Thus "A.
E." regretted the time that he spent on poetry, sighing,
He who might have wrought in flame
Only traced upon the foam.
[Footnote: _Epilogue_]
In the same spirit are Joyce Kilmer's words, written shortly before his
death in the trenches: "I see daily and nightly the expression of beauty
in action instead of words, and I find it more satisfactory." [Footnote:
Letter, May 7, 1918. See Joyce Kilmer's works, edited by Richard Le
Gallienne.] Also we have the decision of Francis Ledwidge, another poet
who died a soldier:
A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart,
Are greater than a poet's art,
And greater than a poet's fame
A little grave that has no name.
[Footnote: _Soliloquy_.]
Is not our idealization of poets who died in war a confession that we
ourselves believe that they chose the better part,--that they did well
to discard imitation of life for life itself?
It is not fair to force an answer to such a question till we have more
thoroughly canvassed poets' convictions on this matter. Do they all
admit the justice of Plato's characterization of poetry as a sport,
comparable to golf or tennis? In a few specific instances, poets have
taken this attitude toward their own verse, of course.
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