VI
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
The foremost of the poets of the race at present is William StanleyBraithwaite, of Boston. Mr. Braithwaite is not only the possessor ofunusual talent, but for years he has worked most conscientiously at hisart and taken the time and the pains to master the fundamentals thatothers all too often deem unimportant. In 1904 he published a small bookof poems entitled "Lyrics of Life and Love." This was followed fouryears later by "The House of Falling Leaves." Within recent years he hasgiven less and less time to his own verse, becoming more and moredistinguished as a critic in the special field of American poetry. Forseveral years he has been a regular and valued contributor of literarycriticism to the _Boston Evening Transcript_; he has had verse orcritical essays in the _Forum_, the _Century_, _Scribner's_, the_Atlantic_, etc.; and in 1916 became editor of the new _PoetryReview_ of Cambridge. He has collected and edited (publishing chieflythrough Brentano's) "The Book of Elizabethan Verse," "The Book ofGeorgian Verse," and "The Book of Restoration Verse"; and he has alsopublished the "Anthology of Magazine Verse" for each year since 1913. Heis the general editor of "The Contemporary American Poets Series," whichis projected by the Poetry Review Company, and which will be issued intwelve little books, each giving a sympathetic study of a poet of theday; he himself is writing the volume on Edwin Arlington Robinson; andbefore long it is expected that a novel will appear from his pen. Veryrecently (1917) Mr. Braithwaite has brought together in a volume, "ThePoetic Year," the series of articles which he contributed to the_Transcript_ in 1916-17. The aim was in the form of conversationsbetween a small group of friends to discuss the poetry of 1916. Says he:"There were four of us in the little group, and our common love for theart of poetry suggested a weekly meeting in the grove to discuss thebooks we had all agreed upon reading.... I made up my mind to recordthese discussions, and the setting as well, with all those other touchesof human character and mood which never fail to enliven and give colorto the serious business of art and life.... I gave fanciful names to mycompanions, Greek names which I am persuaded symbolized the spirit ofeach. There was nothing Psyche touched but made its soul apparent. Herwood-lore was beautiful and thorough; the very spirit of flowers, birdsand trees was evoked when she went among them. Our other companion ofher sex was Cassandra, and we gave her this name not because herforebodings were gloomy, but merely for her prophesying disposition,which was always building air-castles. The other member besides myselfof our little group was Jason, of the heroic dreams and adventuresomespirit. He was restless in the bonds of a tranquillity that chafed thehidden spirit of his being." From the introduction we get something ofthe critic's own aims and ideals: "The conversational scheme of the bookmay, or may not, interest some readers. Poetry is a human thing, and itis time for the world--and especially our part of the world--to regardit as belonging to the people. It sprang from the folk, and passed, whenculture began to flourish, into the possession of a class. Now cultureis passing from a class to the folk, and with it poetry is returning toits original possessors. It is in the spirit of these words that wediscuss the poetry of the year." Emphasis is here given to this workbecause it is the sturdiest achievement of Mr. Braithwaite in the fieldin which he has recently become most distinguished, and even the briefquotations cited are sufficient to give some idea of his graceful,suggestive prose.
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE]
In a review of this writer's poetry we have to consider especially thetwo collections, "Lyrics of Life and Love," and "The House of FallingLeaves," and the poems that have more recently appeared in the_Atlantic_, _Scribner's_, and other magazines. It is to be hoped thatbefore very long he will publish a new edition of his poems. The earliervolumes are out of print, and a new book could contain the best of them,as well as what has appeared more recently. "Lyrics of Life and Love"embodied the best of the poet's early work. The little book containseighty pages, and no one of the lyrics takes up more than two pages,twenty in fact being exactly eight lines in length. This appearance offragility, however, is a little deceptive. While Keats and Shelley areconstantly evident as the models in technique, the yearning of more thanone lyric reflects the deeper romantic temper. The bravado and thetenderness of the old poets are evident again in the two Christmaspieces, "Holly Berry and Mistletoe," and "Yule-Song: A Memory":
The trees are bare, wild flies the snow, Hearths are glowing, hearts are merry-- High in the air is the Mistletoe, Over the door is the Holly Berry.
Never have care how the winds may blow, Never confess the revel grows weary-- Yule is the time of the Mistletoe, Yule is the time of the Holly Berry.
* * * * *
December comes, snows come, Comes the wintry weather; Faces from away come-- Hearts must be together. Down the stair-steps of the hours Yule leaps the hills and towers-- Fill the bowl and hang the holly, Let the times be jolly.
"The Watchers" is in the spirit of Kingsley's "The Three Fishers":
Two women on the lone wet strand-- (_The wind's out with a will to roam_) The waves wage war on rocks and sand, (_And a ship is long due home_.)
The sea sprays in the women's eyes-- (_Hearts can writhe like the sea's wild foam_) Lower descend the tempestuous skies, (_For the wind's out with a will to roam_.)
"O daughter, thine eyes be better than mine," (_The waves ascend high on yonder dome_) "North or South is there never a sign?" (_And a ship is long due home_.)
They watched there all the long night through-- (_The wind's out with a will to roam_) Wind and rain and sorrow for two-- (_And heaven on the long reach home_.)
The second volume marked a decided advance in technique. When weremember also the Pre-Raphaelite spirit, with its love of rhythm andimagery, we are not surprised to find here an appreciation "To DanteGabriel Rossetti." Especially has the poet made progress in the handlingof the sonnet, as may be seen in the following:
My thoughts go marching like an armed host Out of the city of silence, guns and cars; Troop after troop across my dreams they post To the invasion of the wind and stars. O brave array of youth's untamed desire! With thy bold, dauntless captain Hope to lead His raw recruits to Fate's opposing fire, And up the walls of Circumstance to bleed. How fares the expedition in the end? When this my heart shall have old age for king And to the wars no further troop can send, What final message will the arm'stice bring? The host gone forth in youth the world to meet, In age returns--in victory or defeat?
Then there is the epilogue with its heart-cry:
Lord of the mystic star-blown gleams Whose sweet compassion lifts my dreams; Lord of life in the lips of the rose That kiss desire; whence Beauty grows; Lord of the power inviolate That keeps immune thy seas from fate,
* * * * *
Lord, Very God of these works of thine, Hear me, I beseech thee, most divine!
Within very recent years Mr. Braithwaite has attracted unusual attentionamong the discerning by a new note of mysticism that has crept into hisverse. This was first observed in "Sandy Star," that appeared in the_Atlantic_ (July, 1909):
No more from out the sunset, No more across the foam, No more across the windy hills Will Sandy Star come home.
He went away to search it, With a curse upon his tongue, And in his hands the staff of life Made music as it swung.
I wonder if he found it, And knows the mystery now: Our Sandy Star who went away With the secret on his brow.
The same note is in "The Mystery" (or "The Way," as the poet prefers tocall it) that appeared in _Scribner's_ (October, 1915):
He could not tell the way he came Because his chart was lost: Yet all his way was paved with flame From the bourne he crossed.
He did not know the w
ay to go, Because he had no map: He followed where the winds blow,-- And the April sap.
He never knew upon his brow The secret that he bore-- And laughs away the mystery now The dark's at his door.
Mr. Braithwaite has done well. He is to-day the foremost man of the racein pure literature. But above any partial or limited consideration,after years of hard work he now has recognition not only as a poet ofstanding, but as the chief sponsor for current American poetry. Nocomment on his work could be better than that of the _Transcript_,November 30, 1915: "He has helped poetry to readers as well as to poets.One is guilty of no extravagance in saying that the poets we have--andthey may take their place with their peers in any country--and thegathering deference we pay them, are created largely out of thestubborn, self-effacing enthusiasm of this one man. In a sense theirdistinction is his own. In a sense he has himself written their poetry.Very much by his toil they may write and be read. Not one of them willever write a finer poem than Braithwaite himself has lived already."
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