[PHELPS] THE POETRY OF TODAY 495 
aristocracy of simplicity and of spirit. The poet in the new order of 
society will be the wealthy man. He who can live on a crust with 
his dreams will be the envied one. I do not believe I am talking in 
hyperbole and metaphor. In the days of the social collapse which will 
follow the war the poet among men will become the man of calm, 
honoured and envied; he will tramp the roads and walk the lanes of 
this fair Canada of ours and, with his crust of bread keeping physical 
existence together, he will live in the country of his dreams singing 
on our troubled earth the songs of that country. The rest of us, or 
_ those who shall be the rest of us, will be wistful for his happiness and 
be very ready to learn his songs, not because they are published in 
green and gold cloth and well advertized by a reputable publisher, but 
because they come from his heart and our heart desires his heart’s 
secret. In those days the only book that will be published will be that 
one which is well worth publishing in terms other than dollars and cents. 
It will not be announced by flaming wrappers and heralded by huge 
headlines in the journals of the multitudinous press. There will not 
be the means at hand for the heaping of that indignity even if the books 
which can tolerate it could be offered to the public. We shall be 
cultured again by adversity. In those days no books will be published 
but those published in plain boards and with careful printing because 
some man loves them for themselves and has a faith that some other 
man will love them too, deeming it a precious thing that there are yet 
in the strange world believing minds and singing hearts. 
Now in this new day that is coming,—indeed that is almost here— 
poetry will be esteemed very precious and much good poetry will be 
written. We arein the dawning of that day already. Weare about to 
re-create our poets by loving them. Authentic singers have been with 
us all along. We have not listened as we ought to have listened 
because we have been deaf. We have not seen as we ought to have 
seen because we have been blind. We have disparged our poets and 
in measure stultified them. One of our prominent editors said the 
other day in a letter: “T have to confess that in Canada we do not seem 
to think much of poetry.” But now we are turning to the poet. 
It is not without significance that a little volume called ‘‘Poems of 
To-day” should be issued and heralded in England and find a sale 
in Canada in a war year, a little volume not of clamorous popular 
verse which is nearly always welcomed and always is an anaesthetic 
to the spiritual aspirations of the crowd, but a volume of real poetry 
made out of life for life by poets who are the emancipators of our age 
and whom we have neglected to honour. 
The slight volume called ‘‘Poems of To-day’ indicates the 
presence of poets in our generation. But these new poets have many 
