Under the selfsame yoke:
Babies with bare knees plump and round And stooping women folk.
MARIE LOUISE HERSEY
WREATHS
RED wreaths
Hang in my neighbor’s window,
Green wreaths in my own.
On this day I lost my husband.
On this day you lost your boy.
On this day
Christ was born.
Red wreaths,
Green wreaths
Hang in Our Windows
Red for a bleeding heart,
Green for grave grass.
Mary, mother of Jesus,
Look down and comfort us.
You too knew passion;
You too knew pain.
Comfort us,
Who are not brides of God,
Nor bore God.
On Christmas day
Hang wreaths,
Red for new pain.
Green for spent passion.
CAROLYN HILLMAN
MEMPHIS
WHY should I sing of my present? It is noth- ing to me or you,
Rather I’d dream of Dixie and tie ships on the old bayou!
Rather I’d dream of my packets and the lazy river days,
Rather I’d dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze,
Rather I’d dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by,
Rather I’d dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky,
Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade, Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers’ fathers made!
Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me,
But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea!
Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain.
Send me back my river, and I shall wake again!
GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN
SAINT COLUMBKILLE
COLUMBKILLE! Saint Columbkille!
You naughty man, Saint Columbkille! Why did you Finnian’s Psalter take
And secretly a copy make?
You know ’twas such a naughty thing For one descended from a king
To lock himself into a cell,
‘Twas far from right,-you knew it well,- And copy Finnian’s Psalter through,
Against his will as well you knew.
And then to think a common bird
Should feel such shame, that when he heard The breathing spy outside your door,
And felt your sainthood was no more, Should through the crack attack the spy, And in a rage pluck out his eye,
As if that saintly Irish crane
Would hide from all your Saintship’s stain. I grieve to think that you did add
Sin unto sin; it is too bad.
For Finnian could not you persuade
To yield the copy that you made,
Until the King in his behalf
Ruled-“To each cow belongs her calf”: And then you grew so mad you swore
On Erin’s face you’d look no more.
And crossed the sea the Picts to save, Because you so did misbehave
To dear Saint Finnian: faith, ’twas ill For you to act so, Columbkille!
A saint you were no doubt, no doubt! What pity ’twas you were found out!
We know an angel (snob or fool?)
To Kiaran showed a common rule,
An axe, an auger, and a saw,
And told that saint it was the law
Of Heaven that Columbkille should be Far, far above such saints as he;
For Columbkille contemned a crown,
While he these homely tools laid down, To serve the Lord, and that the Lord
To each would give his due reward.
I wonder if that angel knew
That Christ these tools had laid down too. O Columbkille! O Columbkille!
A saint like you must have his will, But for myself I’d rather be
The common sinner that you see
Than make a crane ashamed of me,
And angels talk such idiocy.
E. J. V. HUIGINN
MISS DOANE
MISS Doane was sixty, probably;
She rented third floor room
That opened on an airshaft full
Of cooking smells and gloom.
She worked in philanthropic man’s
Well-known department store;
Cashiered in basement, hot and close, For forty years or more.
Each night when she came home she’d stand A moment in the hall,
Before she went into her room
With low and tender call.
And often I would hear her voice
Repeat a childish prayer;
Or read some old, old fairy tale
Of Princess, grand and fair.
One night I went to visit her
And spied, in little chair
A great wax doll, in dainty dress,
And curls of flaxen hair.
I praised the doll; its prettiness;
Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.
She comforts me. I wanted so
A child to call my own.”
Each night I heard her softly sing
A childish lullaby;
But once, and just before she died, I heard her cry and cry!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
FALLEN FENCES
THE woods grew dark; black shadows
rocked
And I could scarcely see
My way along the old tote road,
That long had seemed to me
To wind on aimlessly; but now
Came full to life; the rain
Would soon strike down; ahead I saw A clearing, and a lane
Between gray, fallen fences and
Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;
So grim and gray I shrank from thought Of weary, aching spalles.
On stony knoll great aspens swayed
And swung in browsing teeth
Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook And shivered underneath.
Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent And wrangled over roof
Of weatherbeaten house, and barn
Whose sag bespoke no hoof.
And ivy crawled up either end
Of house, to chimney, where
It lashed in futile anger at
The wind wolves of the air.
I thought the house abandoned, and
I ran to get inside,
When suddenly the old front door
was opened and flung wide
And she stood there, with hand on knob, As I went swiftly in,
Then closed the door most softly on The storm and shrieking din.
A space I stood and looked at her,
So young; ’twas passing strange
That fifty years or more had gone
And brought no new style’s change.
The sweetness, daintiness of her
In starched and dotted gown
Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,
With ruffles winding down!
We had not much to say, and yet
Of words I felt no lack;
Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped A moment, then dropped back.
I felt her pride of race; her taste
In silken rug and chair,
And quaintly fashioned furniture
Of patterns old and rare.
On window sill a rose bush stood;
‘Twas bringing rose to bud;
One full bloomed there but yesterday, Dropped petals, red as blood.
Quite soon, she asked to be excused
For just a moment, and
Went out, returning with a tray
In either slender hand.
My glance could not but linger on
Each thin and lovely cup;
“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed
The while she raised it up.
And when the storm was done and I
Arose, reluctantly
To go, she too was loath to have
Me go, it seemed to me.
When I reached old Joe Webber’s place, Upon the Corner Road,
I went into the Upper Field
Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed
Potatoes, culling them with hoe
And practised, calloused hand,
In rounded piles that brownly glowed Upon the fresh-turned land.
“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl With beauty’s smiling charm,
That lives beyond that hemlock growth, On that old grown-up farm?”
Joe listened, while I told him where
I’d been that afternoon,
Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed, Before he spoke, a tune
“They cum ter thet old place ter live Some sixty years ago;
Jest where they cum from, who they ware, Wy, no one got to know.
“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s
Red racker an’ the gig;
We never heard from him nor could
We track the hoss or rig.
“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then
He went ter see the Wife;
He found her in thet settin’ room:
She’d taken of her life.
“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence; Some say ’tis haunted,-but
I ain’t no use fer foolishness,
So all I say’s tut! tut!”
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
CROSS-CURRENTS
THEY wrapped my soul in eiderdown;
They placed me warm and snug
In carved chair; set me with care
Upon an old prayer rug.
They cased my feet in golden shoes
That hurt at toe and heel;
My restless feet, with youth all fleet, Nor asked how they might feel.
And now they wonder where I am,
And search with shrill, cold cry;
But I crouch low where tall reeds grow, And smile as they pass by!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
THE FAREWELL
WHAT is more beautiful
Than thought, soul-fed,
That I may be the crimson of a rose When dead?
My soul, so light a joy
And grief will be,
That it will gently press the brown earth down On me.
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
SONG
LET me be great, as stars are great,
Singing of love, not of hate.
Love for sweet and simple things,
Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings,
Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers, Thin coils of smoke and granite towers,
Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash High above a river’s crash,
Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter, Soft grey shadows trailing after
Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods
And lose themselves in solitudes.
All these I’ll love, never hate,
And loving them, I will be great.
OLIVER JENKINS
LOVE AUTUMNAL
MY love will come in autumn-time
When leaves go spinning to the ground And wistful stars in heaven chime
With the leaves’ sound.
Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes And pause beneath low-hanging boughs,
And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns We’ll make our vows.
Let others seek in spring for sighs
When love flames forth from every seed; But love that blooms when nature dies
Is love indeed!
OLIVER JENKINS
ECHOS
TRAVELING at dusk the noisy city street, I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries Of “Extra,” as with flying feet,
They strove to gain this man or that-their prize. But one there was with neither shout nor stride, And, having bought from him, I stood nearby, Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why-
When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet The cripple with “On time to-night?”
Then, as he handed out the sheet,
The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right. My other reg’lars are a little late.
They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come; You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, I tho’t ‘twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!”
So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way For I had found a city’s heart that day.
RUTH LAMBERT JONES
WAR PICTURES
“GERMAN Retreat From Arras”
“Official Films”-they came
After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”
Had ministered to fame.
After “Corinne and Her Minstrels”
Had pigeon-toed away,
We saw where bits of churches
And bits of horses lay.
We saw bleak desolation;
We saw no unscathed tree.
We shivered in our comfort
And murmured: “Can it be!”
But later, walking homeward,
Repeating: “Is it true?”
We brushed a khaki shoulder
And asked no more. We knew!
RUTH LAMBERT JONES
AN OLD SONG
WHEN I was but a young lad,
And that is long ago,
I thought that luck loved every man, And time his only foe,
And love was like a hawthorn bush
That blossomed every May,
And had but to choose his flower,
For that’s the young lad’s way.
Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer,
It’s easy come and spent,
And heavy is the going now
Where once the light foot went.
The hawthorn bush puts on its white, The throstle whistles clear,
But Spring comes once for every man Just once in all the year.
ARTHUR KETCHUM
ROADSIDE REST
SUCH quiet sleep has come to them!
The Springs and Autumns pass,
Nor do they know if it be snow
Or daisies in the grass.
All day the birches bend to hear
The river’s undertone;
Across the hush a fluting thrush
Sings even-song alone.
But down their dream there drifts no sound, The winds may sob and stir:
On the still breast of Peace they rest And they are glad of her.
They ask not any gift–they mind
Nor any foot that fares,
Unheededly life passes by-
Such quiet sleep is theirs.
ARTHUR KETCHUM
OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP
BED is the boon for me!
It’s well to bake and sweep,
But hear the word of old Lizette:
It’s better than all to sleep.
Summer and flowers are gay,
And morning light and dew;
But aged eyelids love the dark
Where never a light peeps through.
What!–open-eyed, my dears?
Thinking your hearts will break.
There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say, That’s worth the lying awake!
I learned it in my youth-
Love I was dreaming of!
I learned it from the needle-work
That took the place of love.
I learned it from the years
And what they brought about;
From song, and from the hills of joy Where sorrow sought me out.
It’s good to dream and turn,
And turn and dream, or fall
To comfort with my pack of bones,
And know of nothing at all!
Yes, never know at all!
If prowlers mew or bark,
Nor wonder if it’s three o’clock
Or four o’clock of the dark.
When the longer shades have fallen
And the last weariness
Has brought the sweetest gift of life, The last forgetfulness.
If a sound as of old leaves
Stir the last bed I keep,
Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette- She’s turning in her sleep!”
AGNES LEE
MOTHERHOOD
MARY, the Christ long slain, passed silently. Following the children joyously astir
Under the cedrus and the olive tree, Pausing to let their laughter float to her. Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, She saw a little Christ in every face;
When lo, another woman, gliding near, Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place. And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke: “I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.
“I, too, have rocked my little one,
O, He was fair!
Yea, fairer than the fairest sun,
And like its rays through amber spun His sun-bright hair.
Still I can see it shine and shine.” “Even so,” the woman said,”was mine.”
“His ways were ever darling ways,”-
And Mary smiled,–
“So soft, so clinging! Glad relays
Of love were all His precious days. My little child!
My infinite star! My music fled!”
“Even so was mine,” the woman said.
Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou,
Of thine.” And she:
“O, mine was rosy as a boug
Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,
To bloom for me!
His balmy fingers left a thrill
Within my breast that warms me still.”
Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour,
And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not, “Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?” “I am the mother of Iscariot.”
AGNES LEE
ESSEX
I
THY hills are kneeling in the tardy spring, And wait, in supplication’s gentleness,
The certain resurrection that shall bring A robe of verdure for their nakedness.
Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell, Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coil
Now promise, while the veins of nature swell, Eternal recompense to human toil.
And when the sunset’s final shades depart The aspiration to completed birth
Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start, We know how wanton and how little worth
Are all the passions of our bleeding heart That vex the awful patience of the earth.
II
Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore, And thine the stars, revealing one by one, Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion, The tawny moon that waits below the skies,– Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was done. And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast
To thy benign October, thine the trees Lusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest;
And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified Thy name with Liberty Is divine decrees- The men who loved thy soil and fought and died. III
Toward thine Eastern window when the morn Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars, I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars Where men have fought and wept and died
Forlorn.
But here, across the early fields of corn, The living silence dwelleth, and the gray Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray Breathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn. Open thy lattice, for the gage is won
For which this earth has journeyed though the dust
Of shattered systems, cold about the sun; And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled, A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”–
And falls like dew God’s pity on the world
GEORGE CABOT LODGE
THE SONG OF THE WAVE
This is the song of the wave! The mighty one! Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound:
White as a live terror, as a drawn sword, This is the wave.
II
This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the Tempest
Whose veins are swollen with life,
In whose flanks abide the four winds. This is the wave.
III
This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the sea
And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield, And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword.
Then a wind blew out of the morning And the waters rustled
And the wave was born!
IV
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon
And the white sea-birds like driven foam Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky And the face of the waters was barred with white, For the wave had many brothers,
And the wave was strong!
V
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunset
And the west was lurid as Hell.
The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead.
Then the wind smote full as the breath of God, And the wave called to its brothers,
“This is the crest of life!”
VI
This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall, Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass That has caught the soul of the moonlight. Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;
Its edge is frittered to foam.
This is the wave!
VII
This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls- Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morning
It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand.
This is the wave.
VIII
This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.
The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength
In the lust of attainment.
Aiming at things for Heaven too high, Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength. So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found:
Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars,
The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, Whose eye is filled with the Image of God, And the end is Death!
GEORGE CABOT LODGE
FRIMAIRE
DEAREST, we are like two flowers
Blooming in the garden,
A purple aster flower and a red one Standing alone in a withered desolation.
The garden plants are shattered and seeded, One brittle leaf scrapes against another, Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals.
Now only you and I nodding together.
Many were with us; they have all faded. Only we are purple and crimson,
Only we in the dew-clear mornings,
Smarten into color as the sun rises.
When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, And later when my cold roots tighten,
I am anxious for morning,
I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.
You or I-and I am a coward.
Surely frost should take the crimson. Purple is a finer color,
Very splendid in isolation.
So we nod above the broken
Stems of flowers almost rotted.
Many mornings there cannot be now
For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!
AMY LOWELL
PATTERNS
I WALK down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only a whale-bone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the splashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon- I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.
Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hart- well
Died in action Thursday sen’night.” As I read it in the white morning sunlight. The letters squirmed like snakes.
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. “No,” I told him.
“See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer.”
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.
In a month be would have been my husband, In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and the daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?
AMY LOWELL
A BATHER
THICK dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade.
Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves,
Half-quenched in their various green, just a point Of you showing,
A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once Blotted into
The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged Sharp as white ivory,
Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and Your breasts,
Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves Of ripe fruit,
And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence Of leaves.
So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you,
The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum- oozing spruces,
While below runs the water impatient, impatient- to take you,
To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness,
Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders,
Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty,
Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you
To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories
The summer.
Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just
Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection, Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes
Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo,
For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men.
You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder,
And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow your swimming, To behold the way they act. And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning.
AMY LOWELL
LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS
OVER where the Irish hedges
Are with blossoms white as snow,
Over where the limestone ledges
Through the soft green grasses show- There the fairies may be seen
In their jackets of red and green,
Leprechauns and cluricauns,
And the other ones, I ween.
And, bedad, it is a wonder
To behold the way they act.
They’re the lads that seldom blunder, Wise and wary, that’s the fact.
You may hold them with your eye;
Look away and off they fly;
Leprechauns and cluricauns,
Bedad, but they are sly!
They have heaps of golden treasure
Hid away within the ground,
Where they spend their days in leisure, And where fairy joys abound;
But to mortals not a guinea
Will they give-no, not a penny.
Leprechauns and cluricauns,
Their gold is seldom found.
Maybe of a morning early
As you pass a lonely rath,
You may see a little curly-
Headed fairy in your path.
He’ll be working at a shoe,
But he’ll have his eye on you-
Leprechauns and cluricauns,
They know just what to do.
Visions of a life of riches
Surely will before you flash;
(You’ll no longer dig the ditches,
You’ll be well supplied with cash.) And you’ll seize the little man,
And you’ll hold him–if you can;
Leprechauns and cluricauns,
‘Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan!
DENIS A. MCCARTHY
L’ENVOI
WHEN the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane,
And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain,
And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain,
Shall we weary for the battle and the strife?
When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near,
And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear
Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year,
Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass?
Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands,
Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands,
Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands,
Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze?
Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss,
Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss
Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss-
Consuming us within the flame?
DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
TO IMAGINATION
SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES”
O BEAUTEOUS boy a-dream, what visions sought
Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought, What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled! Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled, A mystic imagery of castled thought,
A thousand worlds to lose,–or win and mould– A radiant iridescence swiftly caught
Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.
Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky, A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,– Eyes that behold afar the turrets high
Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race Of Athens, –eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie In passionate adoration–visions trace
Across the tender brooding of the sigh That wrecked a city and made chieftains die.
Forward not backward turns the mystic shine Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam- The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line
On line the wizard tracery of a dream. O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, Beyond what bounds of visioning divine
Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun- beam
Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine The power to build and mould the deep design?
Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white, Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell The eternal silence of the dark–or light? Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict The symboled mystery-write the final knell Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight
A nothingless encircled by a spell
Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell?
In vain to question, where the mystery Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king. The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy,
Were never meant to paint the immortal thing They see, nor understand the joy they bring. The misty baubles of the sky and sea
Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry.
DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN
DRAGON
SOME saw a dragon eating up the light, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
Some heard a lost bird riding out the night, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
But I saw:
A low dark hill with its twisted back Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf
Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!
And I heard:
The wind draw out of the west and wail, Dance and stagger and jig and reel!
With the long low sound of a life in grief!
I saw a life in grief
Oho! 0ho! Oho, ho, ho
Dance and stagger and jig and reel! Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
JEANNETTE MARKS
“THE BOOKMAN.”
GREEN GOLDEN DOOR
GREEN golden door, swing in, swing in! Fanning the life a man must live,
Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,
Love and hope that he called his,
Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin
Casting them forth and sucking them in, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Show me the youth that will not die,
Tell me the dream that has not waked, Seek me the heart that never ached,
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing out! Long is the wailing of man’s breath,
Short is the wail of death.
JEANNETTE MARKS
SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD
FOUR graves there are upon the wooded crest, Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear. Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here. Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest
Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, Her name by little men and women blessed.
Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, But now the world has crowned them with its bays, And holds them close forever to its heart. O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, And from its slopes shall never Love depart!
JOHN CLAIR MINOT
THE SWORD OF ARTHUR
A CASTLE stands in Yorkshire
(Oh, the hill is fair and green!)
And far beneath it lies a cave
No living man has seen.
It is the cave enchanted
(Oh, seek it ere ye die!)
And there King Arthur and his knights In dreamless slumber lie.
One time a peasant found it
(Oh, the years have hurried well!)
It was the day of fate for him,
And this is what befell:
Upon a couch of crystal
(Oh, heart be pure and strong!)
He saw the King, and, close beside, The armored knights athrong.
And all of them were sleeping
(Praise God, who sendeth rest!)
The sleep that comes when strife is done And ended every quest.
Beside the good King Arthur
(How high is your desire?)
His sword within its scabbard lay,
The sword with blade of fire.
Now had the peasant known it
(Oh, if we all could know!)
He should have drawn that wondrous blade Before he turned to go.
If but his hand had touched it
(The sword still lieth there!)
He would have felt in every vein
A lofty purpose thrill.
If but his hand had drawn it
(The sword still lieth there!)
A kingly way he would have walked,
Wherever he might fare.
But no; he fled affrighted
(Oh, pitiful the cost!)
And then he knew; but lo! the way
Into the cave was lost.
He searched forever after
(All this was long ago!)
But nevermore that crystal cave
His eager eyes could know.
Pray God ye have the vision
(Oh, search in every land!)
To seize the sword that Arthur bore When it lies at your hand.
JOHN CLAIR MINOT
THE DIVINE FOREST
IF there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more,
If trunks of trees seem sentinels,
For what their vigil no man tells.
And if you clasp these guardian trees Nothing there is to hurt or please;
Only the dead roof of the forest drops Gently down and never stops
And roofs you in and roofs you under, Mute and away from life’s dim thunder;
And if there come eternal spring
It is but more disheartening,
For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer- Autumn that is the latest comer-
With the Springtime’s misty wonder
And the Summer’s yield of gold,
Weighs you down and weighs you under To where the blackened leaves are mold. . . The lone gift of the forest is ever new: Eternity where dwell not you.
The forest, accepting, heeds you not; Accepting all-you are forgot.
If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more.
Once the forest spoke but now is silent, Save in the skyward branches whence no sound Seems to touch ear of any man below–
Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self;
Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living.
Such lapsing of the forest then they use And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; Sometimes they even cut the living down
To leaven the dead roofs they would erect. Though some of these low roofs are lovely there Beneath the guardianship of forest trees, And some yearn upward as with thought of wings, Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark To the upper forest and they
Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. They have forgotten
That the greatest roof is but a banner And that it was a tree that made a Cross.
CHARLES R. MURPHY
MAGIC
TO W.S.B.
I RAN into the sunset light
As hard as I could run:
The treetops bowed in sheer delight As if they loved the sun:
And all the songs of little birds
Who laughed and cried in silver words Were joined as they were one.
And down the streaming golden sky
A lark came circling with a cry
Of wonder-weaving joy:
And all the arch of heaven rang
Where meadowlands of dreaming hang
As when I was a boy.
And through the ringing solitude
In pulsing lovely amplitude
A mist hung in a shroud,
As though the light of loneliness
Turned pure delight to holiness,
And bathed it in a cloud.
I stripped my laughing body bare
And plunged into that holy air
That washed me like a sea,
And raced against its silver tide
That stroked my eager glancing side And made my spirit free.
Across the limits of the land
The wind and I swept hand and hand
Beyond the golden glow.
We danced across the ocean plain
Like thrushes singing in the rain
A song of long ago.
And on into the silver night
We strove to win the race with light And bring the vision home,
And bring the wonder home again
Unto the sleeping eyes of men
Across the singing foam.
And down the river of the world
Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled As spring within a flower,
And stars in music of delight
Streamed gayly down our shoulders white Like petals in a shower.
And tears of awful wonder ran
Adown my cheeks to hear the clan
Of beauty chaunting white
The prayer too deep for living word, Or sight of man or winging bird,
Or music over forest heard
At falling of the night.
And dropping slowly as the dew
On grasses that the winds renew
In urge of flooding fire,
And softly as the hushing boughs
The gentle airs of dawn arouse
To cradle morning’s quire.
The murmur of the singing leaves
Around the secret Flame,
Like mating swallows ‘neath the eaves In rustling silence came,
And flowing through the silent air
Creation fluttered in a prayer
Descending on a spiral stair,
And calling me by name.
It nestled in my dreaming eyes
Like heaven in a lake,
And softened hope into surprise
For very beauty’s sake,
And silence blossomed into morn,
Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn
Could scarcely bear to break.
I sang into the morning light
As loud as I could sing,
The treetops bowed in sheer delight Before the slanting wing.
And all the songs of little birds
Who laughed and cried in silver words Adored the Risen Spring.
EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
MICHAEL PAT
TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
OLD Michael Pat he said to me
He saw an angel in a tree.
He knew I’d never, never doubt him, For what would heaven be without them.
The angel laughed for very glee
And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!” Old Michael felt a creeping kind
Of wonder in his humble mind,
And, hardly knowing what to say,
Ran where the angel showed the way. The lambs were running on the hills,
Glad laughter echoed from the rills, And many hidden little birds
Talked pleasant things in singing words. He followed up a mountain then
And saw a crowd of singing men
Approaching to a Crown of Light
Wherein they took a fresh delight.
He danced and sang and whooped and crew To see the Lord of all he knew
Surrounded by the living songs
Of stars and men in countless throngs, And then he died to life again,
And shovelled with the strength of ten. He taught me how to say my letters,
And take my hat off to my betters,
And when I asked for fairy stories, He told me of angelic glories.
He was a lovely farmer, he
Had seen an angel in a tree.
EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
SONG
FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE”
EBB on with me across the sunset tide And float beyond the waters of the world, The light of evening slipping from my side, Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.
Flow on into the flaming morning wine, Drowning the land in color. Then on high Rise in thy candid innocence and shine
Like to a poplar straight against the sky.
EDWARD J. O’BRIEN
IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE
(Killed in action, July 31, 1917)
SOLDIER and singer of Erin,
What may I fashion for thee?
What garland of words or of flowers? Singer of sunlight and showers,
The wind on the lea;
Of clouds, and the houses of Erin,
Wee cabins, white on the plain,
And bright with the colours of even, Beauty of earth and of heaven falls
Outspread beyond Slane!
night through let my mind be still,
Slane, where the Easter of Patrick
Flamed on the night of the Gael,
Guard both the honor and story
Of him who has died for the glory
That crowns Innisfail.
Soldier of right and of freedom,
I offer thee song and hot tears.
With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell, The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell,
Live on through the years!
NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR
EVENSONG
A SHEPHERD piping, herald of the Night Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, Treading low gently, clad in greyish white, Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail! For Day departed moves in funeral train
Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose, The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows. As when a mother gathers to her breast
The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart, Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west, And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart. Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will!
NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR
THE PROPHET
ALL day long he kept the sheep:–
Far and early, from the crowd,
On the hills from steep to steep,
Where the silence cried aloud;
And the shadow of the cloud
Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.
Where he dipped the water’s cool,
Filling boyish hands from thence,
Something breathed across the pool
Stir of sweet enlightenments;
And he drank, with thirsty sense,
Till his heart was brimmed and full.
Still, the hovering Voice unshed,
And the Vision unbeheld,
And the mute sky overhead,
And his longing, still withheld!
–Even when the two tears welled,
Salt, upon that lonely bread.
Vaguely blessed in the leaves,
Dim-companioned in the sun,
Eager mornings, wistful eyes,
Very hunger drew him on;
And To-morrow ever shone
With the glow the sunset weaves.
Even so, to that young heart,
Words and hands and Men were dear;
And the stir of lane and mart
After daylong vigil here.
Sunset called, and he drew near,
Still to find his path apart.
When the Bell, with gentle tongue,
Called the herd-bells home again,
Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen;
Towards the sound of fellow-men,-
Even from the light that clung.
Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,
Came that silent flock of his:
Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,
After homing twos and threes;
With the longing memories
Of all white things dreamed and vowed.
Through the fragrances, alone,
By the sudden-silent brook,
From the open world unknown,
To the close of speech and book;
There to find the foreign look
In the faces of his own.
Sharing was beyond his skill;
Shyly yet, he made essay:
Sought to dip, and share, and fill
Heart’s-desire, from day to day.
But their eyes, some foreign way,
Looked at him; and he was still.
Last, he reached his arms to sleep,
Where the Vision waited, dim,
Still beyond some deep-on-deep.
And the darkness folded him,
Eager heart and weary limb.–
All day long, he kept the sheep.
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
HARVEST-MOON: 1914
OVER the twilight field,
The overflowing field,–
Over the glimmering field,
And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe,
After the scythe;
The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon– Two looked upon each other.
One was a Woman men called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon.
And one, the Harvest-Moon,
Who stood, who gazed
On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said:
“But we were crazed . . .
We should laugh now together, I and you, We two.
You, for your dreaming it was worth A star’s while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind,
Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind!
Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men,
For men to slay again:
Lording it over anguish but to give My life that men might live
For this.
You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing,
Yes, so we named you then,
You, far more wise
Than to give life to men.”
Over the field, that there
Gave back the skies
A shattered upward stare
From blank white eyes,–
Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way–
The Harvest-Moon.
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY
HORSEMAN SPRINGING
FROM THE DARK: A DREAM
“HORSEMAN, springing from the dark,
Horseman, flying wild and free,
Tell me what shall be thy road
Whither speedest far from me?”
“From the dark into the light,
From the small unto the great,
From the valleys dark I ride
O’er the hills to conquer fate!”
“Take me with thee, horseman mine!
Let me madly rode with thee!”
As he turned I met his eyes,
My own soul looked back at me!
LILLA CABOT PERRY
THREE QUATRAINS
THE CUP
SHE said, “Lift high the cup!”
Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up
That none might see or guess it held no wine.
FORGIVE ME NOT!
FORGIVE me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.
THE ROSE
ONE deep red rose I dropped into his grave, So small a thing to give so great a friend! Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave
And must fare on without it to the end,
LILLA CABOT PERRY
A VALENTINE, UNSENT
STAY, flaming rose, ‘twould grieve her heart To see you fade away,
Unloved, unwelcome and apart
From every joy to-day.
Once long ago your tale was new,
Days distant yet so dear;
Why say her lover still is true,
When that is all her fear?
Why thus recall another’s pain,
Her tender heart to fret?
Best let her think he loves again,
Who never can forget!
MARGARET PERRY
SHIPBUILDERS
THE German people reared them
An idol made of wood;
And Hindenburg before them
Lifelike and stupid stood.
To clothe him all in iron
And thus his soul express,
With nails and spikes they covered
His wooden nakedness.
And when they, thus had clothed him
All in a suit of mail,
Still came they, wild-eyed, looking For space to drive a nail.
Whenever Teuton airmen
Slay boys and girls at play,
Or U-boats, drowning babies,
Create a holiday.
Then, gathering round their statue,
A happy German throng
Drive nails into the idol
To make him still more strong.
Avenge the babes, shipbuilders,
That on the seas have died;
Avenge the little children
Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride.
Come, gather at the shipyards,
And let your hammers ring,
For more than ships and cargoes
Waits on your fashioning.
Come, gather at the shipyards;
With every bolt you drive
Bethink you `tis the Kaiser
Whose brutish head you rive.
Come, gather at the shipyards,
And swing with might and main;
`Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince
That you to-day have slain.
Come, gather at the shipyards,
And heat the metal hot,
For it is Bethmann Hollweg
You’re boiling in the pot.
Come, gather at the shipyards,–
And when the day is done,
You’ve spent it in driving spikes,
In Hindernburg the Hun.
Come, gather at the shipyards,
And toil with healthy hate,
For only you can save the world,
The Hun is at the gate.
ARTHUR STANWOOD PIE
UNFADING PICTURES
(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers. . . . The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and pol- ished, my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget- covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.”
-“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)
HOW many are the scenes he limned,
With artist strokes, clear-cut and free- Our Dickens; time shall not efface
Their charm, and they will ever grace The halls of memory.
Oft and again we turn to them,
To contemplate in pleased review;
And like some picture on the screen Comes now to mind a favorite scene
His master-pencil drew:-
Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep,
I see a small lad, spent and worn,
And by the window, stern and grim,
A silent figure watching him,
So dusty, ragged, torn.
Ah, now she rises from behind
The round green fan beside her chair; “Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends
Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair.
Then in his sleep he softly stirs.
Was that a dream, these murmured words? He wakes! There by the casement sat
Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat And her canary birds.
The peaceful calm of that quaint room, Its marks of comfort everywhere–
Old china and mahogany
And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air.
Poor little pilgrim so bereft,
So weary at his journey’s end!
What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal-
To find–oh, such a friend! . . .
And then night came, and from his bed He saw the sea, moonlit and bright,
And dreamed there came, to bless her son, His mother, with her little one,
Adown that path of light.
Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave,
When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er,
Than such repose, content, and love; Some shining path that leads above
To dear ones gone before!
LOUELLA C. POOLE
WITH WAVES AND WINGS
WAVES and Wings and Growing Things!
As through the gladden sight ye flow And flit and glow,
Ye win me so
In soul to go,
I too am waves, I too am wings,
And kindred motion in me springs.
With thee I pass, glad growing grass!- I climb the air with lissome mien;
Unsheathing keen
The vivid sheen
Of springing green,
I thrill the crude, exalt the crass Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass.
And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!- To make all mutable the floor
Of Earth’s firm shore,
With flashing pour
Whose brimming o’er
Impassion’d motion loves and laves
And livens sombre slumbering caves.
Then soaring where the wild birds fare, My song would sweep the windy lyre
Of Heaven’s choir,
Pulsing desire
For starry fire,
Abashing chilling vagues of air
With throbbing of warm breasts that dare!
CHARLOTTE PORTER
BLUEBERRIES
UPON the hills of Garlingtown
Beneath the summer sky,
In many pleasant pastures
On sunny slopes and high,
Their skins abloom with dusty blue, Asleep, the berries lie.
And all the lads of Garlingtown,
And all the lasses too,
Still climb the tranquil hillsides, A merry, barefoot crew;
Still homeward plod with unfilled pails And mouths of berry blue.
And all the birds of Garlingtown,
When flocking back to nest,
Remember well the patches
Where berries are the best;
They pick the ripest ones at dawn
And leave the lads the rest.
Upon the hills of Garlingtown
When berry-time was o’er,
I looked into the sunset,
And saw an open door,
And from the hills of Garlingtown
I went, and came no more.
FRANK PRENTICE RAND
NOCTURNE
NIGHT of infinite power and infinite silence and space,
From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine!
The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face, You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine.
Each star to numberless planets gives light and motion and heat,
But you enmantle them all, the nearest and most remote; And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles under your feet,-
Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and shine and float.
WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER
ENVOI
I WALKED with poets in my youth,
Because the world they drew
Was beautiful and glorious
Beyond the world I knew.
The poets are my comrades still,
But dearer than in youth,
For now I know that they alone
Picture the world of truth.
WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER
THERE WHERE THE SEA
THERE where the sea enwrapt
A strip of land and wind-swept dune, Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering Noonday sun of early June,–
The Placid sea lay shimmering
In a mist of blue,
From which the sky now drew
Its wealth of hue and colour;
One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean, As it breathed along the shore in even motion. Among the pines and listless of the scene, Atthis and Alcaeus lay,
Within the heart of each a hunger
For the unknown gift of life.
Here from day to day
They met and dreamed away
The soft unfloding days of spring,– Now turning to the summer.
Aleaeus:
I am faint with all the fire
In my blood,
And I would plunge into the quiet blue And lose all sense of time and you.
Atthis:
I, too, would plunge
And swim with you!
Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty, Calm and sure and unafraid,
The sinuous splendour of her limbs, A silent symphony of curving line,
Which reached its final note
In breast and rounded throat.
He had not known that flesh could be so fair; Each movement which she made
Wove o’er his sense a deeper spell, Her beauty swept him like a flame
And caught him unaware.
She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers Before that burning gaze,
Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders Down among the boulders,
To the sea.
Secure within its covering depth
She called to him to follow.
She led him out along the tide,
With swift unerring stroke,
Nor paused till he was at her side. With conquering arm
He seized her and from her brow
Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her lips-
Her eyes closed,–
As all her body yielded to his kiss. Then home he bore her to the shore,
Within his heart a song of triumph; In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood.
So spring for them passed on to summer.
MARIE TUDOR
MARRIAGE
YOU, who have given me your name,
And with your laws have made me wife, To share your failures and your fame,
Whose word has made me yours for life.
What proof have you that you hold me? That in reality I’m one
With you, through all eternity?
What proof when all is said and done?