LITERATURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3335, 13 February 1918, Page 53

LITERATURE.

BOOK NOTICES. ".Songs of Love and Life." By Zora • Cross. New edition, with portrait and 15 new poems. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. (Cloth; 55.) We heartily welcome these beautiful poems, in their new and worthy dress, together with the'Very pleasing portrait of the author herself. The chief feature of this collection is a sequence of Sixty Love Sonnets. The technically correct work of these sonnets is in itself an achievement of no mean order; but when these same sonnets are aglow with the passionate fervour of a pure love, fearless in its expression, glowing with life and power, then, indeed, we may truly say that a. poet worthy of the name has risen among us, % and hasten to do her honour. The sonnets ape daring in their, frankness—some will no doubt think them too frank, since they are honestly addressed not only to the soul, but also, to the body of the lover-husband in whom her -whole passionate nature finds its completion and crown. To feel such love' is, we imagine, given to very few, while the power and the courage of expression are rarer still. We do not envy those who •can belittle such passion or its expression.' We give the first and the last of this noble sequence:— Upon a. dimpled dawn ft year ago, ■ - I sang a little lyric anxiously; And down, the world I sent its fragile plea, Moro out of courage than unconquered woe. You, listening all the ages for the flow Of that one song, caught its wild note, and, i free' And! full, sang back eifch melody to me My soul.awoke and made the morning glow. And now I love you and bring you here. Simple and pure, the songs of my own heart, And flowers of fancy from my wakening mind, ~~ /' ■ t "Which have been yours through all ( the wondrous years. Ah! Take them, Love, not for their little art, But for myself, which in them I havetwined. My mind and heart both love you utterly, And so each thought of mine is doubly yours, And all my .will about your.body pours Scents of my bloodi and fires that flow from me, Who has created me so young, so free, Eager to-day to close convention's doors, To-morrow to return and sweep the floors With my loose hair in blinding memory ? Dearest, yoix have, who gave my heart such love, It sang the marriage of our mingling blood: Sweeping us on in a supreme control To those vast stillnesses that.move above: And in the wonder of its mighty flood My mind drew God from your eternal soul. ,_ Zora Cross's minor poems are not • less fresh and delightful than her sonnets. They treat of many and varied subjects—- " The New Moon," "The Poppy," "The Fairies Fair," and many girlish hopes and fancies tending to the dawn' of that great passion which was to illuminate her whole soul. They are all fresh and charming,, full of pleasant 'imagery and picturesque phraseology, musically and cleverly rimed, compact of graceful conceits and poetic fancies. The following is only one among many charming examples of art and Nature combined : Late last night, when the whole world slept, Along to the garden ci dreams I crept, And I pulled! the bell of an old, old house Where the moon .dipped down like a little white mouse. I tapped the door and I tossed- my head: "Arc you in, little girl, are you in?" I said. And' while I waited and shook with cold Through tho door tripped' Me—just eight years oldi. y I looked so sweot with my pigtails down, Tied up with ribbon of dusky brown, With a dimpled chin full of childish charms, And my old] black dolly asleep in my arms, I sat Mo down when I saw myself, And I told little-tales'of a moon land elf. I laughed andi sang as I used to do When tho world was ruled by Littlo Boy Blue. Then up I danced with a toss and a twirl, And said:' "Now have you been a good, good girl? Have you had inuch spanking since you were Me ? And does it feel fine to bo twenty-three?" I kissed. Me then, and I said) farewell. For I've earned moro spanks than I dared to tell, And eight must never see Twenty-three As she peeps through the door of Memory.

"Comrades." By Maxim Gorky. London, New York, Toronto: Hodder and Stoughton. (4s, Is.) The appearance of a cheap edition of the greatest novel of one of the greatest, if not the greatest, of modern Russian novelists should prove helpful to a better understanding of the present position in that unfortunate country. "Comrades" is a long and somewhat complicated narrative, and although sad and often pessimistic in tone, is free from that sordid, depressing atmosphere which makes Maxim Gorky's shorter stories such painful reading. In "Comrades" there is a refreshing note of brotherhood and dawning hope which, in spite of adverse circumstances, gives the reader a distinct feeling as of the fresh dawn wind after a long night of oppression and darkness. The hero. Pavel Vlasov, is the son of a drunken wastrel, whose death, as he had lived, is a relief to all concerned, especially to his unfortunate wife, who has been the constant sufferer from his brutality. Her picture at this time shows us the gentle suffering woman of the people, worn out and aged before her time, "her heavy body broken down with- long years of toil- and the beatings of her husband . . -. her broad, oval face, wrinkled and puffy, lighted by a pair of dark eyes, troubled and melancholy as were those of most women of the village. . She was soft, melancholy, a,nd submissive." Altogether hopeless, and expectant of nothing in life but more blows, more misery, more despair. Yet this hopeless and apparently helpless creaturo becomes an active, stimulating power for good, and is the most beautiful character in the book, v When she finds that, instead of ill-treatment at tho hands of her son, and a continuation of the beatings and illtreatment .to which she has become accustomed, he treats her with tenderness and care, she blossoms like a flower, and, taking her cue from him, becomes an active and clever propagandist, spreading the literature of freedom to workmen, peasants, and artisans, without arousing suspicion, and gladly putting her lifoin danger in order to help her suffering countrymen. The story has no _ very distinct plot, but conveys an admirable picture of lower-class Russian life, amid peasants, artisans, factory hands, charcoalburners, etc.,- among whom Pavel and his "comrades" work secretly, spreading, the doctrines of brighter future, when all men shall be truly "comrades." The hopes_ of down-trodden Russia form the moving power in this book, which will well repay careful perusal.