s where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page
194.)

_Irene Rutherford McLeod_

Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three
volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may
be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918).
The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was
married in 1919.

"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"

Is love, then, so simple my dear?
The opening of a door,
And seeing all things clear?
I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire
Soaring only to fall,
Annihilation and fire:
It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will,
But I think I understand
Many things, as I sit quite still,
With Eternity in my hand.

LONE DOG

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

_Richard Aldington_

Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover
College and London University. His first poems were published in
England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and
"H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of
the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines
put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_
(1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in
pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic
but warmer and more humanly searching.

PRELUDE

How could I love you more?
I would give up
Even that beauty I have loved too well
That I might love you better.

Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give--
I can but give you of my flesh and strength,
I can but give you these few passing days
And passionate words that, since our speech began