Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/49

Our Birthday age? Have our voices been bugles of hope, lutes of joy, drums of power, to put courage and faith into men's hearts, fill their lives with ardor?

Or, if we are not sure and simple enough to tell the tale of the tribe, are we expressing beauty in detail, showing that every experience is emotion? Are we lifting men and women out of the inertness of their fate, till the passing hour is color in their eyes and music in their ears? Is each of our songs a thing of perfect clarity and truth, like the trill of a bird?

No doubt we have compromised, we have followed false gods, we have kept our eyes on the ground, and strayed into narrow places, and been content with little. But tonight we are under the open sky, and the fairies have wreathed our bowl. Let us lift it high with a pledge none may refuse: To the art!—to the poets who are coming! May their vision be deeper than ours, their hearts higher, their song grander! And may we gather their audience for them, and light the torch for them, and keep each orchestral instrument in tune!

It has been said that we shall never have fine poetic drama in this country until we have fine realistic prose drama. This may be true, although it suggests a reversal of the usual order; poetic drama has usually preceded what we call realism on the stage, even as tragedy precedes comedy, and comedy precedes farce. From the present meagre fare offered us by poetic playwrights, we need not predicate a