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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Anthology of Massachusetts Poets, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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
+
+
+Title: Anthology of Massachusetts Poets
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: William Stanley Braithwaite
+
+Posting Date: February 15, 2013 [EBook #2294]
+Release Date: August, 2000
+First Posted: August 18, 2000
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Susan L. Farley
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+
+  WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor
+
+
+
+
+  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 AUSLANDE
+
+
+
+  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, desolated 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 sonic 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
+
+  LITTLE soldier with the golden helmet,
+  O 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.
+  Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
+
+  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,
+  Peaked 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, 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 horned 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! Hoofed 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 me 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-splendor 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, Hoofed 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 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 falls
+  Outspread beyond Slane!
+  night through let my mind be still,
+
+  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 hot 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 PIE
+
+
+
+
+  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 Alcaeus 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.
+
+  Aleaeus:
+
+  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 Project Gutenberg's Anthology of Massachusetts Poets, by Various
+
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+Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, editor
+
+
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+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor
+
+August, 2000  [Etext #2294]
+
+
+Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
+*****This file should be named mpoet10.txt or mpoet10.zip******
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+Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, mpoet11.txt
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+Transcribed for Project Gutenberg by Susan L. Farley.
+Project Gutenberg/Make A Difference Day Project 1999.
+
+
+
+
+
+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor
+
+
+
+
+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 (unavailable-pages torn from book)
+RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY
+
+IN IRISH RAIN (unavailable-pages torn from book)
+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 AUSLANDE
+
+
+
+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, desolated 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 con-
+tortions 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 sonic 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 Pilgram
+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! 0 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;
+Faintlv 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 heat
+Then trumpets' echoes sigh.
+
+Tolling bell and sunset,
+Twittering birds and calm;
+Medici's fountain, shimmering net,
+Into the night brings balm.
+
+JESSICA CARR
+
+
+
+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
+
+LITTLE soldier with the golden helmet,
+O 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.
+Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
+
+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,
+Peaked 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,
+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 horned 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! Hoofed 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 me 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-splendor 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, Hoofed 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 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) Angels, Shepherds, People,
+  and Shout the glad refrain!
+  Angels) 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 noth-
+ing 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 Hart-
+well
+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 be 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! 0ho! 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 falls
+Outspread beyond Slane!
+night through let my mind be still,
+
+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 hot 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 PIE
+
+
+
+
+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 pol-
+ished, 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 Alcaeus 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.
+
+Aleaeus:
+
+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, adcres, 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 Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
+
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+Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, editor
+
+
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+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor
+
+August, 2000  [Etext #2294]
+
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+Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
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+Transcribed for Project Gutenberg by Susan L. Farley.
+Project Gutenberg/Make A Difference Day Project 1999.
+
+
+
+
+
+ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS
+WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor
+
+
+
+
+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 AUSLANDE
+
+
+
+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, desolated 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 con-
+tortions 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 sonic 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 Pilgram
+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! 0 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
+
+LITTLE soldier with the golden helmet,
+O 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.
+Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
+
+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,
+Peaked 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,
+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 horned 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! Hoofed 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 me 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-splendor 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, Hoofed 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 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) Angels, Shepherds, People,
+  and Shout the glad refrain!
+  Angels) 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 noth-
+ing 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 Hart-
+well
+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 be 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! 0ho! 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 falls
+Outspread beyond Slane!
+night through let my mind be still,
+
+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 hot 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 PIE
+
+
+
+
+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 pol-
+ished, 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 Alcaeus 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.
+
+Aleaeus:
+
+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, adcres, 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 Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed.
+
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