R,CHARD MONCKTON MILNES was born in the year - OUDL Home

130 V. Sackville-WestThe winds had hushed at last as by command;The quiet sky above,With its grey clouds spread o'er the fallow land,Sat brooding like a dove.There was no motion in the air, no soundWithin the tree-tops stirred,Save when some last leaf, fluttering to the ground,Dropped like a wounded bird;Or when the swart rooks in a gathering crowdWith clamorous noises wheeled,Hovering awhile, then swooped with wranglings loudDown on the stubbly field.For now the big-thewed horses, toiling slowIn straining couples yoked,Patiently dragged the ploughshare to and froTill their wet haunches smoked.So, with an effort, the 'seventies have produced for us—what? Some pretty lyrical verse; a great deal of sententiousverse; nothing of any remarkable value; and ageneral sense of women scribbling, scribbling—whichperhaps in itself, apart from all question of merit, is themost encouraging sign of all. For as a modern poet wrote,It doesn't much matter what you do,So long as you do it, and mean it, too.But the trouble with life is, that it is exceedingly difficultto know what you do mean; and the trouble with poetry,and indeed with all forms of literature, is that it is exceedinglydifficult to express it even when you know it;and the trouble with women in the 'seventies was thatthey, all bewildered, knew less than anybody where theirproper place really was in relation to life; so who canblame them if they took refuge in prettinesses or insermons? Heaven knows, that we ourselves are only justbeginning to grow out of it.But in the few minutes that remain to me, may I whirlyou away—to America? I have taken liberties with