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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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