. "The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the soul
of man, but to make it worth saving."

The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more personal and
romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed him at Davos Platz,
Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him from an Olympian disinterest
to a deep concern with life and death. He passionately denied that he
was weary of living "as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting
higher flights of song when his singing ceased altogether.

His two colorful volumes are _The Golden Journey to Samarkand_ (1913)
and _The Old Ships_ (1915).

THE OLD SHIPS

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old--
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.

But I have seen,
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder's breath indrawn,
Thought I--who knows--who knows--but in that same
(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
--Stern painted brighter blue--)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom-crimson shore,
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

It was so old a ship--who knows, who knows?
--And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.

_D. H. Lawrence_

David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most
psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging
from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism,
is seen even in his prose works--particularly in his short stories,
_The Prussian Officer_ (1917), his analytical _Sons and Lovers_
(1913), and the rhapsodic novel, _The Rainbow_ (1915).

As a poet he is often caught in the