Friends of France; . oad, I could not help wonder-ing why those poor fellows were chosen for the sacri-fice instead of us others in the telephone bureau —sixty yards down the street. However, here I am writing to you, safe and sound,on the little table by nrf bedside, with a half-burntcandle stuck in a Muratti cigarette box. Outside thenight is silent — my window is open and in thedraught the wax has trickled down on to the box and 224 THE INSPECTORS LETTER BOX then to the table — unheeded — for my thoughtshave sped far. To Gloucester days, and winter even-ings spent in the old brown-panelled,
Friends of France; . oad, I could not help wonder-ing why those poor fellows were chosen for the sacri-fice instead of us others in the telephone bureau —sixty yards down the street. However, here I am writing to you, safe and sound,on the little table by nrf bedside, with a half-burntcandle stuck in a Muratti cigarette box. Outside thenight is silent — my window is open and in thedraught the wax has trickled down on to the box and 224 THE INSPECTORS LETTER BOX then to the table — unheeded — for my thoughtshave sped far. To Gloucester days, and winter even-ings spent in the old brown-panelled, raftered room,with its pewter lustrous in the candlelight; and thebig, cheerful fire that played with our shadows on thewall, while we talked or read — and were — that peace has gone for a while, but thesedays will likewise pass, and we are young. It hasbeen good to be here in the presence of high courageand to have learned a little in our youth of the valuesof life and death. Leslie Buswell. c-»«U THE POETRY OF WAR We have had much talk to-night about the proba-ble effect of the war upon art and literature in differ-ent countries, and gradually the discussion shiftedfrom prophecy to history and from the abstract to theconcrete, and narrowed down to the question as to thebest poem the war has already produced. In Franceenough verse has been inspired by the war to fill afive-foot shelf of India-paper editions, but we allhad finally to admit that none of us was in a positionto choose the winner in such a vast arena. Amongthe short poems in English, some voted for RupertBrookess sonnet which begins: — If I should die, think only this of me: That theres some corner of a foreign fieldThat is forever England. But nothing that any of us has seen is more in-spired than the verses which poured from the heartand mind of a young American in the Foreign Legionhere in France. His name is Alan Seeger, and thepoem was written in, and named from, the region inwhic
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Keywords: ., boo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, booksubjectworldwar19141918
