From this Issue
Poem
From the magazine:Marching
Marching
My eyes catch ruddy necks
Sturdily pressed back.
All a red-brick moving glint.
Like flaming pendulums, hands
Swing across the khaki—
Mustard coloured khaki—
To the automatic feet.
We husband the ancient glory
In these bared necks and hands.
Not broke is the forge of Mars;
But a...
Sturdily pressed back.
All a red-brick moving glint.
Like flaming pendulums, hands
Swing across the khaki—
Mustard coloured khaki—
To the automatic feet.
We husband the ancient glory
In these bared necks and hands.
Not broke is the forge of Mars;
But a...

Table of Contents
- Edith Franklin Wyatt
Profiles from China
On the Land
Trench Poems
- Isaac Rosenberg
Modern Lamentations
- John Gould Fletcher
Editorial Comment
- Harriet Monroe
- Alice Corbin Henderson
Reviews
- Ezra Pound
Other Books of Verse
Special Editions and Translations
CONTRIBUTORS




