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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2294-0.txt b/2294-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d7c191 --- /dev/null +++ b/2294-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4508 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anthology of Massachusetts Poets + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Anthology of Massachusetts Poets + +Author: Various + +Editor: William Stanley Braithwaite + +Release Date: August 18, 2000 [eBook #2294] +[Most recently updated: March 25, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Susan L. Farley + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS *** + + + + +Anthology of Massachusetts Poets + +by +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + + + Contents + + HOME BOUND—JOSEPH AUSLANDER + AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL—KATHERINE LEE BATES + YELLOW CLOVER—KATHERINE LEE BATES + THE RETURNING—SYLVESTER BAXTER + TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL—ERNEST BENSHIMOL + A BANQUET—ERNEST BENSHIMOL + SONG—GEORGE CABOT LODGE + THE WORLDS—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI + THE RIOT—GAMALIEL BRADFORD + HUNGER—GAMALIEL BRADFORD + EXIT GOD—GAMALIEL BRADFORD + ROUSSEAU—GAMALIEL BRADFORD + JOHN MASEFIELD—AMY BRIDGMAN + 1620-1920—LE BARON RUSSEL BRIGGS + THE CROSS-CURRENT—ABBIE FARWELL BROWN + CANDLEMAS—ALICE BROWN + SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN—ALICE BROWN + BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE—ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT + FOUR FOUNTAINS. AFTER RESPIGHI—JESSICA CARR + IN THE TROLLEY CAR—RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY + IN IRISH RAIN—MARTHA HASKELL CLARK + CRETONNE TROPICS—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING + TO HILDA OF HER ROSES—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING + DANDELION—HILDA CONKLING + RED ROOSTER—HILDA CONKLING + VELVETS—HILDA CONKLING + THE MOODS—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS + HILL-FANTASY—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS + THE MIRAGE—NATHAN HASKELL DOLE + THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN—MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. + THE LILAC—WALTER PRICHARD EATON + GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE—CHARLES GIBSON + TO MUSIC—MAUDE GORDON-ROBY + THE VOICE IN THE SONG—MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON + HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE—CAROLINE HAZARD + REUBEN ROY—HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS + COUNTRY ROAD—MARIE LOUISE HERSEY + WREATHS—CAROLYN HILLMAN + MEMPHIS—GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN + SAINT COLUMBKILLE—E.J.V. HUIGINN + MISS DOANE—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + FALLEN FENCES—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + CROSS-CURRENTS—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + THE FAREWELL—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + SONG—OLIVER JENKINS + LOVE AUTUMNAL—OLIVER JENKINS + ECHOES—RUTH LAMBERT JONES + WAR PICTURES—RUTH LAMBERT JONES + AN OLD SONG—ARTHUR KETCHUM + ROADSIDE REST—ARTHUR KETCHUM + OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP—AGNES LEE + MOTHERHOOD—AGNES LEE + ESSEX—GEORGE CABOT LODGE + THE SONG OF THE WAVE—GEORGE CABOT LODGE + FRIMAIRE—AMY LOWELL + PATTERNS—AMY LOWELL + A BATHER—AMY LOWELL + LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS—DENNIS A. MCCARTHY + L’ENVOI—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN + TO IMAGINATION—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN + DRAGON—JEANETTE MARKS + GREEN GOLDEN DOOR—JEANETTE MARKS + SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD—JOHN CLAIR MINOT + THE SWORD OF ARTHUR—JOHN CLAIR MINOT + THE DIVINE FOREST—CHARLES R. MURPHY + MAGIC—EDWARD J. O’BRIEN + MICHAEL PAT—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN + SONG—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN + IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR + EVENSONG—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR + THE PROPHET—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + HARVEST-MOON: 1914—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM—LILLA CABOT PERRY + THREE QUATRAINS—LILLA CABOT PERRY + A VALENTINE UNSENT—MARGARET PERRY + SHIPBUILDERS—ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER + UNFADING PICTURES—LOUELLA C. POOLE + WITH WAVES AND WINGS—CHARLOTTE PORTER + BLUEBERRIES—FRANK PRENTICE RAND + NOCTURNE—WILLIAM ROSCOIE THAYER + ENVOI—WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER + THERE WHERE THE SEA—MARIE TUDOR + MARRIAGE—MARIE TUDOR + PITY—HAROLD VINAL + A ROSE TO THE LIVING—NIXON WATERMAN + THE STORM—G.O. WARREN + WHERE THEY SLEEP—G.O. WARREN + BEAUTY—G.O. WARREN + COMRADES—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY + THE FLIGHT—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY + + + + +HOME-BOUND + + +The moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips, +The water makes a quietness of sound; +Night is an anchoring of many ships +Home-bound. + +There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs +Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin +The silence into nets, and tenanters +Move softly in. + +I step on shadows riding through the grass, +And feel the night lean cool against my face; +And challenged by the sentinel of space, +I pass. + +JOSEPH AUSLANDER + + + + +AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL + + +O beautiful for spacious skies, +For amber waves of grain, +For purple mountain majesties +Above the fruited plain! +America! America! +God shed His grace on thee +And crown thy good with brotherhood +From sea to shining sea! + +O beautiful for pilgrim feet, +Those stern, impassioned stress +A thoroughfare for freedom beat +Across the wilderness! +America! America! +God mend thine every flaw, +Confirm thy soul in self-control, +Thy liberty in law! + +O beautiful for heroes proved +In liberating strife +Who more than self their country loved, +And mercy more than life! +America! America! +May God thy gold refine, +Till all success be nobleness, +And every gain divine. + +O beautiful for patriot dream +That sees beyond the years +Thine alabaster cities gleam +Undimmed by human tears! +America! America! +God shed His grace on thee +And crown thy good with brotherhood +From sea to shining sea! + +KATHERINE LEE BATES + + + + +YELLOW CLOVER + + +Must I, who walk alone, +come on it still, +This Puck of plants +The wise would do away with, +The sunshine slants +To play with, +Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover, +Which once in Parting for a time +That then seemed long, +Ere time for you was over, +We sealed our own? +Do you remember yet, +O Soul beyond the stars, +Beyond the uttermost dim bars +Of space, +Dear Soul, who found earth sweet, +Remember by love’s grace, +In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song, +How suddenly we halted in our climb, +Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill, +Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet, +And gave them as a token +Each to Each, +In lieu of speech, +In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken, +Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet +With a strange dew of tears? + +So it began, +This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover, +To be our tenderest language. All the years +It lent a new zest to the summer hours, +As each of us went scheming to surprise +The other with our homely, laureate flowers. +Sonnets and odes +Fringing our daily roads. +Can amaranth and asphodel +Bring merrier laughter to your eyes? +Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes, +Keep any wistful consciousness of earth, +Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love, +Simplicities of mirth, +Must follow them above +With touches of vague homesickness that pass +Like shadows of swift birds across the grass. +Beneath some foreign arch of sky, +How many a time the rover +You or I, +For life oft sundered look from look, +And voice from voice, the transient dearth +Schooling my soul to brook +This distance that no messages may span, +Would chance +Upon our wilding by a lonely well, +Or drowsy watermill, +Or swaying to the chime of convent bell, +Or where the nightingales of old romance +With tragical contraltos fill +Dim solitudes of infinite desire; +And once I joyed to meet +Our peasant gadabout +A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat, +Twinkling a saucy eye +As potentates paced by. + +Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame +From friendship’s altar fire! +How proudly we would pluck and tame +The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay! +How swiftly they were sent +Far, far away +On journeys wide, +By sea and continent, +Green miles and blue leagues over, +From each of us to each, +That so our hearts might reach, +And touch within the yellow clover, +Love’s letter to be glad about +Like sunshine when it came! + +My sorrow asks no healing; it is love; +Let love then make me brave +To bear the keen hurts of +This careless summertide, +Ay, of our own poor flower, +Changed with our fatal hour, +For all its sunshine vanished when you died; +Only white clover blossoms on your grave. + +KATHERINE LEE BATES + + + + +THE RETURNING + + +We long for her, we yearn for her— +Yes, ardently we yearn +For her return. +Recalling those beloved days +(Days intimate with ways +Of friends so near to us +And life so dear to us), +We yearn unspeakably for her return. + +And come she must… Yet while we trust +We soon may see the passing of this agony +Which makes intrusive years still seem +A fearsome dream, +We know that when she comes +She really comes not back again. + +She’ll come in other guise +And under fairer skies— +And yet to bitter pain! + +That day she went away +Our homes with laughing youth were filled. +Where then was happiness +Is now distress, +The laughter stilled; +For when she left +Youth followed her— +We stay bereft. + +So all our golden joy +For what she brings +Must carry gray alloy: +The sorrow that she can not lay, +The mysery that she can not stay— +While all the gladsome songs she sings +Must bear for undertones +Old sighs and echoed moans. + +As they who go away +In flush of youth +May come quite worn and gray +And bringing naught but ruth— +So, when the strife shall cease, +And when she comes at last, +When all the armies vast +Shall at her feet +Kneel down to greet +Thrice welcome Peace, +This world will be so changed +(So many dear ones dead, +So many friends estranged, +So many blessings fled, +So many wonted ways forever barred, +So many coming days forever marred) +That then +She truly comes not back again— +She, the Peace we knew. + +Yet how we long for her! +How ardently we yearn +For her return! + +SYLVESTER BAXTER + + + + +TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL + + +I. + +YOUTH + +I love to watch the world from here, for all +The numberless living portraits that are drawn +Upon the mind. Far over is the sea, +Fronting the sand, a few great yellow dunes, +A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and green, +With brackish gullies wandering in between, +All this from the hill. +And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars, +Sentinels over the marsh, and bright with the sun +A field of daises wandering in the wind +As though a hidden serpent glided through, +A broken wall, a new-plowed field, and then +The dusty road and the abodes of men +Surrounding the hill. +How small the enclosure is wherein there lives +Each phase and passion of life, the distant sail +Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea, +From that far place to where in state the turf +Raises a throne for me upon the hill, +Each little love and lust of a living thing +Can thus be compassed in a rainbow ring +And seen from the hill. + +II. + +AGE + +Why did I build my cottage on a hill +Facing the sea? +Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope +Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope, +Surging and sweeping, +laughing and leaping, +Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore, +Rustling the sands that know my step no more, +I should have found a valley, deep and still, +To shelter me. + +There flows the river, and it seems asleep +So far away, +Yet I remember whip of wave and roar +Of wind that rose and smote against the oar, +Smote and retreated, +Proud but defeated, +While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine, +Drawing on wet and heavy-straining line +The great cod quivering from the deep +As counterplay. + +What is the solace of these hills and vales +That rise and fall? +What is there glorious in the greenwood glen, +Or twittering thrush or wing of darting wren? +Give me the gusty, +Raucous and rusty +Call of the sea gull in the echoing sky, +The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die, +Give me the life that follows the bending sails, +Or none at all! + +ERNEST BENSHIMOL + + + + +A BANQUET +ONE MEMORY FROM SOCRATES + + +After the song the love, and after the love the play, +Flute girl and pretty boy blowing +Bubbles of sparkling +Wine into darkling +Beards of a former austerity, stern even now, but fast growing +Foolish, with less of a stately +Reserve that held them sedately. +Oh Zeus, what a sight! With the wine dripping off it, +The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet. + +After the feast the night, and after the night the day, +Fool and philosopher stirring +With the day dawning, +Stretching and yawning, +While in each wine-throbbing, desolate brain is the wheeling and whirring +Of thousands of bats, that the slaking +Of throats will not hinder from aching, +No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting, +But water at morning is quench for the thirsting! + +ERNEST BENSHIMOL + + + + +SONG + + +Out of one heart the birds and I together, +Earth hushed in twilight, +Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver, +Gemmed with the sky-light, +Under the great wet star +Shaking with light, we jar +Lute-voiced the silence with intervaled music. + +While under the margined world the slow sun lingers, +Flaming earth’s portal, +Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers— +Earth is immortal! +While the frail beauty dies. +Dream in the dreamer’s eyes, +All the good gladness turns praise for the singers. + +Hark, ’tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it; +Northern, gigantic,— +Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam +Down the Atlantic; +Leaves from the autumn’s store +Shrill at my desert door, +They and I out of one heart that is grieving. + +GEORGE CABOT LODGE + + + + +THE WORLDS + + +I saw an idler on a summer day +Piping with Iris by a dancing brook; +And all his world was rife with Pleasures gay, +And languid Follies smiled from every nook. + +I saw an artist in a world of dreams, +His rainbow rising from his radiant task, +To throw its magic prism beams +O’er Fancy’s changeful masque and counter-masque. + +I saw Toil—stooping underneath a world +Whereon his foster-brothers lighter tread, +His skyward pinions ever closer furled +Before the grim necessity of bread! + +I saw a sinner working hard to be +Worthy his death-wage from the mint of time; +I saw a sailor, unto whom the sea +Was hearth and hope and love and wedding-chime. + +I saw a mother living in her child— +I saw a saint among his fellow men— +Brave soldiery before my eyes defiled +And solemn-hearted scholars—Sudden then + +I cried: “The stars are no less neighborly +In their ethereal remoteness swung, +Than these near human orbits wherein we +Live out our lives and speak our chosen tongue! + +“Love seek through all—less there be one +Least soul unlit within the night— +And over all, the selfsame sun +Give each creation light!” + +MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI + + + + +THE RIOT + + +You may think my life is quiet. +I find it full of change, +An ever-varied diet, +As piquant as ’tis strange. + +Wild thoughts are always flying, +Like sparks across my brain, +Now flashing out, now dying, +To kindle soon again. + +Fine fancies set me thrilling, +And subtle monsters creep +Before my sight unwilling: +They even haunt my sleep. + +One broad, perpetual riot +Enfolds me night and day. +You think my life is quiet? +You don’t know what you say. + +GAMALIEL BRADFORD + + + + +HUNGER + + +I’ve been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint, +Their bend of weary knees and their contortions long and faint, +And the endless pricks of conscience, like a hundred thousand pins, +A real perpetual penance for imaginary sins. + +I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell, +Where you tell and tell your beads because you’ve nothing else to tell, +Where the crimson joy of flesh, with all its wild fantastic tricks, +Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix. + +I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is torn +With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn. +There are moments when I would untread the paths that I have trod. +I’m a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God. + +GAMALIEL BRADFORD + + + + +EXIT GOD + + +Of old our father’s God was real, +Something they almost saw, +Which kept them to a stern ideal +And scourged them into awe. + +They walked the narrow path of right +Most vigilantly well, +Because they feared eternal night +And boiling depths of Hell. + +Now Hell has wholly boiled away +And God become a shade. +There is no place for him to stay +In all the world He made. + +The followers of William James +Still let the Lord exist, +And call Him by imposing names, +A venerable list. + +But nerve and muscle only count, +Gray matter of the brain, +And an astonishing amount +Of inconvenient pain. + +I sometimes wish that God were back +In this dark world and wide; +For though some virtues He might lack, +He had his pleasant side. + +GAMALIEL BRADFORD + + + + +ROUSSEAU + + +That odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, +Declared himself unique. +How men persist in doing so, +Puzzles me more than Greek. + +The sins that tarnish whore and thief +Beset me every day. +My most ethereal belief +Inhabits common clay. + +GAMALIEL BRADFORD + + + + +JOHN MASEFIELD + + +I + +MASEFIELD (HIMSELF) + +God said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay: +“Alone, ’twont do; composite, would I make +This man-child rare; ’twere well, methinks, to take +A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh +A few of Shelley’s ashes; Bunyan may +Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son’s sake, +I’ll visit Avalon; then, let me slake +The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay. + +A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear; +Offset it with tobacco! Next, I’ll find +Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant’s mind; +His mother’s heart now let me breathe upon; +When west winds blow, I’ll whisper in her ear: +“Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!” + +II + +HIS PORTRAIT + +A Man of Sorrows! with such haunted eyes, +I trow, the Master looked across the lake,— +Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make +Of Him the world’s historic sacrifice; +Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise; +Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake +And wander yet; all, weary men who brake + +Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise: +Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew; +Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all, +In Masefield’s eyes you lodge; and to the wall +I turn you,—hand a-tremble,—lest you make +Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too. +Wherein the sad world’s sadder for your sake. + +III + +HIS “DAUBER” + +O Masefield’s “Dauber!” You, who being dead, +Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul, +Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll +Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed, +Serenely rest, assured that who has read +What you would fain have pictured of the Pole +Would gladly match your part against the whole +Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred. + +And more than this: if you, indeed, are his, +Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours; +For, marked and credited by what endures, +Were it the only thing, which bears his name, +(O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!) +“The Dauber” has brought Masefield to his fame. + +IV + +HIS “GALLIPOLI” + +“Small wonder,” speaks my pensive self, “that he +Whose passion ’tis to sing of men who fail,— +(Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail) +Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli + +His fervent text, for could there be +A costlier failure in Earth’s shuddering tale? +Think of heroic Sulva’s bloody swale; +Of Anzac’s tortured thirst and agony!” +But as I read, protesting voices cry: “Not we, +Not we, who fell among the daffodils, +Who conquered Death among those blistered hills, +And found our glory after mortal pain; +Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli; +The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!” + +V + +HIS MEAD + +So, Masefield, have your royal words once more +Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due; +Your great elegiac, tragically true, +Must leave all Britain prouder than before; +And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore, +And all that anguished consciences must rue, +One arrowed gladness surely pierces through +From London’s centre to Canadian shore: + +When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli, +When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke +And all the splendid Youth her error took +As hostage from the fields of daffodils, +Let this a present, living solace be: +You are not sleeping in those cruel hills! + +AMY BRIDGEMAN + + + + +1620-1920 + + +Before him rolls the dark, relentless ocean; +Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands; +Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion +The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands; + +“God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us +Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and sword; +Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us +To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord; + +“God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us, +A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea; +God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o’er us; +God, who hast set our children’s children free, + +“Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish; +Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure: +Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; +Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure.” + + +Face to the Indian arrows. +Face to the Prussian guns, +From then till now the Pilgrim’s vow +Has held the Pilgrim’s sons. + +He braved the red man’s ambush, +He loosed the black man’s chain; +His spirit broke King George’s yoke +And the battleships of Spain. + +He crossed the seething ocean; +He dared the death-strewn track; +He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel +And hurled the tyrant back. + +For the voice of the lonely Pilgrim +Who knelt upon the strand +A people hears three hundred years +In the conscience of the land. + + +Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage, +Conscience, all hail! +Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims, +Thou shalt prevail. +Look how the empires rise and fall! +Athens robed in her learning and beauty, +Rome in her royal lust for power— +Each has flourished for her little hour, +Risen and fallen and ceased to be. +What of her by the Western Sea, +Born and bred as the child of Duty, +Sternest of them all? +She it is and she alone +Who built on faith as her corner stone; +Of all the nations none but she +Knew that the truth shall make us free. +Daughter of Courage, mother of heros, +Freedom divine. +Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim, +Still shalt thou shine. + + +Yet even as we in our pride rejoice, +Hark to the prophet’s warning voice: +“The Pilgrim’s thrift is vanished +And the Pilgrim’s faith is dead, +And the Pilgrim’s God is banished, +And Mammon reigns in his stead; +And work is damned as an evil, +And men and women cry, +In their restless haste, ‘Let us spend and waste, +And live; for to-morrow we die.’ + +“And law is trampled under; +And the nations stand aghast, +As they hear the distant thunder +Of the storm that marches fast; +And we,—whose ocean borders +Shut off the sound and the sight, +We will wait for marching orders; +The world has seen us fight; +We have earned our days of revel; +‘On with the dance’! we cry. +It is pain to think; we will eat and drink! +And live; for to-morrow we die.” + +“We have laughed in the eyes of danger; +We have given our bravest and best; +We have succored the starving stranger; +Others shall heed the rest.’ +And the revel never ceases; +And the nations hold their breath; +And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels, +To a carnival of death. + +“Slaves of sloth and the senses, +Clippers of Freedom’s wings, +Come back to the Pilgrim’s Army +And fight for the King of Kings; +Come back to the Pilgrim’s conscience; +Be born in the nation’s birth; +And strive again as simple men +For the freedom of the earth. +Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish, +Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure: +Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; +Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure.” + + +Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages, +When the wide earth is racked with war and crime, +Founded forever on the Rock of Ages, +Beaten in vain by surging seas of time, + +Even as the shallop on the breakers riding, +Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore, +Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding, +Hold thou thy children free forever more. + + +And when we sail as Pilgrims’ sons and daughters +The spirit’s Mayflower into seas unknown, +Driving across the waste of wintry waters +The voyage every soul shall make alone, + +The Pilgrim’s faith, the Pilgrim’s courage grant us; +Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone. +We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us. +The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on! + +LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS + + + + +THE CROSS-CURRENT + + +Through twelve stout generations +New England blood I boast; +The stubborn pastures bred them, +The grim, uncordial coast, + +Sedate and proud old cities,— +Loved well enough by me, +Then how should I be yearning +To scour the earth and sea. + +Each of my Yankee forbears +Wed a New England mate: +They dwelt and did and died here, +Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. + +My clan endured their kindred; +But foreigners they loathed, +And wandering folk, and minstrels, +And gypsies motley-clothed. + +Then why do patches please me, +Fantastic, wild array? +Why have I vagrant fancies +For lads from far away. + +My folk were godly Churchmen,— +Or paced in Elders’ weeds; +But all were grave and pious +And hated heathen creeds. + +Then why are Thor and Wotan +To dread forces still? +Why does my heart go questing +For Pan beyond the hill? + +My people clutched at freedom.— +Though others’ wills they chained,— +But made the Law and kept it,— +And Beauty, they restrained. + +Then why am I a rebel +To laws of rule and square? +Why would I dream and dally, +Or, reckless, do and dare? + +O righteous, solemn Grandsires, +O dames, correct and mild, +Who bred me of your virtues! +Whence comes this changing child?— + +The thirteenth generation,— +Unlucky number this!— +My grandma loved a Pirate, +And all my faults are his! + +A gallant, ruffled rover, +With beauty-loving eye, +He swept Colonial waters +Of coarser, bloodier fry. + +He waved his hat to danger, +At Law he shook his fist. +Ah, merrily he plundered, +He sang and fought and kissed! + +Though none have found his treasure, +And none his part would take,— +I bless that thirteenth lady +Who chose him for my sake! + +ABBIE FARWELL BROWN + + + + +CANDLEMAS + + +O hearken, all ye little weeds +That lie beneath the snow, +(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) +The sun hath risen for royal deeds, +A valiant wind the vanguard leads; +Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds +Before ye rise and blow. + +O furry living things, adream +On winter’s drowsy breast, +(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) +Arise and follow where a gleam +Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, +And all the woodland windings seem +With sweet expectance blest. + +My birds, come back! the hollow sky +Is weary for your note. +(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) +Ere May’s soft minions hereward fly, +Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny +The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, +The tawny, shining coat! + +ALICE BROWN + + + + +SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN + + +O swift forerunners, rosy with the race! +Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest +Behind your blushing banners in the sky, +Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground, +How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, +Each to be first in heralding of joy! + +With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, +And so they stand, with silence panoplied, +Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, +Their solemn invocation to the light. + +O changeless guardians! O ye wizard first! +What strenuous philter feeds your potency. +That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness, +Ready to learn of all and utter naught? +What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite +To odorous hot lendings of the heart? +What wind-but all the winds are yet afar, +And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, +That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, +Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet +To pluck the robe of patient majesty. + +Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, +So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. +Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, +Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm. +And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn, + +And all night thrills with memory and desire, +Searching in what has been for what shall be: +The marvel of the ne’er familiar day, +Sacred investiture of life renewed, +The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. +Low in the valley lies the conquered rout +Of man’s poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned +Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, +Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. +And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, +One great good limpid world—so still, so still! +For no sound echoes from its crystal curve +Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird +Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, +And has no heart to finish, for the awe +And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn. + +Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! +Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face! +Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! +Mighty libation to the Unknown God! +Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst +And little leaves drink sweet delirium! +Being and breath and potion! living soul +And all-informing heart of all that lives! +How can we magnify thine awful name +Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light! +An exhalation from far sky retreats, +It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create, +Suffusing all the dusky web of night. +But one lone corner it invades not yet, +Where low above a black and rimy crag +Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, +The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, +Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark. + +But lo! the east,—let none forget the east, +Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. +Through some sweet magic common in the skies, +The rosy banners are with saffron tinct; +The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, +And led by silence more majestical +Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! +He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, +And strikes out flame from the adoring hills. + +ALICE BROWN + + + + +BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE + + +Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust. +Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must +Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that +open the budding to-morrow. +Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the +Gods have not broken to borrow— +Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must +Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow +The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust. + +ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT + + + + +FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI + + +Fresh mists of Roman dawn; +For water search the cattle; +Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn +Above fountain Giulia’s prattle. + +Triton, joyous and loud +Of Naiads summons troops; +A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, +Dancing, pursuing groups. + +At high noon the trumpets peal, +Neptune’s chariot passes by; +Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal +Then trumpets’ echoes sigh. + +Tolling bell and sunset, +Twittering birds and calm; +Medici’s fountain, shimmering net, +Into the night brings balm. + +JESSICA CARR + + + + +IN THE TROLLEY CAR + + +The swart Italian in the trolley car, +Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; +The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, +Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed. + +One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee, +Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, +She turned away, and would not hear his plea, +She turned away, and would not even speak. + +With trembling lips the child crept back again +To the warm shelter of his father’s breast; +We looked indignant pity, for till then +We thought that mother-love bore every test. + +We rose to go, the father-mother said, +In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet +The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead, +She will be alla right, when she forget.” + +When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet +Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack! +Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, +When the warm tides of love come surging back. + +RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY + + + + +IN IRISH RAIN + + +The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, +They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; +But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again +To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. + +The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills +The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; +That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, +And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat. + +And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, +Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; +The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, +The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft! + +They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, +But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! +And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day +With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way. + +There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, +But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, +But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again +To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. + +MARTHA HASKELL CLARK + + + + +CRETONNE TROPICS + + +The cretonne in your willow chair +Shows through a zone of rosy air, +A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, +With blue-green crests and plumes of pride +And beaks most formidably curved. +I hear the river, silver-nerved, +To their shrill protests make reply, +And the palm forest stir and sigh. + +Curious, the spell that colors cast, +Binding the fancy coweb-fast, +And you would smile if you could know +I like your cretonne parrots so! +But I have seen them sail toward night +Superbly homeward, the last light +Lifting them like a purple sea +Scorned and made use of arrogantly; +And I have heard them cry aloud +From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud; +And I brought home a brilliant feather, +Lost like a flake of sunset weather. + +Here in the north the sea is white +And mother-of-pearl in morning light, +Quite lovely, but there is a glare +That daunts me. + +Now the willow chair +Suggests a more perplexing sea, +Till my heart aches with memory +And parrots dye the air around, +And I forget the pallid Sound. + +GRACE HAZARD + + + + +TO HILDA OF HER ROSES + + +Enough has been said about roses +To fill thirty thick volumes; +There are as many songs about roses +As there are roses in the world +That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon… + +It is a pity your roses +Are too late for Omar… +It is a pity Keats has gone… + +Yet there must be something left to say +Of flowers like these! +Adventurers, +They pushed their way +Through dewy tunnels of the June night +Now they confer…. +A little tremulous…. +Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning + +If Herrick would tiptoe back… +If Blake were to look this way +Ledwidge, even! + +GRACE HAZARD CONKLING + + + + +DANDELION + + +O Little soldier with the golden helmet, +What are you guarding on my lawn? +You with your green gun +And your yellow beard, +Why do you stand so stiff? +There is only the grass to fight! + +HILDA CONKLING + + + + +RED ROOSTER + + +Red rooster in your gray coop, +O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, +Yellow and black, +You have a comb gay as a parade +On your head: +You have pearl trinkets +On your feet: +The short feathers smooth along your back +Are the dark color of wet rocks, +Or the rippled green of ships +When I look at their sides through water. +I don’t know how you happened to be made +So proud, so foolish, +Wearing your coat of many colors, +Shouting all day long your crooked words, +Loud… sharp… not beautiful! + +HILDA CONKLING + + + + +VELVETS +(BY A BED OF PANSIES) + + +This pansy has a thinking face +Like the yellow moon. +This one has a face with white blots; +I call him the clown. +Here goes one down the grass +With a pretty look of plumpness; +She is a little girl going to school +With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. +Her name is Sue. +I like this one, in a bonnet, +Waiting, +Her eyes are so deep! +But these on the other side, +These that wear purple and blue, +They are the Velvets, +The king with his cloak, +The queen with her gown, +The prince with his feather. +These are dark and quiet +And stay alone. +I know you, Velvets, +Color of Dark, +Like the pine-tree on the hill +When stars shine! + +HILDA CONKLING + + + + +THE MOODS + + +The Moods have laid their hands across my hair: +The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart; +My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, +But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart +Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,— +A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book +Of little verses, or a dancing child. +My heart turns crying from the rose and book, +My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, +And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. +The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair, +And made my heart too wise, that was a child. + +Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: +I shall desire all things that may not be: +The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, +All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,— +Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, +And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, +And holy things, and outcast things, and things, +Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain. + +My pity and my joy are grown alike. +I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. +The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: +The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart. + +FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS + + + + +HILL-FANTASY + + +Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, +High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. +Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the sun, +A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale. + + +I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering; +No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. +Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing, +Peakèd ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue. + +Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds +Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool! +Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds, +Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool! + +He had berries ’twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal., +Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, +How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to chase and steal +Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low! + +I said “Good-day, Thou!” He said, “Good-day, Thou!” +Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back, +He said, “Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now. +While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack.” + +Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. +Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn. +Broad into my face laughed that hornèd Thing so naughtily. +Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr’s bairn! + +So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look! +Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So! +Soon ’twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost brook. +Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!” + +Brown One! Hoofèd One! Beat time to keep me straight. +Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear. +Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold thy breath, for—wait! +Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe, oh, hear! + +Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us? +Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow? +Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous. +Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow. + +Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe, Now? +Chipmunk chatt’ring in the beech, rabbit in the brake? +Furry arm around my neck: “Oh, Thou art a brave one, Thou!” +Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache! + +Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous, +Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade, +Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us, +Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid! + +Brown One, Hoofèd One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou! +Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail! +Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were on my brow +Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail? + +Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand-touch, +Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek! +“Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too much. +I could never find thee horns, though day-long I seek. + +“Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one. +Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear. +Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun! +Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear! + +“Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears thee! +Take the pipe and go thy ways,—quick now, for the sun +Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea. +Take the pipe, and oh-one kiss! then run, run, run! run!” + +Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn, +All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray. +O thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr’s bairn? +I am lost and all alone, and down drops the day. + + +I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering +There I got this Pipe o’ dreams. Strange, when I blow, +Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling. +Is it only sky-music, earth-music low? + +FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS + + + + +THE MIRAGE + + +Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs, +Where stand fishermen’s cottages: +I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye. +But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt, +Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible, +And those sordid dwellings have become +The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings. + +NATHAN HASKELL DOLE + + + + +THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN + + +A road goes up a pleasant hill, +And a little house looks down: +Ah! but I see the roadway still +And the day I left the town. + +The day I left my father’s home, +It’s many a year ago, +And a heart and hope were brave to roam +the long, long road I know. + +The long, long road by hill and plain, +It’s tired the heart might be: +But hope stayed bright in sun or rain, +And a Voice that called to me. + +A Voice that called me over the hill +And out of the little town: +Ah! but I see the roadway still. +And the good house looking down. + +The house that spake me never a No! +As I started brave away, +But said with a blessing, Go! +And followed me every day. + +It followed me down the road of years, +For a father’s heart is true, +And joy is sweet in a mother’s tears +For the deeds her child may do. + +The poor little deeds, all powerless +For the Kingdom of God would be, +Save in His mercy will He bless +The road that goes with me: + +The road that left a pleasant hill, +Where a little house looks down: +Ah! but I bless the roadway still, +And the land beyond the town. + +MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. + + + + +THE LILAC + + +The scent of lilac in the air +Hath made him drag his steps and pause +Whence comes this scent within the Square, +Where endless dusty traffic roars? +A push-cart stands beside the curb, +With fragrant blossoms laden high; +Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb +His sudden reverie! + +He sees us not, nor heeds the din +Of clanging car and scuffling throng; +His eyes see fairer sights within, +And memory hears the robin’s song +As once it trilled against the day, +And shook his slumber in a room +Where drifted with the breath of May +The lilac’s sweet perfume. + +The heart of boyhood in him stirs; +The wonder of the morning skies, +Of sunset gold behind the firs, +Is kindled in his dreaming eyes: +How far off is this sordid place, +As turning from our sight away +He crushes to his hungry face +A purple lilac spray. + +WALTER PRICHARD EATON + + + + +GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE + + +God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, +Though man in opposition saith me nay, +And taketh from my heart its life to-day, +As through the valley of the world I rove. +Still unaccompanied, within the grove +That doth enamored beings hold at play, +My spirit must pursue its lonely way, +And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above. +Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire +To have that which mankind may not possess, +And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire, +And live in one perpetual distress? +Some evil power must such love inspire, +And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress! + +CHARLES GIBSON + + + + +TO MUSIC + + +“Music, the language, the atmosphere of the Soul.” + +Fly back where Melodies like lilies grow, +My weary heart is bending low; + +Fly higher yet to joyful realms above, +Where holy Angels dwell in love. + +Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng +And bring to me their Glory-song: + +Ah Music, thou and I above the World +May dwell where heaven with shining song is pearled! + +While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll +I’ll love thee, Music, language of my soul! + +Music-lark from on high, song that doth fly, +Spark of the sky! + +MAUDE GORDON-ROBY + + + + +THE VOICE IN THE SONG + + +High in the apple bough jauntily swinging, +Hid by the branches in bridal array, +Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing, +Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay. +“Sweet, sweet, my sweet, +Hear I entreat! +Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather, +Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest! +Have no fear! Trust me, dear! +Sunshine of May that will gild every day +Pledge I to thee if thou’lt harken to me.” + +Lo! in the light thro’ the gay branches streaming, +Quivering in answer to all the bird sings, +Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gleaming, +Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings. +“Dear, on thy breast +Earth yields its best! +Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing, +Pleading and strong in the voice of the song, +Whisper low,—Yes, just so!— +Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling, +Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire.” + +MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON + + + + +HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT +WELLESLEY COLLEGE + + +I + +MOUNT CARMEL + +Where art Thou, O my Lord? +Mount Carmel saw the throng +Of priests and heard the song; +To Baal was their call— +From morn till night did fall. + +Where art Thou, O my Lord? +Again Mount Carmel heard +Not in the spoken word, +Not in the earthquake’s shock, +Not in the rending rock + +Where art Thou, O my Lord? +The still voice softly speaks; +Each soul it swiftly seeks +Not in the thunder roll, +But in the inmost soul. + +II + +VESPER HYMN + +Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night, +To keep us till the morning light; +And let no vision of alarm +Come near to do Thy children harm + +Within Thy circling arms we lie, +O God, in Thine infinity; +Our souls in quiet shall abide +Beset with love on every side. + +III + +THIS IS THAT BREAD + +This is that Bread that came down from Heaven, +he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever. + +Bread on which angels feed, +Bread for the spirit’s need +By faith receiving, +New life do Thou impart, +New strength to every heart, +Pure love of God Thou art +To us believing. + +IV + +O SLOW OF HEART + +O slow of heart to believe! Ought Christ not to +have suffered these things and to enter into His Glory? + +Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart, +Touch my eyes that they may see, +Let me know Thee as Thou art. +Life and Immortality. + +V + +ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS + +All hail to Thee, child Jesus! +As the brooding darkness flies +At the swift approach of day, +Sun of righteousness, arise, +Chase the gloom of night away. +Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, +And build in every heart Thy throne. + +Come to shed Thy healing balm +On all nations of the earth, +Child Jesus, come with holy calm, +How we hail thy wondrous birth. +Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own, +And build in every heart Thy throne. +All hail to Thee, Child Jesus! + +VI + +THE WINE-PRESS + +Who is this that comes from Edom +In such glorious array, +With his festal garments gleaming, +Travelling on his royal way +With a face majestic, calm and grave? +I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save. + +Why is thy apparel crimson, +Why is all thy garments’ pride +Stained as in the time of vintage +And with blood-red-color dyed? +Because of helpers I had none— +I have trodden the wine-press alone. + +VII + +WAKEN, SHEPHERDS! + +(Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! +(Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken; +Whence this glowing light? +Ere the dawn of morning, +Solemn signs of warning +Portent of affright! + +(Angels) Courage, Shepherds, courage! +Banish your dismay, +or ye all are saved. +In the town of David +Christ is born to-day. + +(Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken, +Hear the angels sing! +Jehovah sends a token, +He himself hath spoken +To proclaim our King. + +(Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten, +This shall be your sign; +Where the kine are stabled, +In a manger cradled +Lies the Child Divine. + +(Shepherds and Angels) Angels, Shepherds, People, +Shout the glad refrain! +Joy to every nation +Bringing full salvation, +Christ has come to reign. +Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! + +CAROLINE HAZARD + + + + +REUBEN ROY + + +Little fellow, brown with wind— +I saw him in the street +Peering at numbers on the posts, +But most discreet: + +For when a woman came outdoors, +Or slyly peeped instead, +He turned away, took off his hat, +And scratched his head. + +I watched him from my garden-wall +Perhaps an hour or more, +For something in his attitude, +The clothes he wore, + +Awoke the dimmest memories +Of when I was a boy +And knew the story of a man +Named Reuben Roy. + +It seems that Reuben went to sea +The night his wife decried +The fence he built before their house +And up the side. + +He wanted it but she did not, +Because it hid from view +The spot in which her mignonette +And tulips grew. + +Nobody saw his face again, +But each year, unawares, +He sent a sum for taxes due— +And fence repairs. + +My curiosity aroused, +I sauntered forth to see +Whether this individual +Were really he. + +“Who are you looking for?” I asked +His eyes, like two bright pence, +Sparkled at mine; and then he said: +“A fence.” + +“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en, +When people were in bed; +Before the judge could prosecute, +The culprit fled.” + +Well, Reuben only touched his hat +And mumbled, “Thank you, Sir,” +And asked me whereabouts to find +A carpenter. + +HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS + + + + +COUNTRY ROAD + + +I can’t forget a gaunt grey barn +Like a face without an eye +That kept recurring by field and tarn +Under a Cape Cod sky. + +I can’t forget a woman’s hand, +Roughened and scarred by toil +That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned +By sun and wind and soil. + +Beauty and hardship, bent and bound +Under the selfsame yoke: +Babies with bare knees plump and round +And stooping women folk. + +MARIE LOUISE HERSEY + + + + +WREATHS + + +Red wreaths +Hang in my neighbor’s window, +Green wreaths in my own. +On this day I lost my husband. +On this day you lost your boy. +On this day +Christ was born. +Red wreaths, +Green wreaths +Hang in Our Windows +Red for a bleeding heart, +Green for grave grass. +Mary, mother of Jesus, +Look down and comfort us. +You too knew passion; +You too knew pain. +Comfort us, +Who are not brides of God, +Nor bore God. +On Christmas day +Hang wreaths, +Red for new pain. +Green for spent passion. + +CAROLYN HILLMAN + + + + +MEMPHIS + + +Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you, +Rather I’d dream of Dixie and tie ships on the old bayou! +Rather I’d dream of my packets and the lazy river days, +Rather I’d dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze, + +Rather I’d dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by, +Rather I’d dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky, +Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade, +Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers’ fathers made! + +Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me, +But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea! +Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain. +Send me back my river, and I shall wake again! + +GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN + + + + +SAINT COLUMBKILLE + + +Columbkille! Saint Columbkille! +You naughty man, Saint Columbkille! +Why did you Finnian’s Psalter take +And secretly a copy make? +You know ’twas such a naughty thing +For one descended from a king +To lock himself into a cell, +’Twas far from right,-you knew it well,— +And copy Finnian’s Psalter through, +Against his will as well you knew. +And then to think a common bird +Should feel such shame, that when he heard +The breathing spy outside your door, +And felt your sainthood was no more, +Should through the crack attack the spy, +And in a rage pluck out his eye, +As if that saintly Irish crane +Would hide from all your Saintship’s stain. +I grieve to think that you did add +Sin unto sin; it is too bad. +For Finnian could not you persuade +To yield the copy that you made, +Until the King in his behalf +Ruled-“To each cow belongs her calf”: +And then you grew so mad you swore +On Erin’s face you’d look no more. +And crossed the sea the Picts to save, +Because you so did misbehave +To dear Saint Finnian: faith, ’twas ill +For you to act so, Columbkille! +A saint you were no doubt, no doubt! +What pity ’twas you were found out! +We know an angel (snob or fool?) +To Kiaran showed a common rule, +An axe, an auger, and a saw, +And told that saint it was the law +Of Heaven that Columbkille should be +Far, far above such saints as he; +For Columbkille contemned a crown, +While he these homely tools laid down, +To serve the Lord, and that the Lord +To each would give his due reward. +I wonder if that angel knew +That Christ these tools had laid down too. +O Columbkille! O Columbkille! +A saint like you must have his will, +But for myself I’d rather be +The common sinner that you see +Than make a crane ashamed of me, +And angels talk such idiocy. + +E. J. V. HUIGINN + + + + +MISS DOANE + + +Miss Doane was sixty, probably; +She rented third floor room +That opened on an airshaft full +Of cooking smells and gloom. + +She worked in philanthropic man’s +Well-known department store; +Cashiered in basement, hot and close, +For forty years or more. + +Each night when she came home she’d stand +A moment in the hall, +Before she went into her room +With low and tender call. + +And often I would hear her voice +Repeat a childish prayer; +Or read some old, old fairy tale +Of Princess, grand and fair. + +One night I went to visit her +And spied, in little chair +A great wax doll, in dainty dress, +And curls of flaxen hair. + +I praised the doll; its prettiness; +Miss Doane said, “I’m alone. +She comforts me. I wanted so +A child to call my own.” + +Each night I heard her softly sing +A childish lullaby; +But once, and just before she died, +I heard her cry and cry! + +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + + + + +FALLEN FENCES + + +The woods grew dark; black shadows +rocked +And I could scarcely see +My way along the old tote road, +That long had seemed to me + +To wind on aimlessly; but now +Came full to life; the rain +Would soon strike down; ahead I saw +A clearing, and a lane + +Between gray, fallen fences and +Wide, grayer, grim stone walls; +So grim and gray I shrank from thought +Of weary, aching spalles. + +On stony knoll great aspens swayed +And swung in browsing teeth +Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook +And shivered underneath. + +Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent +And wrangled over roof +Of weatherbeaten house, and barn +Whose sag bespoke no hoof. + +And ivy crawled up either end +Of house, to chimney, where +It lashed in futile anger at +The wind wolves of the air. + +I thought the house abandoned, and +I ran to get inside, +When suddenly the old front door +was opened and flung wide + +And she stood there, with hand on knob, +As I went swiftly in, +Then closed the door most softly on +The storm and shrieking din. + +A space I stood and looked at her, +So young; ’twas passing strange +That fifty years or more had gone +And brought no new style’s change. + +The sweetness, daintiness of her +In starched and dotted gown +Of creamy whiteness, over hoops, +With ruffles winding down! + +We had not much to say, and yet +Of words I felt no lack; +Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped +A moment, then dropped back. + +I felt her pride of race; her taste +In silken rug and chair, +And quaintly fashioned furniture +Of patterns old and rare. + +On window sill a rose bush stood; +’Twas bringing rose to bud; +One full bloomed there but yesterday, +Dropped petals, red as blood. + +Quite soon, she asked to be excused +For just a moment, and +Went out, returning with a tray +In either slender hand. + +My glance could not but linger on +Each thin and lovely cup; +“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed +The while she raised it up. + +And when the storm was done and I +Arose, reluctantly +To go, she too was loath to have +Me go, it seemed to me. + +When I reached old Joe Webber’s place, +Upon the Corner Road, +I went into the Upper Field +Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed + +Potatoes, culling them with hoe +And practised, calloused hand, +In rounded piles that brownly glowed +Upon the fresh-turned land. + +“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl +With beauty’s smiling charm, +That lives beyond that hemlock growth, +On that old grown-up farm?” + +Joe listened, while I told him where +I’d been that afternoon, +Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed, +Before he spoke, a tune + +“They cum ter thet old place ter live +Some sixty years ago; +Jest where they cum from, who they ware, +Wy, no one got to know. + +“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s +Red racker an’ the gig; +We never heard from him nor could +We track the hoss or rig. + +“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then +He went ter see the Wife; +He found her in thet settin’ room: +She’d taken of her life. + +“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence; +Some say ’tis haunted,-but +I ain’t no use fer foolishness, +So all I say’s tut! tut!” + +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + + + + +CROSS-CURRENTS + + +They wrapped my soul in eiderdown; +They placed me warm and snug +In carved chair; set me with care +Upon an old prayer rug. + +They cased my feet in golden shoes +That hurt at toe and heel; +My restless feet, with youth all fleet, +Nor asked how they might feel. + +And now they wonder where I am, +And search with shrill, cold cry; +But I crouch low where tall reeds grow, +And smile as they pass by! + +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + + + + +THE FAREWELL + + +What is more beautiful +Than thought, soul-fed, +That I may be the crimson of a rose +When dead? + +My soul, so light a joy +And grief will be, +That it will gently press the brown earth down +On me. + +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON + + + + +SONG + + +Let me be great, as stars are great, +Singing of love, not of hate. + +Love for sweet and simple things, +Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings, + +Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers, +Thin coils of smoke and granite towers, + +Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash +High above a river’s crash, + +Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter, +Soft grey shadows trailing after + +Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods +And lose themselves in solitudes. + +All these I’ll love, never hate, +And loving them, I will be great. + +OLIVER JENKINS + + + + +LOVE AUTUMNAL + + +My love will come in autumn-time +When leaves go spinning to the ground +And wistful stars in heaven chime +With the leaves’ sound. + +Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes +And pause beneath low-hanging boughs, +And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns +We’ll make our vows. + +Let others seek in spring for sighs +When love flames forth from every seed; +But love that blooms when nature dies +Is love indeed! + +OLIVER JENKINS + + + + +ECHOS + + +Traveling at dusk the noisy city street, +I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries +Of “Extra,” as with flying feet, +They strove to gain this man or that-their prize. +But one there was with neither shout nor stride, +And, having bought from him, I stood nearby, +Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, +Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why— + +When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet +The cripple with “On time to-night?” +Then, as he handed out the sheet, +The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right. +My other reg’lars are a little late. +They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come; +You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, +I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!” + +So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way +For I had found a city’s heart that day. + +RUTH LAMBERT JONES + + + + +WAR PICTURES + + +“German Retreat From Arras” +“Official Films”-they came +After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” +Had ministered to fame. + +After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” +Had pigeon-toed away, +We saw where bits of churches +And bits of horses lay. + +We saw bleak desolation; +We saw no unscathed tree. +We shivered in our comfort +And murmured: “Can it be!” + +But later, walking homeward, +Repeating: “Is it true?” +We brushed a khaki shoulder +And asked no more. We knew! + +RUTH LAMBERT JONES + + + + +AN OLD SONG + + +When I was but a young lad, +And that is long ago, +I thought that luck loved every man, +And time his only foe, +And love was like a hawthorn bush +That blossomed every May, +And had but to choose his flower, +For that’s the young lad’s way. + +Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer, +It’s easy come and spent, +And heavy is the going now +Where once the light foot went. +The hawthorn bush puts on its white, +The throstle whistles clear, +But Spring comes once for every man +Just once in all the year. + +ARTHUR KETCHUM + + + + +ROADSIDE REST + + +Such quiet sleep has come to them! +The Springs and Autumns pass, +Nor do they know if it be snow +Or daisies in the grass. + +All day the birches bend to hear +The river’s undertone; +Across the hush a fluting thrush +Sings even-song alone. + +But down their dream there drifts no sound, +The winds may sob and stir: +On the still breast of Peace they rest +And they are glad of her. + +They ask not any gift—they mind +Nor any foot that fares, +Unheededly life passes by— +Such quiet sleep is theirs. + +ARTHUR KETCHUM + + + + +OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP + + +Bed is the boon for me! +It’s well to bake and sweep, +But hear the word of old Lizette: +It’s better than all to sleep. + +Summer and flowers are gay, +And morning light and dew; +But aged eyelids love the dark +Where never a light peeps through. + +What!—open-eyed, my dears? +Thinking your hearts will break. +There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say, +That’s worth the lying awake! + +I learned it in my youth— +Love I was dreaming of! +I learned it from the needle-work +That took the place of love. + +I learned it from the years +And what they brought about; +From song, and from the hills of joy +Where sorrow sought me out. + +It’s good to dream and turn, +And turn and dream, or fall +To comfort with my pack of bones, +And know of nothing at all! + +Yes, never know at all! +If prowlers mew or bark, +Nor wonder if it’s three o’clock +Or four o’clock of the dark. + +When the longer shades have fallen +And the last weariness +Has brought the sweetest gift of life, +The last forgetfulness. + +If a sound as of old leaves +Stir the last bed I keep, +Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette— +She’s turning in her sleep!” + +AGNES LEE + + + + +MOTHERHOOD + + +Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently. +Following the children joyously astir +Under the cedrus and the olive tree, +Pausing to let their laughter float to her. +Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, +She saw a little Christ in every face; +When lo, another woman, gliding near, +Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place. +And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke: +“I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed +With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke +Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost. + +“I, too, have rocked my little one, +O, He was fair! +Yea, fairer than the fairest sun, +And like its rays through amber spun +His sun-bright hair. +Still I can see it shine and shine.” +“Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.” + +“His ways were ever darling ways,”— +And Mary smiled,— +“So soft, so clinging! Glad relays +Of love were all His precious days. +My little child! +My infinite star! My music fled!” +“Even so was mine,” the woman said. + +Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou, +Of thine.” And she: +“O, mine was rosy as a boug + +Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, +To bloom for me! +His balmy fingers left a thrill +Within my breast that warms me still.” + +Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour, +And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not, +“Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?” +“I am the mother of Iscariot.” + +AGNES LEE + + + + +ESSEX + + +I + +Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring, +And wait, in supplication’s gentleness, +The certain resurrection that shall bring +A robe of verdure for their nakedness. +Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell, +Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coil +Now promise, while the veins of nature swell, +Eternal recompense to human toil. +And when the sunset’s final shades depart +The aspiration to completed birth +Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start, +We know how wanton and how little worth +Are all the passions of our bleeding heart +That vex the awful patience of the earth. + +II + +Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun +Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor +Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore, +And thine the stars, revealing one by one, +Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion, +The tawny moon that waits below the skies,— +Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes +Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was done. +And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast +To thy benign October, thine the trees +Lusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest; +And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified +Thy name with Liberty Is divine decrees— +The men who loved thy soil and fought and died. + +III + +Toward thine Eastern window when the morn +Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars, +I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars +Where men have fought and wept and died forlorn. +But here, across the early fields of corn, +The living silence dwelleth, and the gray +Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray +Breathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn. +Open thy lattice, for the gage is won +For which this earth has journeyed though the dust +Of shattered systems, cold about the sun; +And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled, +A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”— +And falls like dew God’s pity on the world + +GEORGE CABOT LODGE + + + + +THE SONG OF THE WAVE + + +This is the song of the wave! The mighty one! +Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound: +White as a live terror, as a drawn sword, +This is the wave. + +II + +This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the Tempest +Whose veins are swollen with life, +In whose flanks abide the four winds. +This is the wave. + +III + +This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the sea +And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield, +And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword. +Then a wind blew out of the morning +And the waters rustled +And the wave was born! + +IV + +This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon +And the white sea-birds like driven foam +Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky +And the face of the waters was barred with white, +For the wave had many brothers, +And the wave was strong! + +V + +This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunset +And the west was lurid as Hell. +The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead. +Then the wind smote full as the breath of God, +And the wave called to its brothers, +“This is the crest of life!” + +VI + +This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall, +Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass +That has caught the soul of the moonlight. +Caught and prisoned the moon-beams; +Its edge is frittered to foam. +This is the wave! + +VII + +This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls— +Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morning +It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand. +This is the wave. + +VIII + +This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life. +The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength +In the lust of attainment. +Aiming at things for Heaven too high, +Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength. +So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found: +Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars, +The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, +Whose eye is filled with the Image of God, +And the end is Death! + +GEORGE CABOT LODGE + + + + +FRIMAIRE + + +Dearest, we are like two flowers +Blooming in the garden, +A purple aster flower and a red one +Standing alone in a withered desolation. + +The garden plants are shattered and seeded, +One brittle leaf scrapes against another, +Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals. +Now only you and I nodding together. + +Many were with us; they have all faded. +Only we are purple and crimson, +Only we in the dew-clear mornings, +Smarten into color as the sun rises. + +When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, +And later when my cold roots tighten, +I am anxious for morning, +I cannot rest in fear of what may happen. + +You or I—and I am a coward. +Surely frost should take the crimson. +Purple is a finer color, +Very splendid in isolation. + +So we nod above the broken +Stems of flowers almost rotted. +Many mornings there cannot be now +For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you! + +AMY LOWELL + + + + +PATTERNS + + +I walk down the garden paths, +And all the daffodils +Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. +I walk down the patterned garden paths +In my stiff, brocaded gown. +With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, +I too am a rare +Pattern. As I wander down +The garden paths. + +My dress is richly figured, +And the train +Makes a pink and silver stain +On the gravel, and the thrift +Of the borders. +Just a plate of current fashion, +Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. +Not a softness anywhere about me, +Only a whale-bone and brocade. +And I sink on a seat in the shade +Of a lime tree. For my passion +Wars against the stiff brocade. +The daffodils and squills +Flutter in the breeze +As they please. +And I weep; +For the lime tree is in blossom +And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + +And the splashing of waterdrops +In the marble fountain +Comes down the garden paths. +The dripping never stops. +Underneath my stiffened gown +Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, +A basin in the midst of hedges grown +So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, +But she guesses he is near, +And the sliding of the water +Seems the stroking of a dear +Hand upon her. +What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! +I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. +All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground. + +I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, +And he would stumble after, +Bewildered by my laughter. +I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. +I would choose +To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, +A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, +Till he caught me in the shade, +And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, +Aching, melting, unafraid. +With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, +And the plopping of the waterdrops, +All about us in the open afternoon— +I am very like to swoon +With the weight of this brocade, +For the sun sifts through the shade. + +Underneath the fallen blossom +In my bosom, +Is a letter I have hid. +It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. +“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell +Died in action Thursday sen’night.” +As I read it in the white morning sunlight. +The letters squirmed like snakes. +“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. +“No,” I told him. +“See that the messenger takes some refreshment. +No, no answer.” +And I walked into the garden, +Up and down the patterned paths, +In my stiff, correct brocade. +The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, +Each one. +I stood upright too, +Held rigid to the pattern +By the stiffness of my gown. +Up and down I walked, +Up and down. + +In a month he would have been my husband, +In a month, here, underneath this lime, +We would have broke the pattern; +He for me, and I for him, +He as Colonel, I as lady, +On this shady seat. +He had a whim +That sunlight carried blessing. +And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” +Now he is dead. + +In Summer and in Winter I shall walk +Up and down +The patterned garden paths +In my stiff, brocaded gown. +The squills and the daffodils +Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. + +I shall go +Up and down, +In my gown. +Gorgeously arrayed, +Boned and stayed. +And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace +By each button, hook and lace. +For the man who should loose me is dead, +Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, +In a pattern called a war. +Christ! What are patterns for? + +AMY LOWELL + + + + +A BATHER + + +Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade. +Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves, +Half-quenched in their various green, just a point of you showing, +A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into +The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again +Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged sharp as white ivory, +Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts, +Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit, +And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence of leaves. +So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges +Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you, +The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum-oozing spruces, +While below runs the water impatient, impatient to take you, +To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness, +Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders, +Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty, +Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you +To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories +The summer. +Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just +Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection, +Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes +Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo, +For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men. +You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder, +And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow +your swimming, To behold the way they act. +And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning. + +AMY LOWELL + + + + +LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS + + +Over where the Irish hedges +Are with blossoms white as snow, +Over where the limestone ledges +Through the soft green grasses show— +There the fairies may be seen +In their jackets of red and green, +Leprechauns and cluricauns, +And the other ones, I ween. + +And, bedad, it is a wonder +To behold the way they act. +They’re the lads that seldom blunder, +Wise and wary, that’s the fact. +You may hold them with your eye; +Look away and off they fly; +Leprechauns and cluricauns, +Bedad, but they are sly! + +They have heaps of golden treasure +Hid away within the ground, +Where they spend their days in leisure, +And where fairy joys abound; +But to mortals not a guinea +Will they give-no, not a penny. +Leprechauns and cluricauns, +Their gold is seldom found. + +Maybe of a morning early +As you pass a lonely rath, +You may see a little curly— +Headed fairy in your path. +He’ll be working at a shoe, +But he’ll have his eye on you— +Leprechauns and cluricauns, +They know just what to do. + +Visions of a life of riches +Surely will before you flash; +(You’ll no longer dig the ditches, +You’ll be well supplied with cash.) +And you’ll seize the little man, +And you’ll hold him—if you can; +Leprechauns and cluricauns, +’Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan! + +DENIS A. MCCARTHY + + + + +L’ENVOI + + +When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane, +And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain, +And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain, +Shall we weary for the battle and the strife? + +When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near, +And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear +Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year, +Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass? + +Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands, +Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands, +Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands, +Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze? + +Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss, +Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss +Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss— +Consuming us within the flame? + +DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN + + + + +TO IMAGINATION +SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES” + + +O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought +Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, +What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought, +What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled! +Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled, +A mystic imagery of castled thought, +A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould— +A radiant iridescence swiftly caught +Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught. + +Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky, +A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,— +Eyes that behold afar the turrets high +Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace +Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race +Of Athens,—eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie +In passionate adoration—visions trace +Across the tender brooding of the sigh +That wrecked a city and made chieftains die. + +Forward not backward turns the mystic shine +Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam— +The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line +On line the wizard tracery of a dream. +O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, +Beyond what bounds of visioning divine +Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun-beam +Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine +The power to build and mould the deep design? + +Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, +Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white, +Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell +The eternal silence of the dark—or light? +Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict +The symboled mystery-write the final knell +Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight +A nothingless encircled by a spell +Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell? + +In vain to question, where the mystery +Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king. +The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy, +Were never meant to paint the immortal thing +They see, nor understand the joy they bring. +The misty baubles of the sky and sea +Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling +The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, +Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry. + +DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN + + + + +DRAGON + + +Some saw a dragon eating up the light, +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! +Some heard a lost bird riding out the night, +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! + +But I saw: +A low dark hill with its twisted back +Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, +A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf +Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, +Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail! + +And I heard: +The wind draw out of the west and wail, +Dance and stagger and jig and reel! +With the long low sound of a life in grief! + +I saw a life in grief +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho +Dance and stagger and jig and reel! +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! + +JEANNETTE MARKS +“THE BOOKMAN.” + + + + +GREEN GOLDEN DOOR + + +Green golden door, swing in, swing in! +Fanning the life a man must live, +Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, +Love and hope that he called his, +Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin +Casting them forth and sucking them in, +Green golden door, swing out, swing out! + +Green golden door, swing in, swing in! +Show me the youth that will not die, +Tell me the dream that has not waked, +Seek me the heart that never ached, +Green golden door, swing out, swing out! + +Green golden door, swing in, swing out! +Long is the wailing of man’s breath, +Short is the wail of death. + +JEANNETTE MARKS + + + + +SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD + + +Four graves there are upon the wooded crest, +Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear. +Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here. +Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest +Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast +Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer +And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, +Her name by little men and women blessed. + +Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways +Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, +But now the world has crowned them with its bays, +And holds them close forever to its heart. +O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, +And from its slopes shall never Love depart! + +JOHN CLAIR MINOT + + + + +THE SWORD OF ARTHUR + + +A castle stands in Yorkshire +(Oh, the hill is fair and green!) +And far beneath it lies a cave +No living man has seen. + +It is the cave enchanted +(Oh, seek it ere ye die!) +And there King Arthur and his knights +In dreamless slumber lie. + +One time a peasant found it +(Oh, the years have hurried well!) +It was the day of fate for him, +And this is what befell: + +Upon a couch of crystal +(Oh, heart be pure and strong!) +He saw the King, and, close beside, +The armored knights athrong. + +And all of them were sleeping +(Praise God, who sendeth rest!) +The sleep that comes when strife is done +And ended every quest. + +Beside the good King Arthur +(How high is your desire?) +His sword within its scabbard lay, +The sword with blade of fire. + +Now had the peasant known it +(Oh, if we all could know!) +He should have drawn that wondrous blade +Before he turned to go. + +If but his hand had touched it +(The sword still lieth there!) +He would have felt in every vein +A lofty purpose thrill. + +If but his hand had drawn it +(The sword still lieth there!) +A kingly way he would have walked, +Wherever he might fare. + +But no; he fled affrighted +(Oh, pitiful the cost!) +And then he knew; but lo! the way +Into the cave was lost. + +He searched forever after +(All this was long ago!) +But nevermore that crystal cave +His eager eyes could know. + +Pray God ye have the vision +(Oh, search in every land!) +To seize the sword that Arthur bore +When it lies at your hand. + +JOHN CLAIR MINOT + + + + +THE DIVINE FOREST + + +If there be leaves on the forest floor, +Dead leaves there are and nothing more, +If trunks of trees seem sentinels, +For what their vigil no man tells. +And if you clasp these guardian trees +Nothing there is to hurt or please; +Only the dead roof of the forest drops +Gently down and never stops +And roofs you in and roofs you under, +Mute and away from life’s dim thunder; +And if there come eternal spring +It is but more disheartening, +For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer— +Autumn that is the latest comer— +With the Springtime’s misty wonder +And the Summer’s yield of gold, +Weighs you down and weighs you under +To where the blackened leaves are mold. . . +The lone gift of the forest is ever new: +Eternity where dwell not you. +The forest, accepting, heeds you not; +Accepting all-you are forgot. +If there be leaves on the forest floor, +Dead leaves there are and nothing more. + +Once the forest spoke but now is silent, +Save in the skyward branches whence no sound +Seems to touch ear of any man below— +Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. +Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, +Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self; +Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living. +Such lapsing of the forest then they use +And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; +Sometimes they even cut the living down +To leaven the dead roofs they would erect. +Though some of these low roofs are lovely there +Beneath the guardianship of forest trees, +And some yearn upward as with thought of wings, +Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark +To the upper forest and they +Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. +They have forgotten +That the greatest roof is but a banner +And that it was a tree that made a Cross. + +CHARLES R. MURPHY + + + + +MAGIC + + +TO W.S.B. + +I ran into the sunset light +As hard as I could run: +The treetops bowed in sheer delight +As if they loved the sun: +And all the songs of little birds +Who laughed and cried in silver words +Were joined as they were one. + +And down the streaming golden sky +A lark came circling with a cry +Of wonder-weaving joy: +And all the arch of heaven rang +Where meadowlands of dreaming hang +As when I was a boy. + +And through the ringing solitude +In pulsing lovely amplitude +A mist hung in a shroud, +As though the light of loneliness +Turned pure delight to holiness, +And bathed it in a cloud. + +I stripped my laughing body bare +And plunged into that holy air +That washed me like a sea, +And raced against its silver tide +That stroked my eager glancing side +And made my spirit free. + +Across the limits of the land +The wind and I swept hand and hand +Beyond the golden glow. +We danced across the ocean plain +Like thrushes singing in the rain +A song of long ago. + +And on into the silver night +We strove to win the race with light +And bring the vision home, +And bring the wonder home again +Unto the sleeping eyes of men +Across the singing foam. + +And down the river of the world +Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled +As spring within a flower, +And stars in music of delight +Streamed gayly down our shoulders white +Like petals in a shower. + +And tears of awful wonder ran +Adown my cheeks to hear the clan +Of beauty chaunting white +The prayer too deep for living word, +Or sight of man or winging bird, +Or music over forest heard +At falling of the night. + +And dropping slowly as the dew +On grasses that the winds renew +In urge of flooding fire, +And softly as the hushing boughs +The gentle airs of dawn arouse +To cradle morning’s quire. + +The murmur of the singing leaves +Around the secret Flame, +Like mating swallows ’neath the eaves +In rustling silence came, +And flowing through the silent air +Creation fluttered in a prayer +Descending on a spiral stair, +And calling me by name. + +It nestled in my dreaming eyes +Like heaven in a lake, +And softened hope into surprise +For very beauty’s sake, +And silence blossomed into morn, +Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn +Could scarcely bear to break. + +I sang into the morning light +As loud as I could sing, +The treetops bowed in sheer delight +Before the slanting wing. +And all the songs of little birds +Who laughed and cried in silver words +Adored the Risen Spring. + +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN + + + + +MICHAEL PAT + + +TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH + +Old Michael Pat he said to me +He saw an angel in a tree. +He knew I’d never, never doubt him, +For what would heaven be without them. +The angel laughed for very glee +And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!” +Old Michael felt a creeping kind +Of wonder in his humble mind, +And, hardly knowing what to say, +Ran where the angel showed the way. +The lambs were running on the hills, +Glad laughter echoed from the rills, +And many hidden little birds +Talked pleasant things in singing words. +He followed up a mountain then +And saw a crowd of singing men +Approaching to a Crown of Light +Wherein they took a fresh delight. +He danced and sang and whooped and crew +To see the Lord of all he knew +Surrounded by the living songs +Of stars and men in countless throngs, +And then he died to life again, +And shovelled with the strength of ten. +He taught me how to say my letters, +And take my hat off to my betters, +And when I asked for fairy stories, +He told me of angelic glories. +He was a lovely farmer, he +Had seen an angel in a tree. + +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN + + + + +SONG + + +FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE” + +Ebb on with me across the sunset tide +And float beyond the waters of the world, +The light of evening slipping from my side, +Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled. + +Flow on into the flaming morning wine, +Drowning the land in color. Then on high +Rise in thy candid innocence and shine +Like to a poplar straight against the sky. + +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN + + + + +IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE +(Killed in action, July 31, 1917) + + +Soldier and singer of Erin, +What may I fashion for thee? +What garland of words or of flowers? +Singer of sunlight and showers, +The wind on the lea; + +Of clouds, and the houses of Erin, +Wee cabins, white on the plain, +And bright with the colours of even, +Beauty of earth and of heaven +Outspread beyond Slane! + +Slane, where the Easter of Patrick +Flamed on the night of the Gael, +Guard both the honor and story +Of him who has died for the glory +That crowns Innisfail. + +Soldier of right and of freedom, +I offer thee song and not tears. +With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell, +The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell, +Live on through the years! + +NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR + + + + +EVENSONG + + +A shepherd piping, herald of the Night +Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, +Treading low gently, clad in greyish white, +Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail! +For Day departed moves in funeral train +Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose, +The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main +While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows. +As when a mother gathers to her breast +The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart, +Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west, +And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart. +Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, +And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will! + +NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR + + + + +THE PROPHET + + +All day long he kept the sheep:— +Far and early, from the crowd, +On the hills from steep to steep, +Where the silence cried aloud; +And the shadow of the cloud +Wrapt him in a noonday sleep. + +Where he dipped the water’s cool, +Filling boyish hands from thence, +Something breathed across the pool +Stir of sweet enlightenments; +And he drank, with thirsty sense, +Till his heart was brimmed and full. + +Still, the hovering Voice unshed, +And the Vision unbeheld, +And the mute sky overhead, +And his longing, still withheld! +—Even when the two tears welled, +Salt, upon that lonely bread. + +Vaguely blessed in the leaves, +Dim-companioned in the sun, +Eager mornings, wistful eyes, +Very hunger drew him on; +And To-morrow ever shone +With the glow the sunset weaves. + +Even so, to that young heart, +Words and hands and Men were dear; +And the stir of lane and mart +After daylong vigil here. +Sunset called, and he drew near, +Still to find his path apart. + +When the Bell, with gentle tongue, +Called the herd-bells home again, +Through the purple shades he swung, +Down the mountain, through the glen; +Towards the sound of fellow-men,— +Even from the light that clung. + +Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, +Came that silent flock of his: +Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, +After homing twos and threes; +With the longing memories +Of all white things dreamed and vowed. + +Through the fragrances, alone, +By the sudden-silent brook, +From the open world unknown, +To the close of speech and book; +There to find the foreign look +In the faces of his own. + +Sharing was beyond his skill; +Shyly yet, he made essay: +Sought to dip, and share, and fill +Heart’s-desire, from day to day. +But their eyes, some foreign way, +Looked at him; and he was still. + +Last, he reached his arms to sleep, +Where the Vision waited, dim, +Still beyond some deep-on-deep. +And the darkness folded him, +Eager heart and weary limb.— +All day long, he kept the sheep. + +JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + + + + +HARVEST-MOON: 1914 + + +Over the twilight field, +The overflowing field,— +Over the glimmering field, +And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield +Of sheaves that still did writhe, +After the scythe; +The teeming field and darkly overstrewn +With all the garnered fulness of that noon— +Two looked upon each other. +One was a Woman men called their mother; +And one, the Harvest-Moon. + +And one, the Harvest-Moon, +Who stood, who gazed +On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; +Till the lone Woman said: +“But we were crazed… +We should laugh now together, I and you, +We two. +You, for your dreaming it was worth +A star’s while to look on and light the Earth; +And I, forever telling to my mind, +Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth +To humankind! +Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss +To give the breath to men, +For men to slay again: +Lording it over anguish but to give +My life that men might live +For this. +You will be laughing now, remembering +I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, +Yes, so we named you then, +You, far more wise +Than to give life to men.” + +Over the field, that there +Gave back the skies +A shattered upward stare +From blank white eyes,— +Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune +Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, +She looked; and went her way— +The Harvest-Moon. + +JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY + + + + +HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM + + +“Horseman, springing from the dark, +Horseman, flying wild and free, +Tell me what shall be thy road +Whither speedest far from me?” + +“From the dark into the light, +From the small unto the great, +From the valleys dark I ride +O’er the hills to conquer fate!” + +“Take me with thee, horseman mine! +Let me madly rode with thee!” +As he turned I met his eyes, +My own soul looked back at me! + +LILLA CABOT PERRY + + + + +THREE QUATRAINS + + +THE CUP + +She said, “Lift high the cup!” +Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, +But, smiling, raised it up +That none might see or guess it held no wine. + +FORGIVE ME NOT! + +Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know +Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! +Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, +On dead volcanoes only lies the snow. + +THE ROSE + +One deep red rose I dropped into his grave, +So small a thing to give so great a friend! +Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave +And must fare on without it to the end, + +LILLA CABOT PERRY + + + + +A VALENTINE, UNSENT + + +Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart +To see you fade away, +Unloved, unwelcome and apart +From every joy to-day. + +Once long ago your tale was new, +Days distant yet so dear; +Why say her lover still is true, +When that is all her fear? + +Why thus recall another’s pain, +Her tender heart to fret? +Best let her think he loves again, +Who never can forget! + +MARGARET PERRY + + + + +SHIPBUILDERS + + +The German people reared them +An idol made of wood; +And Hindenburg before them +Lifelike and stupid stood. + +To clothe him all in iron +And thus his soul express, +With nails and spikes they covered +His wooden nakedness. + +And when they, thus had clothed him +All in a suit of mail, +Still came they, wild-eyed, looking +For space to drive a nail. + +Whenever Teuton airmen +Slay boys and girls at play, +Or U-boats, drowning babies, +Create a holiday. + +Then, gathering round their statue, +A happy German throng +Drive nails into the idol +To make him still more strong. + +Avenge the babes, shipbuilders, +That on the seas have died; +Avenge the little children +Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride. + +Come, gather at the shipyards, +And let your hammers ring, +For more than ships and cargoes +Waits on your fashioning. + +Come, gather at the shipyards; +With every bolt you drive +Bethink you ’tis the Kaiser +Whose brutish head you rive. + +Come, gather at the shipyards, +And swing with might and main; +’Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince +That you to-day have slain. + +Come, gather at the shipyards, +And heat the metal hot, +For it is Bethmann Hollweg +You’re boiling in the pot. + +Come, gather at the shipyards,— +And when the day is done, +You’ve spent it in driving spikes, +In Hindernburg the Hun. + +Come, gather at the shipyards, +And toil with healthy hate, +For only you can save the world, +The Hun is at the gate. + +ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER + + + + +UNFADING PICTURES + + +(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of +the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, +my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the +bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the +two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the +rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.” + —“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.) + +How many are the scenes he limned, +With artist strokes, clear-cut and free— +Our Dickens; time shall not efface +Their charm, and they will ever grace +The halls of memory. + +Oft and again we turn to them, +To contemplate in pleased review; +And like some picture on the screen +Comes now to mind a favorite scene +His master-pencil drew:— + +Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, +I see a small lad, spent and worn, +And by the window, stern and grim, +A silent figure watching him, +So dusty, ragged, torn. + +Ah, now she rises from behind +The round green fan beside her chair; +“Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends +Her voice new softness-and she bends +And brushes back his hair. + +Then in his sleep he softly stirs. +Was that a dream, these murmured words? +He wakes! There by the casement sat +Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat +And her canary birds. + +The peaceful calm of that quaint room, +Its marks of comfort everywhere— +Old china and mahogany +And blowing in, fresh from the sea, +The perfume-laden air. + +Poor little pilgrim so bereft, +So weary at his journey’s end! +What joy must then have filled his soul +To reach at last such happy goal— +To find—oh, such a friend!… + +And then night came, and from his bed +He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, +And dreamed there came, to bless her son, +His mother, with her little one, +Adown that path of light. + +Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave, +When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er, +Than such repose, content, and love; +Some shining path that leads above +To dear ones gone before! + +LOUELLA C. POOLE + + + + +WITH WAVES AND WINGS + + +Waves and Wings and Growing Things! +As through the gladden sight ye flow +And flit and glow, +Ye win me so +In soul to go, +I too am waves, I too am wings, +And kindred motion in me springs. + +With thee I pass, glad growing grass!— +I climb the air with lissome mien; +Unsheathing keen +The vivid sheen +Of springing green, +I thrill the crude, exalt the crass +Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass. + +And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!— +To make all mutable the floor +Of Earth’s firm shore, +With flashing pour +Whose brimming o’er +Impassion’d motion loves and laves +And livens sombre slumbering caves. + +Then soaring where the wild birds fare, +My song would sweep the windy lyre +Of Heaven’s choir, +Pulsing desire +For starry fire, +Abashing chilling vagues of air +With throbbing of warm breasts that dare! + +CHARLOTTE PORTER + + + + +BLUEBERRIES + + +Upon the hills of Garlingtown +Beneath the summer sky, +In many pleasant pastures +On sunny slopes and high, +Their skins abloom with dusty blue, +Asleep, the berries lie. + +And all the lads of Garlingtown, +And all the lasses too, +Still climb the tranquil hillsides, +A merry, barefoot crew; +Still homeward plod with unfilled pails +And mouths of berry blue. + +And all the birds of Garlingtown, +When flocking back to nest, +Remember well the patches +Where berries are the best; +They pick the ripest ones at dawn +And leave the lads the rest. + +Upon the hills of Garlingtown +When berry-time was o’er, +I looked into the sunset, +And saw an open door, +And from the hills of Garlingtown +I went, and came no more. + +FRANK PRENTICE RAND + + + + +NOCTURNE + + +Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space, +From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine! +The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face, +You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine. + +Each star to numberless planets gives light and motion and heat, +But you enmantle them all, the nearest and most remote; +And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles under your feet,— +Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and shine and float. + +WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER + + + + +ENVOI + + +I walked with poets in my youth, +Because the world they drew +Was beautiful and glorious +Beyond the world I knew. + +The poets are my comrades still, +But dearer than in youth, +For now I know that they alone +Picture the world of truth. + +WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER + + + + +THERE WHERE THE SEA + + +There where the sea enwrapt +A strip of land and wind-swept dune, +Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering +Noonday sun of early June,— +The Placid sea lay shimmering +In a mist of blue, +From which the sky now drew +Its wealth of hue and colour; +One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean, +As it breathed along the shore in even motion. +Among the pines and listless of the scene, +Atthis and Alcæus lay, +Within the heart of each a hunger +For the unknown gift of life. +Here from day to day +They met and dreamed away +The soft unfloding days of spring,— +Now turning to the summer. + +_Alcæus:_ +I am faint with all the fire +In my blood, +And I would plunge into the quiet blue +And lose all sense of time and you. + +_Atthis:_ +I, too, would plunge +And swim with you! + +Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty, +Calm and sure and unafraid, +The sinuous splendour of her limbs, +A silent symphony of curving line, +Which reached its final note +In breast and rounded throat. +He had not known that flesh could be so fair; +Each movement which she made +Wove o’er his sense a deeper spell, +Her beauty swept him like a flame +And caught him unaware. +She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers +Before that burning gaze, +Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders +Down among the boulders, +To the sea. +Secure within its covering depth +She called to him to follow. +She led him out along the tide, +With swift unerring stroke, +Nor paused till he was at her side. +With conquering arm +He seized her and from her brow +Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her lips— +Her eyes closed,— +As all her body yielded to his kiss. +Then home he bore her to the shore, +Within his heart a song of triumph; +In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood. +So spring for them passed on to summer. + +MARIE TUDOR + + + + +MARRIAGE + + +You, who have given me your name, +And with your laws have made me wife, +To share your failures and your fame, +Whose word has made me yours for life. + +What proof have you that you hold me? +That in reality I’m one +With you, through all eternity? +What proof when all is said and done? + +In spite of all the laws you’ve made, +I’m free. I am no part of you. +But wait-the last word is not said; +You’re mine, for I’m myself and you. + +All through my veins there flows your blood, +In you there is no part of me. +By virtue of my motherhood +Through me you live eternally. + +MARIE TUDOR + + + + +PITY + + +Oh do not Pity me because I gave +My heart when lovely April with a gust, +Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave; +And do not pity me because I thrust +Aside your love that once burned as a flame. +I was as thirsty as a windy flower +That bares its bosom to the summer shower +And to the unremembered winds that came. +Pity me most for moments yet to be, +In the far years, when some day I shall turn +Toward this strong path up to our little door +And find it barred to all my ecstasy. +No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne— +Only the crying sea upon the shore. + +HAROLD VINAL + + + + +A ROSE TO THE LIVING + + +A rose to the living is more +Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead; +In filling love’s infinite store, +A rose to the living is more, +If graciously given before +The hungering spirit is fled,— +A rose to the living is more +Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead. + +NIXON WATERMAN + + + + +THE STORM + + +She reached for sunset fires, +And lived with stars and the sea, +The mountains for her temple, +The storm for priest had she. + +Together a libation +They poured to the God she knew, +Such wine as ageless heavens +And lonely wisdom brew. + +Now she has done with worship, +For her all rites are the same; +Yet the storm keeps green forever +The moss upon her name. + +G. O. WARREN + + + + +WHERE THEY SLEEP + + +The fog inrolling, dark and still +Lies deep upon the crowded dead +As flooding sea upon the sands, +And quenches starlight overhead. + +Long have they slept. Their separate dust +Has mingled with a nameless mould. +Only the slower-crumbling stones +Still tell so much as may be told. + +And now in shoreless fog adrift +Like some lone mariner gliding by, +I lean above the drowning graves +And wonder when I too shall lie + +Where evermore the tides of night +And earth will hide my lonely rest; +And Time will bid my love forget +To read the stone upon my breast. + +G. O. WARREN + + + + +BEAUTY + + +Not flesh alone am I, when I can be +So swiftly caught in Beauty’s shimmering thread +Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me, +With their frail strength my following heart have led. + +Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind, +When, watching by lone twilight waters’ brim +I tremblingly decipher, as they wind, +Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim. + +So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring +To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist, +Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring, +That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst. + +G. O. WARREN + + + + +COMRADES + + +Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, +In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? +We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; +Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!— +Where is he now, the dark boy slender +Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? +I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender +Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains. + +Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, +Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; +Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, +And gather me up in his boyhood arms; +Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, +Suppled my limbs to the horseman’s war; +Where is he now, for whom my heart’s biding, +Biding, biding—but he rides far! + +O love that passes the love of woman! +Who that hath felt it shall ever forget +When the breath of life with a throb turns human, +And a lad’s heart is to a lad’s heart set? +Ever, forever, lover and rover— +They shall cling, nor each from other shall part +Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, +And life is dust in each faithful heart. + +They are dead, the American grasses under; +There is no one now who presses my side; +By the African chotts I am riding asunder, +And with great joy ride I the last great ride. +I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying; +Thousands of miles there is no one near; +And my heart—all the night it is crying, crying +In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. + +Hearts of my music—them dark earth covers; +Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; +In the width of the world there were no such rovers— +Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; +And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, +To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, +And to ride in the track of great souls perished +Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o’er. + +Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, +Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade, +And one, far faring o’er orient islands +Whose blood yet glints with my blade’s accolade; +North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, +Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; +Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing +My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. + +GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY + + + + +THE FLIGHT + + +I + +O wild heart, track the land’s perfume, +Beach-roses and moor-heather! +All fragrances of herb and bloom +Fail, out at sea, together. +O follow where aloft find room +Lark-song and eagle-feather! +All ecstasies of throat and plume +Melt, high on yon blue weather. + +O leave on sky and ocean lost +The flight creation dareth; +Take wings of love, that mounts the most: +Find fame, that furthest fareth! +Thy flight, albeit amid her host +Thee, too, night star-like beareth, +Flying, thy breast on heaven’s coast, +The infinite outweareth. + +II + +“Dead o’er us roll celestial fires; +Mute stand Earth’s ancient beaches; +Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires, +The passing hour outreaches; +The soul creative never tires— +Evokes, adores, beseeches; +And that heart most the god inspires +Whom most its wildness teaches. + +“For I will course through falling years +And stars and cities burning; +And I will march through dying cheers +Past empires unreturning; +Ever the world flame reappears +Where mankind power is earning, +The nations’ hopes, the people’s tears, +One with the wild heart yearning. + +GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS *** + +***** This file should be named 2294-0.txt or 2294-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/9/2294/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Anthology of Massachusetts Poets</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: William Stanley Braithwaite</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 18, 2000 [eBook #2294]<br /> +[Most recently updated: March 25, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Susan L. Farley</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS ***</div> + +<h1>Anthology of Massachusetts Poets</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by<br />WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap01">HOME BOUND</a>—JOSEPH AUSLANDER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap02">AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL</a>—KATHERINE LEE BATES</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap03">YELLOW CLOVER</a>—KATHERINE LEE BATES</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap04">THE RETURNING</a>—SYLVESTER BAXTER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap05">TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL</a>—ERNEST BENSHIMOL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap06">A BANQUET</a>—ERNEST BENSHIMOL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap07">SONG</a>—GEORGE CABOT LODGE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap08">THE WORLDS</a>—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap09">THE RIOT</a>—GAMALIEL BRADFORD</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap10">HUNGER</a>—GAMALIEL BRADFORD</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap11">EXIT GOD</a>—GAMALIEL BRADFORD</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap12">ROUSSEAU</a>—GAMALIEL BRADFORD</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap13">JOHN MASEFIELD</a>—AMY BRIDGMAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap14">1620-1920</a>—LE BARON RUSSEL BRIGGS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap15">THE CROSS-CURRENT</a>—ABBIE FARWELL BROWN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap16">CANDLEMAS</a>—ALICE BROWN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap17">SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN</a>—ALICE BROWN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap18">BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE</a>—ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap19">FOUR FOUNTAINS. AFTER RESPIGHI</a>—JESSICA CARR</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap20">IN THE TROLLEY CAR</a>—RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap21">IN IRISH RAIN</a>—MARTHA HASKELL CLARK</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap22">CRETONNE TROPICS</a>—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap23">TO HILDA OF HER ROSES</a>—GRACE HAZARD CONKLING</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap24">DANDELION</a>—HILDA CONKLING</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap25">RED ROOSTER</a>—HILDA CONKLING</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap26">VELVETS</a>—HILDA CONKLING</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap27">THE MOODS</a>—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap28">HILL-FANTASY</a>—FANNY STEARNS DAVIS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap29">THE MIRAGE</a>—NATHAN HASKELL DOLE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap30">THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN</a>—MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap31">THE LILAC</a>—WALTER PRICHARD EATON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap32">GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE</a>—CHARLES GIBSON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap33">TO MUSIC</a>—MAUDE GORDON-ROBY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap34">THE VOICE IN THE SONG</a>—MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap35">HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE</a>—CAROLINE HAZARD</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap36">REUBEN ROY</a>—HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap37">COUNTRY ROAD</a>—MARIE LOUISE HERSEY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap38">WREATHS</a>—CAROLYN HILLMAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap39">MEMPHIS</a>—GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap40">SAINT COLUMBKILLE</a>—E.J.V. HUIGINN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap41">MISS DOANE</a>—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap42">FALLEN FENCES</a>—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap43">CROSS-CURRENTS</a>—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap44">THE FAREWELL</a>—WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap45">SONG</a>—OLIVER JENKINS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap46">LOVE AUTUMNAL</a>—OLIVER JENKINS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap47">ECHOES</a>—RUTH LAMBERT JONES</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap48">WAR PICTURES</a>—RUTH LAMBERT JONES</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap49">AN OLD SONG</a>—ARTHUR KETCHUM</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap50">ROADSIDE REST</a>—ARTHUR KETCHUM</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap51">OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP</a>—AGNES LEE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap52">MOTHERHOOD</a>—AGNES LEE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap53">ESSEX</a>—GEORGE CABOT LODGE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap54">THE SONG OF THE WAVE</a>—GEORGE CABOT LODGE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap55">FRIMAIRE</a>—AMY LOWELL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap56">PATTERNS</a>—AMY LOWELL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap57">A BATHER</a>—AMY LOWELL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap58">LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS</a>—DENNIS A. MCCARTHY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap59">L’ENVOI</a>—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap60">TO IMAGINATION</a>—DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap61">DRAGON</a>—JEANETTE MARKS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap62">GREEN GOLDEN DOOR</a>—JEANETTE MARKS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap63">SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD</a>—JOHN CLAIR MINOT</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap64">THE SWORD OF ARTHUR</a>—JOHN CLAIR MINOT</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap65">THE DIVINE FOREST</a>—CHARLES R. MURPHY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap66">MAGIC</a>—EDWARD J. O’BRIEN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap67">MICHAEL PAT</a>—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap68">SONG</a>—EDWARD J. O’BRIAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap69">IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE</a>—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap70">EVENSONG</a>—NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONNOR</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap71">THE PROPHET</a>—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap72">HARVEST-MOON: 1914</a>—JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap73">HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM</a>—LILLA CABOT PERRY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap74">THREE QUATRAINS</a>—LILLA CABOT PERRY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap75">A VALENTINE UNSENT</a>—MARGARET PERRY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap76">SHIPBUILDERS</a>—ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap77">UNFADING PICTURES</a>—LOUELLA C. POOLE</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap78">WITH WAVES AND WINGS</a>—CHARLOTTE PORTER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap79">BLUEBERRIES</a>—FRANK PRENTICE RAND</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap80">NOCTURNE</a>—WILLIAM ROSCOIE THAYER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap81">ENVOI</a>—WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap82">THERE WHERE THE SEA</a>—MARIE TUDOR</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap83">MARRIAGE</a>—MARIE TUDOR</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap84">PITY</a>—HAROLD VINAL</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap85">A ROSE TO THE LIVING</a>—NIXON WATERMAN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap86">THE STORM</a>—G.O. WARREN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap87">WHERE THEY SLEEP</a>—G.O. WARREN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap88">BEAUTY</a>—G.O. WARREN</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap89">COMRADES</a>—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><a href="#chap90">THE FLIGHT</a>—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>HOME-BOUND</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips,<br/> +The water makes a quietness of sound;<br/> +Night is an anchoring of many ships<br/> +Home-bound.<br/> +<br/> +There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs<br/> +Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin<br/> +The silence into nets, and tenanters<br/> +Move softly in.<br/> +<br/>I step on shadows riding through the grass,<br/> +And feel the night lean cool against my face;<br/> +And challenged by the sentinel of space,<br/> +I pass.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JOSEPH AUSLANDER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O beautiful for spacious skies,<br/> +For amber waves of grain,<br/> +For purple mountain majesties<br/> +Above the fruited plain!<br/> +America! America!<br/> +God shed His grace on thee<br/> +And crown thy good with brotherhood<br/> +From sea to shining sea!<br/> +<br/> +O beautiful for pilgrim feet,<br/> +Those stern, impassioned stress<br/> +A thoroughfare for freedom beat<br/> +Across the wilderness!<br/> +America! America!<br/> +God mend thine every flaw,<br/> +Confirm thy soul in self-control,<br/> +Thy liberty in law!<br/> +<br/> +O beautiful for heroes proved<br/> +In liberating strife<br/> +Who more than self their country loved,<br/> +And mercy more than life!<br/> +America! America!<br/> +May God thy gold refine,<br/> +Till all success be nobleness,<br/> +And every gain divine.<br/> +<br/> +O beautiful for patriot dream<br/> +That sees beyond the years<br/> +Thine alabaster cities gleam<br/> +Undimmed by human tears!<br/> +America! America!<br/> +God shed His grace on thee<br/> +And crown thy good with brotherhood<br/> +From sea to shining sea!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +KATHERINE LEE BATES +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>YELLOW CLOVER</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Must I, who walk alone,<br/> +come on it still,<br/> +This Puck of plants<br/> +The wise would do away with,<br/> +The sunshine slants<br/> +To play with,<br/> +Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover,<br/> +Which once in Parting for a time<br/> +That then seemed long,<br/> +Ere time for you was over,<br/> +We sealed our own?<br/> +Do you remember yet,<br/> +O Soul beyond the stars,<br/> +Beyond the uttermost dim bars<br/> +Of space,<br/> +Dear Soul, who found earth sweet,<br/> +Remember by love’s grace,<br/> +In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song,<br/> +How suddenly we halted in our climb,<br/> +Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill,<br/> +Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet,<br/> +And gave them as a token<br/> +Each to Each,<br/> +In lieu of speech,<br/> +In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken,<br/> +Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet<br/> +With a strange dew of tears?<br/> +<br/> +So it began,<br/> +This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover,<br/> +To be our tenderest language. All the years<br/> +It lent a new zest to the summer hours,<br/> +As each of us went scheming to surprise<br/> +The other with our homely, laureate flowers.<br/> +Sonnets and odes<br/> +Fringing our daily roads.<br/> +Can amaranth and asphodel<br/> +Bring merrier laughter to your eyes?<br/> +Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes,<br/> +Keep any wistful consciousness of earth,<br/> +Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love,<br/> +Simplicities of mirth,<br/> +Must follow them above<br/> +With touches of vague homesickness that pass<br/> +Like shadows of swift birds across the grass.<br/> +Beneath some foreign arch of sky,<br/> +How many a time the rover<br/> +You or I,<br/> +For life oft sundered look from look,<br/> +And voice from voice, the transient dearth<br/> +Schooling my soul to brook<br/> +This distance that no messages may span,<br/> +Would chance<br/> +Upon our wilding by a lonely well,<br/> +Or drowsy watermill,<br/> +Or swaying to the chime of convent bell,<br/> +Or where the nightingales of old romance<br/> +With tragical contraltos fill<br/> +Dim solitudes of infinite desire;<br/> +And once I joyed to meet<br/> +Our peasant gadabout<br/> +A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat,<br/> +Twinkling a saucy eye<br/> +As potentates paced by.<br/> +<br/> +Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame<br/> +From friendship’s altar fire!<br/> +How proudly we would pluck and tame<br/> +The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay!<br/> +How swiftly they were sent<br/> +Far, far away<br/> +On journeys wide,<br/> +By sea and continent,<br/> +Green miles and blue leagues over,<br/> +From each of us to each,<br/> +That so our hearts might reach,<br/> +And touch within the yellow clover,<br/> +Love’s letter to be glad about<br/> +Like sunshine when it came!<br/> +<br/> +My sorrow asks no healing; it is love;<br/> +Let love then make me brave<br/> +To bear the keen hurts of<br/> +This careless summertide,<br/> +Ay, of our own poor flower,<br/> +Changed with our fatal hour,<br/> +For all its sunshine vanished when you died;<br/> +Only white clover blossoms on your grave.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +KATHERINE LEE BATES +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>THE RETURNING</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +We long for her, we yearn for her—<br/> +Yes, ardently we yearn<br/> +For her return.<br/> +Recalling those beloved days<br/> +(Days intimate with ways<br/> +Of friends so near to us<br/> +And life so dear to us),<br/> +We yearn unspeakably for her return.<br/> +<br/> +And come she must… Yet while we trust<br/> +We soon may see the passing of this agony<br/> +Which makes intrusive years still seem<br/> +A fearsome dream,<br/> +We know that when she comes<br/> +She really comes not back again.<br/> +<br/> +She’ll come in other guise<br/> +And under fairer skies—<br/> +And yet to bitter pain!<br/> +<br/> +That day she went away<br/> +Our homes with laughing youth were filled.<br/> +Where then was happiness<br/> +Is now distress,<br/> +The laughter stilled;<br/> +For when she left<br/> +Youth followed her—<br/> +We stay bereft.<br/> +<br/> +So all our golden joy<br/> +For what she brings<br/> +Must carry gray alloy:<br/> +The sorrow that she can not lay,<br/> +The mysery that she can not stay—<br/> +While all the gladsome songs she sings<br/> +Must bear for undertones<br/> +Old sighs and echoed moans.<br/> +<br/> +As they who go away<br/> +In flush of youth<br/> +May come quite worn and gray<br/> +And bringing naught but ruth—<br/> +So, when the strife shall cease,<br/> +And when she comes at last,<br/> +When all the armies vast<br/> +Shall at her feet<br/> +Kneel down to greet<br/> +Thrice welcome Peace,<br/> +This world will be so changed<br/> +(So many dear ones dead,<br/> +So many friends estranged,<br/> +So many blessings fled,<br/> +So many wonted ways forever barred,<br/> +So many coming days forever marred)<br/> +That then<br/> +She truly comes not back again—<br/> +She, the Peace we knew.<br/> +<br/> +Yet how we long for her!<br/> +How ardently we yearn<br/> +For her return!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +SYLVESTER BAXTER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL</h2> + +<h5>I.</h5> + +<h5>YOUTH</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +I love to watch the world from here, for all<br/> +The numberless living portraits that are drawn<br/> +Upon the mind. Far over is the sea,<br/> +Fronting the sand, a few great yellow dunes,<br/> +A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and green,<br/> +With brackish gullies wandering in between,<br/> +All this from the hill.<br/> +And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars,<br/> +Sentinels over the marsh, and bright with the sun<br/> +A field of daises wandering in the wind<br/> +As though a hidden serpent glided through,<br/> +A broken wall, a new-plowed field, and then<br/> +The dusty road and the abodes of men<br/> +Surrounding the hill.<br/> +How small the enclosure is wherein there lives<br/> +Each phase and passion of life, the distant sail<br/> +Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea,<br/> +From that far place to where in state the turf<br/> +Raises a throne for me upon the hill,<br/> +Each little love and lust of a living thing<br/> +Can thus be compassed in a rainbow ring<br/> +And seen from the hill.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II.</h5> + +<h5>AGE</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Why did I build my cottage on a hill<br/> +Facing the sea? +Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope<br/> +Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope,<br/> +Surging and sweeping,<br/> +laughing and leaping,<br/> +Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore,<br/> +Rustling the sands that know my step no more,<br/> +I should have found a valley, deep and still,<br/> +To shelter me.<br/> +<br/> +There flows the river, and it seems asleep<br/> +So far away,<br/> +Yet I remember whip of wave and roar<br/> +Of wind that rose and smote against the oar,<br/> +Smote and retreated,<br/> +Proud but defeated,<br/> +While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine,<br/> +Drawing on wet and heavy-straining line<br/> +The great cod quivering from the deep<br/> +As counterplay.<br/> +<br/> +What is the solace of these hills and vales<br/> +That rise and fall?<br/> +What is there glorious in the greenwood glen,<br/> +Or twittering thrush or wing of darting wren?<br/> +Give me the gusty,<br/> +Raucous and rusty<br/> +Call of the sea gull in the echoing sky,<br/> +The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die,<br/> +Give me the life that follows the bending sails,<br/> +Or none at all!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ERNEST BENSHIMOL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>A BANQUET<br/> +ONE MEMORY FROM SOCRATES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +After the song the love, and after the love the play,<br/> +Flute girl and pretty boy blowing<br/> +Bubbles of sparkling<br/> +Wine into darkling<br/> +Beards of a former austerity, stern even now, but fast growing<br/> +Foolish, with less of a stately<br/> +Reserve that held them sedately.<br/> +Oh Zeus, what a sight! With the wine dripping off it,<br/> +The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet.<br/> +<br/> +After the feast the night, and after the night the day,<br/> +Fool and philosopher stirring<br/> +With the day dawning,<br/> +Stretching and yawning,<br/> +While in each wine-throbbing, desolate brain is the wheeling and whirring<br/> +Of thousands of bats, that the slaking<br/> +Of throats will not hinder from aching,<br/> +No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting,<br/> +But water at morning is quench for the thirsting!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ERNEST BENSHIMOL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>SONG</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Out of one heart the birds and I together,<br/> +Earth hushed in twilight,<br/> +Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver,<br/> +Gemmed with the sky-light,<br/> +Under the great wet star<br/> +Shaking with light, we jar<br/> +Lute-voiced the silence with intervaled music.<br/> +<br/> +While under the margined world the slow sun lingers,<br/> +Flaming earth’s portal,<br/> +Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers—<br/> +Earth is immortal!<br/> +While the frail beauty dies.<br/> +Dream in the dreamer’s eyes,<br/> +All the good gladness turns praise for the singers.<br/> +<br/> +Hark, ’tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it;<br/> +Northern, gigantic,—<br/> +Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam<br/> +Down the Atlantic;<br/> +Leaves from the autumn’s store<br/> +Shrill at my desert door,<br/> +They and I out of one heart that is grieving.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GEORGE CABOT LODGE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>THE WORLDS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I saw an idler on a summer day<br/> +Piping with Iris by a dancing brook;<br/> +And all his world was rife with Pleasures gay,<br/> +And languid Follies smiled from every nook.<br/> +<br/> +I saw an artist in a world of dreams,<br/> +His rainbow rising from his radiant task,<br/> +To throw its magic prism beams<br/> +O’er Fancy’s changeful masque and counter-masque.<br/> +<br/> +I saw Toil—stooping underneath a world<br/> +Whereon his foster-brothers lighter tread,<br/> +His skyward pinions ever closer furled<br/> +Before the grim necessity of bread!<br/> +<br/> +I saw a sinner working hard to be<br/> +Worthy his death-wage from the mint of time;<br/> +I saw a sailor, unto whom the sea<br/> +Was hearth and hope and love and wedding-chime.<br/> +<br/> +I saw a mother living in her child—<br/> +I saw a saint among his fellow men—<br/> +Brave soldiery before my eyes defiled<br/> +And solemn-hearted scholars—Sudden then<br/> +<br/> +I cried: “The stars are no less neighborly<br/> +In their ethereal remoteness swung,<br/> +Than these near human orbits wherein we<br/> +Live out our lives and speak our chosen tongue!<br/> +<br/> +“Love seek through all—less there be one<br/> +Least soul unlit within the night—<br/> +And over all, the selfsame sun<br/> +Give each creation light!”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>THE RIOT</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +You may think my life is quiet.<br/> +I find it full of change,<br/> +An ever-varied diet,<br/> +As piquant as ’tis strange.<br/> +<br/> +Wild thoughts are always flying,<br/> +Like sparks across my brain,<br/> +Now flashing out, now dying,<br/> +To kindle soon again.<br/> +<br/> +Fine fancies set me thrilling,<br/> +And subtle monsters creep<br/> +Before my sight unwilling:<br/> +They even haunt my sleep.<br/> +<br/> +One broad, perpetual riot<br/> +Enfolds me night and day.<br/> +You think my life is quiet?<br/> +You don’t know what you say.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GAMALIEL BRADFORD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>HUNGER</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I’ve been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint,<br/> +Their bend of weary knees and their contortions long and faint,<br/> +And the endless pricks of conscience, like a hundred thousand pins,<br/> +A real perpetual penance for imaginary sins.<br/> +<br/> +I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell,<br/> +Where you tell and tell your beads because you’ve nothing else to tell,<br/> +Where the crimson joy of flesh, with all its wild fantastic tricks,<br/> +Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix.<br/> +<br/> +I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is torn<br/> +With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn.<br/> +There are moments when I would untread the paths that I have trod.<br/> +I’m a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GAMALIEL BRADFORD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>EXIT GOD</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Of old our father’s God was real,<br/> +Something they almost saw,<br/> +Which kept them to a stern ideal<br/> +And scourged them into awe.<br/> +<br/> +They walked the narrow path of right<br/> +Most vigilantly well,<br/> +Because they feared eternal night<br/> +And boiling depths of Hell.<br/> +<br/> +Now Hell has wholly boiled away<br/> +And God become a shade.<br/> +There is no place for him to stay<br/> +In all the world He made.<br/> +<br/> +The followers of William James<br/> +Still let the Lord exist,<br/> +And call Him by imposing names,<br/> +A venerable list.<br/> +<br/> +But nerve and muscle only count,<br/> +Gray matter of the brain,<br/> +And an astonishing amount<br/> +Of inconvenient pain.<br/> +<br/> +I sometimes wish that God were back<br/> +In this dark world and wide;<br/> +For though some virtues He might lack,<br/> +He had his pleasant side.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GAMALIEL BRADFORD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>ROUSSEAU</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +That odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau,<br/> +Declared himself unique.<br/> +How men persist in doing so,<br/> +Puzzles me more than Greek.<br/> +<br/> +The sins that tarnish whore and thief<br/> +Beset me every day.<br/> +My most ethereal belief<br/> +Inhabits common clay.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GAMALIEL BRADFORD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>JOHN MASEFIELD</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h5>MASEFIELD (HIMSELF)</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +God said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay:<br/> +“Alone, ’twont do; composite, would I make<br/> +This man-child rare; ’twere well, methinks, to take<br/> +A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh<br/> +A few of Shelley’s ashes; Bunyan may<br/> +Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son’s sake,<br/> +I’ll visit Avalon; then, let me slake<br/> +The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay.<br/> +<br/> +A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear;<br/> +Offset it with tobacco! Next, I’ll find<br/> +Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant’s mind;<br/> +His mother’s heart now let me breathe upon;<br/> +When west winds blow, I’ll whisper in her ear:<br/> +“Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!”<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<h5>HIS PORTRAIT</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +A Man of Sorrows! with such haunted eyes,<br/> +I trow, the Master looked across the lake,—<br/> +Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make<br/> +Of Him the world’s historic sacrifice;<br/> +Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise;<br/> +Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake<br/> +And wander yet; all, weary men who brake<br/> +<br/> +Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise:<br/> +Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew;<br/> +Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all,<br/> +In Masefield’s eyes you lodge; and to the wall<br/> +I turn you,—hand a-tremble,—lest you make<br/> +Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too.<br/> +Wherein the sad world’s sadder for your sake.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>III</h5> + +<h5>HIS “DAUBER”</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +O Masefield’s “Dauber!” You, who being dead,<br/> +Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul,<br/> +Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll<br/> +Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed,<br/> +Serenely rest, assured that who has read<br/> +What you would fain have pictured of the Pole<br/> +Would gladly match your part against the whole<br/> +Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred.<br/> +<br/> +And more than this: if you, indeed, are his,<br/> +Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours;<br/> +For, marked and credited by what endures,<br/> +Were it the only thing, which bears his name,<br/> +(O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!)<br/> +“The Dauber” has brought Masefield to his fame.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h5>HIS “GALLIPOLI”</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +“Small wonder,” speaks my pensive self, “that he<br/> +Whose passion ’tis to sing of men who fail,—<br/> +(Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail)<br/> +Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli<br/> +<br/> +His fervent text, for could there be<br/> +A costlier failure in Earth’s shuddering tale?<br/> +Think of heroic Sulva’s bloody swale;<br/> +Of Anzac’s tortured thirst and agony!”<br/> +But as I read, protesting voices cry: “Not we,<br/> +Not we, who fell among the daffodils,<br/> +Who conquered Death among those blistered hills,<br/> +And found our glory after mortal pain;<br/> +Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli;<br/> +The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!”<br/> +</p> + +<h5>V</h5> + +<h5>HIS MEAD</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +So, Masefield, have your royal words once more<br/> +Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due;<br/> +Your great elegiac, tragically true,<br/> +Must leave all Britain prouder than before;<br/> +And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore,<br/> +And all that anguished consciences must rue,<br/> +One arrowed gladness surely pierces through<br/> +From London’s centre to Canadian shore:<br/> +<br/> +When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli,<br/> +When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke<br/> +And all the splendid Youth her error took<br/> +As hostage from the fields of daffodils,<br/> +Let this a present, living solace be:<br/> +You are not sleeping in those cruel hills!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AMY BRIDGEMAN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>1620-1920</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Before him rolls the dark, relentless ocean;<br/> +Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands;<br/> +Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion<br/> +The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands;<br/> +<br/> +“God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us<br/> +Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and sword;<br/> +Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us<br/> +To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord;<br/> +<br/> +“God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us,<br/> +A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea;<br/> +God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o’er us;<br/> +God, who hast set our children’s children free,<br/> +<br/> +“Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish;<br/> +Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure:<br/> +Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;<br/> +Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure.”<br/> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +Face to the Indian arrows.<br/> +Face to the Prussian guns,<br/> +From then till now the Pilgrim’s vow<br/> +Has held the Pilgrim’s sons.<br/> +<br/> +He braved the red man’s ambush,<br/> +He loosed the black man’s chain;<br/> +His spirit broke King George’s yoke<br/> +And the battleships of Spain.<br/> +<br/> +He crossed the seething ocean;<br/> +He dared the death-strewn track;<br/> +He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel<br/> +And hurled the tyrant back.<br/> +<br/> +For the voice of the lonely Pilgrim<br/> +Who knelt upon the strand<br/> +A people hears three hundred years<br/> +In the conscience of the land.<br/> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage,<br/> +Conscience, all hail!<br/> +Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims,<br/> +Thou shalt prevail.<br/> +Look how the empires rise and fall!<br/> +Athens robed in her learning and beauty,<br/> +Rome in her royal lust for power—<br/> +Each has flourished for her little hour,<br/> +Risen and fallen and ceased to be.<br/> +What of her by the Western Sea,<br/> +Born and bred as the child of Duty,<br/> +Sternest of them all?<br/> +She it is and she alone<br/> +Who built on faith as her corner stone;<br/> +Of all the nations none but she<br/> +Knew that the truth shall make us free.<br/> +Daughter of Courage, mother of heros,<br/> +Freedom divine.<br/> +Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim,<br/> +Still shalt thou shine. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +Yet even as we in our pride rejoice,<br/> +Hark to the prophet’s warning voice:<br/> +“The Pilgrim’s thrift is vanished<br/> +And the Pilgrim’s faith is dead,<br/> +And the Pilgrim’s God is banished,<br/> +And Mammon reigns in his stead;<br/> +And work is damned as an evil,<br/> +And men and women cry,<br/> +In their restless haste, ‘Let us spend and waste,<br/> +And live; for to-morrow we die.’<br/> +<br/> +“And law is trampled under;<br/> +And the nations stand aghast,<br/> +As they hear the distant thunder<br/> +Of the storm that marches fast;<br/> +And we,—whose ocean borders<br/> +Shut off the sound and the sight,<br/> +We will wait for marching orders;<br/> +The world has seen us fight;<br/> +We have earned our days of revel;<br/> +‘On with the dance’! we cry.<br/> +It is pain to think; we will eat and drink!<br/> +And live; for to-morrow we die.”<br/> +<br/> +“We have laughed in the eyes of danger;<br/> +We have given our bravest and best;<br/> +We have succored the starving stranger;<br/> +Others shall heed the rest.’<br/> +And the revel never ceases;<br/> +And the nations hold their breath;<br/> +And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels,<br/> +To a carnival of death.<br/> +<br/> +“Slaves of sloth and the senses,<br/> +Clippers of Freedom’s wings,<br/> +Come back to the Pilgrim’s Army<br/> +And fight for the King of Kings;<br/> +Come back to the Pilgrim’s conscience;<br/> +Be born in the nation’s birth;<br/> +And strive again as simple men<br/> +For the freedom of the earth.<br/> +Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish,<br/> +Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure:<br/> +Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;<br/> +Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure.”<br/> +</p> + +<hr/> + +<p class="poem"> +Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages,<br/> +When the wide earth is racked with war and crime,<br/> +Founded forever on the Rock of Ages,<br/> +Beaten in vain by surging seas of time,<br/> +<br/> +Even as the shallop on the breakers riding,<br/> +Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore,<br/> +Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding,<br/> +Hold thou thy children free forever more.<br/> +</p> + +<hr/> + +<p class="poem"> +And when we sail as Pilgrims’ sons and daughters<br/> +The spirit’s Mayflower into seas unknown,<br/> +Driving across the waste of wintry waters<br/> +The voyage every soul shall make alone,<br/> +<br/> +The Pilgrim’s faith, the Pilgrim’s courage grant us;<br/> +Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone.<br/> +We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us.<br/> +The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>THE CROSS-CURRENT</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Through twelve stout generations<br/> +New England blood I boast;<br/> +The stubborn pastures bred them,<br/> +The grim, uncordial coast,<br/> +<br/> +Sedate and proud old cities,—<br/> +Loved well enough by me,<br/> +Then how should I be yearning<br/> +To scour the earth and sea.<br/> +<br/> +Each of my Yankee forbears<br/> +Wed a New England mate:<br/> +They dwelt and did and died here,<br/> +Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.<br/> +<br/> +My clan endured their kindred;<br/> +But foreigners they loathed,<br/> +And wandering folk, and minstrels,<br/> +And gypsies motley-clothed.<br/> +<br/> +Then why do patches please me,<br/> +Fantastic, wild array?<br/> +Why have I vagrant fancies<br/> +For lads from far away.<br/> +<br/> +My folk were godly Churchmen,—<br/> +Or paced in Elders’ weeds;<br/> +But all were grave and pious<br/> +And hated heathen creeds.<br/> +<br/> +Then why are Thor and Wotan<br/> +To dread forces still?<br/> +Why does my heart go questing<br/> +For Pan beyond the hill?<br/> +<br/> +My people clutched at freedom.—<br/> +Though others’ wills they chained,—<br/> +But made the Law and kept it,—<br/> +And Beauty, they restrained.<br/> +<br/> +Then why am I a rebel<br/> +To laws of rule and square?<br/> +Why would I dream and dally,<br/> +Or, reckless, do and dare?<br/> +<br/> +O righteous, solemn Grandsires,<br/> +O dames, correct and mild,<br/> +Who bred me of your virtues!<br/> +Whence comes this changing child?—<br/> +<br/> +The thirteenth generation,—<br/> +Unlucky number this!—<br/> +My grandma loved a Pirate,<br/> +And all my faults are his!<br/> +<br/> +A gallant, ruffled rover,<br/> +With beauty-loving eye,<br/> +He swept Colonial waters<br/> +Of coarser, bloodier fry.<br/> +<br/> +He waved his hat to danger,<br/> +At Law he shook his fist.<br/> +Ah, merrily he plundered,<br/> +He sang and fought and kissed!<br/> +<br/> +Though none have found his treasure,<br/> +And none his part would take,—<br/> +I bless that thirteenth lady<br/> +Who chose him for my sake!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ABBIE FARWELL BROWN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CANDLEMAS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O hearken, all ye little weeds<br/> +That lie beneath the snow,<br/> +(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)<br/> +The sun hath risen for royal deeds,<br/> +A valiant wind the vanguard leads;<br/> +Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds<br/> +Before ye rise and blow.<br/> +<br/> +O furry living things, adream<br/> +On winter’s drowsy breast,<br/> +(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)<br/> +Arise and follow where a gleam<br/> +Of wizard gold unbinds the stream,<br/> +And all the woodland windings seem<br/> +With sweet expectance blest.<br/> +<br/> +My birds, come back! the hollow sky<br/> +Is weary for your note.<br/> +(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)<br/> +Ere May’s soft minions hereward fly,<br/> +Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny<br/> +The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,<br/> +The tawny, shining coat!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ALICE BROWN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O swift forerunners, rosy with the race!<br/> +Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest<br/> +Behind your blushing banners in the sky,<br/> +Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground,<br/> +How do ye strain on forward-bending foot,<br/> +Each to be first in heralding of joy!<br/> +<br/> +With silence sandalled, so they weave their way,<br/> +And so they stand, with silence panoplied,<br/> +Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame,<br/> +Their solemn invocation to the light.<br/> +<br/> +O changeless guardians! O ye wizard first!<br/> +What strenuous philter feeds your potency.<br/> +That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness,<br/> +Ready to learn of all and utter naught?<br/> +What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite<br/> +To odorous hot lendings of the heart?<br/> +What wind-but all the winds are yet afar,<br/> +And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites,<br/> +That fleet before them, like their elfin locks,<br/> +Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet<br/> +To pluck the robe of patient majesty.<br/> +<br/> +Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep,<br/> +So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones.<br/> +Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait,<br/> +Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm.<br/> +And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn,<br/> +<br/> +And all night thrills with memory and desire,<br/> +Searching in what has been for what shall be:<br/> +The marvel of the ne’er familiar day,<br/> +Sacred investiture of life renewed,<br/> +The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame.<br/> +Low in the valley lies the conquered rout<br/> +Of man’s poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned<br/> +Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled,<br/> +Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main.<br/> +And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch,<br/> +One great good limpid world—so still, so still!<br/> +For no sound echoes from its crystal curve<br/> +Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird<br/> +Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn,<br/> +And has no heart to finish, for the awe<br/> +And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn.<br/> +<br/> +Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars!<br/> +Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face!<br/> +Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad!<br/> +Mighty libation to the Unknown God!<br/> +Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst<br/> +And little leaves drink sweet delirium!<br/> +Being and breath and potion! living soul<br/> +And all-informing heart of all that lives!<br/> +How can we magnify thine awful name<br/> +Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light!<br/> +An exhalation from far sky retreats,<br/> +It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create,<br/> +Suffusing all the dusky web of night.<br/> +But one lone corner it invades not yet,<br/> +Where low above a black and rimy crag<br/> +Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield,<br/> +The holy, useless shield of long-past wars,<br/> +Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.<br/> +<br/> +But lo! the east,—let none forget the east,<br/> +Pathway ordained of old where He should tread.<br/> +Through some sweet magic common in the skies,<br/> +The rosy banners are with saffron tinct;<br/> +The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire,<br/> +And led by silence more majestical<br/> +Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes!<br/> +He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise,<br/> +And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ALICE BROWN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust.<br/> +Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must<br/> +Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that<br/> +open the budding to-morrow.<br/> +Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the<br/> +Gods have not broken to borrow—<br/> +Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must<br/> +Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow<br/> +The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Fresh mists of Roman dawn;<br/> +For water search the cattle;<br/> +Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn<br/> +Above fountain Giulia’s prattle.<br/> +<br/> +Triton, joyous and loud<br/> +Of Naiads summons troops;<br/> +A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd,<br/> +Dancing, pursuing groups.<br/> +<br/> +At high noon the trumpets peal,<br/> +Neptune’s chariot passes by;<br/> +Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal<br/> +Then trumpets’ echoes sigh.<br/> +<br/> +Tolling bell and sunset,<br/> +Twittering birds and calm;<br/> +Medici’s fountain, shimmering net,<br/> +Into the night brings balm.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JESSICA CARR +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>IN THE TROLLEY CAR</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The swart Italian in the trolley car,<br/> +Hoarded his children in his arms and breast;<br/> +The mother, all unheeding, sat afar,<br/> +Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed.<br/> +<br/> +One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee,<br/> +Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek,<br/> +She turned away, and would not hear his plea,<br/> +She turned away, and would not even speak.<br/> +<br/> +With trembling lips the child crept back again<br/> +To the warm shelter of his father’s breast;<br/> +We looked indignant pity, for till then<br/> +We thought that mother-love bore every test.<br/> +<br/> +We rose to go, the father-mother said,<br/> +In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet<br/> +The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead,<br/> +She will be alla right, when she forget.”<br/> +<br/> +When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet<br/> +Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack!<br/> +Until her soul shall wake, but not forget,<br/> +When the warm tides of love come surging back.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>IN IRISH RAIN</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,<br/> +They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;<br/> +But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again<br/> +To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.<br/> +<br/> +The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills<br/> +The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;<br/> +That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,<br/> +And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.<br/> +<br/> +And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,<br/> +Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;<br/> +The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,<br/> +The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!<br/> +<br/> +They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,<br/> +But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!<br/> +And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day<br/> +With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.<br/> +<br/> +There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,<br/> +But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,<br/> +But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again<br/> +To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARTHA HASKELL CLARK +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CRETONNE TROPICS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The cretonne in your willow chair<br/> +Shows through a zone of rosy air,<br/> +A tree of parrots, agate-eyed,<br/> +With blue-green crests and plumes of pride<br/> +And beaks most formidably curved.<br/> +I hear the river, silver-nerved,<br/> +To their shrill protests make reply,<br/> +And the palm forest stir and sigh.<br/> +<br/> +Curious, the spell that colors cast,<br/> +Binding the fancy coweb-fast,<br/> +And you would smile if you could know<br/> +I like your cretonne parrots so!<br/> +But I have seen them sail toward night<br/> +Superbly homeward, the last light<br/> +Lifting them like a purple sea<br/> +Scorned and made use of arrogantly;<br/> +And I have heard them cry aloud<br/> +From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud;<br/> +And I brought home a brilliant feather,<br/> +Lost like a flake of sunset weather.<br/> +<br/> +Here in the north the sea is white<br/> +And mother-of-pearl in morning light,<br/> +Quite lovely, but there is a glare<br/> +That daunts me.<br/> +<br/> +Now the willow chair<br/> +Suggests a more perplexing sea,<br/> +Till my heart aches with memory<br/> +And parrots dye the air around,<br/> +And I forget the pallid Sound.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GRACE HAZARD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>TO HILDA OF HER ROSES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Enough has been said about roses<br/> +To fill thirty thick volumes;<br/> +There are as many songs about roses<br/> +As there are roses in the world<br/> +That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon…<br/> +<br/> +It is a pity your roses<br/> +Are too late for Omar…<br/> +It is a pity Keats has gone…<br/> +<br/> +Yet there must be something left to say<br/> +Of flowers like these!<br/> +Adventurers,<br/> +They pushed their way<br/> +Through dewy tunnels of the June night<br/> +Now they confer….<br/> +A little tremulous….<br/> +Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning<br/> +<br/> +If Herrick would tiptoe back…<br/> +If Blake were to look this way<br/> +Ledwidge, even!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GRACE HAZARD CONKLING +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>DANDELION</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O Little soldier with the golden helmet,<br/> +What are you guarding on my lawn?<br/> +You with your green gun<br/> +And your yellow beard,<br/> +Why do you stand so stiff?<br/> +There is only the grass to fight!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +HILDA CONKLING +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>RED ROOSTER</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Red rooster in your gray coop,<br/> +O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue,<br/> +Yellow and black,<br/> +You have a comb gay as a parade<br/> +On your head:<br/> +You have pearl trinkets<br/> +On your feet:<br/> +The short feathers smooth along your back<br/> +Are the dark color of wet rocks,<br/> +Or the rippled green of ships<br/> +When I look at their sides through water.<br/> +I don’t know how you happened to be made<br/> +So proud, so foolish,<br/> +Wearing your coat of many colors,<br/> +Shouting all day long your crooked words,<br/> +Loud… sharp… not beautiful!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +HILDA CONKLING +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>VELVETS<br/> +(BY A BED OF PANSIES)</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +This pansy has a thinking face<br/> +Like the yellow moon.<br/> +This one has a face with white blots;<br/> +I call him the clown.<br/> +Here goes one down the grass<br/> +With a pretty look of plumpness;<br/> +She is a little girl going to school<br/> +With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.<br/> +Her name is Sue.<br/> +I like this one, in a bonnet,<br/> +Waiting,<br/> +Her eyes are so deep!<br/> +But these on the other side,<br/> +These that wear purple and blue,<br/> +They are the Velvets,<br/> +The king with his cloak,<br/> +The queen with her gown,<br/> +The prince with his feather.<br/> +These are dark and quiet<br/> +And stay alone.<br/> +I know you, Velvets,<br/> +Color of Dark,<br/> +Like the pine-tree on the hill<br/> +When stars shine!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +HILDA CONKLING +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>THE MOODS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The Moods have laid their hands across my hair:<br/> +The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart;<br/> +My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright,<br/> +But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart<br/> +Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,—<br/> +A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book<br/> +Of little verses, or a dancing child.<br/> +My heart turns crying from the rose and book,<br/> +My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon,<br/> +And weeps with useless sorrow for the child.<br/> +The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair,<br/> +And made my heart too wise, that was a child.<br/> +<br/> +Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame:<br/> +I shall desire all things that may not be:<br/> +The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men,<br/> +All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,—<br/> +Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford,<br/> +And vagrant voices on a darkened plain,<br/> +And holy things, and outcast things, and things,<br/> +Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain.<br/> +<br/> +My pity and my joy are grown alike.<br/> +I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart.<br/> +The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair:<br/> +The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>HILL-FANTASY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One,<br/> +High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail.<br/> +Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the sun,<br/> +A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale.<br/> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering;<br/> +No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew.<br/> +Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing,<br/> +Peakèd ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue.<br/> +<br/> +Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds<br/> +Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool!<br/> +Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds,<br/> +Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool!<br/> +<br/> +He had berries ’twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal.,<br/> +Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh,<br/> +How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to chase and steal<br/> +Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low!<br/> +<br/> +I said “Good-day, Thou!” He said, “Good-day, Thou!”<br/> +Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back,<br/> +He said, “Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now.<br/> +While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack.”<br/> +<br/> +Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.<br/> +Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn.<br/> +Broad into my face laughed that hornèd Thing so naughtily.<br/> +Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr’s bairn!<br/> +<br/> + +So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look!<br/> +Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So!<br/> +Soon ’twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost brook.<br/> +Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!”<br/> +<br/> +Brown One! Hoofèd One! Beat time to keep me straight.<br/> +Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear.<br/> +Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold thy breath, for—wait!<br/> +Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe, oh, hear!<br/> +<br/> +Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us?<br/> +Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow?<br/> +Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous.<br/> +Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow.<br/> +<br/> +Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe, Now?<br/> +Chipmunk chatt’ring in the beech, rabbit in the brake?<br/> +Furry arm around my neck: “Oh, Thou art a brave one, Thou!”<br/> +Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache!<br/> +<br/> +Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous,<br/> +Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade,<br/> +Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us,<br/> +Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid!<br/> +<br/> +Brown One, Hoofèd One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou!<br/> +Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail!<br/> +Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were on my brow<br/> +Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail?<br/> +<br/> +Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand-touch,<br/> +Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek!<br/> +“Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too much.<br/> +I could never find thee horns, though day-long I seek.<br/> +<br/> +“Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one.<br/> +Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear.<br/> +Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun!<br/> +Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear!<br/> +<br/> +“Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears thee!<br/> +Take the pipe and go thy ways,—quick now, for the sun<br/> +Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea.<br/> +Take the pipe, and oh-one kiss! then run, run, run! run!”<br/> +<br/> +Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn,<br/> +All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray.<br/> +O thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr’s bairn?<br/> +I am lost and all alone, and down drops the day.<br/> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering<br/> +There I got this Pipe o’ dreams. Strange, when I blow,<br/> +Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling.<br/> +Is it only sky-music, earth-music low?<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>THE MIRAGE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs,<br/> +Where stand fishermen’s cottages:<br/> +I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye.<br/> +But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt,<br/> +Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible,<br/> +And those sordid dwellings have become<br/> +The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +NATHAN HASKELL DOLE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +A road goes up a pleasant hill,<br/> +And a little house looks down:<br/> +Ah! but I see the roadway still<br/> +And the day I left the town.<br/> +<br/> +The day I left my father’s home,<br/> +It’s many a year ago,<br/> +And a heart and hope were brave to roam<br/> +the long, long road I know.<br/> +<br/> +The long, long road by hill and plain,<br/> +It’s tired the heart might be:<br/> +But hope stayed bright in sun or rain,<br/> +And a Voice that called to me.<br/> +<br/> +A Voice that called me over the hill<br/> +And out of the little town:<br/> +Ah! but I see the roadway still.<br/> +And the good house looking down.<br/> +<br/> +The house that spake me never a No!<br/> +As I started brave away,<br/> +But said with a blessing, Go!<br/> +And followed me every day.<br/> +<br/> +It followed me down the road of years,<br/> +For a father’s heart is true,<br/> +And joy is sweet in a mother’s tears<br/> +For the deeds her child may do.<br/> +<br/> +The poor little deeds, all powerless<br/> +For the Kingdom of God would be,<br/> +Save in His mercy will He bless<br/> +The road that goes with me:<br/> +<br/> +The road that left a pleasant hill,<br/> +Where a little house looks down:<br/> +Ah! but I bless the roadway still,<br/> +And the land beyond the town.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>THE LILAC</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The scent of lilac in the air<br/> +Hath made him drag his steps and pause<br/> +Whence comes this scent within the Square,<br/> +Where endless dusty traffic roars?<br/> +A push-cart stands beside the curb,<br/> +With fragrant blossoms laden high;<br/> +Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb<br/> +His sudden reverie!<br/> +<br/> +He sees us not, nor heeds the din<br/> +Of clanging car and scuffling throng;<br/> +His eyes see fairer sights within,<br/> +And memory hears the robin’s song<br/> +As once it trilled against the day,<br/> +And shook his slumber in a room<br/> +Where drifted with the breath of May<br/> +The lilac’s sweet perfume.<br/> +<br/> +The heart of boyhood in him stirs;<br/> +The wonder of the morning skies,<br/> +Of sunset gold behind the firs,<br/> +Is kindled in his dreaming eyes:<br/> +How far off is this sordid place,<br/> +As turning from our sight away<br/> +He crushes to his hungry face<br/> +A purple lilac spray.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WALTER PRICHARD EATON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love,<br/> +Though man in opposition saith me nay,<br/> +And taketh from my heart its life to-day,<br/> +As through the valley of the world I rove.<br/> +Still unaccompanied, within the grove<br/> +That doth enamored beings hold at play,<br/> +My spirit must pursue its lonely way,<br/> +And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above.<br/> +Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire<br/> +To have that which mankind may not possess,<br/> +And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire,<br/> +And live in one perpetual distress?<br/> +Some evil power must such love inspire,<br/> +And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +CHARLES GIBSON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>TO MUSIC</h2> + +<p> +“Music, the language, the atmosphere of the Soul.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Fly back where Melodies like lilies grow,<br/> +My weary heart is bending low;<br/> +<br/> +Fly higher yet to joyful realms above,<br/> +Where holy Angels dwell in love.<br/> +<br/> +Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng<br/> +And bring to me their Glory-song:<br/> +<br/> +Ah Music, thou and I above the World<br/> +May dwell where heaven with shining song is pearled!<br/> +<br/> +While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll<br/> +I’ll love thee, Music, language of my soul!<br/> +<br/> +Music-lark from on high, song that doth fly,<br/> +Spark of the sky!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MAUDE GORDON-ROBY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>THE VOICE IN THE SONG</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +High in the apple bough jauntily swinging,<br/> +Hid by the branches in bridal array,<br/> +Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing,<br/> +Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay.<br/> +“Sweet, sweet, my sweet,<br/> +Hear I entreat!<br/> +Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather,<br/> +Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest!<br/> +Have no fear! Trust me, dear!<br/> +Sunshine of May that will gild every day<br/> +Pledge I to thee if thou’lt harken to me.”<br/> +<br/> +Lo! in the light thro’ the gay branches streaming,<br/> +Quivering in answer to all the bird sings,<br/> +Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gleaming,<br/> +Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings.<br/> +“Dear, on thy breast<br/> +Earth yields its best!<br/> +Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing,<br/> +Pleading and strong in the voice of the song,<br/> +Whisper low,—Yes, just so!—<br/> +Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling,<br/> +Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire.”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT +WELLESLEY COLLEGE</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h5>MOUNT CARMEL</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Where art Thou, O my Lord?<br/> +Mount Carmel saw the throng<br/> +Of priests and heard the song;<br/> +To Baal was their call—<br/> +From morn till night did fall.<br/> +<br/> +Where art Thou, O my Lord?<br/> +Again Mount Carmel heard<br/> +Not in the spoken word,<br/> +Not in the earthquake’s shock,<br/> +Not in the rending rock<br/> +<br/> +Where art Thou, O my Lord?<br/> +The still voice softly speaks;<br/> +Each soul it swiftly seeks<br/> +Not in the thunder roll,<br/> +But in the inmost soul.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<h5>VESPER HYMN</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night,<br/> +To keep us till the morning light;<br/> +And let no vision of alarm<br/> +Come near to do Thy children harm<br/> +<br/> +Within Thy circling arms we lie,<br/> +O God, in Thine infinity;<br/> +Our souls in quiet shall abide<br/> +Beset with love on every side.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>III</h5> + +<h5>THIS IS THAT BREAD</h5> + +<p>This is that Bread that came down from Heaven, +he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever.</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Bread on which angels feed,<br/> +Bread for the spirit’s need<br/> +By faith receiving,<br/> +New life do Thou impart,<br/> +New strength to every heart,<br/> +Pure love of God Thou art<br/> +To us believing.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h5>O SLOW OF HEART</h5> + +<p>O slow of heart to believe! Ought Christ not to +have suffered these things and to enter into His Glory?</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart,<br/> +Touch my eyes that they may see,<br/> +Let me know Thee as Thou art.<br/> +Life and Immortality.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>V</h5> + +<h5>ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +All hail to Thee, child Jesus!<br/> +As the brooding darkness flies<br/> +At the swift approach of day,<br/> +Sun of righteousness, arise,<br/> +Chase the gloom of night away.<br/> +Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own,<br/> +And build in every heart Thy throne.<br/> +<br /> +Come to shed Thy healing balm<br/> +On all nations of the earth,<br/> +Child Jesus, come with holy calm,<br/> +How we hail thy wondrous birth.<br/> +Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own,<br/> +And build in every heart Thy throne.<br/> +All hail to Thee, Child Jesus!<br/> +</p> + +<h5>VI</h5> + +<h5>THE WINE-PRESS</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Who is this that comes from Edom<br/> +In such glorious array,<br/> +With his festal garments gleaming,<br/> +Travelling on his royal way<br/> +With a face majestic, calm and grave?<br/> +I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save.<br/> +<br /> +Why is thy apparel crimson,<br/> +Why is all thy garments’ pride<br/> +Stained as in the time of vintage<br/> +And with blood-red-color dyed?<br/> +Because of helpers I had none—<br/> +I have trodden the wine-press alone.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>VII</h5> + +<h5>WAKEN, SHEPHERDS!</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +(Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!<br/> +(Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken;<br/> +Whence this glowing light?<br/> +Ere the dawn of morning,<br/> +Solemn signs of warning<br/> +Portent of affright!<br/> +<br /> +(Angels) Courage, Shepherds, courage!<br/> +Banish your dismay,<br/> +or ye all are saved.<br/> +In the town of David<br/> +Christ is born to-day.<br/> +<br /> +(Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken,<br/> +Hear the angels sing!<br/> +Jehovah sends a token,<br/> +He himself hath spoken<br/> +To proclaim our King.<br/> +<br /> +(Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten,<br/> +This shall be your sign;<br/> +Where the kine are stabled,<br/> +In a manger cradled<br/> +Lies the Child Divine.<br/> +<br /> +(Shepherds and Angels) Angels, Shepherds, People,<br/> +Shout the glad refrain!<br/> +Joy to every nation<br/> +Bringing full salvation,<br/> +Christ has come to reign.<br/> +Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +CAROLINE HAZARD +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>REUBEN ROY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Little fellow, brown with wind—<br/> +I saw him in the street<br/> +Peering at numbers on the posts,<br/> +But most discreet:<br/> +<br /> +For when a woman came outdoors,<br/> +Or slyly peeped instead,<br/> +He turned away, took off his hat,<br/> +And scratched his head.<br/> +<br /> +I watched him from my garden-wall<br/> +Perhaps an hour or more,<br/> +For something in his attitude,<br/> +The clothes he wore,<br/> +<br /> +Awoke the dimmest memories<br/> +Of when I was a boy<br/> +And knew the story of a man<br/> +Named Reuben Roy.<br/> +<br /> +It seems that Reuben went to sea<br/> +The night his wife decried<br/> +The fence he built before their house<br/> +And up the side.<br/> +<br /> +He wanted it but she did not,<br/> +Because it hid from view<br/> +The spot in which her mignonette<br/> +And tulips grew.<br/> +<br /> +Nobody saw his face again,<br/> +But each year, unawares,<br/> +He sent a sum for taxes due—<br/> +And fence repairs.<br/> +<br /> +My curiosity aroused,<br /> +I sauntered forth to see<br/> +Whether this individual<br/> +Were really he.<br/> +<br /> +“Who are you looking for?” I asked<br/> +His eyes, like two bright pence,<br/> +Sparkled at mine; and then he said:<br/> +“A fence.”<br/> +<br /> +“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en,<br/> +When people were in bed;<br/> +Before the judge could prosecute,<br/> +The culprit fled.”<br/> +<br /> +Well, Reuben only touched his hat<br/> +And mumbled, “Thank you, Sir,”<br/> +And asked me whereabouts to find<br/> +A carpenter.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>COUNTRY ROAD</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I can’t forget a gaunt grey barn<br/> +Like a face without an eye<br/> +That kept recurring by field and tarn<br/> +Under a Cape Cod sky.<br/> +<br /> +I can’t forget a woman’s hand,<br/> +Roughened and scarred by toil<br/> +That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned<br/> +By sun and wind and soil.<br/> +<br /> +Beauty and hardship, bent and bound<br/> +Under the selfsame yoke:<br/> +Babies with bare knees plump and round<br/> +And stooping women folk.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARIE LOUISE HERSEY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>WREATHS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Red wreaths<br/> +Hang in my neighbor’s window,<br/> +Green wreaths in my own.<br/> +On this day I lost my husband.<br/> +On this day you lost your boy.<br/> +On this day<br/> +Christ was born.<br/> +Red wreaths,<br/> +Green wreaths<br/> +Hang in Our Windows<br/> +Red for a bleeding heart,<br/> +Green for grave grass.<br/> +Mary, mother of Jesus,<br/> +Look down and comfort us.<br/> +You too knew passion;<br/> +You too knew pain.<br/> +Comfort us,<br/> +Who are not brides of God,<br/> +Nor bore God.<br/> +On Christmas day<br/> +Hang wreaths,<br/> +Red for new pain.<br/> +Green for spent passion.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +CAROLYN HILLMAN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>MEMPHIS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you,<br /> +Rather I’d dream of Dixie and tie ships on the old bayou!<br/> +Rather I’d dream of my packets and the lazy river days,<br/> +Rather I’d dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze,<br/> +<br /> +Rather I’d dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by,<br/> +Rather I’d dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky,<br/> +Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade,<br/> +Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers’ fathers made!<br/> +<br /> +Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me,<br/> +But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea!<br/> +Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain.<br/> +Send me back my river, and I shall wake again!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>SAINT COLUMBKILLE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Columbkille! Saint Columbkille!<br/> +You naughty man, Saint Columbkille!<br/> +Why did you Finnian’s Psalter take<br/> +And secretly a copy make?<br/> +You know ’twas such a naughty thing<br/> +For one descended from a king<br/> +To lock himself into a cell,<br/> +’Twas far from right,-you knew it well,—<br/> +And copy Finnian’s Psalter through,<br/> +Against his will as well you knew.<br/> +And then to think a common bird<br/> +Should feel such shame, that when he heard<br/> +The breathing spy outside your door,<br/> +And felt your sainthood was no more,<br/> +Should through the crack attack the spy,<br/> +And in a rage pluck out his eye,<br/> +As if that saintly Irish crane<br/> +Would hide from all your Saintship’s stain.<br/> +I grieve to think that you did add<br/> +Sin unto sin; it is too bad.<br/> +For Finnian could not you persuade<br/> +To yield the copy that you made,<br/> +Until the King in his behalf<br/> +Ruled-“To each cow belongs her calf”:<br/> +And then you grew so mad you swore<br/> +On Erin’s face you’d look no more.<br/> +And crossed the sea the Picts to save,<br/> +Because you so did misbehave<br/> +To dear Saint Finnian: faith, ’twas ill<br/> +For you to act so, Columbkille!<br/> +A saint you were no doubt, no doubt!<br/> +What pity ’twas you were found out!<br/> +We know an angel (snob or fool?)<br/> +To Kiaran showed a common rule,<br/> +An axe, an auger, and a saw,<br/> +And told that saint it was the law<br/> +Of Heaven that Columbkille should be<br/> +Far, far above such saints as he;<br/> +For Columbkille contemned a crown,<br/> +While he these homely tools laid down,<br/> +To serve the Lord, and that the Lord<br/> +To each would give his due reward.<br/> +I wonder if that angel knew<br/> +That Christ these tools had laid down too.<br/> +O Columbkille! O Columbkille!<br/> +A saint like you must have his will,<br/> +But for myself I’d rather be<br/> +The common sinner that you see<br/> +Than make a crane ashamed of me,<br/> +And angels talk such idiocy.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +E. J. V. HUIGINN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>MISS DOANE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Miss Doane was sixty, probably;<br/> +She rented third floor room<br/> +That opened on an airshaft full<br/> +Of cooking smells and gloom.<br/> +<br /> +She worked in philanthropic man’s<br/> +Well-known department store;<br/> +Cashiered in basement, hot and close,<br/> +For forty years or more.<br/> +<br /> +Each night when she came home she’d stand<br/> +A moment in the hall,<br/> +Before she went into her room<br/> +With low and tender call.<br/> +<br /> +And often I would hear her voice<br/> +Repeat a childish prayer;<br/> +Or read some old, old fairy tale<br/> +Of Princess, grand and fair.<br/> +<br /> +One night I went to visit her<br/> +And spied, in little chair<br/> +A great wax doll, in dainty dress,<br/> +And curls of flaxen hair.<br/> +<br /> +I praised the doll; its prettiness;<br/> +Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.<br/> +She comforts me. I wanted so<br/> +A child to call my own.”<br/> +<br /> +Each night I heard her softly sing<br/> +A childish lullaby;<br/> +But once, and just before she died,<br/> +I heard her cry and cry!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>FALLEN FENCES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The woods grew dark; black shadows<br/> +rocked<br/> +And I could scarcely see<br/> +My way along the old tote road,<br/> +That long had seemed to me<br/> +<br /> +To wind on aimlessly; but now<br/> +Came full to life; the rain<br/> +Would soon strike down; ahead I saw<br/> +A clearing, and a lane<br/> +<br /> +Between gray, fallen fences and<br/> +Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;<br/> +So grim and gray I shrank from thought<br/> +Of weary, aching spalles.<br/> +<br /> +On stony knoll great aspens swayed<br/> +And swung in browsing teeth<br/> +Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook<br/> +And shivered underneath.<br/> +<br /> +Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent<br/> +And wrangled over roof<br/> +Of weatherbeaten house, and barn<br/> +Whose sag bespoke no hoof.<br/> +<br /> +And ivy crawled up either end<br/> +Of house, to chimney, where<br/> +It lashed in futile anger at<br/> +The wind wolves of the air.<br/> +<br /> +I thought the house abandoned, and<br/> +I ran to get inside,<br/> +When suddenly the old front door<br/> +was opened and flung wide<br/> +<br /> +And she stood there, with hand on knob,<br/> +As I went swiftly in,<br/> +Then closed the door most softly on<br/> +The storm and shrieking din.<br/> +<br /> +A space I stood and looked at her,<br/> +So young; ’twas passing strange<br/> +That fifty years or more had gone<br/> +And brought no new style’s change.<br/> +<br /> +The sweetness, daintiness of her<br/> +In starched and dotted gown<br/> +Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,<br/> +With ruffles winding down!<br/> +<br /> +We had not much to say, and yet<br/> +Of words I felt no lack;<br/> +Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped<br/> +A moment, then dropped back.<br/> +<br /> +I felt her pride of race; her taste<br/> +In silken rug and chair,<br/> +And quaintly fashioned furniture<br/> +Of patterns old and rare.<br/> +<br /> +On window sill a rose bush stood;<br/> +’Twas bringing rose to bud;<br/> +One full bloomed there but yesterday,<br/> +Dropped petals, red as blood.<br/> +<br /> +Quite soon, she asked to be excused<br/> +For just a moment, and<br/> +Went out, returning with a tray<br/> +In either slender hand.<br/> +<br /> +My glance could not but linger on<br/> +Each thin and lovely cup;<br/> +“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed<br/> +The while she raised it up.<br/> +<br /> +And when the storm was done and I<br/> +Arose, reluctantly<br/> +To go, she too was loath to have<br/> +Me go, it seemed to me.<br/> +<br /> +When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,<br/> +Upon the Corner Road,<br/> +I went into the Upper Field<br/> +Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed<br/> +<br /> +Potatoes, culling them with hoe<br/> +And practised, calloused hand,<br/> +In rounded piles that brownly glowed<br/> +Upon the fresh-turned land.<br/> +<br /> +“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl<br/> +With beauty’s smiling charm,<br/> +That lives beyond that hemlock growth,<br/> +On that old grown-up farm?”<br/> +<br /> +Joe listened, while I told him where<br/> +I’d been that afternoon,<br/> +Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,<br/> +Before he spoke, a tune<br/> +<br /> +“They cum ter thet old place ter live<br/> +Some sixty years ago;<br/> +Jest where they cum from, who they ware,<br/> +Wy, no one got to know.<br/> +<br /> +“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s<br/> +Red racker an’ the gig;<br/> +We never heard from him nor could<br/> +We track the hoss or rig.<br/> +<br /> +“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then<br/> +He went ter see the Wife;<br/> +He found her in thet settin’ room:<br/> +She’d taken of her life.<br/> +<br /> +“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;<br/> +Some say ’tis haunted,-but<br/> +I ain’t no use fer foolishness,<br/> +So all I say’s tut! tut!”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CROSS-CURRENTS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +They wrapped my soul in eiderdown;<br/> +They placed me warm and snug<br/> +In carved chair; set me with care<br/> +Upon an old prayer rug.<br/> +<br /> +They cased my feet in golden shoes<br/> +That hurt at toe and heel;<br/> +My restless feet, with youth all fleet,<br/> +Nor asked how they might feel.<br/> +<br /> +And now they wonder where I am,<br/> +And search with shrill, cold cry;<br/> +But I crouch low where tall reeds grow,<br/> +And smile as they pass by!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a>THE FAREWELL</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +What is more beautiful<br/> +Than thought, soul-fed,<br/> +That I may be the crimson of a rose<br/> +When dead?<br/> +<br /> +My soul, so light a joy<br/> +And grief will be,<br/> +That it will gently press the brown earth down<br/> +On me.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a>SONG</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Let me be great, as stars are great,<br/> +Singing of love, not of hate.<br/> +<br /> +Love for sweet and simple things,<br/> +Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings,<br/> +<br /> +Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers,<br/> +Thin coils of smoke and granite towers,<br/> +<br /> +Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash<br/> +High above a river’s crash,<br/> +<br /> +Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter,<br/> +Soft grey shadows trailing after<br/> +<br /> +Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods<br/> +And lose themselves in solitudes.<br/> +<br /> +All these I’ll love, never hate,<br/> +And loving them, I will be great.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +OLIVER JENKINS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a>LOVE AUTUMNAL</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +My love will come in autumn-time<br/> +When leaves go spinning to the ground<br/> +And wistful stars in heaven chime<br/> +With the leaves’ sound.<br/> +<br /> +Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes<br/> +And pause beneath low-hanging boughs,<br/> +And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns<br/> +We’ll make our vows.<br/> +<br /> +Let others seek in spring for sighs<br/> +When love flames forth from every seed;<br/> +But love that blooms when nature dies<br/> +Is love indeed!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +OLIVER JENKINS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a>ECHOS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Traveling at dusk the noisy city street,<br/> +I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries<br/> +Of “Extra,” as with flying feet,<br/> +They strove to gain this man or that-their prize.<br/> +But one there was with neither shout nor stride,<br/> +And, having bought from him, I stood nearby,<br/> +Pondering the cruel crutches at his side,<br/> +Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why—<br/> +<br /> +When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet<br/> +The cripple with “On time to-night?”<br/> +Then, as he handed out the sheet,<br/> +The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right.<br/> +My other reg’lars are a little late.<br/> +They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come;<br/> +You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait,<br/> +I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!”<br/> +<br /> +So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way<br/> +For I had found a city’s heart that day.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +RUTH LAMBERT JONES +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a>WAR PICTURES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“German Retreat From Arras”<br/> +“Official Films”-they came<br/> +After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”<br/> +Had ministered to fame.<br/> +<br /> +After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”<br/> +Had pigeon-toed away,<br/> +We saw where bits of churches<br/> +And bits of horses lay.<br/> +<br /> +We saw bleak desolation;<br/> +We saw no unscathed tree.<br/> +We shivered in our comfort<br/> +And murmured: “Can it be!”<br/> +<br /> +But later, walking homeward,<br/> +Repeating: “Is it true?”<br/> +We brushed a khaki shoulder<br/> +And asked no more. We knew!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +RUTH LAMBERT JONES +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap49"></a>AN OLD SONG</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +When I was but a young lad,<br/> +And that is long ago,<br/> +I thought that luck loved every man,<br/> +And time his only foe,<br/> +And love was like a hawthorn bush<br/> +That blossomed every May,<br/> +And had but to choose his flower,<br/> +For that’s the young lad’s way.<br/> +<br /> +Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer,<br/> +It’s easy come and spent,<br/> +And heavy is the going now<br/> +Where once the light foot went.<br/> +The hawthorn bush puts on its white,<br/> +The throstle whistles clear,<br/> +But Spring comes once for every man<br/> +Just once in all the year.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ARTHUR KETCHUM +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap50"></a>ROADSIDE REST</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Such quiet sleep has come to them!<br/> +The Springs and Autumns pass,<br/> +Nor do they know if it be snow<br/> +Or daisies in the grass.<br/> +<br /> +All day the birches bend to hear<br/> +The river’s undertone;<br/> +Across the hush a fluting thrush<br/> +Sings even-song alone.<br/> +<br /> +But down their dream there drifts no sound,<br/> +The winds may sob and stir:<br/> +On the still breast of Peace they rest<br/> +And they are glad of her.<br/> +<br /> +They ask not any gift—they mind<br/> +Nor any foot that fares,<br/> +Unheededly life passes by—<br/> +Such quiet sleep is theirs.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ARTHUR KETCHUM +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap51"></a>OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Bed is the boon for me!<br/> +It’s well to bake and sweep,<br/> +But hear the word of old Lizette:<br/> +It’s better than all to sleep.<br/> +<br /> +Summer and flowers are gay,<br/> +And morning light and dew;<br/> +But aged eyelids love the dark<br/> +Where never a light peeps through.<br/> +<br /> +What!—open-eyed, my dears?<br/> +Thinking your hearts will break.<br/> +There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say,<br/> +That’s worth the lying awake!<br/> +<br /> +I learned it in my youth—<br/> +Love I was dreaming of!<br/> +I learned it from the needle-work<br/> +That took the place of love.<br/> +<br /> +I learned it from the years<br/> +And what they brought about;<br/> +From song, and from the hills of joy<br/> +Where sorrow sought me out.<br/> +<br /> +It’s good to dream and turn,<br/> +And turn and dream, or fall<br/> +To comfort with my pack of bones,<br/> +And know of nothing at all!<br/> +<br /> +Yes, never know at all!<br/> +If prowlers mew or bark,<br/> +Nor wonder if it’s three o’clock<br/> +Or four o’clock of the dark.<br/> +<br /> +When the longer shades have fallen<br/> +And the last weariness<br/> +Has brought the sweetest gift of life,<br/> +The last forgetfulness.<br/> +<br /> +If a sound as of old leaves<br/> +Stir the last bed I keep,<br/> +Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette—<br/> +She’s turning in her sleep!”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AGNES LEE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap52"></a>MOTHERHOOD</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently.<br/> +Following the children joyously astir<br/> +Under the cedrus and the olive tree,<br/> +Pausing to let their laughter float to her.<br/> +Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,<br/> +She saw a little Christ in every face;<br/> +When lo, another woman, gliding near,<br/> +Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place.<br/> +And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke:<br/> +“I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed<br/> +With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke<br/> +Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I, too, have rocked my little one,<br/> +O, He was fair!<br/> +Yea, fairer than the fairest sun,<br/> +And like its rays through amber spun<br/> +His sun-bright hair.<br/> +Still I can see it shine and shine.”<br/> +“Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.”<br/> +<br /> +“His ways were ever darling ways,”—<br/> +And Mary smiled,—<br/> +“So soft, so clinging! Glad relays<br/> +Of love were all His precious days.<br/> +My little child!<br/> +My infinite star! My music fled!”<br/> +“Even so was mine,” the woman said.<br/> +<br /> +Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou,<br/> +Of thine.” And she:<br/> +“O, mine was rosy as a boug<br/> +<br /> +Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,<br/> +To bloom for me!<br/> +His balmy fingers left a thrill<br/> +Within my breast that warms me still.”<br/> +<br /> +Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour,<br/> +And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not,<br/> +“Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?”<br/> +“I am the mother of Iscariot.”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AGNES LEE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap53"></a>ESSEX</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring,<br/> +And wait, in supplication’s gentleness,<br/> +The certain resurrection that shall bring<br/> +A robe of verdure for their nakedness.<br/> +Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell,<br/> +Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coil<br/> +Now promise, while the veins of nature swell,<br/> +Eternal recompense to human toil.<br/> +And when the sunset’s final shades depart<br/> +The aspiration to completed birth<br/> +Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start,<br/> +We know how wanton and how little worth<br/> +Are all the passions of our bleeding heart<br/> +That vex the awful patience of the earth.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun<br/> +Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor<br/> +Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore,<br/> +And thine the stars, revealing one by one,<br/> +Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion,<br/> +The tawny moon that waits below the skies,—<br/> +Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes<br/> +Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was done.<br/> +And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast<br/> +To thy benign October, thine the trees<br/> +Lusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest;<br/> +And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified<br/> +Thy name with Liberty Is divine decrees—<br/> +The men who loved thy soil and fought and died.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>III</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Toward thine Eastern window when the morn<br/> +Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars,<br/> +I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars<br/> +Where men have fought and wept and died forlorn.<br/> +But here, across the early fields of corn,<br/> +The living silence dwelleth, and the gray<br/> +Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray<br/> +Breathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn.<br/> +Open thy lattice, for the gage is won<br/> +For which this earth has journeyed though the dust<br/> +Of shattered systems, cold about the sun;<br/> +And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled,<br/> +A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”—<br/> +And falls like dew God’s pity on the world<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GEORGE CABOT LODGE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap54"></a>THE SONG OF THE WAVE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!<br/> +Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound:<br/> +White as a live terror, as a drawn sword,<br/> +This is the wave.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the Tempest<br/> +Whose veins are swollen with life,<br/> +In whose flanks abide the four winds.<br/> +This is the wave.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>III</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the sea<br/> +And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield,<br/> +And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword.<br/> +Then a wind blew out of the morning<br/> +And the waters rustled<br/> +And the wave was born!<br/> +</p> + +<h5>IV</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon<br/> +And the white sea-birds like driven foam<br/> +Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky<br/> +And the face of the waters was barred with white,<br/> +For the wave had many brothers,<br/> +And the wave was strong!<br/> +</p> + +<h5>V</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunset<br/> +And the west was lurid as Hell.<br/> +The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead.<br/> +Then the wind smote full as the breath of God,<br/> +And the wave called to its brothers,<br/> +“This is the crest of life!”<br/> +</p> + +<h5>VI</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall,<br/> +Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass<br/> +That has caught the soul of the moonlight.<br/> +Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;<br/> +Its edge is frittered to foam.<br/> +This is the wave!<br/> +</p> + +<h5>VII</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls—<br/> +Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morning<br/> +It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand.<br/> +This is the wave.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>VIII</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.<br/> +The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength<br/> +In the lust of attainment.<br/> +Aiming at things for Heaven too high,<br/> +Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.<br/> +So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found:<br/> +Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars,<br/> +The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds,<br/> +Whose eye is filled with the Image of God,<br/> +And the end is Death!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GEORGE CABOT LODGE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap55"></a>FRIMAIRE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Dearest, we are like two flowers<br/> +Blooming in the garden,<br/> +A purple aster flower and a red one<br/> +Standing alone in a withered desolation.<br/> +<br /> +The garden plants are shattered and seeded,<br/> +One brittle leaf scrapes against another,<br/> +Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals.<br/> +Now only you and I nodding together.<br/> +<br /> +Many were with us; they have all faded.<br/> +Only we are purple and crimson,<br/> +Only we in the dew-clear mornings,<br/> +Smarten into color as the sun rises.<br/> +<br /> +When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight,<br/> +And later when my cold roots tighten,<br/> +I am anxious for morning,<br/> +I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.<br/> +<br /> +You or I—and I am a coward.<br/> +Surely frost should take the crimson.<br/> +Purple is a finer color,<br/> +Very splendid in isolation.<br /> +<br /> +So we nod above the broken<br/> +Stems of flowers almost rotted.<br/> +Many mornings there cannot be now<br/> +For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AMY LOWELL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap56"></a>PATTERNS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I walk down the garden paths,<br/> +And all the daffodils<br/> +Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.<br/> +I walk down the patterned garden paths<br/> +In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br/> +With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,<br/> +I too am a rare<br/> +Pattern. As I wander down<br/> +The garden paths.<br/> +<br /> +My dress is richly figured,<br/> +And the train<br/> +Makes a pink and silver stain<br/> +On the gravel, and the thrift<br/> +Of the borders.<br/> +Just a plate of current fashion,<br/> +Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.<br/> +Not a softness anywhere about me,<br/> +Only a whale-bone and brocade.<br/> +And I sink on a seat in the shade<br/> +Of a lime tree. For my passion<br/> +Wars against the stiff brocade.<br/> +The daffodils and squills<br/> +Flutter in the breeze<br/> +As they please.<br/> +And I weep;<br/> +For the lime tree is in blossom<br/> +And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.<br/> +<br /> +And the splashing of waterdrops<br/> +In the marble fountain<br/> +Comes down the garden paths.<br/> +The dripping never stops.<br/> +Underneath my stiffened gown<br/> +Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,<br/> +A basin in the midst of hedges grown<br/> +So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,<br/> +But she guesses he is near,<br/> +And the sliding of the water<br/> +Seems the stroking of a dear<br/> +Hand upon her.<br/> +What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!<br/> +I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.<br/> +All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.<br/> +<br /> +I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,<br/> +And he would stumble after,<br/> +Bewildered by my laughter.<br/> +I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.<br/> +I would choose<br/> +To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,<br/> +A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,<br/> +Till he caught me in the shade,<br/> +And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,<br/> +Aching, melting, unafraid.<br/> +With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,<br/> +And the plopping of the waterdrops,<br/> +All about us in the open afternoon—<br/> +I am very like to swoon<br/> +With the weight of this brocade,<br/> +For the sun sifts through the shade.<br/> +<br /> +Underneath the fallen blossom<br/> +In my bosom,<br/> +Is a letter I have hid.<br/> +It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.<br/> +“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell<br/> +Died in action Thursday sen’night.”<br/> +As I read it in the white morning sunlight.<br/> +The letters squirmed like snakes.<br/> +“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.<br/> +“No,” I told him.<br/> +“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.<br/> +No, no answer.”<br/> +And I walked into the garden,<br/> +Up and down the patterned paths,<br/> +In my stiff, correct brocade.<br/> +The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,<br/> +Each one.<br/> +I stood upright too,<br/> +Held rigid to the pattern<br/> +By the stiffness of my gown.<br/> +Up and down I walked,<br/> +Up and down.<br/> +<br /> +In a month he would have been my husband,<br/> +In a month, here, underneath this lime,<br/> +We would have broke the pattern;<br/> +He for me, and I for him,<br/> +He as Colonel, I as lady,<br/> +On this shady seat.<br/> +He had a whim<br/> +That sunlight carried blessing.<br/> +And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”<br/> +Now he is dead.<br /> +<br /> +In Summer and in Winter I shall walk<br/> +Up and down<br/> +The patterned garden paths<br/> +In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br/> +The squills and the daffodils<br/> +Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.<br/> +<br /> +I shall go<br/> +Up and down,<br/> +In my gown.<br/> +Gorgeously arrayed,<br/> +Boned and stayed.<br/> +And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace<br/> +By each button, hook and lace.<br/> +For the man who should loose me is dead,<br/> +Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,<br/> +In a pattern called a war.<br/> +Christ! What are patterns for?<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AMY LOWELL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap57"></a>A BATHER</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade.<br/> +Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves,<br/> +Half-quenched in their various green, just a point of you showing,<br/> +A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into<br/> +The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again<br/> +Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged sharp as white ivory,<br/> +Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts,<br/> +Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit,<br/> +And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence of leaves.<br/> +So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges<br/> +Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you,<br/> +The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum-oozing spruces,<br/> +While below runs the water impatient, impatient to take you,<br/> +To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness,<br/> +Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders,<br/> +Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty,<br/> +Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you<br/> +To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories<br/> +The summer.<br/> +Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just<br/> +Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection,<br/> +Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes<br/> +Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo,<br/> +For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men.<br/> +You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder,<br/> +And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow<br/> +your swimming, To behold the way they act.<br/> +And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +AMY LOWELL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap58"></a>LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Over where the Irish hedges<br/> +Are with blossoms white as snow,<br/> +Over where the limestone ledges<br/> +Through the soft green grasses show—<br/> +There the fairies may be seen<br/> +In their jackets of red and green,<br/> +Leprechauns and cluricauns,<br/> +And the other ones, I ween.<br/> +<br /> +And, bedad, it is a wonder<br/> +To behold the way they act.<br/> +They’re the lads that seldom blunder,<br/> +Wise and wary, that’s the fact.<br/> +You may hold them with your eye;<br/> +Look away and off they fly;<br/> +Leprechauns and cluricauns,<br/> +Bedad, but they are sly!<br/> +<br /> +They have heaps of golden treasure<br/> +Hid away within the ground,<br/> +Where they spend their days in leisure,<br/> +And where fairy joys abound;<br/> +But to mortals not a guinea<br/> +Will they give-no, not a penny.<br/> +Leprechauns and cluricauns,<br/> +Their gold is seldom found.<br/> +<br /> +Maybe of a morning early<br/> +As you pass a lonely rath,<br/> +You may see a little curly—<br/> +Headed fairy in your path.<br/> +He’ll be working at a shoe,<br/> +But he’ll have his eye on you—<br/> +Leprechauns and cluricauns,<br/> +They know just what to do.<br/> +<br /> +Visions of a life of riches<br/> +Surely will before you flash;<br/> +(You’ll no longer dig the ditches,<br/> +You’ll be well supplied with cash.)<br/> +And you’ll seize the little man,<br/> +And you’ll hold him—if you can;<br/> +Leprechauns and cluricauns,<br/> +’Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +DENIS A. MCCARTHY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap59"></a>L’ENVOI</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane,<br/> +And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain,<br/> +And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain,<br/> +Shall we weary for the battle and the strife?<br/> +<br /> +When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near,<br/> +And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear<br/> +Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year,<br/> +Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass?<br/> +<br /> +Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands,<br/> +Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands,<br/> +Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands,<br/> +Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze?<br/> +<br /> +Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss,<br/> +Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss<br/> +Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss—<br/> +Consuming us within the flame?<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap60"></a>TO IMAGINATION<br/> +SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES”</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought<br/> +Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold,<br/> +What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought,<br/> +What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled!<br/> +Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled,<br/> +A mystic imagery of castled thought,<br/> +A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould—<br/> +A radiant iridescence swiftly caught<br/> +Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.<br/> +<br /> +Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky,<br/> +A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,—<br/> +Eyes that behold afar the turrets high<br/> +Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace<br/> +Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race<br/> +Of Athens,—eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie<br/> +In passionate adoration—visions trace<br/> +Across the tender brooding of the sigh<br/> +That wrecked a city and made chieftains die.<br/> +<br /> +Forward not backward turns the mystic shine<br/> +Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam—<br/> +The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line<br/> +On line the wizard tracery of a dream.<br/> +O lad, who buildest not of things that seem,<br/> +Beyond what bounds of visioning divine<br/> +Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun-beam<br/> +Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine<br/> +The power to build and mould the deep design?<br/> +<br /> +Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell,<br/> +Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white,<br/> +Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell<br/> +The eternal silence of the dark—or light?<br/> +Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict<br/> +The symboled mystery-write the final knell<br/> +Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight<br/> +A nothingless encircled by a spell<br/> +Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell?<br/> +<br /> +In vain to question, where the mystery<br/> +Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king.<br/> +The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy,<br/> +Were never meant to paint the immortal thing<br/> +They see, nor understand the joy they bring.<br/> +The misty baubles of the sky and sea<br/> +Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling<br/> +The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee,<br/> +Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap61"></a>DRAGON</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Some saw a dragon eating up the light,<br/> +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!<br/> +Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,<br/> +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!<br/> +<br /> +But I saw:<br/> +A low dark hill with its twisted back<br/> +Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack,<br/> +A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf<br/> +Glitter and gleam and shine like steel,<br/> +Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!<br/> +<br /> +And I heard:<br/> +The wind draw out of the west and wail,<br/> +Dance and stagger and jig and reel!<br/> +With the long low sound of a life in grief!<br/> +<br /> +I saw a life in grief<br/> +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho<br/> +Dance and stagger and jig and reel!<br/> +Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JEANNETTE MARKS<br/> +“THE BOOKMAN.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap62"></a>GREEN GOLDEN DOOR</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Green golden door, swing in, swing in!<br/> +Fanning the life a man must live,<br/> +Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,<br/> +Love and hope that he called his,<br/> +Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin<br/> +Casting them forth and sucking them in,<br/> +Green golden door, swing out, swing out!<br/> +<br /> +Green golden door, swing in, swing in!<br/> +Show me the youth that will not die,<br/> +Tell me the dream that has not waked,<br/> +Seek me the heart that never ached,<br/> +Green golden door, swing out, swing out!<br/> +<br /> +Green golden door, swing in, swing out!<br/> +Long is the wailing of man’s breath,<br/> +Short is the wail of death.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JEANNETTE MARKS +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap63"></a>SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Four graves there are upon the wooded crest,<br/> +Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear.<br/> +Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here.<br/> +Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest<br/> +Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast<br/> +Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer<br/> +And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear,<br/> +Her name by little men and women blessed.<br/> +<br /> +Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways<br/> +Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart,<br/> +But now the world has crowned them with its bays,<br/> +And holds them close forever to its heart.<br/> +O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays,<br/> +And from its slopes shall never Love depart!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JOHN CLAIR MINOT +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap64"></a>THE SWORD OF ARTHUR</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +A castle stands in Yorkshire<br/> +(Oh, the hill is fair and green!)<br/> +And far beneath it lies a cave<br/> +No living man has seen.<br/> +<br /> +It is the cave enchanted<br/> +(Oh, seek it ere ye die!)<br/> +And there King Arthur and his knights<br/> +In dreamless slumber lie.<br/> +<br /> +One time a peasant found it<br/> +(Oh, the years have hurried well!)<br/> +It was the day of fate for him,<br/> +And this is what befell:<br/> +<br /> +Upon a couch of crystal<br/> +(Oh, heart be pure and strong!)<br/> +He saw the King, and, close beside,<br/> +The armored knights athrong.<br/> +<br /> +And all of them were sleeping<br/> +(Praise God, who sendeth rest!)<br/> +The sleep that comes when strife is done<br/> +And ended every quest.<br/> +<br /> +Beside the good King Arthur<br/> +(How high is your desire?)<br/> +His sword within its scabbard lay,<br/> +The sword with blade of fire.<br/> +<br /> +Now had the peasant known it<br/> +(Oh, if we all could know!)<br/> +He should have drawn that wondrous blade<br/> +Before he turned to go.<br/> +<br /> +If but his hand had touched it<br/> +(The sword still lieth there!)<br/> +He would have felt in every vein<br/> +A lofty purpose thrill.<br/> +<br /> +If but his hand had drawn it<br/> +(The sword still lieth there!)<br/> +A kingly way he would have walked,<br/> +Wherever he might fare.<br/> +<br /> +But no; he fled affrighted<br/> +(Oh, pitiful the cost!)<br/> +And then he knew; but lo! the way<br/> +Into the cave was lost.<br/> +<br /> +He searched forever after<br/> +(All this was long ago!)<br/> +But nevermore that crystal cave<br/> +His eager eyes could know.<br/> +<br /> +Pray God ye have the vision<br/> +(Oh, search in every land!)<br/> +To seize the sword that Arthur bore<br/> +When it lies at your hand.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JOHN CLAIR MINOT +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap65"></a>THE DIVINE FOREST</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +If there be leaves on the forest floor,<br/> +Dead leaves there are and nothing more,<br/> +If trunks of trees seem sentinels,<br/> +For what their vigil no man tells.<br/> +And if you clasp these guardian trees<br/> +Nothing there is to hurt or please;<br/> +Only the dead roof of the forest drops<br/> +Gently down and never stops<br/> +And roofs you in and roofs you under,<br/> +Mute and away from life’s dim thunder;<br/> +And if there come eternal spring<br/> +It is but more disheartening,<br/> +For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer—<br/> +Autumn that is the latest comer—<br/> +With the Springtime’s misty wonder<br/> +And the Summer’s yield of gold,<br/> +Weighs you down and weighs you under<br/> +To where the blackened leaves are mold. . .<br/> +The lone gift of the forest is ever new:<br/> +Eternity where dwell not you.<br/> +The forest, accepting, heeds you not;<br/> +Accepting all-you are forgot.<br/> +If there be leaves on the forest floor,<br/> +Dead leaves there are and nothing more.<br/> +<br /> +Once the forest spoke but now is silent,<br/> +Save in the skyward branches whence no sound<br/> +Seems to touch ear of any man below—<br/> +Or else no longer the man knows how to hear.<br/> +Such men build roofs to keep the forest out,<br/> +Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self;<br/> +Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living.<br/> +Such lapsing of the forest then they use<br/> +And turn it into countless lowly dwellings;<br/> +Sometimes they even cut the living down<br/> +To leaven the dead roofs they would erect.<br/> +Though some of these low roofs are lovely there<br/> +Beneath the guardianship of forest trees,<br/> +And some yearn upward as with thought of wings,<br/> +Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark<br/> +To the upper forest and they<br/> +Fearful of the windy freedom of its top.<br/> +They have forgotten<br/> +That the greatest roof is but a banner<br/> +And that it was a tree that made a Cross.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +CHARLES R. MURPHY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap66"></a>MAGIC</h2> + +<h5>TO W.S.B.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +I ran into the sunset light<br/> +As hard as I could run:<br/> +The treetops bowed in sheer delight<br/> +As if they loved the sun:<br/> +And all the songs of little birds<br/> +Who laughed and cried in silver words<br/> +Were joined as they were one.<br/> +<br /> +And down the streaming golden sky<br/> +A lark came circling with a cry<br/> +Of wonder-weaving joy:<br/> +And all the arch of heaven rang<br/> +Where meadowlands of dreaming hang<br/> +As when I was a boy.<br/> +<br /> +And through the ringing solitude<br/> +In pulsing lovely amplitude<br/> +A mist hung in a shroud,<br/> +As though the light of loneliness<br/> +Turned pure delight to holiness,<br/> +And bathed it in a cloud.<br/> +<br /> +I stripped my laughing body bare<br/> +And plunged into that holy air<br/> +That washed me like a sea,<br/> +And raced against its silver tide<br/> +That stroked my eager glancing side<br/> +And made my spirit free.<br/> +<br /> +Across the limits of the land<br/> +The wind and I swept hand and hand<br/> +Beyond the golden glow.<br/> +We danced across the ocean plain<br/> +Like thrushes singing in the rain<br/> +A song of long ago.<br/> +<br /> +And on into the silver night<br/> +We strove to win the race with light<br/> +And bring the vision home,<br/> +And bring the wonder home again<br/> +Unto the sleeping eyes of men<br/> +Across the singing foam.<br/> +<br /> +And down the river of the world<br/> +Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled<br/> +As spring within a flower,<br/> +And stars in music of delight<br/> +Streamed gayly down our shoulders white<br/> +Like petals in a shower.<br/> +<br /> +And tears of awful wonder ran<br/> +Adown my cheeks to hear the clan<br/> +Of beauty chaunting white<br/> +The prayer too deep for living word,<br/> +Or sight of man or winging bird,<br/> +Or music over forest heard<br/> +At falling of the night.<br/> +<br /> +And dropping slowly as the dew<br/> +On grasses that the winds renew<br/> +In urge of flooding fire,<br/> +And softly as the hushing boughs<br/> +The gentle airs of dawn arouse<br/> +To cradle morning’s quire.<br/> +<br /> +The murmur of the singing leaves<br/> +Around the secret Flame,<br/> +Like mating swallows ’neath the eaves<br/> +In rustling silence came,<br/> +And flowing through the silent air<br/> +Creation fluttered in a prayer<br/> +Descending on a spiral stair,<br/> +And calling me by name.<br/> +<br /> +It nestled in my dreaming eyes<br/> +Like heaven in a lake,<br/> +And softened hope into surprise<br/> +For very beauty’s sake,<br/> +And silence blossomed into morn,<br/> +Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn<br/> +Could scarcely bear to break.<br/> +<br /> +I sang into the morning light<br/> +As loud as I could sing,<br/> +The treetops bowed in sheer delight<br/> +Before the slanting wing.<br/> +And all the songs of little birds<br/> +Who laughed and cried in silver words<br/> +Adored the Risen Spring. +</p> + +<p class="left"> +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap67"></a>MICHAEL PAT</h2> + +<h5>TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Old Michael Pat he said to me<br/> +He saw an angel in a tree.<br/> +He knew I’d never, never doubt him,<br/> +For what would heaven be without them.<br/> +The angel laughed for very glee<br/> +And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!”<br/> +Old Michael felt a creeping kind<br/> +Of wonder in his humble mind,<br/> +And, hardly knowing what to say,<br/> +Ran where the angel showed the way.<br/> +The lambs were running on the hills,<br/> +Glad laughter echoed from the rills,<br/> +And many hidden little birds<br/> +Talked pleasant things in singing words.<br/> +He followed up a mountain then<br/> +And saw a crowd of singing men<br/> +Approaching to a Crown of Light<br/> +Wherein they took a fresh delight.<br/> +He danced and sang and whooped and crew<br/> +To see the Lord of all he knew<br/> +Surrounded by the living songs<br/> +Of stars and men in countless throngs,<br/> +And then he died to life again,<br/> +And shovelled with the strength of ten.<br/> +He taught me how to say my letters,<br/> +And take my hat off to my betters,<br/> +And when I asked for fairy stories,<br/> +He told me of angelic glories.<br/> +He was a lovely farmer, he<br/> +Had seen an angel in a tree.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap68"></a>SONG</h2> + +<h5>FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE”</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Ebb on with me across the sunset tide<br/> +And float beyond the waters of the world,<br/> +The light of evening slipping from my side,<br/> +Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.<br/> +<br /> +Flow on into the flaming morning wine,<br/> +Drowning the land in color. Then on high<br/> +Rise in thy candid innocence and shine<br/> +Like to a poplar straight against the sky.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +EDWARD J. O’BRIEN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap69"></a>IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE<br/> +(Killed in action, July 31, 1917)<br/> +</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Soldier and singer of Erin,<br/> +What may I fashion for thee?<br/> +What garland of words or of flowers?<br/> +Singer of sunlight and showers,<br/> +The wind on the lea;<br/> +<br /> +Of clouds, and the houses of Erin,<br/> +Wee cabins, white on the plain,<br/> +And bright with the colours of even,<br/> +Beauty of earth and of heaven<br/> +Outspread beyond Slane!<br/> +<br /> +Slane, where the Easter of Patrick<br/> +Flamed on the night of the Gael,<br/> +Guard both the honor and story<br/> +Of him who has died for the glory<br/> +That crowns Innisfail.<br/> +<br /> +Soldier of right and of freedom,<br/> +I offer thee song and not tears.<br/> +With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell,<br/> +The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell,<br/> +Live on through the years!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap70"></a>EVENSONG</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +A shepherd piping, herald of the Night<br/> +Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale,<br/> +Treading low gently, clad in greyish white,<br/> +Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail!<br/> +For Day departed moves in funeral train<br/> +Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose,<br/> +The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main<br/> +While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows.<br/> +As when a mother gathers to her breast<br/> +The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart,<br/> +Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west,<br/> +And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart.<br/> +Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still,<br/> +And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap71"></a>THE PROPHET</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +All day long he kept the sheep:—<br/> +Far and early, from the crowd,<br/> +On the hills from steep to steep,<br/> +Where the silence cried aloud;<br/> +And the shadow of the cloud<br/> +Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.<br/> +<br /> +Where he dipped the water’s cool,<br/> +Filling boyish hands from thence,<br/> +Something breathed across the pool<br/> +Stir of sweet enlightenments;<br/> +And he drank, with thirsty sense,<br/> +Till his heart was brimmed and full.<br/> +<br /> +Still, the hovering Voice unshed,<br/> +And the Vision unbeheld,<br/> +And the mute sky overhead,<br/> +And his longing, still withheld!<br/> +—Even when the two tears welled,<br/> +Salt, upon that lonely bread.<br/> +<br /> +Vaguely blessed in the leaves,<br/> +Dim-companioned in the sun,<br/> +Eager mornings, wistful eyes,<br/> +Very hunger drew him on;<br/> +And To-morrow ever shone<br/> +With the glow the sunset weaves.<br/> +<br /> +Even so, to that young heart,<br/> +Words and hands and Men were dear;<br/> +And the stir of lane and mart<br/> +After daylong vigil here.<br/> +Sunset called, and he drew near,<br/> +Still to find his path apart.<br/> +<br /> +When the Bell, with gentle tongue,<br/> +Called the herd-bells home again,<br/> +Through the purple shades he swung,<br/> +Down the mountain, through the glen;<br/> +Towards the sound of fellow-men,—<br/> +Even from the light that clung.<br/> +<br /> +Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,<br/> +Came that silent flock of his:<br/> +Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,<br/> +After homing twos and threes;<br/> +With the longing memories<br/> +Of all white things dreamed and vowed.<br/> +<br /> +Through the fragrances, alone,<br/> +By the sudden-silent brook,<br/> +From the open world unknown,<br/> +To the close of speech and book;<br/> +There to find the foreign look<br/> +In the faces of his own.<br/> +<br /> +Sharing was beyond his skill;<br/> +Shyly yet, he made essay:<br/> +Sought to dip, and share, and fill<br/> +Heart’s-desire, from day to day.<br/> +But their eyes, some foreign way,<br/> +Looked at him; and he was still.<br/> +<br /> +Last, he reached his arms to sleep,<br/> +Where the Vision waited, dim,<br/> +Still beyond some deep-on-deep.<br/> +And the darkness folded him,<br/> +Eager heart and weary limb.—<br/> +All day long, he kept the sheep.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap72"></a>HARVEST-MOON: 1914</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Over the twilight field,<br/> +The overflowing field,—<br/> +Over the glimmering field,<br/> +And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield<br/> +Of sheaves that still did writhe,<br/> +After the scythe;<br/> +The teeming field and darkly overstrewn<br/> +With all the garnered fulness of that noon—<br/> +Two looked upon each other.<br/> +One was a Woman men called their mother;<br/> +And one, the Harvest-Moon.<br/> +<br /> +And one, the Harvest-Moon,<br/> +Who stood, who gazed<br/> +On those unquiet gleanings where they bled;<br/> +Till the lone Woman said:<br/> +“But we were crazed…<br/> +We should laugh now together, I and you,<br/> +We two.<br/> +You, for your dreaming it was worth<br/> +A star’s while to look on and light the Earth;<br/> +And I, forever telling to my mind,<br/> +Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth<br/> +To humankind!<br/> +Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss<br/> +To give the breath to men,<br/> +For men to slay again:<br/> +Lording it over anguish but to give<br/> +My life that men might live<br/> +For this.<br/> +You will be laughing now, remembering<br/> +I called you once Dead World, and barren thing,<br/> +Yes, so we named you then,<br/> +You, far more wise<br/> +Than to give life to men.”<br/> +<br /> +Over the field, that there<br/> +Gave back the skies<br/> +A shattered upward stare<br/> +From blank white eyes,—<br/> +Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune<br/> +Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon,<br/> +She looked; and went her way—<br/> +The Harvest-Moon.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap73"></a>HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“Horseman, springing from the dark,<br/> +Horseman, flying wild and free,<br/> +Tell me what shall be thy road<br/> +Whither speedest far from me?”<br/> +<br /> +“From the dark into the light,<br/> +From the small unto the great,<br/> +From the valleys dark I ride<br/> +O’er the hills to conquer fate!”<br/> +<br /> +“Take me with thee, horseman mine!<br/> +Let me madly rode with thee!”<br/> +As he turned I met his eyes,<br/> +My own soul looked back at me!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +LILLA CABOT PERRY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap74"></a>THREE QUATRAINS</h2> + +<h5>THE CUP</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +She said, “Lift high the cup!”<br/> +Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign,<br/> +But, smiling, raised it up<br/> +That none might see or guess it held no wine.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>FORGIVE ME NOT!</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know<br/> +Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast!<br/> +Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest,<br/> +On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>THE ROSE</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +One deep red rose I dropped into his grave,<br/> +So small a thing to give so great a friend!<br/> +Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave<br/> +And must fare on without it to the end,<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +LILLA CABOT PERRY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap75"></a>A VALENTINE, UNSENT</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart<br/> +To see you fade away,<br/> +Unloved, unwelcome and apart<br/> +From every joy to-day.<br/> +<br /> +Once long ago your tale was new,<br/> +Days distant yet so dear;<br/> +Why say her lover still is true,<br/> +When that is all her fear?<br/> +<br /> +Why thus recall another’s pain,<br/> +Her tender heart to fret?<br/> +Best let her think he loves again,<br/> +Who never can forget!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARGARET PERRY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap76"></a>SHIPBUILDERS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The German people reared them<br/> +An idol made of wood;<br/> +And Hindenburg before them<br/> +Lifelike and stupid stood.<br/> +<br /> +To clothe him all in iron<br/> +And thus his soul express,<br/> +With nails and spikes they covered<br/> +His wooden nakedness.<br/> +<br /> +And when they, thus had clothed him<br/> +All in a suit of mail,<br/> +Still came they, wild-eyed, looking<br/> +For space to drive a nail.<br/> +<br /> +Whenever Teuton airmen<br/> +Slay boys and girls at play,<br/> +Or U-boats, drowning babies,<br/> +Create a holiday.<br/> +<br /> +Then, gathering round their statue,<br/> +A happy German throng<br/> +Drive nails into the idol<br/> +To make him still more strong.<br/> +<br /> +Avenge the babes, shipbuilders,<br/> +That on the seas have died;<br/> +Avenge the little children<br/> +Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards,<br/> +And let your hammers ring,<br/> +For more than ships and cargoes<br/> +Waits on your fashioning.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards;<br/> +With every bolt you drive<br/> +Bethink you ’tis the Kaiser<br/> +Whose brutish head you rive.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards,<br/> +And swing with might and main;<br/> +’Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince<br/> +That you to-day have slain.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards,<br/> +And heat the metal hot,<br/> +For it is Bethmann Hollweg<br/> +You’re boiling in the pot.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards,—<br/> +And when the day is done,<br/> +You’ve spent it in driving spikes,<br/> +In Hindernburg the Hun.<br/> +<br /> +Come, gather at the shipyards,<br/> +And toil with healthy hate,<br/> +For only you can save the world,<br/> +The Hun is at the gate.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap77"></a>UNFADING PICTURES</h2> + +<p> +(“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.”<br/> + —“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)</p> + +<p class="poem">How many are the scenes he limned,<br/> +With artist strokes, clear-cut and free—<br/> +Our Dickens; time shall not efface<br/> +Their charm, and they will ever grace<br/> +The halls of memory.<br/> +<br /> +Oft and again we turn to them,<br/> +To contemplate in pleased review;<br/> +And like some picture on the screen<br/> +Comes now to mind a favorite scene<br/> +His master-pencil drew:—<br/> +<br /> +Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep,<br/> +I see a small lad, spent and worn,<br/> +And by the window, stern and grim,<br/> +A silent figure watching him,<br/> +So dusty, ragged, torn.<br/> +<br /> +Ah, now she rises from behind<br/> +The round green fan beside her chair;<br/> +“Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends<br/> +Her voice new softness-and she bends<br/> +And brushes back his hair.<br/> +<br /> +Then in his sleep he softly stirs.<br/> +Was that a dream, these murmured words?<br/> +He wakes! There by the casement sat<br/> +Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat<br/> +And her canary birds.<br/> +<br /> +The peaceful calm of that quaint room,<br/> +Its marks of comfort everywhere—<br/> +Old china and mahogany<br/> +And blowing in, fresh from the sea,<br/> +The perfume-laden air.<br/> +<br /> +Poor little pilgrim so bereft,<br/> +So weary at his journey’s end!<br/> +What joy must then have filled his soul<br/> +To reach at last such happy goal—<br/> +To find—oh, such a friend!…<br/> +<br /> +And then night came, and from his bed<br/> +He saw the sea, moonlit and bright,<br/> +And dreamed there came, to bless her son,<br/> +His mother, with her little one,<br/> +Adown that path of light.<br/> +<br /> +Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave,<br/> +When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er,<br/> +Than such repose, content, and love;<br/> +Some shining path that leads above<br/> +To dear ones gone before!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +LOUELLA C. POOLE +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap78"></a>WITH WAVES AND WINGS</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Waves and Wings and Growing Things!<br/> +As through the gladden sight ye flow<br/> +And flit and glow,<br/> +Ye win me so<br/> +In soul to go,<br/> +I too am waves, I too am wings,<br/> +And kindred motion in me springs.<br/> +<br /> +With thee I pass, glad growing grass!—<br/> +I climb the air with lissome mien;<br/> +Unsheathing keen<br/> +The vivid sheen<br/> +Of springing green,<br/> +I thrill the crude, exalt the crass<br/> +Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass.<br/> +<br /> +And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!—<br/> +To make all mutable the floor<br/> +Of Earth’s firm shore,<br/> +With flashing pour<br/> +Whose brimming o’er<br/> +Impassion’d motion loves and laves<br/> +And livens sombre slumbering caves.<br/> +<br /> +Then soaring where the wild birds fare,<br/> +My song would sweep the windy lyre<br/> +Of Heaven’s choir,<br/> +Pulsing desire<br/> +For starry fire,<br/> +Abashing chilling vagues of air<br/> +With throbbing of warm breasts that dare!<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +CHARLOTTE PORTER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap79"></a>BLUEBERRIES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Upon the hills of Garlingtown<br/> +Beneath the summer sky,<br/> +In many pleasant pastures<br/> +On sunny slopes and high,<br/> +Their skins abloom with dusty blue,<br/> +Asleep, the berries lie.<br/> +<br /> +And all the lads of Garlingtown,<br/> +And all the lasses too,<br/> +Still climb the tranquil hillsides,<br/> +A merry, barefoot crew;<br/> +Still homeward plod with unfilled pails<br/> +And mouths of berry blue.<br/> +<br /> +And all the birds of Garlingtown,<br/> +When flocking back to nest,<br/> +Remember well the patches<br/> +Where berries are the best;<br/> +They pick the ripest ones at dawn<br/> +And leave the lads the rest.<br/> +<br /> +Upon the hills of Garlingtown<br/> +When berry-time was o’er,<br/> +I looked into the sunset,<br/> +And saw an open door,<br/> +And from the hills of Garlingtown<br/> +I went, and came no more.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +FRANK PRENTICE RAND +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap80"></a>NOCTURNE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space,<br/> +From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine!<br/> +The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face,<br/> +You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine.<br/> +<br /> +Each star to numberless planets gives light and motion and heat,<br/> +But you enmantle them all, the nearest and most remote;<br/> +And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles under your feet,—<br/> +Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and shine and float.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap81"></a>ENVOI</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I walked with poets in my youth,<br/> +Because the world they drew<br/> +Was beautiful and glorious<br/> +Beyond the world I knew.<br/> +<br /> +The poets are my comrades still,<br/> +But dearer than in youth,<br/> +For now I know that they alone<br/> +Picture the world of truth.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap82"></a>THERE WHERE THE SEA</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +There where the sea enwrapt<br/> +A strip of land and wind-swept dune,<br/> +Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering<br/> +Noonday sun of early June,—<br/> +The Placid sea lay shimmering<br/> +In a mist of blue,<br/> +From which the sky now drew<br/> +Its wealth of hue and colour;<br/> +One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean,<br/> +As it breathed along the shore in even motion.<br/> +Among the pines and listless of the scene,<br/> +Atthis and Alcæus lay,<br/> +Within the heart of each a hunger<br/> +For the unknown gift of life.<br/> +Here from day to day<br/> +They met and dreamed away<br/> +The soft unfloding days of spring,—<br/> +Now turning to the summer.<br/> +<br /> +<i>Alcæus:</i><br /> +I am faint with all the fire<br/> +In my blood,<br/> +And I would plunge into the quiet blue<br/> +And lose all sense of time and you.<br/> +<br /> +<i>Atthis:</i><br /> +I, too, would plunge<br/> +And swim with you!<br/> +<br /> +Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty,<br/> +Calm and sure and unafraid,<br/> +The sinuous splendour of her limbs,<br/> +A silent symphony of curving line,<br/> +Which reached its final note<br/> +In breast and rounded throat.<br/> +He had not known that flesh could be so fair;<br/> +Each movement which she made<br/> +Wove o’er his sense a deeper spell,<br/> +Her beauty swept him like a flame<br/> +And caught him unaware.<br/> +She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers<br/> +Before that burning gaze,<br/> +Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders<br/> +Down among the boulders,<br/> +To the sea.<br/> +Secure within its covering depth<br/> +She called to him to follow.<br/> +She led him out along the tide,<br/> +With swift unerring stroke,<br/> +Nor paused till he was at her side.<br/> +With conquering arm<br/> +He seized her and from her brow<br/> +Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her lips—<br/> +Her eyes closed,—<br/> +As all her body yielded to his kiss.<br/> +Then home he bore her to the shore,<br/> +Within his heart a song of triumph;<br/> +In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood.<br/> +So spring for them passed on to summer.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARIE TUDOR +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap83"></a>MARRIAGE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +You, who have given me your name,<br/> +And with your laws have made me wife,<br/> +To share your failures and your fame,<br/> +Whose word has made me yours for life.<br/> +<br /> +What proof have you that you hold me?<br/> +That in reality I’m one<br/> +With you, through all eternity?<br/> +What proof when all is said and done?<br/> +<br /> +In spite of all the laws you’ve made,<br/> +I’m free. I am no part of you.<br/> +But wait-the last word is not said;<br/> +You’re mine, for I’m myself and you.<br/> +<br /> +All through my veins there flows your blood,<br/> +In you there is no part of me.<br/> +By virtue of my motherhood<br/> +Through me you live eternally.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +MARIE TUDOR +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap84"></a>PITY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Oh do not Pity me because I gave<br/> +My heart when lovely April with a gust,<br/> +Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave;<br/> +And do not pity me because I thrust<br/> +Aside your love that once burned as a flame.<br/> +I was as thirsty as a windy flower<br/> +That bares its bosom to the summer shower<br/> +And to the unremembered winds that came.<br/> +Pity me most for moments yet to be,<br/> +In the far years, when some day I shall turn<br/> +Toward this strong path up to our little door<br/> +And find it barred to all my ecstasy.<br/> +No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne—<br/> +Only the crying sea upon the shore.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +HAROLD VINAL +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap85"></a>A ROSE TO THE LIVING</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +A rose to the living is more<br/> +Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;<br/> +In filling love’s infinite store,<br/> +A rose to the living is more,<br/> +If graciously given before<br/> +The hungering spirit is fled,—<br/> +A rose to the living is more<br/> +Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +NIXON WATERMAN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap86"></a>THE STORM</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +She reached for sunset fires,<br/> +And lived with stars and the sea,<br/> +The mountains for her temple,<br/> +The storm for priest had she.<br/> +<br /> +Together a libation<br/> +They poured to the God she knew,<br/> +Such wine as ageless heavens<br/> +And lonely wisdom brew.<br/> +<br /> +Now she has done with worship,<br/> +For her all rites are the same;<br/> +Yet the storm keeps green forever<br/> +The moss upon her name.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +G. O. WARREN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap87"></a>WHERE THEY SLEEP</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The fog inrolling, dark and still<br/> +Lies deep upon the crowded dead<br/> +As flooding sea upon the sands,<br/> +And quenches starlight overhead.<br/> +<br /> +Long have they slept. Their separate dust<br/> +Has mingled with a nameless mould.<br/> +Only the slower-crumbling stones<br/> +Still tell so much as may be told.<br/> +<br /> +And now in shoreless fog adrift<br/> +Like some lone mariner gliding by,<br/> +I lean above the drowning graves<br/> +And wonder when I too shall lie<br/> +<br /> +Where evermore the tides of night<br/> +And earth will hide my lonely rest;<br/> +And Time will bid my love forget<br/> +To read the stone upon my breast.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +G. O. WARREN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap88"></a>BEAUTY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Not flesh alone am I, when I can be<br/> +So swiftly caught in Beauty’s shimmering thread<br/> +Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me,<br/> +With their frail strength my following heart have led.<br/> +<br /> +Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind,<br/> +When, watching by lone twilight waters’ brim<br/> +I tremblingly decipher, as they wind,<br/> +Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim.<br/> +<br /> +So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring<br/> +To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist,<br/> +Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring,<br/> +That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +G. O. WARREN +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap89"></a>COMRADES</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying,<br/> +In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming?<br/> +We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying;<br/> +Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!—<br/> +Where is he now, the dark boy slender<br/> +Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins?<br/> +I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender<br/> +Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.<br/> +<br /> +Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter,<br/> +Softer than love, in his turbulent charms;<br/> +Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter,<br/> +And gather me up in his boyhood arms;<br/> +Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding,<br/> +Suppled my limbs to the horseman’s war;<br/> +Where is he now, for whom my heart’s biding,<br/> +Biding, biding—but he rides far!<br/> +<br /> +O love that passes the love of woman!<br/> +Who that hath felt it shall ever forget<br/> +When the breath of life with a throb turns human,<br/> +And a lad’s heart is to a lad’s heart set?<br/> +Ever, forever, lover and rover—<br/> +They shall cling, nor each from other shall part<br/> +Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over,<br/> +And life is dust in each faithful heart.<br/> +<br /> +They are dead, the American grasses under;<br/> +There is no one now who presses my side;<br/> +By the African chotts I am riding asunder,<br/> +And with great joy ride I the last great ride.<br/> +I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying;<br/> +Thousands of miles there is no one near;<br/> +And my heart—all the night it is crying, crying<br/> +In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.<br/> +<br /> +Hearts of my music—them dark earth covers;<br/> +Comrades to die, and to die for, were they;<br/> +In the width of the world there were no such rovers—<br/> +Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay;<br/> +And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished,<br/> +To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more,<br/> +And to ride in the track of great souls perished<br/> +Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o’er.<br/> +<br /> +Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands,<br/> +Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade,<br/> +And one, far faring o’er orient islands<br/> +Whose blood yet glints with my blade’s accolade;<br/> +North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing,<br/> +Last love to the breasts where my own has bled;<br/> +Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing<br/> +My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap90"></a>THE FLIGHT</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +O wild heart, track the land’s perfume,<br/> +Beach-roses and moor-heather!<br/> +All fragrances of herb and bloom<br/> +Fail, out at sea, together.<br/> +O follow where aloft find room<br/> +Lark-song and eagle-feather!<br/> +All ecstasies of throat and plume<br/> +Melt, high on yon blue weather.<br/> +<br /> +O leave on sky and ocean lost<br/> +The flight creation dareth;<br/> +Take wings of love, that mounts the most:<br/> +Find fame, that furthest fareth!<br/> +Thy flight, albeit amid her host<br/> +Thee, too, night star-like beareth,<br/> +Flying, thy breast on heaven’s coast,<br/> +The infinite outweareth.<br/> +</p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +“Dead o’er us roll celestial fires;<br/> +Mute stand Earth’s ancient beaches;<br/> +Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires,<br/> +The passing hour outreaches;<br/> +The soul creative never tires—<br/> +Evokes, adores, beseeches;<br/> +And that heart most the god inspires<br/> +Whom most its wildness teaches.<br/> +<br /> +“For I will course through falling years<br/> +And stars and cities burning;<br/> +And I will march through dying cheers<br/> +Past empires unreturning;<br/> +Ever the world flame reappears<br/> +Where mankind power is earning,<br/> +The nations’ hopes, the people’s tears,<br/> +One with the wild heart yearning.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 2294-h.htm or 2294-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/9/2294/</div> +<div style='display:block; 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca8f55a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #2294 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2294) diff --git a/old/2294.txt b/old/2294.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9df5a3a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2294.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4505 @@ +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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS *** + +***** This file should be named 2294.txt or 2294.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/9/2294/ + +Produced by Susan L. 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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. + diff --git a/old/mpoet10.zip b/old/mpoet10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3caa6dc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/mpoet10.zip diff --git a/old/mpoet11.txt b/old/mpoet11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..080e8cf --- /dev/null +++ b/old/mpoet11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4514 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext of Massachusetts Poets, Braithwaite Ed. +ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, editor + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. 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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. + diff --git a/old/mpoet11.zip b/old/mpoet11.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b62cb2d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/mpoet11.zip |