Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1916-11-14
Tom Daly's Column

IN1E FEEL guilty of trespass when we
w review books in this column. And 30.
when we infrequently do that sort Of
thing, we. it may be noticed, are sneaky
about it and get through with the job as
quickly as possible. But here comes
book OF such great importance as to justi
fy the use of this entire column, II nee
essary, to bring it properly before the at
tention of the brightest minds of the com
munity. The book, which bears the title
Songs of wedlock," may seem to many
something of departure for its author
since Il is written in n language with
which he is not popularly supposed TO be
familiar. The medium is pure English,
without the slightest taint of dialect
There Is, moreover, little between these
covers that might be described as humor-
ous-that is to say. consciously humor.
ous-although TO the man who is as yet
unattached. or to him who has trotted in
double harness and lived to regret It. the
volume may not otherwise be classlhable,
perhaps.
In this book. which we are told is his
fifth, the poet seems to put the imprint
of his heart upon his sleeve. IL we are to
believe what he has written-and we
must not be too credulous in this matter,
for poets, we have often been assured, are
curious animals-there is still such a
thing in this country as married con-
stancy. Let us dip at random into the
book and see what we hook:
TO THE INCoNsTANT
Ye are the dullards. and not 1,
Ye cOnSCienCelesS philandererSi
From one love to the next ye fly
And are forever wanderers.
o! poor, blind votaries of the chase,
Ye deem me codly dutiful
who, steadfast watch one love-lt face
Grow year by year more beautiful!
Each new love lives in your desire
For but moments cherishing:
Your passion is a smoldering FIRE
That is forever perishing,
That seeking change, hath only found
The ashes of safety
While mine hath but begun to sound
My one Loves sweet variety!
1t is, perhaps, an unwarranted assump-
| ton considering what we have read Of
the private lives Of those who are even
slightly touched by the virus of genius,
to take too seriously even what is said in
| poems which are Enthusiastically intended
we do hope the author is not spooing us,
| because then we should be utterly ridicu-
| lous-this. for one who has made but n
slight reputation as a writer of dialect
verse, is really quite "arresting" as the
real book reviewers would say:
THE QUEENS FLEETS
| Take for thy throne, my queen, this niche
my hand
| Hath carved for thee,
| Here in the gray breast of this dune OF sand
That fronts the sea.
| In sovereign state aloof, the solitude
| Hedging thee round. once thy maiden
| hood,
Mako me no partner of thy thought or
| speech
| But count me merely jetsam of the beach
Here at thy feet.
1t is mute beautys hour. No late bird
sings;
Noiceless, serene,
The sea dreams; silence holds all lovely
things
And thou art queen!
| For Silence, in the twilights gold and red
Behind thee, sets "A crown upon thy head
Send forth, O Queen! thy fleets upon the
main,
Send forth thy daring fleets Of thought
And let me wait TO hail them home again
With riches fraught.
BY Fancy captained, send thy fleets afar
| To win the sea;
| Send them to know what spoils I'm ocean are
| What mystery,
What beauty in all things that suffered
| change"
In coral caves to Something rich and
| strange"
| Then bring them home, and 1 with kingly
might
Will take their treasure, as it lies
Safe-harbored in the starlit, purple night
OF thy dear eyes.
There seem, also, to be children in this
mans house. but before we get on to that
doesn't this make you feel-shall we say
"cuddly?''-at this season OF the year?
| INSCRIPTION FOR A FIREPLACE
I'm Homes heart Warmth give and light
II you but feed me.
| ! blossom in the winter night,
When most you need me-
To melt your cares, TO warm your guest,
My cheers supplied you;
But, o to know me at my best,
Hold Her beside you
The book is such thin, timidlooking
littis thing that one might think at first
glance it wasn't worth the dollar which
the publisher asks for it. Yet, the pub
Usher is David Mckay, of Philadelphia
who has a reputation for honesty,>and we
feel reasonably safe in assuring our read
ers that he would not attempt TO put over
on them anything absolutely spurious
The name Of the author? o, yes-let's
see-well, now, really, after all that we
have said in praise of this work perhaps
It would be the part of modesty to cough
behind our hand at this juncture and apol
ogize for leaving so little space for oul
contribs, who, after all, are the mainstay
of this column.