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  • 1915
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On the ground that it corrupted public morals. Well, Ben Pantier and Fiddler Jones saved the day– They thought it a slam on colts.

Robert Davidson

I GREW spiritually fat living off the souls of men. If I saw a soul that was strong
I wounded its pride and devoured its strength. The shelters of friendship knew my cunning For where I could steal a friend I did so. And wherever I could enlarge my power
By undermining ambition, I did so,
Thus to make smooth my own.
And to triumph over other souls,
Just to assert and prove my superior strength, Was with me a delight,
The keen exhilaration of soul gymnastics. Devouring souls, I should have lived forever. But their undigested remains bred in me a deadly nephritis, With fear, restlessness, sinking spirits, Hatred, suspicion, vision disturbed.
I collapsed at last with a shriek.
Remember the acorn;
It does not devour other acorns.

Elsa Wertman

I WAS a peasant girl from Germany,
Blue-eyed, rosy, happy and strong.
And the first place I worked was at Thomas Greene’s. On a summer’s day when she was away
He stole into the kitchen and took me Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat, I turning my head. Then neither of us
Seemed to know what happened.
And I cried for what would become of me. And cried and cried as my secret began to show. One day Mrs. Greene said she understood, And would make no trouble for me,
And, being childless, would adopt it. (He had given her a farm to be still. )
So she hid in the house and sent out rumors, As if it were going to happen to her.
And all went well and the child was born– They were so kind to me.
Later I married Gus Wertman, and years passed. But– at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene–
That was not it. No! I wanted to say: That’s my son!
That’s my son.

Hamilton Greene

I WAS the only child of Frances Harris of Virginia And Thomas Greene of Kentucky,
Of valiant and honorable blood both. To them I owe all that I became,
Judge, member of Congress, leader in the State. From my mother I inherited
Vivacity, fancy, language;
From my father will, judgment, logic. All honor to them
For what service I was to the people!

Ernest Hyde

MY mind was a mirror:
It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew. In youth my mind was just a mirror In a rapidly flying car, Which catches and loses bits of the landscape. Then in time
Great scratches were made on the mirror, Letting the outside world come in,
And letting my inner self look out. For this is the birth of the soul in sorrow, A birth with gains and losses.
The mind sees the world as a thing apart, And the soul makes the world at one with itself. A mirror scratched reflects no image–
And this is the silence of wisdom.

Roger Heston

OH many times did Ernest Hyde and I
Argue about the freedom of the will. My favorite metaphor was Prickett’s cow
Roped out to grass, and free you know as far As the length of the rope.
One day while arguing so, watching the cow Pull at the rope to get beyond the circle Which she had eaten bare,
Out came the stake, and tossing up her head, She ran for us.
“What’s that, free-will or what?” said Ernest, running. I fell just as she gored me to my death.

Amos Sibley

NOT character, not fortitude, not patience Were mine, the which the village thought I had In bearing with my wife, while preaching on, Doing the work God chose for me.
I loathed her as a termagant, as a wanton. I knew of her adulteries, every one.
But even so, if I divorced the woman I must forsake the ministry.
Therefore to do God’s work and have it crop, I bore with her
So lied I to myself
So lied I to Spoon River!
Yet I tried lecturing, ran for the legislature, Canvassed for books, with just the thought in mind: If I make money thus,
I will divorce her.

Mrs. Sibley

THE secret of the stars– gravitation. The secret of the earth– layers of rock. The secret of the soil– to receive seed. The secret of the seed– the germ.
The secret of man– the sower.
The secret of woman– the soil.
My secret: Under a mound that you shall never find.

Adam Weirauch

I WAS crushed between Altgeld and Armour. I lost many friends, much time and money Fighting for Altgeld whom Editor Whedon
Denounced as the candidate of gamblers and anarchists. Then Armour started to ship dressed meat to Spoon River, Forcing me to shut down my slaughter-house And my butcher shop went all to pieces.
The new forces of Altgeld and Armour caught me At the same time. I thought it due me, to recoup the money I lost And to make good the friends that left me, For the Governor to appoint me Canal Commissioner. Instead he appointed Whedon of the Spoon River Argus, So I ran for the legislature and was elected. I said to hell with principle and sold my vote On Charles T. Yerkes’ street-car franchise. Of course I was one of the fellows they caught. Who was it, Armour, Altgeld or myself
That ruined me?

Ezra Bartlett

A CHAPLAIN in the army,
A chaplain in the prisons,
An exhorter in Spoon River,
Drunk with divinity, Spoon River–
Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame, And myself to scorn and wretchedness.
But why will you never see that love of women, And even love of wine,
Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity, Reaches the ecstatic vision
And sees the celestial outposts?
Only after many trials for strength, Only when all stimulants fail,
Does the aspiring soul
By its own sheer power
Find the divine
By resting upon itself.

Amelia Garrick

YES, here I lie close to a stunted rose bush In a forgotten place near the fence
Where the thickets from Siever’s woods Have crept over, growing sparsely.
And you, you are a leader in New York, The wife of a noted millionaire,
A name in the society columns,
Beautiful, admired, magnified perhaps By the mirage of distance.
You have succeeded,
I have failed In the eyes of the world. You are alive, I am dead.
Yet I know that I vanquished your spirit; And I know that lying here far from you, Unheard of among your great friends
In the brilliant world where you move, I am really the unconquerable power over your life That robs it of complete triumph.

John Hancock Otis

As to democracy, fellow citizens,
Are you not prepared to admit
That l, who inherited riches and was to the manor born, Was second to none in Spoon River
In my devotion to the cause of Liberty? While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay,
Born in a shanty and beginning life As a water carrier to the section hands, Then becoming a section hand when he was grown, Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose To the superintendency of the railroad,
Living in Chicago,
Was a veritable slave driver,
Grinding the faces of labor,
And a bitter enemy of democracy.
And I say to you, Spoon River,
And to you, O republic,
Beware of the man who rises to power From one suspender.

The Unknown

YE aspiring ones, listen to the story of the unknown Who lies here with no stone to mark the place. As a boy reckless and wanton,
Wandering with gun in hand through the forest Near the mansion of Aaron Hatfield,
I shot a hawk perched on the top
Of a dead tree. He fell with guttural cry At my feet, his wing broken.
Then I put him in a cage
Where he lived many days cawing angrily at me When I offered him food.
Daily I search the realms of Hades
For the soul of the hawk,
That I may offer him the friendship Of one whom life wounded and caged.
Alexander Throckmorton

IN youth my wings were strong and tireless, But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision– Genius is wisdom and youth.

Jonathan Swift Somers (Author of the Spooniad)

AFTER you have enriched your soul
To the highest point,
With books, thought, suffering,
The understanding of many personalities, The power to interpret glances, silences, The pauses in momentous transformations, The genius of divination and prophecy;
So that you feel able at times to hold the world In the hollow of your hand;
Then, if, by the crowding of so many powers Into the compass of your soul,
Your soul takes fire,
And in the conflagration of your soul The evil of the world is lighted up and made clear– Be thankful if in that hour of supreme vision Life does not fiddle.

Widow McFarlane

I WAS the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village. And I pity you still at the loom of life, You who are singing to the shuttle
And lovingly watching the work of your hands, If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth. For the cloth of life is woven, you know, To a pattern hidden under the loom–
A pattern you never see!
And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing, You guard the threads of love and friendship For noble figures in gold and purple.
And long after other eyes can see
You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth, You laugh in your strength, for Hope overlays it With shapes of love and beauty.
The loom stops short!
The pattern’s out
You’re alone in the room!
You have woven a shroud
And hate of it lays you in it.

Carl Hamblin

THE press of the Spoon River Clarion was wrecked, And I was tarred and feathered,
For publishing this on the day the
Anarchists were hanged in Chicago:
“l saw a beautiful woman with bandaged eyes Standing on the steps of a marble temple. Great multitudes passed in front of her, Lifting their faces to her imploringly.
In her left hand she held a sword.
She was brandishing the sword,
Sometimes striking a child, again a laborer, Again a slinking woman, again a lunatic. In her right hand she held a scale;
Into the scale pieces of gold were tossed By those who dodged the strokes of the sword. A man in a black gown read from a manuscript: “She is no respecter of persons.”
Then a youth wearing a red cap
Leaped to her side and snatched away the bandage. And lo, the lashes had been eaten away
From the oozy eye-lids;
The eye-balls were seared with a milky mucus; The madness of a dying soul
Was written on her face–
But the multitude saw why she wore the bandage.”

Editor Whedon

To be able to see every side of every question; To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long; To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose, To use great feelings and passions of the human family For base designs, for cunning ends,
To wear a mask like the Greek actors– Your eight-page paper– behind which you huddle, Bawling through the megaphone of big type: “This is I, the giant.”
Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief, Poisoned with the anonymous words
Of your clandestine soul.
To scratch dirt over scandal for money, And exhume it to the winds for revenge,
Or to sell papers,
Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be, To win at any cost, save your own life.
To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization, As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the track And derails the express train.
To be an editor, as I was.
Then to lie here close by the river over the place Where the sewage flows from the village, And the empty cans and garbage are dumped, And abortions are hidden.

Eugene Carman

RHODES, slave! Selling shoes and gingham, Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days For more than twenty years.
Saying “Yes’m” and “Yes, sir”, and “Thank you” A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month. Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap “Commercial.” And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen To the Rev. Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year For more than an hour at a time,
Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church As well as the store and the bank.
So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning I suddenly saw myself in the glass:
My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie. So I cursed and cursed: You damned old thing You cowardly dog! You rotten pauper!
You Rhodes’ slave! Till Roger Baughman Thought I was having a fight with some one, And looked through the transom just in time To see me fall on the floor in a heap
From a broken vein in my head.

Clarence Fawcett

THE sudden death of Eugene Carman
Put me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month, And I told my wife and children that night. But it didn’t come, and so I thought
Old Rhodes suspected me of stealing The blankets I took and sold on the side For money to pay a doctor’s bill for my little girl. Then like a bolt old Rhodes accused me,
And promised me mercy for my family’s sake If I confessed, and so I confessed,
And begged him to keep it out of the papers, And I asked the editors, too.
That night at home the constable took me And every paper, except the Clarion,
Wrote me up as a thief
Because old Rhodes was an advertiser And wanted to make an example of me.
Oh! well, you know how the children cried, And how my wife pitied and hated me,
And how I came to lie here.

W. Lloyd Garrison Standard

VEGETARIAN, non–resistant, free-thinker, in ethics a Christian; Orator apt at the rhine-stone rhythm of Ingersoll. Carnivorous, avenger, believer and pagan. Continent, promiscuous, changeable, treacherous, vain, Proud, with the pride that makes struggle a thing for laughter; With heart cored out by the worm of theatric despair. Wearing the coat of indifference to hide the shame of defeat; I, child of the abolitionist idealism–
A sort of Brand in a birth of half-and-half. What other thing could happen when I defended The patriot scamps who burned the court house That Spoon River might have a new one
Than plead them guilty?
When Kinsey Keene drove through
The card–board mask of my life with a spear of light, What could I do but slink away, like the beast of myself Which I raised from a whelp, to a corner and growl? The pyramid of my life was nought but a dune, Barren and formless, spoiled at last by the storm.

Professor Newcomer

EVERYONE laughed at Col. Prichard
For buying an engine so powerful
That it wrecked itself, and wrecked the grinder He ran it with.
But here is a joke of cosmic size:
The urge of nature that made a man
Evolve from his brain a spiritual life– Oh miracle of the world!–
The very same brain with which the ape and wolf Get food and shelter and procreate themselves. Nature has made man do this,
In a world where she gives him nothing to do After all– (though the strength of his soul goes round In a futile waste of power.
To gear itself to the mills of the gods)– But get food and shelter and procreate himself!

Ralph Rhodes

ALL they said was true:
I wrecked my father’s bank with my loans To dabble in wheat; but this was true–
I was buying wheat for him as well, Who couldn’t margin the deal in his name Because of his church relationship.
And while George Reece was serving his term I chased the will-o-the-wisp of women
And the mockery of wine in New York. It’s deathly to sicken of wine and women When nothing else is left in life.
But suppose your head is gray, and bowed On a table covered with acrid stubs
Of cigarettes and empty glasses,
And a knock is heard, and you know it’s the knock So long drowned out by popping corks
And the pea-cock screams of demireps– And you look up, and there’s your Theft, Who waited until your head was gray,
And your heart skipped beats to say to you: The game is ended. I’ve called for you,
Go out on Broadway and be run over, They’ll ship you back to Spoon River.

Mickey M’Grew

IT was just like everything else in life: Something outside myself drew me down,
My own strength never failed me.
Why, there was the time I earned the money With which to go away to school,
And my father suddenly needed help
And I had to give him all of it.
Just so it went till I ended up
A man-of–all-work in Spoon River.
Thus when I got the water-tower cleaned, And they hauled me up the seventy feet,
I unhooked the rope from my waist,
And laughingly flung my giant arms
Over the smooth steel lips of the top of the tower– But they slipped from the treacherous slime, And down, down, down, I plunged
Through bellowing darkness!

Rosie Roberts

I WAS sick, but more than that, I was mad At the crooked police, and the crooked game of life. So I wrote to the Chief of Police at Peoria: “l am here in my girlhood home in Spoon River, Gradually wasting away.
But come and take me, I killed the son Of the merchant prince, in Madam Lou’s
And the papers that said he killed himself In his home while cleaning a hunting gun– Lied like the devil to hush up scandal
For the bribe of advertising.
In my room I shot him, at Madam Lou’s, Because he knocked me down when I said
That, in spite of all the money he had, I’d see my lover that night.”

Oscar Hummel

I STAGGERED on through darkness,
There was a hazy sky, a few stars
Which I followed as best I could.
It was nine o’clock, I was trying to get home. But somehow I was lost,
Though really keeping the road.
Then I reeled through a gate and into a yard, And called at the top of my voice:
“Oh, Fiddler! Oh, Mr. Jones!”
(I thought it was his house and he would show me the way home. ) But who should step out but A. D. Blood, In his night shirt, waving a stick of wood, And roaring about the cursed saloons,
And the criminals they made?
“You drunken Oscar Hummel”, he said, As I stood there weaving to and fro,
Taking the blows from the stick in his hand Till I dropped down dead at his feet.

Josiah Tompkins

I WAS well known and much beloved
And rich, as fortunes are reckoned
In Spoon River, where I had lived and worked. That was the home for me,
Though all my children had flown afar– Which is the way of Nature–all but one. The boy, who was the baby, stayed at home, To be my help in my failing years
And the solace of his mother.
But I grew weaker, as he grew stronger, And he quarreled with me about the business, And his wife said I was a hindrance to it; And he won his mother to see as he did,
Till they tore me up to be transplanted With them to her girlhood home in Missouri. And so much of my fortune was gone at last, Though I made the will just as he drew it, He profited little by it.

Roscoe Purkapile

SHE loved me.
Oh! how she loved me I never had a chance to escape From the day she first saw me.
But then after we were married I thought She might prove her mortality and let me out, Or she might divorce me. But few die, none resign. Then I ran away and was gone a year on a lark. But she never complained. She said all would be well That I would return. And I did return.
I told her that while taking a row in a boat I had been captured near Van Buren Street By pirates on Lake Michigan,
And kept in chains, so I could not write her. She cried and kissed me, and said it was cruel, Outrageous, inhuman! I then concluded our marriage Was a divine dispensation
And could not be dissolved,
Except by death.
I was right.

Mrs. Purkapile

HE ran away and was gone for a year.
When he came home he told me the silly story Of being kidnapped by pirates on Lake Michigan And kept in chains so he could not write me. I pretended to believe it, though I knew very well What he was doing, and that he met
The milliner, Mrs. Williams, now and then When she went to the city to buy goods, as she said. But a promise is a promise
And marriage is marriage,
And out of respect for my own character I refused to be drawn into a divorce
By the scheme of a husband who had merely grown tired Of his marital vow and duty.

Mrs. Kessler

MR. KESSLER, you know, was in the army, And he drew six dollars a month as a pension, And stood on the corner talking politics, Or sat at home reading Grant’s Memoirs;
And I supported the family by washing, Learning the secrets of all the people
From their curtains, counterpanes, shirts and skirts. For things that are new grow old at length, They’re replaced with better or none at all: People are prospering or falling back.
And rents and patches widen with time; No thread or needle can pace decay,
And there are stains that baffle soap, And there are colors that run in spite of you, Blamed though you are for spoiling a dress. Handkerchiefs, napery, have their secrets– The laundress, Life, knows all about it. And l, who went to all the funerals
Held in Spoon River, swear I never
Saw a dead face without thinking it looked Like something washed and ironed.

Harmon Whitney

OUT of the lights and roar of cities, Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River, Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken, The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt, But to hide a wounded pride as well.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds– I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court, A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,– I, whom fortune smiled on!
I in a village,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse, Out of the lore of golden years,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind. To be judged by you,
The soul of me hidden from you,
With its wound gangrened
By love for a wife who made the wound, With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard, Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand, At any time, might have cured me of the typhus, Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost. And only to think that my soul could not react, Like Byron’s did, in song, in something noble, But turned on itself like a tortured snake– judge me this way, O world.

Bert Kessler

I WINGED my bird,
Though he flew toward the setting sun; But just as the shot rang out, he soared Up and up through the splinters of golden light, Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled, With some of the down of him floating near, And fell like a plummet into the grass.
I tramped about, parting the tangles, Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump, And the quail lying close to the rotten roots. I reached my hand, but saw no brier,
But something pricked and stung and numbed it. And then, in a second, I spied the rattler– The shutters wide in his yellow eyes,
The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him, A circle of filth, the color of ashes,
Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves. I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled And started to crawl beneath the stump,
When I fell limp in the grass.

Lambert Hutchins

I HAVE two monuments besides this granite obelisk: One, the house I built on the hill,
With its spires, bay windows, and roof of slate. The other, the lake-front in Chicago,
Where the railroad keeps a switching yard, With whistling engines and crunching wheels And smoke and soot thrown over the city, And the crash of cars along the boulevard,– A blot like a hog-pen on the harbor
Of a great metropolis, foul as a sty. I helped to give this heritage
To generations yet unborn, with my vote In the House of Representatives,
And the lure of the thing was to be at rest From the never–ending fright of need,
And to give my daughters gentle breeding, And a sense of security in life.
But, you see, though I had the mansion house And traveling passes and local distinction, I could hear the whispers, whispers, whispers, Wherever I went, and my daughters grew up With a look as if some one were about to strike them; And they married madly, helter-skelter,
Just to get out and have a change.
And what was the whole of the business worth? Why, it wasn’t worth a damn!

Lillian Stewart

I WAS the daughter of Lambert Hutchins, Born in a cottage near the grist–mill,
Reared in the mansion there on the hill, With its spires, bay–windows, and roof of slate. How proud my mother was of the mansion
How proud of father’s rise in the world! And how my father loved and watched us,
And guarded our happiness.
But I believe the house was a curse, For father’s fortune was little beside it; And when my husband found he had married A girl who was really poor,
He taunted me with the spires,
And called the house a fraud on the world, A treacherous lure to young men, raising hopes Of a dowry not to be had;
And a man while selling his vote
Should get enough from the people’s betrayal To wall the whole of his family in.
He vexed my life till I went back home And lived like an old maid till I died,
Keeping house for father.

Hortense Robbins

MY name used to be in the papers daily As having dined somewhere,
Or traveled somewhere,
Or rented a house in Paris,
Where I entertained the nobility.
I was forever eating or traveling,
Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.
Now I am here to do honor
To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang. No one cares now where I dined,
Or lived, or whom I entertained,
Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden.

Jacob Godbey

How did you feel, you libertarians,
Who spent your talents rallying noble reasons Around the saloon, as if Liberty
Was not to be found anywhere except at the bar Or at a table, guzzling?
How did you feel, Ben Pantier, and the rest of you, Who almost stoned me for a tyrant
Garbed as a moralist,
And as a wry-faced ascetic frowning upon Yorkshire pudding, Roast beef and ale and good will and rosy cheer– Things you never saw in a grog-shop in your life? How did you feel after I was dead and gone, And your goddess, Liberty, unmasked as a strumpet, Selling out the streets of Spoon River
To the insolent giants
Who manned the saloons from afar?
Did it occur to you that personal liberty Is liberty of the mind,
Rather than of the belly?

Walter Simmons

MY parents thought that I would be
As great as Edison or greater:
For as a boy I made balloons
And wondrous kites and toys with clocks And little engines with tracks to run on And telephones of cans and thread.
I played the cornet and painted pictures, Modeled in clay and took the part
Of the villain in the “Octoroon.”
But then at twenty–one I married
And had to live, and so, to live
I learned the trade of making watches And kept the jewelry store on the square, Thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking,– Not of business, but of the engine
I studied the calculus to build.
And all Spoon River watched and waited To see it work, but it never worked.
And a few kind souls believed my genius Was somehow hampered by the store.
It wasn’t true.
The truth was this:
I did not have the brains.

Tom Beatty

I WAS a lawyer like Harmon Whitney
Or Kinsey Keene or Garrison Standard, For I tried the rights of property,
Although by lamp-light, for thirty years, In that poker room in the opera house.
And I say to you that Life’s a gambler Head and shoulders above us all.
No mayor alive can close the house. And if you lose, you can squeal as you will; You’ll not get back your money.
He makes the percentage hard to conquer; He stacks the cards to catch your weakness And not to meet your strength.
And he gives you seventy years to play: For if you cannot win in seventy
You cannot win at all.
So, if you lose, get out of the room– Get out of the room when your time is up. It’s mean to sit and fumble the cards
And curse your losses, leaden-eyed, Whining to try and try.

Roy Butler

IF the learned Supreme Court of Illinois Got at the secret of every case
As well as it does a case of rape
It would be the greatest court in the world. A jury, of neighbors mostly, with “Butch” Weldy As foreman, found me guilty in ten minutes And two ballots on a case like this:
Richard Bandle and I had trouble over a fence And my wife and Mrs. Bandle quarreled
As to whether Ipava was a finer town than Table Grove. I awoke one morning with the love of God Brimming over my heart, so I went to see Richard To settle the fence in the spirit of Jesus Christ. I knocked on the door, and his wife opened; She smiled and asked me in.
I entered– She slammed the door and began to scream, “Take your hands off, you low down varlet!” Just then her husband entered.
I waved my hands, choked up with words. He went for his gun, and I ran out.
But neither the Supreme Court nor my wife Believed a word she said.

Searcy Foote

I WANTED to go away to college
But rich Aunt Persis wouldn’t help me. So I made gardens and raked the lawns
And bought John Alden’s books with my earnings And toiled for the very means of life.
I wanted to marry Delia Prickett,
But how could I do it with what I earned? And there was Aunt Persis more than seventy Who sat in a wheel-chair half alive
With her throat so paralyzed, when she swallowed The soup ran out of her mouth like a duck– A gourmand yet, investing her income
In mortgages, fretting all the time About her notes and rents and papers.
That day I was sawing wood for her, And reading Proudhon in between.
I went in the house for a drink of water, And there she sat asleep in her chair,
And Proudhon lying on the table,
And a bottle of chloroform on the book, She used sometimes for an aching tooth!
I poured the chloroform on a handkerchief And held it to her nose till she died.– Oh Delia, Delia, you and Proudhon
Steadied my hand, and the coroner
Said she died of heart failure.
I married Delia and got the money– A joke on you, Spoon River?

Edmund Pollard

I WOULD I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk–flowers bee-infested,
Into the mirror-like core of fire
Of the light of life, the sun of delight. For what are anthers worth or petals
Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows
Of the heart of the flower, the central flame All is yours, young passer-by;
Enter the banquet room with the thought; Don’t sidle in as if you were doubtful
Whether you’re welcome–the feast is yours! Nor take but a little, refusing more
With a bashful “Thank you”, when you’re hungry. Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!
Leave no balconies where you can climb; Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest; Nor golden heads with pillows to share;
Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet; Nor ecstasies of body or soul,
You will die, no doubt, but die while living In depths of azure, rapt and mated,
Kissing the queen-bee, Life!

Thomas Trevelyan

READING in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty passion of Tereus for Philomela, The flesh of him served to Tereus by Procne, And the wrath of Tereus, the murderess pursuing Till the gods made Philomela a nightingale, Lute of the rising moon, and Procne a swallow Oh livers and artists of Hellas centuries gone, Sealing in little thuribles dreams and wisdom, Incense beyond all price, forever fragrant, A breath whereof makes clear the eyes of the soul How I inhaled its sweetness here in Spoon River! The thurible opening when I had lived and learned How all of us kill the children of love, and all of us, Knowing not what we do, devour their flesh; And all of us change to singers, although it be But once in our lives, or change–alas!–to swallows, To twitter amid cold winds and falling leaves!

Percival Sharp

OBSERVE the clasped hands!
Are they hands of farewell or greeting, Hands that I helped or hands that helped me? Would it not be well to carve a hand
With an inverted thumb, like Elagabalus? And yonder is a broken chain,
The weakest-link idea perhaps–but what was it? And lambs, some lying down,
Others standing, as if listening to the shepherd– Others bearing a cross, one foot lifted up– Why not chisel a few shambles?
And fallen columns!
Carve the pedestal, please,
Or the foundations; let us see the cause of the fall. And compasses and mathematical instruments, In irony of the under tenants, ignorance Of determinants and the calculus of variations. And anchors, for those who never sailed. And gates ajar–yes, so they were;
You left them open and stray goats entered your garden. And an eye watching like one of the Arimaspi– So did you–with one eye.
And angels blowing trumpets–you are heralded– It is your horn and your angel and your family’s estimate. It is all very well, but for myself
I know I stirred certain vibrations in Spoon River Which are my true epitaph, more lasting than stone.

Hiram Scates

I TRIED to win the nomination
For president of the County-board
And I made speeches all over the County Denouncing Solomon Purple, my rival,
As an enemy of the people,
In league with the master-foes of man. Young idealists, broken warriors,
Hobbling on one crutch of hope,
Souls that stake their all on the truth, Losers of worlds at heaven’s bidding,
Flocked about me and followed my voice As the savior of the County.
But Solomon won the nomination;
And then I faced about,
And rallied my followers to his standard, And made him victor, made him King
Of the Golden Mountain with the door Which closed on my heels just as I entered, Flattered by Solomon’s invitation,
To be the County–board’s secretary. And out in the cold stood all my followers: Young idealists, broken warriors
Hobbling on one crutch of hope–
Souls that staked their all on the truth, Losers of worlds at heaven’s bidding,
Watching the Devil kick the Millennium Over the Golden Mountain.

Peleg Poague

HORSES and men are just alike.
There was my stallion, Billy Lee,
Black as a cat and trim as a deer,
With an eye of fire, keen to start, And he could hit the fastest speed
Of any racer around Spoon River.
But just as you’d think he couldn’t lose, With his lead of fifty yards or more,
He’d rear himself and throw the rider, And fall back over, tangled up,
Completely gone to pieces.
You see he was a perfect fraud:
He couldn’t win, he couldn’t work,
He was too light to haul or plow with, And no one wanted colts from him.
And when I tried to drive him–well, He ran away and killed me.

Jeduthan Hawley

THERE would be a knock at the door
And I would arise at midnight and go to the shop, Where belated travelers would hear me hammering Sepulchral boards and tacking satin.
And often I wondered who would go with me To the distant land, our names the theme For talk, in the same week, for I’ve observed Two always go together.
Chase Henry was paired with Edith Conant; And Jonathan Somers with Willie Metcalf; And Editor Hamblin with Francis Turner,
When he prayed to live longer than Editor Whedon, And Thomas Rhodes with widow McFarlane;
And Emily Sparks with Barry Holden; And Oscar Hummel with Davis Matlock;
And Editor Whedon with Fiddler Jones; And Faith Matheny with Dorcas Gustine.
And l, the solemnest man in town,
Stepped off with Daisy Fraser.

Abel Melveny

I BOUGHT every kind of machine that’s known– Grinders, shellers, planters, mowers,
Mills and rakes and ploughs and threshers– And all of them stood in the rain and sun, Getting rusted, warped and battered,
For I had no sheds to store them in, And no use for most of them.
And toward the last, when I thought it over, There by my window, growing clearer
About myself, as my pulse slowed down, And looked at one of the mills I bought– Which I didn’t have the slightest need of, As things turned out, and I never ran–
A fine machine, once brightly varnished, And eager to do its work,
Now with its paint washed off–
I saw myself as a good machine
That Life had never used.

Oaks Tutt

MY mother was for woman’s rights
And my father was the rich miller at London Mills. I dreamed of the wrongs of the world and wanted to right them. When my father died, I set out to see peoples and countries In order to learn how to reform the world. I traveled through many lands. I saw the ruins of Rome And the ruins of Athens, And the ruins of Thebes. And I sat by moonlight amid the necropolis of Memphis. There I was caught up by wings of flame, And a voice from heaven said to me:
“Injustice, Untruth destroyed them. Go forth Preach Justice! Preach Truth!”
And I hastened back to Spoon River
To say farewell to my mother before beginning my work. They all saw a strange light in my eye.
And by and by, when I talked, they discovered What had come in my mind.
Then Jonathan Swift Somers challenged me to debate The subject, (I taking the negative):
“Pontius Pilate, the Greatest Philosopher of the World.” And he won the debate by saying at last, “Before you reform the world, Mr. Tutt
Please answer the question of Pontius Pilate: “What is Truth?”

Elliott Hawkins

I LOOKED like Abraham Lincoln.
I was one of you, Spoon River, in all fellowship, But standing for the rights of property and for order. A regular church attendant,
Sometimes appearing in your town meetings to warn you Against the evils of discontent and envy And to denounce those who tried to destroy the Union, And to point to the peril of the Knights of Labor. My success and my example are inevitable influences In your young men and in generations to come, In spite of attacks of newspapers like the Clarion; A regular visitor at Springfield
When the Legislature was in session To prevent raids upon the railroads
And the men building up the state.
Trusted by them and by you, Spoon River, equally In spite of the whispers that I was a lobbyist. Moving quietly through the world, rich and courted. Dying at last, of course, but lying here Under a stone with an open book carved upon it And the words “Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” And now, you world-savers, who reaped nothing in life And in death have neither stones nor epitaphs, How do you like your silence from mouths stopped With the dust of my triumphant career?

Enoch Dunlap

How many times, during the twenty years I was your leader, friends of Spoon River, Did you neglect the convention and caucus, And leave the burden on my hands
Of guarding and saving the people’s cause?– Sometimes because you were ill;
Or your grandmother was ill;
Or you drank too much and fell asleep; Or else you said: “He is our leader,
All will be well; he fights for us; We have nothing to do but follow.”
But oh, how you cursed me when I fell, And cursed me, saying I had betrayed you, In leaving the caucus room for a moment, When the people’s enemies, there assembled, Waited and watched for a chance to destroy The Sacred Rights of the People.
You common rabble! I left the caucus To go to the urinal.

Ida Frickey

NOTHlNG in life is alien to you:
I was a penniless girl from Summum
Who stepped from the morning train in Spoon River. All the houses stood before me with closed doors And drawn shades–l was barred out;
I had no place or part in any of them. And I walked past the old McNeely mansion, A castle of stone ‘mid walks and gardens With workmen about the place on guard
And the County and State upholding it For its lordly owner, full of pride.
I was so hungry I had a vision:
I saw a giant pair of scissors
Dip from the sky, like the beam of a dredge, And cut the house in two like a curtain. But at the “Commercial” I saw a man
Who winked at me as I asked for work– It was Wash McNeely’s son.
He proved the link in the chain of title To half my ownership of the mansion,
Through a breach of promise suit–the scissors. So, you see, the house, from the day I was born, Was only waiting for me.

Seth Compton

WHEN I died, the circulating library
Which I built up for Spoon River,
And managed for the good of inquiring minds, Was sold at auction on the public square, As if to destroy the last vestige
Of my memory and influence.
For those of you who could not see the virtue Of knowing Volney’s “Ruins” as well as Butler’s “Analogy” And “Faust” as well as “Evangeline,”
Were really the power in the village, And often you asked me
“What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?” I am out of your way now, Spoon River,
Choose your own good and call it good. For I could never make you see
That no one knows what is good
Who knows not what is evil;
And no one knows what is true
Who knows not what is false.

Felix Schmidt

IT was only a little house of two rooms– Almost like a child’s play-house–
With scarce five acres of ground around it; And I had so many children to feed
And school and clothe, and a wife who was sick From bearing children.
One day lawyer Whitney came along
And proved to me that Christian Dallman, Who owned three thousand acres of land,
Had bought the eighty that adjoined me In eighteen hundred and seventy-one
For eleven dollars, at a sale for taxes, While my father lay in his mortal illness. So the quarrel arose and I went to law.
But when we came to the proof,
A survey of the land showed clear as day That Dallman’s tax deed covered my ground And my little house of two rooms.
It served me right for stirring him up. I lost my case and lost my place.
I left the court room and went to work As Christian Dallman’s tenant.

Richard Bone

When I first came to Spoon River
I did not know whether what they told me Was true or false.
They would bring me the epitaph
And stand around the shop while I worked And say “He was so kind,” “He was so wonderful,” “She was the sweetest woman,” “He was a consistent Christian.” And I chiseled for them whatever they wished, All in ignorance of the truth.
But later, as I lived among the people here, I knew how near to the life
Were the epitaphs that were ordered for them as they died. But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chisel And made myself party to the false chronicles Of the stones,
Even as the historian does who writes Without knowing the truth,
Or because he is influenced to hide it.

Silas Dement

It was moon-light, and the earth sparkled With new-fallen frost.
It was midnight and not a soul abroad. Out of the chimney of the court-house
A gray-hound of smoke leapt and chased The northwest wind.
I carried a ladder to the landing of the stairs And leaned it against the frame of the trap-door In the ceiling of the portico,
And I crawled under the roof and amid the rafters And flung among the seasoned timbers
A lighted handful of oil-soaked waste. Then I came down and slunk away.
In a little while the fire-bell rang– Clang! Clang! Clang!
And the Spoon River ladder company
Came with a dozen buckets and began to pour water On the glorious bon-fire, growing hotter Higher and brighter, till the walls fell in And the limestone columns where Lincoln stood Crashed like trees when the woodman fells them . When I came back from Joliet
There was a new court house with a dome. For I was punished like all who destroy
The past for the sake of the future.

Dillard Sissman

THE buzzards wheel slowly
In wide circles, in a sky
Faintly hazed as from dust from the road. And a wind sweeps through the pasture where I lie Beating the grass into long waves.
My kite is above the wind,
Though now and then it wobbles,
Like a man shaking his shoulders;
And the tail streams out momentarily, Then sinks to rest.
And the buzzards wheel and wheel,
Sweeping the zenith with wide circles Above my kite. And the hills sleep.
And a farm house, white as snow,
Peeps from green trees–far away.
And I watch my kite,
For the thin moon will kindle herself ere long, Then she will swing like a pendulum dial To the tail of my kite.
A spurt of flame like a water-dragon Dazzles my eyes–
I am shaken as a banner.

E. C. Culbertson

Is it true, Spoon River,
That in the hall–way of the New Court House There is a tablet of bronze
Containing the embossed faces
Of Editor Whedon and Thomas Rhodes? And is it true that my successful labors In the County Board, without which
Not one stone would have been placed on another, And the contributions out of my own pocket To build the temple, are but memories among the people, Gradually fading away, and soon to descend With them to this oblivion where I lie?
In truth, I can so believe.
For it is a law of the Kingdom of Heaven That whoso enters the vineyard at the eleventh hour Shall receive a full day’s pay.
And it is a law of the Kingdom of this World That those who first oppose a good work
Seize it and make it their own,
When the corner–stone is laid,
And memorial tablets are erected.

Shack Dye

THE white men played all sorts of jokes on me. They took big fish off my hook
And put little ones on, while I was away Getting a stringer, and made me believe
I hadn’t seen aright the fish I had caught. When Burr Robbins, circus came to town
They got the ring master to let a tame leopard Into the ring, and made me believe
I was whipping a wild beast like Samson When l, for an offer of fifty dollars,
Dragged him out to his cage.
One time I entered my blacksmith shop And shook as I saw some horse-shoes crawling Across the floor, as if alive–
Walter Simmons had put a magnet
Under the barrel of water.
Yet everyone of you, you white men, Was fooled about fish and about leopards too, And you didn’t know any more than the horse-shoes did What moved you about Spoon River.

Hildrup Tubbs

I MADE two fights for the people.
First I left my party, bearing the gonfalon Of independence, for reform, and was defeated. Next I used my rebel strength
To capture the standard of my old party– And I captured it, but I was defeated.
Discredited and discarded, misanthropical, I turned to the solace of gold
And I used my remnant of power
To fasten myself like a saprophyte
Upon the putrescent carcass
Of Thomas Rhodes, bankrupt bank,
As assignee of the fund.
Everyone now turned from me.
My hair grew white,
My purple lusts grew gray,
Tobacco and whisky lost their savor And for years Death ignored me
As he does a hog.

Henry Tripp

THE bank broke and I lost my savings. I was sick of the tiresome game in Spoon River And I made up my mind to run away
And leave my place in life and my family; But just as the midnight train pulled in, Quick off the steps jumped Cully Green
And Martin Vise, and began to fight To settle their ancient rivalry,
Striking each other with fists that sounded Like the blows of knotted clubs.
Now it seemed to me that Cully was winning, When his bloody face broke into a grin
Of sickly cowardice, leaning on Martin And whining out “We’re good friends, Mart, You know that I’m your friend.”
But a terrible punch from Martin knocked him Around and around and into a heap.
And then they arrested me as a witness, And I lost my train and staid in Spoon River To wage my battle of life to the end.
Oh, Cully Green, you were my savior– You, so ashamed and drooped for years,
Loitering listless about the streets, And tying rags ,round your festering soul, Who failed to fight it out.

Granville Calhoun

I WANTED to be County Judge
One more term, so as to round out a service Of thirty years.
But my friends left me and joined my enemies, And they elected a new man.
Then a spirit of revenge seized me, And I infected my four sons with it,
And I brooded upon retaliation,
Until the great physician, Nature,
Smote me through with paralysis
To give my soul and body a rest.
Did my sons get power and money?
Did they serve the people or yoke them, To till and harvest fields of self?
For how could they ever forget
My face at my bed-room window,
Sitting helpless amid my golden cages Of singing canaries,
Looking at the old court-house?

Henry C. Calhoun

I REACHED the highest place in Spoon River, But through what bitterness of spirit!
The face of my father, sitting speechless, Child-like, watching his canaries,
And looking at the court-house window Of the county judge’s room,
And his admonitions to me to seek
My own in life, and punish Spoon River To avenge the wrong the people did him,
Filled me with furious energy
To seek for wealth and seek for power. But what did he do but send me along
The path that leads to the grove of the Furies? I followed the path and I tell you this: On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates, Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.
Stop for a moment, and if you see
The thread of revenge leap out of the shuttle Then quickly snatch from Atropos
The shears and cut it, lest your sons And the children of them and their children Wear the envenomed robe.

Alfred Moir

WHY was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference
And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones? Why, with all of my errant steps
Did I miss the fate of Willard Fluke? And why, though I stood at Burchard’s bar, As a sort of decoy for the house to the boys To buy the drinks, did the curse of drink Fall on me like rain that runs off,
Leaving the soul of me dry and clean? And why did I never kill a man Like Jack McGuire? But instead I mounted a little in life,
And I owe it all to a book I read.
But why did I go to Mason City,
Where I chanced to see the book in a window, With its garish cover luring my eye?
And why did my soul respond to the book, As I read it over and over?

Perry Zoll

MY thanks, friends of the
County Scientific Association,
For this modest boulder,
And its little tablet of bronze.
Twice I tried to join your honored body, And was rejected
And when my little brochure
On the intelligence of plants
Began to attract attention
You almost voted me in.
After that I grew beyond the need of you And your recognition.
Yet I do not reject your memorial stone Seeing that I should, in so doing,
Deprive you of honor to yourselves.

Magrady Graham

TELL me, was Altgeld elected Governor? For when the returns began to come in
And Cleveland was sweeping the East It was too much for you, poor old heart, Who had striven for democracy
In the long, long years of defeat.
And like a watch that is worn
I felt you growing slower until you stopped. Tell me, was Altgeld elected,
And what did he do?
Did they bring his head on a platter to a dancer, Or did he triumph for the people?
For when I saw him
And took his hand,
The child-like blueness of his eyes Moved me to tears,
And there was an air of eternity about him, Like the cold, clear light that rests at dawn On the hills!

Archibald Higbie

I LOATHED YOU, Spoon River.
I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you.
I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists, Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art And to breathe the air that the masters breathed And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they’d pass my work and say: “What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”
There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River And I burned with shame and held my peace. And what could I do, all covered over
And weighted down with western soil Except aspire, and pray for another
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River Rooted out of my soul?

Tom Merritt

AT first I suspected something–
She acted so calm and absent-minded. And one day I heard the back door shut
As I entered the front, and I saw him slink Back of the smokehouse into the lot
And run across the field.
And I meant to kill him on sight.
But that day, walking near Fourth Bridge Without a stick or a stone at hand,
All of a sudden I saw him standing
Scared to death, holding his rabbits, And all I could say was, “Don’t, Don’t, Don’t,” As he aimed and fired at my heart.

Mrs. Merritt

SILENT before the jury
Returning no word to the judge when he asked me If I had aught to say against the sentence, Only shaking my head.
What could I say to people who thought That a woman of thirty-five was at fault When her lover of nineteen killed her husband? Even though she had said to him over and over, “Go away, Elmer, go far away,
I have maddened your brain with the gift of my body: You will do some terrible thing.”
And just as I feared, he killed my husband; With which I had nothing to do, before
God Silent for thirty years in prison And the iron gates of Joliet
Swung as the gray and silent trusties Carried me out in a coffin.

Elmer Karr

WHAT but the love of God could have softened And made forgiving the people of Spoon River Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again When I returned from fourteen years in prison! Oh, helping hands that in the church received me And heard with tears my penitent confession, Who took the sacrament of bread and wine! Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

Elizabeth Childers

DUST of my dust,
And dust with my dust,
O, child who died as you entered the world, Dead with my death!
Not knowing
Breath, though you tried so hard,
With a heart that beat when you lived with me, And stopped when you left me for Life.
It is well, my child.
For you never traveled
The long, long way that begins with school days, When little fingers blur under the tears That fall on the crooked letters.
And the earliest wound, when a little mate Leaves you alone for another;
And sickness, and the face of
Fear by the bed;
The death of a father or mother;
Or shame for them, or poverty;
The maiden sorrow of school days ended; And eyeless Nature that makes you drink
From the cup of Love, though you know it’s poisoned; To whom would your flower-face have been lifted? Botanist, weakling?
Cry of what blood to yours?–
Pure or foul, for it makes no matter, It’s blood that calls to our blood.
And then your children–oh, what might they be? And what your sorrow?
Child! Child Death is better than Life.

Edith Conant

WE stand about this place–we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: “June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days.” And all things are changed.
And we–we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here. Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age;
He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice!
How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken, With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you. It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world.
All is changed, save the river and the hill– Even they are changed.
Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same. And we–we, the memories, stand here in awe, Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears– In immeasurable weariness

Father Malloy

YOU are over there, Father Malloy,
Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave, Not here with us on the hill–
Us of wavering faith, and clouded vision And drifting hope, and unforgiven sins.
You were so human, Father Malloy,
Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us, Siding with us who would rescue Spoon River From the coldness and the dreariness of village morality. You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sand From the wastes about the pyramids
And makes them real and Egypt real. You were a part of and related to a great past, And yet you were so close to many of us. You believed in the joy of life.
You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh. You faced life as it is,
And as it changes.
Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy, Seeing how your church had divined the heart, And provided for it,
Through Peter the Flame,
Peter the Rock.

Ami Green

NOT “a youth with hoary head and haggard eye”, But an old man with a smooth skin
And black hair! I had the face of a boy as long as I lived, And for years a soul that was stiff and bent, In a world which saw me just as a jest,
To be hailed familiarly when it chose, And loaded up as a man when it chose,
Being neither man nor boy.
In truth it was soul as well as body Which never matured, and I say to you
That the much-sought prize of eternal youth Is just arrested growth.

Calvin Campbell

YE who are kicking against Fate,
Tell me how it is that on this hill-side Running down to the river,
Which fronts the sun and the south-wind, This plant draws from the air and soil
Poison and becomes poison ivy?
And this plant draws from the same air and soil Sweet elixirs and colors and becomes arbutus? And both flourish?
You may blame Spoon River for what it is, But whom do you blame for the will in you That feeds itself and makes you dock-weed, Jimpson, dandelion or mullen
And which can never use any soil or air So as to make you jessamine or wistaria?

Henry Layton

WHOEVER thou art who passest by
Know that my father was gentle,
And my mother was violent,
While I was born the whole of such hostile halves, Not intermixed and fused,
But each distinct, feebly soldered together. Some of you saw me as gentle,
Some as violent,
Some as both.
But neither half of me wrought my ruin. It was the falling asunder of halves,
Never a part of each other,
That left me a lifeless soul.

Harlan Sewall

You never understood,
O unknown one,
Why it was I repaid
Your devoted friendship and delicate ministrations First with diminished thanks,
Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you, So that I might not be compelled to thank you, And then with silence which followed upon Our final Separation.
You had cured my diseased soul.
But to cure it
You saw my disease, you knew my secret, And that is why I fled from you.
For though when our bodies rise from pain We kiss forever the watchful hands
That gave us wormwood, while we shudder For thinking of the wormwood,
A soul that’s cured is a different matter, For there we’d blot from memory
The soft–toned words, the searching eyes, And stand forever oblivious,
Not so much of the sorrow itself
As of the hand that healed it.

Ippolit Konovaloff

I WAS a gun-smith in Odessa.
One night the police broke in the room Where a group of us were reading Spencer. And seized our books and arrested us.
But I escaped and came to New York
And thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River, Where I could study my Kant in peace
And eke out a living repairing guns Look at my moulds! My architectonics
One for a barrel, one for a hammer
And others for other parts of a gun! Well, now suppose no gun–smith living
Had anything else but duplicate moulds Of these I show you–well, all guns
Would be just alike, with a hammer to hit The cap and a barrel to carry the shot
All acting alike for themselves, and all Acting against each other alike.
And there would be your world of guns! Which nothing could ever free from itself Except a Moulder with different moulds
To mould the metal over.

Henry Phipps

I WAS the Sunday-school superintendent, The dummy president of the wagon works
And the canning factory,
Acting for Thomas Rhodes and the banking clique; My son the cashier of the bank,
Wedded to Rhodes, daughter,
My week days spent in making money, My Sundays at church and in prayer.
In everything a cog in the wheel of things–as–they-are: Of money, master and man, made white
With the paint of the Christian creed. And then:
The bank collapsed.
I stood and hooked at the wrecked machine– The wheels with blow-holes stopped with putty and painted; The rotten bolts, the broken rods;
And only the hopper for souls fit to be used again In a new devourer of life,
When newspapers, judges and money-magicians Build over again.
I was stripped to the bone, but I lay in the Rock of Ages, Seeing now through the game, no longer a dupe, And knowing “‘the upright shall dwell in the land But the years of the wicked shall be shortened.” Then suddenly, Dr. Meyers discovered
A cancer in my liver.
I was not, after all, the particular care of God Why, even thus standing on a peak
Above the mists through which I had climbed, And ready for larger life in the world,
Eternal forces
Moved me on with a push.

Harry Wilmans

I WAS just turned twenty-one,
And Henry Phipps, the Sunday-school superintendent, Made a speech in Bindle’s Opera House.
“The honor of the flag must be upheld,” he said, “Whether it be assailed by a barbarous tribe of Tagalogs Or the greatest power in Europe.”
And we cheered and cheered the speech and the flag he waved As he spoke.
And I went to the war in spite of my father, And followed the flag till I saw it raised By our camp in a rice field near Manila, And all of us cheered and cheered it.
But there were flies and poisonous things; And there was the deadly water,
And the cruel heat,
And the sickening, putrid food;
And the smell of the trench just back of the tents Where the soldiers went to empty themselves; And there were the whores who followed us, full of syphilis; And beastly acts between ourselves or alone, With bullying, hatred, degradation among us, And days of loathing and nights of fear
To the hour of the charge through the steaming swamp, Following the flag,
Till I fell with a scream, shot through the guts. Now there’s a flag over me in
Spoon River. A flag!
A flag!

John Wasson

OH! the dew-wet grass of the meadow in North Carolina Through which Rebecca followed me wailing, wailing, One child in her arms, and three that ran along wailing, Lengthening out the farewell to me off to the war with the British, And then the long, hard years down to the day of Yorktown. And then my search for Rebecca,
Finding her at last in Virginia,
Two children dead in the meanwhile. We went by oxen to Tennessee,
Thence after years to Illinois,
At last to Spoon River.
We cut the buffalo grass,
We felled the forests,
We built the school houses, built the bridges, Leveled the roads and tilled the fields
Alone with poverty, scourges, death– If Harry Wilmans who fought the Filipinos Is to have a flag on his grave
Take it from mine.

Many Soldiers

THE idea danced before us as a flag;
The sound of martial music;
The thrill of carrying a gun;
Advancement in the world on coming home; A glint of glory, wrath for foes;
A dream of duty to country or to God. But these were things in ourselves, shining before us, They were not the power behind us,
Which was the Almighty hand of Life, Like fire at earth’s center making mountains, Or pent up waters that cut them through. Do you remember the iron band
The blacksmith, Shack Dye, welded
Around the oak on Bennet’s lawn,
From which to swing a hammock,
That daughter Janet might repose in, reading On summer afternoons?
And that the growing tree at last
Sundered the iron band?
But not a cell in all the tree
Knew aught save that it thrilled with life, Nor cared because the hammock fell
In the dust with Milton’s Poems.

Godwin James

HARRY WILMANS! You who fell in a swamp Near Manila, following the flag
You were not wounded by the greatness of a dream, Or destroyed by ineffectual work,
Or driven to madness by Satanic snags; You were not torn by aching nerves,
Nor did you carry great wounds to your old age. You did not starve, for the government fed you. You did not suffer yet cry “forward”
To an army which you led
Against a foe with mocking smiles,
Sharper than bayonets.
You were not smitten down
By invisible bombs.
You were not rejected
By those for whom you were defeated. You did not eat the savorless bread
Which a poor alchemy had made from ideals. You went to Manila, Harry Wilmans,
While I enlisted in the bedraggled army Of bright-eyed, divine youths,
Who surged forward, who were driven back and fell Sick, broken, crying, shorn of faith,
Following the flag of the Kingdom of Heaven. You and I, Harry Wilmans, have fallen
In our several ways, not knowing
Good from bad, defeat from victory, Nor what face it is that smiles
Behind the demoniac mask.

Lyman King

YOU may think, passer-by, that Fate
Is a pit-fall outside of yourself,
Around which you may walk by the use of foresight And wisdom.
Thus you believe, viewing the lives of other men, As one who in God-like fashion bends over an anthill, Seeing how their difficulties could be avoided. But pass on into life:
In time you shall see Fate approach you In the shape of your own image in the mirror; Or you shall sit alone by your own hearth, And suddenly the chair by you shall hold a guest, And you shall know that guest
And read the authentic message of his eyes.

Caroline Branson

WITH our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walked, As often before, the April fields till star–light Silkened over with viewless gauze the darkness Under the cliff, our trysting place in the wood, Where the brook turns! Had we but passed from wooing Like notes of music that run together, into winning, In the inspired improvisation of love!
But to put back of us as a canticle ended The rapt enchantment of the flesh,
In which our souls swooned, down, down, Where time was not, nor space, nor ourselves– Annihilated in love!
To leave these behind for a room with lamps: And to stand with our Secret mocking itself, And hiding itself amid flowers and mandolins, Stared at by all between salad and coffee. And to see him tremble, and feel myself
Prescient, as one who signs a bond– Not flaming with gifts and pledges heaped With rosy hands over his brow.
And then, O night! deliberate! unlovely! With all of our wooing blotted out by the winning, In a chosen room in an hour that was known to all! Next day he sat so listless, almost cold So strangely changed, wondering why I wept, Till a kind of sick despair and voluptuous madness Seized us to make the pact of death.
A stalk of the earth-sphere,
Frail as star-light;
Waiting to be drawn once again Into creation’s stream. But next time to be given birth
Gazed at by Raphael and St. Francis Sometimes as they pass.
For I am their little brother,
To be known clearly face to face
Through a cycle of birth hereafter run. You may know the seed and the soil;
You may feel the cold rain fall,
But only the earth–sphere, only heaven Knows the secret of the seed
In the nuptial chamber under the soil. Throw me into the stream again,
Give me another trial–
Save me, Shelley!

Anne Rutledge

OUT of me unworthy and unknown
The vibrations of deathless music;
“With malice toward none, with charity for all.’, Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the beneficent face of a nation
Shining with justice and truth.
I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds, Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,
Wedded to him, not through union, But through separation. Bloom forever, O Republic,
From the dust of my bosom!

Hamlet Micure

IN a lingering fever many visions come to you: I was in the little house again
With its great yard of clover
Running down to the board-fence,
Shadowed by the oak tree,
Where we children had our swing.
Yet the little house was a manor hall Set in a lawn, and by the lawn was the sea. I was in the room where little Paul
Strangled from diphtheria,
But yet it was not this room–
It was a sunny verandah enclosed
With mullioned windows
And in a chair sat a man in a dark cloak With a face like Euripides.
He had come to visit me, or I had gone to visit him– I could not tell. We could hear the beat of the sea, the clover nodded Under a summer wind, and little Paul came With clover blossoms to the window and smiled. Then I said: “What is “divine despair” Alfred?” “Have you read ‘Tears, Idle Tears’?” he asked. “Yes, but you do not there express divine despair.” “My poor friend,” he answered, “that was why the despair Was divine.”

Mabel Osborne

YOUR red blossoms amid green leaves
Are drooping, beautiful geranium!
But you do not ask for water.
You cannot speak!
You do not need to speak–
Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst, Yet they do not bring water!
They pass on, saying:
“The geranium wants water.”
And I, who had happiness to share
And longed to share your happiness; I who loved you, Spoon River,
And craved your love,
Withered before your eyes, Spoon River– Thirsting, thirsting,
Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love, You who knew and saw me perish before you, Like this geranium which someone has planted over me, And left to die.

William H. Herndon

THERE by the window in the old house
Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley, My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline, Day by day did I look in my memory,
As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe, And I saw the figures of the past
As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream, Move through the incredible sphere of time. And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giant And throw himself over a deathless destiny, Master of great armies, head of the republic, Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative song The epic hopes of a people;
At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires, Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten out From spirits tempered in heaven.
Look in the crystal!
See how he hastens on
To the place where his path comes up to the path Of a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare.
O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play, Often and often I saw you,
As the cawing crows winged their way to the wood Over my house–top at solemn sunsets,