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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anthology of Massachusetts Poets
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Anthology of Massachusetts Poets
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: William Stanley Braithwaite
+
+Release Date: August 18, 2000 [eBook #2294]
+[Most recently updated: March 25, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Susan L. Farley
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS ***
+
+
+
+
+Anthology of Massachusetts Poets
+
+by
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
+
+
+    Contents
+
+    HOME BOUND—JOSEPH AUSLANDER
+    AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL—KATHERINE LEE BATES
+    YELLOW CLOVER—KATHERINE LEE BATES
+    THE RETURNING—SYLVESTER BAXTER
+    TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL—ERNEST BENSHIMOL
+    A BANQUET—ERNEST BENSHIMOL
+    SONG—GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+    THE WORLDS—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI
+    THE RIOT—GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+    HUNGER—GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+    EXIT GOD—GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+    ROUSSEAU—GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+    JOHN MASEFIELD—AMY BRIDGMAN
+    1620-1920—LE BARON RUSSEL BRIGGS
+    THE CROSS-CURRENT—ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
+    CANDLEMAS—ALICE BROWN
+    SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN—ALICE BROWN
+    BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE—ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT
+    FOUR FOUNTAINS. AFTER RESPIGHI—JESSICA CARR
+    IN THE TROLLEY CAR—RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY
+    IN IRISH RAIN—MARTHA HASKELL CLARK
+    CRETONNE TROPICS—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING
+    TO HILDA OF HER ROSES—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING
+    DANDELION—HILDA CONKLING
+    RED ROOSTER—HILDA CONKLING
+    VELVETS—HILDA CONKLING
+    THE MOODS—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS
+    HILL-FANTASY—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS
+    THE MIRAGE—NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
+    THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN—MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.
+    THE LILAC—WALTER PRICHARD EATON
+    GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE—CHARLES GIBSON
+    TO MUSIC—MAUDE GORDON-ROBY
+    THE VOICE IN THE SONG—MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON
+    HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE—CAROLINE HAZARD
+    REUBEN ROY—HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS
+    COUNTRY ROAD—MARIE LOUISE HERSEY
+    WREATHS—CAROLYN HILLMAN
+    MEMPHIS—GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN
+    SAINT COLUMBKILLE—E.J.V. HUIGINN
+    MISS DOANE—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+    FALLEN FENCES—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+    CROSS-CURRENTS—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+    THE FAREWELL—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+    SONG—OLIVER JENKINS
+    LOVE AUTUMNAL—OLIVER JENKINS
+    ECHOES—RUTH LAMBERT JONES
+    WAR PICTURES—RUTH LAMBERT JONES
+    AN OLD SONG—ARTHUR KETCHUM
+    ROADSIDE REST—ARTHUR KETCHUM
+    OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP—AGNES LEE
+    MOTHERHOOD—AGNES LEE
+    ESSEX—GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+    THE SONG OF THE WAVE—GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+    FRIMAIRE—AMY LOWELL
+    PATTERNS—AMY LOWELL
+    A BATHER—AMY LOWELL
+    LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS—DENNIS A. MCCARTHY
+    L’ENVOI—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
+    TO IMAGINATION—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
+    DRAGON—JEANETTE MARKS
+    GREEN GOLDEN DOOR—JEANETTE MARKS
+    SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD—JOHN CLAIR MINOT
+    THE SWORD OF ARTHUR—JOHN CLAIR MINOT
+    THE DIVINE FOREST—CHARLES R. MURPHY
+    MAGIC—EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
+    MICHAEL PAT—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN
+    SONG—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN
+    IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR
+    EVENSONG—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR
+    THE PROPHET—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
+    HARVEST-MOON: 1914—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
+    HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM—LILLA CABOT PERRY
+    THREE QUATRAINS—LILLA CABOT PERRY
+    A VALENTINE UNSENT—MARGARET PERRY
+    SHIPBUILDERS—ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER
+    UNFADING PICTURES—LOUELLA C. POOLE
+    WITH WAVES AND WINGS—CHARLOTTE PORTER
+    BLUEBERRIES—FRANK PRENTICE RAND
+    NOCTURNE—WILLIAM ROSCOIE THAYER
+    ENVOI—WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER
+    THERE WHERE THE SEA—MARIE TUDOR
+    MARRIAGE—MARIE TUDOR
+    PITY—HAROLD VINAL
+    A ROSE TO THE LIVING—NIXON WATERMAN
+    THE STORM—G.O. WARREN
+    WHERE THEY SLEEP—G.O. WARREN
+    BEAUTY—G.O. WARREN
+    COMRADES—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY
+    THE FLIGHT—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY
+
+
+
+
+HOME-BOUND
+
+
+The moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips,
+The water makes a quietness of sound;
+Night is an anchoring of many ships
+Home-bound.
+
+There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs
+Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin
+The silence into nets, and tenanters
+Move softly in.
+
+I step on shadows riding through the grass,
+And feel the night lean cool against my face;
+And challenged by the sentinel of space,
+I pass.
+
+JOSEPH AUSLANDER
+
+
+
+
+AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL
+
+
+O beautiful for spacious skies,
+For amber waves of grain,
+For purple mountain majesties
+Above the fruited plain!
+America! America!
+God shed His grace on thee
+And crown thy good with brotherhood
+From sea to shining sea!
+
+O beautiful for pilgrim feet,
+Those stern, impassioned stress
+A thoroughfare for freedom beat
+Across the wilderness!
+America! America!
+God mend thine every flaw,
+Confirm thy soul in self-control,
+Thy liberty in law!
+
+O beautiful for heroes proved
+In liberating strife
+Who more than self their country loved,
+And mercy more than life!
+America! America!
+May God thy gold refine,
+Till all success be nobleness,
+And every gain divine.
+
+O beautiful for patriot dream
+That sees beyond the years
+Thine alabaster cities gleam
+Undimmed by human tears!
+America! America!
+God shed His grace on thee
+And crown thy good with brotherhood
+From sea to shining sea!
+
+KATHERINE LEE BATES
+
+
+
+
+YELLOW CLOVER
+
+
+Must I, who walk alone,
+come on it still,
+This Puck of plants
+The wise would do away with,
+The sunshine slants
+To play with,
+Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover,
+Which once in Parting for a time
+That then seemed long,
+Ere time for you was over,
+We sealed our own?
+Do you remember yet,
+O Soul beyond the stars,
+Beyond the uttermost dim bars
+Of space,
+Dear Soul, who found earth sweet,
+Remember by love’s grace,
+In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song,
+How suddenly we halted in our climb,
+Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill,
+Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet,
+And gave them as a token
+Each to Each,
+In lieu of speech,
+In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken,
+Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet
+With a strange dew of tears?
+
+So it began,
+This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover,
+To be our tenderest language. All the years
+It lent a new zest to the summer hours,
+As each of us went scheming to surprise
+The other with our homely, laureate flowers.
+Sonnets and odes
+Fringing our daily roads.
+Can amaranth and asphodel
+Bring merrier laughter to your eyes?
+Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes,
+Keep any wistful consciousness of earth,
+Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love,
+Simplicities of mirth,
+Must follow them above
+With touches of vague homesickness that pass
+Like shadows of swift birds across the grass.
+Beneath some foreign arch of sky,
+How many a time the rover
+You or I,
+For life oft sundered look from look,
+And voice from voice, the transient dearth
+Schooling my soul to brook
+This distance that no messages may span,
+Would chance
+Upon our wilding by a lonely well,
+Or drowsy watermill,
+Or swaying to the chime of convent bell,
+Or where the nightingales of old romance
+With tragical contraltos fill
+Dim solitudes of infinite desire;
+And once I joyed to meet
+Our peasant gadabout
+A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat,
+Twinkling a saucy eye
+As potentates paced by.
+
+Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame
+From friendship’s altar fire!
+How proudly we would pluck and tame
+The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay!
+How swiftly they were sent
+Far, far away
+On journeys wide,
+By sea and continent,
+Green miles and blue leagues over,
+From each of us to each,
+That so our hearts might reach,
+And touch within the yellow clover,
+Love’s letter to be glad about
+Like sunshine when it came!
+
+My sorrow asks no healing; it is love;
+Let love then make me brave
+To bear the keen hurts of
+This careless summertide,
+Ay, of our own poor flower,
+Changed with our fatal hour,
+For all its sunshine vanished when you died;
+Only white clover blossoms on your grave.
+
+KATHERINE LEE BATES
+
+
+
+
+THE RETURNING
+
+
+We long for her, we yearn for her—
+Yes, ardently we yearn
+For her return.
+Recalling those beloved days
+(Days intimate with ways
+Of friends so near to us
+And life so dear to us),
+We yearn unspeakably for her return.
+
+And come she must… Yet while we trust
+We soon may see the passing of this agony
+Which makes intrusive years still seem
+A fearsome dream,
+We know that when she comes
+She really comes not back again.
+
+She’ll come in other guise
+And under fairer skies—
+And yet to bitter pain!
+
+That day she went away
+Our homes with laughing youth were filled.
+Where then was happiness
+Is now distress,
+The laughter stilled;
+For when she left
+Youth followed her—
+We stay bereft.
+
+So all our golden joy
+For what she brings
+Must carry gray alloy:
+The sorrow that she can not lay,
+The mysery that she can not stay—
+While all the gladsome songs she sings
+Must bear for undertones
+Old sighs and echoed moans.
+
+As they who go away
+In flush of youth
+May come quite worn and gray
+And bringing naught but ruth—
+So, when the strife shall cease,
+And when she comes at last,
+When all the armies vast
+Shall at her feet
+Kneel down to greet
+Thrice welcome Peace,
+This world will be so changed
+(So many dear ones dead,
+So many friends estranged,
+So many blessings fled,
+So many wonted ways forever barred,
+So many coming days forever marred)
+That then
+She truly comes not back again—
+She, the Peace we knew.
+
+Yet how we long for her!
+How ardently we yearn
+For her return!
+
+SYLVESTER BAXTER
+
+
+
+
+TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL
+
+
+I.
+
+YOUTH
+
+I love to watch the world from here, for all
+The numberless living portraits that are drawn
+Upon the mind. Far over is the sea,
+Fronting the sand, a few great yellow dunes,
+A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and green,
+With brackish gullies wandering in between,
+All this from the hill.
+And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars,
+Sentinels over the marsh, and bright with the sun
+A field of daises wandering in the wind
+As though a hidden serpent glided through,
+A broken wall, a new-plowed field, and then
+The dusty road and the abodes of men
+Surrounding the hill.
+How small the enclosure is wherein there lives
+Each phase and passion of life, the distant sail
+Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea,
+From that far place to where in state the turf
+Raises a throne for me upon the hill,
+Each little love and lust of a living thing
+Can thus be compassed in a rainbow ring
+And seen from the hill.
+
+II.
+
+AGE
+
+Why did I build my cottage on a hill
+Facing the sea?
+Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope
+Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope,
+Surging and sweeping,
+laughing and leaping,
+Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore,
+Rustling the sands that know my step no more,
+I should have found a valley, deep and still,
+To shelter me.
+
+There flows the river, and it seems asleep
+So far away,
+Yet I remember whip of wave and roar
+Of wind that rose and smote against the oar,
+Smote and retreated,
+Proud but defeated,
+While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine,
+Drawing on wet and heavy-straining line
+The great cod quivering from the deep
+As counterplay.
+
+What is the solace of these hills and vales
+That rise and fall?
+What is there glorious in the greenwood glen,
+Or twittering thrush or wing of darting wren?
+Give me the gusty,
+Raucous and rusty
+Call of the sea gull in the echoing sky,
+The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die,
+Give me the life that follows the bending sails,
+Or none at all!
+
+ERNEST BENSHIMOL
+
+
+
+
+A BANQUET
+ONE MEMORY FROM SOCRATES
+
+
+After the song the love, and after the love the play,
+Flute girl and pretty boy blowing
+Bubbles of sparkling
+Wine into darkling
+Beards of a former austerity, stern even now, but fast growing
+Foolish, with less of a stately
+Reserve that held them sedately.
+Oh Zeus, what a sight! With the wine dripping off it,
+The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet.
+
+After the feast the night, and after the night the day,
+Fool and philosopher stirring
+With the day dawning,
+Stretching and yawning,
+While in each wine-throbbing, desolate brain is the wheeling and whirring
+Of thousands of bats, that the slaking
+Of throats will not hinder from aching,
+No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting,
+But water at morning is quench for the thirsting!
+
+ERNEST BENSHIMOL
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+Out of one heart the birds and I together,
+Earth hushed in twilight,
+Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver,
+Gemmed with the sky-light,
+Under the great wet star
+Shaking with light, we jar
+Lute-voiced the silence with intervaled music.
+
+While under the margined world the slow sun lingers,
+Flaming earth’s portal,
+Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers—
+Earth is immortal!
+While the frail beauty dies.
+Dream in the dreamer’s eyes,
+All the good gladness turns praise for the singers.
+
+Hark, ’tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it;
+Northern, gigantic,—
+Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam
+Down the Atlantic;
+Leaves from the autumn’s store
+Shrill at my desert door,
+They and I out of one heart that is grieving.
+
+GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+
+
+
+
+THE WORLDS
+
+
+I saw an idler on a summer day
+Piping with Iris by a dancing brook;
+And all his world was rife with Pleasures gay,
+And languid Follies smiled from every nook.
+
+I saw an artist in a world of dreams,
+His rainbow rising from his radiant task,
+To throw its magic prism beams
+O’er Fancy’s changeful masque and counter-masque.
+
+I saw Toil—stooping underneath a world
+Whereon his foster-brothers lighter tread,
+His skyward pinions ever closer furled
+Before the grim necessity of bread!
+
+I saw a sinner working hard to be
+Worthy his death-wage from the mint of time;
+I saw a sailor, unto whom the sea
+Was hearth and hope and love and wedding-chime.
+
+I saw a mother living in her child—
+I saw a saint among his fellow men—
+Brave soldiery before my eyes defiled
+And solemn-hearted scholars—Sudden then
+
+I cried: “The stars are no less neighborly
+In their ethereal remoteness swung,
+Than these near human orbits wherein we
+Live out our lives and speak our chosen tongue!
+
+“Love seek through all—less there be one
+Least soul unlit within the night—
+And over all, the selfsame sun
+Give each creation light!”
+
+MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI
+
+
+
+
+THE RIOT
+
+
+You may think my life is quiet.
+I find it full of change,
+An ever-varied diet,
+As piquant as ’tis strange.
+
+Wild thoughts are always flying,
+Like sparks across my brain,
+Now flashing out, now dying,
+To kindle soon again.
+
+Fine fancies set me thrilling,
+And subtle monsters creep
+Before my sight unwilling:
+They even haunt my sleep.
+
+One broad, perpetual riot
+Enfolds me night and day.
+You think my life is quiet?
+You don’t know what you say.
+
+GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+
+
+
+
+HUNGER
+
+
+I’ve been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint,
+Their bend of weary knees and their contortions long and faint,
+And the endless pricks of conscience, like a hundred thousand pins,
+A real perpetual penance for imaginary sins.
+
+I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell,
+Where you tell and tell your beads because you’ve nothing else to tell,
+Where the crimson joy of flesh, with all its wild fantastic tricks,
+Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix.
+
+I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is torn
+With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn.
+There are moments when I would untread the paths that I have trod.
+I’m a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God.
+
+GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+
+
+
+
+EXIT GOD
+
+
+Of old our father’s God was real,
+Something they almost saw,
+Which kept them to a stern ideal
+And scourged them into awe.
+
+They walked the narrow path of right
+Most vigilantly well,
+Because they feared eternal night
+And boiling depths of Hell.
+
+Now Hell has wholly boiled away
+And God become a shade.
+There is no place for him to stay
+In all the world He made.
+
+The followers of William James
+Still let the Lord exist,
+And call Him by imposing names,
+A venerable list.
+
+But nerve and muscle only count,
+Gray matter of the brain,
+And an astonishing amount
+Of inconvenient pain.
+
+I sometimes wish that God were back
+In this dark world and wide;
+For though some virtues He might lack,
+He had his pleasant side.
+
+GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+
+
+
+
+ROUSSEAU
+
+
+That odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau,
+Declared himself unique.
+How men persist in doing so,
+Puzzles me more than Greek.
+
+The sins that tarnish whore and thief
+Beset me every day.
+My most ethereal belief
+Inhabits common clay.
+
+GAMALIEL BRADFORD
+
+
+
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+
+I
+
+MASEFIELD (HIMSELF)
+
+God said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay:
+“Alone, ’twont do; composite, would I make
+This man-child rare; ’twere well, methinks, to take
+A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh
+A few of Shelley’s ashes; Bunyan may
+Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son’s sake,
+I’ll visit Avalon; then, let me slake
+The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay.
+
+A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear;
+Offset it with tobacco! Next, I’ll find
+Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant’s mind;
+His mother’s heart now let me breathe upon;
+When west winds blow, I’ll whisper in her ear:
+“Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!”
+
+II
+
+HIS PORTRAIT
+
+A Man of Sorrows! with such haunted eyes,
+I trow, the Master looked across the lake,—
+Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make
+Of Him the world’s historic sacrifice;
+Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise;
+Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake
+And wander yet; all, weary men who brake
+
+Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise:
+Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew;
+Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all,
+In Masefield’s eyes you lodge; and to the wall
+I turn you,—hand a-tremble,—lest you make
+Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too.
+Wherein the sad world’s sadder for your sake.
+
+III
+
+HIS “DAUBER”
+
+O Masefield’s “Dauber!” You, who being dead,
+Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul,
+Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll
+Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed,
+Serenely rest, assured that who has read
+What you would fain have pictured of the Pole
+Would gladly match your part against the whole
+Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred.
+
+And more than this: if you, indeed, are his,
+Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours;
+For, marked and credited by what endures,
+Were it the only thing, which bears his name,
+(O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!)
+“The Dauber” has brought Masefield to his fame.
+
+IV
+
+HIS “GALLIPOLI”
+
+“Small wonder,” speaks my pensive self, “that he
+Whose passion ’tis to sing of men who fail,—
+(Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail)
+Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli
+
+His fervent text, for could there be
+A costlier failure in Earth’s shuddering tale?
+Think of heroic Sulva’s bloody swale;
+Of Anzac’s tortured thirst and agony!”
+But as I read, protesting voices cry: “Not we,
+Not we, who fell among the daffodils,
+Who conquered Death among those blistered hills,
+And found our glory after mortal pain;
+Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli;
+The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!”
+
+V
+
+HIS MEAD
+
+So, Masefield, have your royal words once more
+Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due;
+Your great elegiac, tragically true,
+Must leave all Britain prouder than before;
+And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore,
+And all that anguished consciences must rue,
+One arrowed gladness surely pierces through
+From London’s centre to Canadian shore:
+
+When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli,
+When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke
+And all the splendid Youth her error took
+As hostage from the fields of daffodils,
+Let this a present, living solace be:
+You are not sleeping in those cruel hills!
+
+AMY BRIDGEMAN
+
+
+
+
+1620-1920
+
+
+Before him rolls the dark, relentless ocean;
+Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands;
+Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion
+The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands;
+
+“God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us
+Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and sword;
+Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us
+To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord;
+
+“God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us,
+A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea;
+God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o’er us;
+God, who hast set our children’s children free,
+
+“Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish;
+Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure:
+Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;
+Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure.”
+
+
+Face to the Indian arrows.
+Face to the Prussian guns,
+From then till now the Pilgrim’s vow
+Has held the Pilgrim’s sons.
+
+He braved the red man’s ambush,
+He loosed the black man’s chain;
+His spirit broke King George’s yoke
+And the battleships of Spain.
+
+He crossed the seething ocean;
+He dared the death-strewn track;
+He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel
+And hurled the tyrant back.
+
+For the voice of the lonely Pilgrim
+Who knelt upon the strand
+A people hears three hundred years
+In the conscience of the land.
+
+
+Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage,
+Conscience, all hail!
+Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims,
+Thou shalt prevail.
+Look how the empires rise and fall!
+Athens robed in her learning and beauty,
+Rome in her royal lust for power—
+Each has flourished for her little hour,
+Risen and fallen and ceased to be.
+What of her by the Western Sea,
+Born and bred as the child of Duty,
+Sternest of them all?
+She it is and she alone
+Who built on faith as her corner stone;
+Of all the nations none but she
+Knew that the truth shall make us free.
+Daughter of Courage, mother of heros,
+Freedom divine.
+Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim,
+Still shalt thou shine.
+
+
+Yet even as we in our pride rejoice,
+Hark to the prophet’s warning voice:
+“The Pilgrim’s thrift is vanished
+And the Pilgrim’s faith is dead,
+And the Pilgrim’s God is banished,
+And Mammon reigns in his stead;
+And work is damned as an evil,
+And men and women cry,
+In their restless haste, ‘Let us spend and waste,
+And live; for to-morrow we die.’
+
+“And law is trampled under;
+And the nations stand aghast,
+As they hear the distant thunder
+Of the storm that marches fast;
+And we,—whose ocean borders
+Shut off the sound and the sight,
+We will wait for marching orders;
+The world has seen us fight;
+We have earned our days of revel;
+‘On with the dance’! we cry.
+It is pain to think; we will eat and drink!
+And live; for to-morrow we die.”
+
+“We have laughed in the eyes of danger;
+We have given our bravest and best;
+We have succored the starving stranger;
+Others shall heed the rest.’
+And the revel never ceases;
+And the nations hold their breath;
+And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels,
+To a carnival of death.
+
+“Slaves of sloth and the senses,
+Clippers of Freedom’s wings,
+Come back to the Pilgrim’s Army
+And fight for the King of Kings;
+Come back to the Pilgrim’s conscience;
+Be born in the nation’s birth;
+And strive again as simple men
+For the freedom of the earth.
+Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish,
+Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure:
+Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;
+Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure.”
+
+
+Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages,
+When the wide earth is racked with war and crime,
+Founded forever on the Rock of Ages,
+Beaten in vain by surging seas of time,
+
+Even as the shallop on the breakers riding,
+Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore,
+Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding,
+Hold thou thy children free forever more.
+
+
+And when we sail as Pilgrims’ sons and daughters
+The spirit’s Mayflower into seas unknown,
+Driving across the waste of wintry waters
+The voyage every soul shall make alone,
+
+The Pilgrim’s faith, the Pilgrim’s courage grant us;
+Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone.
+We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us.
+The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on!
+
+LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS
+
+
+
+
+THE CROSS-CURRENT
+
+
+Through twelve stout generations
+New England blood I boast;
+The stubborn pastures bred them,
+The grim, uncordial coast,
+
+Sedate and proud old cities,—
+Loved well enough by me,
+Then how should I be yearning
+To scour the earth and sea.
+
+Each of my Yankee forbears
+Wed a New England mate:
+They dwelt and did and died here,
+Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.
+
+My clan endured their kindred;
+But foreigners they loathed,
+And wandering folk, and minstrels,
+And gypsies motley-clothed.
+
+Then why do patches please me,
+Fantastic, wild array?
+Why have I vagrant fancies
+For lads from far away.
+
+My folk were godly Churchmen,—
+Or paced in Elders’ weeds;
+But all were grave and pious
+And hated heathen creeds.
+
+Then why are Thor and Wotan
+To dread forces still?
+Why does my heart go questing
+For Pan beyond the hill?
+
+My people clutched at freedom.—
+Though others’ wills they chained,—
+But made the Law and kept it,—
+And Beauty, they restrained.
+
+Then why am I a rebel
+To laws of rule and square?
+Why would I dream and dally,
+Or, reckless, do and dare?
+
+O righteous, solemn Grandsires,
+O dames, correct and mild,
+Who bred me of your virtues!
+Whence comes this changing child?—
+
+The thirteenth generation,—
+Unlucky number this!—
+My grandma loved a Pirate,
+And all my faults are his!
+
+A gallant, ruffled rover,
+With beauty-loving eye,
+He swept Colonial waters
+Of coarser, bloodier fry.
+
+He waved his hat to danger,
+At Law he shook his fist.
+Ah, merrily he plundered,
+He sang and fought and kissed!
+
+Though none have found his treasure,
+And none his part would take,—
+I bless that thirteenth lady
+Who chose him for my sake!
+
+ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
+
+
+
+
+CANDLEMAS
+
+
+O hearken, all ye little weeds
+That lie beneath the snow,
+(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)
+The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
+A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
+Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds
+Before ye rise and blow.
+
+O furry living things, adream
+On winter’s drowsy breast,
+(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)
+Arise and follow where a gleam
+Of wizard gold unbinds the stream,
+And all the woodland windings seem
+With sweet expectance blest.
+
+My birds, come back! the hollow sky
+Is weary for your note.
+(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)
+Ere May’s soft minions hereward fly,
+Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny
+The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,
+The tawny, shining coat!
+
+ALICE BROWN
+
+
+
+
+SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN
+
+
+O swift forerunners, rosy with the race!
+Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest
+Behind your blushing banners in the sky,
+Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground,
+How do ye strain on forward-bending foot,
+Each to be first in heralding of joy!
+
+With silence sandalled, so they weave their way,
+And so they stand, with silence panoplied,
+Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame,
+Their solemn invocation to the light.
+
+O changeless guardians! O ye wizard first!
+What strenuous philter feeds your potency.
+That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness,
+Ready to learn of all and utter naught?
+What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite
+To odorous hot lendings of the heart?
+What wind-but all the winds are yet afar,
+And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites,
+That fleet before them, like their elfin locks,
+Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet
+To pluck the robe of patient majesty.
+
+Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep,
+So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones.
+Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait,
+Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm.
+And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn,
+
+And all night thrills with memory and desire,
+Searching in what has been for what shall be:
+The marvel of the ne’er familiar day,
+Sacred investiture of life renewed,
+The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame.
+Low in the valley lies the conquered rout
+Of man’s poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned
+Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled,
+Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main.
+And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch,
+One great good limpid world—so still, so still!
+For no sound echoes from its crystal curve
+Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird
+Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn,
+And has no heart to finish, for the awe
+And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn.
+
+Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars!
+Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face!
+Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad!
+Mighty libation to the Unknown God!
+Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst
+And little leaves drink sweet delirium!
+Being and breath and potion! living soul
+And all-informing heart of all that lives!
+How can we magnify thine awful name
+Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light!
+An exhalation from far sky retreats,
+It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create,
+Suffusing all the dusky web of night.
+But one lone corner it invades not yet,
+Where low above a black and rimy crag
+Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield,
+The holy, useless shield of long-past wars,
+Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.
+
+But lo! the east,—let none forget the east,
+Pathway ordained of old where He should tread.
+Through some sweet magic common in the skies,
+The rosy banners are with saffron tinct;
+The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire,
+And led by silence more majestical
+Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes!
+He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise,
+And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.
+
+ALICE BROWN
+
+
+
+
+BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE
+
+
+Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust.
+Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must
+Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that
+open the budding to-morrow.
+Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the
+Gods have not broken to borrow—
+Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must
+Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow
+The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust.
+
+ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT
+
+
+
+
+FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI
+
+
+Fresh mists of Roman dawn;
+For water search the cattle;
+Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn
+Above fountain Giulia’s prattle.
+
+Triton, joyous and loud
+Of Naiads summons troops;
+A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd,
+Dancing, pursuing groups.
+
+At high noon the trumpets peal,
+Neptune’s chariot passes by;
+Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal
+Then trumpets’ echoes sigh.
+
+Tolling bell and sunset,
+Twittering birds and calm;
+Medici’s fountain, shimmering net,
+Into the night brings balm.
+
+JESSICA CARR
+
+
+
+
+IN THE TROLLEY CAR
+
+
+The swart Italian in the trolley car,
+Hoarded his children in his arms and breast;
+The mother, all unheeding, sat afar,
+Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed.
+
+One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee,
+Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek,
+She turned away, and would not hear his plea,
+She turned away, and would not even speak.
+
+With trembling lips the child crept back again
+To the warm shelter of his father’s breast;
+We looked indignant pity, for till then
+We thought that mother-love bore every test.
+
+We rose to go, the father-mother said,
+In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet
+The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead,
+She will be alla right, when she forget.”
+
+When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet
+Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack!
+Until her soul shall wake, but not forget,
+When the warm tides of love come surging back.
+
+RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY
+
+
+
+
+IN IRISH RAIN
+
+
+The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,
+They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;
+But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again
+To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.
+
+The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills
+The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;
+That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,
+And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.
+
+And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,
+Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;
+The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,
+The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!
+
+They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,
+But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!
+And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day
+With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.
+
+There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,
+But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,
+But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again
+To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.
+
+MARTHA HASKELL CLARK
+
+
+
+
+CRETONNE TROPICS
+
+
+The cretonne in your willow chair
+Shows through a zone of rosy air,
+A tree of parrots, agate-eyed,
+With blue-green crests and plumes of pride
+And beaks most formidably curved.
+I hear the river, silver-nerved,
+To their shrill protests make reply,
+And the palm forest stir and sigh.
+
+Curious, the spell that colors cast,
+Binding the fancy coweb-fast,
+And you would smile if you could know
+I like your cretonne parrots so!
+But I have seen them sail toward night
+Superbly homeward, the last light
+Lifting them like a purple sea
+Scorned and made use of arrogantly;
+And I have heard them cry aloud
+From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud;
+And I brought home a brilliant feather,
+Lost like a flake of sunset weather.
+
+Here in the north the sea is white
+And mother-of-pearl in morning light,
+Quite lovely, but there is a glare
+That daunts me.
+
+Now the willow chair
+Suggests a more perplexing sea,
+Till my heart aches with memory
+And parrots dye the air around,
+And I forget the pallid Sound.
+
+GRACE HAZARD
+
+
+
+
+TO HILDA OF HER ROSES
+
+
+Enough has been said about roses
+To fill thirty thick volumes;
+There are as many songs about roses
+As there are roses in the world
+That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon…
+
+It is a pity your roses
+Are too late for Omar…
+It is a pity Keats has gone…
+
+Yet there must be something left to say
+Of flowers like these!
+Adventurers,
+They pushed their way
+Through dewy tunnels of the June night
+Now they confer….
+A little tremulous….
+Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning
+
+If Herrick would tiptoe back…
+If Blake were to look this way
+Ledwidge, even!
+
+GRACE HAZARD CONKLING
+
+
+
+
+DANDELION
+
+
+O Little soldier with the golden helmet,
+What are you guarding on my lawn?
+You with your green gun
+And your yellow beard,
+Why do you stand so stiff?
+There is only the grass to fight!
+
+HILDA CONKLING
+
+
+
+
+RED ROOSTER
+
+
+Red rooster in your gray coop,
+O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue,
+Yellow and black,
+You have a comb gay as a parade
+On your head:
+You have pearl trinkets
+On your feet:
+The short feathers smooth along your back
+Are the dark color of wet rocks,
+Or the rippled green of ships
+When I look at their sides through water.
+I don’t know how you happened to be made
+So proud, so foolish,
+Wearing your coat of many colors,
+Shouting all day long your crooked words,
+Loud… sharp… not beautiful!
+
+HILDA CONKLING
+
+
+
+
+VELVETS
+(BY A BED OF PANSIES)
+
+
+This pansy has a thinking face
+Like the yellow moon.
+This one has a face with white blots;
+I call him the clown.
+Here goes one down the grass
+With a pretty look of plumpness;
+She is a little girl going to school
+With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.
+Her name is Sue.
+I like this one, in a bonnet,
+Waiting,
+Her eyes are so deep!
+But these on the other side,
+These that wear purple and blue,
+They are the Velvets,
+The king with his cloak,
+The queen with her gown,
+The prince with his feather.
+These are dark and quiet
+And stay alone.
+I know you, Velvets,
+Color of Dark,
+Like the pine-tree on the hill
+When stars shine!
+
+HILDA CONKLING
+
+
+
+
+THE MOODS
+
+
+The Moods have laid their hands across my hair:
+The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart;
+My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright,
+But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart
+Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,—
+A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book
+Of little verses, or a dancing child.
+My heart turns crying from the rose and book,
+My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon,
+And weeps with useless sorrow for the child.
+The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair,
+And made my heart too wise, that was a child.
+
+Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame:
+I shall desire all things that may not be:
+The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men,
+All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,—
+Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford,
+And vagrant voices on a darkened plain,
+And holy things, and outcast things, and things,
+Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain.
+
+My pity and my joy are grown alike.
+I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart.
+The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair:
+The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart.
+
+FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS
+
+
+
+
+HILL-FANTASY
+
+
+Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One,
+High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail.
+Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the sun,
+A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale.
+
+
+I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering;
+No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew.
+Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing,
+Peakèd ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue.
+
+Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds
+Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool!
+Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds,
+Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool!
+
+He had berries ’twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal.,
+Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh,
+How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to chase and steal
+Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low!
+
+I said “Good-day, Thou!” He said, “Good-day, Thou!”
+Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back,
+He said, “Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now.
+While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack.”
+
+Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
+Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn.
+Broad into my face laughed that hornèd Thing so naughtily.
+Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr’s bairn!
+
+So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look!
+Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So!
+Soon ’twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost brook.
+Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!”
+
+Brown One! Hoofèd One! Beat time to keep me straight.
+Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear.
+Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold thy breath, for—wait!
+Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe, oh, hear!
+
+Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us?
+Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow?
+Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous.
+Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow.
+
+Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe, Now?
+Chipmunk chatt’ring in the beech, rabbit in the brake?
+Furry arm around my neck: “Oh, Thou art a brave one, Thou!”
+Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache!
+
+Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous,
+Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade,
+Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us,
+Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid!
+
+Brown One, Hoofèd One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou!
+Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail!
+Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were on my brow
+Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail?
+
+Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand-touch,
+Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek!
+“Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too much.
+I could never find thee horns, though day-long I seek.
+
+“Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one.
+Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear.
+Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun!
+Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear!
+
+“Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears thee!
+Take the pipe and go thy ways,—quick now, for the sun
+Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea.
+Take the pipe, and oh-one kiss! then run, run, run! run!”
+
+Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn,
+All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray.
+O thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr’s bairn?
+I am lost and all alone, and down drops the day.
+
+
+I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering
+There I got this Pipe o’ dreams. Strange, when I blow,
+Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling.
+Is it only sky-music, earth-music low?
+
+FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS
+
+
+
+
+THE MIRAGE
+
+
+Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs,
+Where stand fishermen’s cottages:
+I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye.
+But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt,
+Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible,
+And those sordid dwellings have become
+The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings.
+
+NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
+
+
+
+
+THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN
+
+
+A road goes up a pleasant hill,
+And a little house looks down:
+Ah! but I see the roadway still
+And the day I left the town.
+
+The day I left my father’s home,
+It’s many a year ago,
+And a heart and hope were brave to roam
+the long, long road I know.
+
+The long, long road by hill and plain,
+It’s tired the heart might be:
+But hope stayed bright in sun or rain,
+And a Voice that called to me.
+
+A Voice that called me over the hill
+And out of the little town:
+Ah! but I see the roadway still.
+And the good house looking down.
+
+The house that spake me never a No!
+As I started brave away,
+But said with a blessing, Go!
+And followed me every day.
+
+It followed me down the road of years,
+For a father’s heart is true,
+And joy is sweet in a mother’s tears
+For the deeds her child may do.
+
+The poor little deeds, all powerless
+For the Kingdom of God would be,
+Save in His mercy will He bless
+The road that goes with me:
+
+The road that left a pleasant hill,
+Where a little house looks down:
+Ah! but I bless the roadway still,
+And the land beyond the town.
+
+MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.
+
+
+
+
+THE LILAC
+
+
+The scent of lilac in the air
+Hath made him drag his steps and pause
+Whence comes this scent within the Square,
+Where endless dusty traffic roars?
+A push-cart stands beside the curb,
+With fragrant blossoms laden high;
+Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb
+His sudden reverie!
+
+He sees us not, nor heeds the din
+Of clanging car and scuffling throng;
+His eyes see fairer sights within,
+And memory hears the robin’s song
+As once it trilled against the day,
+And shook his slumber in a room
+Where drifted with the breath of May
+The lilac’s sweet perfume.
+
+The heart of boyhood in him stirs;
+The wonder of the morning skies,
+Of sunset gold behind the firs,
+Is kindled in his dreaming eyes:
+How far off is this sordid place,
+As turning from our sight away
+He crushes to his hungry face
+A purple lilac spray.
+
+WALTER PRICHARD EATON
+
+
+
+
+GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE
+
+
+God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love,
+Though man in opposition saith me nay,
+And taketh from my heart its life to-day,
+As through the valley of the world I rove.
+Still unaccompanied, within the grove
+That doth enamored beings hold at play,
+My spirit must pursue its lonely way,
+And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above.
+Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire
+To have that which mankind may not possess,
+And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire,
+And live in one perpetual distress?
+Some evil power must such love inspire,
+And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!
+
+CHARLES GIBSON
+
+
+
+
+TO MUSIC
+
+
+“Music, the language, the atmosphere of the Soul.”
+
+Fly back where Melodies like lilies grow,
+My weary heart is bending low;
+
+Fly higher yet to joyful realms above,
+Where holy Angels dwell in love.
+
+Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng
+And bring to me their Glory-song:
+
+Ah Music, thou and I above the World
+May dwell where heaven with shining song is pearled!
+
+While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll
+I’ll love thee, Music, language of my soul!
+
+Music-lark from on high, song that doth fly,
+Spark of the sky!
+
+MAUDE GORDON-ROBY
+
+
+
+
+THE VOICE IN THE SONG
+
+
+High in the apple bough jauntily swinging,
+Hid by the branches in bridal array,
+Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing,
+Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay.
+“Sweet, sweet, my sweet,
+Hear I entreat!
+Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather,
+Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest!
+Have no fear! Trust me, dear!
+Sunshine of May that will gild every day
+Pledge I to thee if thou’lt harken to me.”
+
+Lo! in the light thro’ the gay branches streaming,
+Quivering in answer to all the bird sings,
+Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gleaming,
+Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings.
+“Dear, on thy breast
+Earth yields its best!
+Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing,
+Pleading and strong in the voice of the song,
+Whisper low,—Yes, just so!—
+Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling,
+Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire.”
+
+MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON
+
+
+
+
+HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT
+WELLESLEY COLLEGE
+
+
+I
+
+MOUNT CARMEL
+
+Where art Thou, O my Lord?
+Mount Carmel saw the throng
+Of priests and heard the song;
+To Baal was their call—
+From morn till night did fall.
+
+Where art Thou, O my Lord?
+Again Mount Carmel heard
+Not in the spoken word,
+Not in the earthquake’s shock,
+Not in the rending rock
+
+Where art Thou, O my Lord?
+The still voice softly speaks;
+Each soul it swiftly seeks
+Not in the thunder roll,
+But in the inmost soul.
+
+II
+
+VESPER HYMN
+
+Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night,
+To keep us till the morning light;
+And let no vision of alarm
+Come near to do Thy children harm
+
+Within Thy circling arms we lie,
+O God, in Thine infinity;
+Our souls in quiet shall abide
+Beset with love on every side.
+
+III
+
+THIS IS THAT BREAD
+
+This is that Bread that came down from Heaven,
+he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever.
+
+Bread on which angels feed,
+Bread for the spirit’s need
+By faith receiving,
+New life do Thou impart,
+New strength to every heart,
+Pure love of God Thou art
+To us believing.
+
+IV
+
+O SLOW OF HEART
+
+O slow of heart to believe! Ought Christ not to
+have suffered these things and to enter into His Glory?
+
+Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart,
+Touch my eyes that they may see,
+Let me know Thee as Thou art.
+Life and Immortality.
+
+V
+
+ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS
+
+All hail to Thee, child Jesus!
+As the brooding darkness flies
+At the swift approach of day,
+Sun of righteousness, arise,
+Chase the gloom of night away.
+Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own,
+And build in every heart Thy throne.
+
+Come to shed Thy healing balm
+On all nations of the earth,
+Child Jesus, come with holy calm,
+How we hail thy wondrous birth.
+Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own,
+And build in every heart Thy throne.
+All hail to Thee, Child Jesus!
+
+VI
+
+THE WINE-PRESS
+
+Who is this that comes from Edom
+In such glorious array,
+With his festal garments gleaming,
+Travelling on his royal way
+With a face majestic, calm and grave?
+I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save.
+
+Why is thy apparel crimson,
+Why is all thy garments’ pride
+Stained as in the time of vintage
+And with blood-red-color dyed?
+Because of helpers I had none—
+I have trodden the wine-press alone.
+
+VII
+
+WAKEN, SHEPHERDS!
+
+(Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!
+(Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken;
+Whence this glowing light?
+Ere the dawn of morning,
+Solemn signs of warning
+Portent of affright!
+
+(Angels) Courage, Shepherds, courage!
+Banish your dismay,
+or ye all are saved.
+In the town of David
+Christ is born to-day.
+
+(Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken,
+Hear the angels sing!
+Jehovah sends a token,
+He himself hath spoken
+To proclaim our King.
+
+(Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten,
+This shall be your sign;
+Where the kine are stabled,
+In a manger cradled
+Lies the Child Divine.
+
+(Shepherds and Angels) Angels, Shepherds, People,
+Shout the glad refrain!
+Joy to every nation
+Bringing full salvation,
+Christ has come to reign.
+Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!
+
+CAROLINE HAZARD
+
+
+
+
+REUBEN ROY
+
+
+Little fellow, brown with wind—
+I saw him in the street
+Peering at numbers on the posts,
+But most discreet:
+
+For when a woman came outdoors,
+Or slyly peeped instead,
+He turned away, took off his hat,
+And scratched his head.
+
+I watched him from my garden-wall
+Perhaps an hour or more,
+For something in his attitude,
+The clothes he wore,
+
+Awoke the dimmest memories
+Of when I was a boy
+And knew the story of a man
+Named Reuben Roy.
+
+It seems that Reuben went to sea
+The night his wife decried
+The fence he built before their house
+And up the side.
+
+He wanted it but she did not,
+Because it hid from view
+The spot in which her mignonette
+And tulips grew.
+
+Nobody saw his face again,
+But each year, unawares,
+He sent a sum for taxes due—
+And fence repairs.
+
+My curiosity aroused,
+I sauntered forth to see
+Whether this individual
+Were really he.
+
+“Who are you looking for?” I asked
+His eyes, like two bright pence,
+Sparkled at mine; and then he said:
+“A fence.”
+
+“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en,
+When people were in bed;
+Before the judge could prosecute,
+The culprit fled.”
+
+Well, Reuben only touched his hat
+And mumbled, “Thank you, Sir,”
+And asked me whereabouts to find
+A carpenter.
+
+HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS
+
+
+
+
+COUNTRY ROAD
+
+
+I can’t forget a gaunt grey barn
+Like a face without an eye
+That kept recurring by field and tarn
+Under a Cape Cod sky.
+
+I can’t forget a woman’s hand,
+Roughened and scarred by toil
+That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned
+By sun and wind and soil.
+
+Beauty and hardship, bent and bound
+Under the selfsame yoke:
+Babies with bare knees plump and round
+And stooping women folk.
+
+MARIE LOUISE HERSEY
+
+
+
+
+WREATHS
+
+
+Red wreaths
+Hang in my neighbor’s window,
+Green wreaths in my own.
+On this day I lost my husband.
+On this day you lost your boy.
+On this day
+Christ was born.
+Red wreaths,
+Green wreaths
+Hang in Our Windows
+Red for a bleeding heart,
+Green for grave grass.
+Mary, mother of Jesus,
+Look down and comfort us.
+You too knew passion;
+You too knew pain.
+Comfort us,
+Who are not brides of God,
+Nor bore God.
+On Christmas day
+Hang wreaths,
+Red for new pain.
+Green for spent passion.
+
+CAROLYN HILLMAN
+
+
+
+
+MEMPHIS
+
+
+Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you,
+Rather I’d dream of Dixie and tie ships on the old bayou!
+Rather I’d dream of my packets and the lazy river days,
+Rather I’d dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze,
+
+Rather I’d dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by,
+Rather I’d dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky,
+Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade,
+Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers’ fathers made!
+
+Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me,
+But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea!
+Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain.
+Send me back my river, and I shall wake again!
+
+GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN
+
+
+
+
+SAINT COLUMBKILLE
+
+
+Columbkille! Saint Columbkille!
+You naughty man, Saint Columbkille!
+Why did you Finnian’s Psalter take
+And secretly a copy make?
+You know ’twas such a naughty thing
+For one descended from a king
+To lock himself into a cell,
+’Twas far from right,-you knew it well,—
+And copy Finnian’s Psalter through,
+Against his will as well you knew.
+And then to think a common bird
+Should feel such shame, that when he heard
+The breathing spy outside your door,
+And felt your sainthood was no more,
+Should through the crack attack the spy,
+And in a rage pluck out his eye,
+As if that saintly Irish crane
+Would hide from all your Saintship’s stain.
+I grieve to think that you did add
+Sin unto sin; it is too bad.
+For Finnian could not you persuade
+To yield the copy that you made,
+Until the King in his behalf
+Ruled-“To each cow belongs her calf”:
+And then you grew so mad you swore
+On Erin’s face you’d look no more.
+And crossed the sea the Picts to save,
+Because you so did misbehave
+To dear Saint Finnian: faith, ’twas ill
+For you to act so, Columbkille!
+A saint you were no doubt, no doubt!
+What pity ’twas you were found out!
+We know an angel (snob or fool?)
+To Kiaran showed a common rule,
+An axe, an auger, and a saw,
+And told that saint it was the law
+Of Heaven that Columbkille should be
+Far, far above such saints as he;
+For Columbkille contemned a crown,
+While he these homely tools laid down,
+To serve the Lord, and that the Lord
+To each would give his due reward.
+I wonder if that angel knew
+That Christ these tools had laid down too.
+O Columbkille! O Columbkille!
+A saint like you must have his will,
+But for myself I’d rather be
+The common sinner that you see
+Than make a crane ashamed of me,
+And angels talk such idiocy.
+
+E. J. V. HUIGINN
+
+
+
+
+MISS DOANE
+
+
+Miss Doane was sixty, probably;
+She rented third floor room
+That opened on an airshaft full
+Of cooking smells and gloom.
+
+She worked in philanthropic man’s
+Well-known department store;
+Cashiered in basement, hot and close,
+For forty years or more.
+
+Each night when she came home she’d stand
+A moment in the hall,
+Before she went into her room
+With low and tender call.
+
+And often I would hear her voice
+Repeat a childish prayer;
+Or read some old, old fairy tale
+Of Princess, grand and fair.
+
+One night I went to visit her
+And spied, in little chair
+A great wax doll, in dainty dress,
+And curls of flaxen hair.
+
+I praised the doll; its prettiness;
+Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.
+She comforts me. I wanted so
+A child to call my own.”
+
+Each night I heard her softly sing
+A childish lullaby;
+But once, and just before she died,
+I heard her cry and cry!
+
+WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+
+
+
+
+FALLEN FENCES
+
+
+The woods grew dark; black shadows
+rocked
+And I could scarcely see
+My way along the old tote road,
+That long had seemed to me
+
+To wind on aimlessly; but now
+Came full to life; the rain
+Would soon strike down; ahead I saw
+A clearing, and a lane
+
+Between gray, fallen fences and
+Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;
+So grim and gray I shrank from thought
+Of weary, aching spalles.
+
+On stony knoll great aspens swayed
+And swung in browsing teeth
+Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook
+And shivered underneath.
+
+Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent
+And wrangled over roof
+Of weatherbeaten house, and barn
+Whose sag bespoke no hoof.
+
+And ivy crawled up either end
+Of house, to chimney, where
+It lashed in futile anger at
+The wind wolves of the air.
+
+I thought the house abandoned, and
+I ran to get inside,
+When suddenly the old front door
+was opened and flung wide
+
+And she stood there, with hand on knob,
+As I went swiftly in,
+Then closed the door most softly on
+The storm and shrieking din.
+
+A space I stood and looked at her,
+So young; ’twas passing strange
+That fifty years or more had gone
+And brought no new style’s change.
+
+The sweetness, daintiness of her
+In starched and dotted gown
+Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,
+With ruffles winding down!
+
+We had not much to say, and yet
+Of words I felt no lack;
+Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped
+A moment, then dropped back.
+
+I felt her pride of race; her taste
+In silken rug and chair,
+And quaintly fashioned furniture
+Of patterns old and rare.
+
+On window sill a rose bush stood;
+’Twas bringing rose to bud;
+One full bloomed there but yesterday,
+Dropped petals, red as blood.
+
+Quite soon, she asked to be excused
+For just a moment, and
+Went out, returning with a tray
+In either slender hand.
+
+My glance could not but linger on
+Each thin and lovely cup;
+“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed
+The while she raised it up.
+
+And when the storm was done and I
+Arose, reluctantly
+To go, she too was loath to have
+Me go, it seemed to me.
+
+When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,
+Upon the Corner Road,
+I went into the Upper Field
+Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed
+
+Potatoes, culling them with hoe
+And practised, calloused hand,
+In rounded piles that brownly glowed
+Upon the fresh-turned land.
+
+“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl
+With beauty’s smiling charm,
+That lives beyond that hemlock growth,
+On that old grown-up farm?”
+
+Joe listened, while I told him where
+I’d been that afternoon,
+Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,
+Before he spoke, a tune
+
+“They cum ter thet old place ter live
+Some sixty years ago;
+Jest where they cum from, who they ware,
+Wy, no one got to know.
+
+“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s
+Red racker an’ the gig;
+We never heard from him nor could
+We track the hoss or rig.
+
+“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then
+He went ter see the Wife;
+He found her in thet settin’ room:
+She’d taken of her life.
+
+“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;
+Some say ’tis haunted,-but
+I ain’t no use fer foolishness,
+So all I say’s tut! tut!”
+
+WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+
+
+
+
+CROSS-CURRENTS
+
+
+They wrapped my soul in eiderdown;
+They placed me warm and snug
+In carved chair; set me with care
+Upon an old prayer rug.
+
+They cased my feet in golden shoes
+That hurt at toe and heel;
+My restless feet, with youth all fleet,
+Nor asked how they might feel.
+
+And now they wonder where I am,
+And search with shrill, cold cry;
+But I crouch low where tall reeds grow,
+And smile as they pass by!
+
+WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+
+
+
+
+THE FAREWELL
+
+
+What is more beautiful
+Than thought, soul-fed,
+That I may be the crimson of a rose
+When dead?
+
+My soul, so light a joy
+And grief will be,
+That it will gently press the brown earth down
+On me.
+
+WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+Let me be great, as stars are great,
+Singing of love, not of hate.
+
+Love for sweet and simple things,
+Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings,
+
+Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers,
+Thin coils of smoke and granite towers,
+
+Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash
+High above a river’s crash,
+
+Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter,
+Soft grey shadows trailing after
+
+Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods
+And lose themselves in solitudes.
+
+All these I’ll love, never hate,
+And loving them, I will be great.
+
+OLIVER JENKINS
+
+
+
+
+LOVE AUTUMNAL
+
+
+My love will come in autumn-time
+When leaves go spinning to the ground
+And wistful stars in heaven chime
+With the leaves’ sound.
+
+Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes
+And pause beneath low-hanging boughs,
+And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns
+We’ll make our vows.
+
+Let others seek in spring for sighs
+When love flames forth from every seed;
+But love that blooms when nature dies
+Is love indeed!
+
+OLIVER JENKINS
+
+
+
+
+ECHOS
+
+
+Traveling at dusk the noisy city street,
+I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries
+Of “Extra,” as with flying feet,
+They strove to gain this man or that-their prize.
+But one there was with neither shout nor stride,
+And, having bought from him, I stood nearby,
+Pondering the cruel crutches at his side,
+Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why—
+
+When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet
+The cripple with “On time to-night?”
+Then, as he handed out the sheet,
+The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right.
+My other reg’lars are a little late.
+They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come;
+You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait,
+I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!”
+
+So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way
+For I had found a city’s heart that day.
+
+RUTH LAMBERT JONES
+
+
+
+
+WAR PICTURES
+
+
+“German Retreat From Arras”
+“Official Films”-they came
+After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”
+Had ministered to fame.
+
+After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”
+Had pigeon-toed away,
+We saw where bits of churches
+And bits of horses lay.
+
+We saw bleak desolation;
+We saw no unscathed tree.
+We shivered in our comfort
+And murmured: “Can it be!”
+
+But later, walking homeward,
+Repeating: “Is it true?”
+We brushed a khaki shoulder
+And asked no more. We knew!
+
+RUTH LAMBERT JONES
+
+
+
+
+AN OLD SONG
+
+
+When I was but a young lad,
+And that is long ago,
+I thought that luck loved every man,
+And time his only foe,
+And love was like a hawthorn bush
+That blossomed every May,
+And had but to choose his flower,
+For that’s the young lad’s way.
+
+Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer,
+It’s easy come and spent,
+And heavy is the going now
+Where once the light foot went.
+The hawthorn bush puts on its white,
+The throstle whistles clear,
+But Spring comes once for every man
+Just once in all the year.
+
+ARTHUR KETCHUM
+
+
+
+
+ROADSIDE REST
+
+
+Such quiet sleep has come to them!
+The Springs and Autumns pass,
+Nor do they know if it be snow
+Or daisies in the grass.
+
+All day the birches bend to hear
+The river’s undertone;
+Across the hush a fluting thrush
+Sings even-song alone.
+
+But down their dream there drifts no sound,
+The winds may sob and stir:
+On the still breast of Peace they rest
+And they are glad of her.
+
+They ask not any gift—they mind
+Nor any foot that fares,
+Unheededly life passes by—
+Such quiet sleep is theirs.
+
+ARTHUR KETCHUM
+
+
+
+
+OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP
+
+
+Bed is the boon for me!
+It’s well to bake and sweep,
+But hear the word of old Lizette:
+It’s better than all to sleep.
+
+Summer and flowers are gay,
+And morning light and dew;
+But aged eyelids love the dark
+Where never a light peeps through.
+
+What!—open-eyed, my dears?
+Thinking your hearts will break.
+There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say,
+That’s worth the lying awake!
+
+I learned it in my youth—
+Love I was dreaming of!
+I learned it from the needle-work
+That took the place of love.
+
+I learned it from the years
+And what they brought about;
+From song, and from the hills of joy
+Where sorrow sought me out.
+
+It’s good to dream and turn,
+And turn and dream, or fall
+To comfort with my pack of bones,
+And know of nothing at all!
+
+Yes, never know at all!
+If prowlers mew or bark,
+Nor wonder if it’s three o’clock
+Or four o’clock of the dark.
+
+When the longer shades have fallen
+And the last weariness
+Has brought the sweetest gift of life,
+The last forgetfulness.
+
+If a sound as of old leaves
+Stir the last bed I keep,
+Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette—
+She’s turning in her sleep!”
+
+AGNES LEE
+
+
+
+
+MOTHERHOOD
+
+
+Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently.
+Following the children joyously astir
+Under the cedrus and the olive tree,
+Pausing to let their laughter float to her.
+Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,
+She saw a little Christ in every face;
+When lo, another woman, gliding near,
+Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place.
+And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke:
+“I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed
+With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke
+Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.
+
+“I, too, have rocked my little one,
+O, He was fair!
+Yea, fairer than the fairest sun,
+And like its rays through amber spun
+His sun-bright hair.
+Still I can see it shine and shine.”
+“Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.”
+
+“His ways were ever darling ways,”—
+And Mary smiled,—
+“So soft, so clinging! Glad relays
+Of love were all His precious days.
+My little child!
+My infinite star! My music fled!”
+“Even so was mine,” the woman said.
+
+Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou,
+Of thine.” And she:
+“O, mine was rosy as a boug
+
+Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,
+To bloom for me!
+His balmy fingers left a thrill
+Within my breast that warms me still.”
+
+Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour,
+And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not,
+“Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?”
+“I am the mother of Iscariot.”
+
+AGNES LEE
+
+
+
+
+ESSEX
+
+
+I
+
+Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring,
+And wait, in supplication’s gentleness,
+The certain resurrection that shall bring
+A robe of verdure for their nakedness.
+Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell,
+Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coil
+Now promise, while the veins of nature swell,
+Eternal recompense to human toil.
+And when the sunset’s final shades depart
+The aspiration to completed birth
+Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start,
+We know how wanton and how little worth
+Are all the passions of our bleeding heart
+That vex the awful patience of the earth.
+
+II
+
+Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun
+Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor
+Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore,
+And thine the stars, revealing one by one,
+Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion,
+The tawny moon that waits below the skies,—
+Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes
+Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was done.
+And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast
+To thy benign October, thine the trees
+Lusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest;
+And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified
+Thy name with Liberty Is divine decrees—
+The men who loved thy soil and fought and died.
+
+III
+
+Toward thine Eastern window when the morn
+Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars,
+I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars
+Where men have fought and wept and died forlorn.
+But here, across the early fields of corn,
+The living silence dwelleth, and the gray
+Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray
+Breathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn.
+Open thy lattice, for the gage is won
+For which this earth has journeyed though the dust
+Of shattered systems, cold about the sun;
+And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled,
+A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”—
+And falls like dew God’s pity on the world
+
+GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE WAVE
+
+
+This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!
+Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound:
+White as a live terror, as a drawn sword,
+This is the wave.
+
+II
+
+This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the Tempest
+Whose veins are swollen with life,
+In whose flanks abide the four winds.
+This is the wave.
+
+III
+
+This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the sea
+And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield,
+And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword.
+Then a wind blew out of the morning
+And the waters rustled
+And the wave was born!
+
+IV
+
+This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon
+And the white sea-birds like driven foam
+Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky
+And the face of the waters was barred with white,
+For the wave had many brothers,
+And the wave was strong!
+
+V
+
+This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunset
+And the west was lurid as Hell.
+The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead.
+Then the wind smote full as the breath of God,
+And the wave called to its brothers,
+“This is the crest of life!”
+
+VI
+
+This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall,
+Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass
+That has caught the soul of the moonlight.
+Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;
+Its edge is frittered to foam.
+This is the wave!
+
+VII
+
+This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls—
+Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morning
+It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand.
+This is the wave.
+
+VIII
+
+This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.
+The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength
+In the lust of attainment.
+Aiming at things for Heaven too high,
+Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.
+So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found:
+Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars,
+The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds,
+Whose eye is filled with the Image of God,
+And the end is Death!
+
+GEORGE CABOT LODGE
+
+
+
+
+FRIMAIRE
+
+
+Dearest, we are like two flowers
+Blooming in the garden,
+A purple aster flower and a red one
+Standing alone in a withered desolation.
+
+The garden plants are shattered and seeded,
+One brittle leaf scrapes against another,
+Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals.
+Now only you and I nodding together.
+
+Many were with us; they have all faded.
+Only we are purple and crimson,
+Only we in the dew-clear mornings,
+Smarten into color as the sun rises.
+
+When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight,
+And later when my cold roots tighten,
+I am anxious for morning,
+I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.
+
+You or I—and I am a coward.
+Surely frost should take the crimson.
+Purple is a finer color,
+Very splendid in isolation.
+
+So we nod above the broken
+Stems of flowers almost rotted.
+Many mornings there cannot be now
+For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+PATTERNS
+
+
+I walk down the garden paths,
+And all the daffodils
+Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
+I walk down the patterned garden paths
+In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
+I too am a rare
+Pattern. As I wander down
+The garden paths.
+
+My dress is richly figured,
+And the train
+Makes a pink and silver stain
+On the gravel, and the thrift
+Of the borders.
+Just a plate of current fashion,
+Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
+Not a softness anywhere about me,
+Only a whale-bone and brocade.
+And I sink on a seat in the shade
+Of a lime tree. For my passion
+Wars against the stiff brocade.
+The daffodils and squills
+Flutter in the breeze
+As they please.
+And I weep;
+For the lime tree is in blossom
+And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
+
+And the splashing of waterdrops
+In the marble fountain
+Comes down the garden paths.
+The dripping never stops.
+Underneath my stiffened gown
+Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
+A basin in the midst of hedges grown
+So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
+But she guesses he is near,
+And the sliding of the water
+Seems the stroking of a dear
+Hand upon her.
+What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
+I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
+All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.
+
+I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
+And he would stumble after,
+Bewildered by my laughter.
+I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
+I would choose
+To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
+A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
+Till he caught me in the shade,
+And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
+Aching, melting, unafraid.
+With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
+And the plopping of the waterdrops,
+All about us in the open afternoon—
+I am very like to swoon
+With the weight of this brocade,
+For the sun sifts through the shade.
+
+Underneath the fallen blossom
+In my bosom,
+Is a letter I have hid.
+It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
+“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
+Died in action Thursday sen’night.”
+As I read it in the white morning sunlight.
+The letters squirmed like snakes.
+“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
+“No,” I told him.
+“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
+No, no answer.”
+And I walked into the garden,
+Up and down the patterned paths,
+In my stiff, correct brocade.
+The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
+Each one.
+I stood upright too,
+Held rigid to the pattern
+By the stiffness of my gown.
+Up and down I walked,
+Up and down.
+
+In a month he would have been my husband,
+In a month, here, underneath this lime,
+We would have broke the pattern;
+He for me, and I for him,
+He as Colonel, I as lady,
+On this shady seat.
+He had a whim
+That sunlight carried blessing.
+And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
+Now he is dead.
+
+In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
+Up and down
+The patterned garden paths
+In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+The squills and the daffodils
+Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
+
+I shall go
+Up and down,
+In my gown.
+Gorgeously arrayed,
+Boned and stayed.
+And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
+By each button, hook and lace.
+For the man who should loose me is dead,
+Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
+In a pattern called a war.
+Christ! What are patterns for?
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+A BATHER
+
+
+Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade.
+Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves,
+Half-quenched in their various green, just a point of you showing,
+A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into
+The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again
+Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged sharp as white ivory,
+Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts,
+Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit,
+And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence of leaves.
+So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges
+Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you,
+The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum-oozing spruces,
+While below runs the water impatient, impatient to take you,
+To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness,
+Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders,
+Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty,
+Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you
+To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories
+The summer.
+Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just
+Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection,
+Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes
+Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo,
+For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men.
+You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder,
+And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow
+your swimming, To behold the way they act.
+And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning.
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS
+
+
+Over where the Irish hedges
+Are with blossoms white as snow,
+Over where the limestone ledges
+Through the soft green grasses show—
+There the fairies may be seen
+In their jackets of red and green,
+Leprechauns and cluricauns,
+And the other ones, I ween.
+
+And, bedad, it is a wonder
+To behold the way they act.
+They’re the lads that seldom blunder,
+Wise and wary, that’s the fact.
+You may hold them with your eye;
+Look away and off they fly;
+Leprechauns and cluricauns,
+Bedad, but they are sly!
+
+They have heaps of golden treasure
+Hid away within the ground,
+Where they spend their days in leisure,
+And where fairy joys abound;
+But to mortals not a guinea
+Will they give-no, not a penny.
+Leprechauns and cluricauns,
+Their gold is seldom found.
+
+Maybe of a morning early
+As you pass a lonely rath,
+You may see a little curly—
+Headed fairy in your path.
+He’ll be working at a shoe,
+But he’ll have his eye on you—
+Leprechauns and cluricauns,
+They know just what to do.
+
+Visions of a life of riches
+Surely will before you flash;
+(You’ll no longer dig the ditches,
+You’ll be well supplied with cash.)
+And you’ll seize the little man,
+And you’ll hold him—if you can;
+Leprechauns and cluricauns,
+’Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan!
+
+DENIS A. MCCARTHY
+
+
+
+
+L’ENVOI
+
+
+When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane,
+And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain,
+And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain,
+Shall we weary for the battle and the strife?
+
+When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near,
+And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear
+Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year,
+Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass?
+
+Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands,
+Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands,
+Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands,
+Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze?
+
+Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss,
+Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss
+Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss—
+Consuming us within the flame?
+
+DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
+
+
+
+
+TO IMAGINATION
+SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES”
+
+
+O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought
+Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold,
+What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought,
+What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled!
+Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled,
+A mystic imagery of castled thought,
+A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould—
+A radiant iridescence swiftly caught
+Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.
+
+Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky,
+A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,—
+Eyes that behold afar the turrets high
+Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace
+Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race
+Of Athens,—eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie
+In passionate adoration—visions trace
+Across the tender brooding of the sigh
+That wrecked a city and made chieftains die.
+
+Forward not backward turns the mystic shine
+Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam—
+The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line
+On line the wizard tracery of a dream.
+O lad, who buildest not of things that seem,
+Beyond what bounds of visioning divine
+Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun-beam
+Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine
+The power to build and mould the deep design?
+
+Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell,
+Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white,
+Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell
+The eternal silence of the dark—or light?
+Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict
+The symboled mystery-write the final knell
+Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight
+A nothingless encircled by a spell
+Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell?
+
+In vain to question, where the mystery
+Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king.
+The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy,
+Were never meant to paint the immortal thing
+They see, nor understand the joy they bring.
+The misty baubles of the sky and sea
+Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling
+The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee,
+Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry.
+
+DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
+
+
+
+
+DRAGON
+
+
+Some saw a dragon eating up the light,
+Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
+Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,
+Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
+
+But I saw:
+A low dark hill with its twisted back
+Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack,
+A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf
+Glitter and gleam and shine like steel,
+Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!
+
+And I heard:
+The wind draw out of the west and wail,
+Dance and stagger and jig and reel!
+With the long low sound of a life in grief!
+
+I saw a life in grief
+Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho
+Dance and stagger and jig and reel!
+Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
+
+JEANNETTE MARKS
+“THE BOOKMAN.”
+
+
+
+
+GREEN GOLDEN DOOR
+
+
+Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
+Fanning the life a man must live,
+Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,
+Love and hope that he called his,
+Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin
+Casting them forth and sucking them in,
+Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
+
+Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
+Show me the youth that will not die,
+Tell me the dream that has not waked,
+Seek me the heart that never ached,
+Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
+
+Green golden door, swing in, swing out!
+Long is the wailing of man’s breath,
+Short is the wail of death.
+
+JEANNETTE MARKS
+
+
+
+
+SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD
+
+
+Four graves there are upon the wooded crest,
+Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear.
+Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here.
+Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest
+Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast
+Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer
+And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear,
+Her name by little men and women blessed.
+
+Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways
+Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart,
+But now the world has crowned them with its bays,
+And holds them close forever to its heart.
+O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays,
+And from its slopes shall never Love depart!
+
+JOHN CLAIR MINOT
+
+
+
+
+THE SWORD OF ARTHUR
+
+
+A castle stands in Yorkshire
+(Oh, the hill is fair and green!)
+And far beneath it lies a cave
+No living man has seen.
+
+It is the cave enchanted
+(Oh, seek it ere ye die!)
+And there King Arthur and his knights
+In dreamless slumber lie.
+
+One time a peasant found it
+(Oh, the years have hurried well!)
+It was the day of fate for him,
+And this is what befell:
+
+Upon a couch of crystal
+(Oh, heart be pure and strong!)
+He saw the King, and, close beside,
+The armored knights athrong.
+
+And all of them were sleeping
+(Praise God, who sendeth rest!)
+The sleep that comes when strife is done
+And ended every quest.
+
+Beside the good King Arthur
+(How high is your desire?)
+His sword within its scabbard lay,
+The sword with blade of fire.
+
+Now had the peasant known it
+(Oh, if we all could know!)
+He should have drawn that wondrous blade
+Before he turned to go.
+
+If but his hand had touched it
+(The sword still lieth there!)
+He would have felt in every vein
+A lofty purpose thrill.
+
+If but his hand had drawn it
+(The sword still lieth there!)
+A kingly way he would have walked,
+Wherever he might fare.
+
+But no; he fled affrighted
+(Oh, pitiful the cost!)
+And then he knew; but lo! the way
+Into the cave was lost.
+
+He searched forever after
+(All this was long ago!)
+But nevermore that crystal cave
+His eager eyes could know.
+
+Pray God ye have the vision
+(Oh, search in every land!)
+To seize the sword that Arthur bore
+When it lies at your hand.
+
+JOHN CLAIR MINOT
+
+
+
+
+THE DIVINE FOREST
+
+
+If there be leaves on the forest floor,
+Dead leaves there are and nothing more,
+If trunks of trees seem sentinels,
+For what their vigil no man tells.
+And if you clasp these guardian trees
+Nothing there is to hurt or please;
+Only the dead roof of the forest drops
+Gently down and never stops
+And roofs you in and roofs you under,
+Mute and away from life’s dim thunder;
+And if there come eternal spring
+It is but more disheartening,
+For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer—
+Autumn that is the latest comer—
+With the Springtime’s misty wonder
+And the Summer’s yield of gold,
+Weighs you down and weighs you under
+To where the blackened leaves are mold. . .
+The lone gift of the forest is ever new:
+Eternity where dwell not you.
+The forest, accepting, heeds you not;
+Accepting all-you are forgot.
+If there be leaves on the forest floor,
+Dead leaves there are and nothing more.
+
+Once the forest spoke but now is silent,
+Save in the skyward branches whence no sound
+Seems to touch ear of any man below—
+Or else no longer the man knows how to hear.
+Such men build roofs to keep the forest out,
+Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self;
+Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living.
+Such lapsing of the forest then they use
+And turn it into countless lowly dwellings;
+Sometimes they even cut the living down
+To leaven the dead roofs they would erect.
+Though some of these low roofs are lovely there
+Beneath the guardianship of forest trees,
+And some yearn upward as with thought of wings,
+Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark
+To the upper forest and they
+Fearful of the windy freedom of its top.
+They have forgotten
+That the greatest roof is but a banner
+And that it was a tree that made a Cross.
+
+CHARLES R. MURPHY
+
+
+
+
+MAGIC
+
+
+TO W.S.B.
+
+I ran into the sunset light
+As hard as I could run:
+The treetops bowed in sheer delight
+As if they loved the sun:
+And all the songs of little birds
+Who laughed and cried in silver words
+Were joined as they were one.
+
+And down the streaming golden sky
+A lark came circling with a cry
+Of wonder-weaving joy:
+And all the arch of heaven rang
+Where meadowlands of dreaming hang
+As when I was a boy.
+
+And through the ringing solitude
+In pulsing lovely amplitude
+A mist hung in a shroud,
+As though the light of loneliness
+Turned pure delight to holiness,
+And bathed it in a cloud.
+
+I stripped my laughing body bare
+And plunged into that holy air
+That washed me like a sea,
+And raced against its silver tide
+That stroked my eager glancing side
+And made my spirit free.
+
+Across the limits of the land
+The wind and I swept hand and hand
+Beyond the golden glow.
+We danced across the ocean plain
+Like thrushes singing in the rain
+A song of long ago.
+
+And on into the silver night
+We strove to win the race with light
+And bring the vision home,
+And bring the wonder home again
+Unto the sleeping eyes of men
+Across the singing foam.
+
+And down the river of the world
+Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled
+As spring within a flower,
+And stars in music of delight
+Streamed gayly down our shoulders white
+Like petals in a shower.
+
+And tears of awful wonder ran
+Adown my cheeks to hear the clan
+Of beauty chaunting white
+The prayer too deep for living word,
+Or sight of man or winging bird,
+Or music over forest heard
+At falling of the night.
+
+And dropping slowly as the dew
+On grasses that the winds renew
+In urge of flooding fire,
+And softly as the hushing boughs
+The gentle airs of dawn arouse
+To cradle morning’s quire.
+
+The murmur of the singing leaves
+Around the secret Flame,
+Like mating swallows ’neath the eaves
+In rustling silence came,
+And flowing through the silent air
+Creation fluttered in a prayer
+Descending on a spiral stair,
+And calling me by name.
+
+It nestled in my dreaming eyes
+Like heaven in a lake,
+And softened hope into surprise
+For very beauty’s sake,
+And silence blossomed into morn,
+Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn
+Could scarcely bear to break.
+
+I sang into the morning light
+As loud as I could sing,
+The treetops bowed in sheer delight
+Before the slanting wing.
+And all the songs of little birds
+Who laughed and cried in silver words
+Adored the Risen Spring.
+
+EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
+
+
+
+
+MICHAEL PAT
+
+
+TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
+
+Old Michael Pat he said to me
+He saw an angel in a tree.
+He knew I’d never, never doubt him,
+For what would heaven be without them.
+The angel laughed for very glee
+And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!”
+Old Michael felt a creeping kind
+Of wonder in his humble mind,
+And, hardly knowing what to say,
+Ran where the angel showed the way.
+The lambs were running on the hills,
+Glad laughter echoed from the rills,
+And many hidden little birds
+Talked pleasant things in singing words.
+He followed up a mountain then
+And saw a crowd of singing men
+Approaching to a Crown of Light
+Wherein they took a fresh delight.
+He danced and sang and whooped and crew
+To see the Lord of all he knew
+Surrounded by the living songs
+Of stars and men in countless throngs,
+And then he died to life again,
+And shovelled with the strength of ten.
+He taught me how to say my letters,
+And take my hat off to my betters,
+And when I asked for fairy stories,
+He told me of angelic glories.
+He was a lovely farmer, he
+Had seen an angel in a tree.
+
+EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE”
+
+Ebb on with me across the sunset tide
+And float beyond the waters of the world,
+The light of evening slipping from my side,
+Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.
+
+Flow on into the flaming morning wine,
+Drowning the land in color. Then on high
+Rise in thy candid innocence and shine
+Like to a poplar straight against the sky.
+
+EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
+
+
+
+
+IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE
+(Killed in action, July 31, 1917)
+
+
+Soldier and singer of Erin,
+What may I fashion for thee?
+What garland of words or of flowers?
+Singer of sunlight and showers,
+The wind on the lea;
+
+Of clouds, and the houses of Erin,
+Wee cabins, white on the plain,
+And bright with the colours of even,
+Beauty of earth and of heaven
+Outspread beyond Slane!
+
+Slane, where the Easter of Patrick
+Flamed on the night of the Gael,
+Guard both the honor and story
+Of him who has died for the glory
+That crowns Innisfail.
+
+Soldier of right and of freedom,
+I offer thee song and not tears.
+With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell,
+The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell,
+Live on through the years!
+
+NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR
+
+
+
+
+EVENSONG
+
+
+A shepherd piping, herald of the Night
+Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale,
+Treading low gently, clad in greyish white,
+Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail!
+For Day departed moves in funeral train
+Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose,
+The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main
+While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows.
+As when a mother gathers to her breast
+The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart,
+Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west,
+And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart.
+Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still,
+And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will!
+
+NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR
+
+
+
+
+THE PROPHET
+
+
+All day long he kept the sheep:—
+Far and early, from the crowd,
+On the hills from steep to steep,
+Where the silence cried aloud;
+And the shadow of the cloud
+Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.
+
+Where he dipped the water’s cool,
+Filling boyish hands from thence,
+Something breathed across the pool
+Stir of sweet enlightenments;
+And he drank, with thirsty sense,
+Till his heart was brimmed and full.
+
+Still, the hovering Voice unshed,
+And the Vision unbeheld,
+And the mute sky overhead,
+And his longing, still withheld!
+—Even when the two tears welled,
+Salt, upon that lonely bread.
+
+Vaguely blessed in the leaves,
+Dim-companioned in the sun,
+Eager mornings, wistful eyes,
+Very hunger drew him on;
+And To-morrow ever shone
+With the glow the sunset weaves.
+
+Even so, to that young heart,
+Words and hands and Men were dear;
+And the stir of lane and mart
+After daylong vigil here.
+Sunset called, and he drew near,
+Still to find his path apart.
+
+When the Bell, with gentle tongue,
+Called the herd-bells home again,
+Through the purple shades he swung,
+Down the mountain, through the glen;
+Towards the sound of fellow-men,—
+Even from the light that clung.
+
+Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,
+Came that silent flock of his:
+Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,
+After homing twos and threes;
+With the longing memories
+Of all white things dreamed and vowed.
+
+Through the fragrances, alone,
+By the sudden-silent brook,
+From the open world unknown,
+To the close of speech and book;
+There to find the foreign look
+In the faces of his own.
+
+Sharing was beyond his skill;
+Shyly yet, he made essay:
+Sought to dip, and share, and fill
+Heart’s-desire, from day to day.
+But their eyes, some foreign way,
+Looked at him; and he was still.
+
+Last, he reached his arms to sleep,
+Where the Vision waited, dim,
+Still beyond some deep-on-deep.
+And the darkness folded him,
+Eager heart and weary limb.—
+All day long, he kept the sheep.
+
+JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
+
+
+
+
+HARVEST-MOON: 1914
+
+
+Over the twilight field,
+The overflowing field,—
+Over the glimmering field,
+And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield
+Of sheaves that still did writhe,
+After the scythe;
+The teeming field and darkly overstrewn
+With all the garnered fulness of that noon—
+Two looked upon each other.
+One was a Woman men called their mother;
+And one, the Harvest-Moon.
+
+And one, the Harvest-Moon,
+Who stood, who gazed
+On those unquiet gleanings where they bled;
+Till the lone Woman said:
+“But we were crazed…
+We should laugh now together, I and you,
+We two.
+You, for your dreaming it was worth
+A star’s while to look on and light the Earth;
+And I, forever telling to my mind,
+Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth
+To humankind!
+Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss
+To give the breath to men,
+For men to slay again:
+Lording it over anguish but to give
+My life that men might live
+For this.
+You will be laughing now, remembering
+I called you once Dead World, and barren thing,
+Yes, so we named you then,
+You, far more wise
+Than to give life to men.”
+
+Over the field, that there
+Gave back the skies
+A shattered upward stare
+From blank white eyes,—
+Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune
+Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon,
+She looked; and went her way—
+The Harvest-Moon.
+
+JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY
+
+
+
+
+HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM
+
+
+“Horseman, springing from the dark,
+Horseman, flying wild and free,
+Tell me what shall be thy road
+Whither speedest far from me?”
+
+“From the dark into the light,
+From the small unto the great,
+From the valleys dark I ride
+O’er the hills to conquer fate!”
+
+“Take me with thee, horseman mine!
+Let me madly rode with thee!”
+As he turned I met his eyes,
+My own soul looked back at me!
+
+LILLA CABOT PERRY
+
+
+
+
+THREE QUATRAINS
+
+
+THE CUP
+
+She said, “Lift high the cup!”
+Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign,
+But, smiling, raised it up
+That none might see or guess it held no wine.
+
+FORGIVE ME NOT!
+
+Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know
+Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast!
+Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest,
+On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.
+
+THE ROSE
+
+One deep red rose I dropped into his grave,
+So small a thing to give so great a friend!
+Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave
+And must fare on without it to the end,
+
+LILLA CABOT PERRY
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE, UNSENT
+
+
+Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart
+To see you fade away,
+Unloved, unwelcome and apart
+From every joy to-day.
+
+Once long ago your tale was new,
+Days distant yet so dear;
+Why say her lover still is true,
+When that is all her fear?
+
+Why thus recall another’s pain,
+Her tender heart to fret?
+Best let her think he loves again,
+Who never can forget!
+
+MARGARET PERRY
+
+
+
+
+SHIPBUILDERS
+
+
+The German people reared them
+An idol made of wood;
+And Hindenburg before them
+Lifelike and stupid stood.
+
+To clothe him all in iron
+And thus his soul express,
+With nails and spikes they covered
+His wooden nakedness.
+
+And when they, thus had clothed him
+All in a suit of mail,
+Still came they, wild-eyed, looking
+For space to drive a nail.
+
+Whenever Teuton airmen
+Slay boys and girls at play,
+Or U-boats, drowning babies,
+Create a holiday.
+
+Then, gathering round their statue,
+A happy German throng
+Drive nails into the idol
+To make him still more strong.
+
+Avenge the babes, shipbuilders,
+That on the seas have died;
+Avenge the little children
+Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards,
+And let your hammers ring,
+For more than ships and cargoes
+Waits on your fashioning.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards;
+With every bolt you drive
+Bethink you ’tis the Kaiser
+Whose brutish head you rive.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards,
+And swing with might and main;
+’Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince
+That you to-day have slain.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards,
+And heat the metal hot,
+For it is Bethmann Hollweg
+You’re boiling in the pot.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards,—
+And when the day is done,
+You’ve spent it in driving spikes,
+In Hindernburg the Hun.
+
+Come, gather at the shipyards,
+And toil with healthy hate,
+For only you can save the world,
+The Hun is at the gate.
+
+ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER
+
+
+
+
+UNFADING PICTURES
+
+
+(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of
+the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished,
+my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the
+bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the
+two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the
+rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.”
+                    —“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)
+
+How many are the scenes he limned,
+With artist strokes, clear-cut and free—
+Our Dickens; time shall not efface
+Their charm, and they will ever grace
+The halls of memory.
+
+Oft and again we turn to them,
+To contemplate in pleased review;
+And like some picture on the screen
+Comes now to mind a favorite scene
+His master-pencil drew:—
+
+Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep,
+I see a small lad, spent and worn,
+And by the window, stern and grim,
+A silent figure watching him,
+So dusty, ragged, torn.
+
+Ah, now she rises from behind
+The round green fan beside her chair;
+“Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends
+Her voice new softness-and she bends
+And brushes back his hair.
+
+Then in his sleep he softly stirs.
+Was that a dream, these murmured words?
+He wakes! There by the casement sat
+Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat
+And her canary birds.
+
+The peaceful calm of that quaint room,
+Its marks of comfort everywhere—
+Old china and mahogany
+And blowing in, fresh from the sea,
+The perfume-laden air.
+
+Poor little pilgrim so bereft,
+So weary at his journey’s end!
+What joy must then have filled his soul
+To reach at last such happy goal—
+To find—oh, such a friend!…
+
+And then night came, and from his bed
+He saw the sea, moonlit and bright,
+And dreamed there came, to bless her son,
+His mother, with her little one,
+Adown that path of light.
+
+Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave,
+When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er,
+Than such repose, content, and love;
+Some shining path that leads above
+To dear ones gone before!
+
+LOUELLA C. POOLE
+
+
+
+
+WITH WAVES AND WINGS
+
+
+Waves and Wings and Growing Things!
+As through the gladden sight ye flow
+And flit and glow,
+Ye win me so
+In soul to go,
+I too am waves, I too am wings,
+And kindred motion in me springs.
+
+With thee I pass, glad growing grass!—
+I climb the air with lissome mien;
+Unsheathing keen
+The vivid sheen
+Of springing green,
+I thrill the crude, exalt the crass
+Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass.
+
+And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!—
+To make all mutable the floor
+Of Earth’s firm shore,
+With flashing pour
+Whose brimming o’er
+Impassion’d motion loves and laves
+And livens sombre slumbering caves.
+
+Then soaring where the wild birds fare,
+My song would sweep the windy lyre
+Of Heaven’s choir,
+Pulsing desire
+For starry fire,
+Abashing chilling vagues of air
+With throbbing of warm breasts that dare!
+
+CHARLOTTE PORTER
+
+
+
+
+BLUEBERRIES
+
+
+Upon the hills of Garlingtown
+Beneath the summer sky,
+In many pleasant pastures
+On sunny slopes and high,
+Their skins abloom with dusty blue,
+Asleep, the berries lie.
+
+And all the lads of Garlingtown,
+And all the lasses too,
+Still climb the tranquil hillsides,
+A merry, barefoot crew;
+Still homeward plod with unfilled pails
+And mouths of berry blue.
+
+And all the birds of Garlingtown,
+When flocking back to nest,
+Remember well the patches
+Where berries are the best;
+They pick the ripest ones at dawn
+And leave the lads the rest.
+
+Upon the hills of Garlingtown
+When berry-time was o’er,
+I looked into the sunset,
+And saw an open door,
+And from the hills of Garlingtown
+I went, and came no more.
+
+FRANK PRENTICE RAND
+
+
+
+
+NOCTURNE
+
+
+Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space,
+From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine!
+The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face,
+You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine.
+
+Each star to numberless planets gives light and motion and heat,
+But you enmantle them all, the nearest and most remote;
+And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles under your feet,—
+Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and shine and float.
+
+WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER
+
+
+
+
+ENVOI
+
+
+I walked with poets in my youth,
+Because the world they drew
+Was beautiful and glorious
+Beyond the world I knew.
+
+The poets are my comrades still,
+But dearer than in youth,
+For now I know that they alone
+Picture the world of truth.
+
+WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER
+
+
+
+
+THERE WHERE THE SEA
+
+
+There where the sea enwrapt
+A strip of land and wind-swept dune,
+Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering
+Noonday sun of early June,—
+The Placid sea lay shimmering
+In a mist of blue,
+From which the sky now drew
+Its wealth of hue and colour;
+One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean,
+As it breathed along the shore in even motion.
+Among the pines and listless of the scene,
+Atthis and Alcæus lay,
+Within the heart of each a hunger
+For the unknown gift of life.
+Here from day to day
+They met and dreamed away
+The soft unfloding days of spring,—
+Now turning to the summer.
+
+_Alcæus:_
+I am faint with all the fire
+In my blood,
+And I would plunge into the quiet blue
+And lose all sense of time and you.
+
+_Atthis:_
+I, too, would plunge
+And swim with you!
+
+Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty,
+Calm and sure and unafraid,
+The sinuous splendour of her limbs,
+A silent symphony of curving line,
+Which reached its final note
+In breast and rounded throat.
+He had not known that flesh could be so fair;
+Each movement which she made
+Wove o’er his sense a deeper spell,
+Her beauty swept him like a flame
+And caught him unaware.
+She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers
+Before that burning gaze,
+Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders
+Down among the boulders,
+To the sea.
+Secure within its covering depth
+She called to him to follow.
+She led him out along the tide,
+With swift unerring stroke,
+Nor paused till he was at her side.
+With conquering arm
+He seized her and from her brow
+Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her lips—
+Her eyes closed,—
+As all her body yielded to his kiss.
+Then home he bore her to the shore,
+Within his heart a song of triumph;
+In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood.
+So spring for them passed on to summer.
+
+MARIE TUDOR
+
+
+
+
+MARRIAGE
+
+
+You, who have given me your name,
+And with your laws have made me wife,
+To share your failures and your fame,
+Whose word has made me yours for life.
+
+What proof have you that you hold me?
+That in reality I’m one
+With you, through all eternity?
+What proof when all is said and done?
+
+In spite of all the laws you’ve made,
+I’m free. I am no part of you.
+But wait-the last word is not said;
+You’re mine, for I’m myself and you.
+
+All through my veins there flows your blood,
+In you there is no part of me.
+By virtue of my motherhood
+Through me you live eternally.
+
+MARIE TUDOR
+
+
+
+
+PITY
+
+
+Oh do not Pity me because I gave
+My heart when lovely April with a gust,
+Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave;
+And do not pity me because I thrust
+Aside your love that once burned as a flame.
+I was as thirsty as a windy flower
+That bares its bosom to the summer shower
+And to the unremembered winds that came.
+Pity me most for moments yet to be,
+In the far years, when some day I shall turn
+Toward this strong path up to our little door
+And find it barred to all my ecstasy.
+No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne—
+Only the crying sea upon the shore.
+
+HAROLD VINAL
+
+
+
+
+A ROSE TO THE LIVING
+
+
+A rose to the living is more
+Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;
+In filling love’s infinite store,
+A rose to the living is more,
+If graciously given before
+The hungering spirit is fled,—
+A rose to the living is more
+Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.
+
+NIXON WATERMAN
+
+
+
+
+THE STORM
+
+
+She reached for sunset fires,
+And lived with stars and the sea,
+The mountains for her temple,
+The storm for priest had she.
+
+Together a libation
+They poured to the God she knew,
+Such wine as ageless heavens
+And lonely wisdom brew.
+
+Now she has done with worship,
+For her all rites are the same;
+Yet the storm keeps green forever
+The moss upon her name.
+
+G. O. WARREN
+
+
+
+
+WHERE THEY SLEEP
+
+
+The fog inrolling, dark and still
+Lies deep upon the crowded dead
+As flooding sea upon the sands,
+And quenches starlight overhead.
+
+Long have they slept. Their separate dust
+Has mingled with a nameless mould.
+Only the slower-crumbling stones
+Still tell so much as may be told.
+
+And now in shoreless fog adrift
+Like some lone mariner gliding by,
+I lean above the drowning graves
+And wonder when I too shall lie
+
+Where evermore the tides of night
+And earth will hide my lonely rest;
+And Time will bid my love forget
+To read the stone upon my breast.
+
+G. O. WARREN
+
+
+
+
+BEAUTY
+
+
+Not flesh alone am I, when I can be
+So swiftly caught in Beauty’s shimmering thread
+Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me,
+With their frail strength my following heart have led.
+
+Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind,
+When, watching by lone twilight waters’ brim
+I tremblingly decipher, as they wind,
+Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim.
+
+So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring
+To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist,
+Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring,
+That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst.
+
+G. O. WARREN
+
+
+
+
+COMRADES
+
+
+Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying,
+In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming?
+We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying;
+Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!—
+Where is he now, the dark boy slender
+Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins?
+I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender
+Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.
+
+Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter,
+Softer than love, in his turbulent charms;
+Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter,
+And gather me up in his boyhood arms;
+Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding,
+Suppled my limbs to the horseman’s war;
+Where is he now, for whom my heart’s biding,
+Biding, biding—but he rides far!
+
+O love that passes the love of woman!
+Who that hath felt it shall ever forget
+When the breath of life with a throb turns human,
+And a lad’s heart is to a lad’s heart set?
+Ever, forever, lover and rover—
+They shall cling, nor each from other shall part
+Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over,
+And life is dust in each faithful heart.
+
+They are dead, the American grasses under;
+There is no one now who presses my side;
+By the African chotts I am riding asunder,
+And with great joy ride I the last great ride.
+I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying;
+Thousands of miles there is no one near;
+And my heart—all the night it is crying, crying
+In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.
+
+Hearts of my music—them dark earth covers;
+Comrades to die, and to die for, were they;
+In the width of the world there were no such rovers—
+Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay;
+And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished,
+To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more,
+And to ride in the track of great souls perished
+Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o’er.
+
+Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands,
+Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade,
+And one, far faring o’er orient islands
+Whose blood yet glints with my blade’s accolade;
+North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing,
+Last love to the breasts where my own has bled;
+Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing
+My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.
+
+GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY
+
+
+
+
+THE FLIGHT
+
+
+I
+
+O wild heart, track the land’s perfume,
+Beach-roses and moor-heather!
+All fragrances of herb and bloom
+Fail, out at sea, together.
+O follow where aloft find room
+Lark-song and eagle-feather!
+All ecstasies of throat and plume
+Melt, high on yon blue weather.
+
+O leave on sky and ocean lost
+The flight creation dareth;
+Take wings of love, that mounts the most:
+Find fame, that furthest fareth!
+Thy flight, albeit amid her host
+Thee, too, night star-like beareth,
+Flying, thy breast on heaven’s coast,
+The infinite outweareth.
+
+II
+
+“Dead o’er us roll celestial fires;
+Mute stand Earth’s ancient beaches;
+Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires,
+The passing hour outreaches;
+The soul creative never tires—
+Evokes, adores, beseeches;
+And that heart most the god inspires
+Whom most its wildness teaches.
+
+“For I will course through falling years
+And stars and cities burning;
+And I will march through dying cheers
+Past empires unreturning;
+Ever the world flame reappears
+Where mankind power is earning,
+The nations’ hopes, the people’s tears,
+One with the wild heart yearning.
+
+GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS ***
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