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Updated: May 6, 2025
We know the significance of the names of Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Elroy Flecker on the other side of the sea, to the hope of England. And on this side of the sea the names of Joyce Kilmer, Alan Seeger and Victor Chapman have been called out to us for the poetic spell they cast upon America. All of them in their manful, poetic way.
James Elroy Flecker died in January 1915, having added at least one poem to the perfect anthology of English verse. Probably his work contains a good deal that is permanent besides this. But one is confident at least of the permanence of The Old Ships.
Squire no posthumous puffery the case of Crashaw life of Flecker his fondness for revision his friendship with Rupert Brooke his skill as a translator his austerity art for art's sake his "brightness" love of Greek mythology steady mental development his definition of the aim of poetry.
The Tennesseans, followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too, was there chagrined, maddened he too had joined his forces with the old Bishop. "Great Scott, old man, how you do drive! We've hedged on you me and the Colonel we've put up a thousand each that you'll win. We've cooked ourselves good and hard. Now drive from hell to breakfast next heat, and Travis is yo' meat!
"Ten to one," said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly on "the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed." "If that's so," shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, "if that's the way of it, we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play."
But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said: "Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man," he laughed, "you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?" "No," smiled the Bishop "an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years."
The night was far spent before Ulysses had ended his narrative, and with wishful glances he cast his eyes towards the eastern parts, which the sun had begun to flecker with his first red: for on the morrow Alcinous had promised that a bark should be in readiness to convoy him to Ithaca.
Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare Trombine had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse. Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col.
Had the Sun been shining on her obliquely, the shadows would have certainly thrown the great mountains into strong relief. The eye could then bury itself deep in the yawning chasms of the craters, and easily follow the cracks, streaks, and ridges which stripe, flecker, and bar the immensity of her plains. But for the present all relief was lost in the dazzling glare.
He was an artist in ornament, in decoration. Like the Queen in the Queen's Song, he would immortalize the ornament at the cost of slaying the soul. Of all recent poets of his kind, Flecker is the most successful. The classical tradition of poetry has been mocked and mutilated by many of the noisy young in the last few years.
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