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diff --git a/25880.txt b/25880.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c899120 --- /dev/null +++ b/25880.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5049 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of American Poetry, 1922, by +Edna St. Vincent Millay and Robert Frost + +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: American Poetry, 1922 + A Miscellany + +Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay + Robert Frost + +Release Date: June 23, 2008 [EBook #25880] +[Date last updated: January 2, 2009] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMERICAN POETRY, 1922 *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Huub Bakker, Stephen Hope and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned +images of public domain material from the Google Print +project.) + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes + +Some text styles have been preserved in this text by enclosing between +special characters. Italics uses _underlines_ and small caps uses +~tildes~. + +Font sizes are not preserved. + + + + + + +AMERICAN POETRY + +1922 + +A MISCELLANY + + +[Illustration] + + +NEW YORK + +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + +PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY +THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY +RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + +A FOREWORD + + +When the first Miscellany of American Poetry appeared in 1920, +innumerable were the questions asked by both readers and reviewers of +publishers and contributors alike. The modest note on the jacket +appeared to satisfy no one. The volume purported to have no editor, yet +a collection without an editor was pronounced preposterous. It was +obviously not the organ of a school, yet it did not seem to have been +compiled to exploit any particular phase of American life; neither +Nature, Love, Patriotism, Propaganda, nor Philosophy could be acclaimed +as its reason for being, and it was certainly not intended, as has been +so frequent of late, to bring a cheerful absence of mind to the +world-weary during an unoccupied ten minutes. Again, it was exclusive +not inclusive, since its object was, evidently, not the meritorious if +impossible one of attempting to be a compendium of present-day American +verse. + +But the publisher's note had stated one thing quite clearly, that the +Miscellany was to be a biennial. Two years have passed, and with the +second volume it has seemed best to state at once the reasons which +actuated its contributors to join in such a venture. + +In the first place, the plan of the _Miscellany_ is frankly imitative. +For some years now there has been published in England an anthology +entitled Georgian Poetry. The Miscellany is intended to be an American +companion to that publication. The dissimilarities of temperament, range +and choice of subjects are manifest, but the outstanding difference is +this: _Georgian Poetry_ has an editor, and the poems it contains may be +taken as that editor's reaction to the poetry of the day. The +_Miscellany_, on the other hand, has no editor; it is no one person's +choice which forms it; it is not an attempt to throw into relief any +particular group or stress any particular tendency. It does disclose the +most recent work of certain representative figures in contemporary +American literature. The poets who appear here have come together by +mutual accord and, although they may invite others to join them in +subsequent volumes as circumstance dictates, each one stands (as all +newcomers also must stand) as the exponent of fresh and strikingly +diverse qualities in our native poetry. It is as if a dozen unacademic +painters, separated by temperament and distance, were to arrange to have +an exhibition every two years of their latest work. They would not +pretend that they were the only painters worthy of a public showing; +they would maintain that their work was, generally speaking, most +interesting to one another. Their gallery would necessarily be limited; +but it would be flexible enough to admit, with every fresh exhibit, +three or four new members who had achieved an importance and an idiom +of their own. This is just what the original contributors to the +_Miscellany_ have done. + +The newcomers--H. D., Alfred Kreymborg, and Edna St. Vincent +Millay--have taken their places with the same absence of judge or jury +that marks any "society of independents." There is no hanging committee; +no organizer of "position." Two years ago the alphabet determined the +arrangement; this time seniority has been the sole arbiter of +precedence. Furthermore--and this can not be too often repeated--there +has been no editor. To be painstakingly precise, each contributor has +been his own editor. As such, he has chosen his own selections and +determined the order in which they are to be printed, but he has had no +authority over either the choice or grouping of his fellow exhibitors' +contributions. To one of the members has been delegated the merely +mechanical labors of assembling, proof-reading, and seeing the volume +through the press. The absence of E. A. Robinson from this year's +_Miscellany_ is a source of regret not only to all the contributors but +to the poet himself. Mr. Robinson has written nothing since his +Collected Poems with the exception of a long poem--a volume in +itself--but he hopes to appear in any subsequent collection. + +It should be added that this is not a haphazard anthology of picked-over +poetry. The poems that follow are new. They are new not only in the +sense that (with two exceptions) they cannot be found in book form, but +most of them have never previously been published. Certain of the +selections have appeared in recent magazines and these are reprinted by +permission of _The Century_, _The Yale Review_, _Poetry: A Magazine of +Verse_, _The New Republic_, _Harper's_, _Scribner's_, _The Bookman_, +_The Freeman_, _Broom_, _The Dial_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Farm and +Fireside_, _The Measure_, and _The Literary Review_. Vachel Lindsay's "I +Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry" is a revised version of the poem +of that name which was printed in _The Enchanted Years_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +_A Foreword_ _III_ + +AMY LOWELL + + Lilacs _3_ + + Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme _8_ + + The Swans _13_ + + Prime _16_ + + Vespers _17_ + + In Excelsis _18_ + + La Ronde du Diable _20_ + +ROBERT FROST + + Fire and Ice _25_ + + The Grindstone _26_ + + The Witch of Coos _29_ + + A Brook in the City _37_ + + Design _38_ + +CARL SANDBURG + + And So To-day _41_ + + California City Landscape _49_ + + Upstream _51_ + + Windflower Leaf _52_ + +VACHEL LINDSAY + + In Praise of Johnny Appleseed _55_ + + I Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry _66_ + +JAMES OPPENHEIM + + Hebrews _75_ + +ALFRED KREYMBORG + + Adagio: A Duet _79_ + + Die Kuche _80_ + + Rain _81_ + + Peasant _83_ + + Bubbles _85_ + + Dirge _87_ + + Colophon _88_ + +SARA TEASDALE + + Wisdom _91_ + + Places _92_ + _Twilight_ (Tucson) + _Full Moon_ (Santa Barbara) + _Winter Sun_ (Lenox) + _Evening_ (Nahant) + + Words for an Old Air _97_ + + Those Who Love _98_ + + Two Songs for Solitude _99_ + _The Crystal Gazer_ + _The Solitary_ + +LOUIS UNTERMEYER + + Monolog from a Mattress _103_ + + Waters of Babylon _110_ + + The Flaming Circle _112_ + + Portrait of a Machine _114_ + + Roast Leviathan _115_ + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + A Rebel _127_ + + The Rock _128_ + + Blue Water _129_ + + Prayers for Wind _130_ + + Impromptu _131_ + + Chinese Poet Among Barbarians _132_ + + Snowy Mountains _133_ + + The Future _134_ + + Upon the Hill _136_ + + The Enduring _137_ + +JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER + + Old Man _141_ + + Tone Picture _142_ + + They Say-- _143_ + + Rescue _144_ + + Mater in Extremis _146_ + + Self-Rejected _147_ + +H. D. + + Holy Satyr _151_ + + Lais _153_ + + Heliodora _156_ + + Toward the Piraeus _161_ + _Slay with your eyes, Greek_ + _You would have broken my wings_ + _I loved you_ + _What had you done_ + _If I had been a boy_ + _It was not chastity that made me cold_ + +CONRAD AIKEN + + Seven Twilights _171_ + _The ragged pilgrim on the road to nowhere_ + _Now by the wall of the ancient town_ + _When the tree bares, the music of it changes_ + _"This is the hour," she says, "of transmutation"_ + _Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds_ + _Heaven, you say, will be a field in April_ + _In the long silence of the sea_ + + Tetelestai _184_ + +EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY + + Eight Sonnets _193_ + _When you, that at this moment are to me_ + _What's this of death, from you who never will die_ + _I know I am but summer to your heart_ + _Here is a wound that never will heal, I know_ + _What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why_ + _Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare_ + _Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!_ + _Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find_ + +BIBLIOGRAPHY _201_ + + + + + AMY LOWELL + + + + + LILACS + + + Lilacs, + False blue, + White, + Purple, + Color of lilac, + Your great puffs of flowers + Are everywhere in this my New England. + Among your heart-shaped leaves + Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing + Their little weak soft songs; + In the crooks of your branches + The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs + Peer restlessly through the light and shadow + Of all Springs. + Lilacs in dooryards + Holding quiet conversations with an early moon; + Lilacs watching a deserted house + Settling sideways into the grass of an old road; + Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom + Above a cellar dug into a hill. + You are everywhere. + You were everywhere. + You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon, + And ran along the road beside the boy going to school. + You stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking, + You persuaded the housewife that her dish-pan was of silver + And her husband an image of pure gold. + You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms + Through the wide doors of Custom Houses-- + You, and sandal-wood, and tea, + Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks + When a ship was in from China. + You called to them: "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men, + May is a month for flitting," + Until they writhed on their high stools + And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up + ledgers. + Paradoxical New England clerks, + Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the "Song of Solomon" at + night, + So many verses before bedtime, + Because it was the Bible. + The dead fed you + Amid the slant stones of graveyards. + Pale ghosts who planted you + Came in the night time + And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems. + You are of the green sea, + And of the stone hills which reach a long distance. + You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell + kites and marbles, + You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home. + You cover the blind sides of greenhouses + And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass + To your friends, the grapes, inside. + + Lilacs, + False blue, + White, + Purple, + Color of lilac, + You have forgotten your Eastern origin, + The veiled women with eyes like panthers, + The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled Pashas. + Now you are a very decent flower, + A reticent flower, + A curiously clear-cut, candid flower, + Standing beside clean doorways, + Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles, + Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight + And a hundred or two sharp blossoms. + + Maine knows you, + Has for years and years; + New Hampshire knows you, + And Massachusetts + And Vermont. + Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island; + Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea. + You are brighter than apples, + Sweeter than tulips, + You are the great flood of our souls + Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts, + You are the smell of all Summers, + The love of wives and children, + The recollection of the gardens of little children, + You are State Houses and Charters + And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows. + May is lilac here in New England, + May is a thrush singing "Sun up!" on a tip-top ash-tree, + May is white clouds behind pine-trees + Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky. + May is a green as no other, + May is much sun through small leaves, + May is soft earth, + And apple-blossoms, + And windows open to a South wind. + May is a full light wind of lilac + From Canada to Narragansett Bay. + + Lilacs, + False blue, + White, + Purple, + Color of lilac, + Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England, + Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England, + Lilac in me because I am New England, + Because my roots are in it, + Because my leaves are of it, + Because my flowers are for it, + Because it is my country + And I speak to it of itself + And sing of it with my own voice + Since certainly it is mine. + + + + + TWENTY-FOUR HOKKU ON A MODERN THEME + + + I + + Again the larkspur, + Heavenly blue in my garden. + They, at least, unchanged. + + + II + + How have I hurt you? + You look at me with pale eyes, + But these are my tears. + + + III + + Morning and evening-- + Yet for us once long ago + Was no division. + + + IV + + I hear many words. + Set an hour when I may come + Or remain silent. + + + V + + In the ghostly dawn + I write new words for your ears-- + Even now you sleep. + + + VI + + This then is morning. + Have you no comfort for me + Cold-colored flowers? + + + VII + + My eyes are weary + Following you everywhere. + Short, oh short, the days! + + + VIII + + When the flower falls + The leaf is no more cherished. + Every day I fear. + + + IX + + Even when you smile + Sorrow is behind your eyes. + Pity me, therefore. + + + X + + Laugh--it is nothing. + To others you may seem gay, + I watch with grieved eyes. + + + XI + + Take it, this white rose. + Stems of roses do not bleed; + Your fingers are safe. + + + XII + + As a river-wind + Hurling clouds at a bright moon, + So am I to you. + + + XIII + + Watching the iris, + The faint and fragile petals-- + How am I worthy? + + + XIV + + Down a red river + I drift in a broken skiff. + Are you then so brave? + + + XV + + Night lies beside me + Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. + It and I alone. + + + XVI + + Last night it rained. + Now, in the desolate dawn, + Crying of blue jays. + + + XVII + + Foolish so to grieve, + Autumn has its colored leaves-- + But before they turn? + + + XVIII + + Afterwards I think: + Poppies bloom when it thunders. + Is this not enough? + + + XIX + + Love is a game--yes? + I think it is a drowning: + Black willows and stars. + + + XX + + When the aster fades + The creeper flaunts in crimson. + Always another! + + + XXI + + Turning from the page, + Blind with a night of labor, + I hear morning crows. + + + XXII + + A cloud of lilies, + Or else you walk before me. + Who could see clearly? + + + XXIII + + Sweet smell of wet flowers + Over an evening garden. + Your portrait, perhaps? + + + XXIV + + Staying in my room, + I thought of the new Spring leaves. + That day was happy. + + + + + THE SWANS + + + The swans float and float + Along the moat + Around the Bishop's garden, + And the white clouds push + Across a blue sky + With edges that seem to draw in and harden. + + Two slim men of white bronze + Beat each with a hammer on the end of a rod + The hours of God. + Striking a bell, + They do it well. + And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and swell + In the Cathedral's carved stone polygons. + + The swans float + About the moat, + And another swan sits still in the air + Above the old inn. + He gazes into the street + And swims the cold and the heat, + He has always been there, + At least so say the cobbles in the square. + They listen to the beat + Of the hammered bell, + And think of the feet + Which beat upon their tops; + But what they think they do not tell. + + And the swans who float + Up and down the moat + Gobble the bread the Bishop feeds them. + The slim bronze men beat the hour again, + But only the gargoyles up in the hard blue air heed them. + + When the Bishop says a prayer, + And the choir sing "Amen," + The hammers break in on them there: + Clang! Clang! Beware! Beware! + The carved swan looks down at the passing men, + And the cobbles wink: "An hour has gone again." + But the people kneeling before the Bishop's chair + Forget the passing over the cobbles in the square. + + An hour of day and an hour of night, + And the clouds float away in a red-splashed light. + The sun, quotha? or white, white + Smoke with fire all alight. + + An old roof crashing on a Bishop's tomb, + Swarms of men with a thirst for room, + And the footsteps blur to a shower, shower, shower, + Of men passing--passing--every hour, + With arms of power, and legs of power, + And power in their strong, hard minds. + No need then + For the slim bronze men + Who beat God's hours: Prime, Tierce, None. + Who wants to hear? No one. + We will melt them, and mold them, + And make them a stem + For a banner gorged with blood, + For a blue-mouthed torch. + So the men rush like clouds, + They strike their iron edges on the Bishop's chair + And fling down the lanterns by the tower stair. + They rip the Bishop out of his tomb + And break the mitre off of his head. + "See," say they, "the man is dead; + He cannot shiver or sing. + We'll toss for his ring." + + The cobbles see this all along the street + Coming--coming--on countless feet. + And the clockmen mark the hours as they go. + But slow--slow-- + The swans float + In the Bishop's moat. + And the inn swan + Sits on and on, + Staring before him with cold glass eyes. + Only the Bishop walks serene, + Pleased with his church, pleased with his house, + Pleased with the sound of the hammered bell, + Beating his doom. + Saying "Boom! Boom! Room! Room!" + He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind, + And very, very pleased with his charming moat + And the swans which float. + + + + + PRIME + + + Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn + When a bird flies + And the sky changes to a fresher color. + + Speak, speak, Beloved. + Say little things + For my ears to catch + And run with them to my heart. + + + + + VESPERS + + + Last night, at sunset, + The foxgloves were like tall altar candles. + Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse, my Dear, + I should have understood their burning. + + + + + IN EXCELSIS + + + You--you-- + Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver; + Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies; + Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air. + + The movement of your hands is the long, golden running of light from + a rising sun; + It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path. + + As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning. + Young horses are not more sudden than your thoughts, + Your words are bees about a pear-tree, + Your fancies are the gold-and-black striped wasps buzzing among red + apples. + I drink your lips, + I eat the whiteness of your hands and feet. + My mouth is open, + As a new jar I am empty and open. + Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth, + Like a brook of water thronged with lilies. + + You are frozen as the clouds, + You are far and sweet as the high clouds. + I dare reach to you, + I dare touch the rim of your brightness. + I leap beyond the winds, + I cry and shout, + For my throat is keen as a sword + Sharpened on a hone of ivory. + My throat sings the joy of my eyes, + The rushing gladness of my love. + + How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart? + How have I snared the seas to lie in my fingers + And caught the sky to be a cover for my head? + How have you come to dwell with me, + Compassing me with the four circles of your mystic lightness, + So that I say "Glory! Glory!" and bow before you + As to a shrine? + + Do I tease myself that morning is morning and a day after? + Do I think the air a condescension, + The earth a politeness, + Heaven a boon deserving thanks? + So you--air--earth--heaven-- + I do not thank you, + I take you, + I live. + And those things which I say in consequence + Are rubies mortised in a gate of stone. + + + + + LA RONDE DU DIABLE + + + "Here we go round the ivy-bush," + And that's a tune we all dance to. + Little poet people snatching ivy, + Trying to prevent one another from snatching ivy. + If you get a leaf, there's another for me; + Look at the bush. + But I want your leaf, Brother, and you mine, + Therefore, of course, we push. + + "Here we go round the laurel-tree." + Do we want laurels for ourselves most, + Or most that no one else shall have any? + We cannot stop to discuss the question. + We cannot stop to plait them into crowns + Or notice whether they become us. + We scarcely see the laurel-tree, + The crowd about us is all we see, + And there's no room in it for you and me. + Therefore, Sisters, it's my belief + We've none of us very much chance at a leaf. + + "Here we go round the barberry-bush." + It's a bitter, blood-red fruit at best, + Which puckers the mouth and burns the heart. + To tell the truth, only one or two + Want the berries enough to strive + For more than he has, more than she. + An acid berry for you and me. + Abundance of berries for all who will eat, + But an aching meat. + That's poetry. + And who wants to swallow a mouthful of sorrow? + The world is old and our century + Must be well along, and we've no time to waste. + Make haste, Brothers and Sisters, push + With might and main round the ivy-bush, + Struggle and pull at the laurel-tree, + And leave the barberries be + For poor lost lunatics like me, + Who set them so high + They overtop the sun in the sky. + Does it matter at all that we don't know why? + + + + ROBERT FROST + + + + + FIRE AND ICE + + + Some say the world will end in fire, + Some say in ice. + From what I've tasted of desire + I hold with those who favor fire. + But if it had to perish twice, + I think I know enough of hate + To know that for destruction ice + Is also great, + And would suffice. + + + + + THE GRINDSTONE + + + Having a wheel and four legs of its own + Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone + To get it anywhere that I can see. + These hands have helped it go and even race; + Not all the motion, though, they ever lent, + Not all the miles it may have thought it went, + Have got it one step from the starting place. + It stands beside the same old apple tree. + The shadow of the apple tree is thin + Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow. + All other farm machinery's gone in, + And some of it on no more legs and wheel + Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go. + (I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.) + For months it hasn't known the taste of steel, + Washed down with rusty water in a tin. + But standing outdoors, hungry, in the cold, + Except in towns, at night, is not a sin. + And, anyway, its standing in the yard + Under a ruinous live apple tree + Has nothing any more to do with me, + Except that I remember how of old, + One summer day, all day I drove it hard, + And some one mounted on it rode it hard, + And he and I between us ground a blade. + + I gave it the preliminary spin, + And poured on water (tears it might have been); + And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed, + A Father-Time-like man got on and rode, + Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed. + He turned on will-power to increase the load + And slow me down--and I abruptly slowed, + Like coming to a sudden railroad station. + I changed from hand to hand in desperation. + + I wondered what machine of ages gone + This represented an improvement on. + For all I knew it may have sharpened spears + And arrowheads itself. Much use for years + Had gradually worn it an oblate + Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait, + Appearing to return me hate for hate. + (But I forgive it now as easily + As any other boyhood enemy + Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere.) + I wondered who it was the man thought ground-- + The one who held the wheel back or the one + Who gave his life to keep it going round? + I wondered if he really thought it fair + For him to have the say when we were done. + Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned. + + Not for myself was I so much concerned. + Oh, no!--although, of course, I could have found + A better way to pass the afternoon + Than grinding discord out of a grindstone, + And beating insects at their gritty tune. + Nor was I for the man so much concerned. + Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing + It looked as if he might be badly thrown + And wounded on his blade. So far from caring, + I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster, + (It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued); + I welcomed any moderate disaster + That might be calculated to postpone + What evidently nothing could conclude. + + The thing that made me more and more afraid + Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known, + And now were only wasting precious blade. + And when he raised it dripping once and tried + The creepy edge of it with wary touch, + And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed, + Only disinterestedly to decide + It needed a turn more, I could have cried + Wasn't there danger of a turn too much? + Mightn't we make it worse instead of better? + I was for leaving something to the whetter. + What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd + Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied. + + + + + THE WITCH OF COOS + + _Circa 1922_ + + + I staid the night for shelter at a farm + Behind the mountain, with a mother and son, + Two old-believers. They did all the talking. + +_The Mother_ + Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits + She _could_ call up to pass a winter evening, + But _won't_, should be burned at the stake or something. + Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button, + Who's got the button?" I'd have you understand. + +_The Son_ + Mother can make a common table rear + And kick with two legs like an army mule. + +_The Mother_ + And when I've done it, what good have I done? + Rather than tip a table for you, let me + Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me. + He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him + How that could be--I thought the dead were souls, + He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious + That there's something the dead are keeping back? + Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back. + +_The Son_ + You wouldn't want to tell him what we have + Up attic, mother? + +_The Mother_ + Bones--a skeleton. + +_The Son_ + But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed + Against the attic door: the door is nailed. + It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night + Halting perplexed behind the barrier + Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get + Is back into the cellar where it came from. + +_The Mother_ + We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never! + +_The Son_ + It left the cellar forty years ago + And carried itself like a pile of dishes + Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, + Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, + Another from the bedroom to the attic, + Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it. + Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs. + I was a baby: I don't know where I was. + +_The Mother_ + The only fault my husband found with me-- + I went to sleep before I went to bed, + Especially in winter when the bed + Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow. + The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs + Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, + But left an open door to cool the room off + So as to sort of turn me out of it. + I was just coming to myself enough + To wonder where the cold was coming from, + When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom + And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar. + The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on + When there was water in the cellar in spring + Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then some one + Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, + The way a man with one leg and a crutch, + Or little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile: + It wasn't any one who could be there. + The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked + And swollen tight and buried under snow. + The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust + And swollen tight and buried under snow. + It was the bones. I knew them--and good reason. + My first impulse was to get to the knob + And hold the door. But the bones didn't try + The door; they halted helpless on the landing, + Waiting for things to happen in their favor. + The faintest restless rustling ran all through them. + I never could have done the thing I did + If the wish hadn't been too strong in me + To see how they were mounted for this walk. + I had a vision of them put together + Not like a man, but like a chandelier. + So suddenly I flung the door wide on him. + A moment he stood balancing with emotion, + And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire + Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth. + Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) + Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, + The way he did in life once; but this time + I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, + And fell back from him on the floor myself. + The finger-pieces slid in all directions. + (Where did I see one of those pieces lately? + Hand me my button-box--it must be there.) + I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile, + It's coming up to you." It had its choice + Of the door to the cellar or the hall. + It took the hall door for the novelty, + And set off briskly for so slow a thing, + Still going every which way in the joints, though, + So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, + From the slap I had just now given its hand. + I listened till it almost climbed the stairs + From the hall to the only finished bedroom, + Before I got up to do anything; + Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door, + Toffile, for my sake!" "Company," he said, + "Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed." + So lying forward weakly on the handrail + I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light + (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own + I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it. + It's with us in the room, though. It's the bones." + "What bones?" "The cellar bones--out of the grave." + + * * * * * + + That made him throw his bare legs out of bed + And sit up by me and take hold of me. + I wanted to put out the light and see + If I could see it, or else mow the room, + With our arms at the level of our knees, + And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what-- + It's looking for another door to try. + The uncommonly deep snow has made him think + Of his old song, _The Wild Colonial Boy_, + He always used to sing along the tote-road. + He's after an open door to get out-doors. + Let's trap him with an open door up attic." + Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, + Almost the moment he was given an opening, + The steps began to climb the attic stairs. + I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them. + "Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the knob. + "Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut, + And push the headboard of the bed against it. + + Then we asked was there anything + Up attic that we'd ever want again. + The attic was less to us than the cellar. + If the bones liked the attic, let them like it, + Let them _stay_ in the attic. When they sometimes + Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed + Behind the door and headboard of the bed, + Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, + With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, + That's what I sit up in the dark to say-- + To no one any more since Toffile died. + Let them stay in the attic since they went there. + I promised Toffile to be cruel to them + For helping them be cruel once to him. + +_The Son_ + We think they had a grave down in the cellar. + +_The Mother_ + We know they had a grave down in the cellar. + +_The Son_ + We never could find out whose bones they were. + +_The Mother_ + Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once. + They were a man's his father killed for me. + I mean a man he killed instead of me. + The least I could do was to help dig their grave. + We were about it one night in the cellar. + Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him + To tell the truth, suppose the time had come. + Son looks surprised to see me end a lie + We'd kept up all these years between ourselves + So as to have it ready for outsiders. + But to-night I don't care enough to lie-- + I don't remember why I ever cared. + Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe + Could tell you why he ever cared himself.... + + She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted + Among the buttons poured out in her lap. + + I verified the name next morning: Toffile; + The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway. + + + + + A BROOK IN THE CITY + + + The farm house lingers, though averse to square + With the new city street it has to wear + A number in. But what about the brook + That held the house as in an elbow-crook? + I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength + And impulse, having dipped a finger-length + And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed + A flower to try its currents where they crossed. + The meadow grass could be cemented down + From growing under pavements of a town; + The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. + Is water wood to serve a brook the same? + How else dispose of an immortal force + No longer needed? Staunch it at its source + With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown + Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone + In fetid darkness still to live and run-- + And all for nothing it had ever done + Except forget to go in fear perhaps. + No one would know except for ancient maps + That such a brook ran water. But I wonder + If, from its being kept forever under, + These thoughts may not have risen that so keep + This new-built city from both work and sleep. + + + + + DESIGN + + + I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, + On a white heal-all, holding up a moth + Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-- + Assorted characters of death and blight + Mixed ready to begin the morning right, + Like the ingredients of a witches' broth-- + A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth, + And dead wings carried like a paper kite. + + What had that flower to do with being white, + The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? + What brought the kindred spider to that height, + Then steered the white moth thither in the night? + What but design of darkness to appal?-- + If design govern in a thing so small. + + + + + CARL SANDBURG + + + + + AND SO TO-DAY + + + And so to-day--they lay him away-- + the boy nobody knows the name of-- + the buck private--the unknown soldier-- + the doughboy who dug under and died + when they told him to--that's him. + + Down Pennsylvania Avenue to-day the riders go, + men and boys riding horses, roses in their teeth, + stems of roses, rose leaf stalks, rose dark leaves-- + the line of the green ends in a red rose flash. + + Skeleton men and boys riding skeleton horses, + the rib bones shine, the rib bones curve, + shine with savage, elegant curves-- + a jawbone runs with a long white slant, + a skull dome runs with a long white arch, + bone triangles click and rattle, + elbows, ankles, white line slants-- + shining in the sun, past the White House, + past the Treasury Building, Army and Navy Buildings, + on to the mystic white Capitol Dome-- + so they go down Pennsylvania Avenue to-day, + skeleton men and boys riding skeleton horses, + stems of roses in their teeth, + rose dark leaves at their white jaw slants-- + and a horse laugh question nickers and whinnies, + moans with a whistle out of horse head teeth: + why? who? where? + + ("The big fish--eat the little fish-- + the little fish--eat the shrimps-- + and the shrimps--eat mud,"-- + said a cadaverous man--with a black umbrella-- + spotted with white polka dots--with a missing + ear--with a missing foot and arms-- + with a missing sheath of muscles + singing to the silver sashes of the sun.) + + And so to-day--they lay him away-- + the boy nobody knows the name of-- + the buck private--the unknown soldier-- + the doughboy who dug under and died + when they told him to--that's him. + + If he picked himself and said, "I am ready to die," + if he gave his name and said, "My country, take me," + then the baskets of roses to-day are for the Boy, + the flowers, the songs, the steamboat whistles, + the proclamations of the honorable orators, + they are all for the Boy--that's him. + + If the government of the Republic picked him saying, + "You are wanted, your country takes you"-- + if the Republic put a stethoscope to his heart + and looked at his teeth and tested his eyes and said, + "You are a citizen of the Republic and a sound + animal in all parts and functions--the Republic takes you"-- + then to-day the baskets of flowers are all for the Republic, + the roses, the songs, the steamboat whistles, + the proclamations of the honorable orators-- + they are all for the Republic. + + And so to-day--they lay him away-- + and an understanding goes--his long sleep shall be + under arms and arches near the Capitol Dome-- + there is an authorization--he shall have tomb companions-- + the martyred presidents of the Republic-- + the buck private--the unknown soldier--that's him. + + The man who was war commander of the armies of the Republic + rides down Pennsylvania Avenue-- + The man who is peace commander of the armies of the Republic + rides down Pennsylvania Avenue-- + for the sake of the Boy, for the sake of the Republic. + + (And the hoofs of the skeleton horses + all drum soft on the asphalt footing-- + so soft is the drumming, so soft the roll call + of the grinning sergeants calling the roll call-- + so soft is it all--a camera man murmurs, "Moonshine.") + + Look--who salutes the coffin-- + lays a wreath of remembrance + on the box where a buck private + sleeps a clean dry sleep at last-- + look--it is the highest ranking general + of the officers of the armies of the Republic. + + (Among pigeon corners of the Congressional Library--they + file documents quietly, casually, all in a day's work-- + this human document, the buck private nobody knows the + name of--they file away in granite and steel--with music + and roses, salutes, proclamations of the honorable + orators.) + + Across the country, between two ocean shore lines, + where cities cling to rail and water routes, + there people and horses stop in their foot tracks, + cars and wagons stop in their wheel tracks-- + faces at street crossings shine with a silence + of eggs laid in a row on a pantry shelf-- + among the ways and paths of the flow of the Republic + faces come to a standstill, sixty clockticks count-- + in the name of the Boy, in the name of the Republic. + + (A million faces a thousand miles from Pennsylvania Avenue + stay frozen with a look, a clocktick, a moment-- + skeleton riders on skeleton horses--the nickering high horse + laugh, + the whinny and the howl up Pennsylvania Avenue: + who? why? where?) + + (So people far from the asphalt footing of Pennsylvania + Avenue look, wonder, mumble--the riding white-jaw + phantoms ride hi-eeee, hi-eeee, hi-yi, hi-yi, hi-eeee-- + the proclamations of the honorable orators mix with the + top-sergeants whistling the roll call.) + + If when the clockticks counted sixty, + when the heartbeats of the Republic + came to a stop for a minute, + if the Boy had happened to sit up, + happening to sit up as Lazarus sat up, in the story, + then the first shivering language to drip off his mouth + might have come as, "Thank God," or "Am I dreaming?" + or "What the hell" or "When do we eat?" + or "Kill 'em, kill 'em, the...." + or "Was that ... a rat ... ran over my face?" + or "For Christ's sake, gimme water, gimme water," + or "Blub blub, bloo bloo...." + or any bubbles of shell shock gibberish + from the gashes of No Man's Land. + + Maybe some buddy knows, + some sister, mother, sweetheart, + maybe some girl who sat with him once + when a two-horn silver moon + slid on the peak of a house-roof gable, + and promises lived in the air of the night, + when the air was filled with promises, + when any little slip-shoe lovey + could pick a promise out of the air. + + "Feed it to 'em, + they lap it up, + bull ... bull ... bull," + Said a movie news reel camera man, + Said a Washington newspaper correspondent, + Said a baggage handler lugging a trunk, + Said a two-a-day vaudeville juggler, + Said a hanky-pank selling jumping-jacks. + "Hokum--they lap it up," said the bunch. + + And a tall scar-face ball player, + Played out as a ball player, + Made a speech of his own for the hero boy, + Sent an earful of his own to the dead buck private: + "It's all safe now, buddy, + Safe when you say yes, + Safe for the yes-men." + + He was a tall scar-face battler + With his face in a newspaper + Reading want ads, reading jokes, + Reading love, murder, politics, + Jumping from jokes back to the want ads, + Reading the want ads first and last, + The letters of the word JOB, "J-O-B," + Burnt like a shot of bootleg booze + In the bones of his head-- + In the wish of his scar-face eyes. + + The honorable orators, + Always the honorable orators, + Buttoning the buttons on their prinz alberts, + Pronouncing the syllables "sac-ri-fice," + Juggling those bitter salt-soaked syllables-- + Do they ever gag with hot ashes in their mouths? + Do their tongues ever shrivel with a pain of fire + Across those simple syllables "sac-ri-fice"? + + (There was one orator people far off saw. + He had on a gunnysack shirt over his bones, + And he lifted an elbow socket over his head, + And he lifted a skinny signal finger. + And he had nothing to say, nothing easy-- + He mentioned ten million men, mentioned them as having gone west, + mentioned them as shoving up the daisies. + We could write it all on a postage stamp, what he said. + He said it and quit and faded away, + A gunnysack shirt on his bones.) + + Stars of the night sky, + did you see that phantom fadeout, + did you see those phantom riders, + skeleton riders on skeleton horses, + stems of roses in their teeth, + rose leaves red on white-jaw slants, + grinning along on Pennsylvania Avenue, + the top-sergeants calling roll calls-- + did their horses nicker a horse laugh? + did the ghosts of the boney battalions + move out and on, up the Potomac, over on the Ohio + and out to the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Red River, + and down to the Rio Grande, and on to the Yazoo, + over to the Chattahoochee and up to the Rappahannock? + did you see 'em, stars of the night sky? + + And so to-day--they lay him away-- + the boy nobody knows the name of-- + they lay him away in granite and steel-- + with music and roses--under a flag-- + under a sky of promises. + + + + + CALIFORNIA CITY LANDSCAPE + + + On a mountain-side the real estate agents + Put up signs marking the city lots to be sold there. + A man whose father and mother were Irish + Ran a goat farm half-way down the mountain; + He drove a covered wagon years ago, + Understood how to handle a rifle, + Shot grouse, buffalo, Indians, in a single year, + And now was raising goats around a shanty. + Down at the foot of the mountain + Two Japanese families had flower farms. + A man and woman were in rows of sweet peas + Picking the pink and white flowers + To put in baskets and take to the Los Angeles market. + They were clean as what they handled + There in the morning sun, the big people and the baby-faces. + Across the road, high on another mountain, + Stood a house saying, "I am it," a commanding house. + There was the home of a motion picture director + Famous for lavish whore-house interiors, + Clothes ransacked from the latest designs for women + In the combats of "male against female." + The mountain, the scenery, the layout of the landscape, + And the peace of the morning sun as it happened, + The miles of houses pocketed in the valley beyond-- + It was all worth looking at, worth wondering about, + How long it might last, how young it might be. + + + + + UPSTREAM + + + The strong men keep coming on. + They go down shot, hanged, sick, broken. + They live on, fighting, singing, lucky as plungers. + + The strong men ... they keep coming on. + The strong mothers pulling them from a dark sea, a great prairie, a + long mountain. + + Call hallelujah, call amen, call deep thanks. + The strong men keep coming on. + + + + + WINDFLOWER LEAF + + + This flower is repeated + out of old winds, out of + old times. + + The wind repeats these, it + must have these, over and + over again. + + Oh, windflowers so fresh, + Oh, beautiful leaves, here + now again. + + The domes over + fall to pieces. + The stones under + fall to pieces. + Rain and ice + wreck the works. + The wind keeps, the windflowers + keep, the leaves last, + The wind young and strong lets + these last longer than stones. + + + + + VACHEL LINDSAY + + + + + IN PRAISE OF JOHNNY APPLESEED[1] + + (_Born 1775. Died 1847_) + +[Footnote 1: The best account of John Chapman's career, under the name +"Johnny Appleseed," is to be found in _Harper's Monthly Magazine_, +November, 1871.] + + + I. ~Over the Appalachian Barricade~ + + [Sidenote: _To be read like old leaves on the elm tree of Time. + Sifting soft winds with sentence and rhyme_.] + + In the days of President Washington, + The glory of the nations, + Dust and ashes, + Snow and sleet, + And hay and oats and wheat, + Blew west, + Crossed the Appalachians, + Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures, + The farms of the far-off future + In the forest. + Colts jumped the fence, + Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing, + With gastronomic calculations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + The east walls of our citadel, + And turned to gold-horned unicorns, + Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest. + Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped, + Caterwauling "Yankee Doodle Dandy," + Renounced their poor relations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + And turned to tiny tigers + In the humorous forest. + Chickens escaped + From farmyard congregations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + And turned to amber trumpets + On the ramparts of our Hoosiers' nest and citadel, + Millennial heralds + Of the foggy mazy forest. + Pigs broke loose, scrambled west, + Scorned their loathsome stations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars + Of the forest. + The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west + While their eyes were coming open, + And, with misty observations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + Barked, barked, barked + At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs, + And turned to ravening wolves + Of the forest. + Crazy parrots and canaries flew west, + Drunk on May-time revelations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies + Of the lazy forest. + Haughtiest swans and peacocks swept west, + And, despite soft derivations, + Crossed the Appalachians, + And turned to blazing warrior souls + Of the forest, + Singing the ways + Of the Ancient of Days. + And the "Old Continentals + In their ragged regimentals," + With bard's imaginations, + Crossed the Appalachians. + And + A boy + Blew west + And with prayers and incantations, + And with "Yankee Doodle Dandy," + Crossed the Appalachians, + And was "young John Chapman," + Then + "Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed," + Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast, + In a pack on his back, + In a deer-hide sack, + The beautiful orchards of the past, + The ghosts of all the forests and the groves-- + In that pack on his back, + In that talisman sack, + To-morrow's peaches, pears and cherries, + To-morrow's grapes and red raspberries, + Seeds and tree souls, precious things, + Feathered with microscopic wings, + All the outdoors the child heart knows, + And the apple, green, red, and white, + Sun of his day and his night-- + The apple allied to the thorn, + Child of the rose. + Porches untrod of forest houses + All before him, all day long, + "Yankee Doodle" his marching song; + And the evening breeze + Joined his psalms of praise + As he sang the ways + Of the Ancient of Days. + + Leaving behind august Virginia, + Proud Massachusetts, and proud Maine, + Planting the trees that would march and train + On, in his name to the great Pacific, + Like Birnam wood to Dunsinane, + Johnny Appleseed swept on, + Every shackle gone, + Loving every sloshy brake, + Loving every skunk and snake, + Loving every leathery weed, + Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, + Master and ruler of the unicorn-ramping forest, + The tiger-mewing forest, + The rooster-trumpeting, boar-foaming, wolf-ravening forest, + The spirit-haunted, fairy-enchanted forest, + Stupendous and endless, + Searching its perilous ways + In the name of the Ancient of Days. + + + III. ~The Indians Worship Him, but He hurries on~ + + Painted kings in the midst of the clearing + Heard him asking his friends the eagles + To guard each planted seed and seedling. + Then he was a god, to the red man's dreaming; + Then the chiefs brought treasures grotesque and fair,-- + Magical trinkets and pipes and guns, + Beads and furs from their medicine-lair,-- + Stuck holy feathers in his hair, + Hailed him with austere delight. + The orchard god was their guest through the night. + + While the late snow blew from bleak Lake Erie, + Scourging rock and river and reed, + All night long they made great medicine + For Jonathan Chapman, + Johnny Appleseed, + Johnny Appleseed; + And as though his heart were a wind-blown wheat-sheaf, + As though his heart were a new-built nest, + As though their heaven house were his breast, + In swept the snow-birds singing glory. + And I hear his bird heart beat its story, + Hear yet how the ghost of the forest shivers, + Hear yet the cry of the gray, old orchards, + Dim and decaying by the rivers, + And the timid wings of the bird-ghosts beating, + And the ghosts of the tom-toms beating, beating. + + [Sidenote: _While you read, hear the hoof-beats of deer in the snow. + And see, by their track, bleeding footprints we know._] + + But he left their wigwams and their love. + By the hour of dawn he was proud and stark, + Kissed the Indian babes with a sigh, + Went forth to live on roots and bark, + Sleep in the trees, while the years howled by-- + + Calling the catamounts by name, + And buffalo bulls no hand could tame, + Slaying never a living creature, + Joining the birds in every game, + With the gorgeous turkey gobblers mocking, + With the lean-necked eagles boxing and shouting; + Sticking their feathers in his hair,-- + Turkey feathers, + Eagle feathers,-- + Trading hearts with all beasts and weathers + He swept on, winged and wonder-crested, + Bare-armed, barefooted, and bare-breasted. + + [Sidenote: _While you read, see conventions of deer go by. + The bucks toss their horns, the fuzzy fawns fly._] + + The maples, shedding their spinning seeds, + Called to his appleseeds in the ground, + Vast chestnut-trees, with their butterfly nations, + Called to his seeds without a sound. + And the chipmunk turned a "summer-set," + And the foxes danced the Virginia reel; + Hawthorne and crab-thorn bent, rain-wet, + And dropped their flowers in his night-black hair; + And the soft fawns stopped for his perorations; + And his black eyes shone through the forest-gleam, + And he plunged young hands into new-turned earth, + And prayed dear orchard boughs into birth; + And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream. + And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream. + And so for us he made great medicine, + And so for us he made great medicine, + In the days of President Washington. + + + III. ~Johnny Appleseed's Old Age~ + + + [Sidenote: _To be read + like faint + hoof-beats + of fawns + long gone + From respectable + pasture, and + park and + lawn, + And heartbeats + of + fawns that + are coming + again + When the + forest, once + more, is the + master of + men._] + + Long, long after, + When settlers put up beam and rafter, + They asked of the birds: "Who gave this fruit? + Who watched this fence till the seeds took root? + Who gave these boughs?" They asked the sky, + And there was no reply. + But the robin might have said, + "To the farthest West he has followed the sun, + His life and his empire just begun." + + Self-scourged, like a monk, with a throne for wages, + Stripped like the iron-souled Hindu sages, + Draped like a statue, in strings like a scarecrow, + His helmet-hat an old tin pan, + But worn in the love of the heart of man, + More sane than the helm of Tamerlane, + Hairy Ainu, wild man of Borneo, Robinson Crusoe--Johnny Appleseed; + And the robin might have said, + "Sowing, he goes to the far, new West, + With the apple, the sun of his burning breast-- + The apple allied to the thorn, + Child of the rose." + + Washington buried in Virginia, + Jackson buried in Tennessee, + Young Lincoln, brooding in Illinois, + And Johnny Appleseed, priestly and free, + Knotted and gnarled, past seventy years, + Still planted on in the woods alone. + Ohio and young Indiana-- + These were his wide altar-stone, + Where still he burnt out flesh and bone. + Twenty days ahead of the Indian, twenty years ahead of the white + man, + At last the Indian overtook him, at last the Indian hurried past + him; + At last the white man overtook him, at last the white man hurried + past him; + At last his own trees overtook him, at last his own trees hurried + past him. + Many cats were tame again, + Many ponies tame again, + Many pigs were tame again, + Many canaries tame again; + And the real frontier was his sun-burnt breast. + + From the fiery core of that apple, the earth, + Sprang apple-amaranths divine. + Love's orchards climbed to the heavens of the West, + And snowed the earthly sod with flowers. + Farm hands from the terraces of the blest + Danced on the mists with their ladies fine; + And Johnny Appleseed laughed with his dreams, + And swam once more the ice-cold streams. + And the doves of the spirit swept through the hours, + With doom-calls, love-calls, death-calls, dream-calls; + And Johnny Appleseed, all that year, + Lifted his hands to the farm-filled sky, + To the apple-harvesters busy on high; + And so once more his youth began, + And so for us he made great medicine-- + Johnny Appleseed, medicine-man. + Then + The sun was his turned-up broken barrel, + Out of which his juicy apples rolled, + Down the repeated terraces, + Thumping across the gold, + An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold, + A ballot-box in each apple, + A state capital in each apple, + Great high schools, great colleges, + All America in each apple, + Each red, rich, round, and bouncing moon + That touched the forest mold. + Like scrolls and rolled-up flags of silk, + He saw the fruits unfold, + And all our expectations in one wild-flower-written dream, + Confusion and death sweetness, and a thicket of crab-thorns, + Heart of a hundred midnights, heart of the merciful morns. + Heaven's boughs bent down with their alchemy, + Perfumed airs, and thoughts of wonder. + And the dew on the grass and his own cold tears + Were one in brooding mystery, + Though death's loud thunder came upon him, + Though death's loud thunder struck him down-- + The boughs and the proud thoughts swept through the thunder, + Till he saw our wide nation, each State a flower, + Each petal a park for holy feet, + With wild fawns merry on every street, + With wild fawns merry on every street, + The vista of ten thousand years, flower-lighted and complete. + + Hear the lazy weeds murmuring, bays and rivers whispering, + From Michigan to Texas, California to Maine; + Listen to the eagles, screaming, calling, + "Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed," + There by the doors of old Fort Wayne. + + In the four-poster bed Johnny Appleseed built, + Autumn rains were the curtains, autumn leaves were the quilt. + He laid him down sweetly, and slept through the night, + Like a bump on a log, like a stone washed white, + There by the doors of old Fort Wayne. + + + + + I KNOW ALL THIS WHEN GIPSY FIDDLES CRY + + + Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse, + Saying: "We tell the fortunes of the nations, + And revel in the deep palm of the world. + The head-line is the road we choose for trade. + The love-line is the lane wherein we camp. + The life-line is the road we wander on. + Mount Venus, Jupiter, and all the rest + Are finger-tips of ranges clasping round + And holding up the Romany's wide sky." + + Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse, + Saying: "We will swap horses till the doom, + And mend the pots and kettles of mankind, + And lend our sons to big-time vaudeville, + Or to the race-track, or the learned world. + But India's Brahma waits within their breasts. + They will return to us with gipsy grins, + And chatter Romany, and shake their curls + And hug the dirtiest babies in the camp. + They will return to the moving pillar of smoke, + The whitest toothed, the merriest laughers known, + The blackest haired of all the tribes of men. + What trap can hold such cats? The Romany + Has crossed such delicate palms with lead or gold, + Wheedling in sun and rain, through perilous years, + All coins now look alike. The palm is all. + Our greasy pack of cards is still the book + Most read of men. The heart's librarians, + We tell all lovers what they want to know. + So, out of the famed Chicago Library, + Out of the great Chicago orchestras, + Out of the skyscraper, the Fine Arts Building, + Our sons will come with fiddles and with loot, + Dressed, as of old, like turkey-cocks and zebras, + Like tiger-lilies and chameleons, + Go west with us to California, + Telling the fortunes of the bleeding world, + And kiss the sunset, ere their day is done." + + Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse, + Picking the brains and pockets of mankind, + You will go westward for one-half hour yet. + You will turn eastward in a little while. + You will go back, as men turn to Kentucky, + Land of their fathers, dark and bloody ground. + When all the Jews go home to Syria, + When Chinese cooks go back to Canton, China, + When Japanese photographers return + With their black cameras to Tokio, + And Irish patriots to Donegal, + And Scotch accountants back to Edinburgh, + You will go back to India, whence you came. + When you have reached the borders of your quest, + Homesick at last, by many a devious way, + Winding the wonderlands circuitous, + By foot and horse will trace the long way back! + Fiddling for ocean liners, while the dance + Sweeps through the decks, your brown tribes all will go! + Those east-bound ships will hear your long farewell + On fiddle, piccolo, and flute and timbrel. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + That hour of their homesickness, I myself + Will turn, will say farewell to Illinois, + To old Kentucky and Virginia, + And go with them to India, whence they came. + For they have heard a singing from the Ganges, + And cries of orioles,--from the temple caves,-- + And Bengal's oldest, humblest villages. + They smell the supper smokes of Amritsar. + Green monkeys cry in Sanskrit to their souls + From lofty bamboo trees of hot Madras. + They think of towns to ease their feverish eyes, + And make them stand and meditate forever, + Domes of astonishment, to heal the mind. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + What music will be blended with the wind + When gipsy fiddlers, nearing that old land, + Bring tunes from all the world to Brahma's house? + Passing the Indus, winding poisonous forests, + Blowing soft flutes at scandalous temple girls, + Filling the highways with their magpie loot, + What brass from my Chicago will they heap, + What gems from Walla Walla, Omaha, + Will they pile near the Bodhi Tree, and laugh? + They will dance near such temples as best suit them, + Though they will not quite enter, or adore, + Looking on roofs, as poets look on lilies, + Looking at towers, as boys at forest vines, + That leap to tree-tops through the dizzy air. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + And with the gipsies there will be a king + And a thousand desperadoes just his style, + With all their rags dyed in the blood of roses, + Splashed with the blood of angels, and of demons. + And he will boss them with an awful voice. + And with a red whip he will beat his wife. + He will be wicked on that sacred shore, + And rattle cruel spurs against the rocks, + And shake Calcutta's walls with circus bugles. + He will kill Brahmins there, in Kali's name, + And please the thugs, and blood-drunk of the earth. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + Oh, sweating thieves, and hard-boiled scalawags, + That still will boast your pride until the doom, + Smashing every caste rule of the world, + Reaching at last your Hindu goal to smash + The caste rules of old India, and shout: + "Down with the Brahmins, let the Romany reign." + + When gipsy girls look deep within my hand + They always speak so tenderly and say + That I am one of those star-crossed to wed + A princess in a forest fairy-tale. + So there will be a tender gipsy princess, + My Juliet, shining through this clan. + And I would sing you of her beauty now. + And I will fight with knives the gipsy man + Who tries to steal her wild young heart away. + And I will kiss her in the waterfalls, + And at the rainbow's end, and in the incense + That curls about the feet of sleeping gods, + And sing with her in canebrakes and in rice fields, + In Romany, eternal Romany. + We will sow secret herbs, and plant old roses, + And fumble through dark, snaky palaces, + Stable our ponies in the Taj Mahal, + And sleep out-doors ourselves. + In her strange fairy mill-wheel eyes will wait + All windings and unwindings of the highways, + From India, across America,-- + All windings and unwindings of my fancy, + All windings and unwindings of all souls, + All windings and unwindings of the heavens. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + We gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse, + Standing upon the white Himalayas, + Will think of far divine Yosemite. + We will heal Hindu hermits there with oil + Brought from California's tall sequoias. + And we will be like gods that heap the thunders, + And start young redwood trees on Time's own mountains. + We will swap horses with the rising moon, + And mend that funny skillet called Orion, + Color the stars like San Francisco's street-lights, + And paint our sign and signature on high + In planets like a bed of crimson pansies; + While a million fiddles shake all listening hearts, + Crying good fortune to the Universe, + Whispering adventure to the Ganges waves, + And to the spirits, and all winds and gods. + Till mighty Brahma puts his golden palm + Within the gipsy king's great striped tent, + And asks his fortune told by that great love-line + That winds across his palm in splendid flame. + + Only the hearthstone of old India + Will end the endless march of gipsy feet. + I will go back to India with them + When they go back to India whence they came. + I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry. + + + + + JAMES OPPENHEIM + + + + + HEBREWS + + + I come of a mighty race.... I come of a very mighty race.... + Adam was a mighty man, and Noah a captain of the moving waters, + Moses was a stern and splendid king, yea, so was Moses.... + Give me more songs like David's to shake my throat to the pit of the + belly, + And let me roll in the Isaiah thunder.... + + Ho! the mightiest of our young men was born under a star in the + midwinter.... + His name is written on the sun and it is frosted on the moon.... + Earth breathes him like an eternal spring: he is a second sky over + the Earth. + + Mighty race! mighty race!--my flesh, my flesh + Is a cup of song, + Is a well in Asia.... + I go about with a dark heart where the Ages sit in a divine + thunder.... + My blood is cymbal-clashed and the anklets of the dancers tinkle + there.... + Harp and psaltery, harp and psaltery make drunk my spirit.... + I am of the terrible people, I am of the strange Hebrews.... + Amongst the swarms fixed like the rooted stars, my folk is a + streaming Comet, + Comet of the Asian tiger-darkness, + The Wanderer of Eternity, the eternal Wandering Jew.... + + Ho! we have turned against the mightiest of our young men + And in that denial we have taken on the Christ, + And the two thieves beside the Christ, + And the Magdalen at the feet of the Christ, + And the Judas with thirty silver pieces selling the Christ,-- + And our twenty centuries in Europe have the shape of a Cross + On which we have hung in disaster and glory.... + + Mighty race! mighty race!--my flesh, my flesh + Is a cup of song, + Is a well in Asia. + + + + + ALFRED KREYMBORG + + + + + ADAGIO: A DUET + + (_For J. S. and L. U._) + + + Should you + lay ear to these lines-- + you will not catch + a distant drum of hoofs, + cavalcade of Arabians, + passionate horde bearing down, + destroying your citadel-- + but maybe you'll hear-- + should you just + listen at the right place, + hold it tenaciously, + give your full blood to the effort-- + maybe you'll note the start + of a single step, + always persistently faint, + wavering in its movement + between coming and going, + never quite arriving, + never quite passing-- + and tell me which it is, + you or I + that you greet, + searching a mutual being-- + and whether two aren't closer + for the labor of an ear? + + + + + DIE KUCHE + + + She lets the hydrant water run: + He fancies lonely, banal, + bald-headed mountains, + affected by the daily + caress of the tropical sun, + weeping tears the length of brooks + down their faces and flanks. + She lets the hydrant water run: + He hearkens Father Sebastian + cooking and spreading homely themes + over an inept-looking clavier + confounding the wits of his children + and all men's children + down to the last generation. + He marvels at the paradox, + drums his head with the tattoo: + how can a thing as small as he + shape and maintain an art + out of himself universal enough + to carry her daily vigil + to crystalled immortality? + She lets the hydrant water run. + + + + + RAIN + + + It's all very well for you + suddenly to withdraw + and say, I'll come again, + but what of the bruises you've left, + what of the green and the blue, + the yellow, purple and violet?-- + don't you be telling us, + I'm innocent of these, + irresponsible of happenings-- + didn't we see you steal next to her, + tenderly, + with your silver mist about you + to hide your blandishment?-- + now, what of what followed, eh?-- + we saw you hover close, + caress her, + open her pore-cups, + make a cross of her, + quickly penetrate her-- + she opening to you, + engulfing you, + every limb of her, + bud of her, pore of her?-- + don't call these things, kisses-- + mouth-kisses, hand-kisses, + elbow, knee and toe, + and let it go at that-- + disappear and promise + what you'll never perform: + we've known you to slink away + until drought-time, + drooping-time, + withering-time: + we've caught you crawling off + into winter-time, + try to cover what you've done + with a long white scarf-- + your own frozen tears + (likely phrase!) + and lilt your, + I'll be back in spring! + Next spring, and you know it, + she won't be the same, + though she may look the same + to you from where you are, + and invite you down again! + + + + + PEASANT + + + It's the mixture of peasantry + makes him so slow. + He waggles his head + before he speaks, + like a cow + before she crops. + He bends to the habit + of dragging his feet + up under him, + like a measuring-worm: + some of his forefathers, + stooped over books, + ruled short straight lines + under two rows of figures + to keep their thin savings + from sifting to the floor. + Should you strike him + with a question, + he will blink twice or thrice + and roll his head about, + like an owl + in the pin-pricks + of a dawn he cannot see. + There is mighty little flesh + about his bones, + there is no gusto + in his stride: + he seems to wait + for the blow on the buttocks + that will drive him + another step forward-- + step forward to what? + There is no land, + no house, + no barn, + he has ever owned; + he sits uncomfortable + on chairs + you might invite him to: + if you did, + he'd keep his hat in hand + against the moment + when some silent pause + for which he hearkens + with his ear to one side + bids him move on-- + move on where? + It doesn't matter. + He has learned + to shrug his shoulders, + so he'll shrug his shoulders now: + caterpillars do it + when they're halted by a stick. + Is there a sky overhead?-- + a hope worth flying to?-- + birds may know about it, + but it's birds + that birds descend from. + + + + + BUBBLES + + + You had best be very cautious how + you say, I love you. + If you accent the I, + she has an opening for, + who are you + to strut on ahead + and hint there aren't others, + aren't, weren't and won't be? + Blurt out the love, + she has suspicion for, so?-- + why not hitherto?-- + what brings you bragging now?-- + and what'll it be hereafter? + Defer to the you, + she has certitude for, me? + thanks, lad!-- + but why argue about it?-- + or fancy I'm lonesome?-- + do I look as though you had to? + And having determined how + you'll say it, + you had next best ascertain whom + it is that you say it to. + That you're sure she's the one, + that there'll never be another, + never was one before. + And having determined whom + and having learned how, + when you bring these together, + inform the far of the intimate-- + like a bubble on a pond, + emerging from below, + round wonderment completed + by the first sight of the sky-- + what good will it do, + if she shouldn't, I love you?-- + a bubble's but a bubble once, + a bubble grows to die. + + + + + DIRGE + + + Death alone + has sympathy for weariness: + understanding + of the ways + of mathematics: + of the struggle + against giving up what was given: + the plus one minus one + of nitrogen for oxygen: + and the unequal odds, + you a cell + against the universe, + a breath or two + against all time: + Death alone + takes what is left + without protest, criticism + or a demand for more + than one can give + who can give + no more than was given: + doesn't even ask, + but accepts it as it is, + without examination, + valuation, + or comparison. + + + + + COLOPHON + + (_For W. W._) + + + The Occident and the Orient, + posterior and posterior, + sitting tight, holding fast + the culture dumped by them + on to primitive America, + Atlantic to Pacific, + were monumental colophons + a disorderly country fellow, + vulgar Long Islander. + not overfond of the stench + choking native respiration, + poked down off the shelf + with the aid of some + mere blades of grass; + and deliberately climbing up, + brazenly usurping one end + of the new America, + now waves his spears aloft + and shouts down valleys, + across plains, + over mountains, + into heights: + Come, what man of you + dares climb the other? + + + + + SARA TEASDALE + + + + + WISDOM + + + It was a night of early spring, + The winter-sleep was scarcely broken; + Around us shadows and the wind + Listened for what was never spoken. + + Though half a score of years are gone, + Spring comes as sharply now as then-- + But if we had it all to do + It would be done the same again. + + It was a spring that never came; + But we have lived enough to know + That what we never have, remains; + It is the things we have that go. + + + + + PLACES + + + I + + ~Twilight~ + + (_Tucson_) + + Aloof as aged kings, + Wearing like them the purple, + The mountains ring the mesa + Crowned with a dusky light; + Many a time I watched + That coming-on of darkness + Till stars burned through the heavens + Intolerably bright. + + It was not long I lived there, + But I became a woman + Under those vehement stars, + For it was there I heard + For the first time my spirit + Forging an iron rule for me, + As though with slow cold hammers + Beating out word by word: + + "Take love when love is given, + But never think to find it + A sure escape from sorrow + Or a complete repose; + Only yourself can heal you, + Only yourself can lead you + Up the hard road to heaven + That ends where no one knows." + + + II + + Full Moon + + (_Santa Barbara_) + + I listened, there was not a sound to hear + In the great rain of moonlight pouring down, + The eucalyptus trees were carved in silver, + And a light mist of silver lulled the town. + + I saw far off the gray Pacific bearing + A broad white disk of flame, + And on the garden-walk a snail beside me + Tracing in crystal the slow way he came. + + + III + + Winter Sun + + (_Lenox_) + + There was a bush with scarlet berries, + And there were hemlocks heaped with snow, + With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches + They took the wind and let it go. + + The hills were shining in their samite, + Fold after fold they flowed away; + "Let come what may," your eyes were saying, + "At least we two have had to-day." + + + IV + + Evening + + (_Nahant_) + + There was an evening when the sky was clear, + Ineffably translucent in its blue; + The tide was falling, and the sea withdrew + In hushed and happy music from the sheer + Shadowy granite of the cliffs; and fear + Of what life may be, and what death can do, + Fell from us like steel armor, and we knew + The beauty of the Law that holds us here. + + It was as though we saw the Secret Will, + It was as though we floated and were free; + In the south-west a planet shone serenely, + And the high moon, most reticent and queenly, + Seeing the earth had darkened and grown still, + Misted with light the meadows of the sea. + + + + + WORDS FOR AN OLD AIR + + + Your heart is bound tightly, let + Beauty beware; + It is not hers to set + Free from the snare. + + Tell her a bleeding hand + Bound it and tied it; + Tell her the knot will stand + Though she deride it. + + One who withheld so long + All that you yearned to take, + Has made a snare too strong + For Beauty's self to break. + + + + + THOSE WHO LOVE + + + Those who love the most + Do not talk of their love; + Francesca, Guenevere, + Dierdre, Iseult, Heloise + In the fragrant gardens of heaven + Are silent, or speak, if at all, + Of fragile, inconsequent things. + + And a woman I used to know + Who loved one man from her youth, + Against the strength of the fates + Fighting in lonely pride, + Never spoke of this thing, + But hearing his name by chance, + A light would pass over her face. + + + + + TWO SONGS FOR SOLITUDE + + + I + + ~The Crystal Gazer~ + + I shall gather myself into myself again, + I shall take my scattered selves and make them one, + I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball + Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun. + + I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent, + Watching the future come and the present go-- + And the little shifting pictures of people rushing + In tiny self-importance to and fro. + + + II + + ~The Solitary~ + + My heart has grown rich with the passing of years, + I have less need now than when I was young + To share myself with every comer, + Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue. + + It is one to me that they come or go + If I have myself and the drive of my will, + And strength to climb on a summer night + And watch the stars swarm over the hill. + + Let them think I love them more than I do, + Let them think I care, though I go alone, + If it lifts their pride, what is it to me + Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone? + + + + + LOUIS UNTERMEYER + + + + + MONOLOG FROM A MATTRESS + + _Heinrich Heine aetat 56, loquitur:_ + + + Can that be you, _la mouche?_ Wait till I lift + This palsied eye-lid and make sure.... Ah, true. + Come in, dear fly, and pardon my delay + In thus existing; I can promise you + Next time you come you'll find no dying poet-- + Without sufficient spleen to see me through, + The joke becomes too tedious a jest. + I am afraid my mind is dull to-day; + I have that--something--heavier on my chest + And then, you see, I've been exchanging thoughts + With Doctor Franz. He talked of Kant and Hegel + As though he'd nursed them both through whooping cough + And, as he left, he let his finger shake + Too playfully, as though to say, "Now off + With that long face--you've years and years to live." + I think he thinks so. But, for Heaven's sake, + Don't credit it--and never tell Mathilde. + Poor dear, she has enough to bear already.... + + This _was_ a month! During my lonely weeks + One person actually climbed the stairs + To seek a cripple. It was Berlioz-- + But Berlioz always was original. + Meissner was also here; he caught me unawares, + Scribbling to my old mother. "What!" he cried, + "Is the old lady of the _Dammthor_ still alive? + And do you write her still?" "Each month or so." + "And is she not unhappy then, to find + How wretched you must be?" "How can she know? + You see," I laughed, "she thinks I am as well + As when she saw me last. She is too blind + To read the papers--some one else must tell + What's in my letters, merely signed by me. + Thus she is happy. For the rest-- + That any son should be as sick as I, + No mother could believe." + _Ja_, so it goes. + + Come here, my lotus-flower. It is best + I drop the mask to-day; the half-cracked shield + Of mockery calls for younger hands to wield. + Laugh--or I'll hug it closer to my breast. + So ... I can be as mawkish as I choose + And give my thoughts an airing, let them loose + For one last rambling stroll before--Now look! + Why tears? You never heard me say "the end." + Before ... before I clap them in a book + And so get rid of them once and for all. + This is their holiday--we'll let them run-- + Some have escaped already. There goes one ... + What, I have often mused, did Goethe mean? + So many years ago at Weimar, Goethe said + "Heine has all the poet's gifts but love." + Good God! But that is all I ever had. + More than enough! So much of love to give + That no one gave me any in return. + And so I flashed and snapped in my own fires + Until I stood, with nothing left to burn, + A twisted trunk, in chilly isolation. + _Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam_--you recall? + I was that Northern tree and, in the South, + Amalia.... So I turned to scornful cries, + Hot iron songs to save the rest of me; + Plunging the brand in my own misery. + Crouching behind my pointed wall of words, + Ramparts I built of moons and loreleys, + Enchanted roses, sphinxes, love-sick birds, + Giants, dead lads who left their graves to dance, + Fairies and phoenixes and friendly gods-- + A curious frieze, half Renaissance, half Greek, + Behind which, in revulsion of romance, + I lay and laughed--and wept--till I was weak. + Words were my shelter, words my one escape, + Words were my weapons against everything. + Was I not once the son of Revolution? + Give me the lyre, I said, and let me sing + My song of battle: Words like flaming stars + Shot down with power to burn the palaces; + Words like bright javelins to fly with fierce + Hate of the oily Philistines and glide + Through all the seven heavens till they pierce + The pious hypocrites who dare to creep + Into the Holy Places. "Then," I cried, + "I am a fire to rend and roar and leap; + I am all joy and song, all sword and flame!" + Ha--you observe me passionate. I aim + To curb these wild emotions lest they soar + Or drive against my will. (So I have said + These many years--and still they are not tame.) + Scraps of a song keep rumbling in my head ... + Listen--you never heard me sing before. + + When a false world betrays your trust + And stamps upon your fire, + When what seemed blood is only rust, + Take up the lyre! + + How quickly the heroic mood + Responds to its own ringing; + The scornful heart, the angry blood + Leap upward, singing! + + Ah, that was how it used to be. But now, + _Du schoner Todesengel_, it is odd + How more than calm I am. Franz said it shows + Power of religion, and it does, perhaps-- + Religion or morphine or poultices--God knows. + I sometimes have a sentimental lapse + And long for saviours and a physical God. + When health is all used up, when money goes, + When courage cracks and leaves a shattered will, + Then Christianity begins. For a sick Jew, + It is a very good religion ... Still, + I fear that I will die as I have lived, + A long-nosed heathen playing with his scars, + A pagan killed by weltschmerz ... I remember, + Once when I stood with Hegel at a window, + I, being full of bubbling youth and coffee, + Spoke in symbolic tropes about the stars. + Something I said about "those high + Abodes of all the blest" provoked his temper. + "Abodes? The stars?" He froze me with a sneer, + "A light eruption on the firmament." + "But," cried romantic I, "is there no sphere + Where virtue is rewarded when we die?" + And Hegel mocked, "A very pleasant whim. + So you demand a bonus since you spent + One lifetime and refrained from poisoning + Your testy grandmother!" ... How much of him + Remains in me--even when I am caught + In dreams of death and immortality. + + To be eternal--what a brilliant thought! + It must have been conceived and coddled first + By some old shopkeeper in Nuremberg, + His slippers warm, his children amply nursed, + Who, with his lighted meerschaum in his hand, + His nightcap on his head, one summer night + Sat drowsing at his door. And mused, how grand + If all of this could last beyond a doubt-- + This placid moon, this plump _gemuthlichkeit_; + Pipe, breath and summer never going out-- + To vegetate through all eternity ... + But no such everlastingness for me! + God, if he can, keep me from such a blight. + + _Death, it is but the long, cool night, + And Life's a dull and sultry day. + It darkens; I grow sleepy; + I am weary of the light._ + + _Over my bed a strange tree gleams + And there a nightingale is loud. + She sings of love, love only ... + I hear it, even in dreams._ + + My Mouche, the other day as I lay here, + Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave + In which I've been interred these few eight years, + I saw a dog, a little pampered slave, + Running about and barking. I would have given + Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive + Like him, so senseless--and so much alive! + And once I called myself a blithe Hellene, + Who am too much in love with life to live. + (The shrug is pure Hebraic) ... For what I've been, + A lenient Lord will tax me--and forgive. + _Dieu me pardonnera--c'est son metier._ + But this is jesting. There are other scandals + You haven't heard ... Can it be dusk so soon? + Or is this deeper darkness ...? Is that you, + Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles?... + _Over my bed a strange tree gleams_--half filled + With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through + Its seven branches now that all is stilled. + What? Friday night again and all my songs + Forgotten? Wait ... I still can sing-- + _Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu, + Adonai Echod ..._ + Mouche--Mathilde!... + + + + + WATERS OF BABYLON + + + What presses about us here in the evening + As you open a window and stare at a stone-gray sky, + And the streets give back the jangle of meaningless movement + That is tired of life and almost too tired to die. + + Night comes on, and even the night is wounded; + There, on its breast, it carries a curved, white scar. + What will you find out there that is not torn and anguished? + Can God be less distressed than the least of His creatures are? + + Below are the blatant lights in a huddled squalor; + Above are futile fires in freezing space. + What can they give that you should look to them for compassion + Though you bare your heart and lift an imploring face? + + They have seen, by countless waters and windows, + The women of your race facing a stony sky; + They have heard, for thousands of years, the voices of women + Asking them: "Why ...?" + + Let the night be; it has neither knowledge nor pity. + One thing alone can hope to answer your fear; + It is that which struggles and blinds us and burns between us.... + Let the night be. Close the window, beloved.... Come here. + + + + + THE FLAMING CIRCLE + + + Though for fifteen years you have chaffed me across the table, + Slept in my arms and fingered my plunging heart, + I scarcely know you; we have not known each other. + For all the fierce and casual contacts, something keeps us apart. + + Are you struggling, perhaps, in a world that I see only dimly, + Except as it sweeps toward the star on which I stand alone? + Are we swung like two planets, compelled in our separate orbits, + Yet held in a flaming circle far greater than our own? + + Last night we were single, a radiant core of completion, + Surrounded by flames that embraced us but left no burns, + To-day we are only ourselves; we have plans and pretensions; + We move in dividing streets with our small and different concerns. + + Merging and rending, we wait for the miracle. Meanwhile + The fire runs deeper, consuming these selves in its growth. + Can this be the mystical marriage--this clash and communion; + This pain of possession that frees and encircles us both? + + + + + PORTRAIT OF A MACHINE + + + What nudity is beautiful as this + Obedient monster purring at its toil; + These naked iron muscles dripping oil + And the sure-fingered rods that never miss. + This long and shining flank of metal is + Magic that greasy labor cannot spoil; + While this vast engine that could rend the soil + Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss. + + It does not vent its loathing, does not turn + Upon its makers with destroying hate. + It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn + Its master's bread and laughs to see this great + Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn, + Become the slave of what his slaves create. + + + + + ROAST LEVIATHAN + + + "_Old Jews!_" Well, David, aren't we? + What news is that to make you see so red, + To swear and almost tear your beard in half? + Jeered at? Well, let them laugh. + You can laugh longer when you're dead. + + What? Are you still too blind to see? + Have you forgot your Midrash!... They were right, + The little _goyim_, with their angry stones. + You should be buried in the desert out of sight + And not a dog should howl miscarried moans + Over your foul bones.... + + Have you forgotten what is promised us, + Because of stinking days and rotting nights? + Eternal feasting, drinking, blazing lights + With endless leisure, periods of play! + Supernal pleasures, myriads of gay + Discussions, great debates with prophet-kings! + And rings of riddling scholars all surrounding + God who sits in the very middle, expounding + The Torah.... _Now_ your dull eyes glisten! + Listen: + + It is the final Day. + A blast of Gabriel's horn has torn away + The last haze from our eyes, and we can see + Past the three hundred skies and gaze upon + The Ineffable Name engraved deep in the sun. + Now one by one, the pious and the just + Are seated by us, radiantly risen + From their dull prison in the dust. + And then the festival begins! + A sudden music spins great webs of sound + Spanning the ground, the stars and their companions; + While from the cliffs and canyons of blue air, + Prayers of all colors, cries of exultation + Rise into choruses of singing gold. + And at the height of this bright consecration, + The whole Creation's rolled before us. + The seven burning heavens unfold.... + We see the first (the only one we know) + Dispersed and, shining through, + The other six declining: Those that hold + The stars and moons, together with all those + Containing rain and fire and sullen weather; + Cellars of dew-fall higher than the brim; + Huge arsenals with centuries of snows; + Infinite rows of storms and swarms of seraphim.... + + * * * * * + + Divided now are winds and waters. Sea and land, + Tohu and Bohu, light and darkness, stand + Upright on either hand. + And down this terrible aisle, + While heaven's ranges roar aghast, + Pours a vast file of strange and hidden things: + Forbidden monsters, crocodiles with wings + And perfumed flesh that sings and glows + With more fresh colors than the rainbow knows.... + The _reem_, those great beasts with eighteen horns, + Who mate but once in seventy years and die + In their own tears which flow ten stadia high. + The _shamir_, made by God on the sixth morn, + No longer than a grain of barley corn + But stronger than the bull of Bashan and so hard + It cuts through diamonds. Meshed and starred + With precious stones, there struts the shattering _ziz_ + Whose groans are wrinkled thunder.... + For thrice three hundred years the full parade + Files past, a cavalcade of fear and wonder. + And then the vast aisle clears. + + Now comes our constantly increased reward. + The Lord commands that monstrous beast, + Leviathan, to be our feast. + What cheers ascend from horde on ravenous horde! + One hears the towering creature rend the seas, + Frustrated, cowering, and his pleas ignored. + In vain his great, belated tears are poured-- + For this he was created, kept and nursed. + Cries burst from all the millions that attend: + _"Ascend, Leviathan, it is the end! + We hunger and we thirst! Ascend!" ..._ + + Observe him first, my friend. + + _God's deathless plaything rolls an eye + Five hundred thousand cubits high. + The smallest scale upon his tail + Could hide six dolphins and a whale. + His nostrils breathe--and on the spot + The churning waves turn seething hot. + If he be hungry, one huge fin + Drives seven thousand fishes in; + And when he drinks what he may need, + The rivers of the earth recede. + Yet he is more than huge and strong-- + Twelve brilliant colors play along + His sides until, compared to him, + The naked, burning sun seems dim. + New scintillating rays extend + Through endless singing space and rise + Into an ecstasy that cries: + "Ascend, Leviathan, ascend!"_ + + God now commands the multi-colored bands + Of angels to intrude and slay the beast + That His good sons may have a feast of food. + But as they come, Leviathan sneezes twice ... + And, numb with sudden pangs, each arm hangs slack. + Black terror seizes them; blood freezes into ice + And every angel flees from the attack! + God, with a look that spells eternal law, + Compels them back. + But, though they fight and smite him tail and jaw, + Nothing avails; upon his scales their swords + Break like frayed cords or, like a blade of straw, + Bend towards the hilt and wilt like faded grass. + Defeat and fresh retreat.... But once again + God's murmurs pass among them and they mass + With firmer steps upon the crowded plain. + Vast clouds of spears and stones rise from the ground; + But every dart flies past and rocks rebound + To the disheartened angels falling around. + + A pause. + The angel host withdraws + With empty boasts throughout its sullen files. + Suddenly God smiles.... + On the walls of heaven a tumble of light is caught. + Low thunder rumbles like an afterthought; + And God's slow laughter calls: + "Behemot!" + + _Behemot, sweating blood, + Uses for his daily food + All the fodder, flesh and juice + That twelve tall mountains can produce._ + + _Jordan, flooded to the brim, + Is a single gulp to him; + Two great streams from Paradise + Cool his lips and scarce suffice._ + + _When he shifts from side to side + Earthquakes gape and open wide;_ + _When a nightmare makes him snore, + All the dead volcanoes roar._ + + _In the space between each toe, + Kingdoms rise and saviours go; + Epochs fall and causes die + In the lifting of his eye._ + + _Wars and justice, love and death, + These are but his wasted breath; + Chews a planet for his cud-- + Behemot sweating blood._ + + Roused from his unconcern, + Behemot burns with anger. + Dripping sleep and languor from his heavy haunches, + He turns from deep disdain and launches + Himself upon the thickening air, + And, with weird cries of sickening despair, + Flies at Leviathan. + None can surmise the struggle that ensues-- + The eyes lose sight of it and words refuse + To tell the story in its gory might. + Night passes after night, + And still the fight continues, still the sparks + Fly from the iron sinews, ... till the marks + Of fire and belching thunder fill the dark + And, almost torn asunder, one falls stark, + Hammering upon the other!... + What clamor now is born, what crashings rise! + Hot lightnings lash the skies and frightening cries + Clash with the hymns of saints and seraphim. + The bloody limbs thrash through a ruddy dusk, + Till one great tusk of Behemot has gored + Leviathan, restored to his full strength, + Who, dealing fiercer blows in those last throes, + Closes on reeling Behemot at length-- + Piercing him with steel-pointed claws, + Straight through the jaws to his disjointed head. + And both lie dead. + + _Then_ come the angels! + With hoists and levers, joists and poles, + With knives and cleavers, ropes and saws, + Down the long slopes to the gaping maws, + The angels hasten; hacking and carving, + So nought will be lacking for the starving + Chosen of God, who in frozen wonderment + Realize now what the terrible thunder meant. + How their mouths water while they are looking + At miles of slaughter and sniffing the cooking! + Whiffs of delectable fragrance swim by; + Spice-laden vagrants that float and entice, + Tickling the throat and brimming the eye. + Ah! what rejoicing and crackling and roasting! + Ah! How the boys sing as, cackling and boasting, + The angels' old wives and their nervous assistants + Run in to serve us.... + + And while we are toasting + The Fairest of All, they call from the distance + The rare ones of Time, they share our enjoyment; + Their only employment to bear jars of wine + And shine like the stars in a circle of glory. + Here sways Rebekah accompanied by Zilpah; + Miriam plays to the singing of Bilhah; + Hagar has tales for us, Judith her story; + Esther exhales bright romances and musk. + There, in the dusky light, Salome dances. + Sara and Rachel and Leah and Ruth, + Fairer than ever and all in their youth, + Come at our call and go by our leave. + And, from her bower of beauty, walks Eve + While, with the voice of a flower, she sings + Of Eden, young earth and the birth of all things.... + + Peace without end. + Peace will descend on us, discord will cease; + And we, now so wretched, will lie stretched out + Free of old doubt, on our cushions of ease. + And, like a gold canopy over our bed, + The skin of Leviathan, tail-tip to head, + Soon will be spread till it covers the skies. + Light will still rise from it; millions of bright + Facets of brilliance, shaming the white + Glass of the moon, inflaming the night. + + So Time shall pass and rest and pass again, + Burn with an endless zest and then return, + Walk at our side and tide us to new joys; + God's voice to guide us, beauty as our staff. + Thus shall Life be when Death has disappeared.... + + _Jeered at? Well, let them laugh._ + + + + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + + + + A REBEL + + + Tie a bandage over his eyes, + And at his feet + Let rifles drearily patter + Their death-prayers of defeat. + + Throw a blanket over his body, + It need no longer stir; + Truth will but stand the stronger + For all who died for her. + + Now he has broken through + To his own secret place; + Which, if we dared to do, + We would have no more power left to look on that dead face. + + + + + THE ROCK + + + This rock, too, was a word; + A word of flame and force when that which hurled + The stars into their places in the night + First stirred. + + And, in the summer's heat, + Lay not your hand on it, for while the iron hours beat + Gray anvils in the sky, it glows again + With unfulfilled desire. + + Touch it not; let it stand + Ragged, forlorn, still looking at the land; + The dry blue chaos of mountains in the distance, + The slender blades of grass it shelters are + Its own dark thoughts of what is near and far. + Your thoughts are yours, too; naked let them stand. + + + + + BLUE WATER + + + Sea-violins are playing on the sands; + Curved bows of blue and white are flying over the pebbles, + See them attack the chords--dark basses, glinting trebles. + Dimly and faint they croon, blue violins. + "Suffer without regret," they seem to cry, + "Though dark your suffering is, it may be music, + Waves of blue heat that wash midsummer sky; + Sea-violins that play along the sands." + + + + + PRAYERS FOR WIND + + + Let the winds come, + And bury our feet in the sands of seven deserts; + Let strong breezes rise, + Washing our ears with the far-off sounds of the foam. + Let there be between our faces + Green turf and a branch or two of back-tossed trees; + Set firmly over questioning hearts + The deep unquenchable answer of the wind. + + + + + IMPROMPTU + + + My mind is a puddle in the street reflecting green Sirius; + In thick dark groves trees huddle lifting their branches like + beckoning hands. + We eat the grain, the grain is death, all goes back to the earth's + dark mass, + All but a song which moves across the plain like the wind's + deep-muttering breath. + Bowed down upon the earth, man sets his plants and watches for the + seed, + Though he be part of the tragic pageant of the sky, no heaven will + aid his mortal need. + I find flame in the dust, a word once uttered that will stir again, + And a wine-cup reflecting Sirius in the water held in my hands. + + + + + CHINESE POET AMONG BARBARIANS + + + The rain drives, drives endlessly, + Heavy threads of rain; + The wind beats at the shutters, + The surf drums on the shore; + Drunken telegraph poles lean sideways; + Dank summer cottages gloom hopelessly; + Bleak factory-chimneys are etched on the filmy distance, + Tepid with rain. + It seems I have lived for a hundred years + Among these things; + And it is useless for me now to make complaint against them. + For I know I shall never escape from this dull barbarian country, + Where there is none now left to lift a cool jade winecup, + Or share with me a single human thought. + + + + + SNOWY MOUNTAINS + + + Higher and still more high, + Palaces made for cloud, + Above the dingy city-roofs + Blue-white like angels with broad wings, + Pillars of the sky at rest + The mountains from the great plateau + Uprise. + + But the world heeds them not; + They have been here now for too long a time. + The world makes war on them, + Tunnels their granite cliffs, + Splits down their shining sides, + Plasters their cliffs with soap-advertisements, + Destroys the lonely fragments of their peace. + + Vaster and still more vast, + Peak after peak, pile after pile, + Wilderness still untamed, + To which the future is as was the past, + Barrier spread by Gods, + Sunning their shining foreheads, + Barrier broken down by those who do not need + The joy of time-resisting storm-worn stone, + The mountains swing along + The south horizon of the sky; + Welcoming with wide floors of blue-green ice + The mists that dance and drive before the sun. + + + + + THE FUTURE + + + After ten thousand centuries have gone, + Man will ascend the last long pass to know + That all the summits which he saw at dawn + Are buried deep in everlasting snow. + + Below him endless gloomy valleys, chill, + Will wreathe and whirl with fighting cloud, driven by the wind's + fierce breath; + But on the summit, wind and cloud are still:-- + Only the sunlight, and death. + + And staggering up to the brink of the gulf man will look down + And painfully strive with weak sight to explore + The silent gulfs below which the long shadows drown; + Through every one of these he passed before. + + Then since he has no further heights to climb, + And naught to witness he has come this endless way, + On the wind-bitten ice cap he will wait for the last of time, + And watch the crimson sunrays fading of the world's latest day: + + And blazing stars will burst upon him there, + Dumb in the midnight of his hope and pain, + Speeding no answer back to his last prayer, + And, if akin to him, akin in vain. + + + + + UPON THE HILL + + + A hundred miles of landscape spread before me like a fan; + Hills behind naked hills, bronze light of evening on them shed; + How many thousand ages have these summits spied on man? + How many thousand times shall I look on them ere this fire in me is + dead? + + + + + THE ENDURING + + + If the autumn ended + Ere the birds flew southward, + If in the cold with weary throats + They vainly strove to sing, + Winter would be eternal; + Leaf and bush and blossom + Would never once more riot + In the spring. + + If remembrance ended + When life and love are gathered, + If the world were not living + Long after one is gone, + Song would not ring, nor sorrow + Stand at the door in evening; + Life would vanish and slacken, + Men would be changed to stone. + + But there will be autumn's bounty + Dropping upon our weariness, + There will be hopes unspoken + And joys to haunt us still; + There will be dawn and sunset + Though we have cast the world away, + And the leaves dancing + Over the hill. + + + + + JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER + + + + + OLD MAN + + + When an old man walks with lowered head + And eyes that do not seem to see, + I wonder does he ponder on + The worm he was or is to be. + + Or has he turned his gaze within, + Lost to his own vicinity; + Erecting in a doubtful dream + Frail bridges to Infinity. + + + + + TONE PICTURE + + (Malipiero: _Impressioni Dal Vero_) + + + Across the hot square, where the barbaric sun + Pours coarse laughter on the crowds, + Trumpets throw their loud nooses + From corner to corner. + Elephants, whose indifferent backs + Heave with red lambrequins, + Tigers with golden muzzles, + Negresses, greased and turbaned in green and yellow, + Weave and interweave in the merciless glare of noon. + The sun flicks here and there like a throned tyrant, + Snapping his whip. + From amber platters, the smells ascend + Of overripe peaches mingled with dust and heated oils. + Pages in purple run madly about, + Rolling their eyes and grinning with huge, frightened mouths. + + And from a high window--a square of black velvet-- + A haughty figure stands back in the shadow, + Aloof and silent. + + + + + THEY SAY-- + + + They say I have a constant heart, who know + Not anything of how it turns and yields + First here, first there; nor how in separate fields + It runs to reap and then remains to sow; + How, with quick worship, it will bend and glow + Before a line of song, an antique vase, + Evening at sea; or in a well-loved face + Seek and find all that Beauty can bestow. + + Yet they do well who name it with a name, + For all its rash surrenders call it true. + Though many lamps be lit, yet flame is flame; + The sun can show the way, a candle too. + The tribute to each fragment is the same + Service to all of Beauty--and her due. + + + + + RESCUE + + + Wind and wave and the swinging rope + Were calling me last night; + None to save and little hope, + No inner light. + + Each snarling lash of the stormy sea + Curled like a hungry tongue. + One desperate splash--and no use to me + The noose that swung! + + Death reached out three crooked claws + To still my clamoring pain. + I wheeled about, and Life's gray jaws + Grinned once again. + + To sea I gazed, and then I turned + Stricken toward the shore, + Praying half-crazed to a moon that burned + Above your door. + + And at your door, you discovered me; + And at your heart, I sobbed ... + And if there be more of eternity + Let me be robbed. + + Let me be clipped of that heritage + And burned for ages through; + Freed and stripped of my fear and rage-- + But not of you. + + + + + MATER IN EXTREMIS + + + I stand between them and the outer winds, + But I am a crumbling wall. + They told me they could bear the blast alone, + They told me: that was all. + But I must wedge myself between + Them and the first snowfall. + + Riddled am I by onslaughts and attacks + I thought I could forestall; + I reared and braced myself to shelter them + Before I heard them call. + I cry them, God, a better shield! + I am about to fall. + + + + + SELF-REJECTED + + + Plow not nor plant this arid mound. + Here is no sap for seed, + No ferment for your need-- + Ungrateful ground! + + No sun can warm this spot + God has forgot; + No rain can penetrate + Its barren slate. + + Demonic winds blow last year's stubble + From its hard slope. + Go, leave the hopeless without hope; + Spare your trouble. + + + + + H. D. + + + + + HOLY SATYR + + + Most holy Satyr, + like a goat, + with horns and hooves + to match thy coat + of russet brown, + I make leaf-circlets + and a crown of honey-flowers + for thy throat; + where the amber petals + drip to ivory, + I cut and slip + each stiffened petal + in the rift + of carven petal: + honey horn + has wed the bright + virgin petal of the white + flower cluster: lip to lip + let them whisper, + let them lilt, quivering: + + Most holy Satyr, + like a goat, + hear this our song, + accept our leaves, + love-offering, + return our hymn; + like echo fling + a sweet song, + answering note for note. + + + + + LAIS + + + Let her who walks in Paphos + take the glass, + let Paphos take the mirror + and the work of frosted fruit, + gold apples set + with silver apple-leaf, + white leaf of silver + wrought with vein of gilt. + + Let Paphos lift the mirror; + let her look + into the polished center of the disk. + + Let Paphos take the mirror: + did she press + flowerlet of flame-flower + to the lustrous white + of the white forehead? + did the dark veins beat + a deeper purple + than the wine-deep tint + of the dark flower? + + Did she deck black hair, + one evening, with the winter-white + flower of the winter-berry? + Did she look (reft of her lover) + at a face gone white + under the chaplet + of white virgin-breath? + + Lais, exultant, tyrannizing Greece, + Lais who kept her lovers in the porch, + lover on lover waiting + (but to creep + where the robe brushed the threshold + where still sleeps Lais), + so she creeps, Lais, + to lay her mirror at the feet + of her who reigns in Paphos. + + Lais has left her mirror, + for she sees no longer in its depth + the Lais' self + that laughed exultant, + tyrannizing Greece. + + Lais has left her mirror, + for she weeps no longer, + finding in its depth + a face, but other + than dark flame and white + feature of perfect marble. + + _Lais has left her mirror_ + (so one wrote) + _to her who reigns in Paphos; + Lais who laughed a tyrant over Greece, + Lais who turned the lovers from the porch, + that swarm for whom now + Lais has no use; + Lais is now no lover of the glass, + seeing no more the face as once it was, + wishing to see that face and finding this._ + + + + + HELIODORA + + + He and I sought together, + over the spattered table, + rhymes and flowers, + gifts for a name. + + He said, among others, + I will bring + (and the phrase was just and good, + but not as good as mine) + "the narcissus that loves the rain." + + We strove for a name, + while the light of the lamps burnt thin + and the outer dawn came in, + a ghost, the last at the feast + or the first, + to sit within + with the two that remained + to quibble in flowers and verse + over a girl's name. + + He said, "the rain loving," + I said, "the narcissus, drunk, + drunk with the rain." + + Yet I had lost + for he said, + "the rose, the lover's gift, + is loved of love," + he said it, + "loved of love;" + I waited, even as he spoke, + to see the room filled with a light, + as when in winter + the embers catch in a wind + when a room is dank: + so it would be filled, I thought, + our room with a light + when he said + (and he said it first) + "the rose, the lover's delight, + is loved of love," + but the light was the same. + + Then he caught, + seeing the fire in my eyes, + my fire, my fever, perhaps, + for he leaned + with the purple wine + stained in his sleeve, + and said this: + "Did you ever think + a girl's mouth + caught in a kiss + is a lily that laughs?" + + I had not. + I saw it now + as men must see it forever afterwards; + no poet could write again, + "the red-lily, + a girl's laugh caught in a kiss;" + it was his to pour in the vat + from which all poets dip and quaff, + for poets are brothers in this. + + So I saw the fire in his eyes, + it was almost my fire + (he was younger) + I saw the face so white; + my heart beat, + it was almost my phrase, + I said, "surprise the muses, + take them by surprise; + it is late, + rather it is dawn-rise, + those ladies sleep, the nine, + our own king's mistresses." + + A name to rhyme, + flowers to bring to a name, + what was one girl faint and shy, + with eyes like the myrtle + (I said: "her underlids + are rather like myrtle"), + to vie with the nine? + + Let him take the name, + he had the rhymes, + "the rose, loved of love," + "the lily, a mouth that laughs," + he had the gift, + "the scented crocus, + the purple hyacinth," + what was one girl to the nine? + + He said: + "I will make her a wreath;" + he said: + "I will write it thus: + _'I will bring you the lily that laughs, + I will twine + with soft narcissus, the myrtle, + sweet crocus, white violet, + the purple hyacinth and, last, + the rose, loved of love, + that these may drip on your hair + the less soft flowers, + may mingle sweet with the sweet + of Heliodora's locks, + myrrh-curled.'_" + + (He wrote myrrh-curled, + I think, the first.) + + I said: + "they sleep, the nine," + when he shouted swift and passionate: + "_that_ for the nine! + Above the mountains + the sun is about to wake, + _and to-day white violets + shine beside white lilies + adrift on the mountain side; + to-day the narcissus opens + that loves the rain_." + + I watched him to the door, + catching his robe + as the wine-bowl crashed to the floor, + spilling a few wet lees + (ah, his purple hyacinth!); + I saw him out of the door, + I thought: + there will never be a poet, + in all the centuries after this, + who will dare write, + after my friend's verse, + "a girl's mouth + is a lily kissed." + + + + + TOWARD THE PIRAEUS + + + _Slay with your eyes, Greek, + men over the face of the earth, + slay with your eyes, the host, + puny, passionless, weak._ + + _Break, as the ranks of steel + broke of the Persian host: + craven, we hated them then: + now we would count them Gods + beside these, spawn of the earth._ + + _Grant us your mantle, Greek; + grant us but one + to fright (as your eyes) with a sword, + men, craven and weak, + grant us but one to strike + one blow for you, passionate Greek._ + + + I + + You would have broken my wings, + but the very fact that you knew + I had wings, set some seal + on my bitter heart, my heart + broke and fluttered and sang. + + You would have snared me, + and scattered the strands of my nest; + but the very fact that you saw, + sheltered me, claimed me, + set me apart from the rest. + + Of men--of _men_ made you a god, + and me, claimed me, set me apart + and the song in my breast, yours, yours forever-- + if I escape your evil heart. + + + II + + I loved you: + men have writ and women have said + they loved, + but as the Pythoness stands by the altar, + intense and may not move; + + till the fumes pass over; + and may not falter nor break, + till the priest has caught the words + that mar or make + a deme or a ravaged town; + + so I, though my knees tremble, + my heart break, + must note the rumbling, + heed only the shuddering + down in the fissure beneath the rock + of the temple floor; + + must wait and watch + and may not turn nor move, + nor break from my trance to speak + so slight, so sweet, + so simple a word as love. + + + III + + What had you done + had you been true, + I can not think, + I may not know. + + What could we do + were I not wise, + what play invent, + what joy devise? + + What could we do + if you were great? + (Yet were you lost, + who were there, then, + to circumvent + the tricks of men?) + + What can we do, + for curious lies + have filled your heart, + and in my eyes + sorrow has writ + that I am wise. + + + IV + + If I had been a boy, + I would have worshiped your grace, + I would have flung my worship + before your feet, + I would have followed apart, + glad, rent with an ecstasy + to watch you turn + your great head, set on the throat, + thick, dark with its sinews, + burned and wrought + like the olive stalk, + and the noble chin + and the throat. + + I would have stood, + and watched and watched + and burned, + and when in the night, + from the many hosts, your slaves, + and warriors and serving men + you had turned + to the purple couch and the flame + of the woman, tall like cypress tree + that flames sudden and swift and free + as with crackle of golden resin + and cones and the locks flung free + like the cypress limbs, + bound, caught and shaken and loosed, + bound, caught and riven and bound + and loosened again, + as in rain of a kingly storm + or wind full from a desert plain. + + So, when you had risen + from all the lethargy of love and its heat, + you would have summoned me, me alone, + and found my hands, + beyond all the hands in the world, + cold, cold, cold, + intolerably cold and sweet. + + + V + + It was not chastity that made me cold nor fear, + only I knew that you, like myself, were sick + of the puny race that crawls and quibbles and lisps + of love and love and lovers and love's deceit. + + It was not chastity that made me wild but fear + that my weapon, tempered in different heat, + was over-matched by yours, and your hand + skilled to yield death-blows, might break. + + With the slightest turn--no ill-will meant-- + my own lesser, yet still somewhat fine-wrought + fiery-tempered, delicate, over-passionate steel. + + + + + CONRAD AIKEN + + + + + SEVEN TWILIGHTS + + + I + + The ragged pilgrim, on the road to nowhere, + Waits at the granite milestone. It grows dark. + Willows lean by the water. Pleas of water + Cry through the trees. And on the boles and boughs + Green water-lights make rings, already paling. + Leaves speak everywhere. The willow leaves + Silverly stir on the breath of moving water, + Birch-leaves, beyond them, twinkle, and there on the hill, + And the hills beyond again, and the highest hill, + Serrated pines, in the dusk, grow almost black. + By the eighth milestone on the road to nowhere + He drops his sack, and lights once more the pipe + There often lighted. In the dusk-sharpened sky + A pair of night-hawks windily sweep, or fall, + Booming, toward the trees. Thus had it been + Last year, and the year before, and many years: + Ever the same. "Thus turns the human track + Backward upon itself, I stand once more + By this small stream..." Now the rich sound of leaves, + Turning in air to sway their heavy boughs, + Burns in his heart, sings in his veins, as spring + Flowers in veins of trees; bringing such peace + As comes to seamen when they dream of seas. + "O trees! exquisite dancers in gray twilight! + Witches! fairies! elves! who wait for the moon + To thrust her golden horn, like a golden snail, + Above that mountain--arch your green benediction + Once more over my heart. Muffle the sound of bells, + Mournfully human, that cries from the darkening valley; + Close, with your leaves, about the sound of water: + Take me among your hearts as you take the mist + Among your boughs!" ... Now by the granite milestone, + On the ancient human road that winds to nowhere, + The pilgrim listens, as the night air brings + The murmured echo, perpetual, from the gorge + Of barren rock far down the valley. Now, + Though twilight here, it may be starlight there; + Mist makes elfin lakes in the hollow fields; + The dark wood stands in the mist like a somber island + With one red star above it.... "This I should see, + Should I go on, follow the falling road,-- + This I have often seen.... But I shall stay + Here, where the ancient milestone, like a watchman, + Lifts up its figure eight, its one gray knowledge, + Into the twilight; as a watchman lifts + A lantern, which he does not know is out." + + + II + + Now by the wall of the ancient town I lean + Myself, like ancient wall and dust and sky, + And the purple dusk, grown old, grown old in heart. + Shadows of clouds flow inward from the sea. + The mottled fields grow dark. The golden wall + Grows gray again, turns stone again, the tower, + No longer kindled, darkens against a cloud. + Old is the world, old as the world am I; + The cries of sheep rise upward from the fields, + Forlorn and strange; and wake an ancient echo + In fields my heart has known, but has not seen. + "These fields"--an unknown voice beyond the wall + Murmurs--"were once the province of the sea. + Where now the sheep graze, mermaids were at play, + Sea-horses galloped, and the great jeweled tortoise + Walked slowly, looking upward at the waves, + Bearing upon his back a thousand barnacles, + A white acropolis ..." The ancient tower + Sends out, above the houses and the trees, + And the wide fields below the ancient walls, + A measured phrase of bells. And in the silence + I hear a woman's voice make answer then: + "Well, they are green, although no ship can sail them.... + Sky-larks rest in the grass, and start up singing + Before the girl who stoops to pick sea-poppies. + Spiny, the poppies are, and oh how yellow! + And the brown clay is runneled by the rain...." + A moment since, the sheep that crop the grass + Had long blue shadows, and the grass-tips sparkled: + Now all grows old.... O voices strangely speaking, + Voices of man and woman, voices of bells, + Diversely making comment on our time + Which flows and bears us with it into dusk, + Repeat the things you say! Repeat them slowly + Upon this air, make them an incantation + For ancient tower, old wall, the purple twilight, + This dust, and me. But all I hear is silence, + And something that may be leaves or may be sea. + + + III + + When the tree bares, the music of it changes: + Hard and keen is the sound, long and mournful; + Pale are the poplar boughs in the evening light + Above my house, against a slate-cold cloud. + When the house ages and the tenants leave it, + Cricket sings in the tall grass by the threshold; + Spider, by the cold mantel, hangs his web. + Here, in a hundred years from that clear season + When first I came here, bearing lights and music, + To this old ghostly house my ghost will come,-- + Pause in the half-light, turn by the poplar, glide + Above tall grasses through the broken door. + Who will say that he saw--or the dusk deceived him-- + A mist with hands of mist blow down from the tree + And open the door and enter and close it after? + Who will say that he saw, as midnight struck + Its tremulous golden twelve, a light in the window, + And first heard music, as of an old piano, + Music remote, as if it came from the earth, + Far down; and then, in the quiet, eager voices? + "... Houses grow old and die, houses have ghosts-- + Once in a hundred years we return, old house, + And live once more." ... And then the ancient answer, + In a voice not human, but more like creak of boards + Or rattle of panes in the wind--"Not as the owner, + But as a guest you come, to fires not lit + By hands of yours.... Through these long-silent chambers + Move slowly, turn, return, and bring once more + Your lights and music. It will be good to talk." + + + IV + + "This is the hour," she said, "of transmutation: + It is the eucharist of the evening, changing + All things to beauty. Now the ancient river, + That all day under the arch was polished jade, + Becomes the ghost of a river, thinly gleaming + Under a silver cloud.... It is not water: + It is that azure stream in which the stars + Bathe at the daybreak, and become immortal...." + "And the moon," said I--not thus to be outdone-- + "What of the moon? Over the dusty plane-trees + Which crouch in the dusk above their feeble lanterns, + Each coldly lighted by his tiny faith; + The moon, the waxen moon, now almost full, + Creeps whitely up.... Westward the waves of cloud, + Vermilion, crimson, violet, stream on the air, + Shatter to golden flakes in the icy green + Translucency of twilight.... And the moon + Drinks up their light, and as they fade or darken, + Brightens.... O monstrous miracle of the twilight, + That one should live because the others die!" + "Strange too," she answered, "that upon this azure + Pale-gleaming ghostly stream, impalpable-- + So faint, so fine that scarcely it bears up + The petals that the lantern strews upon it,-- + These great black barges float like apparitions, + Loom in the silver of it, beat upon it, + Moving upon it as dragons move on air." + "Thus always," then I answered,--looking never + Toward her face, so beautiful and strange + It grew, with feeding on the evening light,-- + "The gross is given, by inscrutable God, + Power to beat wide wings upon the subtle. + Thus we ourselves, so fleshly, fallible, mortal, + Stand here, for all our foolishness, transfigured: + Hung over nothing in an arch of light + While one more evening like a wave of silence + Gathers the stars together and goes out." + + + V + + Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds + Whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim; + Against the ice-white wall of light in the west + Skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air. + Leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind; + Mount upward past my window; swoop again; + In a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls + The first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf.... + Doom and dusk for the earth! Upward I reach + To draw chill curtains and shut out the dark, + Pausing an instant, with uplifted hand, + To watch, between black ruined portals of cloud, + One star,--the tottering portals fall and crush it. + Here are a thousand books! here is the wisdom + Alembicked out of dust, or out of nothing; + Choose now the weightiest word, most golden page, + Most somberly musicked line; hold up these lanterns,-- + These paltry lanterns, wisdoms, philosophies,-- + Above your eyes, against this wall of darkness; + And you'll see--what? One hanging strand of cobweb, + A window-sill a half-inch deep in dust ... + Speak out, old wise-men! Now, if ever, we need you. + Cry loudly, lift shrill voices like magicians + Against this baleful dusk, this wail of rain.... + But you are nothing! Your pages turn to water + Under my fingers: cold, cold and gleaming, + Arrowy in the darkness, rippling, dripping-- + All things are rain.... Myself, this lighted room, + What are we but a murmurous pool of rain?... + The slow arpeggios of it, liquid, sibilant, + Thrill and thrill in the dark. World-deep I lie + Under a sky of rain. Thus lies the sea-shell + Under the rustling twilight of the sea; + No gods remember it, no understanding + Cleaves the long darkness with a sword of light. + + + VI + + Heaven, you say, will be a field in April, + A friendly field, a long green wave of earth, + With one domed cloud above it. There you'll lie + In noon's delight, with bees to flash above you, + Drown amid buttercups that blaze in the wind, + Forgetting all save beauty. There you'll see + With sun-filled eyes your one great dome of cloud + Adding fantastic towers and spires of light, + Ascending, like a ghost, to melt in the blue. + Heaven enough, in truth, if you were there! + Could I be with you I would choose your noon, + Drown amid buttercups, laugh with the intimate grass, + Dream there forever.... But, being older, sadder, + Having not you, nor aught save thought of you, + It is not spring I'll choose, but fading summer; + Not noon I'll choose, but the charmed hour of dusk. + Poppies? A few! And a moon almost as red.... + But most I'll choose that subtler dusk that comes + Into the mind--into the heart, you say-- + When, as we look bewildered at lovely things, + Striving to give their loveliness a name, + They are forgotten; and other things, remembered, + Flower in the heart with the fragrance we call grief. + + + VII + + In the long silence of the sea, the seaman + Strikes twice his bell of bronze. The short note wavers + And loses itself in the blue realm of water. + One sea-gull, paired with a shadow, wheels, wheels; + Circles the lonely ship by wave and trough; + Lets down his feet, strikes at the breaking water, + Draws up his golden feet, beats wings, and rises + Over the mast.... Light from a crimson cloud + Crimsons the sluggishly creeping foams of waves; + The seaman, poised in the bow, rises and falls + As the deep forefoot finds a way through waves; + And there below him, steadily gazing westward, + Facing the wind, the sunset, the long cloud, + The goddess of the ship, proud figurehead, + Smiles inscrutably, plunges to crying waters, + Emerges streaming, gleaming, with jewels falling + Fierily from carved wings and golden breasts; + Steadily glides a moment, then swoops again. + Carved by the hand of man, grieved by the wind; + Worn by the tumult of all the tragic seas, + Yet smiling still, unchanging, smiling still + Inscrutably, with calm eyes and golden brow-- + What is it that she sees and follows always, + Beyond the molten and ruined west, beyond + The light-rimmed sea, the sky itself? What secret + Gives wisdom to her purpose? Now the cloud + In final conflagration pales and crumbles + Into the darkening waters. Now the stars + Burn softly through the dusk. The seaman strikes + His small lost bell again, watching the west + As she below him watches.... O pale goddess + Whom not the darkness, even, or rain or storm, + Changes; whose great wings are bright with foam, + Whose breasts are cold as the sea, whose eyes forever + Inscrutably take that light whereon they look-- + Speak to us! Make us certain, as you are, + That somewhere, beyond wave and wave and wave, + That dreamed-of harbor lies which we would find. + + + + + TETELESTAI + + + I + + How shall we praise the magnificence of the dead, + The great man humbled, the haughty brought to dust? + Is there a horn we should not blow as proudly + For the meanest of us all, who creeps his days, + Guarding his heart from blows, to die obscurely? + I am no king, have laid no kingdoms waste, + Taken no princes captive, led no triumphs + Of weeping women through long walls of trumpets; + Say rather I am no one, or an atom; + Say rather, two great gods in a vault of starlight + Play ponderingly at chess; and at the game's end + One of the pieces, shaken, falls to the floor + And runs to the darkest corner; and that piece + Forgotten there, left motionless, is I.... + Say that I have no name, no gifts, no power, + Am only one of millions, mostly silent; + One who came with lips and hands and a heart, + Looked on beauty, and loved it, and then left it. + Say that the fates of time and space obscured me, + Led me a thousand ways to pain, bemused me, + Wrapped me in ugliness; and like great spiders + Dispatched me at their leisure.... Well, what then? + Should I not hear, as I lie down in dust, + The horns of glory blowing above my burial? + + + II + + Morning and evening opened and closed above me: + Houses were built above me; trees let fall + Yellowing leaves upon me, hands of ghosts, + Rain has showered its arrows of silver upon me + Seeking my heart; winds have roared and tossed me; + Music in long blue waves of sound has borne me + A helpless weed to shores of unthought silence; + Time, above me, within me, crashed its gongs + Of terrible warning, sifting the dust of death; + And here I lie. Blow now your horns of glory + Harshly over my flesh, you trees, you waters! + You stars and suns, Canopus, Deneb, Rigel, + Let me, as I lie down, here in this dust, + Hear, far off, your whispered salutation! + Roar now above my decaying flesh, you winds, + Whirl out your earth-scents over this body, tell me + Of ferns and stagnant pools, wild roses, hillsides! + Anoint me, rain, let crash your silver arrows + On this hard flesh! I am the one who named you, + I lived in you, and now I die in you. + I, your son, your daughter, treader of music, + Lie broken, conquered.... Let me not fall in silence. + + + III + + I, the restless one; the circler of circles; + Herdsman and roper of stars, who could not capture + The secret of self; I who was tyrant to weaklings, + Striker of children; destroyer of women; corrupter + Of innocent dreamers, and laugher at beauty; I, + Too easily brought to tears and weakness by music, + Baffled and broken by love, the helpless beholder + Of the war in my heart of desire with desire, the struggle + Of hatred with love, terror with hunger; I + Who laughed without knowing the cause of my laughter, who grew + Without wishing to grow, a servant to my own body; + Loved without reason the laughter and flesh of a woman, + Enduring such torments to find her! I who at last + Grow weaker, struggle more feebly, relent in my purpose, + Choose for my triumph an easier end, look backward + At earlier conquests; or, caught in the web, cry out + In a sudden and empty despair, "Tetelestai!" + Pity me, now! I, who was arrogant, beg you! + Tell me, as I lie down, that I was courageous. + Blow horns of victory now, as I reel and am vanquished. + Shatter the sky with trumpets above my grave. + + + IV + + ... Look! this flesh how it crumbles to dust and is blown! + These bones, how they grind in the granite of frost and are nothing! + This skull, how it yawns for a flicker of time in the darkness + Yet laughs not and sees not! It is crushed by a hammer of sunlight, + And the hands are destroyed.... Press down through the leaves of the + jasmine, + Dig through the interlaced roots--nevermore will you find me; + I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me.... + Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? + Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? + Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble + In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?... + Listen!... It says: "I lean by the river. The willows + Are yellowed with bud. White clouds roar up from the south + And darken the ripples; but they cannot darken my heart, + Nor the face like a star in my heart!... Rain falls on the water + And pelts it, and rings it with silver. The willow trees glisten, + The sparrows chirp under the eaves; but the face in my heart + Is a secret of music.... I wait in the rain and am silent." + Listen again!... It says: "I have worked, I am tired, + The pencil dulls in my hand: I see through the window + Walls upon walls of windows with faces behind them, + Smoke floating up to the sky, an ascension of seagulls. + I am tired. I have struggled in vain, my decision was fruitless, + Why then do I wait? with darkness, so easy, at hand!... + But to-morrow, perhaps.... I will wait and endure till + to-morrow!..." + Or again: "It is dark. The decision is made. I am vanquished + By terror of life. The walls mount slowly about me + In coldness. I had not the courage. I was forsaken. + I cried out, was answered by silence.... Tetelestai!..." + + + V + + Hear how it babbles!--Blow the dust out of your hand, + With its voices and visions, tread on it, forget it, turn homeward + With dreams in your brain.... This, then, is the humble, the + nameless,-- + The lover, the husband and father, the struggler with shadows, + The one who went down under shoutings of chaos! The weakling + Who cried his "forsaken!" like Christ on the darkening hilltop!... + This, then, is the one who implores, as he dwindles to silence, + A fanfare of glory.... And which of us dares to deny him! + + + + + EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY + + + + + EIGHT SONNETS + + + I + + When you, that at this moment are to me + Dearer than words on paper, shall depart, + And be no more the warder of my heart, + Whereof again myself shall hold the key; + And be no more, what now you seem to be, + The sun, from which all excellencies start + In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart + Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea; + + I shall remember only of this hour-- + And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep-- + The pathos of your love, that, like a flower, + Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep, + Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed, + The wind whereon its petals shall be laid. + + + II + + What's this of death, from you who never will die? + Think you the wrist that fashioned you in clay, + The thumb that set the hollow just that way + In your full throat and lidded the long eye + So roundly from the forehead, will let lie + Broken, forgotten, under foot some day + Your unimpeachable body, and so slay + The work he most had been remembered by? + + I tell you this: whatever of dust to dust + Goes down, whatever of ashes may return + To its essential self in its own season, + Loveliness such as yours will not be lost, + But, cast in bronze upon his very urn, + Make known him Master, and for what good reason. + + + III + + I know I am but summer to your heart, + And not the full four seasons of the year; + And you must welcome from another part + Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. + No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell + Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; + And I have loved you all too long and well + To carry still the high sweet breast of spring. + + Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, + I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, + That you may hail anew the bird and rose + When I come back to you, as summer comes. + Else will you seek, at some not distant time, + Even your summer in another clime. + + + IV + + Here is a wound that never will heal, I know, + Being wrought not of a dearness and a death + But of a love turned ashes and the breath + Gone out of beauty; never again will grow + The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow + Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath + Its friendly weathers down, far underneath + Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. + + That April should be shattered by a gust, + That August should be leveled by a rain, + I can endure, and that the lifted dust + Of man should settle to the earth again; + But that a dream can die, will be a thrust + Between my ribs forever of hot pain. + + + V + + What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, + I have forgotten, and what arms have lain + Under my head till morning; but the rain + Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh + Upon the glass and listen for reply; + And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain, + For unremembered lads that not again + Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. + + Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, + Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, + Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: + I cannot say what loves have come and gone; + I only know that summer sang in me + A little while, that in me sings no more. + + + VI + + Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. + Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, + And lay them prone upon the earth and cease + To ponder on themselves, the while they stare + At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere + In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese + Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release + From dusty bondage into luminous air. + + O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, + When first the shaft into his vision shone + Of light anatomized! Euclid alone + Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they + Who, though once only and then but far away, + Have heard her massive sandal set on stone. + + + VII + + Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word! + Give back my book and take my kiss instead. + Was it my enemy or my friend I heard?-- + "What a big book for such a little head!" + Come, I will show you now my newest hat, + And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink. + Oh, I shall love you still and all of that. + I never again shall tell you what I think. + + I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly; + You will not catch me reading any more; + I shall be called a wife to pattern by; + And some day when you knock and push the door, + Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy, + I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me. + + + VIII + + Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find + The roots of last year's roses in my breast; + I am as surely riper in my mind + As if the fruit stood in the stalls confessed. + Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will, + Call me in all things what I was before, + A flutterer in the wind, a woman still; + I tell you I am what I was and more. + + My branches weigh me down, frost cleans the air, + My sky is black with small birds bearing south; + Say what you will, confuse me with fine care, + Put by my word as but an April truth,-- + Autumn is no less on me that a rose + Hugs the brown bough and sighs before it goes. + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + +(The following lists include poetical works only) + + +AMY LOWELL + +A Dome of Many-Colored Glass Houghton Mifflin Co. 1912 + +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed The Macmillan Company 1914 + +Men, Women and Ghosts The Macmillan Company 1916 + +Can Grande's Castle The Macmillan Company 1918 + +Pictures of the Floating World The Macmillan Company 1919 + +Legends Houghton Mifflin Co. 1921 + +Fir-Flower Tablets Houghton Mifflin Co. 1921 + + +ROBERT FROST + +A Boy's Will Henry Holt and Company 1914 + +North of Boston Henry Holt and Company 1915 + +Mountain Interval Henry Holt and Company 1916 + + +CARL SANDBURG + +Chicago Poems Henry Holt and Company 1916 + +Cornhuskers Henry Holt and Company 1918 + +Smoke and Steel Harcourt, Brace and Co. 1930 + +Slabs of the Sunburnt West Harcourt, Brace and Co. 1922 + + +VACHEL LINDSAY + +Rhymes to be Traded for Bread Privately Printed; 1912 + Springfield, Ill. + +General William Booth Enters Into Mitchell Kennerley 1913 + Heaven + +The Congo and Other Poems The Macmillan Company 1915 + +The Chinese Nightingale The Macmillan Company 1917 + +The Golden Whales of California The Macmillan Company 1920 + + +JAMES OPPENHEIM + +Monday Morning and Other Poems Sturgis & Walton Co. 1909 + +Songs for the New Age The Century Company 1914 + +War and Laughter The Century Company 1915 + +The Book of Self Alfred A. Knopf 1917 + +The Solitary B. W. Huebsch 1919 + +The Mystic Warrior Alfred A. Knopf 1921 + + +ALFRED KREYMBORG + +Mushrooms Alfred A. Knopf 1916 + +Plays for Poem-Mimes The Others Press 1918 + +Plays for Merry Andrews The Sunwise Turn 1920 + +Blood of Things Nicholas L. Brown 1921 + + +SARA TEASDALE + +Sonnets to Duse The Poet Lore Co. 1907 + +Helen of Troy G. P. Putnam's Sons 1911 + +Rivers to the Sea The Macmillan Company 1915 + +Love Songs The Macmillan Company 1917 + +Flame and Shadow The Macmillan Company 1920 + + +LOUIS UNTERMEYER + +The Younger Quire Moods Publishing Co. 1911 + +First Love Sherman French & Co. 1911 + +Challenge The Century Company 1914 + +"--and Other Poets" Henry Holt and Company 1916 + +The Poems of Heinrich Heine Henry Holt and Company 1917 + +These Times Henry Holt and Company 1917 + +Including Horace Harcourt, Brace and Co. 1919 + +The New Adam Harcourt, Brace and Co. 1920 + +Heavens Harcourt, Brace and Co. 1922 + + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + +Fire and Wine Grant Richards (London) 1913 + +The Dominant City Max Goschen (London) 1913 + +Fool's Gold Max Goschen (London) 1913 + +The Book of Nature Constable & Co. (London) 1913 + +Visions of the Evening Erskine Macdonald (London) 1913 + +Irradiations Houghton Mifflin Co. 1915 + +Goblins and Pagodas Houghton Mifflin Co. 1916 + +Japanese Prints The Four Seas Company 1918 + +The Tree of Life The Macmillan Company 1919 + +Breakers and Granite The Macmillan Company 1921 + + +JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER + +Growing Pains B. W. Huebsch 1918 + +Dreams Out of Darkness B. W. Huebsch 1921 + + +H. D. + +Sea Garden Houghton Mifflin Co. 1916 + +Hymen Henry Holt and Co. 1921 + + +CONRAD AIKEN + +Earth Triumphant The Macmillan Company 1914 + +Turns and Movies Houghton Mifflin Co. 1916 + +The Jig of Forslin The Four Seas Company 1916 + +Nocturne of Remembered Spring The Four Seas Company 1917 + +The Charnel Rose The Four Seas Company 1918 + +The House of Dust The Four Seas Company 1920 + +Punch: the Immortal Liar Alfred A. Knopf 1921 + + +EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY + +Renascence Mitchell Kennerley 1917 + +A Few Figs from Thistles Frank Shay 1920 + +The Lamp and the Bell Frank Shay 1921 + +Aria Da Capo Mitchell Kennerley 1921 + +Second April Mitchell Kennerley 1921 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of American Poetry, 1922, by +Edna St. Vincent Millay and Robert Frost + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMERICAN POETRY, 1922 *** + +***** This file should be named 25880.txt or 25880.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/8/8/25880/ + +Produced by David Starner, Huub Bakker, Stephen Hope and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned +images of public domain material from the Google Print +project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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