The New York herald., 1921-07-03


with her carving of sculpture, her
painting OF pictures, her weaving of
silks. her modelling OF pottery, her
superb arrangement of decoration, her
inestimable taste of design, would she
have made a scenic artist, a por-
traiturist. or a creator of costumes?
In being poet. she is all of these, and
in being all of these whether or not
her poetry rhymes, she is poet.
She saws in one of her older books
that she peers and peeks." She does
more than this. She takes pains, puts
forth meticulous, punctlious effort to
feel, see. smell, hear and taste exactly
the right word. One can conceive of
her like Portia, stabbing her thigh, in
order to describe a sensation which
can either tinge, twitch. comfort scar,
burn. scorch or infiame. There is NO
doubt that she is sincere enough re-
porter to experiment with the sting of
a wasp were she to contemplate a
faithful unravelment of the suicide of
Cleopatra
For the stories which she unfods to
us in Legends her latest publica-
ton. she has browsed through endless
photographers; her atmosphere is red
olent of research FURNISHED by imagi-
nation. In her preface she tells us of
having gone to DR.. stephen Bushels
Description of Chinese Pottery and
Porcelain" and "Histoire ct Fabrica
ton de la Porcelaine Chinoise.' by NJ.
Stanislaus Julien. "I will not enumer-
ate other books on China which I
have read" Miss Lowell says. In
deed, could not, they are so many"
She writes Of legends with a long
past, and ! believe a longer future at
the hand of coming generations"
They are to her speculative or appre-
hended truth We love them
because we once loved them"
The tales that she recounts to us
redundant, Torescent tales-are indig-
enous II yucatan, North America,
New Hagland. England and the age Of
powerful Peru.
White-haired Incas,
Hoary Incas,
Black and shiny haired young 1ncas,
All dead Incas,
Terrible and full fleshed 1ncas
Blaze OF fire. burning, glaring,
Bright--too bright
Hear them going off TO war. Listen
to this parading battalion:
Copper spears running like a river of
gold along the road:
Helmets of tiger skins, coats Of glitter
ing feathers,
A ripple of colors from one edge of the
way to the other
Feet of men cadenced to the swing of
weapons.
So many bows and arrows, and sings
and darts and lances.
A twinkling rhythm of reflections to
which the army advances,
And a rainbow banner fiickering colors
to the slipping of the wind.
They pass as water passes.
In From Yucca to Passion
Vine" the poet paints a ballet, as she
does in three other mastery, swinging
pieces from Legends" With Mchio
Itow az the Fox, Margaret Severn as
the Virgin, Roshanara as the Moon,
what a startling tour dc ddnse that
would be-
Glory of rose mist over the Sierra,
Glory of crimson on the tinted turrets
or the wide old fort under the high cliff
Glory of vermlion dripping from the
windows,
Glory Of saffron streaking all the
shadows
House fronts glaring in fresh young
light
With Urban and Lee Simonson II
would not be impossible to transport
this story OF the Fox who pursues the
Moon, is captivated by the insatiate
Virgin, and in resentment mutilates
his goddess, into an incarnation of
movement upon a metropolitan stage.
"I implore thee" sings the Virgin, "a
white pomegranate with no seeds"
And she goes on:
Take from me. therefore; this my long
ing;
Let the spring deal with me gently.
All dripping with silver white poison
of the moon who walks with stately
slowness down the long, quiet terraces
Of the sky" dips into an incandescent
ink we'll the sapient plume of Amy
Lowell
She could have been q landscape
architect also. In The Statue in
Garden" an exciting ia BILE where the
wooden Galatea Of an affianced bach
elor inopportunely comes to life is this
plan:
The garden clamored
With loud throat notes Of yellow and
blue.
An orchestra In every bed,
The blaring brass of late summer
flowers
BY noon the colors were deafen-
ing
II was not a large garden az gardens 60.
But carefully patterned with row after
row
or flower beds. edged by low. clipped box
In the quantity prim and orthodox
Manner Of seventeen eighty or there
abouts.
A couple OF dolphins splurted out spouts
or silver-blue water from a couple OF
fountains
And the distant sky was suggestive of
mountains.