Three British Poets

Requiem for the Living

by C. Day Lewis

Selected Poems

by Stevie Smith
In the 1930s, Mr. Day Lewis used always to be grouped along with Auden, MacNeice, and Spender: the listing would end, slightly invidiously, “and Day Lewis,” He has always been a poet with a fine sense of structure, a various command of rhythms, but with a thinnish feeling for texture …

Two War Poets

The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen

edited with an Introduction Notes by C. Day Lewis, with a Memoir by Edmund Blunden

Selected Poems

by Keith Douglas, edited with an Introduction by Ted Hughes
The First World War was a great, prolonged, stupid battering war, won in the end by Haig and Foch (with the help of course of the American reinforcements) by a kind of animal toughness, insensitivity, and obstinacy. A beautiful landscape was smashed into mud. People dug themselves into long trenches, …

Three Poets

The Moving Target

by W.S. Merwin

Weather and Seasons

by Michael Hamburger
English critics have a taste, perhaps excessively developed in recent years, for concentrating on the local, the assignable qualities of any poet, what the poem can tell us about accent, physical pitch and range of voice, natural habitat and landscape, social class, political views, literary grouping, sexual tastes; the new …


Fables of Identity: Studies in Poetic Mythology

by Northrop Frye
The myth of Oedipus is about a man foredoomed by the fates to kill his father and marry his mother; his very efforts to escape from his destiny (though he does not take what seem to the modern mind obvious rational precautions, like avoiding, on the whole, killing elderly men …

Instead of An Elegy

Bullets blot out the Life-Time smile, Apollo of the picture-page, Blunt-faced young lion Caught by vile Death in an everlasting cage: And, no more young men in the world, The old men troop to honour him. The drums beat glum, Slight snow is …

Louis MacNeice

The Burning Perch

by Louis MacNeice

Collected Poems, 1925-1948

by Louis MacNeice
Two years ago Louis MacNeice kindly spared a summer Saturday to come up from London and talk to an assortment of English provincial poetry-fanciers at a bleak technical college in the Midlands. I took the chair for him. As often when one takes the chair, I found myself listening to …