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ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

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In spite of all the laws you've made,
I'm free. I am no part of you.
But wait-the last word is not said;
You're mine, for I'm myself and you.

All through my veins there flows your blood,
In you there is no part of me.
By virtue of my motherhood
Through me you live eternally.

MARIE TUDOR

PITY

Oh do not Pity me because I gave
My heart when lovely April with a gust,
Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave;
And do not pity me because I thrust
Aside your love that once burned as a flame.
I was as thirsty as a windy flower
That bares its bosom to the summer shower
And to the unremembered winds that came.
Pity me most for moments yet to be,
In the far years, when some day I shall turn
Toward this strong path up to our little door
And find it barred to all my ecstasy.
No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne-
Only the crying sea upon the shore.

HAROLD VINAL

A ROSE TO THE LIVING

A ROSE to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;
In filling love's infinite store,
A rose to the living is more,
If graciously given before
The hungering spirit is fled,-
A rose to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

NIXON WATERMAN

THE STORM

SHE reached for sunset fires,
And lived with stars and the sea,
The mountains for her temple,
The storm for priest had she.

Together a libation
They poured to the God she knew,
Such wine as ageless heavens
And lonely wisdom brew.

Now she has done with worship,
For her all rites are the same;
Yet the storm keeps green forever
The moss upon her name.

G. O. WARREN

WHERE THEY SLEEP

THE fog inrolling, dark and still
Lies deep upon the crowded dead
As flooding sea upon the sands,
And quenches starlight overhead.

Long have they slept. Their separate dust
Has mingled with a nameless mould.
Only the slower-crumbling stones
Still tell so much as may be told.

And now in shoreless fog adrift
Like some lone mariner gliding by,
I lean above the drowning graves
And wonder when I too shall lie

Where evermore the tides of night
And earth will hide my lonely rest;
And Time will bid my love forget
To read the stone upon my breast.

G. O. WARREN

BEAUTY

NOT flesh alone am I, when I can be
So swiftly caught in Beauty's shimmering
thread
Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me,
With their frail strength my following heart have
led.

Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind,
When, watching by lone twilight waters' brim
I tremblingly decipher, as they wind,
Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim.

So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring
To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist,
Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring,
That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst.

G. O. WARREN

COMRADES

WHERE are the friends that I knew in my
Maying,
In the days of my youth, in the first of my
roaming?
We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went
straying;
Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!--
Where is he now, the dark boy slender
Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins?
I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender
Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter,
Softer than love, in his turbulent charms;
Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter,
And gather me up in his boyhood arms;
Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding,
Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war;
Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding,
Biding, biding--but he rides far!

O love that passes the love of woman!
Who that hath felt it shall ever forget
When the breath of life with a throb turns human,
And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set?
Ever, forever, lover and rover--
They shall cling, nor each from other shall part
Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be 'over,
And life is dust in each faithful heart.

They are dead, the American grasses under;
There is no one now who presses my side;
By the African chotts I am riding asunder,
And with great joy ride I the last great ride.
I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying;
Thousands of miles there is no one near;
And my heart--all the night it is crying, crying
In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.

Hearts of my music--them dark earth covers;
Comrades to die, and to die for, were they;
In the width of the world there were no such rovers--
Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay;
And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished,
To spur forth from the crowd and come back
never more,
And to ride in the track of great souls perished
Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er.

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands,
Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade,
And one, far faring o'er orient islands
Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade;
North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing,
Last love to the breasts where my own has bled;
Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing
My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY

THE FLIGHT

I

O WILD HEART, track the land's perfume,
Beach-roses and moor-heather!
All fragrances of herb and bloom
Fail, out at sea, together.
O follow where aloft find room
Lark-song and eagle-feather!
All ecstasies of throat and plume
Melt, high on yon blue weather.

O leave on sky and ocean lost
The flight creation dareth;
Take wings of love, that mounts the most:
Find fame, that furthest fareth!
Thy flight, albeit amid her host
Thee, too, night star-like beareth,
Flying, thy breast on heaven's coast,
The infinite outweareth.

II

"Dead o'er us roll celestial fires;
Mute stand Earth's ancient beaches;
Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires,
The passing hour outreaches;
The soul creative never tires--
Evokes, adcres, beseeches;
And that heart most the god inspires
Whom most its wildness teaches.

"For I will course through falling years
And stars and cities burning;
And I will march through dying cheers
Past empires unreturning;
Ever the world flame reappears
Where mankind power is earning,
The nations' hopes, the people's tears,
One with the wild heart yearning.

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY

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