Sullivan, the editor of the business magazine Duns Review in the 1930's was a devoted servant of enterprise and industrial enthusiast who arranged to have his poems published by his own magazine. From a selection which includes such unpromising whitmanisms as "Cement Mixer," "Radio Tube," and "The Excavation" I picked a short poem that I like and that seems to me represents a quaint antithesis of our current age of environmentalism:
Notwithstanding the quaint anachronism of Sullivan's later poetry (which, good public relations man that he was, he managed to scatter throughout the world's libraries) Sullivan managed in his earlier verse (1929) to capture some feeling that strikes me as close to the Celtic heart:
The things that matter are not things at all,
But ghosts who haunt the corridor of dreams,
Weaving a song we shall forget at waking;
They scurry down the dim familiar hall
When Dawn intrudes, and sober Fact blasphemes
And things that do not count demand the making.