Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914

Anthology Of Magazine Verse

For 1914

And Year Book Of American Poetry

Edited By William Stanley Braithwaite

[Illustration]

New York Laurence J. Gomme 1914

Copyright, 1914, by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE

_Published December, 1914_

_Second Edition January, 1916_

Vail-Ballou Company Binghamton And New York

To Louis V. Ledoux And Edwin Arlington Robinson

_Palmam qui meruit ferat_

Contents

Page

CONTENTS v

INTRODUCTION ix

Landscapes

_Louis Untermeyer_ 1

PHI BETA KAPPA POEM _Bliss Carman_ 3

THE DESERTED PASTURE _Bliss Carman_ 9

TO A PHŒBE-BIRD _Witter Bynner_ 11

FROM A MOTOR IN MAY _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 11

TO A GARDEN IN APRIL _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ 12

JEWEL-WEED _Florence Earle Coates_ 12

IRISH _Edward J. O’Brien_ 13

THE REGENTS’ EXAMINATION _Jessie Wallace Hughan_ 14

YANKEE DOODLE _Vachel Lindsay_ 14

FIGHT _Percy MacKaye_ 16

THE PROPHET _Lyman Bryson_ 31

NEWPORT _Alice Duer Miller_ 32

TO A PHOTOGRAPHER _Berton Braley_ 32

SONG _Edward J. O’Brien_ 33

SONNET XXXVII _Arthur Davison Ficke_ 33

THE HUNTING OF DIAN _George Sterling_ 34

THE FIREMEN’S BALL _Vachel Lindsay_ 36

SUMMONS _Louis Untermeyer_ 43

PATTERNS _James Oppenheim_ 44

NEW YORK _Edwin Davies Schoonmaker_ 45

WE DEAD _James Oppenheim_ 51

GOD AND THE FARMER _Frederick Erastus Pierce_ 56

SONG _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ 57

SURETY _Witter Bynner_ 58

REMEMBRANCE: GREEK FOLK-SONG _Margaret Widdemer_ 58

THE TWO FLAMES _Eloise Briton_ 60

THE LOOK _Sara Teasdale_ 63

THE FLIRT _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 63

YOUNG EDEN _Witter Bynner_ 64

ABLUTION _John Myers O’Hara_ 67

PILGRIMAGE _Laura Campbell_ 67

BALLAD OF TWO SEAS _George Sterling_ 68

EROS TURANNOS _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ 70

THE SHROUD _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 72

THE MOTHER _Lydia Gibson_ 73

A HANDFUL OF DUST _James Oppenheim_ 73

A LYNMOUTH WIDOW _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 75

THE GIFT OF GOD _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ 75

SONNET XXIX _Arthur Davison Ficke_ 77

ROMANCE _Conrad Aiken_ 77

“IF YOU SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE ME” _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 92

VAIN EXCUSE _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ 93

SONNET XXX _Arthur Davison Ficke_ 93

LOST TREASURE _Lydia Gibson_ 94

OLD FAIRINGDOWN _Olive Tilford Dargan_ 94

IN THE ROMAN FORUM _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 98

ASH WEDNESDAY _John Erskine_ 100

THE LAGGARD SONG _Richard Le Gallienne_ 106

GROTESQUE _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ 107

BALLADE OF A DEAD LADY _Richard Le Gallienne_ 108

AN EPITAPH _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ 109

WAR _Witter Bynner_ 109

FRANCE _Percy MacKaye_ 109

THE DRUM _E. Sutton_ 110

IF! _Bartholomew F. Griffin_ 115

PRELUDE _Edmond McKenna_ 116

THE OTHER ARMY _Bartholomew F. Griffin_ 118

THE BUGLE _E. Sutton_ 119

HE WENT FOR A SOLDIER _Ruth Comfort Mitchell_ 121

SIX SONNETS (AUGUST, 1914) _Percy MacKaye_ 123

LITANY OF NATIONS _William Griffith_ 126

TO THE NECROPHILE _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ 129

LOUVAIN _Oliver Herford_ 130

THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE _Mahlon Leonard Fisher_ 130

THE PIPES OF THE NORTH _E. Sutton_ 131

OUT OF BABYLON _Clinton Scollard_ 133

“FUNERE MERSIT ACERBO” _Ruth Shepard Phelps_ 135

AFTERWARDS _Mahlon Leonard Fisher_ 135

EVENING _Charlotte Wilson_ 136

LIGHTS THROUGH THE MIST _William Rose Benét_ 136

THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE _Joyce Kilmer_ 137

THE LAST DEMAND _Faith Baldwin_ 140

GODSPEED! _Jane Belfield_ 141

AT THE END OF THE ROAD _Madison Cawein_ 141

PATH FLOWER _Olive Tilford Dargan_ 142

THE GOD-MAKER, MAN _Don Marquis_ 145

The Best Poetry Of 1914 149

List Of “Distinctive Poems” 164

The “Best Poems” Chosen From The “Distinctive” List 169

Titles And Authors Of All Poems In The Selected Magazines For 1914 174

Volumes Of Poetry Published During 1914 192

Forty Books About Poetry 198

Index Of First Lines 201

Introduction

The modern idea seems to be that poetry has no relation to life. Life in the modern sense is action, progress, success. Poetry has been conceded special themes: it can deal with passion,--the strange and unnatural and unreal physical attraction of the sexes--with nature, with the symbols of mythology, and with the characteristic sentimental heroism of history and events. With reality, it must have nothing to do. It is supposed, by the modern world of Anglo-Saxon literalness, to create an atmosphere of illusion, which one must avoid to keep one’s emotions from going astray in a civilization that needs the hardest kind of common sense. It is paradoxical that the English-speaking people who have given the world the greatest poets, should take this false attitude while in possession of the greatest spiritual and imaginative legacy of life and experience, bequeathed them from one generation to another during the last four hundred years.

Escaping the illusion, this modern world has become the prisoner of delusion. For, if poetry deals with anything, it deals with reality. No matter how remote the setting, how subtle the communication, the one hard fact about true poetry, is its reality. The poet at the core and centre of life, surrounded with his dreams, his clairvoyant madness imbibed from the full draught of experience, his intensity of emotion, his childlike tenderness of sympathy, his quickening ecstasy of unashamed and unrestrained feeling, is considered the abnormal product of modern civilization; while in truth he is alone the one normal type of modern mankind, because he alone is in absolute harmony and understanding with the real and common impulse of human destiny.

The great secret of life is to discover by a process of related effects, this common reality of experience. Most of mankind grope blindly in the dark, and miss it, and by a kind of frenzied and pitiable ignorance acquire the abnormal character of conduct. The poet discovers, or at least puts his being wholly at the disposal of, these secrets, wins a serene and contemplative relationship to these effects, and lives a normal spiritual life. Harmony and rhythm are but two common terms that express and designate infinity. There was a man who was so absolutely sane that the scoffers of his day called him mad--this man was William Blake. Christ was a madman to the community of his day, even his closest friends and disciples were not without doubt at times as to his sanity. But these two men were never a hair’s breadth from the commonest reality of existence. They realized imaginative facts, and kept in absolute tune with the harmony and rhythm of life, not merely with what they saw with the actual eye, but with that more penetrative, more limitless sense, the seeing soul. They were poets, and the one insistent quality of their message, was the reality of mortal and immortal life.

It is hard to make a certain type of mind understand that all which is seen with the physical eye, and touched with the fleshly hand, is illusion. That kind of a mind does not understand symbols. It belongs to the so-called practical people of the world, who obey, but do not comprehend, laws; whose laws, indeed, are the conventions of minds similar to their own. They organize, but do not construct; they interpret, but do not create. They are the wheels, and not the motor-power, of the engine of civilization and humanity. These are the people who make up nine-tenths of the world’s population; without the other tenth, they would perish. Their reality in life is mathematical immediacy, the cloak of visibility in which they are wrapped to go about their daily tasks in the world. Now poetry sees in these people and their affairs only the symbols of what is real, looks upon their whole fantastic display of living as the illusion beneath which their real living is concealed; the crises of their joys and sorrows, their aspirations and passions, hidden in the reality of their consciousness where exists an infinite universe of being, and where every event of their lives is enacted before their shadow is thrown upon the stage of the world. The fact of life is there, hidden away in the solitary soul, determining the illusions of conductual existence. It is crowded with moods, emotions and feelings, experienced with such intensity that what breaks forth in actual deed and event is but a faint reflection of the real experience the soul has gone through. The ideal is the real, because it is what one has lived but cannot express in the related experience of human intercourse.

Poetry comes nearer finality in embodying the exact meaning and intensity of human feeling than any other art. Human feeling, being the root of all individual intelligence, is the most inexplicable quantity in life. Intuition is the primary significance of our existence. And it is the quality which gives to poetry its visionary and spiritual substance. In a nation it is the register of a people’s culture.

* * * * *

The study of poetry in the magazines which I began ten years ago, has grown into the convincing evidence of the following pages of this book. During this time we have passed through a number of phases in our national life; but through these changing aspects of national aspirations, there has run, like a widening and brightening strand of culture, the development of a new period of poetry, both in its productive and appreciative aspects. From 1900 to 1905, poetry had declined; and I think there has never been another period in our history when so unintelligent and indifferent an attitude existed toward the art. The scale since 1905 has been ascending, and the high pitch of achievement has not yet been reached. Whether fine poetry creates a general and popular recognition of the art, or the sympathetic appreciation of poetry for itself encourages excellent production, I cannot say. But this is apparent: that a period or epoch of the highest achievement has always been one of popular appreciation.

A factor that should be taken into consideration, and which affects poetry and its audience, is the attitude of the book reviews in our most influential literary journals. A characteristic example is the New York Nation, which has been in the habit of grouping in a few articles during the year with indiscriminate selection, the volumes of poetry which it receives. In these reviews there is a supercilious and academic attitude which dismisses really important work with opinions which have every suggestion of preconceived judgment. One has only to turn back his files to the review of Masefield’s “Everlasting Mercy” and “The Widow in the Bye Street,” to see the type of poetry reviewing that is more common than uncommon in American periodicals and newspapers. I do not mean to make The Nation an exception, but an illustration of the kind of stewardship with which reviewers in some of our most authoritative publications perform the duties of a serious and distinguished branch of American authorship.

To show that there is a quality of poetry in our national production worthy of pride and support, it has been my privilege for a number of years to emphasize in an annual review the distinction of the verse in the magazines. Out of these reviews has grown a demand for a more permanent preservation of the best work, resulting in this annual “Anthology of Magazine Verse,” to which are added records, references, and criticisms, which constitute a “Year-Book of American Poetry.” While all the other arts have had this service performed in their interests, poetry, the one art that most needed such a special reinforcement of its achievement, has been permitted to drift along throughout our entire critical history without this sort of attention.

The poetry in the magazines this year has been of an excellence in the longer pieces beyond the standard of any year in which I have made these estimates. The selections in this volume give evidence of a serious, even anxious, probing of human life. The lyric, represented by some lovely work, has not been practiced with the same irresponsible emotional delight as in past years. Perhaps, there has never been a year when the American poets have shown the independence of their own efforts, when comparatively new work has been so free from English influences. What influences there are, seem to come from French sources. _Vers libre_ has been taken out of the hands of weak and pompous innovators, and made a distinctive medium by a few earnest and powerful singers. The most notable distinction in this respect is to be found in the work of James Oppenheim, whose book, “Songs for the New Age,” is a milestone in our poetic progress. So is Vachel Lindsay’s new work. He has mastered a new form of poetic expression in his volume “The Congo and Other Poems.” Miss Amy Lowell, in the better parts of “Sword Blades and Poppy Seed,” is working toward a new elasticity in rhythm, which is beginning to produce effective and beautiful results. On the other hand Mr. Arthur Stringer in “Open Water” utterly fails to embody in actual performance the principles expounded in the introduction to that volume, though this introduction is as important a piece of critical writing in English upon the subject as I know. No matter how revolutionary they attempt to be in expression, there is still in these writers a traditional note imbuing the substance which makes up the significant part of their creativeness.

The selections in this volume are chosen from all kinds and methods of poetic expression, and the reader’s attention is invited to their differences in many aspects--though the aspect of quality is, I think, of equal attainment in all--of such poems as Bliss Carman’s Phi Beta Kappa Poem, Percy MacKaye’s “Fight,” Vachel Lindsay’s “The Firemen’s Ball,” Eloise Briton’s “The Two Flames,” Conrad Aiken’s “Romance,” Olive Tilford Dargan’s “Old Fairingdown” and “Path Flower,” Joyce Kilmer’s “Twelve-Forty-Five,” and Don Marquis’s “The God-Maker, Man.” Of the shorter pieces, I think the standard is decidedly above last year’s quality. Mahlon Leonard Fisher has again followed the success of previous years with his sonnet “Afterwards,” which sustains his position as one of the foremost sonnet-writers this country has yet produced. This poet has the unusual distinction of a fine reputation without having published a book, but his definite contribution to American poetry will soon take place with the publication of his first volume, “An Old Mercer, and Other Poems.” A poem likely to create a profound impression is Don Marquis’s “The God-Maker, Man,”--a fine achievement, not only for its flashing images, but for spiritual substance shaped with compelling conviction.

The selections in this volume reflect the extraordinary richness of the published volumes this year. I do not recall any year of the past decade when the quantity and quality alike have been so notable. The autumn season’s publication of verse usually shows a preponderance in quality of books by English poets, who seem to meet with more favorable consideration from the best established publishers. There have been this year a number of notable volumes by English poets brought out in this country, but the balance of distinction, both in standard and numbers of books, belongs this year most emphatically to the American poets. Thirty-five volumes of distinguished poetry stand to our credit, and these are only a selection from a larger number of books which merit appreciation. Books by Louis V. Ledoux, George Edward Woodberry, Louis Untermeyer, Walter Conrad Arensberg, William Rose Benét, Vachel Lindsay, George Sterling, Olive Tilford Dargan, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, Conrad Aiken, James Oppenheim, Harry Kemp, Amelia Josephine Burr, Joyce Kilmer, Amy Lowell, Percy MacKaye, Arthur Davison Ficke, Edwin Markham, Agnes Lee, and Bliss Carman, are among those which have advanced the significance of the year’s output.

The European war has had a more immediate effect upon literature than almost anything else. All books of a non-military character published just before the war, with the exception of poetry, have been thrown into relatively ineffective significance. Poetry endures because it is integrally woven with the warp of man’s real existence, and not of that illusory substance, of which other kinds of imaginative literature are fashioned, and which has been so easily wiped away by this war’s primal brutality. And poetry has aspired to sustain the nobler part of man’s nature during the confusion into which civilization has been plunged since the war began. The English people, who have been in the world’s vanguard practising democratic ideals, have, in their poets to-day, shattered the idol of war and are glorifying the ideals of peace.

The best poems in English directly inspired by the war have been produced by American poets. Of these I have gathered a representative group in this volume. The work achieved by Percy MacKaye on different phases of the European war has made more secure than ever his position as a poet. It is no exaggeration to say that the two groups of sonnets which originally appeared in the _Boston Transcript_ in August and September, and which are now included in his volume, “The Present Hour,” are comparable as a whole to William Watson’s “The Purple East,” and in such individual pieces as “Kruppism,” and “The Real Germany,” he has done work finer and more impressive than is to be found in any of the older writer’s sonnets. Moreover, such pieces as “If!” and “The Other Army,” by Bartholomew F. Griffin; “Prelude,” by Edmond McKenna; “He Went for a Soldier,” by Ruth Comfort Mitchell, and “To a Necrophile,” by Walter Conrad Arensberg, are striking and spontaneous poetry of a high order. In E. Sutton, a poet is presented, who has produced martial poetry in “The Bugle,” “The Drum,” and the stirring “Pipes of the North,” which, for swinging rhythm and profound reflection upon the pomp and futility of military glory, has not been equalled by any contemporary poet.

A notable feature of the poetry year is the Kennerley edition of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” The works of Whitman have been transferred from publisher to publisher so often, that there has been little opportunity for their circulation among the people for whom he wrote. This edition contains the text and arrangement preferred by the poet himself, and is the only perfect and complete issue, comprising one hundred and six additional poems not included in any other edition. There are suitable editions to meet the demand of all classes of Whitman enthusiasts and students: an India paper edition bound in leather, a library edition bound in cloth, and two issues of a Popular edition, bound in cloth and in paper respectively. To these are added the “Complete Prose” in a Library and Popular edition in cloth. None of the leading American poets of the past generation have been so unfortunate in publication; and many who believe Whitman to be America’s greatest poet will be glad to know, that now, by the authorization of his executors, all his works are gathered in uniform editions under one imprint.

Other important new editions of poetry are the cheap reissue by the Oxford University Press of John Sampson’s final and authoritative text of William Blake’s complete poems, and the new reprint in Bohn’s Popular Library issued by The Macmillan Company of Henry Vaughan’s Complete Poems.

* * * * *

As in former years in my annual summary in the _Boston Transcript_, I have examined the contents of the leading American magazines. To the seven magazines which I examined last year,--namely, _Harper’s_, _Scribner’s_, _The Century_, _The Forum_, _Lippincott’s_, _The Smart Set_, and _The Bellman_,--I have added this year three monthlies, _The Trend_, _The International_, and _The Masses_; and one quarterly, _The Yale Review_. _The Bellman_ still maintains its high poetic distinction, by virtue of which it prints more good poetry than any other American weekly, and most American monthlies. As last year, I have winnowed from other magazines distinctive poems for classification and notice:--one each from _The Metropolitan_, _The Craftsman_, _The Poetry Journal_, the _Southern Woman’s Magazine_, _Puck_, and _The Infantry Journal_; and two each from _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, _The Nation_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, and the _Outlook_; while from three newspapers I have selected fourteen poems:--eleven from the _Boston Evening Transcript_, two from the _Boston News Bureau_, and one from the _New York Evening Sun_. In quoting from the _Boston Transcript_, I wish to testify to the ready recognition and encouragement this daily paper has offered to poets and poetry. It is one of the paper’s finest traditions.

The poems published during the year in the eleven representative magazines I have submitted to an impartial critical test, choosing from the total number what I consider the “distinctive” poems of the year. From the distinctive pieces are selected fifty-two poems, to which are added thirty from other magazines and from newspapers not represented in the list of eleven, making a total of eighty-two, which are intended to represent what I call an “Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914.”

Quoting from what I have written in previous years, to emphasize the methods which guided my selections, the reader will see how impartial are the tests by which the distinctive and best poems are chosen: “I have not allowed any special sympathy with the subject to influence my choice. I have taken the poet’s point of view, and accepted his value of the theme he dealt with. The question was: How vital and compelling did he make it? The first test was the sense of pleasure the poem communicated; then to discover the secret or the meaning of the pleasure felt; and in doing so to realize how much richer one became in a knowledge of the purpose of life by reason of the poem’s message.”

In one hundred and forty-seven numbers of these eleven magazines I find there were published during 1914 a total of 647 poems, of which 157 were poems of distinction. The total number of poems printed in each magazine, and the number of the distinctive poems are: _Century_, total 71, 19 of distinction; _Harper’s_, total 39, 10 of distinction; _Scribner’s_, total 49, 18 of distinction; _Forum_, total 33, 13 of distinction; _Lippincott’s_, total 56, 8 of distinction; _The Smart Set_ (excluding November and December), total 148, 18 of distinction; _The Bellman_ (until November 7th), total 42, 23 of distinction; _The Yale Review_, total 19, 10 of distinction; _The Trend_ (April, and June to November), total 51, 16 of distinction; _The Masses_ (excluding December), total 53, 13 of distinction; _The International_ (excluding November and December), total 86, 9 of distinction.

Following the text of the poems making the anthology in this volume, I have given the titles and authors of all the poems classified as distinctive, published in the magazines of the year; in addition I give a list of all the poems and their authors in the one hundred and forty-seven numbers of the magazines examined, as a record which readers and students of poetry will find useful.

I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness and thanks to the editors of _Scribner’s Magazine_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Forum_, _The Century Magazine_, _The Outlook_, _Lippincott’s Magazine_, _The Bellman_, _The Smart Set_, _The Yale Review_, _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, _The Poetry Journal_, _The International_, _The Masses_, _The Metropolitan_, _Harper’s Weekly_, _The Craftsman_, _The Nation_, _The Southern Woman’s Magazine_, _Puck_, _The Infantry Journal_, _The Boston News Bureau_, _The New York Evening Sun_, and the _Boston Evening Transcript_, and to the publishers of these magazines and newspapers, for kind permission to reprint in this volume the poems making up the “Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914.” To the authors of these poems I am equally indebted and grateful for their willingness to have me reprint their work in this form. Since their appearance in the magazines and before the close of the year when the contents of this volume was made up, twenty-eight poems herein included have appeared in volumes of original poetry by their authors. For the use of “Yankee Doodle” and “The Firemen’s Ball” by Vachel Lindsay, included in his volume “The Congo, and Other Poems”; of “Fight,” “France,” and “Six Sonnets (August, 1914)” by Percy MacKaye, included in his volume “The Present Hour”; and for “Romance” by Conrad Aiken, included in his volume “Earth Triumphant,” I have also to thank The Macmillan Company, under whose imprint these volumes appear. Similar acknowledgment is due to the George H. Doran Company for permission to reprint “The Twelve-Forty-Five” by Joyce Kilmer, included in his volume, “Trees and Other Poems”; and to print “In the Roman Forum” and “A Lynmouth Widow” by Amelia Josephine Burr, included in her volume “In Deep Places.” I am grateful to Charles Scribner’s Sons for two poems by Olive Tilford Dargan, “Old Fairingdown” and “Path Flower,” included in her volume “Path Flower”; and for two poems by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, “From a Motor in May,” and “If You Should Cease to Love Me,” included in her volume “One Woman to Another.” I am indebted to Mr. Mitchell Kennerley for kind permission to reprint Sonnets XXIX, XXX, and XXXVII from “Sonnets of a Portrait-Painter”; and to Mr. A. M. Robertson for two poems by George Sterling, “Ballad of Two Seas” and “The Hunting of Dian,” included in his volume “Beyond the Breakers, and Other Poems.” Finally, The Century Company have been kind enough to permit me to republish “Landscapes” and “Summons” by Louis Untermeyer, from his volume entitled “Challenge”; and “Patterns,” “A Handful of Dust,” and “We Dead” by James Oppenheim, from his volume entitled “Songs for a New Age.” If I have omitted any acknowledgments, it is quite unintentional, and I trust that any such omission will be regarded leniently. I wish it to be understood that the privilege extended to me so courteously, by the authors, magazine editors and publishers, and book publishers, to print the poems in this volume, does not in any sense restrict the authors in their rights to print the poems in volumes of their own or in any other place. I wish to thank the _Boston Transcript_ for the privilege of reprinting material in this book which originally appeared in the columns of that paper.

A new feature this year is the series of critical summaries of new volumes of verse, which are significant, and which have been appraised in accordance with the same principles as the poems in the “Anthology of Magazine Verse.” It is believed that by adding this feature, the book will more nearly approximate to being an actual Year-Book of American Poetry, and it is in this belief that a subtitle has been added to this volume. I believe that not only libraries, but private individuals will welcome the selected lists of the best volumes for library purchase, graded according to the requirements of a large or a small purse. A list is also subjoined of the best books _about_ poetry, and if there seems to be a demand for this innovation, it is planned next year to include in the book critical summaries of these volumes, as well as of the volumes of original verse.

I shall be grateful for suggestions as to improvements of this year-book in future years, and as to valuable extensions of its scope. To all friends who have assisted this volume by their personal efforts, and to the readers of past years who have made this annual publication possible by promoting it through their interest in poetry, I tender my grateful thanks. They are too many to name here, but my gratitude for their efforts is none the less sincere.

W. S. B.

Cambridge, Massachusetts.

November, 1914.

Landscapes

(For Clement R. Wood)

The rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of grass appear Vivid and startling--everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere. The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The golden-rod with all its million fires; (A million torches swinging in the wind) A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field-- How bountifully were they all revealed! How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive-- So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!

And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose ... Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive And keep the very dirt that died, alive.

And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm and drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, And flying in the wind--her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rushing spirits running over ... What made a sober tree seem such a rover-- Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below. What lit the heart of every golden-glow-- Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame?... Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth.

And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise. Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where the green Silence laughed or stood enthralled, Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled. The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills-- The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea....

A stirring landscape and a generous earth! Freshening courage and benevolent mirth-- And then the city, like a hideous sore.... _Good God, and what is all this beauty for?_

_Century._ _Louis Untermeyer._

Phi Beta Kappa Poem

_Harvard, 1914_

Sir, friends, and scholars, we are here to serve A high occasion. Our New England wears All her unrivalled beauty as of old; And June, with scent of bayberry and rose And song of orioles--as she only comes By Massachusetts Bay--is here once more, Companioning our fête of fellowship.

The open trails, South, West, and North, lead back From populous cities or from lonely plains, Ranch, pulpit, office, factory, desk, or mill, To this fair tribunal of ambitious youth, The shadowy town beside the placid Charles, Where Harvard waits us through the passing years, Conserving and administering still Her savor for the gladdening of the race.

Yearly, of all the sons she has sent forth, And men her admiration would adopt, She summons whom she will back to her side As if to ask, “How fares my cause of truth In the great world beyond these studious walls?” Here, from their store of life experience, They must make answer as grace is given them, And their plain creed, in verity, declare. Among the many, there is sometimes called One who, like Arnold’s scholar gipsy poor, Is but a seeker on the dusky way, “Still waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.”

He must bethink him first of other days, And that old scholar of the seraphic smile, As we recall him in this very place With all the sweetest culture of his age, His gentle courtesy and friendliness, A chivalry of soul now strangely rare, And that ironic wit which made him, too, The unflinching critic and most dreaded foe Of all things mean, unlovely, and untrue. What Mr. Norton said, with that slow smile, Has put the fear of God in many a heart, Even while his hand encouraged eager youth. From such enheartening who would not dare to speak-- Seeing no truth can be too small to serve, And no word worthless that is born of love? Within the noisy workshop of the world, Where still the strife is upward out of gloom, Men doubt the value of high teaching--cry, “What use is learning? Man must have his will! The élan of life alone is paramount! Away with old traditions! We are free!” So Folly mocks at truth in Freedom’s name. Pale Anarchy leads on, with furious shriek, Her envious horde of reckless malcontents And mad destroyers of the Commonwealth, While Privilege with indifference grows corrupt, Till the Republic stands in jeopardy From following false idols and ideals, Though sane men cry for honesty once more, Order and duty and self-sacrifice.

Our world and all it holds of good for us Our fathers and unselfish mothers made, With noble passion and enduring toil, Strenuous, frugal, reverent, and elate, Caring above all else to guard and save The ampler life of the intelligence And the fine honor of a scrupulous code-- Ideals of manhood touched with the divine.

For this they founded these great schools we serve, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Dartmouth, Yale, Amherst and Williams, trusting to our hands The heritage of all they held most high, Possessions of the spirit and the mind, Investments in the provinces of joy.

Vast provinces are these! And fortunate they Who at their will may go adventuring there, Exploring all the boundaries of Truth, Learning the roads that run through Beauty’s realm, Sighting the pinnacles where good meets God, Encompassed by the eternal unknown sea!

Even for a little to o’erlook those lands, The kingdoms of Religion, Science, Art, Is to be made forever happier With blameless memories that shall bring content And inspiration for all after days. And fortunate they whom destiny allows To rest within those provinces and serve The dominion of ideals all their lives. For whoso will, putting dull greed aside, And holding fond allegiance to the best, May dwell there and find fortitude and joy.

In the free fellowship of kindred minds, One band of scholar gypsies I have known, Whose purpose all unworldly was to find An answer to the riddle of the Earth-- A key that should unlock the book of life And secrets of its sorceries reveal. This, they discovered, had long since been found And laid aside forgotten and unused. Our dark young poet who from Dartmouth came Was told the secret by his gypsy bride, Who had it from a master over seas, And he it was first hinted to the band The magic of that universal lore, Before the great Mysteriarch summoned him. It was the doctrine of the threefold life, The beginning of the end of all their doubt.

In that Victorian age it has become So much the fashion now to half despise, Within the shadow of Cathedral walls They had been schooled and heard the mellow chimes For Lenten litanies and daily prayers, With a mild, eloquent, beloved voice Exhorting to all virtue and that peace Surpassing understanding--casting there That “last enchantment of the Middle Age,” The spell of Oxford and her ritual.

So duteous youth was trained, until there grew Restive outreaching in men’s thought to find Some certitude beyond the dusk of faith. They cried on mysticism to be gone, Mazed in the shadowy princedom of the soul.

Then as old creeds fell round them into dust, They reached through science to belief in law, Made reason paramount in man, and guessed At reigning mind within the universe. Piecing the fragments of a fair design With reverent patience and courageous skill, They saw the world from chaos step by step, Under far-seeing guidance and restraint, Emerge to order and to symmetry, As logical and sure as music’s own.

With Spencer, Darwin, Tyndall, and the rest, Our band saw roads of knowledge open wide Through the uncharted province of the truth, As on they fared through that unfolding world. Yet there they found no rest-house for the heart, No wells sufficient for the spirit’s thirst, No shade nor glory for the senses starved.... Turning--they fled by moonlit trails to seek The magic principality of Art, Where loveliness, not learning, rules supreme. They stood intoxicated with delight before The poised unanxious splendor of the Greek; They mused upon the Gothic minsters gray, Where mystic spirit took on mighty form, Until their prayers to lovely churches turned-- (Like a remembrance of the Middle Age They rose where Ralph or Bertram dreamed in stone); Entranced they trod a painters’ paradise, Where color wasted by the Scituate shore Between the changing marshes and the sea; They heard the golden voice of poesie Lulling the senses with its last caress In Tennysonian accents pure and fine; And all their laurels were for Beauty’s brow, Though toiling Reason went ungarlanded.

Then poisonous weeds of artifice sprang up, Defiling Nature at her sacred source; And there the questing World-soul could not stay, Onward must journey with the changing time, To come to this uncouth rebellious age, Where not an ancient creed nor courtesy Is underided, and each demagogue Cries some new nostrum for the cure of ills. To-day the unreasoning iconoclast Would scoff at science and abolish art, To let untutored impulse rule the world. Let learning perish, and the race return To that first anarchy from which we came, When spirit moved upon the deep and laid The primal chaos under cosmic law.

And even now, in all our wilful might, The satiated being cannot bide, But to that austere country turns again, The little province of the saints of God, Where lofty peaks rise upward to the stars From the gray twilight of Gethsemane, And spirit dares to climb with wounded feet Where justice, peace, and loving-kindness are.

What says the lore of human power we hold Through all these striving and tumultuous days? “Why not accept each several bloom of good, Without discarding good already gained, As one might weed a garden overgrown-- Save the new shoots, yet not destroy the old? Only the fool would root up his whole patch Of fragrant flowers, to plant the newer seed.”

Ah, softly, brothers! Have we not the key, Whose first fine luminous use Plotinus gave, Teaching that ecstasy must lead the man? Three things, we see, men in this life require, (As they are needed in the universe:) First of all spirit, energy, or love, The soul and mainspring of created things; Next wisdom, knowledge, culture, discipline, To guide impetuous spirit to its goal; And lastly strength, the sound apt instrument, Adjusted and controlled to lawful needs.

The next world-teacher must be one whose word Shall reaffirm the primacy of soul, Hold scholarship in her high guiding place, And recognize the body’s equal right To culture such as it has never known, In power and beauty serving soul and mind.

Inheritors of this divine ideal, With courage to be fine as well as strong, Shall know what common manhood may become, Regain the gladness of his sons of morn, The radiance of immortality. Out of heroic wanderings of the past, And all the wayward gropings of our time, Unswerved by doubt, unconquered by despair, The messengers of such a hope must go; As one who hears far off before the dawn, On some lone trail among the darkling hills, The hermit thrushes in the paling dusk, And at the omen lifts his eyes to see Above him, with its silent shafts of light, The sunrise kindling all the peaks with fire.

_The Forum_ _Bliss Carman_

The Deserted Pasture

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have, The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the earthly springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And then October passes In gorgeous livery, In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugles blast again, I watch the battalions come To pitch their tents therein.

_Atlantic Monthly_ _Bliss Carman_

To A PhœBe-Bird

Under the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech.

You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest.

And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid,

And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings.

Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phœbe, with your lack of noise, What eloquence you teach!

_The Bellman_ _Witter Bynner_

From A Motor In May

The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way-- And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flesh of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined,-- The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring.

_The Outlook_ _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_

To A Garden In April

Alas, and are you pleading now for pardon? Spring came by night--and so there was no telling? Spring had his way with you, my little garden.... You hide in leaf, but oh! your buds are swelling.

_The Trend_ _Walter Conrad Arensberg_

Jewel-Weed

Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch and balsam-fir, O’er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer;

But here’s a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This passionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear, As summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold!

Thine only, these, thou lonely road! Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for

A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pass the charmèd spot Whispers in warning:--“Friend, admire,-- But touch me not!

“Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!”

_The Bellman_ _Florence Earle Coates_

Irish

My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; I pipe you my bag of whistles, And it is Irish, too. ’Twill sing with you in the morning, And play with you at noon, And dance with you in the evening To a little Irish tune. For my father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; And here is my bag of whistles, For it is Irish, too.

_Boston Transcript_ _Edward J. O’Brien_

The Regents’ Examination

Muffled sounds of the city climbing to me at the window, Here in the summer noon-tide students busily writing, Children of quaint-clad immigrants, fresh from the hut and the Ghetto, Writing of pious Æneas and funeral rites of Anchises. Old-World credo and custom, alien accents and features, Plunged in the free-school hopper, grist for the Anglo-Saxons-- Old-World sweetness and light, and fiery struggle of heroes, Flashed on the blinking peasants, dull with the grime of their bondage! Race that are infant in knowledge, ancient in grief and traditions-- Lore that is tranquil with age and starry with gleams of the future-- What is the thing that will come from the might of the elements blending? Neuter and safe shall it be? Or a flame to burst us asunder?

_Scribner’s Magazine_ _Jessie Wallace Hughan_

Yankee Doodle

This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington’s Birthday.

Dawn this morning burned all red Watching them in wonder. There I saw our spangled flag Divide the clouds asunder. Then there followed Washington. Ah, he rode from glory, Cold and mighty as his name And stern as Freedom’s story. Unsubdued by burning dawn Led his continentals. Vast they were, and strange to see In gray old regimentals:-- Marching still with bleeding feet, Bleeding feet and jesting-- Marching from the judgment throne With energy unresting. How their merry quickstep played-- Silver, sharp, sonorous, Piercing through with prophecy The demons’ rumbling chorus-- Behold the ancient powers of sin And slavery before them!-- Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, The pit-black clouds hung o’er them. Plagues that rose to blast the day, Fiend and tiger faces, Monsters plotting bloodshed for The patient toiling races. Round the dawn their cannon raged, Hurling bolts of thunder, Yet before our spangled flag Their host was cut asunder. Like a mist they fled away.... Ended wrath and roaring. Still our restless soldier-host From East to West went pouring. High beside the sun of noon They bore our banner splendid. All its days of stain and shame And heaviness were ended. Men were swelling now the throng From great and lowly station-- Valiant citizens to-day Of every tribe and nation. Not till night their rear-guard came, Down the west went marching, And left behind the sunset rays In beauty overarching. War-god banners lead us still, Rob, enslave and harry; Let us rather choose to-day The flag the angels carry-- Flag we love, but brighter far-- Soul of it made splendid: Let its days of stain and shame And heaviness be ended. Let its fifes fill all the sky, Redeemed souls marching after, Hills and mountains shake with song, While seas roll on in laughter.

_The Metropolitan_ _Vachel Lindsay_

Fight

The Tale Of A Gunner At Plattsburgh, 1814[1]

I

Jock bit his mittens off and blew his thumbs; He scraped the fresh sleet from the frozen sign:

MEN WANTED--VOLUNTEERS. Like gusts of brine He whiffed deliriums Of sound--the droning roar of rolling, rolling drums And shrilling fifes, like needles in his spine, And drank, blood-bright from sunrise and wild shore, The wine of war.

With ears and eyes he drank and dizzy brain Till all the snow danced red. The little shacks That lined the road of muffled hackmatacks Were roofed with the red stain, Which spread in reeling rings on icy-blue Champlain And splotched the sky like daubs of sealing-wax, That darkened when he winked, and when he stared Caught fire and flared.

MEN WANTED--VOLUNTEERS! The village street, Topped by the slouching store and slim flagpole, Loomed grand as Rome to his expanding soul; Grandly the rhythmic beat Of feet in file and flags and fifes and filing feet, The roar of brass and unremitting roll Of drums and drums bewitched his boyish mood-- Till he hallooed.

His strident echo stung the lake’s wild dawn And startled him from dreams. Jock rammed his cap And rubbed a numb ear with the furry flap, Then bolted like a faun,

Bounding through shin-deep sleigh-ruts in his shaggy brawn, Blowing white frost-wreaths from red mouth agap Till, in a gabled porch beyond the store, He burst the door;

“Mother!” he panted. “Hush! Your pa ain’t up; He’s worser since this storm. What’s struck ye so?” “It’s volunteers!” The old dame stammered “Oh!” And stopped, and stirred her sup Of morning tea, and stared down in the trembling cup. “They’re musterin’ on the common now.” “I know,” She nodded feebly; then with sharp surmise She raised her eyes:

She raised her eyes, and poured their light on him Who towered glowing there--bright lips apart, Cap off, and brown hair tousled. With quick smart She felt the room turn dim And seemed she heard, far off, a sound of cherubim Soothing the sudden pain about her heart. How many a lonely hour of after-woe She saw him so!

“Jock!” And once more the white lips murmured “Jock!” Her fingers slipped; the spilling teacup fell And shattered, tinkling--but broke not the spell. His heart began to knock, Jangling the hollow rhythm of the ticking clock. “Mother, it’s fight, and men are wanted!” “Well, Ah well, it’s men may kill us women’s joys, It’s men--not boys!”

“I’m seventeen! I guess that seventeen--” “My little Jock!” “Little! I’m six-foot-one. (Scorn twitched his lip.) You saw me, how I skun The town last Hallowe’en At wrastlin’.” (Now the mother shifted tack.) “But Jean? You won’t be leavin’ _Jean_?” “I guess a gun Won’t rattle _her_.” He laughed, and turned his head. His face grew red.

“But if it doos--a gal don’t understand: It’s fight!” “Jock, boy, your pa can’t last much more, And who’s to mind the stock--to milk and chore?” Jock frowned and gnawed his hand. “Mother, it’s _men_ must mind the stock--our own born land, And lick the invaders.” Slowly in the door Stubbed the old, worn-out man. “Woman, let be! It’s liberty:

“It’s struck him like fork-lightnin’ in a pine. I felt it, too, like that in seventy-six; And now, if ’twa’n’t for creepin’ pains and cricks And this one leg o’ mine, I’d holler young Jerusalem like him, and jine The fight; but fight don’t come from burnt-out wicks; It comes from fire.” “Mebbe,” she said, “it comes From fifes and drums.”

“Dad, all the boys are down from the back hills. The common’s cacklin’ like hell’s cocks and hens; There’s swords and muskets stacked in the cow-pens And knapsacks in the mills; They say at Isle aux Noix Redcoats are holding drills, And we’re to build a big fleet at Vergennes. Dad, can’t I go?” “I reckon you’re a man: Of course you can.

“I’ll do the chores to home, you do ’em _thar_!” “Dad!”--“Lad!” The men gripped hands and gazed upon The mother, when the door flew wide. There shone A young face like a star, A gleam of bitter-sweet ’gainst snowy islands far, A freshness, like the scent of cinnamon, Tingeing the air with ardor and bright sheen. Jock faltered: “Jean!”

“Jock, don’t you hear the drums? I dreamed all night I heard ’em, and they woke me in black dark. Quick, ain’t you comin’? Can’t you hear ’em? Hark! The men-folks are to fight. I wish I was a man!” Jock felt his throat clutch tight. “Men-folks!” It lit his spirit like a spark Flashing the pent gunpowder of his pride. “Come on!” he cried.

“Here--wait!” The old man stumped to the back wall And handed down his musket. “You’ll want this; And mind what game you’re after, and don’t miss. Good-by: I guess that’s all For now. Come back and get your duds.” Jock, looming tall Beside his glowing sweetheart, stooped to kiss The little shrunken mother. Tiptoe she rose And clutched him--close.

In both her twisted hands she held his head Clutched in the wild remembrance of dim years-- A baby head, suckling, half dewed with tears; A tired boy abed By candlelight; a laughing face beside the red Log-fire; a shock of curls beneath her shears-- The bright hair falling. Ah, she tried to smother Her wild thoughts.--“Mother!

“Mother!” he stuttered. “Baby Jock!” she moaned And looked far in his eyes.--And he was gone. The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn All that she once had owned-- Her heart’s proud empire--passed, her life’s dream sank unthroned. With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan. “Hark, woman!” said the bowed old man. “What’s tolling?” Drums--drums were rolling.

II

Shy wings flashed in the orchard, _glitter, glitter_; Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves Of spring, save only in an old dame’s heart That grieved apart.

Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep: _Creak_ went the pole; the bucket came up brimming. On the bright water lay a cricket swimming Whose brown legs tried to leap

But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep. The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skimming. “Dear Lord, he’s drowned,” she mumbled with dry lips; “The ships! the ships!”

Gently she laid him in the sun and dried The little dripping body. Suddenly Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree And “Look! a letter!” cried A laughing voice; “and lots of news for us inside!” “How’s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where--where is he?” “Down in Vergennes--the ship-yards.” “Ships! Ah, no! It can’t be so.”

“He’s going to fight with guns and be a tar. See here: he’s wrote himself. The post was late. He couldn’t write before. The ship is great! She’s built, from keel to spar, And called the _Saratoga_; and Jock’s got a scar Already--” “Scar?” the mother quavered. “Wait,” Jean rippled, “let me read.” “Quick, then, my dear, _He’ll_ want to hear--”

“Jock’s pa; I guess we’ll find him in the yard. He ain’t scarce creepin’ round these days, poor Dan!” She gripped Jean’s arm and stumbled as they ran, And stopped once, breathing hard. Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep-cropped sward And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse: “Well, ma; what news?”

“From Jockie--there’s a letter!” In his chair The bowed form sat bolt upright. “What’s he say?” “He’s wrote to Jean. I guess it’s boys their way To think old folks don’t care For letters.” “Girl, read out.” Jean smoothed her wilding hair And sat beside them. Out of the blue day A golden robin called; across the road A heifer lowed;

And old ears listened while youth read: “‘Friend Jean, Vergennes: here’s where we’ve played a Yankee trick. I’m layin’ in my bunk by Otter Crick And scribblin’ you this mean Scrawl for to tell the news--what-all I’ve heerd and seen: Jennie, we’ve built a ship, and built her slick-- A swan!--a seven hundred forty tonner, And I’m first gunner.

“‘You ought to seen us launch her t’other day!” Tell dad we’ve christened her for a fight of hisn He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen! She’s twice as big, folks say, As Perry’s ship that took the prize at Put-in-Bay; Yet forty days ago, hull, masts, and mizzen, The whole of her was growin’, live and limber, In God’s green timber.

“‘I helped to fell her main-mast back in March. The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder: A straight white pine. She fell like roarin’ thunder And left a blue-sky arch

Above her, bustin’ all to kindlin’s a tall larch.-- Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under! Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle Yelled Yankee Doodle!

“‘My, how we haw’d and gee’d the big ox-sledges Haulin’ her long trunk through the hemlock dells, A-bellerin’ to the tinkle-tankle bells, And blunted our ax edges Hackin’ new roads of ice ’longside the rocky ledges. We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin’-- Lord, wa’n’t we cheerin’!

“‘Since then I’ve seen her born, as you might say: Born out of fire and water and men’s sweatin’, Blast-furnace rairin’ and red anvils frettin’ And sawmills, night and day, Screech-owlin’ like ’twas Satan’s rumhouse run away Smellin’ of tar and pitch. But I’m forgettin’ The man that’s primed her guns and paid her score: The Commodore.

“‘Macdonough--he’s her master, and she knows His voice, like he was talkin’ to his hound. There ain’t a man of her but ruther’d drown’d Than tread upon his toes; And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin’ eyes, a rose Ain’t friendler than his looks be. When he’s round, He makes you feel like you’re a gentleman American.

“‘But I must tell you how we’re hidin’ here. This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug, And we’re inside. The Redcoats want to plug The mouth, and cork our beer;

So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near To fill our channel, but us boys had dug Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries Stung ’em like bees

“’Till they skedaddled whimperin’ up the lake; But while the shots was flyin’, in the scrimmage, I caught a ball that scotched my livin’ image.-- Now, Jean, for Sam Hill’s sake, Don’t let-on this to mother, for, you know, she’d make A deary-me-in’ that would last a grim age. ’Tain’t much, but when a feller goes to war What’s he go for

“‘If ’taint to fight, and take his chances?’” Jean Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak. “Go on,” said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek. “Truly I didn’t mean-- There ain’t much more. He says: ‘Goodbye now, little queen; We’re due to sail for Plattsburgh this day week. Meantime I’m hopin’ hard and takin’ stock. Your obedient--Jock.’”

The girl’s voice ceased in silence. _Glitter, glitter_, The shy wings flashed through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter. The mother’s heart spurned May’s sweet make-believes, For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming, Guns--guns were booming.

III

Plattsburgh--and windless beauty on the bay; Autumnal morning and the sun at seven: Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heaven Dwindles, and far away Dim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their prey Lie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin, The war-ships--Eagle, Preble, Saratoga, Ticonderoga.

And now a little wind from the northwest Flutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks. A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks, Peers from his cannon’s rest, Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crest Behind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks, Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened wales Of bellying sails.

Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view, Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance: Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly Confiance Leading with Downie’s crew The line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to, Whistling their flock of galleys who advance Behind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast, Tack landward, west.

Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore; Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffs And blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs. Waiting the cannon’s roar A nation holds its breath for knell of Nevermore Or peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughs Of generations--and one old dame’s joy: Her gunner boy.

One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneels Beside his Commodore and fighting squad. Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God-- Toward God, to whom appeals Still rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals. Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.-- They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silently The enemy.

Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout: “He that wavereth is like a wave of the sea Driven with the wind. Behold the ships, that be So great, are turned about Even with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue clout Around his waist, and watches casually Close-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirs And spreads his spurs.

Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoop Wings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire; The English Linnet answers, aiming higher, And _crash_ along Jock’s poop Her hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop, Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crier Strutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew-- _Yankee-doodle-doo!_

Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar: “You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!” “Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie. Calmly the Commodore Touches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four. Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!” And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling, Fall scatter-rolling.

_Boom!_ flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys. The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bay With both her port-bow anchors torn away, Flutters, but proudly rallies To broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys. Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray, And double-shotted from his roaring flail Hurls the black hail.

The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom. Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouth And grapples with great winds. The winds blow south, And scent of lilac bloom Steals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room. Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth! He staggers up, and stares at blinding light: “God! This is fight!”

Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins; He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming, Where little round suns in a dance go rimming The dark with golden coins; Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoins Reel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning-- Lonely and loud--of ululating choirs Strangling with wires.

Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums, The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spume Filling his spirit with a wild perfume; Now noisome anguish numbs His sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums. _Whang!_ splits the spanker near him, and the boom Crushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck, Stunned on the deck.

No time to glance where wounded leaders lie, Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm-- Only to fight! The prone commander’s form Stirs, rises stumblingly, And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry, Men’s bodies wamble like a mangled swarm Of bees. He bends to sight his gun again, Bleeding, and then--

Oh, out of void and old oblivion And reptile slime first rose Apollo’s head; And God in likeness of Himself, ’tis said, Created such an one, Now shaping Shakespeare’s forehead, now Napoleon, Various, by infinite invention bred, In His own image molding beautiful The human skull.

Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gun To fire--but in his face a ball of flesh, A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a mesh Of tangled rope and tun, While still about the deck the lubber clod is spun And, bouncing from the rail, lies in a plesh Of oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red-- A gunner’s head.

* * * * *

Above the ships, enormous from the lake, Rises a wraith--a phantom dim and gory, Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory; And little children quake And lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake, And bards proclaim her in their fiery story; And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding, Hearts--hearts are bleeding.

IV

Macdonough lies with Downie in one land. Victor and vanquished long ago were peers. Held in the grip of peace an hundred years, England has laid her hand In ours, and we have held--and still shall hold--the band That makes us brothers of the hemispheres; Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhood Of law and blood.

Yet one whose terror racked us long of yore Still wreaks upon the world her lawless might: Out of the deeps again the phantom Fight Looms on her wings of war, Sowing in armèd camps and fields her venomed spore, Embattling monarch’s whim against man’s right, Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of time Back in the slime.

We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought, First rose in the eyes of patient Washington, And through the molten heart of Lincoln won To liberty forgot, Now, standing lone in peace, ’mid titans strange distraught, Pray much for patience, more--God’s will be done!-- For vision and for power nobly to see The world made free.

_The Outlook_ _Percy MacKaye_

The Prophet

Jeremiah, will you come? Will you gather up the multitudes, and wake them with a drum? Will you dare anoint the chosen ones from all the cattle kind, And threaten with the fire of God the foolish and the blind?

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, we have waited for you long, To see the flaming fury of your hate against the wrong, For we dally in the Temple, and we flee the eye of Truth, And we waste along the wilderness the glory of our youth.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, here the lying prophets speak, Here they flatter in their feebleness the gilded and the sleek; But their languid pipings die in shame when trumpet cries are heard. Are you coming? Are you coming? O Prophet of the Word!

_The Forum_ _Lyman Bryson_

Newport

On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in spray As when our fathers saw them first alee. If such a one could come again and see This ancient haven in its latter day, These haughty palaces and gardens gay, These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a tree Borne like a gem from Ind or Araby; If he could see the race he bred, at play-- Bright like a flock of tropic birds allured To pause a moment on the southward wing By these warm sands and by these summer seas-- Would he not cry, “Alas, have I endured Exile and famine, hate and suffering, To win religious liberty for these?”

_Smart Set_ _Alice Duer Miller_

To A Photographer

I have known joy and woe and toil and fight I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned, And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand, Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight, Of struggle and of service and command; And now you show me This--this waxen, bland And placid face--unlined, untroubled, white! This is not I--this fatuous face you show Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please, Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know; I have spent blood and brain achieving these, Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack, They are my scars of battle--PUT THEM BACK!

_Harper’s Weekly_ _Berton Braley_

Song

Flesh unto flowers, And flame unto wind, The cleansing of showers Shall come to thee blind.

In the night of thy sleeping The sound of the tide Shall waken thee weeping To turn to my side.

_Boston Transcript_ _Edward J. O’Brien_

Sonnet XXXVII

Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowing Past legend-peopled hillsides to the deep; From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing; The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep; The Cornish sea is silent with the Summer That once bore Iseult from the Irish shore; And lovely lone Fiesole is dumber Than when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore. This eve for us the emerald clearness glowing Over the stream, where late was ruddy might, Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,-- Known but to you, the silence, and the night. Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying; Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.

_The Forum_ _Arthur Davison Ficke_

The Hunting Of Dian

In the silence of a midnight lost, lost forevermore, I stood upon a nameless beach where none had been before, And red gold and yellow gold were the shells upon that shore.

Lone, lone it was as a mist-enfolded strand Set round a lake where marble demons stand-- Held like a sapphire-stone in Thibet’s monstrous hand.

And there I beheld how One stood in her grace To hold to the stars her wet and faery face, And on the smooth and haunted sands her footfall had no trace.

White, white was she as the youngest seraph’s word, Or milk of Eden’s kine or Eden’s fragrant curd, Cast in love by Eve’s wan hand to her most snowy bird.

Fair, fair was she as Venus of the sky, And the jasmine of her breast and starlight of her eye Made the heart a pain and the soul a hopeless sigh.

Weak with the sight I leaned upon my sword, Till my soul that had sighed was become an unseen chord For stress of music rendered to unknown things adored.

Surely she heard, but her beauty gave no sign To me for whom the hushed sea was odorous as wine,-- To me for whom the voiceless world was made her silent shrine.

And she sent forth her gaze to the waters of the West, And she sent forth her soul to the Islands of the Blest, Below a star whose silver throes set pearls upon her breast.

But chill in the East brake a glory on the lands, And she moaned like some low wave that dies on frozen sands, And held to her sea-lover sweet and cruel hands.

Then rose the moon, and its lance was in her side, And there was bitter music because in woe she cried, Ere on the hard and gleaming beach she laid her down and died.

I leapt to her succor, my sword I left behind; But one low mound of opal foam was all that I could find-- A moon-washed length of airy gems that trembled in the wind.

I knelt below the stars; the sea put forth a wave; The moon drew up the captive tides upon her shining grave, As far away I heard the cry her dim sea-lover gave.

_Smart Set_ _George Sterling_

The Firemen’S Ball

Section One

[Sidenote: _To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass of fire-engines pumping. In this passage the reading or chanting is shriller and higher._]

“Give the engines room, Give the engines room.” Louder, faster The little band-master Whips up the fluting, Hurries up the tooting. He thinks that he stands, The reins in his hands, In the fire-chief’s place In the night alarm chase. The cymbals whang, The kettledrums bang:-- “Clear the street, Clear the street Clear the street--Boom, boom. In the evening gloom, In the evening gloom, Give the engines room, Give the engines room, Lest souls be trapped In a terrible tomb.” The sparks and the pine-brands Whirl on high From the black and reeking alleys To the wide red sky. Hear the hot glass crashing, Hear the stone steps hissing. Coal black streams Down the gutters pour. There are cries for help From a far fifth floor. For a longer ladder Hear the fire-chief call. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _To be read or chanted in a heavy bass._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. “Night Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Faster, faster The red flames come. “Hum grum,” say the engines, “Hum grum grum.”

[Sidenote: _Shriller and higher._]

“Buzz, buzz,” Says the crowd. “See, see,” Calls the crowd. “Look out,” Yelps the crowd And the high walls fall:-- Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _Heavy bass._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. NIGHT Of doom, Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Whangaranga, whangaranga, Whang, whang, whang, Clang, clang, clangaranga,

[Sidenote: _Bass, much slower._]

Clang, clang, clang. Clang--a--ranga-- Clang--a--ranga-- Clang, Clang. Listen--to--the--music-- Of the firemen’s ball--

Section Two

[Sidenote: _To be read or sung slowly and softly, in the manner of lustful, insinuating music._]

“Many’s the heart that’s breaking If we could read them all After the ball is over.” (An old song.) Scornfully, gaily The bandmaster sways, Changing the strain That the wild band plays. With a red and royal intoxication, A tangle of sounds And a syncopation, Sweeping and bending From side to side, Master of dreams, With a peacock pride. A lord of the delicate flowers of delight He drives compunction Back through the night. Dreams he’s a soldier Plumed and spurred, And valiant lads Arise at his word, Flaying the sober Thoughts he hates, Driving them back From the dream-town gates. How can the languorous Dancers know The red dreams come When the good dreams go?

[Sidenote: _To be read or chanted slowly and softly in the manner of lustful insinuating music._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells, “NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells. “Honey and wine, Honey and wine. Sing low, now, violins, Sing, sing low, Blow gently, wood-wind, Mellow and slow. Like midnight poppies The sweethearts bloom. Their eyes flash power, Their lips are dumb. Faster and faster Their pulses come, Though softer now The drum-beats fall. Honey and wine, Honey and wine. ’Tis the firemen’s ball, ’Tis the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _With a climax of whispered mourning._]

“I am slain,” Cries true-love There in the shadow. “And I die,” Cries true-love, There laid low. “When the fire-dreams come, The wise dreams go.”

[Sidenote: _Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. Then gradually musical and sonorous._]

BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER And now great gongs whang, Sharper, faster, And kettledrums rattle And hide the shame With a swish and a swirk In dead love’s name. Red and crimson And scarlet and rose Magical poppies The sweethearts bloom. The scarlet stays When the rose-flush goes, And love lies low In a marble tomb. “’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells. “NIGHT Of doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells.

[Sidenote: _Sharply interrupting in a very high key. Heavy bass._]

Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. “’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.” CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG. CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... LISTEN ... TO ... THE ... MUSIC ... OF ... THE ... FIREMEN’S BALL ... LISTEN ... TO ... THE ... MUSIC ... OF ... THE ... FIREMEN’S ... BALL ...

Section Three

In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.

(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: “There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: ‘Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair.... A disciple, ... becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.’”)

[Sidenote: _To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service._]

I once knew a teacher, Who turned from desire, Who said to the young men, “Wine is a fire.” Who said to the merchants:-- “Gold is a flame That sears and tortures If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire Who said to the soldiers, “Hate is a fire.” Who said to the statesmen:-- “Power is a flame That flays and blisters If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire, Who said to the lordly, “Pride is a fire.” Who thus warned the revellers:-- “Life is a flame. Be cold as the dew Would you win at the game With hearts like the stars,

[Sidenote: _Interrupting very loudly for the last time._]

With hearts like the stars.” So BEWARE, So BEWARE, So BEWARE OF THE FIRE. Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:-- “THERE GOES THE ALARM, THERE GOES THE ALARM. THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER’S IRON ARM.” CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA.... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA.... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG.... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA. CLANG ... CLANG ... _clang_.

_Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ _Vachel Lindsay_

Summons

The eager night and the impetuous winds, The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on.... The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. A slender stream became a naked sprite, Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. A saffron moon, dangling among the trees, Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs, Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze.... And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away; The night kept tugging at my torpid mood And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; And over all indifference there streamed A myriad urges in one rushing wave.... Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, I felt the brave persistence of the grass; The far desire of rivulets; the keen, Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; The endless labors of the patient worm; The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant; The constancy of flowers; the blind belief Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; The eternal struggles and eternal deaths-- And yet the groping faith of every root! Out of old graves arose the cry of life; Out of the dying came the deathless call. And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, The thing that was my boyhood woke in me-- Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth, With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh, Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern....

And then--veil upon veil was torn aside-- Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys, Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand; The night, scorning its ancient mystery, Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song, Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; Love, and the faces of a world of children, Swept like a conquering army through my blood-- And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, Beauty, the passion of the universe, Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, And, like a wine, poured itself out for me To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; To meet with confidence the cynic years; Battling in wars that never can be won, Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.

_Century_ _Louis Untermeyer_

Patterns

Would you lay a pattern on life and say, thus shall ye live? I tell you that is a denial of life; I say that thus we pour our spirits in a mold, and they cake and die.

I want to go to the man who quickens me; I want the gift of life, the flame of his spirit eating along the tinder of my heart; I want to feel the flood-gates within flung open and the tides pouring through me; I want to take what I am and bring it to fruit.

Quicken me, and I will grow; Touch me with flame, and the blossoms will open and the fruit appear. Call forth in me a creator, and the god will answer. And then, if I commit what you call a sin, Better so. It will not be a sin. It will be a mere breaking of your patterns; For the only sin is death, and the only virtue to be altogether alive and your own authentic self.

_Century_ _James Oppenheim_

New York

Sea-rimmed and teeming with millions poured out on thy granite shore Surge upon surge, many-nationed, O City far-famed for the roar Of thy cavernous iron streets and thy towers half hung in the sun, Rising in layer on layer, twelve cities piled upon one, All feeding and sleeping and breeding, enormous, half palace, half den, With ever a tide washing through thee whose clamoring waters are men, O where is the hand of thy builder? What god, canst thou tell, Hath his hand on the clay of thy face? Or what demon from Hell? I have viewed with the eye of the stranger and the pride of the New World man The mountainous leap of thy glory, the miles of thy endless span, And my heart has gone up with thy towers and my love has fallen as dew On thy night-blooming lamps in rows on thy beautiful Avenue. I have stood with a seaman’s glass on the roofs of thy high hotels; I have rolled through the sheer ravines where the cliff dweller dwells; I have peered from the place of the Tomb far up where the hills break free And the length of the lordly River comes down as a bride to the sea; I have fled with a roar through the rock where the myriad lights flash by; I have heard the song of the soaring steel come down from the sky; I have watched as a lover thy waters all mottled with cloud and with sun Where the ocean comes in to caress thee, O Beautiful One; And the days and the years of my life are a gift unto thee, And I dwell in thy marvelous gates, O Goddess cast up by the sea!

I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White Way That gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the Bay When the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roar And the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore. Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands, The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands, And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to be And the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea. As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wine Is the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divine When from building on populous building thy power unfurled Leaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world. I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie; I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky; I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of Rome Swing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home; I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yell When the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell; I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hour Come over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible power When story on story lets out on the pavement below And thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow. Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in, For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin, And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys, Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys. I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirls And whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls; I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace; I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet place Of the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches there With the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair; Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skies The just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble rise To its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sun Is the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done. Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky, And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by, And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea, And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see, And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart, And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start, And the Rock drinks in its thousands from the moving flood in the street As the strong male tide goes out with the roar of a million feet. I know when the night comes down that a beautiful Siren awakes. I have seen the flash of her eyes and the light that her shadow makes On the rain-wet Avenue when the flutes of pleasure are heard And she dances her way to the wine cup and sings like a bird. Hand in hand go the sons of Youth and the daughters of Beauty divine, And the children of Hunger are there who have trodden the grapes of their wine, And the thousands pour and pour through the huge illumined Fair, And the booths of a hundred lands are bright and the Wonder-worker is there. The red star is out on the roof and the horses are off on the wall, And the girl and the dog are blown along and the flashing water fall, And the flush of thy far-flung revel goes up to the ribbons of sky, And forgotten Orion sinks down and the Pleiades die. I have trailed down the pleasant river; I have tramped where the iron “L’s” Go thundering down through the haunts of care; I have slummed through the hidden hells; I have jostled the mingling Bowery where the stream of the races rolls; I know the town where the yellow man goes by on his velvet soles; I have threaded the still, dark canyons where the clustered towers rise; Not a foot is heard of the thousands; they are ghosts on the midnight skies; I have seen o’er the glamour of waters thy piles upon shadowy piles Standing out on the canvas of night and twinkling for miles upon miles. As a grail is the gleam of thy towers and the glow of the Great White Way, And a thousand ships have sailed and sailed to the lure of the lights on the Bay, And the spell of thy song, O Enchantress, is sweet on the southern air, And the shepherd far out on the plains feels the sting of thy hair. Thou art young with the youth of them, strong with the strength of them, filled with the beauty of girls; Thy throat where the River gleams is beaded with lamps as with pearls; And the languor of night is around thee and the waters rise and fall, And over invisible bridges slow fireworms crawl, And the Ferries that glide o’er the bay, o’er the rivers that lave The feet of thy emerald towers, are lighted swans on the wave, As Merlin had walked o’er thy waters, or Prospero’s eye Were watching alternate old cities line out on the sky, One moment Jerusalem gleams and thy towers are holy and white, And lo, at the turn of a glass, old Babylon etched on the night With high summer gardens abloom and the wealth of the world in her hair; Then Carnival laughs in thy streets and Cairo is there Barbaric all over with brooches and fountains of fire Till the new day quenches the lamps and flares over Tyre.

_The Smart Set_ _Edwin Davies Schoonmaker_

We Dead

When from the brooding home, The silent, immemorial love-house, The belovèd body of the mother in her travail, Naked, the little one comes and wails at the world’s bleak weather, We say that on earth and to us a child has been born. But now we move with unhalting pace toward the dark evening, And toward the cold, lengthening shadow, And quick we avert our fearful eyes from the strange event, The burial and the bourne, That leaving home, the end--death.

Are these, then, birth and death? Does the cut of a cord bring life, and dust to dust expunge it? If so, what are we, then, we dead?

For, in the cities, And dark on the lonely farms, and waifs on the ocean, As a harrying of wind, as an eddying of dust, We dead, in our soft, shining bodies that are combed and are kissed, Are ghosts fleeing from the inescapable hell of ourselves.

We are even as beetles skating over the waters of our own darkness; Even as beetles, darting and restless, But the depths dark and void--

We have found no peace, no peace, though our engines are crafty. What avail wings to the flier in the skies While his dead soul, like an anchor, drags on the earth? And what avails lightning darting a man’s voice, linking the cities, While in the booth he is the same varnished clod, And his soul flies not after? And what avails it that the body of man has waxed mammoth, Limbed with the lightning and the stream, While his spirit remains a torment and a trifle, And, gaining the world, profits nothing?

Self-murdered, self-slain, the dead cumber the earth; And how did they die? A boy was born in the pouring radiance of creative magic; And with pulses of music he was born. Of himself he might have been shaping a song-wingèd poet; But he was afraid. He feared the gaunt garret of starvation and the lonely years in his soul’s desert, And he feared to be a jest and a fool before his friends. Now he clerks, the slave, And the magic is slimed with disastrous opiates of the night.

A girl was bathed with the lissome beauty of the seeker of love, The call of the animals one to another in the spring, The desire of the captive woman in her heart, as she ran and leaped on the hills; But the imprisoned beast’s cry terrified her as she looked out over the love-quiet of the modern world. Yet she desired to take this man-lure and release it into loveliness, Become a dancer, lulling with witchcraft of her young body the fevered world. But, no, her mother spied here a wickedness, Shamefully she submitted, making a smoldering inferno of the hidden nymph in her soul, And so died.

A woman was made body and heart for the beautiful love-life; But of the mother-miracle, How the cry of a troubled child whitens the red passions, She did not know. Fear of poverty corrupted her: she chose a fool that her heart hated, And now through him no release for her native passions, But only a spending of her loathsome fury on adornment and luxury. Ah, dead glory! and the heart sick with betrayal! There is no grace for the dead save to be born again: Engines shall not drag us from the grave, Nor wine nor meat revive us.

For our thirst is a thirst no liquor can reach nor slake, And our hunger a hunger by no bread filled. The waters we crave bubble up from the springs of life, And the bread we would break comes down from invisible hands.

We dead, awake! Kiss the beloved past good-by, Go leave the love-house of the betrayèd self, And through the dark of birth go and enter the soul the soul’s bleak weather. And I--I will not stay dead, though the dead cling to me; I will put away the kisses and the soft embraces and the walls that encompass me, And out of this womb I will surely move to the world of my spirit. I will lose my life to find it, as of old; Yea, I will turn from the life-lie I lived to the truth I was wrought for, And I will take the creator within, sower of the seed of the race, And make him a god, a shaper of civilization.

Now on my soul’s imperious surge, Taking the risk, as of death, and in deepening twilight, I ride on the darkening flood and go out on the waters Till over the tide comes music, till over the tide the breath Of the song of my far-off soul is wafted and blown, Murmuring commandments.

Storm and darkness! I am drowned in the torrent! I am moving forth irrevocably from the sheltering womb! I am naked and little! Oh, cold of the world, and light blinding, and space terrifying Now my cry goes up and the wailing of my helpless soul: Mother! my mother!

Lo, then, the mother eternal! In my opening soul the footfall of her fleeting tread, And the song of her voice piercing and sweet with love of me, And the enwinding of her arms and adoring of her breath, And the milk of her plenty! Oh, Life, of which I am part--Life, from the depths of the heavens, That ascended like a water-spring into David of Asia on the eastern hills in the night, That came like a noose of golden shadow on Joan in the orchard, That gathers all life--the binding of brothers into sheaves, That of old, kneelers in the dust Named, glorying, Allah, Jehovah, God.

_Century_ _James Oppenheim_

God And The Farmer

God sat down with the farmer When the noontide heat grew harsh. The One had builded a world that day, And the other had drained a marsh. They sat in the cooling shadow At the porch of the templed wood; And each looked forth on his handiwork, And saw that the work was good.

On God’s right hand two cherubs Bent waiting, winged with fire; On the farmer’s left his oxen bowed Deep bosoms marked with mire. Still clung around the plowshare The dark, mysterious mold, Where the furrow it turned had heaved the new O’er the chill and churlish old.

Jehovah’s face was seen not By ox or grazing kine; But the farmer’s eyes, were they dazed with sun, Or saw he that look divine? Was it the wind in passing That stroked that farmer’s hair? Or had God’s own hand of wind and flame Laid benediction there?

Through muffling miles he fancied Far calls of greeting blew, Where on sounding plains the lords of war Hurled down to rear anew. Glad hail from nation-builders Crossed faint those dreamland bounds, Like a brother’s cry from a distant hill. And God spake as the pine-tree sounds.

“There are seven downy meadows That never before were mown; There were seven fields of brush and rock Where now is nor bush nor stone. There are seven heifers grazing Where but one could graze before. O lords of marts--and of broken hearts-- What have you given me more?”

God rose up from the farmer When the cool of the evening neared; And the One went forth through the worlds He built, And the one through the fields he cleared. The stars outlasting labor Leaned down o’er the flowering soil; And all night long o’er His child there leaned A Toiler more old than toil.

_Yale Review_ _Frederick Erastus Pierce_

Song

O shadows past the candle-gleam, so brief to pause in flight, Are shadows that can come no more Still moving unseen on the door Of Yesternight?

O roses on the crumbling wall, so soon to droop and die, Are any roses that are dead Still fragrant where their petals bled In Junes gone by?

O heart of mine, there is a face nor grief nor prayer can bring.... Think you in some far Shadow-land One keeps my roses in his hand, Remembering?

_Boston Transcript_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_

Surety

We have each other’s deathless love, A love that flies on wings of light From star to star and sings above The night: We bid each other’s eyes reveal The face whose images we are; We find each other’s hand upon the wheel Piloting every star.

Shall we then watch with a less lonely breath Gradual, sudden, everlasting death?

Oh, lest a separating wind assail The jocund stars and all their ways be dearth, And love, undone of its immense avail, Go homeless even on earth, Let us be constant, though we travel far, With every mortal token of our trust, And not forget, piloting any star, How dear a thing is dust!

_Yale Review_ _Witter Bynner_

Remembrance: Greek Folk-Song

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! Why do you lead me to the forest?_ Joy is where the temples are, lines of dancers swinging far, Drums and lyres and viols in the town (_It is dark in the forest_) And the flapping leaves will blind me and the clinging vines will bind me And the thorny rose-boughs tear my saffron gown-- _And I fear the forest._

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! There was one once who led me to the forest:_ Hand in hand we wandered mute, where was neither lyre nor flute, Little stars were bright against the dusk (_There was wind in the forest_) And the thicket of wild rose breathed across our lips locked close Dizzy perfumings of spikenard and musk.... _I am tired of the forest._

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! Take me from the silence of the forest!_ I will love you by the light and the beat of drums at night And echoing of laughter in my ears, _But here in the forest_ I am still, remembering a forgotten, useless thing, And my eyelids are locked down for fear of tears-- _There is memory in the forest._

_The Craftsman_ _Margaret Widdemer_

The Two Flames

Behind my mask of life there lies a shrine Wherein two flames are burning. Day and night I tend these leaping treasures that are mine, These lambent loves, the red one and the white, While, priestess-like, I hang at either glow, For each is perfect. And to each I bring The oil of pure emotion, hottest so, And draw new strength from my own offering.

The first of these my loves burns as a star That lifts its keen, white glory into space With virgin fervor, lavishing afar Its vivid purity: and in the face Of changeful worlds it glows unaltered still. So burns my flame of friendship. In its sight All things are silvered with a new delight And beauty’s self strikes deeper, till the thrill Of mere existence vibrates like a string. Then life is grown so taut that it must sing, And all the little hills must clap their hands. The soul is free as never bird on wing To bathe in friendship like a sea of light: And ever as it mounts the sea expands In new infinities, and each new height Grows keener than the last, until the mind For very dizziness sweeps downward then To simpler things, the cadence of a voice, Or sweet, low laughter, idle as the wind, Or fleeting touch of hands that quick rejoice But ask no more and do not touch again. With this white flame there comes a strange new peace, A deep tranquillity unknown beside, Where all my life’s cross-currents shift and cease Like runways in the sand before the tide. And all that I have longed to be, the brave High dreams of youth that languished nigh forgot Seem half accomplished. Easy now to slave At tasks colossal, so my friend fail not. And I am filled with gentle wonderment That life can be so good and breath so sweet: While all my world grows suddenly complete. That I must love it with a new content. So speech grows overfull, and we are fain To drink of silence like a golden cup With wine of sweet companionship filled up That has no end, nor any thirst can drain. And so at last no wish is left to me Save thus to dream into eternity. This is my first white love.

The second flame Burns red and fierce as noon-time on the earth, A wild, full-blooded love that sprang to birth Naked and unafraid, yet scorning shame And clean as winds that sweep the desert’s breast. My flame of passion this, born of the sun And warm red earth, so æon-long ago, In languid, throbbing noons, when dust was pressed To amorous dust, and longing made it one. This is a good love too, and must be so, Though bloodless fathers crushed it and denied, And on a cross of virtue crucified This firm sweet flesh that colors with our soul. Aye! it is good, and beautiful, and clean, To feel within my veins the surge and flow Of young desire waking, that the whole Warm universe has felt: to call, and preen, And dance before my mate that he may know An answering surge, and leap, and make me his And glad with every fecund thing that is. God! It is good to feel the primal cry, The deep, mad longing for another life,-- My life and his, that shall be born of me,-- A little child of flame, that when we die We may cheat time, nor perish in the strife: But in this hour of vital ecstasy When life is molten, we may stamp thereon Our own glad image, and conceive, and live. And sweet it is, and languid, when the tide Has ebbed, for lack of more than I can give, To take his hand who breathes so close beside And lay it on my breast, and humble me To say: “Thou art my lord. Thy will my own.” So at the last this wish is mine, to be Struck at the high-tide into nothingness, To die, ere he can learn to love me less.

So these my loves are perfect, each alone Sufficient in itself and all complete, Yet one of two, like rival beacons shown, That call and call me, but that never meet. For yet they have not met, nor ever burned The white flame in the red, the red in white Till both were wed together there, and turned To some half-dreamed intensity of light.

For I have dreamed,--yes, in my priestess soul The longing grows for one great altar fire That shall leap up to heaven, a winged desire, Not two but one, a perfect, living whole. Is this a dream? Are all great lovers dreams? Can red and white be fused, or two be one? Yseult and Eloise, are they but themes Whereon men hang the yearnings they have spun? And must I cherish so till the end’s end My sweet loves sundered, lover here, or friend? Nay, I know not! I guard by day and night My leaping flames, the red one and the white.

_The Forum_ _Eloise Briton_

The Look

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all.

Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest, Robin’s lost in play, But the kiss in Colin’s eyes Haunts me night and day.

_Harper’s Magazine_ _Sara Teasdale_

The Flirt

Beautiful boy, lend me your youth to play with; My heart is old. Lend me your fire to make my twilight gay with, To warm my cold; Prove that the power my look has not forsaken, That at my will My touch can quicken pulses and awaken Man’s passion still. The moment that I ask do not begrudge me. I shall not stay. I shall have gone, ere you have time to judge me, My empty way. I am not worth remembrance, little brother, Even to damn.

One kiss--O God! if I were only other Than what I am!

_Century_ _Amelia Josephine Burr_

Young Eden

Flushed from a fairy flagon My country love and I, Sat by a bush forgetting, Old conscience and his fretting, Just dreaming there and letting Trouble trundle by-- Like a dragon Dead on a wagon Drawn against the sky. _Fol de rol de raly O-- Trouble in the sky!_

She knew it was only a cloud I saw When I pointed out a dangling claw, But she let me say my say; For the day, red-ripe, was a pretty day And she thought my way was a city way. And O I liked her thinking--while each unhindered curl Glinted in the sunlight, hinted of its yellow-- That I who spoke to such a girl Was something of a fellow. _Fol de rol de raly O! Was she really thinking so?_

There’s the tree, I gaily told her, Apples, apples, at our feet! Come, before we’re one day older, We shall gather, we shall eat! Now’s the time for apple hunger! Not if we were one day younger, Younger, older, shyer, bolder, Would an apple taste so sweet! _Fol de rol de raly O! Apples at our feet!_

Bewildered, she was with me on the run Toward the tree that held its treasure to the sun; This, of all the trees of treasure, was the one Condemning leisure And inviting lovely pleasure-- She was with me, she was by me on the run, With a cheek that turned its treasure to the sun. _Fol de rol de raly O! Raly O, we gaily go, Fol--_

Why should she stop and never speak? Why should the color in her cheek Change, not glowing gay and meek? Deeper, redder than I knew She was mistress of, a hue, Though demurely, Richly, surely Rising in her cheek! _Fol de rol de raly O! The change in her cheek!_

There was before us on the ground, Eyes upon us, not a sound, Sat a neighbor’s truant child of seven years; Her lap was full of sunny gold, But her eyes in the sun, her eyes were old, Were sober, seeming laden --And such a little maiden-- Unawares but laden With some dead woman’s tears. _Fol de rol de raly O! A child of seven years!_

Some woman who had watched and wept But had not any speech Watched and wept now within that little breast, Caught and caressed Those little hands and would have kept Beyond their reach The anguish in that orchard, The apple-bough unblessed, The brightness that had tortured The heart within the breast.... And we beheld, and see it even now, A bent and withered apple-bough, Of beauty dispossessed, Which bore its poison long ago. Oh, why we pluck it still we may not know, But only that it leaves no rest To the heart within the breast. _Fol de rol de raly O! This heart within the breast!_

Abashed and parting on our ways, We saw that woman’s poor dead hand, Ghostly making, its demand, Fall pitiful and sad, ... We saw the child, forgetful of our gaze, Laughing like any child that plays, And laughs in any land, Lean and touch a toy she had Half hidden in her hand, We saw her pat and poise and raise-- An apple in her hand! _Fol de rol de raly O! The apple in her hand!_

_Yale Review_ _Witter Bynner_

Ablution

Thus drowsy Atthis, laughing at my door: “Sappho, I vow that I will kiss no more Thy lips, and every loveliness, if thou Shouldst still refuse to bare thy beauty now!

“O from thy bed unloosen every charm Of all thy strength beloved in limb and arm; And doff thy robe and bathe thee as the white Lily that leaves the river for the light;

“And Cleis on thee, at thy glowing call, A shimmering robe of saffron shall let fall; And we, thy girl friends, in a vestal throng, Shall wreathe thy hair while thirsting for thy song.”

_Smart Set_ _John Myers O’Hara_

Pilgrimage

I will tread on the golden grass of my bright field, When the passion-star has paled, when the night has fled; I will tread on the golden grass of my bright field, In the glow of the early day when the east is red.

In my bright field a broken beech-tree leans; And a giant boulder stands by a black-burned wood; And a rough-built, falling wall and a rotting door Sear, like a scar, the spot where a house once stood.

My eyes are mute on the white edge of the dawn, My feet fall swift and bare upon the way.... The long soft hills grow black against the sky, The great wood moves, unfolds; the high trees sway.

The worn road stretches thin, and the low hedge stirs, And a strong old bridge looms frail o’er a ghostly stream; And a white flower turns and breathes, and turns again.... Does it live, as I live? Does it wake, as I waked, from a dream?

(How merciless is the dawn! how poignant the hush in my soul! How changeless the changing sky! how fearful that wild bird’s call! I hear the quick suck of his wing, the push of his breast--he is gone! How swift is an æon of time! how endless, beginningless, all!)

I tread on the golden grass of my bright field; The sun’s on a hundred hills; the night has fled; I tread on the golden grass of my bright field In the glow of the early day; and the east is red.

_The Forum_ _Laura Campbell_

Ballad Of Two Seas

“Wherefore, thy woe these many years, O hermit by the sea? What is the grief the winds awake, And the waters cry to thee?”

“It was in piracy we sailed, Great galleons to strip. On a far day, on a far sea, We took her father’s ship.

“Red-sided rocked the Rey del Sur Whenas its deck we won. I slew before her eyes divine Her father and his son.

“There was no sin I had not sinned, On deep sea and ashore; But when I looked in those great eyes Villain was I no more.

“I, captain, claimed her as my prize, Though maids in common were. Alone ’mid that fell company I cast my lot with her.

“They put us in an open boat With four days’ food and drink; Then slipped those traitor topsails down Beyond the ocean’s brink.

“Night came, and morn, but rose no sail On that horizon verge; I took the oars and set our prow Against the lessening surge.

“It was scant provender we had, Though she was unaware; Right soon I feared, and by deceit I gave her all my share.

“She would not speak; she scarce would look; Her pain was past my cure. Red-scuppered in our hells of dream Wallowed the Rey del Sur.

“On a far day, on a far sea, Our shallop southward crept; With weary arms and splitten lips I labored--and she wept.

“Dawn upon dawn, dark upon dark, Nor ever land nor wind! The nights were chill, the stars were keen, The sun swung hot and blind.

“Our drink and food were long since gone.... We laid us down to die.... Then came a booming of the surf, And palm trees met mine eye.

“I steered us through the broken reef; Fainting, I won to shore; I gazed upon her changèd face, But she on mine no more.

“Below the palms I buried her Whose bale star I had been. And since, by this bleak coast of snows, I sorrow for my sin.

“There was no other of our kind That had her heavenly face. On a far Day, by a far Sea, I trust to know her grace.”

_Smart Set_ _George Sterling_

Eros Turannos

She fears him, and will always ask What fated her to choose him; She meets in his engaging mask All reasons to refuse him; But what she meets and what she fears Are less than are the downward years, Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs Of age, were she to lose him.

Between a blurred sagacity That once had power to sound him, And Love, that will not let him be The seeker that she found him, Her pride assuages her, almost, As if it were alone the cost. He sees that he will not be lost, And waits, and looks around him.

A sense of ocean and old trees Envelops and allures him; Tradition, touching all he sees Beguiles and reassures him; And all her doubts of what he says Are dimmed with what she knows of days, Till even prejudice delays, And fades--and she secures him.

The falling leaf inaugurates The reign of her confusion; The pounding wave reverberates The crash of her illusion; And home, where passion lived and died Becomes a place where she can hide,-- While all the town and harbor side Vibrate with her seclusion.

We tell you, tapping on our brows, The story as it should be,-- As if the story of a house Were told, or ever could be; We’ll have no kindly veil between Her visions and those we have seen,-- As if we guessed what hers have been Or what they are, or would be.

Meanwhile, we do no harm; for they That with a god have striven, Not hearing much of what we say, Take what the god has given; Though like waves breaking it may be, Or like a changed familiar tree, Or like a stairway to the sea, Where down the blind are driven.

_Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ _Edwin Arlington Robinson_

The Shroud

Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.)

Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other!

_The Forum_ _Edna St. Vincent Millay_

The Mother

Never again to feel that little kiss-- That hungry kiss--that heavy little head, Pressing and groping, eager to be fed. My breast is burning with the weight of this-- My arms are empty and my heart is dead.

Through the long nights never to hear the cry-- The little cry that called me from my sleep; Always from now a vigil black to keep; Always awake and listening to lie, While over my seared heart the ashes heap.

Ah, God!--there is no God. There is no rest, No rest. No pity. No release from pain. How could God give those little hands again? How could God cool the throbbing of my breast? Oh--little hands ... that in the dust have lain!

_The Masses_ _Lydia Gibson_

A Handful Of Dust

I stooped to the silent earth and lifted a handful of her dust. Was it a handful of humanity I held? Was it the crumbled and blown beauty of a woman or a babe? For over the hills of earth blows the dust of the withered generations; And not a water-drop in the sea but was once a blood-drop or a tear, And not an atom of sap in leaf or bud but was once the love-sap in a human being; And not a lump of soil but was once the rosy curve of lip or breast or cheek. Handful of dust, you stagger me; I did not dream the world was so full of the dead, And the air I breathe so rich with the bewildering past. Kiss of what girls is on the wind? Whisper of what lips is in the cup of my hand? Cry of what deaths is in the break of the wave tossed by the sea? I am enfolded in an air of rushing wings; I am engulfed in clouds of love-lives gone. Who leans yonder? Helen of Greece? Who walks with me? Isolde? The trees are shaking down the blossoms from Juliet’s breast, And the bee drinks honey from the lips of David.

Come, girl, my comrade; Stand close, sun-tanned one, with your bright eyes lifted. Behold this dust! This is you: this of the earth under our feet is you. Raised by what miracle? Shaped by what magic? Breathed into by what god?

And a hundred years hence one like myself may come, And stoop, and take a handful of the yielding earth, And never dream that in his palm Lies she that laughed and ran and lived beside this sea On an afternoon a hundred years before.

Listen to the dust in this hand. Who is trying to speak to us?

_Century_ _James Oppenheim_

A Lynmouth Widow

He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue As the summer meeting of sky and sea, And the ruddy cliffs have a colder hue Than flushed his cheek when he married me.

We passed the porch where the swallows breed, We left the little brown church behind, And I leaned on his arm though I had no need, Only to feel him so strong and kind.

One thing I never can quite forget-- It grips my throat when I try to pray-- The keen salt smell of a drying net That hung on the churchyard wall that day.

He would have taken a long, long grave-- A long, long grave, for he stood so tall.... Oh, God--the crash of the breaking wave, And the smell of the nets on the churchyard wall!

_The Bellman_ _Amelia Josephine Burr_

The Gift Of God

Blessed with a joy that only she Of all alive shall ever know, She wears a proud humility For what it was that willed it so,-- That her degree should be so great Among the favored of the Lord That she may scarcely bear the weight Of her bewildering reward.

As one apart, immune, alone, Or featured for the shining ones, And like to none that she has known Of other women’s other sons,-- The firm fruition of her need, He shines anointed; and he blurs Her vision, till it seems indeed A sacrilege to call him hers.

She fears a little for so much Of what is best, and hardly dares To think of him as one to touch With aches, indignities, and cares; She sees him rather at the goal, Still shining; and her dream foretells The proper shining of a soul Where nothing ordinary dwells.

Perchance a canvass of the town Would find him far from flags and shouts, And leave him only the renown Of many smiles and many doubts; Perchance the crude and common tongue Would havoc strangely with his worth; But she, with innocence unstung, Would read his name around the earth.

And others, knowing how this youth Would shine, if love could make him great, When caught and tortured for the truth Would only writhe and hesitate; While she, arranging for his days What centuries could not fulfil, Transmutes him with her faith and praise, And has him shining where she will.

She crowns him with her gratefulness, And says again that life is good; And should the gift of God be less In him than in her motherhood, His fame, though vague, will not be small, As upward through her dream he fares, Half clouded with a crimson fall Of roses thrown on marble stairs.

_Scribner’s_ _Edwin Arlington Robinson_

Sonnet XXIX

In the fair picture of my life’s estate Which long ago my yearning fancy drew From hints of poets, prophets, lords of fate, What place is there, belovèd one, for you? How in this edifice of the soaring dome, Noble, harmonious, lifted towards the stars, Shall I carve forth a niche to be the home Of you and of my love that round you wars? Ah, folly his, who builds him such a house Too early, by impatient visions led, Ere he can know what blood shall stain his brows, And from what troubled streams his heart is fed. Now must he labor, in late night, alone To wreck,--and then rebuild it, stone by stone.

_The Forum_ _Arthur Davison Ficke_

Romance

The last farewells were said, friends hurried ashore,-- The screw threshed foam, and jarred; the pier slid by; Hands went to ears to still the siren’s roar, Handkerchiefs waved, and there was call and cry; Over it all, austere and pure and high, Glittering snow and gold, the towers looked down,-- Serene and cold, regardless of the town.

The wind blew north; and gravely on it came The trolling of the Metropolitan bells, First the four chimes, softly as puffs of flame, Then the deep five ... Slow, gentle gleaming swells Came glancing in the sun, with ocean smells, Up from the harbor and the further sea; Over the stern poised white gulls, giddily.

Over the stern they poised and dipped and glanced, Now dull in shade, now shining in bright sun, And one youth watched them as they whirled and danced, And noticed how they circled, one by one; To have those wings, that freedom,--God, what fun!-- And watching them he felt youth in him, strong, Wings in his blood, and in his heart a song.

Autumn! Already now the keen wind nipped, The skies arched cold bright blue, the leaves were turning; Whitely over the waves the cold squalls whipped; Scarlet and pale, the maple trees were burning, Tossing in gusts, and whirling and returning, On Staten Island, wonderfully afire; In bacchic song they flamed, with mad desire.

Autumn! bringing to old adventures death, Sadness at all things past, things passing still, Touching all earth with strange and mystic breath, Veiling all earth in fire ere winter kill; Even this youth felt now his deep heart fill With a grey tide of mystery and sadness, Poignant sorrow for all past hours of gladness....

Those times--would others come as keen as they? Was life to come as living as life past?-- Ah, he was youth, life could not say him nay,-- The blood sang swift in him, doubt could not last; Let all life dead beneath his feet be cast And he would trample it, divinely singing: Life lay before, more rapturous music bringing!

More lusts, more shining eyes, more dizzy laughter, More, madder music, flute and violin, With drums before and roses showered after, Always in new bliss drowning his old sin; Sin?--Was it that?--And straight in merry din Of song and shout and laugh this thought was lost; It was no sin to live, whate’er the cost!...

High overhead the Brooklyn bridges passed, Span upon span and rumorous with cars, Their shadows on the deck a moment cast, With dizzy thunder from their traffic’s wars; Those grey stone piers would soon be crowned with stars,-- Even now their brows were soft with waning sun; The homeward march of armies was begun.

Good-bye, old bridges! And New York, good-bye! Northward the engines took him; now no more His gaze hung here; he watched the western sky Blazing with vision-isles and faery shore; Northward the vibrant ship beneath him bore; The Sound spread out before them, wide and blue, Clean came the wind whereon the sea-gulls flew....

Soft fields, the flaming trees, a twilight farm ... New York was gone. He drew deep breaths of air, Keen as keen fire it was; then slow and calm, He turned to walk ... when lo, a girl came there, Deep sunset in her eyes and on her hair, Her white dress clinging to her knees, one hand Rising to shade her blue eyes; as she scanned

The swiftly gliding shore, the passing ships, The bell-buoys, bobbing and tolling in the tide.... A moment, breath hung lifeless on his lips, His heart froze quiet; no one was at her side; Faintly, he smiled; he thought her eyes replied, Remote lights meeting in them,--quickening; He passed, and all his body seemed to sing....

He passed, then turned; and, as he turned, she turned,-- Her eyes met his eyes shyly, then again She looked away, and all her soft face burned, And all her virgin heart was big with pain. From the saloon below came soft a strain Of some new rag-time, bidding feet to move, Imploring hands to cling, young hearts to love....

Sweetly it came, seductive, soft bizarre, Huddled and breathless now, now note by note Crying its separate pain ... now near, now far ... Mingled with all the throbbing of the boat. How beautiful! the first star came, to float Impalpable in dusk, low in the east; It seemed to sing on when the music ceased.

Herald of love, lo, love itself it seemed, Singing into the twilight of her soul.... How beautiful!... across dark waters gleamed Red lights and green, she heard a bell-buoy toll Suddenly caught in the after-wash’s roll; A smell of autumn fires came down the wind; Beauty so keen it seemed it must have sinned....

What was this night, what did it bring to her, What flower unfolded in its darkness now? She was this night; she felt her deep soul stir, The slow strange stir of blossoms in the bough.... How beautiful! She watched the forefoot plough Sheer through the foaming black, the white waves gliding Dizzily past, now swelling, now subsiding....

O Youth, O music, O sweet wizardry Of young life sung like fire through beating veins! O covering darkness and persuasive sea! O night of stars, of blisses and of pains! But most, O Youth, that but an hour remains,-- Be fierce, be sweet with us before you go; For, knowing you, the best of life we know.

Enchanted so she watched dark waters slipping Swiftly and dizzily past the sheer black side, Watched the fierce wind in sudden flurries whipping The torn spray from the waves, against the tide; High among stars she saw the mast-head glide,-- Steadily now, now swinging slowly, slightly, There the high mast-head lantern burning brightly....

O Youth, O music, O sweet wizardy,-- O covering darkness of mysterious night!-- She turned; along the dark deck, quietly, He came again; an open door shed light Strongly across him for a space, then fright Suddenly set her wild heart beating, beating,-- Suddenly set her endlessly repeating

“I mustn’t speak! I mustn’t speak!”--And then He stood beside her, close and warm and strong, And she knew sudden the beauty that’s in men, And all her blood flew musical with song.... “--Beautiful, isn’t it?--Have you known it long?”-- Calmly he looked at her, and gently spoke. She nodded, lightly; then the warm words broke

Easily, quickly, fervently from her heart, All the restraint of all her youth was gone, She felt a thousand warm new instincts start Out of her soul, birds taking wing with dawn, Singing their hearts out ... With a deep breath drawn, “Yes! I’ve known it for years, and loved it, too; Beautiful!--This--is this the first for you?”

They talked, in low tones; and the sound of sea, Falling of foam and swish of dropping spray, Encircled them with song, incessantly;-- They felt alone, the world seemed far away. They two! they two! so seemed the night to say; A darkness and a stealing fragrance came Spreading through all their souls, silent as flame....

O beauty of being a living thing, she thought,-- Of drawing breath beneath these stars, this sky!-- O beautiful fire that from his eyes she caught, That made her breath rise quick, her lips burn dry! What was this thing? Dread came, she scarce knew why,-- Impulsively she went; yet she had given Her word to dine with him, her earth was heaven.

He watched her go, and smiled,--her white dress blowing, Softly in dark,--so young, so sweet, so brave! She was so pure! by God, there was no knowing,-- And he had half a mind, still, to behave.... No, though: far better take what fortune gave,-- Dance to the music that was played for him; Smiling he mused of her, his eyes grew dim,--

And he could feel her warmness by his side, And all his body flushed with sweet desire To take her shining loveliness for bride, To kiss, to fuse with her in single fire.... O youth, O young heart musical as a lyre! O covering darkness of mysterious night! He knew these things; his heart was filled with light....

What was one more? Pah, how he scorned this qualm! Innocent? Such girls seem--but never are. No, he was not her first.... And cold and calm He turned and sought the brightly-lighted bar.... The music rose, through shut doors, faint and far, Wailful.... Down in her stateroom mirror there A young girl eyed herself, with frightened stare.

II

She eyed herself with quick breath, frightened stare, The fingers of one hand caught at her throat, And half unconsciously she smoothed her hair.... The music called to her, bizarre, remote.... On a vast hurrying tide she seemed afloat, Hurrying through a darkness downward ever, Starless, along some subterranean river....

Where was she going? Where was the current taking? Vaguely she knew that it would lead to pain, To a dark endless pain her deep heart breaking, To a grey world forever dulled with rain.... And yet she knew this would not come again, And all the sweet bliss came imploring, pleading, Melting her soul, bruising her heart to bleeding....

O God, she did not know!--Yet future sorrow Seemed somehow paid for by this instant bliss, A brief to-day was worth a long to-morrow; O youth, O night,--this joy she dared not miss! Her whole soul yearned for this young lover’s kiss, Though it be paid for through eternity. O, had not God designed this thing to be?

Was not her mouth for this young mouth intended, Since all her living body told her so? Was it not preordained that so be ended A girlhood colder than December snow? A starlight kiss--she need no further go--: His warm hands touching hers: O was this sin? Just this?--She shut her eyes to fires within....

To those fierce central fires she closed her eyes, Yet dimly of their passion was aware, And felt their flames like drunkenness arise Whirling her soul, making life strangely fair.... She eyed herself with held breath, frightened stare.... Alas, was it the alchemy of sin That made her lovelier far than e’er she’d been?

Plausibly sweet the music came to her, Through many doors, most plausible and sweet, Setting some subtle pulse in her astir, Smoothing in song her heart’s erratic beat. Dizziness came, unstrung her knees, her feet, And she sank down a space upon her bed, Shutting her eyes, mad reelings in her head.

How would this end? And would her whole life change, Swayed by this mastering sun as sways the moon? Would all her way of life be new and strange, Her friends be lost, her kin desert her soon? Passion surged up in her, and in its swoon These doubts were swept aside, obscure and fleeting; Somewhere she heard a beating ... beating ... beating....

Was it her heart, the loud pulse in her ear, Or music, some recurring undertone?-- The drums perhaps.... She raised her head to hear, The beating ceased.... Only the tireless drone Of toiling engines, and the sea’s hushed moan Soft through the fast-shut port ... and that was all. Steps passed and re-passed down the muffled hall.

Steps passed and re-passed on the deck above Ringing like iron.... The curtains by her bed Quivered forever to the engine’s move, And from the lamp a quivering light was shed. These senseless things, when all her life was dead, Would still go on: steps pass, the curtains quiver, These things or others,--they would last forever.

Quickly she rose, and in the mirror’s shine Looked at herself a quiet moment’s space; It was as if the earth’s autumnal wine Had touched her soul,--her body had a grace That passing life has, lovely was her face With a strange loveliness, and in her eyes Was the deep glory of October skies.

She was alive! her blood flew warm and young; No more than this she knew, that she was fair; And happiness through her deep heart was sung; Passionate joy as light as flame in air; O youth! O love, oblivious of all care! O lithe swift-blooded youth, O rose of earth, O warm-eyed loveliness of fragrant mirth!--

Giddy, with whirling thoughts, she left her room; And down the corridor, with fainting feet, Lightly she went, caught onward to sweet doom, And only heard her heart’s loud tremulous beat; Through opening doors, most plausible, most sweet, The music rose to her; and he stood there, Smiling, in all that noise and whir and glare....

Over the shining silver, sparkling glass, The smooth white table-cloth, he leaned and smiled; The whole world vanished, they were lad and lass, In love, and face to face, hearts running wild. Deep in her eyes he looked: O what a child! Her soft breast rose and fell, her throat’s pure white Beat with a little pulse of joy and fright.

No need to talk.... For in their eyes they met, Treading an air so soft, so light, so fine, That they were speechless, words they could forget; They only smiled, and shyly sipped their wine, And smiled again, and felt their full hearts shine, Talked breathlessly a little, and longed to lean Nearer, more near,--till no mote lay between,--

Not light or darkness, world or heaven or star, Not wind, nor warm, nor cold ... but just they two Meeting at last, two spirits come from far, Face raised to face, white flowers made sweet with dew,-- Shining and passionate, and young and new,-- Their two warm bodies singing each to each, Mingling at last in love’s harmonious speech....

The lights, the noise, the tumult passed away; As in a dream without a sound they passed; She only knew that it was wildly gay, And shy, and bliss unbearable.... At last Under the high dark starward-gliding mast In grateful night they sat; he brought her coat And trembling wrapped the scarf around her throat;

Letting his fingers linger there a space, Longer than there was need, so sweet she smiled, So close they were to that soft wistful face.... The stars looked down upon them, clear and mild.... Woman and maiden, girl, and little child,-- She was all these.... A moment, he was shaken,-- Lest he do wrong, lest he might prove mistaken....

Only a moment ... passion rose again, Quiet he took her hand and held it long, And all her virgin heart grew big with pain, And all her new-born body ached with song. Blindly she prayed to God to make her strong,-- More blindly cried to earth to make her weak; And looked at him, near tears, and could not speak.

He was a loveliness she could not bear.... Like a fierce furnace seemed his beauty now.... A fire that caught her throat, her lips, her hair, Her parching eyes, her pained and beating brow. Only to give herself,--she cared not how.-- Into the flame, body and soul to fling; To have him hurt her,--ah, divinest thing!...

Four bells were struck: ’twas ten o’clock he said; And still the sea rushed past, under the night. The engines toiled and the great steamer sped; And they could see the bow-wash, dimly white, Fall into darkness; the mast-head light Quivered among the stars, and in its fire A span of fore-stay shone like golden wire....

Little by little they were left alone, The decks were emptied; only, from the bar, Came shouts and laughter, and a drunkard’s groan, The glasses clinking, and a strummed guitar, The door shut, and the sounds grew faint and far, And all the deck was dark; only the sea Lifted its great voice, like infinity.

O youth, O music, O sweet wizardy Of young love sung like fire through beating veins! O covering darkness and persuasive sea! O night of stars, of blisses and of pains! But most, O youth that but an hour remains,-- Be fierce, be sweet with us, before you go; For knowing you the best of life we know!

Beneath his kiss her mouth rose soft and warm, And dewy soft as rose-leaves were her eyes, Under his hands, shaken as with a storm He felt her soft breast fall and shudder and rise, Torn with impassioned breath, unuttered cries, Quivering, straining breast against his breast, She clung to him, her mouth on his mouth pressed....

And only knew that this was life at last, Forgot all else in agony of bliss; Into this fire of love all earth was cast; The stars, the sea, were mingled in this kiss. And through her heart the blood, with sing and hiss, Poured a red madness, surged a riotous pain,-- Unbearable music cried out in her brain....

“O love,” he said, “O let me come with you! I love you so! This night,--O let me come!” Ah, God have pity! she knew not what to do, But sat all quiet,--frozen, shrinking, dumb; And only heard the toiling engines hum, The rush of sea, the swish of dropping spray, Her clamorous heart; and all that she could say

Was a quick “yes,” and then a broken breath That quivered like a sob; and then she rose, Dizzy and weak and pale, like one near death, And now her heart was fire, and now it froze.... Faint in her room she stood; the door to close,-- She might still turn the key.... She cried a space,-- Long in the glass stared at her pallid face....

And heard a step tramp over the deck above, Ringing like iron.... The curtains by her bed Quivered forever to the engine’s move, And from the lamp a quivering light was shed.... These things would all go on when she was dead.... Trembling, with misty eyes, she loosed the pin Under her throat ... mad fires whirled up within....

Mad fires whirled up, ungulfing all her soul; Beyond the sun and stars, across all space, Power that earth nor heaven could now control, She heard her lover come, with quickening pace; Nowhere to hide! Alas, his shining face, Though she hid under seas would find her there, Though she hid under mountains lay her bare!

Across the stars, nearer, more near it came, And now earth shook with it, and now the sea, And her white body, tremulous with shame, From its sheer anguish knew that it was he,-- Yearned for this wonder that was soon to be; And all her heart made music for his feet, All of the world re-echoed to their beat....

Marriage of youth! And quick a darkness fell, And time and space went down, consumed in fire; Through that dark space, only one breath, to tell That here was youth, and love, and wild desire: One heart that to itself sang ever higher, Tremulous, passionate, despi