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+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: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** 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 Coös                                        _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 Küche                                                _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 Pirćus                                       _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_
+
+  Tetélestai                                             _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 COÖS
+
+  _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 KÜCHE
+
+
+  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 ćtat 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 schöner 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 _gemüthlichkeit_;
+  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, belovčd.... 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 cańons 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 _reëm_, 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 PIRĆUS
+
+
+  _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.
+
+
+
+
+  TETÉLESTAI
+
+
+        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, "Tetélestai!"
+  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.... Tetélestai!..."
+
+
+        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 ***
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+
+
+<pre>
+
+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: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** 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.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+
+<h1>AMERICAN POETRY</h1>
+
+<h2>1922</h2>
+
+<h2>A MISCELLANY</h2>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80px;">
+<img src="images/img001.jpg" width="80" height="79" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+<p class='center'>NEW YORK<br />
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h3>1922, BY<br />
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</h3>
+
+
+<p class='center'>
+PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY<br />
+THE QUINN &amp; BODEN COMPANY<br />
+RAHWAY, N. J.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_FOREWORD" id="A_FOREWORD"></a>A FOREWORD</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span>a venture.</p>
+
+<p>In the first place, the plan of the <i>Miscellany</i> 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: <i>Georgian Poetry</i> has an editor, and the
+poems it contains may be taken as that editor's reaction
+to the poetry of the day. The <i>Miscellany</i>, 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
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span>
+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 <i>Miscellany</i> have done.</p>
+
+<p>The newcomers&mdash;H. D., Alfred Kreymborg, and
+Edna St. Vincent Millay&mdash;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&mdash;and this can not be too
+often repeated&mdash;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 <i>Miscellany</i> 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&mdash;a volume
+in itself&mdash;but he hopes to appear in any subsequent
+collection.</p>
+
+<p>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
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span>
+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 <i>The Century</i>, <i>The Yale Review</i>,
+<i>Poetry: A Magazine of Verse</i>, <i>The New Republic</i>,
+<i>Harper's</i>, <i>Scribner's</i>, <i>The Bookman</i>, <i>The Freeman</i>,
+<i>Broom</i>, <i>The Dial</i>, <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, <i>Farm and
+Fireside</i>, <i>The Measure</i>, and <i>The Literary Review</i>.
+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 <i>The Enchanted
+Years</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='contents' border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0'>
+<tr><td><i><a href="#A_FOREWORD">A Foreword</a></i></td><td align="right"><i>iii</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>AMY LOWELL</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#LILACS">Lilacs</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 3</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#TWENTY-FOUR_HOKKU_ON_A_MODERN_THEME">Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 8</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_SWANS">The Swans</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 13</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#PRIME">Prime</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 16</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#VESPERS">Vespers</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 17</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#IN_EXCELSIS">In Excelsis</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 18</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#LA_RONDE_DU_DIABLE">La Ronde du Diable</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 20</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>ROBERT FROST</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#FIRE_AND_ICE">Fire and Ice</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 25</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_GRINDSTONE">The Grindstone</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 26</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_WITCH_OF_COOS">The Witch of Co&ouml;s</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 29</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#A_BROOK_IN_THE_CITY">A Brook in the City</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 37</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#DESIGN">Design</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 38</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>CARL SANDBURG</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#AND_SO_TO-DAY">And So To-day</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 41</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#CALIFORNIA_CITY_LANDSCAPE">California City Landscape</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 49</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#UPSTREAM">Upstream</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 51</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#WINDFLOWER_LEAF">Windflower Leaf</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 52</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>VACHEL LINDSAY</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#IN_PRAISE_OF_JOHNNY_APPLESEED1">In Praise of Johnny Appleseed</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 55</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#I_KNOW_ALL_THIS_WHEN_GIPSY">I Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 66</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>JAMES OPPENHEIM</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#HEBREWS">Hebrews</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 75</i>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td>ALFRED KREYMBORG</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#ADAGIO_A_DUET">Adagio: A Duet</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 79</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#DIE_KUCHE">Die K&uuml;che</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 80</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#RAIN">Rain</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 81</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#PEASANT">Peasant</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 83</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#BUBBLES">Bubbles</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 85</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#DIRGE">Dirge</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 87</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#COLOPHON">Colophon</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 88</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>SARA TEASDALE</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#WISDOM">Wisdom</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 91</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#PLACES">Places</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 92</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Twilight</i> (Tucson)</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Full Moon</i> (Santa Barbara)</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Winter Sun</i> (Lenox)</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Evening</i> (Nahant)</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#WORDS_FOR_AN_OLD_AIR">Words for an Old Air</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 97</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THOSE_WHO_LOVE">Those Who Love</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 98</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#TWO_SONGS_FOR_SOLITUDE">Two Songs for Solitude</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 99</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Crystal Gazer</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Solitary</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td>LOUIS UNTERMEYER</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#MONOLOG_FROM_A_MATTRESS">Monolog from a Mattress</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 103</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#WATERS_OF_BABYLON">Waters of Babylon</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 110</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_FLAMING_CIRCLE">The Flaming Circle</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 112</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#PORTRAIT_OF_A_MACHINE">Portrait of a Machine</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 114</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#ROAST_LEVIATHAN">Roast Leviathan</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 115</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>JOHN GOULD FLETCHER</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#A_REBEL">A Rebel</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 127</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_ROCK">The Rock</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 128</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#BLUE_WATER">Blue Water</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 129</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#PRAYERS_FOR_WIND">Prayers for Wind</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 130</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#IMPROMPTU">Impromptu</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 131</i>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#CHINESE_POET_AMONG_BARBARIANS">Chinese Poet Among Barbarians</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 132</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#SNOWY_MOUNTAINS">Snowy Mountains</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 133</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_FUTURE">The Future</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 134</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#UPON_THE_HILL">Upon the Hill</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 136</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THE_ENDURING">The Enduring</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 137</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#OLD_MAN">Old Man</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 141</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#TONE_PICTURE">Tone Picture</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 142</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#THEY_SAY">They Say&mdash;</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 143</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#RESCUE">Rescue</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 144</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#MATER_IN_EXTREMIS">Mater in Extremis</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 146</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#SELF-REJECTED">Self-Rejected</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 147</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>H. D.</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#HOLY_SATYR">Holy Satyr</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 151</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#LAIS">Lais</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 153</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#HELIODORA">Heliodora</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 156</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#TOWARD_THE_PIRAEUS">Toward the Pir&aelig;us</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 161</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Slay with your eyes, Greek</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>You would have broken my wings</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>I loved you</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What had you done</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>If I had been a boy</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>It was not chastity that made me cold</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td>CONRAD AIKEN</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#SEVEN_TWILIGHTS">Seven Twilights</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 171</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The ragged pilgrim on the road to nowhere</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Now by the wall of the ancient town</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>When the tree bares, the music of it changes</i></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>"This is the hour," she says, "of transmutation"</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Heaven, you say, will be a field in April</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>In the long silence of the sea</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#TETELESTAI">Tet&eacute;lestai</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 184</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY</td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class='indent'><a href="#EIGHT_SONNETS">Eight Sonnets</a></span></td><td align="right"><i> 193</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>When you, that at this moment are to me</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What's this of death, from you who never will die</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>I know I am but summer to your heart</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Here is a wound that never will heal, I know</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find</i></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><a href="#BIBLIOGRAPHY">BIBLIOGRAPHY</a></td><td align="right"><i> 201</i>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_001">[Pg 1]</a></span></td></tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_002" id="Page_002">[Pg 2]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="AMY_LOWELL" id="AMY_LOWELL"></a>AMY LOWELL</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="LILACS" id="LILACS"></a>LILACS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'><tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>False blue,</span>
+<span class='i0'>White,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Purple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Color of lilac,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your great puffs of flowers</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are everywhere in this my New England.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Among your heart-shaped leaves</span>
+<span class='i0'>Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing</span>
+<span class='i0'>Their little weak soft songs;</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the crooks of your branches</span>
+<span class='i0'>The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Peer restlessly through the light and shadow</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of all Springs.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs in dooryards</span>
+<span class='i0'>Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs watching a deserted house</span>
+<span class='i0'>Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above a cellar dug into a hill.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are everywhere.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You were everywhere.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_004" id="Page_004">[Pg 4]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You persuaded the housewife that her dish-pan was of silver</span>
+<span class='i0'>And her husband an image of pure gold.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms</span>
+<span class='i0'>Through the wide doors of Custom Houses&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>You, and sandal-wood, and tea,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks</span>
+<span class='i0'>When a ship was in from China.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You called to them: "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is a month for flitting,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Until they writhed on their high stools</span>
+<span class='i0'>And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Paradoxical New England clerks,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the "Song of Solomon" at night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>So many verses before bedtime,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because it was the Bible.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The dead fed you</span>
+<span class='i0'>Amid the slant stones of graveyards.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pale ghosts who planted you</span>
+<span class='i0'>Came in the night time</span>
+<span class='i0'>And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are of the green sea,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_005" id="Page_005">[Pg 5]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You cover the blind sides of greenhouses</span>
+<span class='i0'>And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass</span>
+<span class='i0'>To your friends, the grapes, inside.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>False blue,</span>
+<span class='i0'>White,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Purple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Color of lilac,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You have forgotten your Eastern origin,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The veiled women with eyes like panthers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled Pashas.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Now you are a very decent flower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A reticent flower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A curiously clear-cut, candid flower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Standing beside clean doorways,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight</span>
+<span class='i0'>And a hundred or two sharp blossoms.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Maine knows you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has for years and years;</span>
+<span class='i0'>New Hampshire knows you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Massachusetts</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Vermont.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_006" id="Page_006">[Pg 6]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are brighter than apples,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sweeter than tulips,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are the great flood of our souls</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are the smell of all Summers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The love of wives and children,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The recollection of the gardens of little children,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You are State Houses and Charters</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is lilac here in New England,</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is a thrush singing "Sun up!" on a tip-top ash-tree,</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is white clouds behind pine-trees</span>
+<span class='i0'>Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky.</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is a green as no other,</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is much sun through small leaves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is soft earth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And apple-blossoms,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And windows open to a South wind.</span>
+<span class='i0'>May is a full light wind of lilac</span>
+<span class='i0'>From Canada to Narragansett Bay.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lilacs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>False blue,</span>
+<span class='i0'>White,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Purple,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_007" id="Page_007">[Pg 7]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Color of lilac,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lilac in me because I am New England,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because my roots are in it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because my leaves are of it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because my flowers are for it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because it is my country</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I speak to it of itself</span>
+<span class='i0'>And sing of it with my own voice</span>
+<span class='i0'>Since certainly it is mine.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr></table>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_008" id="Page_008">[Pg 8]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="TWENTY-FOUR_HOKKU_ON_A_MODERN_THEME" id="TWENTY-FOUR_HOKKU_ON_A_MODERN_THEME"></a>TWENTY-FOUR HOKKU ON A MODERN THEME</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>I</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Again the larkspur,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heavenly blue in my garden.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They, at least, unchanged.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>II</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>How have I hurt you?</span>
+<span class='i0'>You look at me with pale eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But these are my tears.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>III</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Morning and evening&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Yet for us once long ago</span>
+<span class='i0'>Was no division.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I hear many words.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Set an hour when I may come</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or remain silent.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>V</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>In the ghostly dawn</span>
+<span class='i0'>I write new words for your ears&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Even now you sleep.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_009" id="Page_009">[Pg 9]</a></span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>This then is morning.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Have you no comfort for me</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cold-colored flowers?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>My eyes are weary</span>
+<span class='i0'>Following you everywhere.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Short, oh short, the days!</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VIII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When the flower falls</span>
+<span class='i0'>The leaf is no more cherished.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Every day I fear.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IX</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Even when you smile</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sorrow is behind your eyes.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pity me, therefore.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>X</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Laugh&mdash;it is nothing.</span>
+<span class='i0'>To others you may seem gay,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I watch with grieved eyes.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_010" id="Page_010">[Pg 10]</a></span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Take it, this white rose.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stems of roses do not bleed;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your fingers are safe.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>As a river-wind</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hurling clouds at a bright moon,</span>
+<span class='i0'>So am I to you.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XIII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Watching the iris,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The faint and fragile petals&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>How am I worthy?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XIV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Down a red river</span>
+<span class='i0'>I drift in a broken skiff.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are you then so brave?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Night lies beside me</span>
+<span class='i0'>Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.</span>
+<span class='i0'>It and I alone.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XVI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Last night it rained.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Now, in the desolate dawn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crying of blue jays.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_011" id="Page_011">[Pg 11]</a></span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XVII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Foolish so to grieve,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Autumn has its colored leaves&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But before they turn?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XVIII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Afterwards I think:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Poppies bloom when it thunders.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is this not enough?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XIX</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Love is a game&mdash;yes?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I think it is a drowning:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Black willows and stars.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XX</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When the aster fades</span>
+<span class='i0'>The creeper flaunts in crimson.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Always another!</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XXI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Turning from the page,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blind with a night of labor,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I hear morning crows.</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XXII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>A cloud of lilies,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or else you walk before me.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who could see clearly?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_012" id="Page_012">[Pg 12]</a></span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XXIII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Sweet smell of wet flowers</span>
+<span class='i0'>Over an evening garden.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your portrait, perhaps?</span>
+</p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>XXIV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Staying in my room,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I thought of the new Spring leaves.</span>
+<span class='i0'>That day was happy.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_013" id="Page_013">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_SWANS" id="THE_SWANS"></a>THE SWANS</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The swans float and float</span>
+<span class='i0'>Along the moat</span>
+<span class='i0'>Around the Bishop's garden,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the white clouds push</span>
+<span class='i0'>Across a blue sky</span>
+<span class='i0'>With edges that seem to draw in and harden.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Two slim men of white bronze</span>
+<span class='i0'>Beat each with a hammer on the end of a rod</span>
+<span class='i0'>The hours of God.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Striking a bell,</span>
+<span class='i0'>They do it well.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and swell</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the Cathedral's carved stone polygons.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The swans float</span>
+<span class='i0'>About the moat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And another swan sits still in the air</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above the old inn.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He gazes into the street</span>
+<span class='i0'>And swims the cold and the heat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>He has always been there,</span>
+<span class='i0'>At least so say the cobbles in the square.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They listen to the beat</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the hammered bell,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And think of the feet</span>
+<span class='i0'>Which beat upon their tops;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But what they think they do not tell.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_014" id="Page_014">[Pg 14]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And the swans who float</span>
+<span class='i0'>Up and down the moat</span>
+<span class='i0'>Gobble the bread the Bishop feeds them.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The slim bronze men beat the hour again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But only the gargoyles up in the hard blue air heed them.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When the Bishop says a prayer,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the choir sing "Amen,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>The hammers break in on them there:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Clang! Clang! Beware! Beware!</span>
+<span class='i0'>The carved swan looks down at the passing men,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the cobbles wink: "An hour has gone again."</span>
+<span class='i0'>But the people kneeling before the Bishop's chair</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forget the passing over the cobbles in the square.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>An hour of day and an hour of night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the clouds float away in a red-splashed light.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The sun, quotha? or white, white</span>
+<span class='i0'>Smoke with fire all alight.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>An old roof crashing on a Bishop's tomb,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Swarms of men with a thirst for room,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the footsteps blur to a shower, shower, shower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of men passing&mdash;passing&mdash;every hour,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With arms of power, and legs of power,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And power in their strong, hard minds.</span>
+<span class='i0'>No need then</span>
+<span class='i0'>For the slim bronze men</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who beat God's hours: Prime, Tierce, None.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_015" id="Page_015">[Pg 15]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Who wants to hear? No one.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We will melt them, and mold them,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And make them a stem</span>
+<span class='i0'>For a banner gorged with blood,</span>
+<span class='i0'>For a blue-mouthed torch.</span>
+<span class='i0'>So the men rush like clouds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>They strike their iron edges on the Bishop's chair</span>
+<span class='i0'>And fling down the lanterns by the tower stair.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They rip the Bishop out of his tomb</span>
+<span class='i0'>And break the mitre off of his head.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"See," say they, "the man is dead;</span>
+<span class='i0'>He cannot shiver or sing.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We'll toss for his ring."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The cobbles see this all along the street</span>
+<span class='i0'>Coming&mdash;coming&mdash;on countless feet.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the clockmen mark the hours as they go.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But slow&mdash;slow&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The swans float</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the Bishop's moat.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the inn swan</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sits on and on,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Staring before him with cold glass eyes.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Only the Bishop walks serene,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pleased with his church, pleased with his house,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pleased with the sound of the hammered bell,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Beating his doom.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Saying "Boom! Boom! Room! Room!"</span>
+<span class='i0'>He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And very, very pleased with his charming moat</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the swans which float.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_016" id="Page_016">[Pg 16]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="PRIME" id="PRIME"></a>PRIME</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn</span>
+<span class='i0'>When a bird flies</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the sky changes to a fresher color.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Speak, speak, Beloved.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say little things</span>
+<span class='i0'>For my ears to catch</span>
+<span class='i0'>And run with them to my heart.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_017" id="Page_017">[Pg 17]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="VESPERS" id="VESPERS"></a>VESPERS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Last night, at sunset,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The foxgloves were like tall altar candles.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse, my Dear,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I should have understood their burning.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_018" id="Page_018">[Pg 18]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="IN_EXCELSIS" id="IN_EXCELSIS"></a>IN EXCELSIS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>You&mdash;you&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The movement of your hands is the long, golden running of light from a rising sun;</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Young horses are not more sudden than your thoughts,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your words are bees about a pear-tree,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your fancies are the gold-and-black striped wasps buzzing among red apples.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I drink your lips,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I eat the whiteness of your hands and feet.</span>
+<span class='i0'>My mouth is open,</span>
+<span class='i0'>As a new jar I am empty and open.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like a brook of water thronged with lilies.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>You are frozen as the clouds,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_019" id="Page_019">[Pg 19]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>You are far and sweet as the high clouds.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I dare reach to you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I dare touch the rim of your brightness.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I leap beyond the winds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I cry and shout,</span>
+<span class='i0'>For my throat is keen as a sword</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sharpened on a hone of ivory.</span>
+<span class='i0'>My throat sings the joy of my eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The rushing gladness of my love.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart?</span>
+<span class='i0'>How have I snared the seas to lie in my fingers</span>
+<span class='i0'>And caught the sky to be a cover for my head?</span>
+<span class='i0'>How have you come to dwell with me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Compassing me with the four circles of your mystic lightness,</span>
+<span class='i0'>So that I say "Glory! Glory!" and bow before you</span>
+<span class='i0'>As to a shrine?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Do I tease myself that morning is morning and a day after?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Do I think the air a condescension,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The earth a politeness,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heaven a boon deserving thanks?</span>
+<span class='i0'>So you&mdash;air&mdash;earth&mdash;heaven&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I do not thank you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I take you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I live.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And those things which I say in consequence</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are rubies mortised in a gate of stone.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_020" id="Page_020">[Pg 20]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="LA_RONDE_DU_DIABLE" id="LA_RONDE_DU_DIABLE"></a>LA RONDE DU DIABLE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"Here we go round the ivy-bush,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>And that's a tune we all dance to.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Little poet people snatching ivy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Trying to prevent one another from snatching ivy.</span>
+<span class='i0'>If you get a leaf, there's another for me;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Look at the bush.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But I want your leaf, Brother, and you mine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Therefore, of course, we push.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"Here we go round the laurel-tree."</span>
+<span class='i0'>Do we want laurels for ourselves most,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or most that no one else shall have any?</span>
+<span class='i0'>We cannot stop to discuss the question.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We cannot stop to plait them into crowns</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or notice whether they become us.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We scarcely see the laurel-tree,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The crowd about us is all we see,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And there's no room in it for you and me.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Therefore, Sisters, it's my belief</span>
+<span class='i0'>We've none of us very much chance at a leaf.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"Here we go round the barberry-bush."</span>
+<span class='i0'>It's a bitter, blood-red fruit at best,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Which puckers the mouth and burns the heart.</span>
+<span class='i0'>To tell the truth, only one or two</span>
+<span class='i0'>Want the berries enough to strive</span>
+<span class='i0'>For more than he has, more than she.</span>
+<span class='i0'>An acid berry for you and me.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_021" id="Page_021">[Pg 21]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Abundance of berries for all who will eat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But an aching meat.</span>
+<span class='i0'>That's poetry.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And who wants to swallow a mouthful of sorrow?</span>
+<span class='i0'>The world is old and our century</span>
+<span class='i0'>Must be well along, and we've no time to waste.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Make haste, Brothers and Sisters, push</span>
+<span class='i0'>With might and main round the ivy-bush,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Struggle and pull at the laurel-tree,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And leave the barberries be</span>
+<span class='i0'>For poor lost lunatics like me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who set them so high</span>
+<span class='i0'>They overtop the sun in the sky.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Does it matter at all that we don't know why?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_022" id="Page_022">[Pg 22]</a></span>
+</p></td></tr></table>
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+<h2>ROBERT FROST</h2>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_024" id="Page_024">[Pg 24]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="FIRE_AND_ICE" id="FIRE_AND_ICE"></a>FIRE AND ICE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Some say the world will end in fire,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Some say in ice.</span>
+<span class='i0'>From what I've tasted of desire</span>
+<span class='i0'>I hold with those who favor fire.</span>
+<span class='i1'>But if it had to perish twice,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I think I know enough of hate</span>
+<span class='i1'>To know that for destruction ice</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is also great,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And would suffice.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_026" id="Page_026">[Pg 26]</a></span>
+</p></td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GRINDSTONE" id="THE_GRINDSTONE"></a>THE GRINDSTONE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Having a wheel and four legs of its own</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone</span>
+<span class='i0'>To get it anywhere that I can see.</span>
+<span class='i0'>These hands have helped it go and even race;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Not all the miles it may have thought it went,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Have got it one step from the starting place.</span>
+<span class='i0'>It stands beside the same old apple tree.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The shadow of the apple tree is thin</span>
+<span class='i0'>Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow.</span>
+<span class='i0'>All other farm machinery's gone in,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And some of it on no more legs and wheel</span>
+<span class='i0'>Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go.</span>
+<span class='i0'>(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)</span>
+<span class='i0'>For months it hasn't known the taste of steel,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Washed down with rusty water in a tin.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But standing outdoors, hungry, in the cold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Except in towns, at night, is not a sin.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, anyway, its standing in the yard</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under a ruinous live apple tree</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has nothing any more to do with me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Except that I remember how of old,</span>
+<span class='i0'>One summer day, all day I drove it hard,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And some one mounted on it rode it hard,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he and I between us ground a blade.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I gave it the preliminary spin,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_027" id="Page_027">[Pg 27]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And poured on water (tears it might have been);</span>
+<span class='i0'>And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He turned on will-power to increase the load</span>
+<span class='i0'>And slow me down&mdash;and I abruptly slowed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like coming to a sudden railroad station.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I changed from hand to hand in desperation.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I wondered what machine of ages gone</span>
+<span class='i0'>This represented an improvement on.</span>
+<span class='i0'>For all I knew it may have sharpened spears</span>
+<span class='i0'>And arrowheads itself. Much use for years</span>
+<span class='i0'>Had gradually worn it an oblate</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Appearing to return me hate for hate.</span>
+<span class='i0'>(But I forgive it now as easily</span>
+<span class='i0'>As any other boyhood enemy</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere.)</span>
+<span class='i0'>I wondered who it was the man thought ground&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The one who held the wheel back or the one</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who gave his life to keep it going round?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I wondered if he really thought it fair</span>
+<span class='i0'>For him to have the say when we were done.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Not for myself was I so much concerned.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, no!&mdash;although, of course, I could have found</span>
+<span class='i0'>A better way to pass the afternoon</span>
+<span class='i0'>Than grinding discord out of a grindstone,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_028" id="Page_028">[Pg 28]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And beating insects at their gritty tune.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Nor was I for the man so much concerned.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing</span>
+<span class='i0'>It looked as if he might be badly thrown</span>
+<span class='i0'>And wounded on his blade. So far from caring,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster,</span>
+<span class='i0'>(It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued);</span>
+<span class='i0'>I welcomed any moderate disaster</span>
+<span class='i0'>That might be calculated to postpone</span>
+<span class='i0'>What evidently nothing could conclude.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The thing that made me more and more afraid</span>
+<span class='i0'>Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And now were only wasting precious blade.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And when he raised it dripping once and tried</span>
+<span class='i0'>The creepy edge of it with wary touch,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Only disinterestedly to decide</span>
+<span class='i0'>It needed a turn more, I could have cried</span>
+<span class='i0'>Wasn't there danger of a turn too much?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mightn't we make it worse instead of better?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I was for leaving something to the whetter.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd</span>
+<span class='i0'>Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_029" id="Page_029">[Pg 29]</a></span>
+</p></td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WITCH_OF_COOS" id="THE_WITCH_OF_COOS"></a>THE WITCH OF CO&Ouml;S</h2>
+
+
+<p class='center'><i>Circa 1922</i></p>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>I staid the night for shelter at a farm</span>
+<span class='i1'>Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Two old-believers. They did all the talking.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits</span>
+<span class='i1'>She <i>could</i> call up to pass a winter evening,</span>
+<span class='i1'>But <i>won't</i>, should be burned at the stake or something.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Who's got the button?" I'd have you understand.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>Mother can make a common table rear</span>
+<span class='i1'>And kick with two legs like an army mule.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>And when I've done it, what good have I done?</span>
+<span class='i1'>Rather than tip a table for you, let me</span>
+<span class='i1'>Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.</span>
+<span class='i1'>He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_030" id="Page_030">[Pg 30]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>How that could be&mdash;I thought the dead were souls,</span>
+<span class='i1'>He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious</span>
+<span class='i1'>That there's something the dead are keeping back?</span>
+<span class='i1'>Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>You wouldn't want to tell him what we have</span>
+<span class='i1'>Up attic, mother?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i10'>Bones&mdash;a skeleton.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed</span>
+<span class='i1'>Against the attic door: the door is nailed.</span>
+<span class='i1'>It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night</span>
+<span class='i1'>Halting perplexed behind the barrier</span>
+<span class='i1'>Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get</span>
+<span class='i1'>Is back into the cellar where it came from.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never!</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>It left the cellar forty years ago</span>
+<span class='i1'>And carried itself like a pile of dishes</span>
+<span class='i1'>Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_031" id="Page_031">[Pg 31]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Another from the bedroom to the attic,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I was a baby: I don't know where I was.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>The only fault my husband found with me&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>I went to sleep before I went to bed,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Especially in winter when the bed</span>
+<span class='i1'>Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs</span>
+<span class='i1'>Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,</span>
+<span class='i1'>But left an open door to cool the room off</span>
+<span class='i1'>So as to sort of turn me out of it.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I was just coming to myself enough</span>
+<span class='i1'>To wonder where the cold was coming from,</span>
+<span class='i1'>When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom</span>
+<span class='i1'>And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on</span>
+<span class='i1'>When there was water in the cellar in spring</span>
+<span class='i1'>Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then some one</span>
+<span class='i1'>Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,</span>
+<span class='i1'>The way a man with one leg and a crutch,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Or little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:</span>
+<span class='i1'>It wasn't any one who could be there.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_032" id="Page_032">[Pg 32]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>And swollen tight and buried under snow.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust</span>
+<span class='i1'>And swollen tight and buried under snow.</span>
+<span class='i1'>It was the bones. I knew them&mdash;and good reason.</span>
+<span class='i1'>My first impulse was to get to the knob</span>
+<span class='i1'>And hold the door. But the bones didn't try</span>
+<span class='i1'>The door; they halted helpless on the landing,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Waiting for things to happen in their favor.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I never could have done the thing I did</span>
+<span class='i1'>If the wish hadn't been too strong in me</span>
+<span class='i1'>To see how they were mounted for this walk.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I had a vision of them put together</span>
+<span class='i1'>Not like a man, but like a chandelier.</span>
+<span class='i1'>So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.</span>
+<span class='i1'>A moment he stood balancing with emotion,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire</span>
+<span class='i1'>Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)</span>
+<span class='i1'>Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,</span>
+<span class='i1'>The way he did in life once; but this time</span>
+<span class='i1'>I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And fell back from him on the floor myself.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The finger-pieces slid in all directions.</span>
+<span class='i1'>(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_033" id="Page_033">[Pg 33]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>Hand me my button-box&mdash;it must be there.)</span>
+<span class='i1'>I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile,</span>
+<span class='i1'>It's coming up to you." It had its choice</span>
+<span class='i1'>Of the door to the cellar or the hall.</span>
+<span class='i1'>It took the hall door for the novelty,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And set off briskly for so slow a thing,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Still going every which way in the joints, though,</span>
+<span class='i1'>So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,</span>
+<span class='i1'>From the slap I had just now given its hand.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I listened till it almost climbed the stairs</span>
+<span class='i1'>From the hall to the only finished bedroom,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Before I got up to do anything;</span>
+<span class='i1'>Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Toffile, for my sake!" "Company," he said,</span>
+<span class='i1'>"Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed."</span>
+<span class='i1'>So lying forward weakly on the handrail</span>
+<span class='i1'>I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light</span>
+<span class='i1'>(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own</span>
+<span class='i1'>I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.</span>
+<span class='i1'>It's with us in the room, though. It's the bones."</span>
+<span class='i1'>"What bones?" "The cellar bones&mdash;out of the grave."</span>
+</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>That made him throw his bare legs out of bed</span>
+<span class='i1'>And sit up by me and take hold of me.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_034" id="Page_034">[Pg 34]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>I wanted to put out the light and see</span>
+<span class='i1'>If I could see it, or else mow the room,</span>
+<span class='i1'>With our arms at the level of our knees,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>It's looking for another door to try.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The uncommonly deep snow has made him think</span>
+<span class='i1'>Of his old song, <i>The Wild Colonial Boy</i>,</span>
+<span class='i1'>He always used to sing along the tote-road.</span>
+<span class='i1'>He's after an open door to get out-doors.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Let's trap him with an open door up attic."</span>
+<span class='i1'>Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Almost the moment he was given an opening,</span>
+<span class='i1'>The steps began to climb the attic stairs.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.</span>
+<span class='i1'>"Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the knob.</span>
+<span class='i1'>"Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And push the headboard of the bed against it.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>Then we asked was there anything</span>
+<span class='i1'>Up attic that we'd ever want again.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The attic was less to us than the cellar.</span>
+<span class='i1'>If the bones liked the attic, let them like it,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Let them <i>stay</i> in the attic. When they sometimes</span>
+<span class='i1'>Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_035" id="Page_035">[Pg 35]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>Behind the door and headboard of the bed,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,</span>
+<span class='i1'>With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,</span>
+<span class='i1'>That's what I sit up in the dark to say&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>To no one any more since Toffile died.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Let them stay in the attic since they went there.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I promised Toffile to be cruel to them</span>
+<span class='i1'>For helping them be cruel once to him.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>We think they had a grave down in the cellar.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>We know they had a grave down in the cellar.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Son</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>We never could find out whose bones they were.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>The Mother</i></span>
+<span class='i1'>Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.</span>
+<span class='i1'>They were a man's his father killed for me.</span>
+<span class='i1'>I mean a man he killed instead of me.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The least I could do was to help dig their grave.</span>
+<span class='i1'>We were about it one night in the cellar.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him</span>
+<span class='i1'>To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Son looks surprised to see me end a lie</span>
+<span class='i1'>We'd kept up all these years between ourselves</span>
+<span class='i1'>So as to have it ready for outsiders.</span>
+<span class='i1'>But to-night I don't care enough to lie&mdash;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_036" id="Page_036">[Pg 36]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>I don't remember why I ever cared.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe</span>
+<span class='i1'>Could tell you why he ever cared himself....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted</span>
+<span class='i1'>Among the buttons poured out in her lap.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>I verified the name next morning: Toffile;</span>
+<span class='i1'>The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_037" id="Page_037">[Pg 37]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_BROOK_IN_THE_CITY" id="A_BROOK_IN_THE_CITY"></a>A BROOK IN THE CITY</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The farm house lingers, though averse to square</span>
+<span class='i0'>With the new city street it has to wear</span>
+<span class='i0'>A number in. But what about the brook</span>
+<span class='i0'>That held the house as in an elbow-crook?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength</span>
+<span class='i0'>And impulse, having dipped a finger-length</span>
+<span class='i0'>And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed</span>
+<span class='i0'>A flower to try its currents where they crossed.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The meadow grass could be cemented down</span>
+<span class='i0'>From growing under pavements of a town;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is water wood to serve a brook the same?</span>
+<span class='i0'>How else dispose of an immortal force</span>
+<span class='i0'>No longer needed? Staunch it at its source</span>
+<span class='i0'>With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown</span>
+<span class='i0'>Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone</span>
+<span class='i0'>In fetid darkness still to live and run&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And all for nothing it had ever done</span>
+<span class='i0'>Except forget to go in fear perhaps.</span>
+<span class='i0'>No one would know except for ancient maps</span>
+<span class='i0'>That such a brook ran water. But I wonder</span>
+<span class='i0'>If, from its being kept forever under,</span>
+<span class='i0'>These thoughts may not have risen that so keep</span>
+<span class='i0'>This new-built city from both work and sleep.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_038" id="Page_038">[Pg 38]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="DESIGN" id="DESIGN"></a>DESIGN</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,</span>
+<span class='i0'>On a white heal-all, holding up a moth</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Assorted characters of death and blight</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mixed ready to begin the morning right,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like the ingredients of a witches' broth&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And dead wings carried like a paper kite.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What had that flower to do with being white,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?</span>
+<span class='i0'>What brought the kindred spider to that height,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Then steered the white moth thither in the night?</span>
+<span class='i0'>What but design of darkness to appal?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>If design govern in a thing so small.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_039" id="Page_039">[Pg 39]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_041" id="Page_041">[Pg 41]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="CARL_SANDBURG" id="CARL_SANDBURG"></a>CARL SANDBURG</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="AND_SO_TO-DAY" id="AND_SO_TO-DAY"></a>AND SO TO-DAY</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And so to-day&mdash;they lay him away&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the boy nobody knows the name of&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the buck private&mdash;the unknown soldier&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the doughboy who dug under and died</span>
+<span class='i0'>when they told him to&mdash;that's him.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Down Pennsylvania Avenue to-day the riders go,</span>
+<span class='i0'>men and boys riding horses, roses in their teeth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>stems of roses, rose leaf stalks, rose dark leaves&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the line of the green ends in a red rose flash.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Skeleton men and boys riding skeleton horses,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the rib bones shine, the rib bones curve,</span>
+<span class='i0'>shine with savage, elegant curves&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>a jawbone runs with a long white slant,</span>
+<span class='i0'>a skull dome runs with a long white arch,</span>
+<span class='i0'>bone triangles click and rattle,</span>
+<span class='i0'>elbows, ankles, white line slants&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>shining in the sun, past the White House,</span>
+<span class='i0'>past the Treasury Building, Army and Navy Buildings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>on to the mystic white Capitol Dome&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>so they go down Pennsylvania Avenue to-day,</span>
+<span class='i0'>skeleton men and boys riding skeleton horses,</span>
+<span class='i0'>stems of roses in their teeth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>rose dark leaves at their white jaw slants&mdash;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_042" id="Page_042">[Pg 42]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>and a horse laugh question nickers and whinnies,</span>
+<span class='i0'>moans with a whistle out of horse head teeth:</span>
+<span class='i0'>why? who? where?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>("The big fish&mdash;eat the little fish&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>the little fish&mdash;eat the shrimps&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>and the shrimps&mdash;eat mud,"&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>said a cadaverous man&mdash;with a black umbrella&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>spotted with white polka dots&mdash;with a missing</span>
+<span class='i2'>ear&mdash;with a missing foot and arms&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>with a missing sheath of muscles</span>
+<span class='i2'>singing to the silver sashes of the sun.)</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And so to-day&mdash;they lay him away&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the boy nobody knows the name of&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the buck private&mdash;the unknown soldier&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the doughboy who dug under and died</span>
+<span class='i0'>when they told him to&mdash;that's him.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>If he picked himself and said, "I am ready to die,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>if he gave his name and said, "My country, take me,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>then the baskets of roses to-day are for the Boy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the flowers, the songs, the steamboat whistles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the proclamations of the honorable orators,</span>
+<span class='i0'>they are all for the Boy&mdash;that's him.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>If the government of the Republic picked him saying,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"You are wanted, your country takes you"&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>if the Republic put a stethoscope to his heart</span>
+<span class='i0'>and looked at his teeth and tested his eyes and said,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"You are a citizen of the Republic and a sound</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_043" id="Page_043">[Pg 43]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>animal in all parts and functions&mdash;the Republic takes you"&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>then to-day the baskets of flowers are all for the Republic,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the roses, the songs, the steamboat whistles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the proclamations of the honorable orators&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>they are all for the Republic.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And so to-day&mdash;they lay him away&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and an understanding goes&mdash;his long sleep shall be</span>
+<span class='i0'>under arms and arches near the Capitol Dome&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>there is an authorization&mdash;he shall have tomb companions&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the martyred presidents of the Republic&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>the buck private&mdash;the unknown soldier&mdash;that's him.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The man who was war commander of the armies of the Republic</span>
+<span class='i0'>rides down Pennsylvania Avenue&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The man who is peace commander of the armies of the Republic</span>
+<span class='i0'>rides down Pennsylvania Avenue&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>for the sake of the Boy, for the sake of the Republic.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>(And the hoofs of the skeleton horses</span>
+<span class='i2'>all drum soft on the asphalt footing&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>so soft is the drumming, so soft the roll call</span>
+<span class='i2'>of the grinning sergeants calling the roll call&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>so soft is it all&mdash;a camera man murmurs, "Moonshine.")</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_044" id="Page_044">[Pg 44]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Look&mdash;who salutes the coffin&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>lays a wreath of remembrance</span>
+<span class='i0'>on the box where a buck private</span>
+<span class='i0'>sleeps a clean dry sleep at last&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>look&mdash;it is the highest ranking general</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the officers of the armies of the Republic.</span>
+</p>
+<p style='margin-left: 1.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-indent: -0.5em; width: 20em;'>(Among pigeon corners of the Congressional Library&mdash;they
+file documents quietly, casually, all
+in a day's work&mdash;this human document, the
+buck private nobody knows the name of&mdash;they
+file away in granite and steel&mdash;with music and
+roses, salutes, proclamations of the honorable
+orators.)</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Across the country, between two ocean shore lines,</span>
+<span class='i0'>where cities cling to rail and water routes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>there people and horses stop in their foot tracks,</span>
+<span class='i0'>cars and wagons stop in their wheel tracks&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>faces at street crossings shine with a silence</span>
+<span class='i0'>of eggs laid in a row on a pantry shelf&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>among the ways and paths of the flow of the Republic</span>
+<span class='i0'>faces come to a standstill, sixty clockticks count&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>in the name of the Boy, in the name of the Republic.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p style='margin-left: 1.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-indent: -0.5em; width: 20em;'>(A million faces a thousand miles from Pennsylvania Avenue
+stay frozen with a look, a clocktick, a moment&mdash;
+skeleton riders on skeleton horses&mdash;the nickering high horse laugh,
+the whinny and the howl up Pennsylvania Avenue:
+who? why? where?)
+</p>
+<p style='margin-left: 1.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-indent: -0.5em; width: 20em;'>(So people far from the asphalt footing of
+Pennsylvania Avenue look, wonder, mumble&mdash;the
+riding white-jaw phantoms ride hi-eeee,
+hi-eeee, hi-yi, hi-yi, hi-eeee&mdash;the proclamations
+of the honorable orators mix with the top-sergeants
+whistling the roll call.)
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_045" id="Page_045">[Pg 45]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>If when the clockticks counted sixty,</span>
+<span class='i0'>when the heartbeats of the Republic</span>
+<span class='i0'>came to a stop for a minute,</span>
+<span class='i0'>if the Boy had happened to sit up,</span>
+<span class='i0'>happening to sit up as Lazarus sat up, in the story,</span>
+<span class='i0'>then the first shivering language to drip off his mouth</span>
+<span class='i0'>might have come as, "Thank God," or "Am I dreaming?"</span>
+<span class='i0'>or "What the hell" or "When do we eat?"</span>
+<span class='i0'>or "Kill 'em, kill 'em, the..."</span>
+<span class='i0'>or "Was that ... a rat ... ran over my face?"</span>
+<span class='i0'>or "For Christ's sake, gimme water, gimme water,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>or "Blub blub, bloo bloo...."</span>
+<span class='i0'>or any bubbles of shell shock gibberish</span>
+<span class='i0'>from the gashes of No Man's Land.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Maybe some buddy knows,</span>
+<span class='i0'>some sister, mother, sweetheart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>maybe some girl who sat with him once</span>
+<span class='i0'>when a two-horn silver moon</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_046" id="Page_046">[Pg 46]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>slid on the peak of a house-roof gable,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and promises lived in the air of the night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>when the air was filled with promises,</span>
+<span class='i0'>when any little slip-shoe lovey</span>
+<span class='i0'>could pick a promise out of the air.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'>"Feed it to 'em,</span>
+<span class='i2'>they lap it up,</span>
+<span class='i2'>bull ... bull ... bull,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Said a movie news reel camera man,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Said a Washington newspaper correspondent,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Said a baggage handler lugging a trunk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Said a two-a-day vaudeville juggler,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Said a hanky-pank selling jumping-jacks.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Hokum&mdash;they lap it up," said the bunch.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And a tall scar-face ball player,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Played out as a ball player,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Made a speech of his own for the hero boy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sent an earful of his own to the dead buck private:</span>
+<span class='i2'>"It's all safe now, buddy,</span>
+<span class='i2'>Safe when you say yes,</span>
+<span class='i2'>Safe for the yes-men."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>He was a tall scar-face battler</span>
+<span class='i0'>With his face in a newspaper</span>
+<span class='i0'>Reading want ads, reading jokes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Reading love, murder, politics,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Jumping from jokes back to the want ads,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Reading the want ads first and last,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_047" id="Page_047">[Pg 47]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>The letters of the word JOB, "J-O-B,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Burnt like a shot of bootleg booze</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the bones of his head&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the wish of his scar-face eyes.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The honorable orators,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Always the honorable orators,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Buttoning the buttons on their prinz alberts,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pronouncing the syllables "sac-ri-fice,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Juggling those bitter salt-soaked syllables&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Do they ever gag with hot ashes in their mouths?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Do their tongues ever shrivel with a pain of fire</span>
+<span class='i0'>Across those simple syllables "sac-ri-fice"?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>(There was one orator people far off saw.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He had on a gunnysack shirt over his bones,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he lifted an elbow socket over his head,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he lifted a skinny signal finger.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he had nothing to say, nothing easy&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0' style='width: 20em;'>He mentioned ten million men, mentioned them as having gone west, mentioned them as shoving up the daisies.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We could write it all on a postage stamp, what he said.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He said it and quit and faded away,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A gunnysack shirt on his bones.)</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'>Stars of the night sky,</span>
+<span class='i2'>did you see that phantom fadeout,</span>
+<span class='i2'>did you see those phantom riders,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_048" id="Page_048">[Pg 48]</a></span>
+<span class='i2'>skeleton riders on skeleton horses,</span>
+<span class='i2'>stems of roses in their teeth,</span>
+<span class='i2'>rose leaves red on white-jaw slants,</span>
+<span class='i2'>grinning along on Pennsylvania Avenue,</span>
+<span class='i2'>the top-sergeants calling roll calls&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>did their horses nicker a horse laugh?</span>
+<span class='i2'>did the ghosts of the boney battalions</span>
+<span class='i2'>move out and on, up the Potomac, over on the Ohio</span>
+<span class='i2'>and out to the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Red River,</span>
+<span class='i2'>and down to the Rio Grande, and on to the Yazoo,</span>
+<span class='i2'>over to the Chattahoochee and up to the Rappahannock?</span>
+<span class='i2'>did you see 'em, stars of the night sky?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'>And so to-day&mdash;they lay him away&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>the boy nobody knows the name of&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>they lay him away in granite and steel&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>with music and roses&mdash;under a flag&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i2'>under a sky of promises.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_049" id="Page_049">[Pg 49]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="CALIFORNIA_CITY_LANDSCAPE" id="CALIFORNIA_CITY_LANDSCAPE"></a>CALIFORNIA CITY LANDSCAPE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>On a mountain-side the real estate agents</span>
+<span class='i0'>Put up signs marking the city lots to be sold there.</span>
+<span class='i0'>A man whose father and mother were Irish</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ran a goat farm half-way down the mountain;</span>
+<span class='i0'>He drove a covered wagon years ago,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Understood how to handle a rifle,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shot grouse, buffalo, Indians, in a single year,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And now was raising goats around a shanty.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Down at the foot of the mountain</span>
+<span class='i0'>Two Japanese families had flower farms.</span>
+<span class='i0'>A man and woman were in rows of sweet peas</span>
+<span class='i0'>Picking the pink and white flowers</span>
+<span class='i0'>To put in baskets and take to the Los Angeles market.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They were clean as what they handled</span>
+<span class='i0'>There in the morning sun, the big people and the baby-faces.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Across the road, high on another mountain,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stood a house saying, "I am it," a commanding house.</span>
+<span class='i0'>There was the home of a motion picture director</span>
+<span class='i0'>Famous for lavish whore-house interiors,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Clothes ransacked from the latest designs for women</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the combats of "male against female."</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mountain, the scenery, the layout of the landscape,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the peace of the morning sun as it happened,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_050" id="Page_050">[Pg 50]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>The miles of houses pocketed in the valley beyond&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>It was all worth looking at, worth wondering about,</span>
+<span class='i0'>How long it might last, how young it might be.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_051" id="Page_051">[Pg 51]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="UPSTREAM" id="UPSTREAM"></a>UPSTREAM</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The strong men keep coming on.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They go down shot, hanged, sick, broken.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They live on, fighting, singing, lucky as plungers.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The strong men ... they keep coming on.</span>
+<span class='i0' style='width: 20em;'>The strong mothers pulling them from a dark sea, a great prairie, a long mountain.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Call hallelujah, call amen, call deep thanks.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The strong men keep coming on.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_052" id="Page_052">[Pg 52]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="WINDFLOWER_LEAF" id="WINDFLOWER_LEAF"></a>WINDFLOWER LEAF</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>This flower is repeated</span>
+<span class='i0'>out of old winds, out of</span>
+<span class='i0'>old times.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The wind repeats these, it</span>
+<span class='i0'>must have these, over and</span>
+<span class='i0'>over again.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, windflowers so fresh,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, beautiful leaves, here</span>
+<span class='i0'>now again.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>The domes over</span>
+<span class='i1'>fall to pieces.</span>
+<span class='i1'>The stones under</span>
+<span class='i1'>fall to pieces.</span>
+<span class='i1'>Rain and ice</span>
+<span class='i1'>wreck the works.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The wind keeps, the windflowers</span>
+<span class='i1'>keep, the leaves last,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The wind young and strong lets</span>
+<span class='i1'>these last longer than stones.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_053" id="Page_053">[Pg 53]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_054" id="Page_054">[Pg 54]</a></span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_055" id="Page_055">[Pg 55]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="VACHEL_LINDSAY" id="VACHEL_LINDSAY"></a>VACHEL LINDSAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="IN_PRAISE_OF_JOHNNY_APPLESEED1" id="IN_PRAISE_OF_JOHNNY_APPLESEED1"></a>IN PRAISE OF JOHNNY APPLESEED<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2>
+
+<p class='center'>(<i>Born 1775. Died 1847</i>)</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The best account of John Chapman's career, under the
+name "Johnny Appleseed," is to be found in <i>Harper's Monthly
+Magazine</i>, November, 1871.</p></div>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'>I. <span class="smcap">Over the Appalachian Barricade</span>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<div class="sidenote" style='padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;'><p><i>To be read like old leaves on the elm tree of Time.</i></p>
+<p><i>Sifting soft winds with sentence and rhyme.</i></p></div>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>In the days of President Washington,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The glory of the nations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dust and ashes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Snow and sleet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And hay and oats and wheat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blew west,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The farms of the far-off future</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Colts jumped the fence,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With gastronomic calculations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The east walls of our citadel,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to gold-horned unicorns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Caterwauling "Yankee Doodle Dandy,"</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_056" id="Page_056">[Pg 56]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Renounced their poor relations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to tiny tigers</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the humorous forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Chickens escaped</span>
+<span class='i0'>From farmyard congregations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to amber trumpets</span>
+<span class='i0'>On the ramparts of our Hoosiers' nest and citadel,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Millennial heralds</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the foggy mazy forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pigs broke loose, scrambled west,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Scorned their loathsome stations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west</span>
+<span class='i0'>While their eyes were coming open,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, with misty observations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Barked, barked, barked</span>
+<span class='i0'>At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to ravening wolves</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the forest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crazy parrots and canaries flew west,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Drunk on May-time revelations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the lazy forest.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_057" id="Page_057">[Pg 57]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Haughtiest swans and peacocks swept west,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, despite soft derivations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And turned to blazing warrior souls</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the forest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Singing the ways</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the Ancient of Days.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the "Old Continentals</span>
+<span class='i0'>In their ragged regimentals,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>With bard's imaginations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And</span>
+<span class='i0'>A boy</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blew west</span>
+<span class='i0'>And with prayers and incantations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And with "Yankee Doodle Dandy,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crossed the Appalachians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And was "young John Chapman,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Then</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In a pack on his back,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In a deer-hide sack,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The beautiful orchards of the past,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The ghosts of all the forests and the groves&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>In that pack on his back,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In that talisman sack,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To-morrow's peaches, pears and cherries,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To-morrow's grapes and red raspberries,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Seeds and tree souls, precious things,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_058" id="Page_058">[Pg 58]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Feathered with microscopic wings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All the outdoors the child heart knows,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the apple, green, red, and white,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sun of his day and his night&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The apple allied to the thorn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Child of the rose.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Porches untrod of forest houses</span>
+<span class='i0'>All before him, all day long,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Yankee Doodle" his marching song;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the evening breeze</span>
+<span class='i0'>Joined his psalms of praise</span>
+<span class='i0'>As he sang the ways</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the Ancient of Days.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Leaving behind august Virginia,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Proud Massachusetts, and proud Maine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Planting the trees that would march and train</span>
+<span class='i0'>On, in his name to the great Pacific,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like Birnam wood to Dunsinane,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Johnny Appleseed swept on,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Every shackle gone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Loving every sloshy brake,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Loving every skunk and snake,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Loving every leathery weed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Master and ruler of the unicorn-ramping forest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The tiger-mewing forest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The rooster-trumpeting, boar-foaming, wolf-ravening forest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The spirit-haunted, fairy-enchanted forest,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_059" id="Page_059">[Pg 59]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Stupendous and endless,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Searching its perilous ways</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the name of the Ancient of Days.</span>
+</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'>II. <span class="smcap">The Indians Worship Him, but He hurries on</span>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Painted kings in the midst of the clearing</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heard him asking his friends the eagles</span>
+<span class='i0'>To guard each planted seed and seedling.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Then he was a god, to the red man's dreaming;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Then the chiefs brought treasures grotesque and fair,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Magical trinkets and pipes and guns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Beads and furs from their medicine-lair,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stuck holy feathers in his hair,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hailed him with austere delight.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The orchard god was their guest through the night.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>While the late snow blew from bleak Lake Erie,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Scourging rock and river and reed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All night long they made great medicine</span>
+<span class='i0'>For Jonathan Chapman,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Johnny Appleseed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Johnny Appleseed;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And as though his heart were a wind-blown wheat-sheaf,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_060" id="Page_060">[Pg 60]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>As though his heart were a new-built nest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>As though their heaven house were his breast,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In swept the snow-birds singing glory.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I hear his bird heart beat its story,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hear yet how the ghost of the forest shivers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hear yet the cry of the gray, old orchards,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dim and decaying by the rivers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the timid wings of the bird-ghosts beating,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the ghosts of the tom-toms beating, beating.</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="sidenote" style='padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;'><p><i>While you read, hear the hoof-beats of deer in the snow.</i></p>
+<p><i>And see, by their track, bleeding footprints we know.</i></p></div>
+
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>But he left their wigwams and their love.</span>
+<span class='i0'>By the hour of dawn he was proud and stark,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Kissed the Indian babes with a sigh,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Went forth to live on roots and bark,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sleep in the trees, while the years howled by&mdash;</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Calling the catamounts by name,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And buffalo bulls no hand could tame,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Slaying never a living creature,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Joining the birds in every game,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With the gorgeous turkey gobblers mocking,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With the lean-necked eagles boxing and shouting;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sticking their feathers in his hair,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Turkey feathers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Eagle feathers,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Trading hearts with all beasts and weathers</span>
+<span class='i0'>He swept on, winged and wonder-crested,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bare-armed, barefooted, and bare-breasted.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_061" id="Page_061">[Pg 61]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="sidenote" style='padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;'><p><i>While you read, see conventions of deer go by.</i></p>
+<p><i>The bucks toss their horns, the fuzzy fawns fly.</i></p></div>
+
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The maples, shedding their spinning seeds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Called to his appleseeds in the ground,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Vast chestnut-trees, with their butterfly nations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Called to his seeds without a sound.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the chipmunk turned a "summer-set,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the foxes danced the Virginia reel;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hawthorne and crab-thorn bent, rain-wet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And dropped their flowers in his night-black hair;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the soft fawns stopped for his perorations;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And his black eyes shone through the forest-gleam,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he plunged young hands into new-turned earth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And prayed dear orchard boughs into birth;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so for us he made great medicine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so for us he made great medicine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the days of President Washington.</span>
+</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'>III. <span class="smcap">Johnny Appleseed's Old Age</span>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+
+<div class="sidenote" style='padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;'><p><i>To be read like faint hoof-beats of fawns long gone</i></p>
+<p><i>From respectable pasture, and park and lawn,</i></p>
+<p><i>And heartbeats of fawns that are coming again</i></p>
+<p><i>When the forest, once more, is the master of men.</i></p></div>
+
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Long, long after,</span>
+<span class='i0'>When settlers put up beam and rafter,</span>
+<span class='i0'>They asked of the birds: "Who gave this fruit?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who watched this fence till the seeds took root?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who gave these boughs?" They asked the sky,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And there was no reply.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But the robin might have said,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"To the farthest West he has followed the sun,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_062" id="Page_062">[Pg 62]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>His life and his empire just begun."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Self-scourged, like a monk, with a throne for wages,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stripped like the iron-souled Hindu sages,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Draped like a statue, in strings like a scarecrow,</span>
+<span class='i0'>His helmet-hat an old tin pan,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But worn in the love of the heart of man,</span>
+<span class='i0'>More sane than the helm of Tamerlane,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hairy Ainu, wild man of Borneo, Robinson Crusoe&mdash;Johnny Appleseed;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the robin might have said,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Sowing, he goes to the far, new West,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With the apple, the sun of his burning breast&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The apple allied to the thorn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Child of the rose."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Washington buried in Virginia,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Jackson buried in Tennessee,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Young Lincoln, brooding in Illinois,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Johnny Appleseed, priestly and free,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Knotted and gnarled, past seventy years,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Still planted on in the woods alone.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ohio and young Indiana&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>These were his wide altar-stone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Where still he burnt out flesh and bone.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_063" id="Page_063">[Pg 63]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Twenty days ahead of the Indian, twenty years ahead of the white man,</span>
+<span class='i0'>At last the Indian overtook him, at last the Indian hurried past him;</span>
+<span class='i0'>At last the white man overtook him, at last the white man hurried past him;</span>
+<span class='i0'>At last his own trees overtook him, at last his own trees hurried past him.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Many cats were tame again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Many ponies tame again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Many pigs were tame again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Many canaries tame again;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the real frontier was his sun-burnt breast.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>From the fiery core of that apple, the earth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sprang apple-amaranths divine.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Love's orchards climbed to the heavens of the West,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And snowed the earthly sod with flowers.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Farm hands from the terraces of the blest</span>
+<span class='i0'>Danced on the mists with their ladies fine;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Johnny Appleseed laughed with his dreams,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And swam once more the ice-cold streams.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the doves of the spirit swept through the hours,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With doom-calls, love-calls, death-calls, dream-calls;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Johnny Appleseed, all that year,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lifted his hands to the farm-filled sky,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To the apple-harvesters busy on high;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so once more his youth began,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so for us he made great medicine&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Johnny Appleseed, medicine-man.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_064" id="Page_064">[Pg 64]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Then</span>
+<span class='i0'>The sun was his turned-up broken barrel,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Out of which his juicy apples rolled,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Down the repeated terraces,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Thumping across the gold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A ballot-box in each apple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A state capital in each apple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Great high schools, great colleges,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All America in each apple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Each red, rich, round, and bouncing moon</span>
+<span class='i0'>That touched the forest mold.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like scrolls and rolled-up flags of silk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>He saw the fruits unfold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And all our expectations in one wild-flower-written dream,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Confusion and death sweetness, and a thicket of crab-thorns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heart of a hundred midnights, heart of the merciful morns.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heaven's boughs bent down with their alchemy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Perfumed airs, and thoughts of wonder.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the dew on the grass and his own cold tears</span>
+<span class='i0'>Were one in brooding mystery,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though death's loud thunder came upon him,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though death's loud thunder struck him down&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The boughs and the proud thoughts swept through the thunder,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Till he saw our wide nation, each State a flower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Each petal a park for holy feet,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_065" id="Page_065">[Pg 65]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>With wild fawns merry on every street,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With wild fawns merry on every street,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The vista of ten thousand years, flower-lighted and complete.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Hear the lazy weeds murmuring, bays and rivers whispering,</span>
+<span class='i0'>From Michigan to Texas, California to Maine;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Listen to the eagles, screaming, calling,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>In the four-poster bed Johnny Appleseed built,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Autumn rains were the curtains, autumn leaves were the quilt.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He laid him down sweetly, and slept through the night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like a bump on a log, like a stone washed white,</span>
+<span class='i0'>There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_066" id="Page_066">[Pg 66]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="I_KNOW_ALL_THIS_WHEN_GIPSY" id="I_KNOW_ALL_THIS_WHEN_GIPSY"></a>
+I KNOW ALL THIS WHEN GIPSY FIDDLES CRY</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Saying: "We tell the fortunes of the nations,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And revel in the deep palm of the world.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The head-line is the road we choose for trade.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The love-line is the lane wherein we camp.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The life-line is the road we wander on.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mount Venus, Jupiter, and all the rest</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are finger-tips of ranges clasping round</span>
+<span class='i0'>And holding up the Romany's wide sky."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Saying: "We will swap horses till the doom,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And mend the pots and kettles of mankind,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And lend our sons to big-time vaudeville,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or to the race-track, or the learned world.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But India's Brahma waits within their breasts.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They will return to us with gipsy grins,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And chatter Romany, and shake their curls</span>
+<span class='i0'>And hug the dirtiest babies in the camp.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They will return to the moving pillar of smoke,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The whitest toothed, the merriest laughers known,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The blackest haired of all the tribes of men.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What trap can hold such cats? The Romany</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has crossed such delicate palms with lead or gold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Wheedling in sun and rain, through perilous years,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All coins now look alike. The palm is all.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_067" id="Page_067">[Pg 67]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Our greasy pack of cards is still the book</span>
+<span class='i0'>Most read of men. The heart's librarians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>We tell all lovers what they want to know.</span>
+<span class='i0'>So, out of the famed Chicago Library,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Out of the great Chicago orchestras,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Out of the skyscraper, the Fine Arts Building,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Our sons will come with fiddles and with loot,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dressed, as of old, like turkey-cocks and zebras,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like tiger-lilies and chameleons,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Go west with us to California,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Telling the fortunes of the bleeding world,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And kiss the sunset, ere their day is done."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Picking the brains and pockets of mankind,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You will go westward for one-half hour yet.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You will turn eastward in a little while.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You will go back, as men turn to Kentucky,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Land of their fathers, dark and bloody ground.</span>
+<span class='i0'>When all the Jews go home to Syria,</span>
+<span class='i0'>When Chinese cooks go back to Canton, China,</span>
+<span class='i0'>When Japanese photographers return</span>
+<span class='i0'>With their black cameras to Tokio,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Irish patriots to Donegal,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Scotch accountants back to Edinburgh,</span>
+<span class='i0'>You will go back to India, whence you came.</span>
+<span class='i0'>When you have reached the borders of your quest,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Homesick at last, by many a devious way,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Winding the wonderlands circuitous,</span>
+<span class='i0'>By foot and horse will trace the long way back!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_068" id="Page_068">[Pg 68]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Fiddling for ocean liners, while the dance</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sweeps through the decks, your brown tribes all will go!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Those east-bound ships will hear your long farewell</span>
+<span class='i0'>On fiddle, piccolo, and flute and timbrel.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>That hour of their homesickness, I myself</span>
+<span class='i0'>Will turn, will say farewell to Illinois,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To old Kentucky and Virginia,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And go with them to India, whence they came.</span>
+<span class='i0'>For they have heard a singing from the Ganges,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And cries of orioles,&mdash;from the temple caves,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Bengal's oldest, humblest villages.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They smell the supper smokes of Amritsar.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Green monkeys cry in Sanskrit to their souls</span>
+<span class='i0'>From lofty bamboo trees of hot Madras.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They think of towns to ease their feverish eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And make them stand and meditate forever,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Domes of astonishment, to heal the mind.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What music will be blended with the wind</span>
+<span class='i0'>When gipsy fiddlers, nearing that old land,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bring tunes from all the world to Brahma's house?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Passing the Indus, winding poisonous forests,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blowing soft flutes at scandalous temple girls,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Filling the highways with their magpie loot,</span>
+<span class='i0'>What brass from my Chicago will they heap,</span>
+<span class='i0'>What gems from Walla Walla, Omaha,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_069" id="Page_069">[Pg 69]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Will they pile near the Bodhi Tree, and laugh?</span>
+<span class='i0'>They will dance near such temples as best suit them,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though they will not quite enter, or adore,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Looking on roofs, as poets look on lilies,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Looking at towers, as boys at forest vines,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That leap to tree-tops through the dizzy air.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And with the gipsies there will be a king</span>
+<span class='i0'>And a thousand desperadoes just his style,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With all their rags dyed in the blood of roses,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Splashed with the blood of angels, and of demons.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And he will boss them with an awful voice.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And with a red whip he will beat his wife.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He will be wicked on that sacred shore,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And rattle cruel spurs against the rocks,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And shake Calcutta's walls with circus bugles.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He will kill Brahmins there, in Kali's name,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And please the thugs, and blood-drunk of the earth.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, sweating thieves, and hard-boiled scalawags,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That still will boast your pride until the doom,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Smashing every caste rule of the world,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Reaching at last your Hindu goal to smash</span>
+<span class='i0'>The caste rules of old India, and shout:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Down with the Brahmins, let the Romany reign."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When gipsy girls look deep within my hand</span>
+<span class='i0'>They always speak so tenderly and say</span>
+<span class='i0'>That I am one of those star-crossed to wed</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_070" id="Page_070">[Pg 70]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>A princess in a forest fairy-tale.</span>
+<span class='i0'>So there will be a tender gipsy princess,</span>
+<span class='i0'>My Juliet, shining through this clan.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I would sing you of her beauty now.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I will fight with knives the gipsy man</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who tries to steal her wild young heart away.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I will kiss her in the waterfalls,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And at the rainbow's end, and in the incense</span>
+<span class='i0'>That curls about the feet of sleeping gods,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And sing with her in canebrakes and in rice fields,</span>
+<span class='i0'>In Romany, eternal Romany.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We will sow secret herbs, and plant old roses,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And fumble through dark, snaky palaces,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stable our ponies in the Taj Mahal,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And sleep out-doors ourselves.</span>
+<span class='i0'>In her strange fairy mill-wheel eyes will wait</span>
+<span class='i0'>All windings and unwindings of the highways,</span>
+<span class='i0'>From India, across America,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>All windings and unwindings of my fancy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All windings and unwindings of all souls,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All windings and unwindings of the heavens.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>We gipsies, proud and stiff-necked and perverse,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Standing upon the white Himalayas,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Will think of far divine Yosemite.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We will heal Hindu hermits there with oil</span>
+<span class='i0'>Brought from California's tall sequoias.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And we will be like gods that heap the thunders,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_071" id="Page_071">[Pg 71]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And start young redwood trees on Time's own mountains.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We will swap horses with the rising moon,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And mend that funny skillet called Orion,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Color the stars like San Francisco's street-lights,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And paint our sign and signature on high</span>
+<span class='i0'>In planets like a bed of crimson pansies;</span>
+<span class='i0'>While a million fiddles shake all listening hearts,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crying good fortune to the Universe,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whispering adventure to the Ganges waves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And to the spirits, and all winds and gods.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Till mighty Brahma puts his golden palm</span>
+<span class='i0'>Within the gipsy king's great striped tent,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And asks his fortune told by that great love-line</span>
+<span class='i0'>That winds across his palm in splendid flame.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Only the hearthstone of old India</span>
+<span class='i0'>Will end the endless march of gipsy feet.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I will go back to India with them</span>
+<span class='i0'>When they go back to India whence they came.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I know all this, when gipsy fiddles cry.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_072" id="Page_072">[Pg 72]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="JAMES_OPPENHEIM" id="JAMES_OPPENHEIM"></a>JAMES OPPENHEIM</h2>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_075" id="Page_075">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="HEBREWS" id="HEBREWS"></a>HEBREWS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I come of a mighty race.... I come of a very mighty race....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Adam was a mighty man, and Noah a captain of the moving waters,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Moses was a stern and splendid king, yea, so was Moses....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Give me more songs like David's to shake my throat to the pit of the belly,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And let me roll in the Isaiah thunder....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Ho! the mightiest of our young men was born under a star in the midwinter....</span>
+<span class='i0'>His name is written on the sun and it is frosted on the moon....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Earth breathes him like an eternal spring: he is a second sky over the Earth.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Mighty race! mighty race!&mdash;my flesh, my flesh</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is a cup of song,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is a well in Asia....</span>
+<span class='i0'>I go about with a dark heart where the Ages sit in a divine thunder....</span>
+<span class='i0'>My blood is cymbal-clashed and the anklets of the dancers tinkle there....</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_076" id="Page_076">[Pg 76]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Harp and psaltery, harp and psaltery make drunk my spirit....</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am of the terrible people, I am of the strange Hebrews....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Amongst the swarms fixed like the rooted stars, my folk is a streaming Comet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Comet of the Asian tiger-darkness,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The Wanderer of Eternity, the eternal Wandering Jew....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Ho! we have turned against the mightiest of our young men</span>
+<span class='i0'>And in that denial we have taken on the Christ,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the two thieves beside the Christ,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the Magdalen at the feet of the Christ,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the Judas with thirty silver pieces selling the Christ,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And our twenty centuries in Europe have the shape of a Cross</span>
+<span class='i0'>On which we have hung in disaster and glory....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Mighty race! mighty race!&mdash;my flesh, my flesh</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is a cup of song,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is a well in Asia.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_077" id="Page_077">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_078" id="Page_078">[Pg 78]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="ALFRED_KREYMBORG" id="ALFRED_KREYMBORG"></a>ALFRED KREYMBORG</h2>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_079" id="Page_079">[Pg 79]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="ADAGIO_A_DUET" id="ADAGIO_A_DUET"></a>ADAGIO: A DUET</h2>
+
+<p class='center'>(<i>For J. S. and L. U.</i>)</p>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Should you</span>
+<span class='i0'>lay ear to these lines&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>you will not catch</span>
+<span class='i0'>a distant drum of hoofs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>cavalcade of Arabians,</span>
+<span class='i0'>passionate horde bearing down,</span>
+<span class='i0'>destroying your citadel&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>but maybe you'll hear&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>should you just</span>
+<span class='i0'>listen at the right place,</span>
+<span class='i0'>hold it tenaciously,</span>
+<span class='i0'>give your full blood to the effort&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>maybe you'll note the start</span>
+<span class='i0'>of a single step,</span>
+<span class='i0'>always persistently faint,</span>
+<span class='i0'>wavering in its movement</span>
+<span class='i0'>between coming and going,</span>
+<span class='i0'>never quite arriving,</span>
+<span class='i0'>never quite passing&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and tell me which it is,</span>
+<span class='i0'>you or I</span>
+<span class='i0'>that you greet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>searching a mutual being&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and whether two aren't closer</span>
+<span class='i0'>for the labor of an ear?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_080" id="Page_080">[Pg 80]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="DIE_KUCHE" id="DIE_KUCHE"></a>DIE K&Uuml;CHE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>She lets the hydrant water run:</span>
+<span class='i0'>He fancies lonely, banal,</span>
+<span class='i0'>bald-headed mountains,</span>
+<span class='i0'>affected by the daily</span>
+<span class='i0'>caress of the tropical sun,</span>
+<span class='i0'>weeping tears the length of brooks</span>
+<span class='i0'>down their faces and flanks.</span>
+<span class='i0'>She lets the hydrant water run:</span>
+<span class='i0'>He hearkens Father Sebastian</span>
+<span class='i0'>cooking and spreading homely themes</span>
+<span class='i0'>over an inept-looking clavier</span>
+<span class='i0'>confounding the wits of his children</span>
+<span class='i0'>and all men's children</span>
+<span class='i0'>down to the last generation.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He marvels at the paradox,</span>
+<span class='i0'>drums his head with the tattoo:</span>
+<span class='i0'>how can a thing as small as he</span>
+<span class='i0'>shape and maintain an art</span>
+<span class='i0'>out of himself universal enough</span>
+<span class='i0'>to carry her daily vigil</span>
+<span class='i0'>to crystalled immortality?</span>
+<span class='i0'>She lets the hydrant water run.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_081" id="Page_081">[Pg 81]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="RAIN" id="RAIN"></a>RAIN</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It's all very well for you</span>
+<span class='i1'>suddenly to withdraw</span>
+<span class='i1'>and say, I'll come again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>but what of the bruises you've left,</span>
+<span class='i0'>what of the green and the blue,</span>
+<span class='i1'>the yellow, purple and violet?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>don't you be telling us,</span>
+<span class='i1'>I'm innocent of these,</span>
+<span class='i1'>irresponsible of happenings&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>didn't we see you steal next to her,</span>
+<span class='i1'>tenderly,</span>
+<span class='i1'>with your silver mist about you</span>
+<span class='i1'>to hide your blandishment?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>now, what of what followed, eh?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>we saw you hover close,</span>
+<span class='i1'>caress her,</span>
+<span class='i1'>open her pore-cups,</span>
+<span class='i1'>make a cross of her,</span>
+<span class='i1'>quickly penetrate her&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>she opening to you,</span>
+<span class='i1'>engulfing you,</span>
+<span class='i1'>every limb of her,</span>
+<span class='i1'>bud of her, pore of her?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>don't call these things, kisses&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>mouth-kisses, hand-kisses,</span>
+<span class='i1'>elbow, knee and toe,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and let it go at that&mdash;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_082" id="Page_082">[Pg 82]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>disappear and promise</span>
+<span class='i1'>what you'll never perform:</span>
+<span class='i0'>we've known you to slink away</span>
+<span class='i1'>until drought-time,</span>
+<span class='i1'>drooping-time,</span>
+<span class='i1'>withering-time:</span>
+<span class='i0'>we've caught you crawling off</span>
+<span class='i1'>into winter-time,</span>
+<span class='i1'>try to cover what you've done</span>
+<span class='i1'>with a long white scarf&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>your own frozen tears</span>
+<span class='i1'>(likely phrase!)</span>
+<span class='i1'>and lilt your,</span>
+<span class='i1'>I'll be back in spring!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Next spring, and you know it,</span>
+<span class='i1'>she won't be the same,</span>
+<span class='i1'>though she may look the same</span>
+<span class='i1'>to you from where you are,</span>
+<span class='i1'>and invite you down again!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_083" id="Page_083">[Pg 83]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="PEASANT" id="PEASANT"></a>PEASANT</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It's the mixture of peasantry</span>
+<span class='i1'>makes him so slow.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He waggles his head</span>
+<span class='i1'>before he speaks,</span>
+<span class='i0'>like a cow</span>
+<span class='i1'>before she crops.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He bends to the habit</span>
+<span class='i1'>of dragging his feet</span>
+<span class='i1'>up under him,</span>
+<span class='i0'>like a measuring-worm:</span>
+<span class='i1'>some of his forefathers,</span>
+<span class='i1'>stooped over books,</span>
+<span class='i1'>ruled short straight lines</span>
+<span class='i1'>under two rows of figures</span>
+<span class='i1'>to keep their thin savings</span>
+<span class='i1'>from sifting to the floor.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Should you strike him</span>
+<span class='i1'>with a question,</span>
+<span class='i0'>he will blink twice or thrice</span>
+<span class='i1'>and roll his head about,</span>
+<span class='i0'>like an owl</span>
+<span class='i1'>in the pin-pricks</span>
+<span class='i1'>of a dawn he cannot see.</span>
+<span class='i0'>There is mighty little flesh</span>
+<span class='i1'>about his bones,</span>
+<span class='i0'>there is no gusto</span>
+<span class='i1'>in his stride:</span>
+<span class='i0'>he seems to wait</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_084" id="Page_084">[Pg 84]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>for the blow on the buttocks</span>
+<span class='i1'>that will drive him</span>
+<span class='i1'>another step forward&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>step forward to what?</span>
+<span class='i0'>There is no land,</span>
+<span class='i1'>no house,</span>
+<span class='i1'>no barn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>he has ever owned;</span>
+<span class='i0'>he sits uncomfortable</span>
+<span class='i1'>on chairs</span>
+<span class='i1'>you might invite him to:</span>
+<span class='i0'>if you did,</span>
+<span class='i1'>he'd keep his hat in hand</span>
+<span class='i1'>against the moment</span>
+<span class='i1'>when some silent pause</span>
+<span class='i1'>for which he hearkens</span>
+<span class='i1'>with his ear to one side</span>
+<span class='i1'>bids him move on&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>move on where?</span>
+<span class='i0'>It doesn't matter.</span>
+<span class='i0'>He has learned</span>
+<span class='i1'>to shrug his shoulders,</span>
+<span class='i1'>so he'll shrug his shoulders now:</span>
+<span class='i0'>caterpillars do it</span>
+<span class='i1'>when they're halted by a stick.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is there a sky overhead?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i1'>a hope worth flying to?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>birds may know about it,</span>
+<span class='i1'>but it's birds</span>
+<span class='i1'>that birds descend from.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_085" id="Page_085">[Pg 85]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="BUBBLES" id="BUBBLES"></a>BUBBLES</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>You had best be very cautious how</span>
+<span class='i0'>you say, I love you.</span>
+<span class='i0'>If you accent the I,</span>
+<span class='i0'>she has an opening for,</span>
+<span class='i0'>who are you</span>
+<span class='i0'>to strut on ahead</span>
+<span class='i0'>and hint there aren't others,</span>
+<span class='i0'>aren't, weren't and won't be?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blurt out the love,</span>
+<span class='i0'>she has suspicion for, so?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>why not hitherto?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>what brings you bragging now?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and what'll it be hereafter?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Defer to the you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>she has certitude for, me?</span>
+<span class='i0'>thanks, lad!&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>but why argue about it?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>or fancy I'm lonesome?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>do I look as though you had to?</span>
+<span class='i0'>And having determined how</span>
+<span class='i0'>you'll say it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>you had next best ascertain whom</span>
+<span class='i0'>it is that you say it to.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_086" id="Page_086">[Pg 86]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>That you're sure she's the one,</span>
+<span class='i0'>that there'll never be another,</span>
+<span class='i0'>never was one before.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And having determined whom</span>
+<span class='i0'>and having learned how,</span>
+<span class='i0'>when you bring these together,</span>
+<span class='i0'>inform the far of the intimate&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>like a bubble on a pond,</span>
+<span class='i0'>emerging from below,</span>
+<span class='i0'>round wonderment completed</span>
+<span class='i0'>by the first sight of the sky&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>what good will it do,</span>
+<span class='i0'>if she shouldn't, I love you?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>a bubble's but a bubble once,</span>
+<span class='i0'>a bubble grows to die.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_087" id="Page_087">[Pg 87]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="DIRGE" id="DIRGE"></a>DIRGE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Death alone</span>
+<span class='i0'>has sympathy for weariness:</span>
+<span class='i0'>understanding</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the ways</span>
+<span class='i0'>of mathematics:</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the struggle</span>
+<span class='i0'>against giving up what was given:</span>
+<span class='i0'>the plus one minus one</span>
+<span class='i0'>of nitrogen for oxygen:</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the unequal odds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>you a cell</span>
+<span class='i0'>against the universe,</span>
+<span class='i0'>a breath or two</span>
+<span class='i0'>against all time:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Death alone</span>
+<span class='i0'>takes what is left</span>
+<span class='i0'>without protest, criticism</span>
+<span class='i0'>or a demand for more</span>
+<span class='i0'>than one can give</span>
+<span class='i0'>who can give</span>
+<span class='i0'>no more than was given:</span>
+<span class='i0'>doesn't even ask,</span>
+<span class='i0'>but accepts it as it is,</span>
+<span class='i0'>without examination,</span>
+<span class='i0'>valuation,</span>
+<span class='i0'>or comparison.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_088" id="Page_088">[Pg 88]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="COLOPHON" id="COLOPHON"></a>COLOPHON</h2>
+
+<p class='center'>(<i>For W. W.</i>)</p>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The Occident and the Orient,</span>
+<span class='i0'>posterior and posterior,</span>
+<span class='i0'>sitting tight, holding fast</span>
+<span class='i0'>the culture dumped by them</span>
+<span class='i0'>on to primitive America,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Atlantic to Pacific,</span>
+<span class='i0'>were monumental colophons</span>
+<span class='i0'>a disorderly country fellow,</span>
+<span class='i0'>vulgar Long Islander.</span>
+<span class='i0'>not overfond of the stench</span>
+<span class='i0'>choking native respiration,</span>
+<span class='i0'>poked down off the shelf</span>
+<span class='i0'>with the aid of some</span>
+<span class='i0'>mere blades of grass;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and deliberately climbing up,</span>
+<span class='i0'>brazenly usurping one end</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the new America,</span>
+<span class='i0'>now waves his spears aloft</span>
+<span class='i0'>and shouts down valleys,</span>
+<span class='i0'>across plains,</span>
+<span class='i0'>over mountains,</span>
+<span class='i0'>into heights:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Come, what man of you</span>
+<span class='i0'>dares climb the other?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_089" id="Page_089">[Pg 89]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_090" id="Page_090">[Pg 90]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="SARA_TEASDALE" id="SARA_TEASDALE"></a>SARA TEASDALE</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="WISDOM" id="WISDOM"></a>WISDOM</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was a night of early spring,</span>
+<span class='i1'>The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Around us shadows and the wind</span>
+<span class='i1'>Listened for what was never spoken.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Though half a score of years are gone,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Spring comes as sharply now as then&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But if we had it all to do</span>
+<span class='i1'>It would be done the same again.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was a spring that never came;</span>
+<span class='i1'>But we have lived enough to know</span>
+<span class='i0'>That what we never have, remains;</span>
+<span class='i1'>It is the things we have that go.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_092" id="Page_092">[Pg 92]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="PLACES" id="PLACES"></a>PLACES</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'>
+
+I<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+
+<span class="smcap">Twilight</span><br style='display: block;'/>
+
+(<i>Tucson</i>)<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Aloof as aged kings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Wearing like them the purple,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mountains ring the mesa</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crowned with a dusky light;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Many a time I watched</span>
+<span class='i0'>That coming-on of darkness</span>
+<span class='i0'>Till stars burned through the heavens</span>
+<span class='i0'>Intolerably bright.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was not long I lived there,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But I became a woman</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under those vehement stars,</span>
+<span class='i0'>For it was there I heard</span>
+<span class='i0'>For the first time my spirit</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forging an iron rule for me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>As though with slow cold hammers</span>
+<span class='i0'>Beating out word by word:</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"Take love when love is given,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But never think to find it</span>
+<span class='i0'>A sure escape from sorrow</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or a complete repose;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_093" id="Page_093">[Pg 93]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Only yourself can heal you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Only yourself can lead you</span>
+<span class='i0'>Up the hard road to heaven</span>
+<span class='i0'>That ends where no one knows."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_094" id="Page_094">[Pg 94]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'>
+
+II<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+<span class="smcap">Full Moon</span><br style='display: block;'/>
+
+(<i>Santa Barbara</i>)<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I listened, there was not a sound to hear</span>
+<span class='i1'>In the great rain of moonlight pouring down,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The eucalyptus trees were carved in silver,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And a light mist of silver lulled the town.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I saw far off the gray Pacific bearing</span>
+<span class='i1'>A broad white disk of flame,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And on the garden-walk a snail beside me</span>
+<span class='i1'>Tracing in crystal the slow way he came.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_095" id="Page_095">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'>
+
+III<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+<span class="smcap">Winter Sun</span><br style='display: block;'/>
+
+(<i>Lenox</i>)<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>There was a bush with scarlet berries,</span>
+<span class='i1'>And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches</span>
+<span class='i1'>They took the wind and let it go.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The hills were shining in their samite,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Fold after fold they flowed away;</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,</span>
+<span class='i1'>"At least we two have had to-day."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_096" id="Page_096">[Pg 96]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'>
+
+IV<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+<span class='smcap'>Evening</span><br style='display: block;'/>
+
+(<i>Nahant</i>)<br style='display: block;'/>
+
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>There was an evening when the sky was clear,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Ineffably translucent in its blue;</span>
+<span class='i1'>The tide was falling, and the sea withdrew</span>
+<span class='i0'>In hushed and happy music from the sheer</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shadowy granite of the cliffs; and fear</span>
+<span class='i1'>Of what life may be, and what death can do,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Fell from us like steel armor, and we knew</span>
+<span class='i0'>The beauty of the Law that holds us here.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was as though we saw the Secret Will,</span>
+<span class='i1'>It was as though we floated and were free;</span>
+<span class='i2'>In the south-west a planet shone serenely,</span>
+<span class='i2'>And the high moon, most reticent and queenly,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Seeing the earth had darkened and grown still,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Misted with light the meadows of the sea.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_097" id="Page_097">[Pg 97]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="WORDS_FOR_AN_OLD_AIR" id="WORDS_FOR_AN_OLD_AIR"></a>WORDS FOR AN OLD AIR</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Your heart is bound tightly, let</span>
+<span class='i1'>Beauty beware;</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is not hers to set</span>
+<span class='i1'>Free from the snare.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Tell her a bleeding hand</span>
+<span class='i1'>Bound it and tied it;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tell her the knot will stand</span>
+<span class='i1'>Though she deride it.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>One who withheld so long</span>
+<span class='i1'>All that you yearned to take,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has made a snare too strong</span>
+<span class='i1'>For Beauty's self to break.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_098" id="Page_098">[Pg 98]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THOSE_WHO_LOVE" id="THOSE_WHO_LOVE"></a>THOSE WHO LOVE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Those who love the most</span>
+<span class='i0'>Do not talk of their love;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Francesca, Guenevere,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dierdre, Iseult, Heloise</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the fragrant gardens of heaven</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are silent, or speak, if at all,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of fragile, inconsequent things.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And a woman I used to know</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who loved one man from her youth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Against the strength of the fates</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fighting in lonely pride,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Never spoke of this thing,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But hearing his name by chance,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A light would pass over her face.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_099" id="Page_099">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="TWO_SONGS_FOR_SOLITUDE" id="TWO_SONGS_FOR_SOLITUDE"></a>TWO SONGS FOR SOLITUDE</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'>
+I<br style='display: block;' />
+
+<span class="smcap">The Crystal Gazer</span><br style='display: block;' />
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I shall gather myself into myself again,</span>
+<span class='i1'>I shall take my scattered selves and make them one,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball</span>
+<span class='i1'>Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Watching the future come and the present go&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the little shifting pictures of people rushing</span>
+<span class='i1'>In tiny self-importance to and fro.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td class='center'>
+II<br style='display: block;' />
+
+<span class="smcap">The Solitary</span><br style='display: block;' />
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>My heart has grown rich with the passing of years,</span>
+<span class='i1'>I have less need now than when I was young</span>
+<span class='i0'>To share myself with every comer,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It is one to me that they come or go</span>
+<span class='i1'>If I have myself and the drive of my will,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And strength to climb on a summer night</span>
+<span class='i1'>And watch the stars swarm over the hill.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let them think I love them more than I do,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Let them think I care, though I go alone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>If it lifts their pride, what is it to me</span>
+<span class='i1'>Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="LOUIS_UNTERMEYER" id="LOUIS_UNTERMEYER"></a>LOUIS UNTERMEYER</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="MONOLOG_FROM_A_MATTRESS" id="MONOLOG_FROM_A_MATTRESS"></a>MONOLOG FROM A MATTRESS</h2>
+
+<p class='center'><i>Heinrich Heine &aelig;tat 56, loquitur:</i></p>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Can that be you, <i>la mouche?</i> Wait till I lift</span>
+<span class='i0'>This palsied eye-lid and make sure... Ah, true.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Come in, dear fly, and pardon my delay</span>
+<span class='i0'>In thus existing; I can promise you</span>
+<span class='i0'>Next time you come you'll find no dying poet&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Without sufficient spleen to see me through,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The joke becomes too tedious a jest.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am afraid my mind is dull to-day;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I have that&mdash;something&mdash;heavier on my chest</span>
+<span class='i0'>And then, you see, I've been exchanging thoughts</span>
+<span class='i0'>With Doctor Franz. He talked of Kant and Hegel</span>
+<span class='i0'>As though he'd nursed them both through whooping cough</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, as he left, he let his finger shake</span>
+<span class='i0'>Too playfully, as though to say, "Now off</span>
+<span class='i0'>With that long face&mdash;you've years and years to live."</span>
+<span class='i0'>I think he thinks so. But, for Heaven's sake,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Don't credit it&mdash;and never tell Mathilde.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Poor dear, she has enough to bear already....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>This <i>was</i> a month! During my lonely weeks</span>
+<span class='i0'>One person actually climbed the stairs</span>
+<span class='i0'>To seek a cripple. It was Berlioz&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But Berlioz always was original.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Meissner was also here; he caught me unawares,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Scribbling to my old mother. "What!" he cried,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Is the old lady of the <i>Dammthor</i> still alive?</span>
+<span class='i0'>And do you write her still?" "Each month or so."</span>
+<span class='i0'>"And is she not unhappy then, to find</span>
+<span class='i0'>How wretched you must be?" "How can she know?</span>
+<span class='i0'>You see," I laughed, "she thinks I am as well</span>
+<span class='i0'>As when she saw me last. She is too blind</span>
+<span class='i0'>To read the papers&mdash;some one else must tell</span>
+<span class='i0'>What's in my letters, merely signed by me.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Thus she is happy. For the rest&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>That any son should be as sick as I,</span>
+<span class='i0'>No mother could believe."</span>
+<span style="margin-left: 12em;"><i>Ja</i>, so it goes.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Come here, my lotus-flower. It is best</span>
+<span class='i0'>I drop the mask to-day; the half-cracked shield</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of mockery calls for younger hands to wield.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Laugh&mdash;or I'll hug it closer to my breast.</span>
+<span class='i0'>So ... I can be as mawkish as I choose</span>
+<span class='i0'>And give my thoughts an airing, let them loose</span>
+<span class='i0'>For one last rambling stroll before&mdash;Now look!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Why tears? You never heard me say "the end."</span>
+<span class='i0'>Before ... before I clap them in a book</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so get rid of them once and for all.</span>
+<span class='i0'>This is their holiday&mdash;we'll let them run&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Some have escaped already. There goes one ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>What, I have often mused, did Goethe mean?</span>
+<span class='i0'>So many years ago at Weimar, Goethe said</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>"Heine has all the poet's gifts but love."</span>
+<span class='i0'>Good God! But that is all I ever had.</span>
+<span class='i0'>More than enough! So much of love to give</span>
+<span class='i0'>That no one gave me any in return.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And so I flashed and snapped in my own fires</span>
+<span class='i0'>Until I stood, with nothing left to burn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A twisted trunk, in chilly isolation.</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam</i>&mdash;you recall?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I was that Northern tree and, in the South,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Amalia... So I turned to scornful cries,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hot iron songs to save the rest of me;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Plunging the brand in my own misery.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crouching behind my pointed wall of words,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ramparts I built of moons and loreleys,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Enchanted roses, sphinxes, love-sick birds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Giants, dead lads who left their graves to dance,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fairies and ph&oelig;nixes and friendly gods&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>A curious frieze, half Renaissance, half Greek,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Behind which, in revulsion of romance,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I lay and laughed&mdash;and wept&mdash;till I was weak.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Words were my shelter, words my one escape,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Words were my weapons against everything.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Was I not once the son of Revolution?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Give me the lyre, I said, and let me sing</span>
+<span class='i0'>My song of battle: Words like flaming stars</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shot down with power to burn the palaces;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Words like bright javelins to fly with fierce</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hate of the oily Philistines and glide</span>
+<span class='i0'>Through all the seven heavens till they pierce</span>
+<span class='i0'>The pious hypocrites who dare to creep</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Into the Holy Places. "Then," I cried,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"I am a fire to rend and roar and leap;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am all joy and song, all sword and flame!"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ha&mdash;you observe me passionate. I aim</span>
+<span class='i0'>To curb these wild emotions lest they soar</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or drive against my will. (So I have said</span>
+<span class='i0'>These many years&mdash;and still they are not tame.)</span>
+<span class='i0'>Scraps of a song keep rumbling in my head ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>Listen&mdash;you never heard me sing before.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>When a false world betrays your trust</span>
+<span class='i2'>And stamps upon your fire,</span>
+<span class='i1'>When what seemed blood is only rust,</span>
+<span class='i2'>Take up the lyre!</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'>How quickly the heroic mood</span>
+<span class='i2'>Responds to its own ringing;</span>
+<span class='i1'>The scornful heart, the angry blood</span>
+<span class='i2'>Leap upward, singing!</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Ah, that was how it used to be. But now,</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Du sch&ouml;ner Todesengel</i>, it is odd</span>
+<span class='i0'>How more than calm I am. Franz said it shows</span>
+<span class='i0'>Power of religion, and it does, perhaps&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Religion or morphine or poultices&mdash;God knows.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I sometimes have a sentimental lapse</span>
+<span class='i0'>And long for saviours and a physical God.</span>
+<span class='i0'>When health is all used up, when money goes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>When courage cracks and leaves a shattered will,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Then Christianity begins. For a sick Jew,</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is a very good religion ... Still,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>I fear that I will die as I have lived,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A long-nosed heathen playing with his scars,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A pagan killed by weltschmerz ... I remember,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Once when I stood with Hegel at a window,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I, being full of bubbling youth and coffee,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spoke in symbolic tropes about the stars.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Something I said about "those high</span>
+<span class='i0'>Abodes of all the blest" provoked his temper.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Abodes? The stars?" He froze me with a sneer,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"A light eruption on the firmament."</span>
+<span class='i0'>"But," cried romantic I, "is there no sphere</span>
+<span class='i0'>Where virtue is rewarded when we die?"</span>
+<span class='i0'>And Hegel mocked, "A very pleasant whim.</span>
+<span class='i0'>So you demand a bonus since you spent</span>
+<span class='i0'>One lifetime and refrained from poisoning</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your testy grandmother!" ... How much of him</span>
+<span class='i0'>Remains in me&mdash;even when I am caught</span>
+<span class='i0'>In dreams of death and immortality.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>To be eternal&mdash;what a brilliant thought!</span>
+<span class='i0'>It must have been conceived and coddled first</span>
+<span class='i0'>By some old shopkeeper in Nuremberg,</span>
+<span class='i0'>His slippers warm, his children amply nursed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who, with his lighted meerschaum in his hand,</span>
+<span class='i0'>His nightcap on his head, one summer night</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sat drowsing at his door. And mused, how grand</span>
+<span class='i0'>If all of this could last beyond a doubt&mdash;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>This placid moon, this plump <i>gem&uuml;thlichkeit</i>;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pipe, breath and summer never going out&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>To vegetate through all eternity ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>But no such everlastingness for me!</span>
+<span class='i0'>God, if he can, keep me from such a blight.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'><i>Death, it is but the long, cool night,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>And Life's a dull and sultry day.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>It darkens; I grow sleepy;</i></span>
+<span class='i1'><i>I am weary of the light.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i1'><i>Over my bed a strange tree gleams</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>And there a nightingale is loud.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>She sings of love, love only ...</i></span>
+<span class='i1'><i>I hear it, even in dreams.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>My Mouche, the other day as I lay here,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave</span>
+<span class='i0'>In which I've been interred these few eight years,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I saw a dog, a little pampered slave,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Running about and barking. I would have given</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive</span>
+<span class='i0'>Like him, so senseless&mdash;and so much alive!</span>
+<span class='i0'>And once I called myself a blithe Hellene,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who am too much in love with life to live.</span>
+<span class='i0'>(The shrug is pure Hebraic) ... For what I've been,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A lenient Lord will tax me&mdash;and forgive.</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Dieu me pardonnera&mdash;c'est son metier.</i></span>
+<span class='i0'>But this is jesting. There are other scandals</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>You haven't heard ... Can it be dusk so soon?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or is this deeper darkness ...? Is that you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles?...</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Over my bed a strange tree gleams</i>&mdash;half filled</span>
+<span class='i0'>With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its seven branches now that all is stilled.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What? Friday night again and all my songs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forgotten? Wait ... I still can sing&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Adonai Echod ...</i></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Mouche&mdash;Mathilde!...</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="WATERS_OF_BABYLON" id="WATERS_OF_BABYLON"></a>WATERS OF BABYLON</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What presses about us here in the evening</span>
+<span class='i1'>As you open a window and stare at a stone-gray sky,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the streets give back the jangle of meaningless movement</span>
+<span class='i1'>That is tired of life and almost too tired to die.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Night comes on, and even the night is wounded;</span>
+<span class='i1'>There, on its breast, it carries a curved, white scar.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What will you find out there that is not torn and anguished?</span>
+<span class='i1'>Can God be less distressed than the least of His creatures are?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Below are the blatant lights in a huddled squalor;</span>
+<span class='i1'>Above are futile fires in freezing space.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What can they give that you should look to them for compassion</span>
+<span class='i1'>Though you bare your heart and lift an imploring face?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>They have seen, by countless waters and windows,</span>
+<span class='i1'>The women of your race facing a stony sky;</span>
+<span class='i0'>They have heard, for thousands of years, the voices of women</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
+<span class='i1'>Asking them: "Why ...?"</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let the night be; it has neither knowledge nor pity.</span>
+<span class='i1'>One thing alone can hope to answer your fear;</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is that which struggles and blinds us and burns between us....</span>
+<span class='i1'>Let the night be. Close the window, belov&egrave;d.... Come here.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FLAMING_CIRCLE" id="THE_FLAMING_CIRCLE"></a>THE FLAMING CIRCLE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Though for fifteen years you have chaffed me across the table,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Slept in my arms and fingered my plunging heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I scarcely know you; we have not known each other.</span>
+<span class='i1'>For all the fierce and casual contacts, something keeps us apart.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Are you struggling, perhaps, in a world that I see only dimly,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Except as it sweeps toward the star on which I stand alone?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are we swung like two planets, compelled in our separate orbits,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Yet held in a flaming circle far greater than our own?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Last night we were single, a radiant core of completion,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Surrounded by flames that embraced us but left no burns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To-day we are only ourselves; we have plans and pretensions;</span>
+<span class='i1'>We move in dividing streets with our small and different concerns.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Merging and rending, we wait for the miracle. Meanwhile</span>
+<span class='i1'>The fire runs deeper, consuming these selves in its growth.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Can this be the mystical marriage&mdash;this clash and communion;</span>
+<span class='i1'>This pain of possession that frees and encircles us both?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="PORTRAIT_OF_A_MACHINE" id="PORTRAIT_OF_A_MACHINE"></a>PORTRAIT OF A MACHINE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What nudity is beautiful as this</span>
+<span class='i0'>Obedient monster purring at its toil;</span>
+<span class='i0'>These naked iron muscles dripping oil</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the sure-fingered rods that never miss.</span>
+<span class='i0'>This long and shining flank of metal is</span>
+<span class='i0'>Magic that greasy labor cannot spoil;</span>
+<span class='i0'>While this vast engine that could rend the soil</span>
+<span class='i0'>Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It does not vent its loathing, does not turn</span>
+<span class='i0'>Upon its makers with destroying hate.</span>
+<span class='i0'>It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its master's bread and laughs to see this great</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Become the slave of what his slaves create.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="ROAST_LEVIATHAN" id="ROAST_LEVIATHAN"></a>ROAST LEVIATHAN</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"<i>Old Jews!</i>" Well, David, aren't we?</span>
+<span class='i0'>What news is that to make you see so red,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To swear and almost tear your beard in half?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Jeered at? Well, let them laugh.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You can laugh longer when you're dead.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What? Are you still too blind to see?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Have you forgot your Midrash!... They were right,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The little <i>goyim</i>, with their angry stones.</span>
+<span class='i0'>You should be buried in the desert out of sight</span>
+<span class='i0'>And not a dog should howl miscarried moans</span>
+<span class='i0'>Over your foul bones....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Have you forgotten what is promised us,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Because of stinking days and rotting nights?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Eternal feasting, drinking, blazing lights</span>
+<span class='i0'>With endless leisure, periods of play!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Supernal pleasures, myriads of gay</span>
+<span class='i0'>Discussions, great debates with prophet-kings!</span>
+<span class='i0'>And rings of riddling scholars all surrounding</span>
+<span class='i0'>God who sits in the very middle, expounding</span>
+<span class='i0'>The Torah.... <i>Now</i> your dull eyes glisten!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Listen:</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It is the final Day.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>A blast of Gabriel's horn has torn away</span>
+<span class='i0'>The last haze from our eyes, and we can see</span>
+<span class='i0'>Past the three hundred skies and gaze upon</span>
+<span class='i0'>The Ineffable Name engraved deep in the sun.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Now one by one, the pious and the just</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are seated by us, radiantly risen</span>
+<span class='i0'>From their dull prison in the dust.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And then the festival begins!</span>
+<span class='i0'>A sudden music spins great webs of sound</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spanning the ground, the stars and their companions;</span>
+<span class='i0'>While from the cliffs and ca&ntilde;ons of blue air,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Prayers of all colors, cries of exultation</span>
+<span class='i0'>Rise into choruses of singing gold.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And at the height of this bright consecration,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The whole Creation's rolled before us.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The seven burning heavens unfold....</span>
+<span class='i0'>We see the first (the only one we know)</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dispersed and, shining through,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The other six declining: Those that hold</span>
+<span class='i0'>The stars and moons, together with all those</span>
+<span class='i0'>Containing rain and fire and sullen weather;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cellars of dew-fall higher than the brim;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Huge arsenals with centuries of snows;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Infinite rows of storms and swarms of seraphim....</span>
+</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Divided now are winds and waters. Sea and land,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tohu and Bohu, light and darkness, stand</span>
+<span class='i0'>Upright on either hand.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And down this terrible aisle,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>While heaven's ranges roar aghast,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pours a vast file of strange and hidden things:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forbidden monsters, crocodiles with wings</span>
+<span class='i0'>And perfumed flesh that sings and glows</span>
+<span class='i0'>With more fresh colors than the rainbow knows....</span>
+<span class='i0'>The <i>re&euml;m</i>, those great beasts with eighteen horns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who mate but once in seventy years and die</span>
+<span class='i0'>In their own tears which flow ten stadia high.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The <i>shamir</i>, made by God on the sixth morn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>No longer than a grain of barley corn</span>
+<span class='i0'>But stronger than the bull of Bashan and so hard</span>
+<span class='i0'>It cuts through diamonds. Meshed and starred</span>
+<span class='i0'>With precious stones, there struts the shattering <i>ziz</i></span>
+<span class='i0'>Whose groans are wrinkled thunder....</span>
+<span class='i0'>For thrice three hundred years the full parade</span>
+<span class='i0'>Files past, a cavalcade of fear and wonder.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And then the vast aisle clears.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Now comes our constantly increased reward.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The Lord commands that monstrous beast,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Leviathan, to be our feast.</span>
+<span class='i0'>What cheers ascend from horde on ravenous horde!</span>
+<span class='i0'>One hears the towering creature rend the seas,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Frustrated, cowering, and his pleas ignored.</span>
+<span class='i0'>In vain his great, belated tears are poured&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>For this he was created, kept and nursed.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cries burst from all the millions that attend:</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>"Ascend, Leviathan, it is the end!</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>We hunger and we thirst! Ascend!" ...</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Observe him first, my friend.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>God's deathless plaything rolls an eye</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Five hundred thousand cubits high.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>The smallest scale upon his tail</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Could hide six dolphins and a whale.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>His nostrils breathe&mdash;and on the spot</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>The churning waves turn seething hot.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>If he be hungry, one huge fin</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Drives seven thousand fishes in;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>And when he drinks what he may need,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>The rivers of the earth recede.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Yet he is more than huge and strong&mdash;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Twelve brilliant colors play along</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>His sides until, compared to him,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>The naked, burning sun seems dim.</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>New scintillating rays extend</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Through endless singing space and rise</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Into an ecstasy that cries:</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>"Ascend, Leviathan, ascend!"</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>God now commands the multi-colored bands</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of angels to intrude and slay the beast</span>
+<span class='i0'>That His good sons may have a feast of food.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But as they come, Leviathan sneezes twice ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, numb with sudden pangs, each arm hangs slack.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Black terror seizes them; blood freezes into ice</span>
+<span class='i0'>And every angel flees from the attack!</span>
+<span class='i0'>God, with a look that spells eternal law,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Compels them back.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But, though they fight and smite him tail and jaw,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Nothing avails; upon his scales their swords</span>
+<span class='i0'>Break like frayed cords or, like a blade of straw,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bend towards the hilt and wilt like faded grass.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Defeat and fresh retreat.... But once again</span>
+<span class='i0'>God's murmurs pass among them and they mass</span>
+<span class='i0'>With firmer steps upon the crowded plain.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Vast clouds of spears and stones rise from the ground;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But every dart flies past and rocks rebound</span>
+<span class='i0'>To the disheartened angels falling around.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>A pause.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The angel host withdraws</span>
+<span class='i0'>With empty boasts throughout its sullen files.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Suddenly God smiles....</span>
+<span class='i0'>On the walls of heaven a tumble of light is caught.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Low thunder rumbles like an afterthought;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And God's slow laughter calls:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Behemot!"</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'><i>Behemot, sweating blood,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Uses for his daily food</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>All the fodder, flesh and juice</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>That twelve tall mountains can produce.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'><i>Jordan, flooded to the brim,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Is a single gulp to him;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Two great streams from Paradise</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Cool his lips and scarce suffice.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'><i>When he shifts from side to side</i></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Earthquakes gape and open wide;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>When a nightmare makes him snore,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>All the dead volcanoes roar.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'><i>In the space between each toe,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Kingdoms rise and saviours go;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Epochs fall and causes die</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>In the lifting of his eye.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i2'><i>Wars and justice, love and death,</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>These are but his wasted breath;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Chews a planet for his cud&mdash;</i></span>
+<span class='i2'><i>Behemot sweating blood.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Roused from his unconcern,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Behemot burns with anger.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dripping sleep and languor from his heavy haunches,</span>
+<span class='i0'>He turns from deep disdain and launches</span>
+<span class='i0'>Himself upon the thickening air,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, with weird cries of sickening despair,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Flies at Leviathan.</span>
+<span class='i0'>None can surmise the struggle that ensues&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The eyes lose sight of it and words refuse</span>
+<span class='i0'>To tell the story in its gory might.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Night passes after night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And still the fight continues, still the sparks</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fly from the iron sinews,... till the marks</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of fire and belching thunder fill the dark</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, almost torn asunder, one falls stark,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hammering upon the other!...</span>
+<span class='i0'>What clamor now is born, what crashings rise!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Hot lightnings lash the skies and frightening cries</span>
+<span class='i0'>Clash with the hymns of saints and seraphim.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The bloody limbs thrash through a ruddy dusk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Till one great tusk of Behemot has gored</span>
+<span class='i0'>Leviathan, restored to his full strength,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who, dealing fiercer blows in those last throes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Closes on reeling Behemot at length&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Piercing him with steel-pointed claws,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Straight through the jaws to his disjointed head.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And both lie dead.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Then</i> come the angels!</span>
+<span class='i0'>With hoists and levers, joists and poles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With knives and cleavers, ropes and saws,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Down the long slopes to the gaping maws,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The angels hasten; hacking and carving,</span>
+<span class='i0'>So nought will be lacking for the starving</span>
+<span class='i0'>Chosen of God, who in frozen wonderment</span>
+<span class='i0'>Realize now what the terrible thunder meant.</span>
+<span class='i0'>How their mouths water while they are looking</span>
+<span class='i0'>At miles of slaughter and sniffing the cooking!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whiffs of delectable fragrance swim by;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spice-laden vagrants that float and entice,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tickling the throat and brimming the eye.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ah! what rejoicing and crackling and roasting!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ah! How the boys sing as, cackling and boasting,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The angels' old wives and their nervous assistants</span>
+<span class='i0'>Run in to serve us....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span style="margin-left: 12em;">And while we are toasting</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>The Fairest of All, they call from the distance</span>
+<span class='i0'>The rare ones of Time, they share our enjoyment;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Their only employment to bear jars of wine</span>
+<span class='i0'>And shine like the stars in a circle of glory.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Here sways Rebekah accompanied by Zilpah;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Miriam plays to the singing of Bilhah;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hagar has tales for us, Judith her story;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Esther exhales bright romances and musk.</span>
+<span class='i0'>There, in the dusky light, Salome dances.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sara and Rachel and Leah and Ruth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fairer than ever and all in their youth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Come at our call and go by our leave.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, from her bower of beauty, walks Eve</span>
+<span class='i0'>While, with the voice of a flower, she sings</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of Eden, young earth and the birth of all things....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Peace without end.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Peace will descend on us, discord will cease;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And we, now so wretched, will lie stretched out</span>
+<span class='i0'>Free of old doubt, on our cushions of ease.</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, like a gold canopy over our bed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The skin of Leviathan, tail-tip to head,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Soon will be spread till it covers the skies.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Light will still rise from it; millions of bright</span>
+<span class='i0'>Facets of brilliance, shaming the white</span>
+<span class='i0'>Glass of the moon, inflaming the night.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>So Time shall pass and rest and pass again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Burn with an endless zest and then return,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Walk at our side and tide us to new joys;</span>
+<span class='i0'>God's voice to guide us, beauty as our staff.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Thus shall Life be when Death has disappeared....</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Jeered at? Well, let them laugh.</i></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="JOHN_GOULD_FLETCHER" id="JOHN_GOULD_FLETCHER"></a>JOHN GOULD FLETCHER</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_REBEL" id="A_REBEL"></a>A REBEL</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Tie a bandage over his eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And at his feet</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let rifles drearily patter</span>
+<span class='i0'>Their death-prayers of defeat.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Throw a blanket over his body,</span>
+<span class='i0'>It need no longer stir;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Truth will but stand the stronger</span>
+<span class='i0'>For all who died for her.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Now he has broken through</span>
+<span class='i0'>To his own secret place;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Which, if we dared to do,</span>
+<span class='i0'>We would have no more power left to look on that dead face.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_ROCK" id="THE_ROCK"></a>THE ROCK</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>This rock, too, was a word;</span>
+<span class='i0'>A word of flame and force when that which hurled</span>
+<span class='i0'>The stars into their places in the night</span>
+<span class='i0'>First stirred.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And, in the summer's heat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lay not your hand on it, for while the iron hours beat</span>
+<span class='i0'>Gray anvils in the sky, it glows again</span>
+<span class='i0'>With unfulfilled desire.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Touch it not; let it stand</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ragged, forlorn, still looking at the land;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The dry blue chaos of mountains in the distance,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The slender blades of grass it shelters are</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its own dark thoughts of what is near and far.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your thoughts are yours, too; naked let them stand.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="BLUE_WATER" id="BLUE_WATER"></a>BLUE WATER</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Sea-violins are playing on the sands;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Curved bows of blue and white are flying over the pebbles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>See them attack the chords&mdash;dark basses, glinting trebles.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dimly and faint they croon, blue violins.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Suffer without regret," they seem to cry,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Though dark your suffering is, it may be music,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Waves of blue heat that wash midsummer sky;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sea-violins that play along the sands."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="PRAYERS_FOR_WIND" id="PRAYERS_FOR_WIND"></a>PRAYERS FOR WIND</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let the winds come,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And bury our feet in the sands of seven deserts;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let strong breezes rise,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Washing our ears with the far-off sounds of the foam.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let there be between our faces</span>
+<span class='i0'>Green turf and a branch or two of back-tossed trees;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Set firmly over questioning hearts</span>
+<span class='i0'>The deep unquenchable answer of the wind.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="IMPROMPTU" id="IMPROMPTU"></a>IMPROMPTU</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>My mind is a puddle in the street reflecting green Sirius;</span>
+<span class='i0'>In thick dark groves trees huddle lifting their branches like beckoning hands.</span>
+<span class='i0'>We eat the grain, the grain is death, all goes back to the earth's dark mass,</span>
+<span class='i0'>All but a song which moves across the plain like the wind's deep-muttering breath.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bowed down upon the earth, man sets his plants and watches for the seed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though he be part of the tragic pageant of the sky, no heaven will aid his mortal need.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I find flame in the dust, a word once uttered that will stir again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And a wine-cup reflecting Sirius in the water held in my hands.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHINESE_POET_AMONG_BARBARIANS" id="CHINESE_POET_AMONG_BARBARIANS"></a>CHINESE POET AMONG BARBARIANS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The rain drives, drives endlessly,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heavy threads of rain;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The wind beats at the shutters,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The surf drums on the shore;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Drunken telegraph poles lean sideways;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dank summer cottages gloom hopelessly;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bleak factory-chimneys are etched on the filmy distance,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tepid with rain.</span>
+<span class='i0'>It seems I have lived for a hundred years</span>
+<span class='i0'>Among these things;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And it is useless for me now to make complaint against them.</span>
+<span class='i0'>For I know I shall never escape from this dull barbarian country,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Where there is none now left to lift a cool jade winecup,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or share with me a single human thought.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="SNOWY_MOUNTAINS" id="SNOWY_MOUNTAINS"></a>SNOWY MOUNTAINS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Higher and still more high,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Palaces made for cloud,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above the dingy city-roofs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blue-white like angels with broad wings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pillars of the sky at rest</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mountains from the great plateau</span>
+<span class='i0'>Uprise.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>But the world heeds them not;</span>
+<span class='i0'>They have been here now for too long a time.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The world makes war on them,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tunnels their granite cliffs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Splits down their shining sides,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Plasters their cliffs with soap-advertisements,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Destroys the lonely fragments of their peace.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Vaster and still more vast,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Peak after peak, pile after pile,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Wilderness still untamed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To which the future is as was the past,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Barrier spread by Gods,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sunning their shining foreheads,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Barrier broken down by those who do not need</span>
+<span class='i0'>The joy of time-resisting storm-worn stone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mountains swing along</span>
+<span class='i0'>The south horizon of the sky;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Welcoming with wide floors of blue-green ice</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mists that dance and drive before the sun.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FUTURE" id="THE_FUTURE"></a>THE FUTURE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>After ten thousand centuries have gone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Man will ascend the last long pass to know</span>
+<span class='i0'>That all the summits which he saw at dawn</span>
+<span class='i0'>Are buried deep in everlasting snow.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Below him endless gloomy valleys, chill,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Will wreathe and whirl with fighting cloud, driven by the wind's fierce breath;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But on the summit, wind and cloud are still:&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Only the sunlight, and death.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And staggering up to the brink of the gulf man will look down</span>
+<span class='i0'>And painfully strive with weak sight to explore</span>
+<span class='i0'>The silent gulfs below which the long shadows drown;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Through every one of these he passed before.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Then since he has no further heights to climb,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And naught to witness he has come this endless way,</span>
+<span class='i0'>On the wind-bitten ice cap he will wait for the last of time,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>And watch the crimson sunrays fading of the world's latest day:</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And blazing stars will burst upon him there,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dumb in the midnight of his hope and pain,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Speeding no answer back to his last prayer,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And, if akin to him, akin in vain.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="UPON_THE_HILL" id="UPON_THE_HILL"></a>UPON THE HILL</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>A hundred miles of landscape spread before me like a fan;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hills behind naked hills, bronze light of evening on them shed;</span>
+<span class='i0'>How many thousand ages have these summits spied on man?</span>
+<span class='i0'>How many thousand times shall I look on them ere this fire in me is dead?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_ENDURING" id="THE_ENDURING"></a>THE ENDURING</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>If the autumn ended</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ere the birds flew southward,</span>
+<span class='i0'>If in the cold with weary throats</span>
+<span class='i0'>They vainly strove to sing,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Winter would be eternal;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Leaf and bush and blossom</span>
+<span class='i0'>Would never once more riot</span>
+<span class='i0'>In the spring.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>If remembrance ended</span>
+<span class='i0'>When life and love are gathered,</span>
+<span class='i0'>If the world were not living</span>
+<span class='i0'>Long after one is gone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Song would not ring, nor sorrow</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stand at the door in evening;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Life would vanish and slacken,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Men would be changed to stone.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>But there will be autumn's bounty</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dropping upon our weariness,</span>
+<span class='i0'>There will be hopes unspoken</span>
+<span class='i0'>And joys to haunt us still;</span>
+<span class='i0'>There will be dawn and sunset</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though we have cast the world away,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the leaves dancing</span>
+<span class='i0'>Over the hill.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="JEAN_STARR_UNTERMEYER" id="JEAN_STARR_UNTERMEYER"></a>JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="OLD_MAN" id="OLD_MAN"></a>OLD MAN</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When an old man walks with lowered head</span>
+<span class='i0'>And eyes that do not seem to see,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I wonder does he ponder on</span>
+<span class='i0'>The worm he was or is to be.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Or has he turned his gaze within,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lost to his own vicinity;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Erecting in a doubtful dream</span>
+<span class='i0'>Frail bridges to Infinity.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="TONE_PICTURE" id="TONE_PICTURE"></a>TONE PICTURE</h2>
+
+<p class='center'>(Malipiero: <i>Impressioni Dal Vero</i>)</p>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Across the hot square, where the barbaric sun</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pours coarse laughter on the crowds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Trumpets throw their loud nooses</span>
+<span class='i0'>From corner to corner.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Elephants, whose indifferent backs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heave with red lambrequins,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tigers with golden muzzles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Negresses, greased and turbaned in green and yellow,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Weave and interweave in the merciless glare of noon.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The sun flicks here and there like a throned tyrant,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Snapping his whip.</span>
+<span class='i0'>From amber platters, the smells ascend</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of overripe peaches mingled with dust and heated oils.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pages in purple run madly about,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Rolling their eyes and grinning with huge, frightened mouths.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And from a high window&mdash;a square of black velvet&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>A haughty figure stands back in the shadow,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Aloof and silent.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="THEY_SAY" id="THEY_SAY"></a>THEY SAY&mdash;</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>They say I have a constant heart, who know</span>
+<span class='i1'>Not anything of how it turns and yields</span>
+<span class='i1'>First here, first there; nor how in separate fields</span>
+<span class='i0'>It runs to reap and then remains to sow;</span>
+<span class='i0'>How, with quick worship, it will bend and glow</span>
+<span class='i1'>Before a line of song, an antique vase,</span>
+<span class='i1'>Evening at sea; or in a well-loved face</span>
+<span class='i0'>Seek and find all that Beauty can bestow.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Yet they do well who name it with a name,</span>
+<span class='i1'>For all its rash surrenders call it true.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though many lamps be lit, yet flame is flame;</span>
+<span class='i1'>The sun can show the way, a candle too.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The tribute to each fragment is the same</span>
+<span class='i1'>Service to all of Beauty&mdash;and her due.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="RESCUE" id="RESCUE"></a>RESCUE</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Wind and wave and the swinging rope</span>
+<span class='i0'>Were calling me last night;</span>
+<span class='i0'>None to save and little hope,</span>
+<span class='i0'>No inner light.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Each snarling lash of the stormy sea</span>
+<span class='i0'>Curled like a hungry tongue.</span>
+<span class='i0'>One desperate splash&mdash;and no use to me</span>
+<span class='i0'>The noose that swung!</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Death reached out three crooked claws</span>
+<span class='i0'>To still my clamoring pain.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I wheeled about, and Life's gray jaws</span>
+<span class='i0'>Grinned once again.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>To sea I gazed, and then I turned</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stricken toward the shore,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Praying half-crazed to a moon that burned</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above your door.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>And at your door, you discovered me;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And at your heart, I sobbed ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>And if there be more of eternity</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let me be robbed.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let me be clipped of that heritage</span>
+<span class='i0'>And burned for ages through;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Freed and stripped of my fear and rage&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But not of you.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="MATER_IN_EXTREMIS" id="MATER_IN_EXTREMIS"></a>MATER IN EXTREMIS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I stand between them and the outer winds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But I am a crumbling wall.</span>
+<span class='i0'>They told me they could bear the blast alone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>They told me: that was all.</span>
+<span class='i0'>But I must wedge myself between</span>
+<span class='i0'>Them and the first snowfall.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Riddled am I by onslaughts and attacks</span>
+<span class='i0'>I thought I could forestall;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I reared and braced myself to shelter them</span>
+<span class='i0'>Before I heard them call.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I cry them, God, a better shield!</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am about to fall.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="SELF-REJECTED" id="SELF-REJECTED"></a>SELF-REJECTED</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Plow not nor plant this arid mound.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Here is no sap for seed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>No ferment for your need&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ungrateful ground!</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>No sun can warm this spot</span>
+<span class='i0'>God has forgot;</span>
+<span class='i0'>No rain can penetrate</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its barren slate.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Demonic winds blow last year's stubble</span>
+<span class='i0'>From its hard slope.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Go, leave the hopeless without hope;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spare your trouble.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="H_D" id="H_D"></a>H. D.</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="HOLY_SATYR" id="HOLY_SATYR"></a>HOLY SATYR</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Most holy Satyr,</span>
+<span class='i0'>like a goat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>with horns and hooves</span>
+<span class='i0'>to match thy coat</span>
+<span class='i0'>of russet brown,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I make leaf-circlets</span>
+<span class='i0'>and a crown of honey-flowers</span>
+<span class='i0'>for thy throat;</span>
+<span class='i0'>where the amber petals</span>
+<span class='i0'>drip to ivory,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I cut and slip</span>
+<span class='i0'>each stiffened petal</span>
+<span class='i0'>in the rift</span>
+<span class='i0'>of carven petal:</span>
+<span class='i0'>honey horn</span>
+<span class='i0'>has wed the bright</span>
+<span class='i0'>virgin petal of the white</span>
+<span class='i0'>flower cluster: lip to lip</span>
+<span class='i0'>let them whisper,</span>
+<span class='i0'>let them lilt, quivering:</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Most holy Satyr,</span>
+<span class='i0'>like a goat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>hear this our song,</span>
+<span class='i0'>accept our leaves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>love-offering,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>return our hymn;</span>
+<span class='i0'>like echo fling</span>
+<span class='i0'>a sweet song,</span>
+<span class='i0'>answering note for note.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="LAIS" id="LAIS"></a>LAIS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let her who walks in Paphos</span>
+<span class='i0'>take the glass,</span>
+<span class='i0'>let Paphos take the mirror</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the work of frosted fruit,</span>
+<span class='i0'>gold apples set</span>
+<span class='i0'>with silver apple-leaf,</span>
+<span class='i0'>white leaf of silver</span>
+<span class='i0'>wrought with vein of gilt.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let Paphos lift the mirror;</span>
+<span class='i0'>let her look</span>
+<span class='i0'>into the polished center of the disk.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let Paphos take the mirror:</span>
+<span class='i0'>did she press</span>
+<span class='i0'>flowerlet of flame-flower</span>
+<span class='i0'>to the lustrous white</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the white forehead?</span>
+<span class='i0'>did the dark veins beat</span>
+<span class='i0'>a deeper purple</span>
+<span class='i0'>than the wine-deep tint</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the dark flower?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Did she deck black hair,</span>
+<span class='i0'>one evening, with the winter-white</span>
+<span class='i0'>flower of the winter-berry?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Did she look (reft of her lover)</span>
+<span class='i0'>at a face gone white</span>
+<span class='i0'>under the chaplet</span>
+<span class='i0'>of white virgin-breath?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lais, exultant, tyrannizing Greece,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lais who kept her lovers in the porch,</span>
+<span class='i0'>lover on lover waiting</span>
+<span class='i0'>(but to creep</span>
+<span class='i0'>where the robe brushed the threshold</span>
+<span class='i0'>where still sleeps Lais),</span>
+<span class='i0'>so she creeps, Lais,</span>
+<span class='i0'>to lay her mirror at the feet</span>
+<span class='i0'>of her who reigns in Paphos.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lais has left her mirror,</span>
+<span class='i0'>for she sees no longer in its depth</span>
+<span class='i0'>the Lais' self</span>
+<span class='i0'>that laughed exultant,</span>
+<span class='i0'>tyrannizing Greece.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Lais has left her mirror,</span>
+<span class='i0'>for she weeps no longer,</span>
+<span class='i0'>finding in its depth</span>
+<span class='i0'>a face, but other</span>
+<span class='i0'>than dark flame and white</span>
+<span class='i0'>feature of perfect marble.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Lais has left her mirror</i></span>
+<span class='i0'>(so one wrote)</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>to her who reigns in Paphos;</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Lais who laughed a tyrant over Greece,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Lais who turned the lovers from the porch,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>that swarm for whom now</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Lais has no use;</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>Lais is now no lover of the glass,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>seeing no more the face as once it was,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>wishing to see that face and finding this.</i></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="HELIODORA" id="HELIODORA"></a>HELIODORA</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>He and I sought together,</span>
+<span class='i0'>over the spattered table,</span>
+<span class='i0'>rhymes and flowers,</span>
+<span class='i0'>gifts for a name.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>He said, among others,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I will bring</span>
+<span class='i0'>(and the phrase was just and good,</span>
+<span class='i0'>but not as good as mine)</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the narcissus that loves the rain."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>We strove for a name,</span>
+<span class='i0'>while the light of the lamps burnt thin</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the outer dawn came in,</span>
+<span class='i0'>a ghost, the last at the feast</span>
+<span class='i0'>or the first,</span>
+<span class='i0'>to sit within</span>
+<span class='i0'>with the two that remained</span>
+<span class='i0'>to quibble in flowers and verse</span>
+<span class='i0'>over a girl's name.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>He said, "the rain loving,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>I said, "the narcissus, drunk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>drunk with the rain."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Yet I had lost</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>for he said,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the rose, the lover's gift,</span>
+<span class='i0'>is loved of love,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>he said it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"loved of love;"</span>
+<span class='i0'>I waited, even as he spoke,</span>
+<span class='i0'>to see the room filled with a light,</span>
+<span class='i0'>as when in winter</span>
+<span class='i0'>the embers catch in a wind</span>
+<span class='i0'>when a room is dank:</span>
+<span class='i0'>so it would be filled, I thought,</span>
+<span class='i0'>our room with a light</span>
+<span class='i0'>when he said</span>
+<span class='i0'>(and he said it first)</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the rose, the lover's delight,</span>
+<span class='i0'>is loved of love,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>but the light was the same.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Then he caught,</span>
+<span class='i0'>seeing the fire in my eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>my fire, my fever, perhaps,</span>
+<span class='i0'>for he leaned</span>
+<span class='i0'>with the purple wine</span>
+<span class='i0'>stained in his sleeve,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and said this:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Did you ever think</span>
+<span class='i0'>a girl's mouth</span>
+<span class='i0'>caught in a kiss</span>
+<span class='i0'>is a lily that laughs?"</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I had not.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>I saw it now</span>
+<span class='i0'>as men must see it forever afterwards;</span>
+<span class='i0'>no poet could write again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the red-lily,</span>
+<span class='i0'>a girl's laugh caught in a kiss;"</span>
+<span class='i0'>it was his to pour in the vat</span>
+<span class='i0'>from which all poets dip and quaff,</span>
+<span class='i0'>for poets are brothers in this.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>So I saw the fire in his eyes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>it was almost my fire</span>
+<span class='i0'>(he was younger)</span>
+<span class='i0'>I saw the face so white;</span>
+<span class='i0'>my heart beat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>it was almost my phrase,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I said, "surprise the muses,</span>
+<span class='i0'>take them by surprise;</span>
+<span class='i0'>it is late,</span>
+<span class='i0'>rather it is dawn-rise,</span>
+<span class='i0'>those ladies sleep, the nine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>our own king's mistresses."</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>A name to rhyme,</span>
+<span class='i0'>flowers to bring to a name,</span>
+<span class='i0'>what was one girl faint and shy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>with eyes like the myrtle</span>
+<span class='i0'>(I said: "her underlids</span>
+<span class='i0'>are rather like myrtle"),</span>
+<span class='i0'>to vie with the nine?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Let him take the name,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>he had the rhymes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the rose, loved of love,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the lily, a mouth that laughs,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>he had the gift,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"the scented crocus,</span>
+<span class='i0'>the purple hyacinth,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>what was one girl to the nine?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>He said:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"I will make her a wreath;"</span>
+<span class='i0'>he said:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"I will write it thus:</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>'I will bring you the lily that laughs,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>I will twine</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>with soft narcissus, the myrtle,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>sweet crocus, white violet,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>the purple hyacinth and, last,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>the rose, loved of love,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>that these may drip on your hair</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>the less soft flowers,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>may mingle sweet with the sweet</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>of Heliodora's locks,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>myrrh-curled.'</i>"</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>(He wrote myrrh-curled,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I think, the first.)</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I said:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"they sleep, the nine,"</span>
+<span class='i0'>when he shouted swift and passionate:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"<i>that</i> for the nine!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Above the mountains</span>
+<span class='i0'>the sun is about to wake,</span>
+<span class='i0'><i>and to-day white violets</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>shine beside white lilies</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>adrift on the mountain side;</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>to-day the narcissus opens</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>that loves the rain.</i>"</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I watched him to the door,</span>
+<span class='i0'>catching his robe</span>
+<span class='i0'>as the wine-bowl crashed to the floor,</span>
+<span class='i0'>spilling a few wet lees</span>
+<span class='i0'>(ah, his purple hyacinth!);</span>
+<span class='i0'>I saw him out of the door,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I thought:</span>
+<span class='i0'>there will never be a poet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>in all the centuries after this,</span>
+<span class='i0'>who will dare write,</span>
+<span class='i0'>after my friend's verse,</span>
+<span class='i0'>"a girl's mouth</span>
+<span class='i0'>is a lily kissed."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="TOWARD_THE_PIRAEUS" id="TOWARD_THE_PIRAEUS"></a>TOWARD THE PIR&AElig;US</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Slay with your eyes, Greek,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>men over the face of the earth,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>slay with your eyes, the host,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>puny, passionless, weak.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Break, as the ranks of steel</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>broke of the Persian host:</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>craven, we hated them then:</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>now we would count them Gods</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>beside these, spawn of the earth.</i></span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'><i>Grant us your mantle, Greek;</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>grant us but one</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>to fright (as your eyes) with a sword,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>men, craven and weak,</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>grant us but one to strike</i></span>
+<span class='i0'><i>one blow for you, passionate Greek.</i></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>I</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>You would have broken my wings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>but the very fact that you knew</span>
+<span class='i0'>I had wings, set some seal</span>
+<span class='i0'>on my bitter heart, my heart</span>
+<span class='i0'>broke and fluttered and sang.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>You would have snared me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and scattered the strands of my nest;</span>
+<span class='i0'>but the very fact that you saw,</span>
+<span class='i0'>sheltered me, claimed me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>set me apart from the rest.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Of men&mdash;of <i>men</i> made you a god,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and me, claimed me, set me apart</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the song in my breast, yours, yours forever&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>if I escape your evil heart.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>II</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I loved you:</span>
+<span class='i0'>men have writ and women have said</span>
+<span class='i0'>they loved,</span>
+<span class='i0'>but as the Pythoness stands by the altar,</span>
+<span class='i0'>intense and may not move;</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>till the fumes pass over;</span>
+<span class='i0'>and may not falter nor break,</span>
+<span class='i0'>till the priest has caught the words</span>
+<span class='i0'>that mar or make</span>
+<span class='i0'>a deme or a ravaged town;</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>so I, though my knees tremble,</span>
+<span class='i0'>my heart break,</span>
+<span class='i0'>must note the rumbling,</span>
+<span class='i0'>heed only the shuddering</span>
+<span class='i0'>down in the fissure beneath the rock</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the temple floor;</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>must wait and watch</span>
+<span class='i0'>and may not turn nor move,</span>
+<span class='i0'>nor break from my trance to speak</span>
+<span class='i0'>so slight, so sweet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>so simple a word as love.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>III</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What had you done</span>
+<span class='i0'>had you been true,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I can not think,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I may not know.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What could we do</span>
+<span class='i0'>were I not wise,</span>
+<span class='i0'>what play invent,</span>
+<span class='i0'>what joy devise?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What could we do</span>
+<span class='i0'>if you were great?</span>
+<span class='i0'>(Yet were you lost,</span>
+<span class='i0'>who were there, then,</span>
+<span class='i0'>to circumvent</span>
+<span class='i0'>the tricks of men?)</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What can we do,</span>
+<span class='i0'>for curious lies</span>
+<span class='i0'>have filled your heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and in my eyes</span>
+<span class='i0'>sorrow has writ</span>
+<span class='i0'>that I am wise.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>If I had been a boy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I would have worshiped your grace,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I would have flung my worship</span>
+<span class='i0'>before your feet,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I would have followed apart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>glad, rent with an ecstasy</span>
+<span class='i0'>to watch you turn</span>
+<span class='i0'>your great head, set on the throat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>thick, dark with its sinews,</span>
+<span class='i0'>burned and wrought</span>
+<span class='i0'>like the olive stalk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the noble chin</span>
+<span class='i0'>and the throat.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I would have stood,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and watched and watched</span>
+<span class='i0'>and burned,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and when in the night,</span>
+<span class='i0'>from the many hosts, your slaves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and warriors and serving men</span>
+<span class='i0'>you had turned</span>
+<span class='i0'>to the purple couch and the flame</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the woman, tall like cypress tree</span>
+<span class='i0'>that flames sudden and swift and free</span>
+<span class='i0'>as with crackle of golden resin</span>
+<span class='i0'>and cones and the locks flung free</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>like the cypress limbs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>bound, caught and shaken and loosed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>bound, caught and riven and bound</span>
+<span class='i0'>and loosened again,</span>
+<span class='i0'>as in rain of a kingly storm</span>
+<span class='i0'>or wind full from a desert plain.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>So, when you had risen</span>
+<span class='i0'>from all the lethargy of love and its heat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>you would have summoned me, me alone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>and found my hands,</span>
+<span class='i0'>beyond all the hands in the world,</span>
+<span class='i0'>cold, cold, cold,</span>
+<span class='i0'>intolerably cold and sweet.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>V</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was not chastity that made me cold nor fear,</span>
+<span class='i0'>only I knew that you, like myself, were sick</span>
+<span class='i0'>of the puny race that crawls and quibbles and lisps</span>
+<span class='i0'>of love and love and lovers and love's deceit.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>It was not chastity that made me wild but fear</span>
+<span class='i0'>that my weapon, tempered in different heat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>was over-matched by yours, and your hand</span>
+<span class='i0'>skilled to yield death-blows, might break.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>With the slightest turn&mdash;no ill-will meant&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>my own lesser, yet still somewhat fine-wrought</span>
+<span class='i0'>fiery-tempered, delicate, over-passionate steel.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="CONRAD_AIKEN" id="CONRAD_AIKEN"></a>CONRAD AIKEN</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="SEVEN_TWILIGHTS" id="SEVEN_TWILIGHTS"></a>SEVEN TWILIGHTS</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>I</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>The ragged pilgrim, on the road to nowhere,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Waits at the granite milestone. It grows dark.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Willows lean by the water. Pleas of water</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cry through the trees. And on the boles and boughs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Green water-lights make rings, already paling.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Leaves speak everywhere. The willow leaves</span>
+<span class='i0'>Silverly stir on the breath of moving water,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Birch-leaves, beyond them, twinkle, and there on the hill,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the hills beyond again, and the highest hill,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Serrated pines, in the dusk, grow almost black.</span>
+<span class='i0'>By the eighth milestone on the road to nowhere</span>
+<span class='i0'>He drops his sack, and lights once more the pipe</span>
+<span class='i0'>There often lighted. In the dusk-sharpened sky</span>
+<span class='i0'>A pair of night-hawks windily sweep, or fall,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Booming, toward the trees. Thus had it been</span>
+<span class='i0'>Last year, and the year before, and many years:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ever the same. "Thus turns the human track</span>
+<span class='i0'>Backward upon itself, I stand once more</span>
+<span class='i0'>By this small stream..." Now the rich sound of leaves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Turning in air to sway their heavy boughs,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Burns in his heart, sings in his veins, as spring</span>
+<span class='i0'>Flowers in veins of trees; bringing such peace</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>As comes to seamen when they dream of seas.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"O trees! exquisite dancers in gray twilight!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Witches! fairies! elves! who wait for the moon</span>
+<span class='i0'>To thrust her golden horn, like a golden snail,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above that mountain&mdash;arch your green benediction</span>
+<span class='i0'>Once more over my heart. Muffle the sound of bells,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mournfully human, that cries from the darkening valley;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Close, with your leaves, about the sound of water:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Take me among your hearts as you take the mist</span>
+<span class='i0'>Among your boughs!" ... Now by the granite milestone,</span>
+<span class='i0'>On the ancient human road that winds to nowhere,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The pilgrim listens, as the night air brings</span>
+<span class='i0'>The murmured echo, perpetual, from the gorge</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of barren rock far down the valley. Now,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Though twilight here, it may be starlight there;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mist makes elfin lakes in the hollow fields;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The dark wood stands in the mist like a somber island</span>
+<span class='i0'>With one red star above it.... "This I should see,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Should I go on, follow the falling road,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>This I have often seen.... But I shall stay</span>
+<span class='i0'>Here, where the ancient milestone, like a watchman,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lifts up its figure eight, its one gray knowledge,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Into the twilight; as a watchman lifts</span>
+<span class='i0'>A lantern, which he does not know is out."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>II</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Now by the wall of the ancient town I lean</span>
+<span class='i0'>Myself, like ancient wall and dust and sky,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the purple dusk, grown old, grown old in heart.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shadows of clouds flow inward from the sea.</span>
+<span class='i0'>The mottled fields grow dark. The golden wall</span>
+<span class='i0'>Grows gray again, turns stone again, the tower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>No longer kindled, darkens against a cloud.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Old is the world, old as the world am I;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The cries of sheep rise upward from the fields,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forlorn and strange; and wake an ancient echo</span>
+<span class='i0'>In fields my heart has known, but has not seen.</span>
+<span class='i0'>"These fields"&mdash;an unknown voice beyond the wall</span>
+<span class='i0'>Murmurs&mdash;"were once the province of the sea.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Where now the sheep graze, mermaids were at play,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sea-horses galloped, and the great jeweled tortoise</span>
+<span class='i0'>Walked slowly, looking upward at the waves,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bearing upon his back a thousand barnacles,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A white acropolis ..." The ancient tower</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sends out, above the houses and the trees,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the wide fields below the ancient walls,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A measured phrase of bells. And in the silence</span>
+<span class='i0'>I hear a woman's voice make answer then:</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Well, they are green, although no ship can sail them....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Sky-larks rest in the grass, and start up singing</span>
+<span class='i0'>Before the girl who stoops to pick sea-poppies.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Spiny, the poppies are, and oh how yellow!</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the brown clay is runneled by the rain...."</span>
+<span class='i0'>A moment since, the sheep that crop the grass</span>
+<span class='i0'>Had long blue shadows, and the grass-tips sparkled:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Now all grows old.... O voices strangely speaking,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Voices of man and woman, voices of bells,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Diversely making comment on our time</span>
+<span class='i0'>Which flows and bears us with it into dusk,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Repeat the things you say! Repeat them slowly</span>
+<span class='i0'>Upon this air, make them an incantation</span>
+<span class='i0'>For ancient tower, old wall, the purple twilight,</span>
+<span class='i0'>This dust, and me. But all I hear is silence,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And something that may be leaves or may be sea.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>III</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When the tree bares, the music of it changes:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hard and keen is the sound, long and mournful;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pale are the poplar boughs in the evening light</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above my house, against a slate-cold cloud.</span>
+<span class='i0'>When the house ages and the tenants leave it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cricket sings in the tall grass by the threshold;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Spider, by the cold mantel, hangs his web.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Here, in a hundred years from that clear season</span>
+<span class='i0'>When first I came here, bearing lights and music,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To this old ghostly house my ghost will come,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pause in the half-light, turn by the poplar, glide</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above tall grasses through the broken door.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who will say that he saw&mdash;or the dusk deceived him&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>A mist with hands of mist blow down from the tree</span>
+<span class='i0'>And open the door and enter and close it after?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who will say that he saw, as midnight struck</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its tremulous golden twelve, a light in the window,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And first heard music, as of an old piano,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Music remote, as if it came from the earth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Far down; and then, in the quiet, eager voices?</span>
+<span class='i0'>"... Houses grow old and die, houses have ghosts&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Once in a hundred years we return, old house,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And live once more." ... And then the ancient answer,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>In a voice not human, but more like creak of boards</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or rattle of panes in the wind&mdash;"Not as the owner,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But as a guest you come, to fires not lit</span>
+<span class='i0'>By hands of yours.... Through these long-silent chambers</span>
+<span class='i0'>Move slowly, turn, return, and bring once more</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your lights and music. It will be good to talk."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>"This is the hour," she said, "of transmutation:</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is the eucharist of the evening, changing</span>
+<span class='i0'>All things to beauty. Now the ancient river,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That all day under the arch was polished jade,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Becomes the ghost of a river, thinly gleaming</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under a silver cloud.... It is not water:</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is that azure stream in which the stars</span>
+<span class='i0'>Bathe at the daybreak, and become immortal...."</span>
+<span class='i0'>"And the moon," said I&mdash;not thus to be outdone&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>"What of the moon? Over the dusty plane-trees</span>
+<span class='i0'>Which crouch in the dusk above their feeble lanterns,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Each coldly lighted by his tiny faith;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The moon, the waxen moon, now almost full,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Creeps whitely up.... Westward the waves of cloud,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Vermilion, crimson, violet, stream on the air,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shatter to golden flakes in the icy green</span>
+<span class='i0'>Translucency of twilight.... And the moon</span>
+<span class='i0'>Drinks up their light, and as they fade or darken,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Brightens.... O monstrous miracle of the twilight,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That one should live because the others die!"</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Strange too," she answered, "that upon this azure</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pale-gleaming ghostly stream, impalpable&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>So faint, so fine that scarcely it bears up</span>
+<span class='i0'>The petals that the lantern strews upon it,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>These great black barges float like apparitions,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Loom in the silver of it, beat upon it,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Moving upon it as dragons move on air."</span>
+<span class='i0'>"Thus always," then I answered,&mdash;looking never</span>
+<span class='i0'>Toward her face, so beautiful and strange</span>
+<span class='i0'>It grew, with feeding on the evening light,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>"The gross is given, by inscrutable God,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Power to beat wide wings upon the subtle.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Thus we ourselves, so fleshly, fallible, mortal,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Stand here, for all our foolishness, transfigured:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hung over nothing in an arch of light</span>
+<span class='i0'>While one more evening like a wave of silence</span>
+<span class='i0'>Gathers the stars together and goes out."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>V</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Against the ice-white wall of light in the west</span>
+<span class='i0'>Skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Mount upward past my window; swoop again;</span>
+<span class='i0'>In a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls</span>
+<span class='i0'>The first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Doom and dusk for the earth! Upward I reach</span>
+<span class='i0'>To draw chill curtains and shut out the dark,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pausing an instant, with uplifted hand,</span>
+<span class='i0'>To watch, between black ruined portals of cloud,</span>
+<span class='i0'>One star,&mdash;the tottering portals fall and crush it.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Here are a thousand books! here is the wisdom</span>
+<span class='i0'>Alembicked out of dust, or out of nothing;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Choose now the weightiest word, most golden page,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Most somberly musicked line; hold up these lanterns,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>These paltry lanterns, wisdoms, philosophies,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Above your eyes, against this wall of darkness;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And you'll see&mdash;what? One hanging strand of cobweb,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A window-sill a half-inch deep in dust ...</span>
+<span class='i0'>Speak out, old wise-men! Now, if ever, we need you.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cry loudly, lift shrill voices like magicians</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Against this baleful dusk, this wail of rain....</span>
+<span class='i0'>But you are nothing! Your pages turn to water</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under my fingers: cold, cold and gleaming,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Arrowy in the darkness, rippling, dripping&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>All things are rain.... Myself, this lighted room,</span>
+<span class='i0'>What are we but a murmurous pool of rain?...</span>
+<span class='i0'>The slow arpeggios of it, liquid, sibilant,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Thrill and thrill in the dark. World-deep I lie</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under a sky of rain. Thus lies the sea-shell</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under the rustling twilight of the sea;</span>
+<span class='i0'>No gods remember it, no understanding</span>
+<span class='i0'>Cleaves the long darkness with a sword of light.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Heaven, you say, will be a field in April,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A friendly field, a long green wave of earth,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With one domed cloud above it. There you'll lie</span>
+<span class='i0'>In noon's delight, with bees to flash above you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Drown amid buttercups that blaze in the wind,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forgetting all save beauty. There you'll see</span>
+<span class='i0'>With sun-filled eyes your one great dome of cloud</span>
+<span class='i0'>Adding fantastic towers and spires of light,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Ascending, like a ghost, to melt in the blue.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Heaven enough, in truth, if you were there!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Could I be with you I would choose your noon,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Drown amid buttercups, laugh with the intimate grass,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dream there forever.... But, being older, sadder,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Having not you, nor aught save thought of you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>It is not spring I'll choose, but fading summer;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Not noon I'll choose, but the charmed hour of dusk.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Poppies? A few! And a moon almost as red....</span>
+<span class='i0'>But most I'll choose that subtler dusk that comes</span>
+<span class='i0'>Into the mind&mdash;into the heart, you say&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>When, as we look bewildered at lovely things,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Striving to give their loveliness a name,</span>
+<span class='i0'>They are forgotten; and other things, remembered,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Flower in the heart with the fragrance we call grief.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>In the long silence of the sea, the seaman</span>
+<span class='i0'>Strikes twice his bell of bronze. The short note wavers</span>
+<span class='i0'>And loses itself in the blue realm of water.</span>
+<span class='i0'>One sea-gull, paired with a shadow, wheels, wheels;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Circles the lonely ship by wave and trough;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lets down his feet, strikes at the breaking water,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Draws up his golden feet, beats wings, and rises</span>
+<span class='i0'>Over the mast.... Light from a crimson cloud</span>
+<span class='i0'>Crimsons the sluggishly creeping foams of waves;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The seaman, poised in the bow, rises and falls</span>
+<span class='i0'>As the deep forefoot finds a way through waves;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And there below him, steadily gazing westward,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Facing the wind, the sunset, the long cloud,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The goddess of the ship, proud figurehead,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Smiles inscrutably, plunges to crying waters,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Emerges streaming, gleaming, with jewels falling</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fierily from carved wings and golden breasts;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Steadily glides a moment, then swoops again.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Carved by the hand of man, grieved by the wind;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Worn by the tumult of all the tragic seas,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Yet smiling still, unchanging, smiling still</span>
+<span class='i0'>Inscrutably, with calm eyes and golden brow&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>What is it that she sees and follows always,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Beyond the molten and ruined west, beyond</span>
+<span class='i0'>The light-rimmed sea, the sky itself? What secret</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Gives wisdom to her purpose? Now the cloud</span>
+<span class='i0'>In final conflagration pales and crumbles</span>
+<span class='i0'>Into the darkening waters. Now the stars</span>
+<span class='i0'>Burn softly through the dusk. The seaman strikes</span>
+<span class='i0'>His small lost bell again, watching the west</span>
+<span class='i0'>As she below him watches.... O pale goddess</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whom not the darkness, even, or rain or storm,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Changes; whose great wings are bright with foam,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whose breasts are cold as the sea, whose eyes forever</span>
+<span class='i0'>Inscrutably take that light whereon they look&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Speak to us! Make us certain, as you are,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That somewhere, beyond wave and wave and wave,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That dreamed-of harbor lies which we would find.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="TETELESTAI" id="TETELESTAI"></a>TET&Eacute;LESTAI</h2>
+
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>I</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>How shall we praise the magnificence of the dead,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The great man humbled, the haughty brought to dust?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is there a horn we should not blow as proudly</span>
+<span class='i0'>For the meanest of us all, who creeps his days,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Guarding his heart from blows, to die obscurely?</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am no king, have laid no kingdoms waste,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Taken no princes captive, led no triumphs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of weeping women through long walls of trumpets;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say rather I am no one, or an atom;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say rather, two great gods in a vault of starlight</span>
+<span class='i0'>Play ponderingly at chess; and at the game's end</span>
+<span class='i0'>One of the pieces, shaken, falls to the floor</span>
+<span class='i0'>And runs to the darkest corner; and that piece</span>
+<span class='i0'>Forgotten there, left motionless, is I....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say that I have no name, no gifts, no power,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Am only one of millions, mostly silent;</span>
+<span class='i0'>One who came with lips and hands and a heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Looked on beauty, and loved it, and then left it.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say that the fates of time and space obscured me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Led me a thousand ways to pain, bemused me,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Wrapped me in ugliness; and like great spiders</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Dispatched me at their leisure.... Well, what then?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Should I not hear, as I lie down in dust,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The horns of glory blowing above my burial?</span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>II</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Morning and evening opened and closed above me:</span>
+<span class='i0'>Houses were built above me; trees let fall</span>
+<span class='i0'>Yellowing leaves upon me, hands of ghosts,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Rain has showered its arrows of silver upon me</span>
+<span class='i0'>Seeking my heart; winds have roared and tossed me;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Music in long blue waves of sound has borne me</span>
+<span class='i0'>A helpless weed to shores of unthought silence;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Time, above me, within me, crashed its gongs</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of terrible warning, sifting the dust of death;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And here I lie. Blow now your horns of glory</span>
+<span class='i0'>Harshly over my flesh, you trees, you waters!</span>
+<span class='i0'>You stars and suns, Canopus, Deneb, Rigel,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let me, as I lie down, here in this dust,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hear, far off, your whispered salutation!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Roar now above my decaying flesh, you winds,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whirl out your earth-scents over this body, tell me</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of ferns and stagnant pools, wild roses, hillsides!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Anoint me, rain, let crash your silver arrows</span>
+<span class='i0'>On this hard flesh! I am the one who named you,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I lived in you, and now I die in you.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I, your son, your daughter, treader of music,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Lie broken, conquered.... Let me not fall in silence.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>III</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I, the restless one; the circler of circles;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Herdsman and roper of stars, who could not capture</span>
+<span class='i0'>The secret of self; I who was tyrant to weaklings,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Striker of children; destroyer of women; corrupter</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of innocent dreamers, and laugher at beauty; I,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Too easily brought to tears and weakness by music,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Baffled and broken by love, the helpless beholder</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of the war in my heart of desire with desire, the struggle</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of hatred with love, terror with hunger; I</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who laughed without knowing the cause of my laughter, who grew</span>
+<span class='i0'>Without wishing to grow, a servant to my own body;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Loved without reason the laughter and flesh of a woman,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Enduring such torments to find her! I who at last</span>
+<span class='i0'>Grow weaker, struggle more feebly, relent in my purpose,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Choose for my triumph an easier end, look backward</span>
+<span class='i0'>At earlier conquests; or, caught in the web, cry out</span>
+<span class='i0'>In a sudden and empty despair, "Tet&eacute;lestai!"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Pity me, now! I, who was arrogant, beg you!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Tell me, as I lie down, that I was courageous.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Blow horns of victory now, as I reel and am vanquished.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shatter the sky with trumpets above my grave.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>... Look! this flesh how it crumbles to dust and is blown!</span>
+<span class='i0'>These bones, how they grind in the granite of frost and are nothing!</span>
+<span class='i0'>This skull, how it yawns for a flicker of time in the darkness</span>
+<span class='i0'>Yet laughs not and sees not! It is crushed by a hammer of sunlight,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And the hands are destroyed.... Press down through the leaves of the jasmine,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dig through the interlaced roots&mdash;nevermore will you find me;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me....</span>
+<span class='i0'>Take the soft dust in your hand&mdash;does it stir: does it sing?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble</span>
+<span class='i0'>In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?...</span>
+<span class='i0'>Listen!... It says: "I lean by the river. The willows</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
+<span class='i0'>Are yellowed with bud. White clouds roar up from the south</span>
+<span class='i0'>And darken the ripples; but they cannot darken my heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Nor the face like a star in my heart!... Rain falls on the water</span>
+<span class='i0'>And pelts it, and rings it with silver. The willow trees glisten,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The sparrows chirp under the eaves; but the face in my heart</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is a secret of music.... I wait in the rain and am silent."</span>
+<span class='i0'>Listen again!... It says: "I have worked, I am tired,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The pencil dulls in my hand: I see through the window</span>
+<span class='i0'>Walls upon walls of windows with faces behind them,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Smoke floating up to the sky, an ascension of seagulls.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am tired. I have struggled in vain, my decision was fruitless,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Why then do I wait? with darkness, so easy, at hand!...</span>
+<span class='i0'>But to-morrow, perhaps.... I will wait and endure till to-morrow!..."</span>
+<span class='i0'>Or again: "It is dark. The decision is made. I am vanquished</span>
+<span class='i0'>By terror of life. The walls mount slowly about me</span>
+<span class='i0'>In coldness. I had not the courage. I was forsaken.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I cried out, was answered by silence.... Tet&eacute;lestai!..."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>V</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Hear how it babbles!&mdash;Blow the dust out of your hand,</span>
+<span class='i0'>With its voices and visions, tread on it, forget it, turn homeward</span>
+<span class='i0'>With dreams in your brain.... This, then, is the humble, the nameless,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The lover, the husband and father, the struggler with shadows,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The one who went down under shoutings of chaos! The weakling</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who cried his "forsaken!" like Christ on the darkening hilltop!...</span>
+<span class='i0'>This, then, is the one who implores, as he dwindles to silence,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A fanfare of glory.... And which of us dares to deny him!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="EDNA_ST_VINCENT_MILLAY" id="EDNA_ST_VINCENT_MILLAY"></a>EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="EIGHT_SONNETS" id="EIGHT_SONNETS"></a>EIGHT SONNETS</h2>
+
+<table summary='poem'>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>I</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>When you, that at this moment are to me</span>
+<span class='i0'>Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And be no more the warder of my heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Whereof again myself shall hold the key;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And be no more, what now you seem to be,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The sun, from which all excellencies start</span>
+<span class='i0'>In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I shall remember only of this hour&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>The pathos of your love, that, like a flower,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>II</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What's this of death, from you who never will die?</span>
+<span class='i0'>Think you the wrist that fashioned you in clay,</span>
+<span class='i0'>The thumb that set the hollow just that way</span>
+<span class='i0'>In your full throat and lidded the long eye</span>
+<span class='i0'>So roundly from the forehead, will let lie</span>
+<span class='i0'>Broken, forgotten, under foot some day</span>
+<span class='i0'>Your unimpeachable body, and so slay</span>
+<span class='i0'>The work he most had been remembered by?</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I tell you this: whatever of dust to dust</span>
+<span class='i0'>Goes down, whatever of ashes may return</span>
+<span class='i0'>To its essential self in its own season,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Loveliness such as yours will not be lost,</span>
+<span class='i0'>But, cast in bronze upon his very urn,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Make known him Master, and for what good reason.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>III</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I know I am but summer to your heart,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And not the full four seasons of the year;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And you must welcome from another part</span>
+<span class='i0'>Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.</span>
+<span class='i0'>No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell</span>
+<span class='i0'>Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And I have loved you all too long and well</span>
+<span class='i0'>To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That you may hail anew the bird and rose</span>
+<span class='i0'>When I come back to you, as summer comes.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Else will you seek, at some not distant time,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Even your summer in another clime.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>IV</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Being wrought not of a dearness and a death</span>
+<span class='i0'>But of a love turned ashes and the breath</span>
+<span class='i0'>Gone out of beauty; never again will grow</span>
+<span class='i0'>The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow</span>
+<span class='i0'>Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath</span>
+<span class='i0'>Its friendly weathers down, far underneath</span>
+<span class='i0'>Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>That April should be shattered by a gust,</span>
+<span class='i0'>That August should be leveled by a rain,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I can endure, and that the lifted dust</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of man should settle to the earth again;</span>
+<span class='i0'>But that a dream can die, will be a thrust</span>
+<span class='i0'>Between my ribs forever of hot pain.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>V</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I have forgotten, and what arms have lain</span>
+<span class='i0'>Under my head till morning; but the rain</span>
+<span class='i0'>Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh</span>
+<span class='i0'>Upon the glass and listen for reply;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain,</span>
+<span class='i0'>For unremembered lads that not again</span>
+<span class='i0'>Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:</span>
+<span class='i0'>I cannot say what loves have come and gone;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I only know that summer sang in me</span>
+<span class='i0'>A little while, that in me sings no more.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VI</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And lay them prone upon the earth and cease</span>
+<span class='i0'>To ponder on themselves, the while they stare</span>
+<span class='i0'>At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere</span>
+<span class='i0'>In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese</span>
+<span class='i0'>Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release</span>
+<span class='i0'>From dusty bondage into luminous air.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,</span>
+<span class='i0'>When first the shaft into his vision shone</span>
+<span class='i0'>Of light anatomized! Euclid alone</span>
+<span class='i0'>Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they</span>
+<span class='i0'>Who, though once only and then but far away,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!</span>
+<span class='i0'>Give back my book and take my kiss instead.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Was it my enemy or my friend I heard?&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>"What a big book for such a little head!"</span>
+<span class='i0'>Come, I will show you now my newest hat,</span>
+<span class='i0'>And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Oh, I shall love you still and all of that.</span>
+<span class='i0'>I never again shall tell you what I think.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;</span>
+<span class='i0'>You will not catch me reading any more;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I shall be called a wife to pattern by;</span>
+<span class='i0'>And some day when you knock and push the door,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,</span>
+<span class='i0'>I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='center'><b>VIII</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='poem'>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find</span>
+<span class='i0'>The roots of last year's roses in my breast;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I am as surely riper in my mind</span>
+<span class='i0'>As if the fruit stood in the stalls confessed.</span>
+<span class='i0'>Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Call me in all things what I was before,</span>
+<span class='i0'>A flutterer in the wind, a woman still;</span>
+<span class='i0'>I tell you I am what I was and more.</span>
+</p>
+<p class='stanza'>
+<span class='i0'>My branches weigh me down, frost cleans the air,</span>
+<span class='i0'>My sky is black with small birds bearing south;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Say what you will, confuse me with fine care,</span>
+<span class='i0'>Put by my word as but an April truth,&mdash;</span>
+<span class='i0'>Autumn is no less on me that a rose</span>
+<span class='i0'>Hugs the brown bough and sighs before it goes.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p>
+</td></tr></table>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
+<h2>BIBLIOGRAPHY</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+<h2><a name="BIBLIOGRAPHY" id="BIBLIOGRAPHY"></a>BIBLIOGRAPHY</h2>
+
+<p class='center'>(The following lists include poetical works only)</p>
+
+
+<table summary='bibliography'>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>AMY LOWELL</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>A Dome of Many-Colored Glass</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1912</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Sword Blades and Poppy Seed</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1914</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Men, Women and Ghosts</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Can Grande's Castle</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Pictures of the Floating World</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1919</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Legends</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Fir-Flower Tablets</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>ROBERT FROST</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>A Boy's Will</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1914</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>North of Boston</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1915</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Mountain Interval</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>CARL SANDBURG</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Chicago Poems</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Cornhuskers</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Smoke and Steel</td><td> Harcourt, Brace and Co.</td><td> 1930</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Slabs of the Sunburnt West</td><td> Harcourt, Brace and Co.</td><td> 1922</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>VACHEL LINDSAY</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Rhymes to be Traded for Bread</td><td> Privately Printed; Springfield, Ill.</td><td> 1912</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>General William Booth Enters Into Heaven</td><td> Mitchell Kennerley</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Congo and Other Poems</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1915</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Chinese Nightingale</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Golden Whales of California</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1920
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>JAMES OPPENHEIM</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Monday Morning and Other Poems</td><td> Sturgis &amp; Walton Co.</td><td> 1909</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Songs for the New Age</td><td> The Century Company</td><td> 1914</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>War and Laughter</td><td> The Century Company</td><td> 1915</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Book of Self</td><td> Alfred A. Knopf</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Solitary</td><td> B. W. Huebsch</td><td> 1919</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Mystic Warrior</td><td> Alfred A. Knopf</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>ALFRED KREYMBORG</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Mushrooms</td><td> Alfred A. Knopf</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Plays for Poem-Mimes</td><td> The Others Press</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Plays for Merry Andrews</td><td> The Sunwise Turn</td><td> 1920</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Blood of Things</td><td> Nicholas L. Brown</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>SARA TEASDALE</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Sonnets to Duse</td><td> The Poet Lore Co.</td><td> 1907</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Helen of Troy</td><td> G. P. Putnam's Sons</td><td> 1911</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Rivers to the Sea</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1915</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Love Songs</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Flame and Shadow</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1920</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>LOUIS UNTERMEYER</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Younger Quire</td><td> Moods Publishing Co.</td><td> 1911</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>First Love</td><td> Sherman French &amp; Co.</td><td> 1911</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Challenge</td><td> The Century Company</td><td> 1914</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>"&mdash;and Other Poets"</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Poems of Heinrich Heine</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>These Times</td><td> Henry Holt and Company</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Including Horace</td><td> Harcourt, Brace and Co.</td><td> 1919</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The New Adam</td><td> Harcourt, Brace and Co.</td><td> 1920</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Heavens</td><td> Harcourt, Brace and Co.</td><td> 1922</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>JOHN GOULD FLETCHER</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Fire and Wine</td><td> Grant Richards (London)</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Dominant City</td><td> Max Goschen (London)</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Fool's Gold</td><td> Max Goschen (London)</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Book of Nature</td><td> Constable &amp; Co. (London)</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Visions of the Evening</td><td> Erskine Macdonald (London)</td><td> 1913</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Irradiations</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1915</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Goblins and Pagodas</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Japanese Prints</td><td> The Four Seas Company</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Tree of Life</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1919</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Breakers and Granite</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1921
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Growing Pains</td><td> B. W. Huebsch</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Dreams Out of Darkness</td><td> B. W. Huebsch</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>H. D.</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Sea Garden</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Hymen</td><td> Henry Holt and Co.</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>CONRAD AIKEN</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Earth Triumphant</td><td> The Macmillan Company</td><td> 1914</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Turns and Movies</td><td> Houghton Mifflin Co.</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Jig of Forslin</td><td> The Four Seas Company</td><td> 1916</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Nocturne of Remembered Spring</td><td> The Four Seas Company</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Charnel Rose</td><td> The Four Seas Company</td><td> 1918</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The House of Dust</td><td> The Four Seas Company</td><td> 1920</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Punch: the Immortal Liar</td><td> Alfred A. Knopf</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td><p style='margin-bottom: 0em;'>EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY</p></td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Renascence</td><td> Mitchell Kennerley</td><td> 1917</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>A Few Figs from Thistles</td><td> Frank Shay</td><td> 1920</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>The Lamp and the Bell</td><td> Frank Shay</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Aria Da Capo</td><td> Mitchell Kennerley</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+<tr><td class='indent'>Second April</td><td> Mitchell Kennerley</td><td> 1921</td></tr>
+</table>
+
+<div class="trans-note">
+<p>Transcriber's note:</p>
+
+<p>Pages which were blank in the original are not shown in this etext.</p>
+
+
+      </div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of American Poetry, 1922, by 
+Edna St. Vincent Millay and Robert Frost
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+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
+
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