after all!

"Some day, just to please ourself, we intend to make a compilation of
poems that we love best; the ones that we turn to again and again. There
will be in the volume the six odes of Keats, Shelley's 'Adonais';
Wordsworth's 'Intimations of Immortality'; Milton's 'L'Allegro' and 'Il
Penseroso'; William Rose Benet's 'Man Possessed' and very little else.

"We don't 'defend' these poems ... no doubt they are all of them quite
indefensible, in the light of certain special poetic revelations of the
last few years ... and we have no particular theories about them; we
merely yield ourself to them, and they transport us; we are careless of
reason in the matter, for they cast a spell upon us. We do not mean to say
that we are in the category with the person who says: 'I don't know
anything about art, but I know what I like'--On the contrary, we know
exactly why we like these things, although we don't intend to take the
trouble to tell you now.

"William Rose Benet has published another book of poems, _Moons of
Grandeur_. Here is a stanza picked up at random--it happens to be the
opening stanza of 'Gaspara Stampa'--which shows the lyric quality of the
verse:

"Like flame, like wine, across the still lagoon,
The colours of the sunset stream.
Spectral in heaven as climbs the frail veiled moon
So climbs my dream.
Out of the heart's eternal torture fire
No eastern phoenix risen--
Only the naked soul, spent with desire,
Bursts its prison.

"Was Benet ever in Italy? No matter ... he has Italy in him, in his heart
and brain. Italy and Egypt and every other country that was e