^ .>^' > 
 
 3^ o**"*" 
 
 «^. 
 
 
 
 
 ° .^"""^ 
 
 
 ' %.^* •'*^'" x.^*" y.^^'- ' '^- -^^ 
 
 .^^'^^. 
 
 
 
 :- "-e^o^ • 
 
 ? J'^, ° 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 y \''^!^-;/'^ V^-^V %'^B-\ 
 
 ^-^"^ .' 
 
 ^^^^-^^ . 
 
 ' ^^^'^' 
 
 
o^ ^^0' ..L'AJ* ^^ 
 
 V . ««1*^'. c^ ^^' .*1JAJ* ^^ 
 
 
 • 4 O 
 
 
 
 
 " • o* cv 
 
 .9* .1 
 
 
 
 
 
 '•^.pc,'^'' • 
 
 .3^>^o, 
 
 .° v^"'♦ 
 
 
 r ^^ %»B^.* . V' -"^ ^^^%^/ .^^^ "^^ -J 
 
 o, ^.TTT*' A 
 
 <> 'o 
 
 ^^\*i^^%V cP^ .^:^^.^\ 
 
 ' <L^^ cv 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO - DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 By 
 
 EDGAR LEE MASTERS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY " 
 " SONGS AND SATIRES," ETC. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1916 
 
 All rights reserved 
 

 Copyright, 1916, 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 19x6, 
 
 #/; 
 
 irt 
 
 Nortoooli 3|reg8 
 
 J. 8. Cashing Co. — Berwick «& Smith Co. 
 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
 NOV -9 1916 
 ©CI.A445581 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 OF 
 
 SQUIRE DAVIS and LUCINDA MASTERS 
 
 WHO, CLOSE TO NATURE, ONE IN DEEP RELIGIOUS FAITH, THE OTHER 
 
 IN PANTHEISTIC RAPTURE AND HEROISM, LIVED NEARLY A 
 
 HUNDRED YEARS IN THIS LAND OF ILLINOIS 
 
 I INSCRIBE 
 
 THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 in admiration of their great strength, mastery 
 
 of life, hopefulness, clear and 
 
 beautiful democracy 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fort Dearborn 1 
 
 Capt. John Whistler 5 
 
 Emily Brosseau : In Church 12 
 
 The Ouija Board 19 
 
 Hanging the Picture 21 
 
 Lincoln and Douglas Debates .26 
 
 Autochthon 33 
 
 Grant and Logan and Our Tears 43 
 
 The Municipal Pier . . . . . . . .49 
 
 Gobineau to Tree 53 
 
 Old Piery 60 
 
 The Typical American ? 68 
 
 Come, Republic 72 
 
 Past and Present 76 
 
 Robert G. Ingersoll 77 
 
 At Havana 78 
 
 The Mourner's Bench 80 
 
 The Bay Window 83 
 
 Man of Our Street 90 
 
 Achilles Deatheridge 93 
 
 Slip Shoe Lovey 95 
 
 fvii] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Archangels 98 
 
 Song of Change 101 
 
 Memorabilia 102 
 
 To A Spiroch^ta 104 
 
 Cato Braden 106 
 
 Winston Prairie 120 
 
 Will Boyden Lectures 125 
 
 The Desplaines Forest 129 
 
 The Garden 131 
 
 The Tavern 134 
 
 O Saepe Mecum 138 
 
 Malachy Began 141 
 
 My Dog Ponto 144 
 
 The Gospel of Mark 147 
 
 Marsyas 154 
 
 Worlds Back of Worlds 160 
 
 The Princess' Song 164 
 
 The Furies 166 
 
 Apollo at Pher^ 168 
 
 Steam Shovel Cut 173 
 
 The Houses 178 
 
 The Church and the Hotel 185 
 
 Susie 188 
 
 Having His Way 190 
 
 The Asp 198 
 
 The Family 206 
 
 The Subway 207 
 
 The Radical's Message 211 
 
 Bombyx 216 
 
 The Apology of Demetrius 218 
 
 [ viii 1 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Play in Four Acts 224 
 
 Theodore Dreiser 228 
 
 John Cowper Powys 231 
 
 New Year's Day 234 
 
 Playing Blind 240 
 
 I Shall Never See You Again 241 
 
 Elizabeth to Monsieur D 244 
 
 Monsieur D to the Psychoanalyst .... 249 
 
 The Last Confession 261 
 
 In the Loggia 268 
 
 Be With Me Through the Spring 272 
 
 Desolate Scythia 273 
 
 The Search 274 
 
 [ix] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I 
 
 FORT DEARBORN 
 
 Here the old Fort stood 
 
 When the river bent southward. 
 
 Now because the world pours itself into Chicago 
 
 The Lake runs into the river 
 
 Past docks and switch-yards, 
 
 And under bridges of iron. 
 
 Sand dunes stretched along the lake for miles. 
 
 There was a great forest in the Loop. 
 
 Now Michigan Avenue lies 
 
 Between miles of lights, 
 
 And the Rialto blazes 
 
 Where the wolf howled. 
 
 In the loneliness of the log-cabin, 
 
 Across the river, 
 
 The fur-trader played his fiddle 
 
 When the snow lay 
 
 About the camp of the Pottawatomies 
 
 In the great forest. 
 
 Now to the music of the Kangaroo Hop, 
 
 And Ragging the Scale, 
 
 B [I] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And La Seduccion, 
 
 The boys and girls are dancing 
 
 In a cafe near Lake Street. 
 
 The world is theirs now. 
 
 There is neither a past nor a to-morrow, 
 
 Save of dancing. 
 
 Nor do they know that behind them 
 
 In the seed not yet sown 
 
 There are eyes which will open upon Chicago, 
 
 And feet which will blossom for the dance, 
 
 And hands which will reach up 
 
 And push them into the silence 
 
 Of the old fiddler. 
 
 They threw a flag 
 
 Over the coffin of Lieutenant Farnum 
 
 And buried him back of the Fort 
 
 In ground where now 
 
 The spice mills stand. 
 
 And his little squaw with a baby 
 
 Sat on the porch grieving 
 
 While the band played. 
 
 Then hands pushing the world 
 
 Buried a million soldiers and afterward 
 
 Pale multitudes swept through the Court-house 
 
 To gaze for the last time 
 
 Upon the shrunken face of Lincoln. 
 
 [2] 
 
FORT DEARBORN 
 
 And the fort at thirty-fifth street vanished. 
 
 And where the Little Giant lived 
 
 They made a park 
 
 And put his statue 
 
 Upon a column of marble. 
 
 Now the glare of the steel mills at South Chicago 
 
 Lights the bronze brow of Douglas. 
 
 It is his great sorrow 
 
 Haunting the Lake at mid-night. 
 
 When the South was beaten 
 
 They were playing 
 
 John Brown's body lies mouldering in the Grave, 
 
 And Babylon is Fallen and Wake Nicodemus. 
 
 Now the boys and girls are dancing 
 
 To the Merry Whirl and Hello Frisco 
 
 Where they waltzed in crinoline 
 
 When the Union was saved. 
 
 There was the Marble Terrace 
 Glory of the seventies ! 
 They wrecked it, 
 And brought colors and figures 
 From later Athens and Pompeii 
 And put them on walls. 
 And beneath panels of red and gold. 
 And shimmering tesserae. 
 And tragic masks and comic masks, 
 l3] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And wreaths and bucrania, 
 
 Upon mosaic floors 
 
 Red lipped women are dancing 
 
 With dark men. 
 
 Some sit at tables drinking and watching, 
 
 Amorous in an air of French perfumes. 
 
 Like ships at mid-night 
 
 The kingdoms of the world 
 
 Know not whither they go nor to what port. 
 
 Nor do you, embryo hands, 
 
 In the seed not yet sown 
 
 Know of the wars to come. 
 
 They may fill the sky with armored dragons 
 
 And the waters with iron monsters ; 
 
 They may build arsenals 
 
 Where now upon marble floors 
 
 The boys and girls 
 
 Are dancing the Alabama Jubilee, 
 
 The processional of time is a falling stream 
 
 Through which you thrust your hand. 
 
 And between the dancers and the silence forever 
 
 There shall be the livers 
 
 Gazing upon the torches they have lighted, 
 
 And watching their own which are failing. 
 
 And crying for oil. 
 
 And finding it not ! 
 
 [4] 
 
CAPTAIN JOHN WHISTLER 
 
 II 
 
 CAPTAIN JOHN WHISTLER 
 
 {Captain John Whistler built Fort Dearborn in i8oj. 
 His son, George Washington, who was an engineer 
 and built a railroad in Russia for the Czar in 1842, 
 was the father of the artist, James Abbott McNeill 
 Whistler.) 
 
 Throw logs upon the fire ! Relieve the guard 
 At the main gate and wicket gate ! Lieutenant 
 Send two men 'round the palisades, perhaps 
 They'll find some thirsty Indians loitering 
 Who may think there is whiskey to be had 
 After the wedding. Get my sealing wax 1 
 Now let me see "November, eighteen four: 
 Dear Jacob : On this afternoon my daughter 
 Was married to James Abbott, it's the first 
 Wedding of white people in Chicago — 
 That's what we call Fort Dearborn now and then. 
 They left at once on horseback for Detroit." 
 The "Tracy" will sail in to-morrow likely. 
 "To Jacob Kingsbury" — that's well addressed. 
 Don't fail to give this letter to the captain, 
 That it may reach Detroit ere they do. 
 I wonder how James Abbott and my Sarah 
 Will fare three hundred miles of sand and marsh, 
 
 [5] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And tangled forest In this hard November ? 
 
 More logs upon the fire ! The mist comes down ! 
 
 The lake roars like a wind, and not a star 
 
 Lights up the blackness. They have almost reached 
 
 The' Calumet by now. Good luck James Abbott 1 
 
 I'm glad my Sarah wed so brave a man, 
 
 And one so strong of arm. 
 
 It's eighteen four, 
 It's almost eighteen five. It's twenty years 
 Since I was captured when Burgoyne was whipped 
 At Saratoga. Why, it's almost twenty 
 Since I became an American soldier. Now 
 Here am I builder of this frontier fort, 
 And its commander ! Aged now forty-nine. 
 But in my time a British soldier first. 
 Now an American ; first resident 
 Of Ireland, then England, Maryland, 
 Now living here. I see the wild geese fly 
 To distant shores from distant shores and wonder 
 How they endure such strangeness. But what's that 
 To man's adventures, change of home, what's that 
 To my unsettled life .? Why there's La Salle : 
 They say La Salle in sixteen seventy-one 
 Was here, and now it's almost eighteen five. 
 And what's your wild geese to La Salle ! He's born 
 At Rouen, sails the seas, and travels over 
 Some several thousand miles through Canada. 
 
 [6] 
 
CAPTAIN JOHN WHISTLER 
 
 Is here exploring portages and rivers. 
 
 Ends up at last down by the Rio Grande, 
 
 And dies almost alone half way around 
 
 The world from where he started. There's a man ! 
 
 May some one say of me : There was a man ! . . . 
 
 I'm lonely without Sarah, without James. 
 
 Tom bring my pipe and that tobacco bag. 
 
 Here place my note to Jacob Kingsbury 
 
 There on the shelf — remember, to the captain 
 
 When the "Tracy" comes. Draw, boys, up to the fire 
 
 I'll tell you what a wondrous dream I had. 
 
 And woke with on my Sarah's wedding day. . . . 
 
 I had an uncle back in Ireland 
 
 Who failed at everything except his Latin. 
 
 He could spout Virgil till your head would ache. 
 
 And when I was a boy he used to roll 
 
 The Latin out, translating as he went : 
 
 The ghost of Hector comes before ^Eneas, 
 
 And warns him to leave Troy. His mother Venus 
 
 Tells him to settle in another land ! 
 
 The Delphic oracle misunderstood, 
 
 ^neas goes to Crete. He finds at last 
 
 His ships are fired by the Trojan women, 
 
 Great conflagration ! Down he goes to hell, 
 
 And then the Sibyl shows him what's to be : 
 
 What race of heroes shall descend from him, 
 
 [7] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And how a city's walls he shall up-build 
 In founding Rome. ... 
 
 So last night In my dream 
 This uncle came to me and said to me : 
 "'Aeneas' Whistler you shall found a city. 
 You've built Fort Dearborn, that is the beginning. 
 Imperial Rome could be put in a corner 
 Of this, the city which you'll found. Fear not 
 The wooden horse, but have a care for cows : 
 I see ships burning on your muddy Tiber, 
 And toppling walls." I dreamed I felt the heat. 
 But then a voice said "Where's your little boy 
 George Washington .?" — come sit on father's knee, 
 And hear about my dream — there little boy 1 
 Well, as I said, I felt the heat and then 
 I felt the crudest cold and then the voice : 
 "You cannot come to Russia with your boy. 
 He'll make his way." I woke up with these words, 
 And found the covers off and I was cold. 
 And then no sooner did I fall asleep 
 Than this old uncle re-appeared and said : 
 "A race of heroes shall descend from you. 
 Here shall a city stand greater than Rome." 
 With that he seemed to alter to a witch, 
 A woman's form, the voice of him changed too. 
 And said: "I'm Mother Shipton, Captain Whistler. 
 "Men through the mountains then shall ride, 
 
 [8] 
 
CAPTAIN JOHN WHISTLER 
 
 "Nor horse nor ass be by their side" — 
 Think, gentlemen, what it would be to ride 
 In carriages propelled by steam 1 And then 
 This dream became a wonder in a wonder 
 Of populous streets, of flying things, of spires 
 Of driven mist that looked like fiddle strings 
 From tree to tree. Of smoke-stacks over-topping 
 The tallest pine ; of bridges built of levers, 
 And such a haze of smoke, and cloud like shapes 
 Passing along like etchings one by one : 
 Cathedrals, masts as thick as hazel thickets. 
 And buildings great as hills, and miles of lights. 
 Till by some miracle the sun had moved. 
 And rose not in the east but in the south. 
 And shone along the shore line of the Lake, 
 As he shines o'er the Lake when he arises, 
 And makes an avenue of gold, no less 
 This yellow sand took glory of his light. 
 And where he shone it seemed an avenue. 
 And over it, where now the dunes stretch south, 
 Along the level shore of sand, there stood 
 These giant masses, etchings as it were ! 
 And Mother Shipton said : "This is your city. 
 "A race of heroes shall descend from you ; 
 "Your son George Washington shall do great deeds. 
 "And if he had a' son what would you name him .?" 
 Well, as I went to sleep with thoughts of Sarah 
 And praises for James Abbott, it was natural 
 
 [9l 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 That I should say "I'd name him after James." 
 "Well done" said Mother Shipton and then van- 
 ished. . . . 
 I woke to find the sun-light in my room, 
 And from my barracks window saw the Lake 
 Stirred up to waves slate-colored by the wind ; 
 Some Indians loitering about the fort. 
 They knew this was James Abbott's wedding day, 
 And Sarah's day of leaving. 
 
 Soldiers 1 Comrades 1 
 What is most real, our waking hours, our dreams ? 
 Where was I in this sleep ^ What are our dreams 
 But lands which lie below our hour's horizon, 
 Yet still are seen in a reflecting sky, 
 And which through earth and heaven draw us on ? 
 Look at me now 1 Consider of yourselves : 
 Housed, fed, yet lonely, in this futile task 
 By this great water, in this waste of grass. 
 Close to this patch of forest, on this river 
 Where wolves howl, and the Indian waits his chance — 
 Consider of your misery, your sense 
 Of worthless living, living to no end : 
 I tell you no man lives but to some end. 
 He may live only to increase the mass 
 Wherewith Fate is borne-down, or just to swell 
 The needed multitude when the hero passes, 
 To give the hero heart ! But every man 
 
 [lol 
 
CAPTAIN JOHN WHISTLER 
 
 Walks, though In blindness, to some destiny 
 Of human growth, who only helps to fill, 
 And helps that way alone, the empty Fate 
 That waits for lives to give it Life. 
 
 And look 
 Here are we housed and fed, here is a fire 
 And here a bed. A hundred years ago 
 Marquette, La Salle, scarce housed and poorly fed 
 Gave health and life itself to find the way 
 Through icy marshes, treacherous swamps and forests 
 For this Fort Dearborn, where to-night we sit 
 Warming ourselves against a roaring hearth. 
 And what's our part I It is not less than theirs. 
 And what's the part of those to come f Not less 
 Than ours has been ! And what's the life of man ? 
 To live up to the God In him, to obey 
 The Voice which says : You shall not live and rest. 
 Nor sleep, nor mad delight nor senses fed, 
 Nor memory dulled, nor tortured hearing stopped 
 To drown my Voice shall leave you to forget 
 Life's impulse at the heart of Life, to strive 
 For men to be, for cities, nobler states 
 Moving foreshadowed in your dreams at night, 
 And realized some hundred years to come. 
 When this Fort Dearborn, you and all of you, 
 And I who sit with pipe and son on knee. 
 Regretting a dear daughter, who this hour 
 
 [II] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Is somewhere in the darkness (like our souls 
 Which move In darkness, listening to the beat 
 Of our mysterious hearts, or with closed eyes 
 Sensing a central Purpose) shall be dust — 
 Our triumphs, sorrows, even our names forgotten. 
 And all we knew lost In the wreck and waste 
 And change of things. And even what we did 
 For cities, nobler states, and greater men 
 Forgotten too. It matters not. We work 
 For cities, nobler states and greater men, 
 Or else we die In Life which Is the death 
 Which soldiers must not die ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 EMILY BROSSEAU: IN CHURCH 
 
 Domine, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae, libera animus omnium 
 fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni, et de pro- 
 funda lacu. 
 
 Leave me now and I will watch here through the night, 
 
 And I'll put In new candles. If these fail. 
 
 I'll sit here as I am, where I can see 
 
 His brow, his nose's tip and thin white hair. 
 
 And just beyond his brow, above the altar, 
 
 The red gash in the side of Jesus like 
 
 A candle's flame when burning to the socket. 
 
 Go all of you, and leave me. I don't care 
 
 [12] 
 
EMILY BROSSEAU: IN CHURCH 
 
 How cold the church grows. Michael Angelo 
 Went to a garret, which was cold, and stripped 
 His feet, and painted till the chill of death 
 Took hold of him, a man just eighty-seven, 
 And I am ninety, what's the odds ? — go now . . . 
 
 Now Jean we are alone ! Your very stillness 
 
 Is like intenser life, as in your brow 
 
 Your soul was crystallized and made more strong, 
 
 And nearer to me. You are here, I feel you. 
 
 I close my eyes and feel you, you are here. 
 
 Therefore a little talk before the dawn. 
 
 Which will come soon. Dawn always comes too soon 
 
 In times like this. It waits too long in times 
 
 Of absence, and you will be absent soon. . . . 
 
 I want to talk about my happiness, 
 
 My happy life, the part you played in it. 
 
 There never was a day you did not kiss me 
 
 Through nearly seventy years of married life. 
 
 I had two hours of heaven in my life. 
 
 The first one was the dance where first we met. 
 
 The other when last fall they brought me roses, 
 
 Those ninety roses for my birth-day, when 
 
 They had me tell them of the first Chicago 
 
 I saw when just a child, about the Fort; 
 
 The cabins where the traders lived, who worked, 
 
 And made the fortune of John Jacob Astor. 
 
 [13] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Poor Jean ! It's scarce a week since you were struck. 
 
 You sat down in your chair, 'twas after dinner, 
 
 Then suddenly I saw your head fall forward. 
 
 You could not speak when I went over to you. 
 
 But afterwards when you were on the bed 
 
 I leaned above you and you took the ribbon, 
 
 That hung down from my cap and pressed it trembling 
 
 Against your lips. What triumph in your death ! , 
 
 Your death was like a mass, mysterious, rich 
 
 Like Latin which the priests sing and the choir — 
 
 May angels take you and with Lazarus, 
 
 Once poor, receive you to eternal rest. . . . 
 
 Two hours of heaven in my life that's true ! 
 
 And years between that made life more than good. 
 
 My first sight of Chicago stands for all 
 
 My life became for you and all I've lived. 
 
 The year is 1829, you know of course. 
 
 I've told you of the trip in Prairie schooners 
 
 From Ft. Detroit round the lake, we camped 
 
 Along the way, the last time near the place 
 
 Where Gary and the steel mills are to-day. 
 
 And the next morning what a sky ! as blue 
 
 As a jay's wing, with little rifts of snow 
 
 Along the hollows of the yellow dunes. 
 
 And some ice in the lake, which lapped a little,' 
 
 And purplish colors far off in the north. 
 
 So round these more than twenty miles we drove 
 
 That April day. And when we came as far 
 
 [14] 
 
EMILY BROSSEAU: IN CHURCH 
 
 As thirty-ninth or thirty-first perhaps — 
 Just sand hills then — I never can forget It — 
 What should I see ? Fort Dearborn dazzling bright, 
 All newly white-washed right against that sky, 
 And the log cabins round it, far away 
 The rims of forests, and between a prairie 
 With wild flowers in the grasses red and blue — 
 Such wild flowers and such grasses, such a sky, 
 Such oceans of sweet air. In which were rising 
 Straight up from Indian wigwams spires of smoke, 
 About where now the Public Library stands 
 On Randolph Street. And as we neared the place 
 There was the flag, a streaming red and white 
 Upon a pole within the Fort's inclosure. 
 I cried for happiness though just a child, 
 And cry now thinking. . . . 
 
 I must set this candle 
 To see your pale brow better ! What's the hour ? 
 The night is passing, and I have so much 
 To say to you before the dawn. . . . 
 
 Well, then 
 The first hour that I call an hour of heaven : 
 Who was that man that built the first hotel ? — 
 It stood across the river from the Fort — 
 No matter. But before that I had heard 
 Nothing beside a fiddle, living here 
 
 [IS] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Amid the traders eleven years or so. 
 And this man for his hotel's opening 
 Had brought an orchestra from somewhere. Think 
 Bass viols, violins, and horns and flutes. 
 I'm dressed up Hke a princess for those days. 
 Vm sixteen years of age and pass the door, 
 Enter the ball-room where such candle-light 
 As I had never seen shone on me, they 
 Bored sockets in suspended wheels of wood 
 And hung them from the ceiling, chandeliers ! 
 And at that moment all the orchestra 
 Broke into music, yes, it was a waltz ! 
 And in that moment — what a moment-full ! 
 This hotel man presented you and said 
 You were my partner for the evening. Jean 
 I call this heaven, for its youth and love ! 
 I'm sixteen and you're twenty and I love you. 
 I slip my arm through yours for you to lead me, 
 You are so strong, so ruddy, kind and brave. 
 I want you for a husband, for a friend, 
 A guide, a solace, father to the child 
 That I can bear. Oh Jean how can I talk so 
 In this lone church at mid-night of such things. 
 With all these candles burning round your face. 
 I who have rounded ninety-years, and look 
 On what was sweet, long seventy years ago } 
 Feeling this city even at mid-night move 
 In restlessness, desire, around this church, 
 
 [i6] 
 
EMILY BROSSEAU: IN CHURCH 
 
 Where once I saw the prairie grass and flowers ; 
 
 And saw the Indians in their colored trappings 
 
 Pour from a bottle of whisky on the fire 
 
 A tribute to the Spirit of the world, 
 
 And dance and sing for madness of that Spirit ? 
 
 Well, Jean, my other hour. I've spoken before 
 
 Of our long life together glad and sad. 
 
 But mostly good. I'm happy for it all. 
 
 This other hour is marked, I call it heaven 
 
 Just as I told you, not because they stood 
 
 Around me as a mystery from the past. 
 
 And looked at me admiringly for my age, 
 
 My strength in age, my life that spanned the growth 
 
 Of my Chicago from a place of huts, 
 
 Just four or five, a fort, and all around it 
 
 A wilderness, to what it is this hour 
 
 Where most three million souls are living, nor 
 
 Because I sa\Y this rude life, and beheld 
 
 The World's Fair where such richnesses of time 
 
 Were spread before me — not because of these, 
 
 Nor for the ninety roses, nor the tribute 
 
 They paid me in them, nor their gentle words — 
 
 These did not make that hour a heaven, no — 
 
 Jean, it was this : 
 
 First I was just as happy 
 As I was on that night we danced together, 
 c [17] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And that I could repeat that hour's great bHss 
 
 At ninety years, though in a diflferent way, 
 
 And for a different cause, that was the thing 
 
 That made me happy. For you see it proves, 
 
 Just give the soul a chance it's happiness 
 
 Is endless, let the body house it well, 
 
 Or house it ill, but give it but a chance 
 
 To speak itself, not stifle it, or hush it 
 
 With hands of flesh against the quivering strings, 
 
 Made sick or weak by time, the soul will find 
 
 Delights as good as youth has to the end. 
 
 And even if the flesh be sick there's Heine : 
 
 Few men had raptures keen as his, though lying 
 
 With death beside him through a stretch of years. 
 
 It must be something in the soul as well. 
 
 Which makes me think a third hour shall be mine 
 
 In spite of death, yes Jean it must be so ! 
 
 I want that third hour, I shall pray for it 
 
 Unceasingly, I want it for my soul's sake : 
 
 Which will have happiness in its very power 
 
 And dignity that time nor change can hurt. 
 
 For if I have it you shall have it too. 
 
 And in that third hour we shall give each other 
 
 Something that's kindred to the souls we gave 
 
 That night we danced together — but much more ! . 
 
 It's dawn ! Good bye till then, my Jean, good bye ! 
 
 [i81 
 
THE OUIJA BOARD 
 
 IV 
 
 THE OUIJA BOARD 
 
 {David Kennison died in Chicago February 24.th, 18^2, 
 aged 11^ years, J months and ly days. Veteran of 
 the Revolution.) 
 
 David Kennison is here born at Kingston in the year 
 
 Seventeen thirty-seven and it's nineteen sixteen now, 
 Dumped the tea into the harbor, saw CornwaUis* 
 career 
 End at Yorktown with the sullen thunder written 
 on his brow. 
 
 Was at West Point when the traitor Arnold gave up 
 the fort, 
 Saw them hang Major Andre for a spy and his due. 
 Settled down in Sackett's Harbor for a rest of a sort, 
 Till I crossed the western country in the year forty- 
 two. 
 
 And I saw Chicago rising in the ten years to come, 
 Ere I passed in the fifties to the peace of the dead. 
 
 Now where is there a city in the whole of Christendom 
 Where such roar is and such walking is around a 
 grave's head .^ 
 
 [19] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Oh, 'twas fighting as a soldier in the wars of the land ; 
 
 And 'twas giving and living to make the people free 
 That kept me past a century an oak to withstand \ 
 
 The heat and snow and weevils that break down a 
 tree. 
 
 There were other dead around me with a slab to mark 
 When they heaped the final pillow for my honor's 
 meed. 
 
 Now the lovers stopping curiously in Lincoln Park 
 Look at the bronze tablet on my boulder and read : 
 
 How I fought at Long Island and fought at White 
 Plains — 
 What does it mean you lovers who scan what is 
 scored 
 On the tablet on my boulder ? — Why the task remains 
 To make the torch brighter and to keep clean the 
 sword. 
 
 Go labor for the future. Go make the cities great : 
 There are other realms to conquer for the men to 
 be. 
 
 For it's toil and it's courage that solve a soul's fate, 
 And it's giving and living that make a people free ! 
 
 [20] 
 
HANGING THE PICTURE 
 
 V 
 
 HANGING THE PICTURE 
 
 Before you pull that string, 
 
 And strip away that veil, 
 
 I rise to enter my objection 
 
 To the hanging of Archer Price's picture 
 
 Here in this hall. . . . 
 
 For I'll venture the artist has tried to soften 
 
 The vain and shifty look of the eyes ; 
 
 And the face that looked like a harte-beest's. 
 
 And the rabbit mouth that looked like a horse's, 
 
 Lipping oats from a leather bag 1 
 
 I knew this man in '28 
 
 When he drifted here from Maine, he said. 
 
 And now it's eighteen ninety two: 
 
 This year is sacred to conquerors, 
 
 Discoverers and soldiers. 
 
 And I object to the hanging of pictures 
 
 Of men who trade while others fight. 
 
 And follow the army to get the loot. 
 
 And rest till other men are tired, 
 
 Then grab the spoils while the workers sleep. 
 
 I would like to burn all masks. 
 
 And padded shoes, 
 
 And smash all dark lanterns. 
 
 [21] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And take all friends of the people 
 
 And brand them with the letter "B," 
 
 Which means "Betrayer." 
 
 And I would like to enter the Kingdom of Heaven 
 
 Just to see the publicans who will be there, 
 
 And the Archer Prices who will not be there ! 
 
 You call him a great man, 
 
 And a prophetic man, 
 
 And a leader, and a savior, 
 
 And a man who was wise in an evil world 
 
 Of tangled interests and selfish power. 
 
 And who knew the art of compromise. 
 
 And how to get half when you can't get all ! 
 
 You haven't probed deep enough in this man. 
 
 For he was great as the condor is great. 
 
 And prophetic as the wolf is prophetic. 
 
 And a leader as the jackal is a leader. 
 
 And his wisdom was that of the python, 
 
 Which will swallow a hare when no pig is at hand ! 
 
 He was rich. 
 
 He was well known. 
 
 His name was linked with lofty things, 
 
 And adorned all noble committees. 
 
 And he was a friend of art and music — 
 
 He gave them money ! 
 
 He was on the Library Board, 
 
 [22] 
 
HANGING THE PICTURE 
 
 And the Commerce Board, and every board 
 
 For building up the city — 
 
 I admit these things. They were pawns on the board 
 
 for him. 
 That's why I rise to enter my objection 
 To hanging his picture here ! 
 
 We had no telephones in those days. 
 
 But there was a certain man of power, 
 
 A man who was feared, as one might fear 
 
 A lion that hides in the jungle. 
 
 And this man sat in a hidden room 
 
 As a banded-epira waits and watches. 
 
 And he went from this room to his house in a cab, 
 
 And back to this room in a cab. 
 
 But everyone knew that Archer Price 
 
 Was doing the will of the man in the room. 
 
 Though you never saw the two together. 
 
 As you never could see together the leaders 
 
 Of some of these late bi-partisan deals. 
 
 But Archer Price was so much alike 
 
 This secret man in the room ; 
 
 And did so much what we knew 
 
 He wanted done, and built the city 
 
 So near to the heart's desire of this man 
 
 That all of us knew that the two conferred 
 
 In spite of the fact that telephones 
 
 Had never been heard of then. . . . 
 
 [23] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Well, because of this man in the room, 
 
 As well as because of Price himself, 
 
 Everyone feared him, no one knew 
 
 Exactly how to fight him. 
 
 Everyone hated him, although 
 
 Everyone helped him to wealth and power. 
 
 He was what you'd call a touch-me-not. 
 
 If you clodded him you ran the risk 
 
 Of hitting the teacher, or maybe a child. 
 
 He always walked with the wind to his back : 
 
 If you spit at him it would fly in your face. 
 
 And though we suspected more than we knew 
 
 Of his subtle machinations, 
 
 No one could attack him for what was known. 
 
 Because the things he was known to be doing 
 
 Were service to those, who couldn't allow 
 
 The service to be imperiled. 
 
 There never was a time 
 This man was out of public office. 
 He clung to the people's treasury 
 As a magnet clings to a magnet. 
 Why didn't your orator tell this audience 
 He started In life as town assessor .? 
 That would have left me with nothing to say 
 Except he traded the fixing of taxes 
 For business ! 
 
 Oh, you people who unveil pictures ! 
 
 [Hi 
 
HANGING THE PICTURE 
 
 In his day no one was permitted to say this. 
 
 And now everyone has forgotten it. 
 
 It is useless to say it. 
 
 And here in the year of Columbus 
 
 You are unveiling his picture ! 
 
 And you say the Illinois and Michigan Canal 
 
 Had never been built or saved for the people 
 
 Except for Archer Price ! 
 
 Why don't you tell that he fought the Canal in 1830, 
 
 Saying it would burden the people ? 
 
 And why don't you say that even then 
 
 He was acting for his own interests and the man in the 
 
 room ^ 
 Why don't you show that his art of compromise 
 Created the Public Canal Committee 
 When he failed to block the Canal, 
 And failed of appointment as Canal Commissioner ? 
 Why don't you show that through that committee 
 The squatters stole the wharves on the river ? 
 Why don't you show how his friends grew rich 
 Through buying the lands at public sales 
 Which were given to build the Canal, 
 And which the Committee was pretending to conserve ? 
 Why don't you show that through that Committee, 
 Pretending to be a friend of the people. 
 He opened a fight at length on the squatters 
 And won the fight, and won the wharves 
 
 [25] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 For himself and a clique of friends ? 
 Why don't you tell — ? 
 
 Cry me down if you will — 
 I object — I object — 
 
 VI 
 
 THE LINCOLN AND DOUGLAS DEBATES 
 
 Have you ever seen the Douglas monument 
 
 There in Chicago ? 
 
 They say it's by the Lake, 
 
 With a column of marble a hundred feet high, 
 
 And a statue of The Little Giant on top, 
 
 With knit brows and lion face. 
 
 Like he used to look when debatin' with Linkern. 
 
 I want to go up to Chicago sometime, 
 
 To see that monument. 
 
 And some one told me 
 
 They carved on his marble coffin the words : 
 
 "Tell my children to obey the laws, 
 
 And uphold the constitution." 
 
 Well, they couldn't have put sadder words 
 
 On his coffin than that. 
 
 For it was tryin' to obey the laws and support the 
 
 constitution 
 That killed him. 
 
 And why should his children do the same thing and die ? 
 
 [261 
 
THE LINCOLN AND DOUGLAS DEBATES 
 
 You young men of this day don't care, 
 And you don't understand the old questions. 
 But a man's life is always worth understanding, 
 Especially a man's like The Little Giant. 
 Now this was the point : 
 There was that devilish thing slavery, 
 And The Little Giant, as senator, 
 Put through a bill for leaving it to the people 
 Whether they would have slavery in Kansas or Ne- 
 braska, 
 Or any other territory, and that was popular sover- 
 eignty — 
 And sounds democratic ; but three years later 
 Along comes the Supreme Court and says : 
 The people of a territory must have slavery 
 Whether they want it or not, because 
 The constitution is for slavery, and it follows the flag 1 
 Well, there was The Little Giant 
 Caught between the law and the constitution ! 
 And tryin' to obey 'em both ! 
 Or better still he was like Lem Reese's boy 
 Who was standin' one time one foot on shore, 
 And one in a skiff, baitin' a hook. 
 And all at once Col. Lankford's little steamer 
 Came along and hobbled the skiff ; 
 And it started to glide out into the river, — 
 Why the boy walked Hke a spread compass 
 For a month. 
 
 [27] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 For the skiff was movin', and that's the law; 
 And his other foot slipped on the slimy bank, 
 And that's the constitution ! 
 
 But if you want to consider a minute 
 
 How Time plays tag with people, 
 
 And how no one can tell 
 
 When he'll be It, just think : 
 
 There was Bill McKInley 
 
 Who kept the old constitution's from goin' to the 
 
 Philippines, 
 And they elected him. 
 And here was The Little Giant, 
 Who wanted to send it everywhere, 
 And they defeated him. 
 So you see it depends on what it means 
 Whether you want to keep it or send it. 
 And nobody knows what it means — 
 Not even judges. 
 
 But just the same them were great days. 
 
 One time The Little Giant came here with Linkern 
 
 And talked from the steps of the Court-house; 
 
 And you never saw such a crowd of people : 
 
 Democrats, Whigs, and Locofocos, 
 
 Know-nothings and Anti-masonics, 
 
 Blue lights. Spiritualists, Republicans 
 
 Free Soilers, Socialists, Americans — such a crowd. 
 
 [28] 
 
THE LINCOLN AND DOUGLAS DEBATES 
 
 Linkern's voice squeaked up high, 
 
 And didn't carry. 
 
 But Douglas ! 
 
 People out yonder in Proctor's Grove, 
 
 A mile from the Court House steps, 
 
 Could hear him roar and hear him say : 
 
 "I'm going to trot him down to Egypt 
 
 And see if he'll say the things he says 
 
 To the black republicans in northern Illinois." 
 
 It made you shiver all down your spine 
 
 To see that face and hear that voice — 
 
 And that was The Little Giant ! , 
 
 And then on the other hand there was 
 
 Abe Linkern standing six foot four, 
 
 As thin as a rail, with a high-keyed voice. 
 
 And sometimes solemn, and sometimes comic 
 
 As any clown you ever saw, 
 
 And runnin' Col. Lankford's little steamer. 
 
 As it were, you know, which would bobble the skiff. 
 
 Which was the law ; and The Little Giant's other foot 
 
 Would slip on the bank, which was the constitution. 
 
 And you could almost hear him holler "ouch." 
 
 And Linkern would say : This argument 
 
 Of the Senator's is thin as soup 
 
 Made from the shadow of a starved pigeon 1 
 
 And then the crowd would yell, and the cornet band 
 
 Would play, and men would walk away and say : 
 
 [29] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Linkern floored him. And others would say : 
 
 He aint no match for The Little Giant. 
 
 But I'll declare if I could decide 
 
 Which whipped the other. 
 
 For to let the people decide whether they wanted 
 
 slavery 
 Sounded good. 
 
 And to have the constitution in force sounded good. 
 And not to have any slavery at all sounded good. 
 But so far as the law was concerned, 
 And where it was, and what you could do with it 
 It was like the shell game : 
 Now you see the little ball and now you don't ! 
 Who's got a dollar to say where the little ball is ? 
 
 But when you try to obey the laws and support the 
 
 constitution. 
 It reminds me of a Campbellite preacher 
 We had here years ago. 
 
 And he debated with the Methodist preacher 
 As to whether immersion or sprinkling 
 Was the way to salvation. 
 And the Campbellite preacher said : 
 "The holy scripture says : 
 *And Jesus when he was baptised 
 Went up straightway out of the water.' 
 And how could he come up out of the water 
 If he wasn't in ?" asked the Campbellite preacher, 
 
 [30] 
 
THE LINCOLN AND DOUGLAS DEBATES 
 
 Pointing a long finger at the Methodist preacher. 
 
 "And how could he be in without being immersed ?" 
 
 Well, the Campbellite preacher won the debate. 
 
 But the next day Billy Bell, 
 
 An infidel we had here. 
 
 Met the Campbellite preacher and said : 
 
 ^' I suppose it wouldn't be possible for a man 
 
 To stand in water up to his knees 
 
 And have water sprinkled on his head, would it.^" 
 
 And the Campbellite preacher said : 
 
 "Get thee behind me Satan," and went on. 
 
 Well Linkern was kind of an infidel. 
 
 And The Little Giant got caught in his own orthodoxy, 
 
 And his ability for debate led him into 
 
 The complete persuading of himself. 
 
 And by arguin' for the law 
 
 He made Linkern appear 
 
 As bein' against the law. 
 
 But just think, for a minute, young man : 
 
 Here is The Little Giant the greatest figure in all the 
 
 land 
 And the wheel of fortune turns 
 And he stands by Linkern's side and holds 
 His hat while Linkern takes the oath 
 As president ! 
 
 Then the war comes and his leadership 
 Has left him, and millions who followed him 
 
 [31] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Turn from him, and then Death comes, 
 And sits by him and says : Your time's up ! 
 So I say when they put up that monument 
 And carved those words upon it 
 They had just as well have carved the words, 
 "He took poison." 
 
 Which reminds me : 
 
 There was a family over at Dutchland 
 
 Named Nitchie. 
 
 And my boy writes me from college 
 
 That there is a writer named Nitchie 
 
 Who says — w^ll I can't tell you just now. 
 
 But if you'll look at things close 
 
 You'll see that Linkern was against the legal law, 
 
 And Douglas against the moral law so-called, 
 
 And neither cared for the other's law — 
 
 And that was the real debate ! 
 
 Linkern rode over laws to save the Union, 
 
 And Douglas said he cared more for white supremacy 
 
 Than anything else. 
 
 Which being true, who can tell 
 
 Who won the debates .? 
 
 Is it better to have the Union, 
 
 Or better to have a master race ? 
 
 I'll go over to the post-office now 
 
 And see if there's a letter from my boy. 
 
 [32] 
 
VII 
 
 AUTOCHTHON 
 
 In a rude country some four thousand miles 
 
 From Charles' and Alfred's birthplace you were born, 
 
 In the same year. But Charles and you were born 
 
 On the same day, and Alfred six months later. 
 
 Thus start you in a sense the race together. . . . 
 
 Charles goes to Edinburgh, afterwards 
 
 His father picks him for the ministry. 
 
 And sends him off to Cambridge where he spends 
 
 His time on beetles and geology. 
 
 Neglects theology. Alfred is here 
 
 Fondling a Virgil and a Horace. 
 
 But you — these years you give to reading ^Esop, 
 
 The Bible, lives of Washington and Franklin, 
 
 And Kirkham's grammar. 
 
 In 1830 Alfred prints a book 
 Containing "Mariana," certain other 
 Delicate, wind-blown bells of airy music. 
 And in this year you move from Indiana 
 And settle near Decatur, Illinois, 
 Hard by the river Sangamon where fever 
 And ague burned and shook the poor 
 Swamp saffron creatures of that desolate land. 
 While Alfred walks the flowering lanes of England, 
 D [33] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And reads Theocritus to the song of larks 
 You clear the forests, plow the stumpy land, 
 Fight off the torments of mosquitoes, flies 
 And study Kirkham's grammar. 
 
 In 1 83 1 Charles takes a trip 
 
 Around the world, sees South America, 
 
 And studies living things in Galapagos, 
 
 Tahiti, Keeling Island and Tasmania. 
 
 In 183 1 you take a trip 
 
 Upon a flat-boat down to New Orleans 
 
 Through hardships scarcely less than Joliet 
 
 And Marquette knew in 1673, 
 
 Return on foot to Orfutt's store at Salem. 
 
 By this time Jacques Rousseau was canonized ; 
 Jefferson dead but seven years or so ; 
 Brook Farm was budding, Garrison had started 
 His Liberator^ Fourier still alive; 
 And Emerson was preening his slim wings 
 For flights into broad spaces — there was stir 
 Enough to sweep the Shelleyan heads, — in truth 
 Shelley was scarcely passed a decade then. 
 ^ Old Godwin still was writing, wars for freedom 
 Swept through the Grecian Isles, America 
 Had "isms" in abundance, but not one 
 Took hold of you. 
 
 In 1832 Alfred has drawn 
 
 [34] 
 
AUTOCHTHON 
 
 Out of old Mallory and Grecian myths 
 
 The "Lady of Shalott" and fair "CEnone," 
 
 And put them into verse. 
 
 This is the year you fight the Black Hawk war, 
 
 And issue an address to Sangamon's people. 
 
 You are but twenty-three, yet this address 
 
 Would not shame Charles or Alfred ; it's restrained, 
 
 And sanely balanced, without extra words, 
 
 Or youth's conceits, or imitative figures, dreams 
 
 Or "isms" of the day. No, here you hope 
 
 That enterprise, morality, sobriety 
 
 May be more general, and speak a word 
 
 For popular education, so that all 
 
 May have a "moderate education" as you say. 
 
 You make a plea for railroads and canals. 
 
 And ask the suffrages of the people, saying 
 
 You have known disappointment far too much 
 
 To be chagrined at failure, if you lose. 
 
 They take you at your word and send another 
 
 To represent them in the Legislature. 
 
 Then you decide to learn the blacksmith's trade. 
 
 But Fate comes by and plucks you by the sleeve, 
 
 And changes history, doubtless. 
 
 By '36 when Charles returns to England 
 You have become a legislator ; yes 
 You tried again and won. You have become 
 A lawyer too, by working through the levels 
 
 [35] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Of laborer, store-keeper and surveyor, 
 
 Wrapped up in problems of geometry, 
 
 And Kirkham's grammar and Sir William Blackstone, 
 
 And Coke on Littleton, and Joseph Chitty. 
 
 Brook Farm will soon bloom forth, Francois Fourier 
 
 Is still on earth, and Garrison is shaking 
 
 Terrible lightning at Slavocracy. 
 
 And certain libertarians, videlicet 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier and others, sing 
 
 The trampling out of grapes of wrath ; in truth 
 
 The Hebrews taught the idealist how to sing 
 
 Destruction in the name of God and curse 
 
 Where strength was lacking for the sword — but you 
 
 Are not a Robert Emmet, or a Shelley, 
 
 Have no false dreams of dying to bring In 
 
 The day of Liberty. At twenty-three 
 
 You're measuring the world and waiting for 
 
 Dawn's mists to clear that you may measure It, 
 
 And know the field's dimensions ere you put 
 
 Your handle to the plow. 
 
 In 1833 a man named Hallam, 
 
 A friend of Alfred's, died at twenty-two. 
 
 Thereafter Alfred worked his hopes and fears 
 
 Upon the dark impasto of this loss 
 
 In delicate colors. And in 1850 
 
 When you were sunk in melancholia. 
 
 As one of no use in the world, adjudged 
 
 [36] 
 
AUTOCHTHON 
 
 To be of no use by your time and place, 
 
 Alfred brought forth his Dante dream of life, 
 
 Received the laureate wreath and settled down 
 
 With a fair wife amid entrancing richness 
 
 Of sunny seas and silken sails and dreams 
 
 Of Araby, 
 
 And ivied halls, and meadows where the breeze 
 
 Of temperate England blows the hurrying cloud. 
 
 There, seated like an Oriental king 
 
 In silk and linen clothed took the acclaim 
 
 Of England and the world ! . . . 
 
 This is the year 
 You sit in a little office there in Springfield, 
 Feet on the desk and brood. What are you thinking ? 
 You're forty-one ; around you spears are whacking 
 The wind-mills of the day, you watch and weigh. 
 The sun-light of your mind quivers about 
 The darkness every thinking soul must know, 
 And lights up hidden things behind the door. 
 And in dark corners. You have fathomed much, 
 Weighed life and men. O what a sphered brain. 
 Strong nerved, fresh blooded, firm in plasmic fire. 
 And ready for a task, if there be one ! 
 That is the question that makes brooding thought : 
 For you know well men come into the world 
 And find no task, and die, and are not known — 
 Great sphered brains gone into dust again. 
 Their light under a bushel all their days 1 
 
 [37] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 In 1859, Charles publishes 
 
 His "Origin of Species," and 'tis said 
 
 You see it, or at least hear what it is. 
 
 Out of three travelers in a distant land 
 
 One writes a book of what the three have seen. 
 
 Perhaps you never read much, yet perhaps 
 
 Some books were just a record of your mind. 
 
 How had it helped you in your work to read 
 
 The "Idylls of the King" ? As much, perhaps, 
 
 Had Alfred read the Northwest Ordinance 
 
 Of 1787. . . . 
 
 But in this year 
 Of '59 you're sunk in blackest thought 
 About the country maybe, but, I think, 
 About this riddle of our mortal life. 
 You were a poet, Abraham, from your birth. 
 That makes you think, and makes you deal at last 
 With things material to the tune of laws 
 Moving in higher spaces when you're called 
 To act — and show a poet moulding stuff 
 Too tough for spirits practical to mould. 
 Here are you with your feet upon the desk. 
 You have been beaten in a cause which kept 
 Some strings too loose to catch the vibrate waves 
 Of a great Harp whose music you have sensed. 
 You are a mathematician using symbols 
 Like Justice, Truth, with keenness to perceive 
 
 [381 
 
AUTOCHTHON 
 
 Disturbance of equations, a logician 
 
 Who sees invariable laws, and beauty born 
 
 Of finding out and following the laws. 
 
 You are a Plato brooding there in Springfield. 
 
 You are a poet with a voice for Truth, 
 
 And never to be claimed by visionaries 
 
 Who chant the theme of bread and bread alone. 
 
 But here and now 
 They want you not for Senator, it seems. 
 You have been tossed to one side by the rush 
 Of world events, left stranded and alone, 
 And fitted for no use, it seems. In Springfield. 
 A country lawyer with a solid logic, ,■ 
 
 And gift of prudent phrase which has a way 
 Of hardening under time to rock as hard 
 As the enduring thought you seal It with. 
 You've reached your fiftieth year, your occultatlon 
 Should pass. If ever, we should see a light : 
 In all your life you have not seen a city. 
 But now our Springfield giant strides Broadway, 
 Thrills William Cullen Bryant, sets a wonder 
 Going about the East, that Kirkham's grammar 
 Can give a man such speech at Cooper Union, 
 Which even Alfred's, trained to Virgil's style, 
 Cannot disdain for matching in the thought 
 With faultless clearness. 
 
 [39] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And still in i860 all the Brahmins 
 
 Have fear to give you power. 
 
 You are a backwoodsman, a country lawyer 
 
 Unlettered in the difficult art of states. 
 
 A denizen of a squalid western town, 
 
 Dowered with a knack of argument alone, 
 
 Which wakes the country school-house, and may lift 
 
 Its devotees to Congress by good fortune. 
 
 But then at Cooper Union intuitive eyes 
 
 Had measured your tall frame, and careful speech, 
 
 Your strength and self-possession. Then they came 
 
 With that dramatic sense which is American 
 
 Into the hall with rails which you had split, 
 
 And called you Honest Abe, and wearing badges 
 
 With your face on them and the poor catch words 
 
 Of Honest Abe, as if you were a referee 
 
 Like Honest Kelly, when in truth no man 
 
 Had ever been your intimate, ever slapped you 
 
 With brisk familiarity, or called you 
 
 Anything but Mr. Lincoln, never 
 
 Abe, or Abraham, and never used 
 
 The Hello Bill of salutation to you — 
 
 O great patrician, therefore fit to be 
 
 Great democrat as well ! 
 
 In 1862 Charles publishes 
 
 "How Orchid Flowers are Fertilized by Insects," 
 
 And you give forth a proclamation saying 
 
 [40] 
 
AUTOCHTHON 
 
 "The Union must have peace, or I wipe out 
 
 The blot of negro slavery. You see, 
 
 The symphony's the thing, and if you mar it, 
 
 Contending over slavery, I remove 
 
 The source of the disharmony. I admit 
 
 The freedom of the press — but for the Union. 
 
 When you abuse the Union, you shall stop. 
 
 And when you are in jail, no habeas corpus 
 
 Shall bring relief — I have suspended it." 
 
 To-day they call you libertarian — 
 
 Well, so you were, but just as Beauty is, 
 
 And Truth is, even if they curb and vanquish 
 
 The lower heights of beauty and of truth. 
 
 They take your speech and deeds and give you place 
 
 In Hebrew temples with Ezekiel, 
 
 Habakkuk and Isaiah — you emerge 
 
 From this association, master man 1 
 
 You are not of the faith that breeds the ethic 
 
 Wranglers, who make economic goals 
 
 The strain and test of life. You are not one. 
 
 Spite of your lash and sword threat, who believe 
 
 God will avenge the weak. That is the dream 
 
 Which builds millenniums where disharmonies 
 
 That make the larger harmony shall cease — 
 
 A dream not yours. And they shall lose you who 
 
 Enthrone you as a prophet who cut through 
 
 The circle of our human sphere of life 
 
 To let in wrath and judgments, final tests 
 
 [41] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 On Life around the price of sparrows, weights 
 Wherewith bread shall be weighed 
 
 There is a windless flame where cries and tears, 
 
 Where hunger, strife, and war and human blood 
 
 No shadow cast, and where the love of Truth, 
 
 Which is not love of individual souls. 
 
 Finds solace in a Judgment of our life. 
 
 That is the Flame that took both Charles and You 
 
 O leader in a Commonwealth of Thought ! 
 
 [42 
 
VIII 
 
 GRANT AND LOGAN AND OUR TEARS 
 
 'Twixt certain parallels of latitude; 
 
 Say thirty-seven and forty-two and more; 
 
 And certain meridians, say ninety-one 
 
 And eighty-seven plus. 
 
 The top line drawn to leave the lower lake 
 
 Shaped like a drinking cup to meet your needs ; 
 
 To bind you to the east and west, 
 
 Save you from tributary servitude 
 
 Through Mississippi's River to the south. 
 
 No sheds of hills to guard you on the north 
 
 Against the arctic winds loosed at the pole, 
 
 Or Medicine Hat parturient as the bag 
 
 Of Mad ^olus. 
 
 The valley and the river just a hall-way 
 
 Making a draft for tropic heat in summer — 
 
 Well, here you are in physiography. 
 
 Upon a time black soil was poured 
 Over your surface as the cook 
 Pours chocolate on a cake. 
 So you are fertile, never a land so rich. 
 
 A little river flowing in the lake 
 Vanishing in marshes up a mile or so 
 Makes for a portage to another stream 
 
 [43] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Which empties in another stream which empties 
 
 Into the Mississippi. 
 
 A spot between the lake and river lies 
 
 Upon the highway binding east and west, 
 
 And from the south and north where traders meet. 
 
 This is the very place to build a fort — 
 
 The fort becomes a town within a year, 
 
 A great metropolis in half a cycle. 
 
 Within a lifetime you have gained 
 
 Some seven million souls. 
 
 The land of Luther sends a swarming host; 
 
 And Milton's land adventurous sons ; 
 
 And Scandinavia's realm, 
 
 And Michael Angelo's mountains, 
 
 All Europe pours her wealth 
 
 Of brawn and spirit on you, 
 
 Until you are an empire 
 
 Of restless vital men, and teeming towns. 
 
 Before you were grown rich. 
 
 And populous 
 
 You brightened history ; 
 
 Great men came from you. 
 
 But now that you have cities and great treasure 
 
 Where are your great ones ^ 
 
 What is your genius ? 
 
 What star enwraps your eyes ? 
 
 [44] 
 
GRANT AND LOGAN AND OUR TEARS 
 
 What heights allure you ? 
 
 Hermaphroditic giant, sad and drunk 
 
 Not gay, but foolish, stuffed with new baked bread, 
 
 Who took away your gland pituitary. 
 
 Abandoned you to such exaggerate growth 
 
 Without increase of soul ? 
 
 You blasphemous, yet afraid, 
 
 Licentious, yet ashamed, 
 
 Swaggering, yet blubbering 
 
 And boasting of your rights. 
 
 Materialist who woos the spiritual, 
 
 Who holds aloft the cross from which you've sold 
 
 The nails to junk-men. 
 
 And makes a hackle from the crown of thorns 
 
 Wherewith to hackle hemp to make a rope 
 
 For your own hanging in the Philippines ! 
 
 Who with one hand grabs off the widow's mite, 
 
 And with the other tosses golden coins 
 
 Into the beggar's cup. 
 
 The black-snake whip in one hand, in the other 
 
 A plentiful supply of surgeon's tape. Oh you ! 
 
 A hard oppressor, charitably inclined, 
 
 And keen to see and take the outward Image — 
 
 Devoid of categories to reduce 
 
 Its truth and meaning. 
 
 No seed of old world thistles should be sown here, 
 Or let to fly upon this soil. 
 
 [4S] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Yet dogma has been sown here 
 
 Men rise thereby who sow the seed again ; 
 
 Accessory spirits keep the ground well stirred. 
 
 It's gold and then it's power, but gold at last. 
 
 And for the rest what are your dominant breeds ? 
 
 Smug cultures where the aggregate mind is leather 
 
 Gorged with the oil respectability 
 
 Impervious to thought. 
 
 These pick the eunuch type as being safe, 
 
 American, it's called : 
 
 Sleek, quiet, smiling, ready servitors 
 
 Who for the salary, and that alone, 
 
 (Require no bribes) 
 
 Effect the business will. 
 
 You are a hollow thing of steel, a cauldron. 
 
 No monument of freedom. 
 
 You're lettered, it is true, 
 
 With many luminous truths that came to be 
 
 Through deeds of men who died for liberty. 
 
 But inside you there is a seething compost 
 
 Of public schools, the ballot, journalism, 
 
 Laws, jurisprudence, dogma, gold the chief 
 
 Ingredient all stirred into a brew 
 
 Wherewith to feed yourself and keep yourself 
 
 The thing you are 1 
 
 Not wholly slave, not really free. 
 
 Desiring vaguely to be master moral, 
 
 [46] 
 
GRANT AND LOGAN AND OUR TEARS 
 
 And yet too sicklied over by old truths, 
 The ballot, fear, plebian spirit, lack of mind, 
 To reach patrician levels — 
 Hermaphroditic giant, misty-eyed. 
 Half blinded by ideals, half by greed ! 
 
 Can nothing but a war. 
 
 The prospect of a slaughter or the prize 
 
 Of foreign lands, shake off your lethargy, 
 
 And make you seem as big in spirit as 
 
 You are in body ? 
 
 Would you not love the general weal improved ? 
 
 Would you not love your towns made beautiful ? 
 
 Your halls and courts 
 
 Reclaimed from dicers' oaths ? 
 
 Your laws made just and tuned to god-like laws ? 
 
 Your weights and measures made invariable ? 
 
 Is there no tonic in such hopes as these 
 
 To rouse you, giant ? 
 
 I think you are Delilah 
 
 Tricked out as Liberty for a fancy ball. 
 
 Spiritless, provincal, shabby, dull. 
 
 Where no ways gentle, no natural mirth prevails. 
 
 You've put your Samson's eye out; he would see. 
 
 You've chained him to the grinder, he would play. 
 
 Be wise and human, free, courageous, fair. 
 
 Of cleaner flesh and nobler spirit. Look 
 
 [47] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 He may pull down your bastard temple yet, 
 And make you use pentelic marble for 
 Rebuilding of the Parthenon you planned, 
 And leave the misse stone thrown in a heap 
 For sheep gates in the walls of Ancient Zion ! 
 
 I48] 
 
THE MUNICIPAL PIER 
 
 Great snail whose lofty horns are knobbed with gold ; 
 Long javelin of red-wood lying straight 
 Upon the changing indigos which unfold 
 In blues and chrysophrases from the gate 
 Of this our city sea-ward, till the gull 
 Becomes a gnat where lights annihilate 
 The wings' last beat ! Or are you like a hull 
 Pompeiian red upon the Nile's slate green ? 
 Or are you like these clouds which fanciful 
 Half open eyes make giant fish serene, 
 And motionless as rifts of carbuncles 
 Sunk in a waste of faience sky, between 
 Such terrifying turquoise ? Darkness dulls 
 The torches of your towers struck to flame 
 By sun-set, and you mass amid the hulls 
 Of shadows on the water, then reclaim 
 This blackness with a thousand eyes of light ! 
 Peirseus made with hands, which over-came 
 The waters, where no point of land gave might 
 To walls and slips, no Peiraic promontory 
 Inspired our Hippodamus in his flight 
 Sea-ward with docks, parades, an auditory 
 E [49] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 For music and a dancing floor for youths, 
 But only the sea tempted. Telling the story 
 That grows within the loop, its dens and booths, 
 And palaces of trade, is to omit 
 The city's lofty genius and the truths 
 Through which she works at best, against the wit 
 Of creatures who would sell her body, take 
 The money of the sale as perquisite 
 For grossness in luxurious life. Awake 
 Themistocles of us and carve the dream 
 Of Burnham into stone ! Along this lake 
 Such as no city looks on, to redeem 
 Its shores from shrieks and crashes, refuse, smoke 
 His architectural vision sketched the scheme 
 Of harbors, islands, boulevards — he spoke 
 For these, the concourse, stadium and a tomb 
 For that dull infamy of filth whose cloak 
 Is law, hiding the greedy hands that doom 
 To long delay with bribery. He is gone 
 These several years into the narrow room 
 Where beauty is no more of walk or lawn. 
 Or arch or peristyle, but still he says : 
 " Work quickly into form what I have drawn, 
 And give Chicago of these middle days 
 The glory which it merits : To this Pier 
 Make wide the marble way, build new the quays 
 Give to the swimmers depths made fresh and clear, 
 Lay out the flowering gardens, founts and pools 
 [so] 
 
THE MUNICIPAL PIER 
 
 Such as Versailles knows. The river steer 
 Under the arches of two decked bascules." 
 Look at the photographs of seventy-six, 
 Whoever you are who mocks or ridicules 
 This city, then imagine stones and bricks 
 Which from such lowness rose, in fifty years 
 By so much grown miraculous to transfix 
 The future's wonder as ours is for piers 
 Like this, Chicago ! O ye men who wield 
 Small strength or great or none, too apt at sneers 
 For men who did too little, you must yield 
 Your names for judgment soon, have you done more 
 To make this city great than Marshall Field ? 
 While you were railing, idling, on this shore 
 Hands silent, out of sight were plunged in toil. 
 You woke one morning to the waters' roar 
 And saw these gilded turrets flash and spoil 
 The sun-light of the spring. What have you sown 
 Of truth or beauty in this eager soil 
 To make your living felt, your labor known ? 
 Sometimes I see silk banners in the sky. 
 And hear the sound of silver trumpets blown, 
 And bells high turreted. And passing by 
 This firmament of rolling blue great throngs 
 Stream in an air of brilliant sun where I 
 A century gone am of it, when my songs 
 Are but a record of a day that died, 
 And saw the end of desecrating wrongs. 
 [SI] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 How sweet bells are borne on the evening tide 
 High up where heaven is flushed and the 
 
 sphere 
 Looks down on temples, arches, where the wide 
 Eternal waters thunder round the Pier ! 
 
 [52 
 
GOBINEAU TO TREE 
 
 Since our talk at Christiana I have read 
 
 All you referred me to concerning Lincoln : 
 
 His speeches and the story of the struggle 
 
 Which ended in your war, not civil really 
 
 But waged between two nations — but no matter ! 
 
 To me whose life is closing, and whose life 
 
 Was spent in struggle, much of misery. 
 
 In friendship with De Tocqueville then at odds 
 
 With him and his philosophy, who knew 
 
 Bismarck, who saw the wars of Europe, saw 
 
 Great men come up and fall, and systems change, 
 
 Who probed into the Renaissance and mastered 
 
 Religions and philosophies and wrote 
 
 Concerning racial inequalities — 
 
 To me I say this crisis of your time 
 
 And country seems remote as it might be 
 
 Almost in far Australia, trivial 
 
 In substance and effect, or world result. 
 
 And now your letter and these documents 
 
 Concerning Douglas yield but scanty gold. 
 
 Perhaps I've reached an age where I cannot 
 
 Digest new matter, or resolve its worth, 
 
 Extract its bearing and significance. 
 
 [53] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 But since you ask me I am writing you 
 What IVe arrived at. 
 
 From the photographs 
 And the descriptions of your Illinois, 
 Where Lincoln spent his youth, I almost sicken : 
 Small muddy rivers flanked by bottom lands 
 So fat of fertile stuff the grossest weeds 
 Thrive thriftier than in Egypt, round their roots 
 Repulsive serpents crawl, the air is full 
 Of loathsome insects, and along these banks 
 An agued people live who have no life 
 Except hard toil, whose pleasures are the dance 
 Where violent liquor takes the gun or knife ; 
 Who have no inspiration save the orgy 
 Of the religious meeting, where the cult 
 Of savage dreams is almost theirs. The towns 
 Places of filth, of maddening quietude; 
 Streets mired with mud, board sidewalks where the men, 
 Like chickens with the cholera, stand and squeak 
 Foul or half-idiot things ; near by the churches, 
 Mere arch-ways to the grave-yard. Nothing here 
 Of conscious plan to lift the spirit up. 
 All is defeat of liberty in spite 
 Of certain strong men, certain splendid breeds. 
 The pioneers who made your state ; no beauty 
 Save as a soul delves in a master book. 
 And out of this your Lincoln came, not poor 
 
 [54] 
 
GOBINEAU TO TREE 
 
 As Burns was in a land of storied towers, 
 But poor as a degenerate breed is poor 
 Sunk down in squalor. 
 
 Yet he seems a man 
 Of master qualities. The muddy streets, 
 And melancholy of a pastoral town. 
 And sights of people sick, the stifling weeds 
 Which grew about him left his spirit clean. 
 Save for an ache that all his youth was spent 
 In such surroundings. 
 
 And observe the man ! 
 Do poverty and life among such people 
 Make him a libertarian .? Let us see. 
 At twenty years he is a centralist. 
 Stands for the bank which Andrew Jackson fought. 
 And lauds protection, thinks of Washington 
 Much more than Springfield. That is right I say — 
 But call him not a democrat. 
 
 Look here ! 
 This master book of Stephens which you sent me 
 Accuses Lincoln of imperial deeds, 
 And breach of laws, and rightly so, in truth. 
 That makes me love him, but the end he sought 
 Is something else. At first that was the Union, 
 Straight through it was the Union, but at last 
 
 [ssl 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The strain of Christian softness always his 
 Which filled him full of hate for slavery 
 Cropped out in freedom for your negro slaves, 
 Which was an act of war, and so confessed. 
 Not propped by law, but only by a will. 
 Thus he became a man who broke all law 
 To have his law. He killed a million men 
 For what he called the Union, what he thought 
 Was truth of Christian brotherhood. I say 
 He killed a million men, for it is true 
 Your war had never come, had he believed 
 All government must rest in men's consent. 
 What have we but a soul imperial ? 
 A brother to me, standing for the strong, 
 For master races, blindly at the work 
 Of biologic mount ^ The cells of him 
 That make him saint for radicals and dreamers 
 Are but somatic, but the sperm of him 
 Will propagate great rulers. 
 
 See his face ! 
 Its tragic pathos fools the idealist — 
 But study it. First, then, observe the eyes. 
 And tell me how within their gaze events 
 Or men could lose their true proportions ! Here 
 No visions swarm, no dreams with flashing wings 
 Throw light upon them. No, they only look 
 Across a boundless prairie, that is all. 
 
 [56] 
 
GOBINEAU TO TREE 
 
 And In that brow and nose we see a strength 
 
 Slow, steady, wary, cautious — why this man 
 
 Is your conservative, perhaps your best, 
 
 Which is one reason why he loved the Union, 
 
 And even said at last that government 
 
 Of the people meant the Union — how absurd ! — 
 
 Would perish, if it perished, clearly false ! 
 
 And if 'twere true would be the better. Read 
 
 My Renaissance, and other books, you'll see 
 
 How I'd protect the master spirits, keep 
 
 The master races pure ; how I detest 
 
 The brotherhood of man, how I have shown 
 
 The falseness of these Galilean dreams. 
 
 These syrups strained in secret, used to drug 
 
 The strong and make them equal with the weak. 
 
 Such things are of the mind which weaves in space, 
 
 A penalty of thought. Come back to earth, 
 
 Live close to nature. Do not sap a rose 
 
 To nourish cabbages, and call It truth 1 
 
 Well, then, your negro's freed ! But what of that ^ 
 You do not want him for a friend or spouse. 
 I would not see him whipped, or made a bond. 
 But tell me what you're thinking of who say 
 His freedom Is a gain for liberty ? 
 To buy men's labor is to buy their bodies. 
 Your country now has entered on a course 
 Of buying labor, wait and see what comes ! 
 
 [57 I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I see processions filing through your land. 
 
 They carry banners bearing Lincoln's face. 
 
 And there are hordes who think the kingdom's coming : 
 
 As Lincoln freed the slaves, one will arise 
 
 To free all men 1 The signs before the war 
 
 Are come again, portentous stars appear 
 
 Which prophesied the war ! All revolutions 
 
 Are so announced, the world is rising higher 
 
 Through ordered revolutions, preordained 1 
 
 Well, certain men look at these mad processions 
 
 From well-protected windows, with a smile — 
 
 They are your millionaires, they think they know 
 
 The soul of Lincoln better than the crowds 
 
 That carry banners with his picture on them. 
 
 Yes, all they have they owe to Lincoln, they 
 
 Grew strong through Lincoln. 
 
 But are you content 
 To have your negroes free, and millionaires 
 In mastership of your republic ^ Where 
 Are men to overlord your millionaires .? You know 
 Out of the eater comes forth meat, who will 
 Exhaust the strength of those whose strength was gained 
 From blood of boys shed on the battle field ? 
 What can you do to have a Renaissance 
 That with a terrible light will drive to covert 
 Owls, bats, and mousing hawks, that neither know 
 What life is, whence they come, nor what they are, 
 
 [S8] 
 
GOBINEAU TO TREE 
 
 Who live by superstition, codes of slaves, 
 
 Fear truth, are weak, and only hunger know — 
 
 You must have such a Renaissance or die 
 
 While slipping smugly, self sufficiently 
 
 Along a way unvisioned, while you play 
 
 The hypocrite as it was never played 
 
 In any place, in any time on earth ! 
 
 These things I see. But let me in conclusion 
 
 Point to your Lincoln as a man who makes 
 
 For power and beauty in your country, call it 
 
 Republic if you will, the name is nothing. 
 
 I say the vitalest force is love, not hate. 
 
 I say that all great souls are lovers, but of what f 
 
 Why, what great Goethe loved ! Your master men 
 
 Should learn of Goethe, hold the crowd through him. 
 
 And Lincoln was a lover, but of what ? 
 
 Well not the cesspool of the black man's slavery. 
 
 He loved the mathematics of high truths. 
 
 And heightened spirituality, that's the reason 
 
 Only a man like me can know him, that's 
 
 The reason that your crude American thought 
 
 Misses the man. 
 
 [59] 
 
OLD PIERY 
 
 I had a paying little refinery 
 
 And all was well with me, and then 
 
 The Trust edged up to me and wiped me out. 
 
 So much for northern tariff, freedom 
 
 Of niggers and New England rule. 
 
 Praise God for sponging slavery from the Slate 1 
 
 Well, then I was without a cent again, 
 
 What should I do ? I wanted first a change, 
 
 And rest in the use of other faculties, 
 
 So I went out and took a farm. 
 
 One thing leads to another. I wake up one morning 
 
 And find a man from Illinois 
 
 Become my neighbor on the adjoining farm. 
 
 It's your John Cogdall, once of Petersburg, 
 
 County of Menard, in Illinois, 
 
 Precinct Indian Point, he said to me. 
 
 We're friends at once, and visit back and forth. 
 
 Two months ago I saw upon his table 
 
 A copy of the Petersburg Observer — 
 
 John likes to hear the home-town news — 
 
 I pick it up and scan it through to see 
 
 What a country paper is in Illinois. 
 
 r6oi 
 
OLD PIERY 
 
 And there I read this notice of "Old Piery," 
 Real name Cordelia Stacke, dead thirty years, 
 Whose money in the county treasury 
 Is to be made escheat. So here I am 
 Maneuvering for this money, rather shabby 
 If I was not so devilish poor and pressed ; 
 If letting Menard County have the prize 
 Would profit any one, when I can prove 
 Old Fiery was my great aunt, 
 Her father and my grandfather brothers, 
 When I can prove that I'm her only heir. 
 
 Yes, but not as pure of blood. 
 
 Her father was a judge in South Carolina, 
 
 Her mother was a belle of New Orleans, 
 
 My father told me so. Cordelia Stacke, 
 
 "Old Fiery," as you called her, was a story 
 
 We heard as children sitting on his knee. 
 
 I know to prove my name is Stacke, 
 
 And then because her name was Stacke 
 
 Won't draw this money from your treasury, 
 
 But wait 
 
 Go to your vault and get that ring she wore. 
 
 Slipped from her dead hand when you found her body 
 
 Dead for a week amid her rags and stuff. 
 
 Go get that ring, Mr. Treasurer of Menard, 
 
 If I don't describe it 
 
 Down to the finest point, 
 
 f6il 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Just as I heard my father say 
 
 The night she disappeared she wore a ring 
 
 Of such and such, I'll go back to my farm 
 
 In Mississippi. But I'll do much more 
 
 ril trace her from Columbia to Old Salem ; 
 
 rU show her crazed brain luring her along 
 
 To find the spot where Lincoln kept the store 
 
 Two miles from where we sit. 
 
 She must have walked 
 
 Across Virginia, West Virginia, 
 
 Ohio, Indiana, or perhaps 
 
 She footed it through Tennessee, Kentucky. 
 
 I talked this morning with your county judge. 
 He said she came here late in '65 
 Or early '66^ 
 
 Was seen by farmers near the Salem Mill, 
 A loitering, mumbling woman. 
 Not old, but looking old, and aging fast 
 As she became a figure in your streets 
 And alleys with a gunny-sack on back, 
 Wherein she stuffed old bottles, paper, things 
 She picked industriously and stored away. 
 Would buy a bit of cold food at the baker's. 
 Sometimes would sit on door steps eating cake, 
 Which friendly hands had given her, then depart 
 And say, "God rest your souls !" Attended mass 
 On Sunday mornings, knew no one 
 [62I 
 
OLD PIERY 
 
 And had no friends. 
 
 In *69 was found incompetent, 
 
 And placed in charge of a conservator. 
 
 Then as she was not dangerous went ahead 
 
 At picking rags, 
 
 Until in '97 passed away. 
 
 Such was the life and death of a fine girl, 
 
 The daughter of a judge in South Carolina 
 
 And a belle of New Orleans. 
 
 And after life at best knew life at worst, 
 
 Beginning in a southern capitol 
 
 Where she knew riches, admiration, place. 
 
 She ended up in Petersburg, Illinois, 
 
 A little croaking, mad but harmless waif, 
 
 A withered leaf stirred by the Lincoln storm. 
 
 And here's my guess : 
 
 The fancy of her madness brought her here 
 
 To see the country where 
 
 The man who was a laborer, kept a store, 
 
 Could rise therefrom, 
 
 And bring such desolation to the South, 
 
 Such sorrow to herself, that is my guess. 
 
 The name's Cordelia Stacke inside this ring 
 You tell me. She's the same no doubt. 
 We all lived in Columbia when the troops 
 Of Sherman whirled upon us to the sea. 
 
 [63] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I was a year old then. We were burned out, 
 
 Lost everything. 
 
 The troops came howling, plundering, 
 
 And tossing combustible chemicals. 
 
 They butchered just for sport our cattle ; 
 
 Split chests and cabinets with savage axes ; 
 
 Walked with their hob-nailed boots on our pianos ; 
 
 Ran bayonets through pictures ; 
 
 Rode horses in our parlors ; 
 
 Broke open trunks and safes ; 
 
 Searched cellars, opened graves for hoarded gold, 
 
 And yelled "You dirty rebels now we've got you." 
 
 They filled their bellies up with wine and whisky, 
 
 And drunken, howling through Columbia's streets 
 
 They carried vases, goblets, silver, gold. 
 
 And rolled about with pockets full of loot. 
 
 And then at last they stuck the torch to us 
 
 And made a bon-fire of our city. 
 
 Cordelia had a lover who was killed 
 At Antietam fighting, not for niggers. 
 But fighting back the fools who had been crazed 
 By preachers, poets. Garrisons and Whittiers 
 Who thought they worked for freedom, but instead 
 Worked for New England's tariff — look at me 
 How could the trust destroy me if the tariff 
 Put no bricks in the bully's boxing gloves ? 
 Well, then, Cordelia lost her lover, 
 
 [64] 
 
OLD PIERY 
 
 And when the troops came was a novitiate 
 
 Nun at the convent. And the soldiers came 
 
 To say the convent would be spared. But when 
 
 The flames arose, she ran into the city 
 
 To be beside her father and her mother. 
 
 And she arrived 
 
 Just as the soldiers entered the house for loot. 
 
 Her mother was in bed half dead from fright, 
 
 Not well at best. 
 
 The soldiers broke the bedroom door, 
 
 And howled for treasure. When the mother said 
 
 There was no treasure, then they took her 
 
 And flung her from the bed, ripped up the matress, 
 
 Raked pictures from the walls, and smashed the mirrors, 
 
 Tore closets open, then went to the cellar 
 
 Leaving the mother lying on the floor, 
 
 Who lay as dead. 
 
 They drank what wine they found. 
 
 Then seized the father, hung him to a tree 
 
 To make him tell where he kept money hidden. 
 
 The mother died in two days from the fright. 
 
 The father was not killed, they took him down, 
 
 And went their way carousing, yelling out 
 
 "You dirty rebels now we've got you fair." 
 
 Cordelia thought no doubt that both were dead. 
 
 A passerby beheld her on the lawn 
 
 Her hair let down and plucking at her dress. 
 
 But who could stop to help her in that hell 
 
 F [65] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Of a city burning and the howls and shouts, 
 And falling walls ? 
 
 Cordelia disappeared and from that night 
 Was never seen or heard of. To his death 
 Her father thought she met a terrible fate : 
 Was raped and slaughtered. 
 
 So you see 
 All of this put together tells the story 
 Of this poor creature whom you called "Old Piery." 
 But let me add Cordelia had a horse 
 She called" Old Piery'* — that fits in my proof. 
 That's why she named herself "Old Piery" here, 
 And gave your boys and girls a mocking name 
 To hail her with as she went up your alleys ; 
 With which to rap the windows of her room, 
 Where bottles, cans, waste rags, and copper things. 
 Old hoops of iron, staves, old boots and shoes, 
 Springs, wheels of clocks, and locks of broken guns. 
 Old boards and boxes, stacks of paper waste 
 Stuffed up the place, and where unknown to all 
 Paper and silver money hid in cracks 
 Between the leaves of fouled and rain-soaked books. 
 Or packed in jars were kept by her. You see 
 Her mind was turned to treasure, hiding it 
 Against the soldiers maybe, in this land 
 Where Lincoln was a laborer, farmer, kept 
 A store at Salem. 
 
 [661 
 
OLD PIERY 
 
 Well I say 
 God rest her soul, as she was used to say. 
 I want to raise a stone to mark her grave, 
 And carve her name below a broken heart. 
 For listen now : the ring Cordelia wore 
 Was just a little band of gold and set 
 With a cornelian heart — • am I not right ? 
 I knew I was. 
 
 [671 
 
THE TYPICAL AMERICAN? 
 
 He calls himself an American citizen — 
 
 And yet among such various breeds of men 
 
 Who'll call him typical ? At any rate 
 
 His faults or virtues one may predicate 
 
 Somewhat as follows : He is sent to school 
 
 Little or much, where he imbibes the rule 
 
 Of safety first and comfort ; in his youth 
 
 He joins the church and ends the quest of truth. 
 
 Beyond the pages of theology 
 
 He does not turn, he does not seem to see 
 
 How hunger makes these Occidental creeds 
 
 Sweet foliage on which the stomach feeds. 
 
 Like those thick tussock moths upon the bole 
 
 Of a great beech tree, feed the human soul 
 
 And it will use the food for gold and power ! 
 
 So men have used Christ Jesus' tender flower, 
 
 And garnered it for porridge, opiates, 
 
 And made it flesh of customs laws and states 
 
 Where life repeats itself after a plan 
 
 And breeds the typical American — 
 
 As he regards himself. 
 
 Our man matures 
 And enters business, following the lures 
 [681 
 
THE TYPICAL AMERICAN? 
 
 Of great increase in business, more receipts — 
 Upon this object center all his wits. 
 And greater crops make needful larger barns, 
 Vainly the parable of Jesus warns. 
 His soul is now required, is taken away 
 From living waters, in a little day 
 Thrift, labor dooms him, leaves him banqueting 
 Where nothing nourishes, they are the sting 
 Which deadens him and casts him down at last 
 Fly blown or numb or lifeless in this vast 
 Surrounding air of Vital Power, where God 
 Like the great sun, invites the wayside clod 
 To live at full. 
 
 In time our hero weds 
 A woman like himself, and little heads 
 Soon run about a house or pleasant yard. 
 He must work now to keep them — have regard 
 To the community, its thoughts and ways. 
 What church is here .? He finds it best to praise 
 Its pastor and its flock, his children send 
 To Sunday school, if never he attend 
 Its services. What politics obtain .? 
 He must support the tussock leaf campaigns 
 If he would eat himself. 'Tis best to join 
 The party which controls the greater coin. 
 And so what is his party's interest 
 In business ? There must his soul invest 
 
 [69] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Its treasure till the two are wholly one. 
 
 Like the poor prostitute he is undone 
 
 In virtue not alone, but he has made 
 
 Himself a cog-wheel in the filthy trade 
 
 Of justice courts, police and graft in wine 
 
 Bondsmen and lawyers with a strength malign 
 
 Moving the silken vestured marionette 
 
 To laugh, entice and play the sad coquette. 
 
 Yet if for bread you are compelled to ask 
 
 The giver may impose an evil task, 
 
 Or terms of life. Would you retain a roof, 
 
 Mix with the crowd, nor dare to stand aloof. 
 
 Our hero sees this, wears a hopeful smile 
 
 To cover up his spattered soul, and while 
 
 Digesting wounded truth, hiding his thought, 
 
 His own opinions, for his soul is caught 
 
 Amid the idiot hands that strike and press — 
 
 One may glide through who learns to say yes, yes, 
 
 While in heart-sickness whispering to himself : 
 
 I do this for the children, and for pelf 
 
 To keep the house and yard, the cupboard full. 
 
 Some time I hope to free myself and pull 
 
 My legs out of this social muck and mire. 
 
 First money is, then freedom his desire, 
 
 But often neither comes. If he win wealth 
 
 He has become lead-poisoned, for by stealth 
 
 The virus of the colors which he used 
 
 To paint his life is spread and interfused 
 
 [701 
 
THE TYPICAL AMERICAN? 
 
 In every vein. By ways complaisant 
 Our hero has got gold from ignorant 
 Vulgarian nondescripts, has entertained 
 The odorous cormorants, and has profaned 
 His household gods to keep them safe and whole 
 Upon the altar — winning what a goal ! 
 For meantime in this living he has schooled 
 His children in the precepts which have ruled 
 His days from the beginning. They are bred 
 His out-look to repeat, and even to tread 
 The way he went amid the tangled wood 
 In their own time and chosen neighborhood. 
 What has our hero done } Why nothing more 
 Than feed upon the beech leaves, gather store 
 For children moths to feed on, and get strength 
 To climb the branches and on leaves at length 
 To feed of their own will. 
 
 Is this a man ? 
 Is this your typical American .•* 
 
 [711 
 
COME, REPUBLIC 
 
 Come ! United States of America, 
 
 And you one hundred million souls, O Republic, 
 
 Throw out your chests, lift up your heads, 
 
 And walk with a soldier's stride. 
 
 Quit burning up for money alone. 
 
 Quit slouching and dawdling, 
 
 And dreaming and moralising. 
 
 Quit idling about the streets, like the boy 
 
 In the village, who pines for the city. 
 
 Root out the sinister secret societies, 
 
 And the clans that stick together for office. 
 
 And the good men who care nothing for liberty. 
 
 But would run you, O Republic, as a household is run. 
 
 It is time. Republic, to get some class. 
 
 It is time to harden your muscles. 
 
 And to clear your eyes in the cold water of Reality, 
 
 And to tighten your nerves. 
 
 It is time to think what Nature means. 
 
 And to consult Nature, 
 
 When your soul, as you call it, calls to you 
 
 To follow principle 1 
 
 It is time to snuff out the A. D. Bloods. 
 
 [72] 
 
COME, REPUBLIC 
 
 It is time to lift yourself, O Republic, 
 From the street corners of Spoon River. 
 
 Do you wish to survive, 
 
 And to count in the years to come ? 
 
 Then do what the plow-boys did in sixty-one. 
 
 Who left the fields for the camp, 
 
 And tightened their nerves and hardened their arms 
 
 Till the day they left the camp for the fields 
 
 The bravest, readiest, clearest-eyed 
 
 Straight-walking men in the world, 
 
 And symbolical of a Republic 
 
 That is worthy the name ! 
 
 If you, Republic, had kept the faith 
 Of a culture all your own, 
 And a spiritual independence. 
 And a freedom large and new. 
 If you had not set up a Federal judge in China, 
 And scrambled for place in the Orient, 
 And stolen the Philippine Islands, 
 And mixed in the business of Europe, 
 Three thousand miles of water east, 
 And seven thousand west 
 Had kept your hands untainted, free 
 For a culture all your own ! 
 
 But while you were fumbling, and while you were 
 dreaming 
 
 [73] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 As the boy in the village dreams of the city 
 
 You were doing something worse : 
 
 You were imitating ! 
 
 You came to the city and aped the swells, 
 
 And tried to enter their set ! 
 
 You strained your Fate to their fate, 
 
 And borrowed the mood to live their life ! 
 
 And here you are in the game, Republic, 
 
 But not prepared to play ! 
 
 But you did it. 
 
 And the water east and water west 
 
 Are no longer your safeguard : 
 
 They are now your danger and difficulty ! 
 
 And you must live the life you started to imitate 
 
 In spite of these perilous waters. 
 
 For they keep you now from being neutral — 
 
 For you are not neutral. Republic, 
 
 You only pretend to be. 
 
 You are not free, independent, brave, 
 
 You are shackled, cowardly 
 
 For what could happen to you overnight 
 
 In the Orient, 
 
 If you stood with your shoulders up, 
 
 And were Neutral 1 
 
 Suppose you do it. Republic. 
 Get some class, 
 
 [74] 
 
COME, REPUBLIC 
 
 Throw out your chest, Hft up your head, 
 
 Be a ruler in the world, 
 
 And not a hermit in regimentals with a flint-lock. 
 
 Colossus with one foot in Europe, 
 
 And one in China, 
 
 Quit looking between your legs for the re-appearance 
 
 Of the star of Bethlehem — 
 
 Stand up and be a man ! 
 
 t7Sl 
 
PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 Past midnight ! Vastly overhead 
 A wash of stars — the town's asleep ! 
 And through the pine trees of the dead 
 The rising winds of morning creep. 
 
 Dim, mid the hillside's shadow grass 
 I count the marble slabs. How vain 
 My throbbing life that waits to pass 
 Into the great world on the train 1 
 
 The city's vision fades from mind. 
 I only see the hill and sky ; 
 And on the mist that rides the wind 
 A tottering pageant meets my eye. 
 
 The cock crows faintly, far away ; 
 A troop of age and grief appears. 
 Ye shadows of a distant day. 
 What do ye, pioneers .? 
 
 There shines the engine's comet light. 
 Ye shadows of a century set, 
 Haste to the hillside and the night — 
 I am not of you yet ! 
 
 [76] 
 
ROBERT G. INGERSOLL 
 
 To the lovers of Liberty everywhere, 
 
 But chiefly to the youth of America 
 
 Who did not know Robert G. Ingersoll, 
 
 Remember that he helped to make you free ! 
 
 He was a leader in a war of guns for freedom, 
 
 But a general in the war of ideas for freedom ! 
 
 He braved the misunderstanding of friends, 
 
 He faced the enmity of the powerful small of soul, 
 
 And the insidious power of the churches ; 
 
 He put aside worldly honours. 
 
 And the sovereignty of place. 
 
 He stripped off the armor of institutional friendships 
 
 To dedicate his soul 
 
 To the terrible deities of Truth and Beauty ! 1 
 
 And he went down into age and into the shadow 
 
 With love of men for a staff. 
 
 And the light of his soul for a light — 
 
 And with these alone ! 
 
 you martyrs trading martyrdom for heaven, 
 And self-denial for eternal riches, 
 
 How does your work and your death compare 
 With a man's for whom the weal of the race, 
 And the cause of humanity here and now were enough 
 To give life meaning and death as well ? — 
 
 1 have not seen such faith in Israel ! 
 
 [77] 
 
AT HAVANA 
 
 I met a fisherman at Havana once, 
 
 Havana on the Illinois, I mean, 
 
 There by the house and fish boats. He was burned 
 
 The color of an acorn, and his hair 
 
 Was coarse as a horse's tail. His scraggy hands 
 
 Looked like thick bands of weather-colored copper, 
 
 But his eyes were blue as faded gingham is. 
 
 I stood amid the smell of scales and heads. 
 
 And fishes' entrails dumped along the sand. 
 
 The still air was a burning glass which focused 
 
 A bon-fire sun right through my leghorn hat ; 
 
 And a black fly from crannies of the air 
 
 Lit on my hand and bit it venomously. 
 
 Across the yellow river lay the bottoms 
 
 Where giant sycamores and elms o'ertopped 
 
 A jungle of disgusting weeds. The breeze 
 
 Hot as a tropic breath exhaled the reek 
 
 Of baking mud and of those noisome weeds. 
 
 Wherewith the odors of putrescent fish 
 
 Mixed on the simmering sands. A naturalist 
 
 Must seek the habitat of the life he studies. . . . 
 
 There on a platform lay the dressed fish, carp, 
 
 Black-bass, and pike and pickerel, buffalo, 
 
 [78] 
 
AT HAVANA 
 
 Cat-fish, which I had come to see, and talk 
 
 With fishermen along the Illinois. 
 
 My man held up a fish and said to me ; 
 
 " Here is the bastard who drives all the fish 
 
 Out of the river, out of any water 
 
 He comes in, and he comes wherever food 
 
 Can be obtained ; the black-bass, even cat-fish, 
 
 And all the good stocks run away from him, 
 
 He is so hoggish, plaguy, and so mean. 
 
 The other fish may try to live with him, 
 
 I'm thinking sometimes, anyway I know 
 
 He drives the others out." I looked to see 
 
 What fish is so unfriendly to his fellows. 
 
 "Just look at him," he said, but as he spoke 
 
 The black fly stung my hand again. When I 
 
 Looked up from swatting him, the man had thrown 
 
 The fish upon the sand, and a stray dog 
 
 Was running off with him along the river. 
 
 ['791 
 
THE MOURNER'S BENCH 
 
 They're holding a revival at New Hope Meeting house, 
 I can't keep from going, I ought to stay away. 
 For I come home and toss in bed till day, 
 For thinking of my sin, and the trouble I am in. 
 I dream I hear the dancers 
 In the steps and swings, 
 The quadrilles and the lancers 
 They danced at Revis Springs. 
 I lie and think of Charley, Charley, Charley 
 The Bobtown dandy 
 Who had his way with me. 
 And no one is so handy 
 A dancer as Charley 
 To Little Drops of Brandy, 
 Or the Wind that Shakes the Barley, 
 Or Good mornin' Uncle Johnny I've fetched your 
 Wagon Home. 
 
 And Greenberry Atterberry, who toed it like a pigeon 
 
 Has gone and got religion ; 
 
 He's deserted the dancers, the fiddlers, merry-makers, 
 
 And I should do it too. 
 
 For Charley, Charley has left me for to roam. 
 
 [80] 
 
THE MOURNER'S BENCH 
 
 But a woman at the mourner's bench must tell her story 
 
 true — 
 What shall I do ? What shall I do ? 
 
 My grandmother told me of Old Peter Cartwright 
 
 Who preached hell-fire 
 
 And the worm that never dies. 
 
 And here's a young preacher at the New Hope Meeting 
 house, 
 
 And every one allows, he has old Peter's brows, 
 
 And flaming of the eyes, 
 
 And the very same way, they say. 
 
 Last night he stuck his finger right down in my direc- 
 tion. 
 
 And said : " God doesn't care 
 
 For your woman's hair. 
 
 Jesus wants to know if your soul is fair 
 
 As your woman's complexion." 
 
 And then I thought he knew — 
 
 O what shall I do ? 
 
 Greenberry Atterberry, weeping and unsteady 
 Had left his seat already. 
 
 He stood at the mourner's bench in great tribulation 
 And told the congregation : 
 That fiddling and dancing and tobacco chewin' 
 Led up to whisky and to woman's ruin — 
 And I thought he looked at me. 
 G [8i] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Well, you can stop dancing, and you can stop drinking 
 And you can leave the quarter-horses at the crooked 
 
 races. 
 But a woman, a woman, the people will be thinking 
 Forever of a woman who confesses her behavior. 
 And then I couldn't look In the people's faces, 
 All weeping and singing, O gentle Saviour 1 
 Then the devil said : You wench 
 You'd cut a pretty figure at the mourner's bench, 
 Go out and look for Charley, 
 Go out and look for Charley, 
 He's down at Leese's Grove. 
 He has found a fresh love 
 Go win him back again. 
 He is dancing on the platform to the Speckled Hen. 
 
 O Saviour, Saviour, how can I join the mourners. 
 
 Face all the scorners ? 
 
 But how can I hunt Charley at Leese's Grove ? 
 
 How can I stand the staring, the whispering of things 
 
 Down at Revis Springs .? 
 
 How can I stand the mocking of the fiddle strings ? 
 
 Charley ! Charley ! 
 
 So it's knowing what's best to do, 
 
 Saviour ! Saviour ! 
 
 Its knowing what's best to do ! 
 
 [82] 
 
THE BAY-WINDOW 
 
 She sat at a bay-window where she saw 
 
 First open carriages and buggies pass ! 
 
 And then Victorias with horses docked 
 
 And bits and buckles, chains of shining brass. 
 
 And then the horseless carriage, till at last 
 
 The swallow-gleam of varnished limousines 
 
 Silent as shadows took her lifted eye, 
 
 Uplifted from a book. She always sat 
 
 In her bay-window with a book. 
 
 And with a tinted fan in summer-time. 
 
 But first she was a bride 
 
 Before the war. 
 
 Springing from honest blood, her place 
 
 Passed over lightly as her grandeur grew : 
 
 She was of seed too vital to decay 
 
 Wholly in any soil, the sort that grows and blooms 
 
 Where never gardener comes. 
 
 And this bay-window ! An aging man of gold 
 
 Had plucked her up, and here she rests and breathes 
 
 The free air of Chicago's reclamation. 
 
 And then she is ' 
 
 A wonder-bride for her brown hair, 
 
 [83] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And gray-blue eyes, and laughter, sunny wit, 
 And naturally patrician ways and speech, 
 (Acquiring French now that the chance has come), 
 And she is eighteen and is born to rule. 
 
 And her great merchant husband with blue eyes, 
 
 And strong beaked English nose, 
 
 Walks straighter for a pride that she is his. 
 
 Gives her a country place spaced out in walks, 
 
 And flower beds, where now such flimsy flats 
 
 Confront Grand Boulevard ! 
 
 And for a city house he builds a house 
 
 Three stories high at Twentieth street. 
 
 Where then the manifest was sand and oaks, 
 
 And what is now the Loop, was just as far 
 
 As Hyde Park from the Loop is now. 
 
 In this bay-window then she sits a bride, 
 
 And sees the scrub oak cut and mansions fill 
 
 Gradually year by year the waste of sand. 
 
 For fashion follows her and builds beside her, 
 
 Till Prairie Avenue becomes the street 
 
 Of millionaires, who hear from traveled wives 
 
 What London is, what Paris is, 
 
 And open purses to unfolding tastes 
 
 For canvases and sculpture. 
 
 For every one grows rich now in Chicago. 
 
 And in the seventies women go to Paris, 
 
 [84] 
 
THE BAY-WINDOW 
 
 Herself among the first, at least the chief, 
 
 See Egypt and see Rome. 
 
 And when returned drive down where wondering eyes 
 
 Along the marble terrace promenading, 
 
 Where Michigan Avenue was bounded by 
 
 The Lake across the street. 
 
 Behold the striped silk of their parasols 
 
 Fluttering over plumes and dancing eyes, 
 
 And purple velvet of Victorias. 
 
 For now it is the classic age ! 
 There is the driving park, 
 There is the Palmer House, 
 There are cathedrals too. 
 There are the lofty ceilings walnut trimmed, 
 And foliate chandeliers of polished brass, 
 And marble-slabbed bufi'ets with heavy cupids. 
 And clustered fruits carved in their sombre wood. 
 And square pianos with their rosewood legs 
 Swelled out with oval figures like great plums. 
 And paintings deeply daubed in brown asphaltum 
 Where chiaroscuro ends were lost in shadows. 
 Not lost in light, depressionistic things. 
 From which her lambent intuition led her. 
 She was among the first to catch the psychic 
 Waves that sweep around this little world 
 And change all things. 
 
 She traveled much and lived in Europe much, 
 
 [8s] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Returning to her window where she watched 
 The city pass and bow its admiration, 
 The half of whom she knew as time went on, 
 Though all knew her and said "there is the queen,'* 
 Or "there she is who thinks she is the queen." 
 
 And when the opera came she was the queen. 
 
 At least a queen whose sovereignty withstood 
 
 Encroaching claims to ripen into rights. 
 
 But then if all were lost where not a million 
 
 People lived as yet, and where, oh well 
 
 Packers and others threw their heavier gold 
 
 In what was once a scale of primogeniture, 
 
 Rome stood and London stood and Paris. 
 
 Have your own way at home, the mood began, 
 
 I am off here where you can scarcely come. 
 
 The next place is the best, a far off place 
 
 Has teasing witcheries to those at home. 
 
 Her husband now was dead some years, the children 
 
 Grown up, or off to school, a daughter married 
 
 To an Italian count kept state in Florence 
 
 Where Browning came, with whom our queen would 
 
 fence 
 In spiritual dialectics. In her travels 
 She had known Ibsen, Patti and George Eliot, 
 Sat as a dinner guest by Beaconsfield, 
 And taken tea upon Hawarden's lawn. 
 And so in escritoires and cabinets 
 
 [861 
 
THE BAY-WINDOW 
 
 She kept mementoes of her days abroad : 
 
 Like letters from George Eliot, 
 
 "Ferishtah's Fancies" inscribed by Robert. 
 
 And in the course of time this three-floored house 
 
 Was filled with treasures, tapestries, 
 
 Etruscan things, and faience peacock blue^ 
 
 And oriental jade with letters of gold. 
 
 And there she reigned, but lived alone 
 
 The house kept by French maids 
 
 And impeccable butlers. 
 
 And so the years went, and she saw at last 
 
 The city start to slip away from her 
 
 And make her royal isolation 
 
 An ignorant solitude 1 
 
 Yet she was beautiful at forty years, 
 
 Some years a widow then and very rich. 
 
 She was most fresh and matronly at fifty. 
 
 At fifty-five and sixty she could charm 
 
 A man of any age. And master-men 
 
 Paid suit to her and gained 
 
 The stimulating richness of her mind. 
 
 Some said they did not want her, others said 
 
 Her wisdom and self-mastery froze their hearts. 
 
 But when she spoke she said she could not change 
 
 The name she loved, or change her place in life 
 
 To forced forgetfulness of that English face, 
 
 Who lifted up her life from some obscurity 
 
 [87] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And made it flower. 
 
 At any rate she lived for forty years 
 
 With only maids and butlers in a house 
 
 Round which the warring city crept, 
 
 Until at last the street with lowered pulse 
 
 Saw vacant mansions, as the mob psychology, 
 
 Which sways in fashion, brought an exodus. 
 
 But she knew no temptation to depart. 
 
 This was her house, her center of the world. 
 
 And when the Countess left the Count she came 
 
 To ease her mother's loneliness — oh yes ! 
 
 Six months of loneliness was quite enough. 
 
 And then in spite of everything she left. 
 
 Returned to Florence and her rascal count, 
 
 Because she could not stand the loneliness, 
 
 And saw ahead long years of loneliness 
 
 In some bay window — no, it could not be ! 
 
 And so she left her mother sitting there 
 
 Now sixty-eight or so, 
 
 Who watched the city pass, 
 
 All now the swallow-gleam of limousines, 
 
 And all around her now the boarding house. 
 
 Or institutes for drunkards, hideous blocks 
 
 Of offices and warehouses. 
 
 And all her neighbors lying up in Rose Hill. 
 Perhaps a few remaining who remembered 
 All that she was, could only say to those 
 [88] 
 
THE BAY-WINDOW 
 
 Who had heard of her as she was In the eighties, 
 And in the nineties : 
 
 "She was a great woman, I can scarce explain. 
 It was this way : Chicago then was young. 
 Chicago in ten years is changed all through. 
 You see it was this way : But then you see 
 This great two million thing has slipped away 
 From all our hands." 
 
 And then perhaps 
 
 A limousine would pass with reckless pridelings 
 
 Coming from tea or dancing at the Blackstone, 
 
 And find their laughter shortened by her face 
 
 At this bay-window 
 
 Would say : "Who's that old woman at the window? 
 
 She always has a book, or has a fan." 
 
 [89] 
 
MAN OF OUR STREET 
 
 This Man's life had four stages as I hear. 
 
 The first stage took him through the days of school 
 
 And fastened on his name a prophecy 
 
 That he would win success. The second stage 
 
 Took him to thirty years while he was fumbling 
 
 The strings to find the key and play in key. 
 
 The third stage marked discouragement, departure 
 
 To speculations and to reconcilement 
 
 That he was born no lawyer. And the fourth 
 
 Was one of quietude and trivial days. 
 
 I knew him in this fourth stage as a man 
 
 Emerging from a house across the street 
 
 On Sunday mornings in silk hat, long coat 
 
 And bamboo cane. When summer came he donned 
 
 A flannel suit of gray, a panama 
 
 And gloves of tan. When winter came he wore 
 
 A double-breasted coat with lamb's fur collar. 
 
 He had no friends, so far as one could see, 
 
 No membership in clubs, was never seen 
 
 Where men meet, or society is gathered. 
 
 Sometimes he stopped to tell a passer-by 
 
 The day is fine, it's very fine, you're right, 
 
 In voice complaisant. The neighbors knew 
 
 [90] 
 
MAN OF OUR STREET 
 
 He lived upon a little purse he made 
 In compromise of some preposterous wrong. 
 And people wondered how the purse was lasting, 
 And wondered how much longer he could loaf, 
 How many seasons more he could appear 
 So seasonably attired and walk the streets 
 In such velleity, with such vacuous light 
 Grown steady in his eyes. 
 
 I love to watch 
 The chickens in a barn-yard. Nothing else 
 Is quite so near the human brood. You'll see 
 Invariably a rooster stalk about 
 In aimless fashion, moving here and there, 
 Picking at times with dull inappetence 
 At grains or grit, or standing for a time 
 In listless revery. I never saw 
 A man with such resemblance to this rooster 
 As this man was. 
 
 At last we had not seen 
 Our man upon the street for several days. 
 And some one said he had been very ill. 
 His wife had fears and wept and said 'twas hard 
 Just on the eve of great success to die. 
 He had thought out a plan, she said, to win 
 Great trade in South America for us. 
 Our State Department thought it excellent. 
 
 [91] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And then one day four doctors passed his door 
 For consultation, and the word went round 
 Our man rebelled most piteously and said 
 He could not die until he had worked out 
 His dream of South America. He knew 
 His danger, had the doctors called to check 
 The inroads of the peril, though the purse 
 Was growing slim, as we discovered later. 
 
 One noon-time as I came along the street 
 Where twenty children laughed and followed me, 
 Half playing at their game, half following 
 My banterings and idle talk, and asking 
 About the bundle underneath my arm. 
 "It's nothing but a chicken, go away," 
 I said to them. 
 
 And there across the street 
 Was crape upon the door — our man was dead, 
 And I was carrying chicken home to boil. 
 
 [92] 
 
ACHILLES DEATHERIDGE 
 
 "Your name is Achilles Deatheridge ? 
 How old are you, my boy ?" 
 "Fm sixteen past and I went to the war 
 From Athens, Illinois." 
 
 "Achilles Deatheridge, you have done 
 A deed of dreadful note." 
 "It comes of his wearing a battered hat, 
 And a rusty, wrinkled coat." 
 
 "Why didn't you know how plain he is ? 
 And didn't you ever hear. 
 He goes through the lines by day or night 
 Like a sooty cannoneer?" 
 
 "You must have been half dead for sleep, 
 For the dawn was growing bright." 
 "Well, Captain, I had stood right there 
 Since six o'clock last night." 
 
 "I cocked my gun at the swish of the grass 
 And how am I at fault 
 When a dangerous looking man won't stop 
 When a sentry hollers halt?" 
 
 [93] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 "I cried out halt and he only smiled 
 And waved his hand like that. 
 Why, any Johnnie could wear the coat 
 And any fellow the hat." 
 
 "I hollered halt again and he stopped 
 And lighted a fresh cigar. 
 I never noticed his shoulder badge, 
 And I never noticed a star." 
 
 "So you arrested him .? Well, Achilles, 
 When you hear the swish of the grass 
 If It's General Grant inspecting the lines 
 Hereafter let him pass." 
 
 [94] 
 
SLIP SHOE LOVEY 
 
 You're the cook's understudy 
 A gentle idiot body. 
 You are slender like a broom 
 Weaving up and down the room, 
 With your dirt hair in a twist 
 And your left eye in a mist. 
 Never thinkin', never hopin' 
 With your wet mouth open. 
 So bewildered and so busy 
 As you scrape the dirty kettles, 
 O Slip Shoe Lizzie 
 As you rattle with the pans. 
 There's a clatter of old metals, 
 O Slip Shoe Lovey, 
 As you clean the milk cans. 
 You're a greasy little dovey, 
 A laughing scullery daughter, 
 As you slop the dish water, 
 So abstracted and so dizzy, 
 O Slip Shoe Lizzie ! 
 
 So mussy, little hussie. 
 
 With the china that you break, 
 
 [95] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And the kitchen In a smear 
 When the bread Is yet to bake, 
 And the market things are here — 
 O Slip Shoe Lovey ! 
 
 You are hurrying and scurrying 
 From the sink to the oven, 
 So forgetful and so sloven. 
 You are bustling and hustling 
 From the pantry to the door. 
 With your shoe strings on the floor. 
 And your apron strings a-draggin'. 
 And your spattered skirt a-saggin'. 
 
 You're an angel Idiot lovey, 
 One forgives you all this clatter 
 Washing dishes, beating batter. 
 But there Is another matter 
 As you dream above the sink : 
 You're in love pitter-patter. 
 With the butcher-boy I think. 
 And he'll get you, he has got you 
 If he hasn't got you yet. 
 
 For he means to make you his, 
 O Slip Shoe Liz. 
 And your open mouth is. wet 
 To a little boyish chatter. 
 
 [96] 
 
SLIP SHOE LOVEY 
 
 You're an easy thing to flatter 
 With your hank of hair a-twist, 
 And your left eye in a mist — 
 Slip Shoe Lovey ! 
 
 So hurried and so flurried 
 And just a little worried 
 You lean about the room, 
 Like a mop, like a broom. 
 O Slip Shoe Lovey ! 
 O Slip Shoe Lovey ! 
 
 97] 
 
THE ARCHANGELS 
 
 Flopped on the floor 
 
 With such a silken richness of dark hair, 
 
 Descending breezily like blown water from her brow, 
 
 And from the arched crown of her Raphael head, 
 
 Between the years of twenty-five and thirty, 
 
 Her face glows and is white, 
 
 Like the thin spirit of a candle light. 
 
 And over her forehead passes 
 
 Swift waves of splendor, which must be her thought. 
 
 Looking, it seems, as if a snowy curtain 
 
 Were rhythmically blown at dawn in a white room ! 
 
 In each of her eyes there Is a blue-bright spark ! 
 
 One time I saw two stars 
 
 Held in an inch of water when the evening 
 
 Was pale from dying day. 
 
 And under this thin water lay dead leaves 
 
 The drift of late October — 
 
 Gray leaves beneath clear water by an edge 
 
 Where spring's first flower, the azure pickerel weed, 
 
 Bent over contemplated those two stars : 
 
 These were the sparks in her unruffled eyes. 
 
 [98] 
 
THE ARCHANGELS 
 
 Flopped on the floor 
 
 With Httle hands clasped round her girlish knees 
 
 Such musical thought sings through her cherub lips — 
 
 Raptures for Beauty, 
 
 Raptures for Truth, 
 
 Raptures for Freedom and a world that is free. 
 
 While around her flames the fire of a durable hope. 
 
 Till at last I sit in wonder 
 
 At the miracle of such spirit. 
 
 And the miracle of the youths about her, 
 
 Listening with bright eyes, in the fellowship of delight, 
 
 Who prompt, suggest, applaud, are passionate 
 
 For the right word, the soaring thought to beat 
 
 At heaven's gate in a last burst of song. 
 
 And here am I a part of this psychic circle. 
 
 Bound with soft loops of gold in a charmed band 
 
 Of a brood of youthful archangels fiery and strong. . . . 
 
 Then thrilled with love of a land that can grow such 
 
 souls 
 I turn and ask them questions : 
 
 How old are you, who were your father and mother ^ 
 What chance have you had in life ? 
 What books have you read ? 
 And where have you bred these dreams ? 
 But why do you laugh } for there must be soil or blood 
 Or both, for there must be the souls of free men 
 And the loins of free men, 
 
 [991 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 To make archangels you know, 
 
 And pour them into the city to think and plan 
 
 For a greater Republic to come. 
 
 And though it matters nothing that villages 
 
 In Iowa, Indiana, Illinois 
 
 In the great far west, in New England, gave us you, 
 
 Or you, or you, or you — 
 
 I somehow thrill at the contrast, or thrill with the 
 
 thought 
 Of such great richness and vastness in the land, 
 Flowering such souls all fresh and keen. 
 And eager to make the Republic wholly free — 
 May she deserve your love ! 
 
 [ loo] 
 
SONG OF CHANGE 
 
 Deep thought that comes through stainless skies 
 Pure moods that arch the fancy's birth ; 
 Sweet sorrow, clear in youthful eyes ; 
 Soft laughter, speaking maiden mirth ; — 
 Such gifts were thine, ere time o'ercast 
 The sunshine of thy tender heart; 
 And now that joy itself is past 
 Yet patience still will do its part. 
 
 Sad stars from which the sun has drawn 
 The light of life, no longer bright ; 
 Life of our lives, that with the dawn 
 Passed, though remembered, from our sight ! 
 From noonday stept the chilling shade 
 That struck the quivering aspens still ; 
 Thou hopeful one, thou unafraid. 
 Smiled — but the Shadow had his will. 
 
 Souls of our youth which tire and sleep 
 And wake to find the hour is sped ! 
 Thou scorn which mocks us if we weep ! 
 Thou hope which says "Be comforted !" 
 Thou vision dulled, whose tutored eye 
 Sees but in vain the poplar tree 
 As once upblown against the sky. 
 When we were fain, when we were free. 
 
 [lOl] 
 
MEMORABILIA 
 
 Old pioneers, how fare your souls to-day ? 
 
 They seem to be 
 
 Imminent about this pastoral way, 
 
 This sunny lea. 
 
 The elms and oaks you knew, greenly renew 
 
 Their leaves each spring. 
 
 But never comes the hour again which drew 
 
 Your world from view. 
 
 Here in a mood I lay, deep in the grass, 
 
 Between the graves ; 
 
 And saw ye rise, ye shadowy forms, and pass 
 
 O'er the wind's waves ; 
 
 Sunk eyes and bended head, wherefrom is fled 
 
 The light of life ; 
 
 Even as the land, whose early youth is dead, 
 
 Whose glory fled. 
 
 With eighty years gone over what remains 
 
 For tongue to tell ? 
 
 Hence was it that in silence, with no pains 
 
 At last 'twas well. 
 
 Under these trees to creep, for ultimate sleep 
 
 To soothe regret, 
 
 [102] 
 
MEMORABILIA 
 
 For the world's ways, for war, let mankind reap, 
 You said, and weep. 
 
 Abram Rutledge died, ere the great war 
 
 Ruined the land. 
 
 His well-loved son was struck on fields afar 
 
 By a brother's hand. 
 
 Then brought they him, O pioneer, on his bier 
 
 To the hill and the tree, 
 
 Back home and laid him, son of Trenton, here 
 
 Your own grave near. 
 
 Of all unuttered griefs, of vaguest woes. 
 
 None equals this : 
 
 Forgotten hands, and work that no one knows 
 
 Whose work it is ; 
 
 Good gifts bequeathed, but never earned, or spurned 
 
 In hate or pride; 
 
 And the boon of an age destroyed, ere a cycle turned 
 
 O'er you inurned. 
 
 Abram Rutledge lies In a sunken grave, 
 
 Dust and no more. 
 
 Let Freedom fail, it is naught to him, who was brave. 
 
 Who stood to the fore. 
 
 The oaks and elms he knew, greenly renew 
 
 Their leaves each spring, 
 
 But gone his dream with that last hour which drew 
 
 His world from view. 
 
 [103] 
 
TO A SPIROCHAETA 
 
 If through the microscope 
 
 We peer and stare 
 You look like marceled shreds of rope, 
 
 Or maiden hair, 
 With eyeless hunger swift to grope 
 
 Out of your lair. 
 
 To feed and to fulfill your fate 
 
 You dive and swim 
 Forward and backward flagellate 
 
 Amid the dim 
 Ichor of women where you mate, 
 
 Delicate, slim. 
 
 Why are you screw-shaped, in a spiral .? 
 
 And why your form 
 Like a crooked hand upon a dial ? 
 
 You are the norm 
 For all hell sealed up in a vial 
 
 To break in storm. 
 
 Your whips are sharper far than sickles, 
 Or cricket bristle; 
 
 [ 104] 
 
TO A SPIROCHAETA 
 
 With finer points than rose-leaf prickles, 
 
 Or drifting thistle ; 
 You feed yourself till the blood trickles 
 
 Through flesh and gristle. 
 
 When a man knows he is your diet 
 
 A solemn thrill 
 Shows in great eyes and spirit quiet 
 
 For fears that kill ; 
 He is a maelstrom running riot, 
 
 At the center still. 
 
 Well, Robert Burns : You saw a louse 
 
 On a lady crawHng. 
 But one can keep to his own house 
 
 Without forestalling 
 This demon on his death carouse 
 
 Breeding and sprawling. 
 
 But, Robert Burns, this does not tent 
 
 Our pride or tease us ; 
 It is not heaven's message sent 
 
 That virtue frees us. 
 It shows us hard or penitent 
 
 As Nature sees us ! 
 
 [los] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 I went to Winston Prairie to attend 
 The funeral of Cato Braden. He 
 Had died at fifty-one and I had known him 
 Since he was twenty-four, but for fifteen 
 Years or more I had not seen him, nor 
 Exchanged with him more than a telegraphic 
 Note about some trivial thing. Indeed 
 I had not been in Winston Prairie during 
 These fifteen years. 
 
 But on the train I thought 
 Of Cato Braden, brought back all the days 
 Through which I knew him, from the very first 
 When he returned to Winston Prairie from 
 De Pauw, or was it Valparaiso I Yet 
 'Twas called a university I remember. 
 And when I knew him first he kept at hand 
 De Senectute, also Anthon's Homer, 
 And lexicons in Latin and in Greek, 
 Both unabridged. Sometimes he let me read 
 The orations he had won the prizes with. 
 And sometimes he would tell me what it meant 
 To study at a university. 
 And what they did and what the boys were like. 
 
 [io6] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 This Cato Braden was a happy soul 
 
 At twenty-four, of a full noble brow, 
 
 A gentle smiling mouth, an honest eye, 
 
 A tall and handsome figure, altogether 
 
 A man conspicuous for form, a bearing 
 
 Of grace and courtliness, engaging ways ; 
 
 He might be called most lovable, he had 
 
 The gift of friendship, was not envious, 
 
 Could scarcely be enraged, was not offended 
 
 By little things and often not by great. 
 
 He had in short a nature fit to work 
 
 With great capacity ; had he combined 
 
 An intellect but half his nature's worth 
 
 He might have won the race. But many thought 
 
 He promised much, his father most of all 
 
 Because he had these virtues, and in truth 
 
 Before his leaves unfolded with the spring 
 
 His mind seemed apt, perhaps seemed measured full 
 
 Of quality, the prizes he had won 
 
 At Valparaiso pointed to the fruit 
 
 He would produce at last. 
 
 So on the train 
 I thought of Cato Braden. Then I thought 
 Of when he came from school with his degree, 
 And for that summer when he walked the square, 
 Was whispered of as "Cato Braden, look." 
 The first thing Winston Prairie knew it saw 
 [107] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 His name conjoined with that of Jerry Ott's — 
 
 It was Ott and Braden, editors and owners, 
 
 The Winston Prairie Eagle. Jerry Ott 
 
 Was sixty-nine and wheezy from the fight 
 
 For Jefferson Democracy, free trade. 
 
 Besides the capital that Cato Braden 
 
 Brought through his father to the enterprise 
 
 Meant bitter war on enemies of truth. 
 
 And Cato Braden's father had some wealth 
 
 Made from the making of a vermifuge 
 
 And a preposterous compound which he called 
 
 Pesodorne ; and I have always thought 
 
 That Cato Braden's father garrisoned 
 
 His factory for making patent nostrums 
 
 By buying for his son this Interest, 
 
 And place of power in journalism ; for 
 
 The father's strong devotion to the church 
 
 Did not protect him 'gainst the casual sneers 
 
 Of Winston Prairie's paper called the Lance, 
 
 Which used to print such things as this, to Instance 
 
 "There's Braden's Vermifuge, well, Doctor Braden, 
 
 Try your own vermifuge, let's see it work." 
 
 Well, anyway I know that Cato Braden 
 Intended to pursue a legal course, 
 And practice the profession in a city. 
 I know his father bought for him this place 
 With Jerry Ott as editor of the Eagle. 
 [108I 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 I know he went to work. I know he changed 
 
 The paper's motto from *'Hew to the line," 
 
 To Principia non homines. I know 
 
 He used to sing "Over the Garden Wall/* 
 
 While writing editorials and smoked 
 
 A number of cheroots. I know he had 
 
 A locked drawer where he kept a secret bottle 
 
 From which he'd take a drink at noon or night. 
 
 I know he was on terms of friendship with 
 
 The milliner and dressmaker in a month 
 
 After he came from Valparaiso. Yes, 
 
 I know he advocated a gymnasium, 
 
 And dancing hall for Winston Prairie, and 
 
 He opened up a fight to get a park 
 
 Where concerts might be given. Cato Braden 
 
 Had these ideas at least. About this park 
 
 A word remains to say. 
 
 Fernando Winston, 
 Who founded Winston Prairie and surveyed 
 The original town, laid out a square along 
 The river for a pleasure ground ; in time. 
 Some fifty years or more. It was forgotten. 
 And when this Cato Braden came to town 
 And started as a journalist 'twas used 
 In part by Winston Prairie's creamery ; 
 In part 'twas used for gardening by the pastor 
 Of Winston Prairie's strongest church. But Cato 
 [ 109] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Had searched the records, found them straight, began 
 
 To agitate the park. And it was this, 
 
 Together with Principia non homines, 
 
 Free trade, the dressmaker and milliner, 
 
 Perhaps the bottle in the drawer, whose secret 
 
 Leaked out at once, that clove the people of 
 
 The town into two groups of friends and foes. 
 
 He had but just begun his editorship 
 
 When I left Winston Prairie ; after that 
 
 Knew little of it, saw him but at times, 
 
 Long separated, saw him not at all 
 
 For fifteen years before his death, and now 
 
 Because I was his friend was on the train 
 
 His funeral to attend. 
 
 I drove to Oakland 
 With Dr. Green and William Smoot the grocer. 
 'Twas hot without a breeze, the town was still. 
 The church bell tolled until we reached the grave, 
 It was the church whose pastor used the square 
 For gardening. And on the way I asked 
 Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. 
 "Why, whisky," answered William Smoot, the grocer, 
 "And women," for he had bad luck they say. 
 "How is that, Doc, you know.?" 
 
 And Dr. Green 
 After a silence said : "It isn't true. 
 [no] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 "He was as sound, so far as that's concerned 
 "As any of us/' 
 
 Then I asked again 
 Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. 
 And Dr. Green said laughing, "Well, you know 
 "They die at thirty-one and forty-one, 
 "And sixty-one of what killed Cato Braden, 
 "That's Bright's Disease." 
 
 "And whisky brings that on — 
 I ventured to assert. 
 
 "Sometimes" replied 
 The man of medicine, "But other things 
 "Produce it. There's a man's diathesis; 
 "There's worry, over- work, sometimes disease 
 "Suffered in childhood, leaving an effect 
 "Like soil, all fertilized for such seed as this. 
 "He should have drunk no whisky, yet he drank 
 "Not half so much as Winston Prairie thought. 
 "But you can see if whisky caused this thing 
 "All whisky drinkers would be sure to have it, 
 "Or die of it if not killed by a train." 
 
 We left the carnage, having reached the place 
 Where Cato Braden's grave was dug, and stood 
 Together in a company of fifty 
 And heard the pastor pray for heaven's lessons 
 
 [III] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 From Cato Braden's life. And after that 
 We separated, made the horses trot 
 To reach our different destinations. I 
 Looked up Will Boyden for a little talk 
 Before my train left for the city. 
 
 Will 
 Was in his office with his sleeves rolled up, 
 Cob-pipe in mouth, typing a legal paper, 
 A narratio in slander, so he said. 
 He smiled from ear to ear and dropped his work. 
 "You're here for Cato's funeral," he said, 
 And added, "It's a shame he had to die. 
 Damned if it isn't." 
 
 Then I asked again 
 Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. 
 And Will said: "Winston Prairie, Illinois, 
 Killed Cato Braden." 
 
 Tell me what you mean V* 
 Then Will refreshed his pipe and talked to me : 
 "I'm fifty-two and good for twenty years 
 I have no stronger frame than Cato Braden, 
 But then I got a formula for life 
 As time went on, and it was one that suited 
 My nature, and I thrived as you can see. 
 I have the power to draw the nutriment 
 Out of this soil, and I get strength thereby 
 
 [112] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 Wherewith to overcome the things that kill. 
 I work, but then I play, I hunt and fish, 
 I read and sometimes take a little trip. 
 I don't drink whisky, not because I fear it, 
 But I hate putting in myself such fire — 
 Beer and light wines are pleasant, more like food 
 Than stimulants. Well, Cato Braden started 
 When *Over the Garden Wall' was all the rage, 
 'All Coons Look Alike to Me' was my 
 Key-note for starting. You know what I mean : 
 Between my day and his there's just the difference 
 That lies between waltz time and syncopation ; 
 Between the magic lantern and the movie, 
 The rattan phaeton and Ford machine. 
 These new things came along before he died. 
 But he had made his life for the old things. 
 Could not adjust himself, De Senectute 
 And Valparaiso had not taught him how 
 To reach out in the world from Winston Prairie 
 And get the new things for his life. But if 
 They taught him how he lost the secret here. 
 For after all a place like Winston Prairie 
 Will kill your spirit just as surely as 
 The Island where they cooped up great Napoleon. 
 In the first place what is a man to do 
 With life in any place ? That is the problem. 
 And what could Cato Braden do with life 
 In Winston Prairie } First he was as fitted 
 I [113] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 To be a journalist as I, and if 
 Endowed to be a journalist, just think 
 Of editing The Eagle. But you see 
 His father was at war then with the Lance 
 Over that vermifuge and pesodorne. 
 And under guise of starting him in life 
 Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish 
 Purpose of defending vermifuge. 
 And Cato did it too, and put away 
 From year to year his dream of studying 
 The law and practicing in a city. 
 During which time the poisons of this town 
 Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him. 
 He married Mary Comfort, as you know. 
 And Mary is — well, what I call a brood-mare, 
 Although they had no children. What I mean 
 She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve, 
 A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife 
 Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw, 
 And never an eye to help him see the things 
 That lay around him, which he stumbled over. 
 And marriage to my mind means this to man : 
 He drains his body out to be a father, 
 And drains his spirit out to be a husband, 
 Unless the woman helps him see or feel 
 More than he sees or feels for self. Well then 
 The years went on. And every day at eight 
 He could be seen toward his office bent. 
 
 [114] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 At half past ten just as the morning train 
 Was whistling for the crossing he would go 
 To get the mail. Returning he would walk 
 Along Main Street, slapping the folded News 
 Against his leg. He scanned it in his office. 
 At twelve o'clock he went to dinner, then 
 As whisky made him eat, he over-ate 
 And took a nap till two o'clock. At three 
 One might discover him at solitaire — 
 He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough 
 To keep the boys in copy. Then at four 
 He might be sitting at the livery stable, 
 Or sometimes might be found in that back room 
 Of Little's restaurant, where a keg of beer 
 Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps 
 He might be seen down there on Locust street, 
 Waiting to enter where the milliner lived. 
 So passed his life away from twenty-four 
 To fifty-one. It's simple enough to ask 
 Why not write for the Eagle, make it better, 
 Give ideas to the people, help the town. 
 Refresh the mind, read, study history, 
 De Senectute } Fancy Teddy Roosevelt, 
 Who's labored for this land with restless gifts, 
 Tied down In Winston Prairie — well, you can't. 
 He'd break the ties, and that's the point, you see. 
 For Cato couldn't break them, had to stay, 
 Incapable to extract the good that's here, 
 
 [IIS] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Susceptible to all the bad that's here; 
 He was a nose half active 
 Who enters In a room where gas escapes, 
 Sits in the room unconscious of the gas 
 Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest 
 And dies unknowing. So I say It's true 
 That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden 
 And killed him in the end. 
 
 You must go see, 
 Before you leave, our park called Willard Park, 
 Named after Emma Willard, that devout 
 Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so. 
 She left enough to build a granite coping, 
 Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone 
 Whereon to carve the words, 'The gracious gift 
 Of Emma Willard.' Well, this Cato Braden 
 First talked this park, was first to tell the truth 
 About this plot of ground. And more than that 
 When Cato Braden came here he had dreams : 
 He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing 
 Would help this town ; that games were needed here ; 
 That Americans seemed ignorant of the art 
 Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise 
 To play ; that they were wise to work and pray, 
 Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said 
 The little town was cursed by just these things, 
 And many human souls destroyed by them. 
 
 [ii6] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere, 
 
 But knew them when he found them, that's his credit. 
 
 What though he was a drunk man whom you ask 
 
 What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural 
 
 Sounds inarticulate ? Or better still 
 
 What though he was a sick man who in vain 
 
 Attempts to make his household orders clear? 
 
 For it was true that Cato Braden spoke 
 
 About these things at first, then gave them up. 
 
 For no one seemed responsive to his plans. 
 
 And some there were who sneered, and others said 
 
 He'd better help the church, and leave alone 
 
 The questions which make bitterness and strife, 
 
 Which was their way of speaking of the square 
 
 Which Cato tried to make into a park. 
 
 They say a lung will turn to stone or steel 
 
 When men work in the filings and the dust. 
 
 At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned 
 
 His soul to dust. 
 
 You see old Jerry Ott 
 Had left a son his interest in the Eagle, 
 And Cato Braden died right at his table 
 While playing solitaire. This son came in 
 And found him dead, a card clutched in his hand. 
 The card was, strange enough, the deuce of clubs ! 
 This son was glad that Cato Braden died 
 For now he runs the Eagle by himself. 
 
 [117] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 This Cato Braden had three strains of thought. 
 
 I never met him lately but he talked 
 
 Some one of them, at times all three of them. 
 
 One was the American town must be improved, 
 
 So better to conserve the souls and bodies 
 
 Of boys and girls. And even when the movie, 
 
 And other things of this day came along 
 
 He still maintained they did not meet the case. 
 
 He never said what thing was requisite. 
 
 But in a general way I think he meant 
 
 A stronger, and more truthful and more natural 
 
 Outlook and attitude would save a town 
 
 From dust, and mold and death. For once he said 
 
 " This winter I shall read Grote's History." 
 
 He never read it. But I think he meant 
 
 He would find out the secret of the Greeks. 
 
 And then he'd say the young, the middle aged 
 
 The old made separate spheres of feeling, thought; 
 
 And that a town should not be ruled by one. 
 
 Should not be governed as all folks were old, 
 
 Or young, or middle aged, but each should have 
 
 The town for his according to his age. 
 
 And thought and vital power, within his sphere 
 
 And period of life ; these separate spheres 
 
 Should move untroubled by the others, move 
 
 Free, independent of the other spheres. 
 
 I talked with Cato Braden for the last 
 [ii8] 
 
CATO BRADEN 
 
 A week ago last night. He said to me : 
 I wake these mornings lately with the thought 
 Another chance will come to me, that death 
 Will bring another chance. And then he said : 
 This is the way of it. When you are young 
 You say in five years I shall take a trip, 
 See New York City, go abroad perhaps. 
 When five years pass you do not take the trip. 
 Then you say in a year I'll take the trip. 
 And so it goes, while you say in a year, 
 Next year, next year, until at last you say 
 No, never now ! Well, now you'd think a man 
 Would weep when he stands up against the wall, 
 And knows he cannot climb the wall. But no, 
 Something still whispers you will do it yet. 
 And then you know it must be after death. 
 In life again, the chance will come to you. 
 For you know well it is not in this life. 
 Then Cato Braden said : Not in this life 
 Shall I read Grote, I could not understand it 
 After these years in Winston Prairie — still 
 I have a feeling I shall know about it 
 Somewhere, somehow. 
 
 You'd better catch your train. 
 It's good to see you. Up there in the city 
 Think sometimes of the American village and 
 What may be done for conservation of 
 The souls of men and women in the village." 
 
 [119] 
 
WINSTON PRAIRIE 
 
 "What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie ? 
 If you had come to me I could have told you 
 About the circuit judge, the state's attorney, 
 The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer, 
 The assessors and collectors who belong 
 To what we call a court-house ring. You know 
 They run the county, re-elect themselves, 
 Play with the local bosses, stand in league 
 With sellers of cement, and brick and lumber, 
 And with the papers given the public printing, 
 And with the sharks who buy in property 
 For taxes sold, and with the intriguing thieves 
 Who make improvements, levy the assessments 
 For side-walk, sewers." 
 
 So my friend to me. 
 "Good land," I answered, "I inherited them, 
 I did not buy these lots. But apropos 
 Of what you say, I've wondered what's the matter. 
 I write and write for statements of my taxes. 
 And cannot get them. Then I take the train. 
 And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie. 
 And I stand before a window asking for them. 
 
 [ 120] 
 
WINSTON PRAIRIE 
 
 Your property was sold, I am informed. 
 So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yard 
 To look at Cato Braden's grave, and then 
 Catch the next train for home. A week or so 
 Elapses and I get a letter — hum ! 
 Winston Prairie — office of the controller ; 
 Your property was sold for special numbered 
 Two thousand and eighty-six, when you reply 
 Please mention sale 1019. — Damn these thieves ! 
 So I pay that. I see ! your court-house ring, — 
 The men who're sworn to enforce the law are those 
 Who break it, and who use it to despoil you — 
 Well, let me tell you. 
 
 In this very June 
 I went to Winston Prairie on this errand, 
 And after I had written several times 
 To get a statement. I arrived at noon — 
 And yet the court-house offices were closed, 
 The treasurer's, the clerk's, controller's, all. 
 I met a janitor who said : All closed 
 Till half past one. That meant I'd miss my train 
 Back to Chicago, and would have to stay 
 In Winston Prairie until six o'clock. 
 I sat down In the hall-way with a curse. 
 But in a minute there were hideous yells, 
 Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten. 
 Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see, 
 
 [121] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And found a door behind which I could hear 
 Intolerable tears, the scratching of weak hands 
 Against the door and wall. What Is the matter ? 
 I hallooed through the door. 0, go to hell 
 A woman said, you know what Is the matter. 
 I don't, I said, I'll help you If I can. 
 Then followed sobs and wails, and Incoherent 
 Blubbering of words. At last I saw a finger 
 Stuck through the broken plaster by the door, 
 And leaning down I said : look through at me. 
 And then I stooped and looking through the crack 
 Saw a gray eye, which looked as It might be 
 Of Slavic birth. But who can read an eye 
 Shown singly through a crack } So while I talked 
 To get the story of these girls in prison, 
 (For where they were was called the calaboose. 
 Built in the court-house) some one back of me 
 Said : They'll be quiet in due time, the cooler 
 Cools people off. I turned and saw a man 
 Who seemed to be a judge, and was a judge, 
 As I discovered later. Well, I said, 
 I cannot bear to see a human being 
 In such distress and terror — what's their ages ? 
 One's sixteen and one's seventeen, said the judge, 
 But they are bad ones, so I made the fine 
 Enough to hold them thirty days. I asked 
 What did they do ^ They were soliciting, 
 The judge replied, and here In Winston Prairie 
 
 [ 122] 
 
WINSTON PRAIRIE 
 
 The law Is law and we enforce the law. 
 
 We do not do as you do in Chicago. 
 
 I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop, 
 
 And was about to say : You are a fool. 
 
 You are what some would have America, 
 
 You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul. 
 
 You are a figure in the court-house ring, 
 
 Whereof the tax shark is a figure too. 
 
 But then I thought these girls might prove to be 
 
 Worth while some time. But even if they live 
 
 Street walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets, 
 
 Devour no widows' houses, do less harm 
 
 Than court-house rings and judges in the rings. 
 
 So this is what I said : May I enquire 
 
 What are your Honor's hours for holding court ? 
 
 And he replied : Court has adjourned till two. 
 
 I hold till six o'clock, we do not loaf 
 
 As judges in Chicago do, good-day 1 
 
 Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes, 
 With interest, penalties and all the costs. 
 At two o'clock I stood before the bar 
 And to the judge addressed these words : Your Honor, 
 I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt, 
 Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jail 
 Under your Honor's sentence. I have seen 
 The state's attorney, who is satisfied 
 To let them go, if all the costs are paid. 
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I went to see him on a matter of taxes, 
 
 And this came up. The state's attorney rose 
 
 And said : Your Honor, they are very young. 
 
 And though they have been caught before at this, 
 
 And warned that Winston Prairie is no place 
 
 For them to ply their trade, I am inclined 
 
 To think they will not break our laws again. 
 
 I thought I saw his honor's eye light up 
 As if it caught a wireless, so he said : 
 *'The court is satisfied." I paid the costs 
 And took Christine and Garda to Chicago. 
 But at the station, as I said good bye, 
 Christine flared up : Y'ou don't suppose that I 
 Will let you pay those costs, I am not cheap. 
 I may be bad, but I am square, she said. 
 And I have money in my room, come on 
 To Twelfth and Wabash and I'll pay you back 
 For me and Garda. 
 
 No, I said, go on. 
 Try to be good, but if you can't be good. 
 Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie. 
 I turned and disappeared among the crowds. 
 
 [124] 
 
WILL BOYDEN LECTURES 
 
 The Sunday after Cato Braden died 
 
 Will Boyden lectured in the Masons' Hall 
 
 Upon the theme, "Was Jesus Really Great?" 
 
 At first he pointed out that Jesus knew 
 
 No history except that of the Jews. 
 
 And if he'd heard of Athens never spoke 
 
 A word about it, never read a line 
 
 Of Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle, 
 
 Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a word 
 
 Concerning Egypt's wisdom, or of India's. 
 
 And then he dropped this point with the remark 
 
 That one could know one's people's history 
 
 And that alone, and still be great, perhaps. 
 
 But still he thought it was unfortunate 
 
 That Jesus gave the Hebrews such a lift 
 
 So that to-day they rule the Occident 
 
 Where Athens should have ruled, if only Time 
 
 Had given her the right dramatic touch 
 
 To catch the populace. 
 
 He then declared 
 That Jesus was a poet, but he said : 
 "What are his figures I Never a word of stars, 
 And never a word of oceans, nor of mountains 
 
 [125] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Save Olivet or Zion, so you see 
 
 His limitations as to imagery. 
 
 Then have you noted how his sombre soul 
 
 Picked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor, 
 
 And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups, 
 
 Wherewith to make interpretations, yes 
 
 He spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have L 
 
 And yet you people call me pessimist 
 
 Because I've tried to rescue Winston Prairie, 
 
 And have not shrunk from charging Winston Prairie 
 
 With Cato Braden's death. The difference 
 
 Between the Man of Galilee and me 
 
 Is this : He wanted to fulfill the law 
 
 Of Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem, 
 
 Which was a Winston Prairie in a way, 
 
 A Hebrew citadel to rule the world. 
 
 And I, if I could have my way, would make 
 
 Of Winston Prairie Athens." 
 
 Then he said 
 " I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon. 
 The first one is concerning hogs — you start : 
 Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and find 
 How certain hogs had cast in them the devils 
 Of fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ran 
 Down in the sea to kill themselves for being 
 Made perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogs 
 And let me try my hand at exorcising 
 
 [126] 
 
WILL BOYDEN LECTURES 
 
 The Winston Prairie devils which destroyed 
 Poor Cato Braden. 
 
 "My next thought is found 
 In Matthew chapter nine ; and it is this ; 
 When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting, 
 And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd, 
 His soul was stirred — that is a way with genius, 
 Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles, 
 Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine. 
 But think of this : If you would lead and save 
 The multitude, assuming that can be, 
 Shall you accomplish it by rules and laws 
 Applied externally, which is the way 
 Ecclesiastic powers pursue and find 
 Divine authority in Jesus for it ? 
 Or shall you teach the way of opening up 
 The soul of man to sun-Hght, letting in 
 The Power which is around us, in the which 
 We live and move, and so give chance for growth 
 To what is in us ? For your shepherd drives. 
 No, Jesus hit it better when he spoke 
 Of leaven than of shepherds. 
 
 "So if one 
 Find leaven and would give it, let there be 
 A few to watch the final hour with him. 
 When he would be delivered from the cup, 
 But knows it cannot be, that to refuse 
 The cup is to deny the inexorable law. 
 [ 127] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 " So now I come to what is chlefest here : 
 
 Destroy this temple and I will re-build it 
 
 In three days. Now you know what preachers say 
 
 This means the resurrection — not at all ! 
 
 These were the greatest words that Jesus said. 
 
 And here his genius seized its fullest power, 
 
 Here was it that he hid Jerusalem 
 
 Under his hands as if it were a toy, 
 
 And tossed the world up as it were a ball. 
 
 Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, ages 
 
 Of beauty, glory, but the work of genius ^ 
 
 What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuff 
 
 Responsive to the touch of prophet hands ? 
 
 What Winston Prairie, what America 
 
 And all this turbulence of bobbing heads 
 
 In fields and markets, temples, halls across 
 
 This continent of sovereign states but puppets 
 
 Which may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit, 
 
 Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wise 
 
 By genius' hands, not revolutionists', 
 
 Nor shepherds'. So destroy America, 
 
 But not by picks and axes, let it be 
 
 As in the movies where a lovelier face 
 
 Steals in and blots with brighter light a face, 
 
 Which must fade out to let the lovelier face 
 
 Complete the story. 
 
 Now in a moment's silence 
 Let's pray for Cato Braden." 
 
 f 128 1 
 
THE DESPLAINES FOREST 
 
 The sun has sunk below the level plain, 
 And yet above the forest's leafy gloom 
 The glory of the evening lightens still. 
 Smooth as a mirror is the river's face 
 With Heaven's light, and all its radiant clouds 
 And shadows which against the river's shore 
 Already are as night. From some retreat 
 Obscure and lonely, evening's saddest bird 
 Whistles, and beyond the water comes 
 The musical reply, and silence reigns — 
 Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs, 
 And undistinguished sounds of faint portent 
 That night has come. There is a rustic bridge 
 Which spans the stream, from which we look below 
 At Heaven above, till revery reclaims 
 The mind from hurried thought and merges it 
 Into the universal mind which broods 
 O'er such a scene. Strange quietude o'erspreads 
 The restless flame of being, and the soul 
 Beholds its source and destiny and feels 
 Not sorrowful to sink into the breast 
 Of that large life whereof it is a part. 
 What are we ? But the question is not solved 
 K [129] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Here in the presence of intensest thought, 
 Where nature stills the clamor of the world, 
 And leaves us In communion with ourselves. 
 Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed day 
 What take we that shall mitigate the pangs 
 That each soul Is alone, and that all friends 
 Gentle and wise and good can never soothe 
 The ache of that sub-consciousness which is 
 Something unfathomed and unmedicined ? 
 Yet this It Is which keeps us In the path 
 Of some ambition cherished or pursued ; 
 The still, small voice that is not quieted 
 By disregard, but ever speaks to us 
 Its mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks 
 A closer harmony with that great scheme 
 Which is the music of the universe. 
 
 So as the cherubim of Heaven defend 
 The realms of the unknown with flaming swords, 
 Thence are we driven to the world which is 
 Ours to be known through Art, who beckons us 
 To excellence, and in her rarer moods 
 Casts shadowy glances of serener lands. 
 Where all the serious gods, removed from stress 
 And interruption, build, as we conceive. 
 In fellowship that knows not that reserve 
 Which clouds the hearts of those who wish to live 
 As they, in that large realm of perfect mind. 
 [ 130] 
 
THE GARDEN 
 
 I do not like my garden, but I love 
 
 The trees I planted and the flowers thereof. 
 
 How does one choose his garden ? O with eyes 
 
 O'er which a passion or illusion lies. 
 
 Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawn 
 
 You knew before somewhere. Or you are drawn 
 
 By an old urn, a little gate, a roof 
 
 Which soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof. 
 
 One buys a garden gladly. Even the worst 
 
 Seems tolerable or beautiful at first. 
 
 Their very faults give loving labor scope : 
 
 One can correct, adorn ; 'tis sweet to hope 
 
 For beauty to emerge out of your toil, 
 
 To build the walks and fertilize the soil. 
 
 Before I knew my garden or awoke 
 
 To its banality I set an oak 
 
 At one end for a life-long husbandry, 
 
 A white syringa and a lilac tree. 
 
 Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall, 
 
 Which was my neighbor's, held in several 
 
 Title and beyond my right to mend — 
 
 One cannot with an ancient time contend. 
 
 [131] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Some houses shadowed me. I did not dream 
 The sun would never look o'er them and gleam, 
 Save at the earliest hour. So all the day 
 One half my garden under twilight lay. 
 Another soul had overlooked the shade : 
 I found the boundaries of a bed he made 
 For tulips. Well, I had a fresher trust 
 And spent my heart upon this sterile dust. 
 What thing will grow where never the sun shines ? 
 Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines. 
 What years to learn the soil ! Why even weeds 
 Look green and fresh. But if one concedes 
 Salvia will flourish not, nor palest phlox 
 One might have hope left for a row of box. 
 
 Why is it that some silent places thrill 
 With elfin comradeship, and others fill 
 The heart with sickening loneliness } My breast 
 Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest 
 Casting my eyes about my garden where 
 I still must live, breathing its lifeless air. 
 Why should I have a garden anyway ? 
 I have so many friends who pass the day 
 In streets or squares, or little barren courts, 
 I fancy there are gardens of all sorts, 
 Far worse than mine. And who has this delight : 
 There's my syringa with Its blooms of white ! 
 It flourishes in my garden ! In this brief 
 [ 132] 
 
THE GARDEN 
 
 Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf 
 What if I like my garden not but love 
 The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof, 
 And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess, 
 Amid the white syringa's loveliness ? 
 
 [133] 
 
THE TAVERN 
 
 {For my daughter Madeline) 
 
 Nothing disturbed my night of sleep, 
 
 I wonder that I ever woke 
 
 It was so heavy, was so deep 
 
 I scarce had heard the thunder-stroke. 
 
 So what was drinking, feasting, talking 
 
 By guests who came and guests who went, 
 
 Or those who spent the time in walking 
 
 The halls and rooms in argument 
 
 About the Tavern ? Some declared 
 
 No better Tavern could be built. 
 
 And others called it a deception, 
 
 Its purest gold but thinnest gilt, 
 
 A cruel cheat considering 
 
 No other Tavern gave reception 
 
 To folks who might be wayfaring 
 
 Anywhere in the whole wide land. 
 
 I woke a stranger to it all, 
 
 But quickly grew to understand 
 
 The ways and customs which prevailed : 
 
 Those who won favor, those who failed ; 
 
 What feasting rooms had echoed laughter ; 
 
 [134] 
 
THE TAVERN 
 
 What kisses stolen in what hall ; 
 What corners where the old had cried ; 
 What stairways where the breathless bride 
 Paused for a moment just to toss 
 Among the bridesmaids her bouquet; 
 What rooms where men in work or play 
 Approved or cursed for gain or loss 
 The Tavern's roof-tree, roof and rafter. 
 
 Then when I woke, as I have said, 
 Save a few children there was none 
 Who was not older far than I. 
 Many were trembling gray of head ; 
 The strong walked forth in rain or sun 
 And seemed all danger to defy. 
 All welcomed me and called me fair. 
 And told me strange events which passed 
 Around the Tavern while I slept. 
 Soon there were changes. Scarce aware 
 Of their departure many stept 
 Out of the door and seemed to cast 
 Their fortunes elsewhere, but as fast 
 New guests came in to take the places 
 Of those who left. And through the day 
 I lost the old, remembering faces 
 Freshly arrived. When it was noon 
 I knew what things were opportune, 
 I had become one of the crowd 
 
 [135] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 In all their ways initiate : 
 
 Knew what their love was, what their hate, 
 
 Myself stole kisses in the hall, 
 
 And saw the old who sat and cried 
 
 In corners, saw the rosy bride 
 
 Pause for a moment just to toss 
 
 Among the bridesmaids her bouquet, 
 
 Where I stood best man to the groom. 
 
 Was myself of the noisy room, 
 
 Where men in work or men in play 
 
 Approve or curse the gain or loss. 
 
 Toward afternoon I seemed to feel 
 
 More people knew me than I knew. 
 
 Then it was good to meet with you. 
 
 I saw you as you left the stair. 
 
 And who were you ? I do not dare 
 
 To praise your brow, or paint your hair, 
 
 Your eyes how gray, or were they blue ? 
 
 A pain strikes through me if I let 
 
 The full strength of my love have sway. 
 
 I only know I can forget 
 
 All others who had gone away 
 
 Remembering our happy day 
 
 Together in the house and yard. 
 
 It was to you all fair and new. 
 
 You listened with such rapt regard 
 
 To all the stories of the guests, 
 
 [136] 
 
THE TAVERN 
 
 And what had been their interests. 
 And was the Tavern just the same 
 As it had been before you came, 
 You asked me, and I answered, yes, 
 No change, my dear, not even the name. 
 
 No change, except the people change, 
 
 And change they do, I must confess. 
 
 In truth a few alone remain 
 
 Of those who lived here when I first 
 
 Entered the door there, most are strange. 
 
 And as I rose much earlier 
 
 Than you arose, you may suppose 
 
 I shall grow drowsy, yet who knows 
 
 Before you do, and leave the stir 
 
 The dancing, feasting, just to creep 
 
 Back for another night of sleep. 
 
 Fd like so well to stay awake 
 
 And watch the dancing for your sake. 
 
 It may be, though it scarce may be — 
 
 No one remained awake for me. 
 
 You cannot fail to find the bed 
 When you are sleepy, but no doubt 
 It will be black with the light out. 
 Come dear, that sleep is loveliest 
 Where side by side two lovers rest. 
 That sweetens sleep — it may be best ! 
 
 [137] 
 
O SAEPE MECUM 
 
 {For E. J. S.) 
 
 Edward ! you knew the city and you knew 
 Where dancing and where music were, 
 And every hall and theatre, 
 And every green purlieu 
 
 Of gardens where beneath the vines and trees 
 One might sip beer and be consoled 
 By music mixed with talk, behold 
 The summer's devotees 
 
 About the tables, idling June away. 
 And you knew chicory and cress, 
 With French or Mayonnaise could dress 
 A salad, growing gay 
 
 As you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine, 
 Or had a sirloin brought to see 
 If it were ripe, the recipe 
 For broiling it, to dine 
 
 Thereon in fitting state, the waiter took 
 And bowed in admiration, then 
 You snapped your silver case again 
 And from the holders shook 
 
 [138] 
 
O SAEPE MECUM 
 
 Such cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke, 
 And blew the perfumed incense forth, 
 Descanting on our Hfe, the worth 
 Of lawyers, noted folk : 
 
 Of judges, politicians, governors, 
 Until the dinner came at last. 
 And there amid the rich repast 
 We poor solicitors 
 
 Gloried in life, and ruddy faced would laugh 
 
 At any mishap, any fate 
 
 That we could fancy might await, 
 
 And glorying would quaff 
 
 Incredible goblets of the quickening juice, 
 With blackest coffee topping all. 
 And afterwards a cordial — 
 Nothing we could abuse 
 
 And nothing hurt us, Edward ! It was well 
 We lived, I think, and memories stored : 
 For now I am a little bored 
 With the invariable 
 
 And settled round of nights and days wherein 
 I must have sleep to work, and keep 
 Abstemious to work and sleep — 
 While you long since have been 
 [139] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The tangled lion of a woman's hair 
 Who reads you novels and the news, 
 And mends you, tends you, even brews 
 Your broth and gives you care 
 
 In these dyspeptic mornings. As for me 
 The cafes, gardens haunt me yet. 
 I go about as one who can't forget 
 A dead felicity — 
 
 The Bismarck, Rector's where I enter not 
 The music all is changed — and where 
 No faces that we knew are there, 
 And where we are forgot. 
 
 [140 
 
MALACHY BEGAN 
 
 Malachy, you stand a referee to judge 
 Under a torrent of blue light 
 The naked pugilists who fight, 
 Grim faces with a smudge 
 
 Of blood, or on the sliding arms or backs, 
 There on a platform roped, in palls 
 Of smoke to the roof of Tattersall's, 
 And where the iterant cracks 
 
 Of matches struck for lights prick through the hum 
 Of voices over toned by cries 
 Of "Finish him," "Look at his glassy eyes," 
 "That sounded like a drum." 
 
 When the timekeeper's gong went clang ! clang 1 
 And a hush came over us, as then 
 Bath robes slipped off, the fighting men 
 Out of their corners sprang. 
 
 And in between the tangled arms and legs. 
 And clinches which you break, you glide 
 Red-haired, athletic, watchful eyed, 
 And like a lager keg's 
 
 [141] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Round fulness is your chest, your arms all bare, 
 
 Coatless, a figure memorable. 
 
 You should not be forgotten — well 
 
 And if it be to dare 
 
 The censure of a taste American 
 To celebrate your courage, wit, 
 I write you down what here is writ : 
 A referee, a man ! 
 
 A judge who loved the game and whose decree 
 Had no taint on it, was more pure 
 Than much of our judicature, 
 Of every knavery free. 
 
 And what is here to shock or shake such nerves 
 As children's are, delicate women's } 
 There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons, 
 And Thorne a moment swerves. 
 
 Then topples over, and lies quiet while 
 You count from one slowly to nine. 
 And Thorne lies there without a sign 
 Of life, but with a smile 
 
 After a time gets up, and reels across 
 The ring to his own corner, there 
 Flops wobbly in his corner's chair. 
 And wonders at his loss. 
 
 [142] 
 
MALACHY DEGAN 
 
 While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shake 
 The master hand, the general's. 
 Such was our sport at Tattersall's 
 Before the Puritan rake 
 
 Combed through the city. Now the sport Is dead, 
 And you are dust these several years. 
 And we who drift to stale careers, 
 And live along and tread 
 
 The old deserted ways we loved and knew, 
 Ask sometimes how it was a cough 
 Could seize upon you, take you off — 
 A lad as strong as you ? 
 
 [143] 
 
MY DOG PONTO 
 
 If I say to you "Come, Ponto, want some meat?" 
 You laugh in your dog-way and bark your "Yes." 
 And if I say "Shall we go walking" or 
 "Stand up, nice Ponto," then you stand up, or 
 If I say to you "Lie down" you lie down. 
 You know what meat is, what it is to walk. 
 You see the meat perhaps or get an image 
 Of scampering on the street or chasing dogs 
 While snifhng in fresh air, exploring bushes. 
 Upon these levels our minds meet at once. 
 As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts. 
 But if I look into your eye and say : 
 I'll read to you a chapter on harmonics. 
 Here's mad Spinoza's close wrought demonstration 
 Of God as substance, here is Isaac Newton's 
 Great book on gravitation, here's a thesis 
 Upon the logos, of the word made man. 
 Or if I say let's talk about my soul — 
 Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat — 
 Which sails out like a spider on its thread 
 Through mathematics, music, — look at you 
 You merely lie there with half open eye, 
 And thump your tail quite feebly just because, 
 [144] 
 
MY DOG PONTO 
 
 And for no other reason save Fm talking, 
 And I'm your master and you're fond of me, 
 And through affection would no doubt be glad 
 To know what I am saying, as 'twere meat 
 I might be saying. But I know a way 
 To make you howl for things not understood : 
 It makes you howl to hear my new Victrola 
 With a Beethoven record, why is this ? 
 Perhaps this is to you a maddening token 
 Of realms that lie above the realms of meat. 
 And torture you because they have suggestions 
 Of things beyond you. 
 
 But in any case. 
 Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel 
 You might say "What's harmonics I they're a joke." 
 "And who's Spinoza, Newton, they are myths." 
 "And mathematics, music, can you eat them," 
 "For what you cannot eat has no existence." 
 Deny them as you will these spheres of thought 
 Lie as the steps of mountains over you. 
 They wait for you to gain them, you can find them 
 By rising to them, then how real they are ! 
 As real as scampering when I take a walk. 
 But are they all ? How do I know what spheres 
 Of life lie all around me and above me. 
 Just waiting not for me, but till I climb 
 And rest awhile and take their meaning in. 
 L [ 145 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 How do I know what hand plays a VIctrola 
 With records greater than Beethoven's song, 
 Which make me howl as piteously as you ? 
 But here again our minds meet on a level : 
 I know no more than you do why I howl ; 
 Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why. 
 Though not content with meat, I want to know, 
 And keep as all my own this higher music. 
 
 [146] 
 
THE GOSPEL OF MARK 
 
 How long have you been waiting ? Not so long ? 
 
 Tm glad of that. You found the place at once. 
 
 Well, there's the Campus Martins, when you're there 
 
 You see above this Collis Hortulorum, 
 
 A good place for two men like us to meet : 
 
 Here's where luxurious souls have their abodes. 
 
 That's Sallust's garden there. They do not care 
 
 So much about us as some others do. 
 
 There is a tolerance comes from being rich, 
 
 An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa. 
 
 Our faith is not to these a wicked thing, 
 
 A deadly superstition as some deem it. 
 
 But Mark, my son, there's Rome below you there — 
 
 What temples, arches, under the full moon 1 
 
 Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree. 
 
 And while the soft wind blows out of the sea 
 
 Let's finish up our talks. You must know all 
 
 Wherewith to write the story ere I die 
 
 Beneath the wrath of Nero. See that light, 
 
 Faint like a little candle — I passed there. 
 
 That's one of our poor men, they make us lamps 
 
 Wherewith to light the streets and Nero's gardens. 
 
 We shall be lamps they'll wish to snuff in time. 
 
 [147] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 We met to-night at one Sllvanus' house. 
 And I was teUing them about the night 
 When in Gethsemane you followed Him, 
 Having a cloth around your naked body. 
 And how you laid hold on him, left the cloth 
 And fled. But when you write this you can say 
 '*A certain young man," leaving out your name, 
 You may not wish to have it known 'twas you 
 Who ran away, as I would like to hide 
 How I fell into sleep and failed to watch. 
 And afterwards declared I knew Him not : 
 But as for me omit no thing. The world 
 Will gain for seeing me rise out of weakness 
 To strength, and out of fear to boldness. Time 
 Has wrought his wonders in me, I am rock. 
 Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now ! 
 
 Then don't forget the first man that he healed. 
 
 There's deep significance in this, my son. 
 
 That first of all he'd take an unclean spirit 
 
 And cast it out. Then second was my mother 
 
 Cured of her fever, just as you might say: 
 
 Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague, 
 
 Then cool you of the fever of vain life. 
 
 But don't forget to write how he would say 
 
 "Tell no man of this," say that and no more. 
 
 Though I may think he said it lest the crowds 
 
 That followed him would take his strength for healing, 
 
 [148] 
 
THE GOSPEL OF MARK 
 
 And leave no strength for words, let be and write 
 "Tell no man of this" simply. For you see 
 These madmen quieted, these lepers cleaned 
 Had soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps. 
 And with them ends their good. But what he said 
 Remains for generations yet to come, with power 
 To heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes, 
 Of what Tve told you, even above your life. 
 Make many copies lest one script be lost. 
 I shall not to another tell it all 
 As I have told it you. 
 
 But as for me 
 What merit have I that I saw and said 
 "Thou art the Christ.^" One sees the thing he 
 
 sees. 
 That is a matter of the eye — behold 
 What is the eye .? Is there an Eye Power which 
 Produces eyes, a primal source of seeing. 
 An ocean of beholding, as the ocean 
 Makes rivers, streams and pools, so does this Power 
 Make eyes ^ You take an egg and keep It warm 
 About a day, then break the shell and look : 
 You'll find dark spots on either side of what 
 Will be the head in time, these will be eyes 
 In season, but just now they cannot see, 
 Although the Eye Power back of them can see 
 Both what they are and how to make them eyes 
 
 [149] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 By giving them its quality and strength. 
 
 And all the time while these dark spots emerge 
 
 From yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less, 
 
 This moon, these stars, this wonder ! Take a child 
 
 It stares at flowers and tears them, or again 
 
 It claws the whiteness of its mother's breast, 
 
 Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose. 
 
 The world around it lies here to be seen, 
 
 And will be seen from boyhood on to age 
 
 In diff"erent guises, aspects, richnesses 
 
 According to the man, for every man 
 
 Sees different from his fellow. What's an eye ? 
 
 I say not what's an eye, but what is here 
 
 For eyes to see I What wonders In that sky 
 
 Beyond my eye ! What living things concealed 
 
 Beneath my feet in grass or moss or slime, 
 
 As small to crickets as they are to us 1 
 
 For Nero at the Circus holds a ruby 
 
 Before his eye to give his eye more sight 
 
 To see the games and tortures. So I say 
 
 There was no merit in me when I said 
 
 *'Thou art the Christ." 
 
 Let's think of eyes this way 
 The lawyers said there's nothing in this fellow. 
 His family beheld no wonder in him. 
 Have Mary Magdalene and I Invented 
 These words, this story ? — who are we to do so, — 
 
 [ISO] 
 
THE GOSPEL OF MARK 
 
 A fallen woman and a fisherman ! 
 
 Or did this happen ? Did we see these things ? 
 
 Did Mary see him risen and did I ? 
 
 Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk, 
 
 And were our eyes full grown and did we see ? 
 
 Is this a madman's world where I can talk, 
 
 And have you write for centuries to read 
 
 And play the fool with them ? Or do all things 
 
 Of spirit, as of stars, of spring and growth 
 
 Proceed In order, under law to ends ? 
 
 No, Mark, my son, this Is the truth, so write, 
 
 Preserve this story taken from my lips. 
 
 My work Is almost done. Rome is the end 
 
 Of all my labors, I have faith The Eye 
 
 Will give me other eyes for other worlds 1 
 
 Why should I not believe this .? Not all seasons 
 Are for unfolding. In the winter time 
 You cannot see the miracle of birth. 
 Of germinating seeds, of blossoming. 
 Why not then that one time for seeing Death 
 Go up like mist before the rising sun ^ 
 And In this single Instance of our Lord 
 Arising from the grave, see all men rise. 
 And all men's souls discovered In his soul. 
 Their quality and essence, strength made clear? 
 And why not I the seer of these things .? 
 Why should there be another and not I ? 
 
 [151] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And I declare to you that untold millions 
 
 In centuries untold will live and die 
 
 By these words which you write, as I have told them. 
 
 And nation after nation will be moulded, 
 
 As heated wax is moulded, by these words. 
 
 And spirits in their inmost power will feel 
 
 Change and regeneration through them — well, what 
 
 then .? 
 Do you say God is living, that this world, 
 These constellations, move by law, that all 
 This miracle of life and light is held 
 In harmony, and that the soul of man 
 Moves not in order, but that it's allowed 
 To prove an anarch to itself, sole thing 
 That turns upon itself, sole thing that's shown 
 The path that leads no whither ? is allowed 
 To feed on falsehood ^ that it's allowed 
 To wander lawless to its ruin, fooled 
 By what it craves, by what it feels, by eyes 
 That swear the truth of what they see } by words 
 Which you will write from words I have affirmed ? 
 And do you say that Life shall prove the foe 
 Of life, and Law of law } Or do you say 
 The child's eyes see reality which see 
 The poppy blossoms or the mother's breast. 
 And this Rome and these stars do not exist 
 Because the child's eyes cannot compass them. 
 And get their image ? Shall we trust our vision 
 
 [152] 
 
THE GOSPEL OF MARK 
 
 Mounting to higher things, or only trust 
 
 Those things which all have seen except the souls 
 
 Who have not soared, or risen to the gift 
 
 Of seeing what seemed walking trees grow clear 
 
 As men or angels ? No, it cannot be. 
 
 Man's soul, the chiefest flower of all we know, 
 
 Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport. 
 
 It is not set apart to be betrayed, 
 
 Or gulled to its undoing, left to dash 
 
 Its hopeless head against this rock's exception, 
 
 No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it, 
 
 No law to guide it, though this universe 
 
 Is under Law, no God to mark its steps, 
 
 Except the God of worlds and suns and stars, 
 
 Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars. 
 
 And them alone, and leaves the soul to pass 
 
 Unfathered — lets me have a madman's dream 
 
 And gives it such reality that I 
 
 Take fire and light the world, convincing eyes 
 
 Left foolish to believe. It cannot be. . . . 
 
 Go write what I have told you, come what will 
 I'm going to the catacombs to pray. 
 
 [153] 
 
MARSYAS 
 
 Pallas Athena in an hour of ease 
 From guarding states and succoring the wise, 
 Pressed wistfully her lips against a flute 
 Made by a Phrygian youth from resonant wood 
 Cut near Sangarius. Upon a bank 
 Made sweet by daisies and anemone 
 She sat with godly wisdom exercised 
 Blowing her breath against the stubborn tube 
 That it might answer and vibrate in song. 
 But while she played, down-looking, she beheld 
 A serpent's eyes, which by the water's edge 
 Lay coiled among the reeds, as if aware 
 Of the divinity that filled the place. 
 Then Athena saw her image in the cove, 
 Where like a silver mirror, motionless 
 Sangarius lay, and seeing her own face 
 Thus suddenly, was stricken with surprise 
 Of her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lips 
 Pursed and distorted as she strove to curb 
 The resisting instrument. So with a smile, 
 A little laugh, which brought her beauty back, 
 And gilded like a gradual burst of sun 
 The water where the charmed serpent lay 
 
 [154] 
 
MARSYAS 
 
 Lifting his head up to the living warmth, 
 . She threw the flute down, and Olympus way- 
 Vanished, from sight. 
 
 Marsyas all the while 
 Beneath an oak's shade by the water's edge 
 Had drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes. 
 Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheep 
 Upon a near-by hill which to the swale 
 Sloped in luxuriance, upon a reed 
 His idle fancies loosened from the stops. 
 But when Athena passed him, since he heard 
 A roar of wings, as when a flock of quail 
 Up-fly the hunter's step, he woke to find 
 The forest silent and the music gone. 
 Then straying toward the rushes, he espied 
 The flute upon the golden sands, and took it 
 And tried his lips upon it, where the lips 
 Of Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist. 
 And with a soul, which to the artless breath 
 Of the rude Satyr gave melodious speech. 
 So thinking that the music was his own 
 And that the flute was but a worthless wood 
 Save that it made his genius manifest. 
 And swollen with conceit Marsyas sent 
 A word of challenge to the Delphic god, 
 Apollo of the cithara, for trial 
 Of skill in music, saying who should prove 
 
 [iSS] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The victor might do with the other what 
 Pleased him to do, and let the Muses judge. 
 
 But when Athena heard Apollo laugh, 
 Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dare 
 Which Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadows 
 Of flowered Olympus whispered of the thing 
 In jest and quip, and knowing that her soul 
 Still echoed in the flute, but would anon 
 Fade from it as the perfume from a girdle 
 Tinct by the touch of Aphrodite's hand, 
 Spoke to Apollo : "Grant a little time 
 Wherein the Satyr may improve his skill." 
 To which the Muses nodded 'mid their smiles. 
 But yet Apollo gave assent, though teased 
 By reason of their chatter and the thought 
 Hid in Athena's word that any respite 
 Granted the Satyr could prosper his success. 
 
 Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the day 
 
 Appointed of Apollo. Near Sangarius 
 
 And through the woodlands tireless with the flute 
 
 Sometimes in imitative harmony 
 
 Mocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and now 
 
 The musical winds that blow in early spring 
 
 Around a peak of dancing asphodel 
 
 Where the sea warms them, and at other times 
 
 The little waves that patter on the sands 
 
 [156] 
 
MARSYAS 
 
 Of old Sangarius rich in numerous flags. 
 And once he strove with music's alchemy 
 To turn to sound the sunlight of the morn 
 Which fills the senses as illuminate dew- 
 Quickens the ovule of the tiger-flower. 
 Again he sang the sorrow of his youth 
 When a wild nymph after one day of bliss 
 Fled him while sleeping. And again he beat 
 The rhythm lying at the root of life 
 Which marks the whirling planets. And Apollo 
 Hearing betimes a note of purest tone 
 Fall like a star, betrayed his wonderment — 
 Whereat the muses vexed him with their smiles 
 And whisperings to each other. But Apollo 
 Could sense the Satyr's waning skill, which dulled 
 With its employment, as Athena's soul 
 Died from the flute, although the Satyr knew not 
 Each day of waiting doomed him : 
 
 Then at last 
 The day dawned for the trial of their skill, 
 And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute — 
 For all had left it of Athena's soul. 
 Then on Sangarius' wooded banks the muses 
 To judge assembled, fair, majestical. 
 With arms entwined some close together stood, 
 Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass. 
 But all bore in their eyes the light of mirth 
 [157] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Suppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that Euterpe 
 
 Was mistress of the flute, since it was deemed 
 
 Fair to the Satyr that the contest be 
 
 Judged by the flute, gave signal to begin. 
 
 Whereat Apollo struck the cithara 
 
 To test the strings, and all the wood was hushed, 
 
 Awed by the magic of its harmony. 
 
 But when Marsyas blew upon the flute 
 
 A fear coursed through him as his wonder rose 
 
 Whether Apollo had bewitched its soul 
 
 To such discordance, or its utterance, 
 
 Such as he knew it, when compared with the god's 
 
 Was so unmusical. Yet he dare not fail 
 
 The contest, so they waged it to the end. 
 
 While the sweet muses now grown pitiful 
 
 No longer smiled, but turned their heads away 
 
 In sorrow for Marsyas, for his shame 
 
 And for the fate to follow. 
 
 So at last 
 With one accord the muses rose and looked 
 With eyes significant upon Apollo, 
 Who angered by the Satyr's swollen pride 
 And monstrous failure, had become a will 
 Of resolute retribution. But the muses, 
 Because they feel for those who trying lose, 
 Even as a mother for her crippled son 
 Whom the sound-footed distance in the race, 
 [IS8] 
 
MARSYAS 
 
 Hastened away lest they behold the thing 
 That came to pass. And flinging far the flute 
 Marsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth. 
 
 Whereat Apollo seized his wretched form 
 
 And lifting him up, with strips of laurel bark 
 
 Bound the poor Satyr to a rugged oak 
 
 And flayed him alive, and took the Satyr's skin 
 
 And hung it in a cave, and turned his blood 
 
 To water, whence the river Marsyas 
 
 That from the cave flows onward to this day. 
 
 159] 
 
WORLDS BACK OF WORLDS 
 
 This was the world : It was a house 
 With a cool hallway end to end 
 Where buckets, pans and dippers hung, 
 And coats that in the breezes swung ; 
 And eaves in which 'twas good to browse 
 On books stored in a musty box. 
 Along the walks were lilac boughs, 
 And by the windows hollyhocks. 
 And there were fields down to the hills 
 Which marked the earth's far boundary; 
 A church-spire at the roadway's bend, 
 And barns and cribs and twinkling mills, 
 And neighbor friends like Mrs. Gray, 
 And endless days of dream and play. 
 It was a world so guarded, safe. 
 So cherished by a God-watched sky 
 Seeing the summers come and pass, 
 A world so quiet it appeared 
 Like to the mimic world ensphered 
 By witchery of the old field glass 
 Which from an uncle's drawer I took 
 Upon the distant hills to look. 
 [i6o] 
 
WORLDS BACK OF WORLDS 
 
 You know not then that worlds not dead 
 Lie back of you and bide their chance 
 To seize your world of ignorance : 
 There was an opening in the ceiling 
 Above the kitchen where the man 
 Sat humming to himself at night 
 Amid the enshadowed candle-light, 
 And played on his accordion 
 Happy, unconscious and alone. 
 There full of mischief would I lie 
 And watch him through the ceiling's hole, 
 And laugh for thought of elfish tricks, 
 Of whispering words or dropping sticks 
 To fright his well contented soul. 
 Sometimes I think there is an eye 
 Which is not God's that spies upon us ; 
 That other worlds may lie about us 
 Our fathers or our mothers lived. 
 Where Forces lurk and laugh and wait. 
 
 Here then was my world's fair estate — 
 For so I knew it — could it be 
 Disturbed or wrecked ^ I never thought 
 That change or loss could come to me, 
 With God above the church's spire. . . . 
 
 But what are all these April dreams ? 
 Less tangible the landscape seems ; 
 M f i6i 1 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The windmills, barns and houses swim 
 In a sphered ether, wheeling, dim. 
 Red cattle on green meadows pass 
 Across a belt of bluest sky- 
 Like objects in the old field glass. 
 The chickens stalk about the yard 
 Like phantom things in my regard 
 And songs and cries and voices sound 
 Like muffled echoes from the ground. 
 Stones and dead sticks crawl and move; 
 And bones that through the winter lay 
 Something of living power betray. 
 I sink in all things dizzily, 
 Made one with nature, all I see, 
 Until I have no way to prove 
 My separate identity. 
 Yet death is what ^ Why, death is this : 
 Something that comes but is far off. 
 They worry sometimes for my cough. 
 I know they watch me, know they cry, 
 But what can wreck my earth or sky ? 
 
 The doctor comes now every day 
 And with my father sits and talks, 
 Or stands about the garden walks. 
 One day I hear them : "It appears 
 Sometimes in ten or twenty years 
 As madness or paralysis. 
 
 [162] 
 
WORLDS BACK OF WORLDS 
 
 Sometimes it passes, leaves a scar 
 
 And never troubles one again. 
 
 You say you had this in the war ? 
 
 It's hit your boy as phthisis, 
 
 Also I think he's going blind." 
 
 I saw my father trembling wind 
 
 Some plucked grass round and round his hand. 
 
 They noticed me, walked further on 
 
 And left me dreaming where I sat. 
 
 Some years since that day now are gone. 
 I have no world now, none but night. 
 My father's world lay back of mine 
 And wrecked my world so guarded, safe, 
 So cherished by a God-watched sky 
 Which looked on summers rise and pass, 
 So like an image caught and held 
 By witchery of the old field glass. 
 
 [163] 
 
THE PRINCESS' SONG 
 
 " Blow, blow, thou wind, 
 Blow Conrad's hat away. 
 Its rolling do not stay. 
 Till I have combed my hair, 
 And tied it up behind." 
 
 Blow, blow, thou wind. 
 Blow Conrad's love away. 
 My prince will come to-day. 
 Let him but find me fair. 
 And searching find. 
 
 The queen my mother grieves 
 For hopes that went astray. 
 Blow thou my grief away. 
 Among the April flags. 
 Among the dancing leaves. 
 
 Fill thou their golden wings. 
 And make the great clouds fly 
 Like swans across the sky. 
 Above the mountain crags 
 Where the young eaglet clings. 
 
 [164] 
 
THE PRINCESS' SONG 
 
 Blow — yet the mad wind dies 
 Among the flags and ferns. 
 And Conrad still returns, 
 Ere I have bound my hair, 
 Or dried my eyes. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou wind — 
 Blow Conrad's love away. 
 But since it will not stay. 
 Blow thou afar my care 
 And make me kind. 
 
 As even, lad, thou art. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou wind, but since 
 
 Vainly I wait the prince 
 
 Come, Conrad, loose my hair, — 
 
 Thou loyal heart ! 
 
 [i65l 
 
THE FURIES 
 
 But you must act. And therein lies the way 
 Of freedom from the Furies. You must burn 
 The substance of your being, if you stay 
 The impetus of life you will not learn 
 The simples of salvation. Go pluck off 
 A serpent from Alecto's head and laugh 
 Exhilarate with its poison. If you scoif 
 You will perceive. You cannot love the staff 
 You have not scorned. You cannot weigh the act 
 You have not lived, the fear you did not prove. 
 Your soul was made to focus and extract 
 Through action every hatred, every love. 
 Pour out yourself if you would know release 
 From what the Furies do to spoil your peace. 
 
 II 
 
 Ambition that eludes, love never found 
 High hopes that tempt, or goodness still pursued 
 Have their own Furies, for this mortal ground 
 Breeds serpents from the blood of fortitude 
 And action as it does from listless fear. 
 
 r i66 1 
 
THE FURIES 
 
 You have aspired and fallen, curse the past 
 Till madness come ! Be quiet, hide or sear 
 The memory of the dream, no less at last 
 The Sisters shall arrive 1 How do they come ? 
 Your life grows round a moral governance 
 And you have served it. You are stricken dumb 
 To see it crumble spite of vigilance. 
 Now when you cannot think, rebuild, repair 
 The Sisters come and wheel your cripple's chair. 
 
 Ill 
 
 You were a fennel stalk that laughed and grew 
 With laughter till the life in you could use 
 The cells no further, then the cold winds blew, 
 And you fell whispering of the April dews. 
 Grown fair or foul the rhythmic force was spent. 
 The summer gone, your little past achieved, 
 Repulsions balanced, though you might lament 
 So much neglected, or too much believed. 
 You were a dry weed when a Great Hand seized 
 And bore you as a carrier of fire. 
 The garden you had grown In had not pleased ! 
 Was this, perhaps, the end of your desire ? 
 You lit a heap of leaves where children came, 
 The Furies meditating watched the flame ! 
 
 [167] 
 
APOLLO AT PHER^ 
 
 Zeus envied ^sculapius that he healed 
 The sick and brought the dead to life, and fain 
 Would slay him. So the Cyclops brought Zeus light- 
 ning 
 With which Zeus smote the healer. Then Apollo 
 Destroyed the Cyclops, grieving for his son. 
 And Clotho laughed to see the thread of fate 
 Slip by Atropos, woven in the cloth 
 Of destiny. For had she cut the thread 
 Shot from the spindle, then a little trace 
 Of scarlet, but no figures of despair 
 Had marked the storied tapestry. So Apollo 
 Was doomed for punishment to tend the flocks 
 Of King Admetus, lord of Pherae. Next 
 Apollo met a mortal woman, daughter 
 Of an old soldier, servitor of the gods 
 And rich in land. 
 
 He, sitting on a rock 
 That overlooked a green Thessallan field 
 Where grazed the flocks, clad In a leopard's skin, 
 His crook beside him, dreamed of wide Olympus : 
 "This hour the muses dance, the Council sits 
 And there Is high debate, or Hera storms 
 
 [i68] 
 
APOLLO AT PHER.E 
 
 For Zeus' absence ; there is life, and I 
 
 Unknown, alone, a shepherd by this field 
 
 Of pastoral pathos labor all the day." 
 
 And then a step disturbed his revery; 
 
 And looking up he saw a slender maid 
 
 White as gardenias, jonquil-haired, with eyes 
 
 As blue as Peneus when he meets the sea. 
 
 And an old weakness crept upon the god. 
 
 For ever in his soul there shone the face 
 
 Of woman, like the face of Artemis, 
 
 His virgin sister, delicate and chaste ; 
 
 And to o'ercome such whiteness and reserve 
 
 Had been Apollo's madness from his birth. 
 
 And this Chione, daughter of the soldier, 
 
 Servitor of the gods and rich in land 
 
 At once became his passion. So he rose 
 
 And to Chione spoke, and she, to him. 
 
 And then anon she saw the unkept curls 
 
 Sun-bleached, that touched his shoulders, then his 
 
 breast. 
 Smooth as her own, and then his arms, his hands 
 His shapely knees, his firm and pointed feet. 
 And her eyes closed as stars beneath the dawn 
 And dawn rose in her cheeks. And the god knew 
 Her inmost thought. 
 
 So all that day they played. 
 Amid the wind-blown light of Thessaly. 
 
 [169] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 He wove her traps for crickets from the grass, 
 
 And from the willow branches made her flutes ; 
 
 He caught her butterflies, and sang her runes 
 
 Of living things, and how the earth and sea 
 
 From Erebus and Love sprang into being ; 
 
 And how the sun, and the bright pageant of the stars 
 
 Dance joyously to music. And Chione 
 
 Was dumb for happiness ; and the day went by. 
 
 But with the dusk there came a swooning languor, 
 
 All was forgotten save the shepherd's face 
 
 Held close to hers, and round his moving curls 
 
 The circled splendor of the sickle moon — 
 
 Nor eyes, nor lips, only a golden blur. 
 
 And rousing she beheld the enshadowed field 
 
 Flockless and silent, and the shepherd gone. 
 
 Then through the night Chione weakly walked 
 
 And found at last her home. 
 
 The light of day 
 Brought terror to Chione. Then she sought 
 And found Apollo where he sat before 
 And told him that her father, the old soldier, 
 Was favored of Admetus, and would bring 
 The royal power against him, if he failed 
 The troth of wedlock. And Apollo mused 
 Upon his exile from Olympus' throne. 
 And Zeus' wrath against him, that he slew 
 The Cyclops, and upon his shepherd state 
 
 [170] 
 
APOLLO AT PHER^ 
 
 Tending Admetus' flocks, and how unknown 
 And weak he stood between these kingly hands 
 Of Zeus and of Admetus. And seeing her fair, 
 More fair in tears, he gave her his consent. 
 
 Next day Chione brought the god a robe 
 And sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayed 
 Chione took him to her father's home 
 The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods, 
 And rich in land, and spoke of him as Acteus 
 A merchant from the city. Then the father 
 Gave thanks to Zeus and at the family board 
 Apollo supped, as one who would become 
 Chione's husband. So it came to pass. 
 They walked together in the bridal train 
 Behind the perfumed torches. 
 
 All the while 
 Zeus smiled to see Apollo's punishment. 
 And Hera, who with woman's subtlety. 
 Knew that there shone within Apollo's soul 
 A face like to the face of Artemis, 
 His virgin sister, delicate and chaste. 
 And to o'ercome such whiteness and reserve 
 Had been Apollo's madness from his birth. 
 Laughed freely with the muses as she said : 
 "Thus is the mascuUne spirit ever caught 
 By its own lure, let Zeus himself take heed 
 Lest sometime he be snared." 
 
 [171] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 So when Olympus 
 Grew dull, the gods for fun looked o'er the ramparts 
 And spied upon Apollo at the board 
 With all Chione's family ; or at night 
 Beside Chione and the little faces 
 Which every year increased. Or on Apollo 
 About his bitter task of shepherding 
 To win the bread for faded Chione 
 And for the children. 
 
 Thus the nine years passed. 
 Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses down 
 To bring Apollo back, and to Olympus 
 Humbled and sorrowful he came again. 
 With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair, 
 And a lack-lustre eye, which all the art 
 Of Aphrodite after many days 
 Could scarce remove. 
 
 Then Chione told her father 
 That Acteus was not a merchant from the city. 
 "Too late," she said, "I found he had deceived me 
 And masked his shepherd calling." 
 
 To which her father 
 The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods 
 And rich in land : "Yea, daughter, he deceived you. 
 Now he has run away, abandoned you. 
 May the gods note it and avenge the wrong." 
 
 [172I 
 
STEAM SHOVEL CUT 
 
 Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood, 
 And the trestle's at the end. 
 And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills, 
 And south the river's bend. 
 
 It's Christmas day and the blue on the hill 
 Is flapped by a flying crow. 
 And the steel of the railroad track is cold, 
 And the Cut is piled with snow. 
 
 What is that there by the trestle's end 
 Where the Cut slopes down to the slough ? 
 That's Cora Williams lying there 
 In her cloak of faded blue. 
 
 Her skirt is red as a northern spy, 
 And her mittens blackberry black. 
 And under her cotton underskirt 
 There's a green place on her back. 
 
 Her little gray hat is over her brow. 
 And covers a purple bruise. 
 She had white stockings lor her feet 
 And the holes were in her shoes. 
 [173] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl ? 
 And where did you start to booze ? 
 They saw you once at Rigdon's place, 
 And last at Sandy Hughes*. 
 
 On the night that Jesus Christ was born 
 You were drinking gin and beer. 
 They saw you sitting on Carless' knees 
 As the midnight hour drew near. 
 
 They saw you two start into the night, 
 And the night was cold and black. 
 And then they found you there by the bridge 
 With the green bruise on your back. 
 
 Down through the dark to the Shovel Cut 
 The two of you walked and sang. 
 You were holding hands on the trestle bridge 
 When the bell began to clang. 
 
 'Twas back of the curve that the head-light shone 
 
 So what was the use of eyes } 
 
 The mad iron thing leaped on you there 
 
 As you ran on the trestle ties. 
 
 It rushed on you like a furious bull 
 That charges a scarlet flag. 
 The engineer looked long at the gauge 
 As the fireman scraped the slag. 
 
 [174] 
 
STEAM SHOVEL CUT 
 
 Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stone 
 And the world to him was a blank. 
 But the iron thing struck at your back 
 And doubled you down on the bank. 
 
 Croak Carless woke from a sleep like death 
 And found you covered with blood. 
 He slinks to the river to wash his hands, 
 He runs to hide in the wood. 
 
 He steals through thickets, hides in a barn, 
 He cowers where the corn's in shock. 
 But the posse catches Croak by noon, 
 And the jailer turns the lock. 
 
 Croak Carless' wife weeps at the bars, 
 Croak weeps in a grated cell. 
 They've mortgaged the farm for a lawyer's fee 
 To save Croak's soul from hell. 
 
 For the Coroner has a bat-like thing 
 In a bottle safe in his room. 
 It looks like a baby devil fish — 
 It's Cora Williams' womb. 
 
 A woman's womb is a thing of doom 
 And winged with a fan-like mesh. 
 And who was the father, they're asking Croak, 
 Of this bit of jelly flesh .? 
 [175] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And the doctors took an oath in the court 
 That a sharp club did the deed. 
 And the judge was a foe of the lawyer man 
 Croak Carless paid to plead. 
 
 And Croak had talked too much in jail, 
 And he trembled and testified 
 To a woeful tangle of time and place, 
 And the jury thought he lied. 
 
 Croak Carless' wife sobbed out in court 
 
 As they twisted him out and in. 
 
 For they made him swear he drank with the girl, 
 
 And swear to his carnal sin. 
 
 They stood him up on the gallow's trap 
 And his voice was clear and low: 
 If I killed Cora Williams, men, 
 My soul to hell should go. 
 
 They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shot 
 Like a wheat bag toward the floor. 
 And the doctors let his body hang 
 Till his old heart beat no more. 
 
 They let him alone to work and sweat 
 For a wife's and children's ease. 
 But they hung him up for a little beer 
 With a woman on his knees. 
 
 [176] 
 
STEAM SHOVEL CUT 
 
 And he might have died in bed in a year, 
 For when they opened him up 
 They found his heart was a played out pump, 
 And leaked like a rusty cup. 
 
 And a man can live as the church decrees, 
 Or dance in the way of vice, 
 A woman's womb is a thing of doom, 
 And life is the current price. 
 
 'Tis a vampire bat, or the leather box 
 From which you rattle the dice. 
 'Tis an altar of doom, is a woman's womb, 
 And man is the sacrifice. 
 
 177] 
 
THE HOUSES 
 
 You wonder why I bought so many houses, 
 
 Bought and repaired, built over home on house. 
 
 The first one was to make a home for Mary, 
 
 And Frank and Bessie, for I had myself 
 
 A settled home when I was boy and man, 
 
 And knew the feeling of respect, content 
 
 Which comes of one familiar and continued 
 
 Habita^tion for a boy who's growing. 
 
 The first house, then, was poor enough, God knows ! 
 
 A place that smelt in all the rooms of breath 
 
 A sick man breathes into the very paper. 
 
 The rat holes in the base boards had to be 
 
 Stopped up with plaster, all the floors were loose. 
 
 Bricks lay awry upon the chimney tops. 
 
 An old well with a windlass on the porch 
 
 Made one remember typhoid all the time. 
 
 Some apple trees half-rotted, covered over 
 
 With water sprouts stood in a yard of weeds. 
 
 A barn was at the yard's end out of shape 
 
 From leaning at an angle. All in all 
 
 The place was haunted, but it was the best 
 
 I could afford just then, and naturally 
 
 She hated it and grumbled all the time. 
 
 [178] 
 
THE HOUSES 
 
 A few years past, It seemed scarce two or three, 
 
 And all the children married, went away. 
 
 Just then I grew more prosperous and built over 
 
 The haunted house, and built a handsome barn, 
 
 Cut out the apple trees, destroyed the weeds, 
 
 And put an Iron fence around the yard. 
 
 Put bathrooms, running water In the house. 
 
 She jawed at me for doing this, and asked 
 
 Why did you wait until the children left ? 
 
 Of course she knew, but blamed me just the same. 
 
 And so we had no pleasure with this house. 
 
 She wanted larger rooms, and trees In front, 
 
 A sunny dining room — there was that porch 
 
 On which ours looked, and though I closed the well 
 
 She often wondered why we had not died 
 
 Before I closed it. 
 
 And about this time 
 Our banker moved away and left his house 
 For sale at public auction. I went down 
 Alone, not telling her, to look at it. 
 Here was a house upon a stone foundation 
 Built of red brick, peaked roof of slate, three stories, 
 Brick walks about the yard with plots of flowers, 
 A barn of brick — it was the very place ! 
 There now were grandchildren ; and so I dreamed 
 How they would romp about this lovely yard, 
 Or play on rainy days in that wide garret. 
 
 [179] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And so I bid and got the house at auction. 
 
 But when I told her she was up in arms : 
 
 The house would hold a family of ten ! 
 
 Besides the upper rooms were far too small : 
 
 What is a dining room, or huge drawing room 
 
 If you step out of bed against the wall ? 
 
 Then there's that gully just below the barn 
 
 Breeding malaria, the banker's family 
 
 Were sick year in and out — that's why they sold it 
 
 For anything at public sale. O fool ! 
 
 Well, Mary came that summer with her children, 
 
 And my poor dream in part was realized. 
 
 But Frank and Bessie moved to California 
 
 And never saw the happiness I planned 
 
 For them and for their children. Mary's husband 
 
 Disliked the house — his hatred was beginning. 
 
 Next summer Mary left him and divorced him, 
 
 And started out to earn her children's bread. 
 
 She didn't come again. 
 
 And so it was true. 
 We didn't need so large a house — we sold it 
 And bought a cottage of six rooms ; this time 
 She joined with me in picking out the house. 
 But that was nothing, for no other house 
 Besides this one was up for sale just then. 
 No sooner had we moved than she was full 
 Of wounded memory and a mad regret : 
 [180I 
 
THE HOUSES 
 
 She saw what she had lost. These Httle rooms ! 
 
 This front fence almost jammed against the door! 
 
 And stoves again instead of radiators ! 
 
 No running water, only an old pump 
 
 Above the kitchen sink ! And near the station — 
 
 The bawling bussmen bothered her at night ! 
 
 The midnight train woke her unfailingly. 
 
 And now she said our first house was all right 
 
 With this, or that corrected. We had blundered 
 
 In ever selling it and taking on 
 
 Such luxury in the brick house. It had spoiled 
 
 Her taste for living in a house like this, 
 
 With just a little yard, that hideous fence. 
 
 Which one could touch while standing in the door ! 
 
 She said she could not breathe because of it, 
 
 And railed against her fate so that it brought 
 
 The next step in my life of buying houses. . . . 
 
 Dreams entered in my brain of fields and woods, 
 A little lake perhaps, river or stream. 
 There was a fad of buying farms just then. 
 I went to Michigan on other business, 
 And there I saw one, bought it on the spot. 
 You see I had the passion as of drink. 
 And knew it as I ventured once again. 
 But then there was the house upon the bluff ! 
 And there below it was the river ! there 
 Beeches and oaks down to the river's edge ! 
 [181I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 A great white house all new, and apple trees, 
 
 A vineyard and a field of eighty acres. 
 
 Here will I sit, I said, upon my bluff 
 
 And watch the river. I will keep a man 
 
 To farm the place, and prune the vines and trees, 
 
 This is the place at last. But then I thought 
 
 What will she say ? She wants a farm I know. 
 
 But will this suit her ? So I sent for her. 
 
 And when she came she kissed me, she was glad, 
 
 Commended my good judgment, loved the house, 
 
 Went through the barn in rapture, stood beneath 
 
 The windmill, which was near, to watch it pump. 
 
 Strolled down the wooded bluif, threw pebbles in 
 
 The river where the swallows dipped and flew, 
 
 And gathered daisies by the river's shore. 
 
 I sat down in the grass flushed through with joy. 
 
 Like one who finds his haven, who has solved 
 
 Laborious troubles, thinking of the rest 
 
 I should take here — a man to run the place, 
 
 And months of summer recreation here ! 
 
 I told her what my plan was. 
 
 No, she said. 
 To own a farm is business. You should know 
 By this time that you have no head for business. 
 I think youVe shown some wisdom in this farm, 
 Or better you've had luck in buying it. 
 Your other ventures buying houses were 
 [182] 
 
THE HOUSES 
 
 Enough to make you have distrust of self. 
 
 Now that youVe bought the farm to make it pay 
 
 Is what we have in hand, and you must work. 
 
 We'll keep a man, but he cannot do all 
 
 There is to do here, I will work and you 
 
 Must work as well, the farm must pay, you know. 
 
 I want the man to live with us in the house 
 
 So I can watch him, rout him out to work 
 
 At sun-up and keep watch upon his time. 
 
 We'll keep two rooms for our use. For the man 
 Must have a family, these single fellows 
 Are off too much at night and think too much 
 In working hours of what they'll do at night. 
 
 Perhaps I am a weakling with my dream 
 
 Of buying houses, for I dream of joys 
 
 And build my palaces, invite my joys 
 
 To enter and be glad. They never come ! 
 
 She took the farm and ran it. It was business, 
 
 But business in disorder with a loss 
 
 For seed which did not sprout, and stock that died, 
 
 And glutted markets when the fruit was good. 
 
 I worked awhile, I fished once in the river, 
 
 I sat a few times on my wooded bluff — 
 
 And then I fled and left her to the farm 
 
 To rule a single farmer who cut weeds. 
 
 Abandoned weeds for plowing, left the plow 
 
 [183] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 To make a flower bed, following her whims 
 Obedient, indifi"erent to results. . . . 
 
 If you destroy a bird's nest that's the end. 
 
 The nesting birds return to find the branch 
 
 Where they had builded with such patient care, 
 
 All naked of their work. They look and fly 
 
 And think of what ? But build no more that year. 
 
 But if you take a twig and scratch the grains 
 
 About the ant hill, overturn their work. 
 
 Stop up the door, the little folk begin 
 
 To build again, clear out the ruined hall — 
 
 They cannot be discouraged like the birds. 
 
 I think I am an ant — for even yet 
 
 Fm looking for a house, or better a home. 
 
 There is that house walled in with earth — that's 
 
 sure — 
 But if there is no house to fill my joy 
 Why have I looked for houses all my life ? 
 
 184] 
 
THE CHURCH AND THE HOTEL 
 
 Over the dead lake 
 And in a dusty sky 
 The full moon is speared by the spire of the Baptist 
 
 church ; 
 Or now it hangs over the Groveland Hotel : 
 I do not know whether it is over the spire 
 Or over the hotel. 
 
 In a dusty sky the moon 
 
 Is the bottom of a copper kettle 
 
 Which cannot be scoured into brightness. 
 
 The sky is a faded mosquito net 
 
 Over a brass cylinder cap 
 
 Dulled with verdigris. 
 
 Some years ago, 
 Not many years ago, 
 The Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D. 
 At the pulpit under this spire 
 With habitual regularity 
 Used to say : 
 Let us pray. 
 
 And the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D. 
 
 [185] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 With habitual regularity 
 
 Used to preach 
 
 On the wages of sin. 
 
 And on Sunday evenings 
 
 As he was saying let us pray, 
 
 Ed Breen in Henry Hughes' buffet, 
 
 There in the Groveland Hotel 
 
 Sitting with cronies at a table would say : 
 
 "Another round, Henry, 
 
 Bourbon for me." 
 
 And at 7 : 30, 
 
 At the very moment 
 
 When the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D. 
 
 Was saying let us pray, 
 
 Ed Breen would be beginning the night, 
 
 And would be saying to Henry Hughes : 
 
 "Another round, Henry, 
 
 Bourbon for me." 
 
 You, Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D. 
 
 Lived to a ripe age. 
 
 You lived to marry a second wife. 
 
 And you, Ed Breen, died in the thirties. 
 
 But whether it be better to have ptomaine poisoning 
 
 From eating cold chicken, 
 
 Or to drug yourself to death with bourbon 
 
 I will ask the moon. 
 
 [186I 
 
THE CHURCH AND THE HOTEL 
 
 For there Is the moon 
 
 Like a German silver watch 
 
 Under a grimy show case. 
 
 I think it hangs as much over the hotel 
 
 As over the church. 
 
 [187] 
 
SUSIE 
 
 Where did you go, pale Susie, after the day 
 You left the service of the boarding house ? 
 The night before we made carouse 
 And danced the time away. 
 
 We boys were in the kitchen and were drinking 
 Small beer — you slapped the hands of us 
 Who stroked your arms half amorous — 
 Where did you go, Vm thinking ? 
 
 Medical students up at Hahnemann 
 Hunt women on a Saturday night. 
 And sing, tell tales, and verse recite, 
 And rush the forbidden can. 
 
 The paltry mistress made you pay for all 
 The fault of us, and packed you out of doors 
 When you had scrubbed the floors, 
 And swept the entrance hall. 
 
 I watched you in your faded cloak and hat 
 With canvas bag walk towards the Grove. 
 Then something in my fancy hove, 
 Laughing I caught you at 
 f 188I 
 
SUSIE 
 
 The doorway of the hotel on the street 
 
 Where I had tracked you round from thirty-first. 
 You laughed and cried and called me worst 
 Of devils on two feet. 
 
 There I had followed you and seized you when 
 You did not care what happened, so 
 You fell into my hands, you know — 
 'Tis twenty years since then. 
 
 I never saw you after that, nor heard 
 In all this city aught of you. 
 You vanished like a blot of dew, 
 Or ashen hued seed bird. 
 
 I wonder if you wed a red bull-throat 
 Who ran a rivet hammer, drove a truck, 
 Bore many children or worse luck 
 Went where the drift weeds float. . . . 
 
 [1891 
 
HAVING HIS WAY 
 
 We parted at the Union Station, 
 
 Tom Hall and I, 
 
 Two boys in the early twenties 
 
 Fresh from the quiet of fields, 
 
 And the sleepy silence of village life. 
 
 And we stepped into Adams Street, 
 
 Noisy from trucks and rattling cars, 
 
 And babbling multitudes. 
 
 He with his great invention, 
 
 And I with my translation of Homer, 
 
 And the books of Rousseau and Marx. 
 
 And he went his way 
 
 To sell his great invention. 
 
 And I In the village glory 
 
 Of clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitive 
 
 And proud, a little learned, so zealous 
 
 For the weal of the world 
 
 Came to your chateau palace near the Drive, 
 
 To you my friend, my queenly cousin, 
 
 For a little visit before I entered 
 
 Upon the city's life. 
 
 [190] 
 
HAVING HIS WAY 
 
 You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes, 
 
 And put me at ease with your lovely smile. 
 
 And there was about you the calm of desert air in 
 
 Nevada 
 That made me forget myself. 
 Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words, 
 And to mould me with delicate hands, 
 As one might smooth a rumpled collar, 
 Or fasten a loosened scarf, 
 Or lift to place a strand of hair 
 Of one beloved who thrills to the touch. 
 Even with closed eyes you saw everything 
 Of harmony, or form, or hue. 
 There were silver strings in your little ears 
 Which caught the tone pictures of sounds. 
 And the intonations and sonorities of voices ; 
 Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words. 
 And there as you saw and heard me, 
 (I knew it at once,) 
 
 You took me for your piece of bronze in the rough 
 To be made under your hands 
 Your triumph, your work, your creation 
 In the world where you ruled as queen. 
 You would see me as finished art 
 Move before admiring eyes 
 Where music is and richness. 
 And where poverty and struggle 
 And sacrifice and failure are forgotten. 
 
 [191] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 That was the cousin you meant me to be. 
 
 And in a few nights 
 
 There v/as an evening dress and fine linen 
 
 And an opera hat and cloak 
 
 Laid out for me in my snow white room, 
 
 And a valet came to help me. 
 
 For we were to see Carmen together — 
 
 You and I in a box. 
 
 You the queen, 
 
 And I a genius from the country 
 
 Of whom the word had gone the rounds : 
 
 A translator of Homer, 
 
 And a dreamer of revolutions, 
 
 Her cousin, you know 1 
 
 I was pale from fear and pride 
 
 As I entered the box with you. 
 
 I felt I was wronging my dreams 
 
 And apostatizing all I had dreamed 
 
 To be in this box with you. 
 
 And a sullen hatred of everything : 
 
 The mass of color, the faint perfumes, 
 
 The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breasts 
 
 Of the queens in the boxes angered me. 
 
 And everyone was smiling, and everyone was leveling 
 
 Opera glasses, sometimes at me, 
 
 A translator of Homer 
 
 And a dreamer of socialism. 
 
 [192] 
 
HAVING HIS WAY 
 
 And there like a fool I sat and thought 
 Of the cold without and the beggar man 
 Who stood at your carriage as we alighted. 
 
 And when the music arose at last 
 
 A sort of madness whirled in my brain. 
 
 For what was this Carmen thing 
 
 But subtle wickedness and cruel lust 
 
 And hardest heathenism, 
 
 And delight that seeks its own, 
 
 In a setting of bloody voluptuousness, 
 
 Fiendish caprice and faithlessness, 
 
 In music through which a pagan soul 
 
 Had sensed and voiced it all ? 
 
 Till at least (I almost shrieked at this) 
 
 Don Jose in his amorous madness 
 
 Plunged a knife in the back of the whore he loved 
 
 To the growl of horns and moan of viols. . . . 
 
 And you sat through it all 
 Like a firefly on a vine leaf 
 Suspiring in all your body. 
 And gazing with calm Egyptian eyes. 
 Or turning to me as if you would know 
 If the poison was In my blood. , . . 
 But I was immune : 
 Democracy seemed too glorious, 
 And the cause of the poor too just, 
 o [ 193 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And fair sweet love of men and women 
 
 So worth the cost to gain and keep, 
 
 And honest bread too sweet — 
 
 I was immune. . . . 
 
 And I scarcely saw the fair slim girl 
 
 To whom you introduced me. 
 
 And I scarcely heard what you said in the carriage 
 
 About her countless riches. 
 
 And I scarcely heard your words of praise 
 
 That I looked like a prince, 
 
 And that you meant to help me. 
 
 And do by me what your husband would do 
 
 If he were living. 
 
 And lift me along to a place in life 
 
 Where power and riches are. 
 
 And beauty is and music, 
 
 And where struggle and sacrifice are forgotten. 
 
 And when I did not answer you thought 
 I sat abashed by your side. 
 Instead in my mind were running 
 The notes to Queen Mab, 
 And bits of Greek. 
 I did this to stifle my wrath, 
 And to forget the cage you were luring me into, 
 And the poison you were offering me. 
 And the cause of Truth ! 
 And hiding my wrath in a day or two 
 [194] 
 
HAVING HIS WAY 
 
 I left you saying I would return, 
 But I never returned. 
 
 Instead I went where the youths were thinking, 
 
 Painting and writing, 
 
 And talking of the revolution. 
 
 And the glorious day to come. 
 
 And I was happy even though 
 
 They sent my great translation back 
 
 As poor and amateurish. 
 
 For the years of youth were long ahead 
 
 There was time to try again. . . . 
 
 Then Margaret's stepmother 
 Drove her from home, and she came to the city 
 Crying in her loneliness and destitution. 
 Suffering from her lame hip. 
 And even these were happy days. 
 For I loved her for her sorrows, 
 I loved her for her lameness. 
 It was all transfigured through my love 
 For democracy and sacrifice. 
 And the sweetness of honest bread. 
 And it was like taking the sacrament, our marriage. 
 And there in our Httle flat far out 
 On Robey Street I toiled at writing 
 While she went about so lame. 
 Trying to keep the house for me, 
 [i9Sl 
 
HAVING HIS WAY 
 
 You see it comes to this, dear queen : 
 
 Can a man or woman alive escape 
 
 The granite's edges or ditch's mire, 
 
 The thorny thickets or marsh's gas, 
 
 Or the traps one thinks would never be set 
 
 Except for the fox or wolf ? . . . 
 
 And here is Margaret down with a cough 
 
 Never to rise from her bed again. 
 
 And I sit by at my task of jokes, 
 
 And I stop to read your letter again, 
 
 And wonder why life has never caught you. 
 
 And why you are laughing there in Rome 
 
 Where you dine with happy friends ; 
 
 Or tramp the thickets around the ruins 
 
 Of the Baths of Caracalla — 
 
 I see the platforms and dizzy arches 
 
 Under a sky of Italy. 
 
 It's cloudy here and the elevated 
 
 Rattles and roars beneath my window. 
 
 You're picking flowers while it's winter here. 
 
 I read these things in your letter and wonder 
 
 Is the asp at your breast in spite of laughter ^ 
 
 Or when is the asp to sting you ^ 
 
 197 1 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And to clear away the disorders 
 Which piled about her constantly 
 And were never cleared away. . . . 
 
 And is it not strange that to-day, 
 
 After the lapse of ten years 
 
 These two things happen within an hour ? 
 
 Your letter from Rome arrived — 
 
 For though I scorned your life and love, 
 
 And went my way, 
 
 You write me still it seems, 
 
 Not to wound my fallen state. 
 
 Nor to show me what my life had been 
 
 If I had heeded you. 
 
 But just in the continuous sunshine 
 
 Of noble friendship to show me 
 
 I am sometimes in your thought. 
 
 And scarcely had your letter come 
 
 When Tom Hall crept up the creaking stairs 
 
 Dragging his feet with the help of a cane — 
 
 He is rich and came to help me. 
 
 And Tom Hall had his way as well : 
 
 He hated marriage and went the rounds, 
 
 Wherever a pretty face allured. 
 
 And now he is sick and dragging his feet. 
 
 And here am I at a writing desk : 
 
 I'm cap and bells for the Daily Globe 
 
 And my grind is a column a day. 
 
 [196] 
 
THE ASP 
 
 As the train rushed on 
 
 The days of our youth swept through me, 
 
 As if they were brought to life by a sort of friction. 
 
 I thought of how madly you laughed 
 
 When we played at blindman's buff with the Miller 
 
 girls ; 
 And of the May baskets we made together, 
 And hung as we rang the bell and ran. 
 And of our games in the first spring days 
 When we stole from house to house. 
 And the children were shouting 
 And the April moon was new. 
 And the smell of burning leaves 
 And the first tulips filled us with such ecstasy. 
 We laughed, we shouted, we leaped for joy. 
 We ran like mad through the rooms. 
 And we went to bed at last 
 Laughing and gasping, 
 And lay looking at the moon through the leafless 
 
 boughs, 
 And fell to sleep with joyous hearts, 
 Thinking of to-morrow. 
 And the days and days to come for play, 
 And the summer to come, 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
THE ASP 
 
 And all the mad raptures of school at an end, 
 
 And no death, and no end 
 
 Of the love of father and mother, 
 
 And the home we loved. 
 
 And here It was spring again — 
 But such a spring ! 
 At the end of such years and years 
 And births and births and spheres and spheres of life, 
 Each like a life or a world of its own 
 With its friends, its own completeness, its rounded end. 
 And back of them all 
 Our old home forgotten. 
 Our father and mother gone, 
 And back of this spring that ended world of ours 
 Wherein we parted 
 Grown misty too ! 
 And as the train rushed on 
 And the hour of meeting you neared 
 I was thrilled with gladness, thrilled with fear. 
 And now the station was Herkimer, 
 And now it was Amsterdam, 
 And now it was Albany, 
 And then Poughkeepsie on the Hudson. 
 And I looked from the car to the passing scene. 
 And back to the car again. 
 Or I turned in my seat 
 Or took up my book and laid it down, 
 
 [199] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Or fastened my bag for the hundredth time, 
 
 Or straightened my cloak on the seat, 
 
 And waited and waited. 
 
 For I had a story to" tell you 
 
 That I could not wait to tell. 
 
 I was traveling a thousand miles to tell you, 
 
 And to get your advice, to have your solace. 
 
 To look in your eyes again, 
 
 And to feel in spite of springs that were gone. 
 
 And our old home, and father and mother gone 
 
 There was an arm in the world for me to lean on. 
 
 And the train rushed on 
 Bringing me nearer to you. 
 And the tears welled up to my eyes 
 As I wondered why life had mangled me so : 
 Why the man I loved at first and hated afterward 
 Had died that tragic death. 
 Leaving me with memories of that love, 
 And such agony for that hate. 
 And why as a sort of Empress Eugenia 
 The world turned on me when I fell, 
 And the little power I had departed. 
 And why in spite of my aspiration 
 I had run into such disgust. 
 Such overthrow of my work, 
 Such undoing of myself. 
 Such spiritual wreck and shame ! 
 [ 200] 
 
THE ASP 
 
 And to think of what had done it : 
 
 My search for love, my struggle for excellence — 
 
 These things alone ! 
 
 I had married this second man for love, 
 
 And because I believed in him 
 
 As a man of power, a man of thought, 
 
 A man who loved me. 
 
 And hoping through him to retrieve my life 
 
 From the smut of the man I married first. 
 
 But I found my very soul deceived : 
 
 He was just a violent visionary, 
 
 A frothing fool, 
 
 A spendthrift, coward, hedonist. 
 
 And there I was tied to him. 
 
 And carrying his child while finding him out. 
 
 So I used to stand with my face to the wall 
 
 And choke my mouth with a handkerchief 
 
 To keep from crying out. 
 
 For I knew if a whimper passed my lips 
 
 I should fall and roll on the floor with madness, 
 
 And beat my head on the floor. 
 
 So when the train rolled into the station 
 A sickness, a weakness came over me. 
 I had spent myself in expectation. 
 And now that I was about to see you, 
 The thought of the vainness of seeing you, 
 And the thought that you could not help me, 
 [201 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Though I had traveled these thousand miles, 
 
 Made me wish to fly, to hide. 
 
 So I stepped from the train in a kind of daze. 
 
 And scarcely felt your kiss. 
 
 It seemed relaxed, so faint. 
 
 And your voice was weak. 
 
 And your eyes were dim and dry. 
 
 And there in the cab as we drove to the Park 
 
 I was still in a daze 
 
 Talking of May baskets 
 
 And blindman's buff, 
 
 And laughing, for one always laughs 
 
 When the moment is worst. 
 
 And so it was I did not really see you. 
 
 But when we began to walk 
 
 Things about you began to limn themselves : 
 
 Your shoulders seemed a little bent. 
 
 There were streaks of snow on your temples. 
 
 And you were quiet with the terrible quietness 
 
 Of understanding of life. 
 
 And the old wit I knew. 
 
 And the glad defiance of fate, 
 
 And the light in your eyes. 
 
 And the musical laugh 
 
 All were gone. 
 
 Perhaps the daily grind of Cap and Bells 
 
 Had sapped you, dear. 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
THE ASP 
 
 But when I looked at your hand on your cane 
 
 And saw how white and slim it was, 
 
 And how it trembled, I knew 
 
 You were not the giant man of old. 
 
 Though you said you were gaining strength again, 
 
 And I could lean on your arm. 
 
 Well, then I told you all : 
 How my search for love had fooled me again ; 
 And how this beast had wronged and robbed me ; 
 And how he stood in his paranoiac rages. 
 And compared himself to Christ. 
 But when I began to speak of the child, 
 What a darling girl she was. 
 You sank in a seat and said : "No more — 
 I didn't think I was weak as this — 
 You mustn't tell me another thing, 
 Not now, not just now." 
 Then I saw, what Time had done. 
 And I saw that you could not help me. 
 And the next day and the next day. 
 When I did not see you, 
 
 And weeks passed by and I scarcely saw you, 
 And I scarcely saw you again. 
 Though I had come a thousand miles 
 To lean on your arm, 
 
 It grew in my mind that you despised me, 
 Or that you were indifferent to my lot, 
 [203] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Or at least that I was a wounded thing 
 
 You could not bear to see. 
 
 Till at last, though I knew 
 
 That my way was clear : there was nothing to do 
 
 But to fly with my child, 
 
 And leave him forever. 
 
 And endure great loneliness forever, if need be, 
 
 And whatever shame there was, 
 
 For the sake of my soul's honor, 
 
 Which only myself could save, 
 
 And you could save not at all. 
 
 Though I knew, I say, that my way was clear, 
 
 And I needed your help not at all, 
 
 Still in a kind of madness 
 
 I began to reproach you for not helping me, 
 
 And for abandoning me to my fate. . 
 
 As a sick child will cry and blame its mother 
 
 When it is not healed at once. 
 
 And that was the mood he found me in 
 When he came with a smile and honey words. 
 Well, I fell in his arms, and here I am 
 Plunged up to the mouth in spiritual muck, 
 And what life is left for me now ? 
 How can I go on with life .? 
 For he hates me now as a humbled thing. 
 He has broken my pride and he hates me now. 
 And he roars and curses about the house, 
 [204] 
 
THE ASP 
 
 And yells at our little girl when she cries, 
 
 And stands with his hands outstretched and says 
 
 That his fate is worse than Christ's. 
 
 And I tremble and rustle around like a fallen leaf, 
 
 And neither laugh nor cry nor return him a word. 
 
 For you know there's a spring, 
 
 And you know there's a fire, 
 
 To burn dead leaves. 
 
 And after the ashes 
 
 There's a spirit given a chance ! 
 
 [205] 
 
THE FAMILY 
 
 We were three larks in the same nest. 
 All spring the wind blew from the west. 
 We chirped beneath the enshadowing wheat, 
 It grew to green, it grew to gold. 
 Our mother's voice was piercing sweet 
 To see how strong we were and bold — 
 How palpitant of wing. 
 
 We knew our father not, alas ! 
 A hunter slew him while the grass 
 Was fresh beneath the April rain. 
 And ere I had the strength to fly 
 Our brother sang a farewell strain 
 And soared into the empty sky. 
 And then our sister knew the fear 
 And hunger of a serpent's eye. 
 And our sweet mother, lone and drear, 
 Fled far afield and left me here 
 To nurse my heart and sing. 
 
 [ 206 ] 
 
THE SUBWAY 
 
 There was the white face of Fear, 
 
 And the solemn face of Duty, 
 
 And the face of self looking in the mirror. 
 
 But there were voices calling from vernal hilltops, 
 
 And silver spirits by moonlit gardens calling, 
 
 And voices of no sound from far horizons calling, 
 
 But even if there be penitence for living 
 
 And thought and tears for the past 
 
 And even shame and even hunger ; 
 
 And if there be nothing gained at the last in living, 
 
 And much to pay for the madness of briefest bliss ; 
 
 And if there be nothing in life, and life be nothing 
 
 So that to nail one's self to the cross is nothing lost 
 
 Is Death not even less ? 
 
 These were the voices whereto we tore our flower 
 Petal by petal apart and scattered it, 
 And paused and paltered. 
 
 But lest the whispers grow louder. 
 And the eyebrows arch to a fiercer scorn, 
 You fled away to France and left me 
 With only a poor half uttered farewell, 
 
 [207] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 A scrawl put off to the last, then written 
 As with shut eyes, swift nervous hands : 
 As one might wait for the heroic thought 
 To take his poison — wait in vain, and then 
 Cowardly gulp it down and reel to death. 
 I could not hate you for the pain of hate, 
 And could not love you who had hid yourself, 
 Belied yourself behind this scrawl. 
 I could only sit half-numb, 
 And drift in thought. 
 
 And afterwards it wasn't so much to be alone. 
 
 Nor to dream of the days that were done, 
 
 Save as it deepened the surge in my heart. 
 
 Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thought 
 
 Of your soul drawn away from me. 
 
 So needlessly drawn it seemed. 
 
 And it's the music that deepens and changes, — 
 
 For as your soul adds strings to its strings 
 
 There are fingers to play — it almost seems 
 
 There are fingers about us that watch and wait 
 
 For a soul that's adding strings to its harp 
 
 To play them when they're strung. 
 
 And so it's the music that deepens and changes 
 
 That kills you at last I think. 
 
 Well, I had a dream one night 
 That a dead man well could dream : 
 [208I 
 
THE SUBWAY 
 
 They had buried me In Rosehill. 
 
 And after twenty years from France they brought you 
 
 And put you just across the walk from me 
 
 Where we slept while the crowding city grew 
 
 To a vast six millions, and they were building 
 
 A subway to Lake Forest. 
 
 And we were forgotten of everyone, ' 
 
 And almost our family names were lost. 
 
 And our love you fled from all forgotten, 
 
 And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgotten 
 
 With the whispers of boys and girls 
 
 In a temple's shadow in Babylon. 
 
 Well, to pursue, it's a day in March 
 When the colors are brilliantly white and blue ; 
 And it's cold except for Poles and Italians 
 Who dig with spades and cut with picks. 
 And some of these fellows are digging us up, 
 We lie in the way of the subway, you know. 
 And they dump our bones in a careless heap, 
 The ribs of me by the ribs of you, 
 My skull lies ignorant by your skull. 
 And behold our poor arms are entwined. 
 For death you know is a mocker of Life. 
 And there we lie like stocks and stones. 
 And where is our love and where is your fear ? 
 And a young Pole pushes our bones together 
 With a lusty shove of his heavy shoe, 
 p [ 209 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And he says to another : ''You saw that girl 
 I was dancing with last night ? 
 Well, I don't think I'm the only one. 
 And besides she bothers me most to death. 
 And as soon as this subway job is over, 
 Which will be in a year, or year and a half, 
 Fm going to beat it back to Poland." 
 Then the other beginning to shovel muttered 
 "1976." 
 
 [210] 
 
THE RADICAL'S MESSAGE 
 
 To the archangels and the fiery seed 
 
 Of mad Prometheus, fighting gods for men. 
 
 And heaven for earth, this greeting : 
 
 I led you once, I taught you, am the sire 
 
 Of hosts of you, but fellow to you all. 
 
 And when I fell, was chained upon this bed 
 
 By adamantine sickness, then I lay 
 
 And had you in my thought hour after hour, 
 
 Day after day, and saw you in dreams by night 
 
 Still fighting, bleeding, caring for the fallen, 
 
 Or objurgating heaven for the curse 
 
 It sheds on men, or arming for the fray 
 
 With steel of resisting thought; and so the sense 
 
 Of my responsibility has weighed 
 
 Upon me as my night has deftly dawned 
 
 To something clearer than the soul you knew, 
 
 Who led you once, with breath of iron horns. 
 
 Called to you : Charge ! there is the trench of greed ! 
 
 Avenge the poor ! bring justice ! purge the state 
 
 Of fraud ! And so I lay and thought of you 
 
 Still guarding the old lines, fighting the old fights, 
 
 While I was changed, was not your leader now. 
 
 Cared no more for your battles, save as strife 
 
 [211] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 That leads up higher, for upon my wall 
 I woke to see these words : He only wins 
 His freedom and existence who each day 
 Conquers them newly. How can I tell you 
 What has come over me ? 
 
 You walk through galleries, 
 Devour the pictures in the different rooms, 
 Then gaze about you where you stand at last 
 Amid supernal canvases of light. 
 Try to recall the pictures you have studied, 
 What you have seen has helped you to perceive 
 The final beauties, but is blurred in mind, 
 It has been lived, has lost its vital power, 
 Is not the sovereign moment. 
 
 Climb a mountain 
 The whole day through, and at the time of stars 
 Stand on a peak and search infinity ! 
 You have forgot the valleys, save perhaps 
 The torment of the flies of which you're freed 
 In these cool heights. 
 
 So age cannot recall 
 The thrill and intimate complexities 
 That made the thought of youth. A sickness comes : 
 One has been metamorphosed, cannot live 
 The old emotions, habits, old delights. 
 
 [212] 
 
THE RADICAL'S MESSAGE 
 
 And as for that we change each day and all 
 Our yesterdays are chrysalises whence 
 We crawled to what we are. In short, archangels, 
 I have become another soul. Now listen : 
 
 I have seen things I cannot tell you of. 
 
 I have gained understandings past my power 
 
 To give you clearly ; yet upon me rests 
 
 The teasing call to tell you, here I lie 
 
 Revolving this new task of leadership. 
 
 How shall I make you see I have not failed you ? 
 
 Not really played a treasonous soul to you } 
 
 Not scorned the cause I gave you, kept you in ? 
 
 Or damned you for, or made you suffer for ? 
 
 I railed at heaven, I instructed you 
 
 To rail as well. How can you understand 
 
 I now accept the fate ^ Will you despise me 
 
 For saying this 1 Or will you say disease 
 
 Has weakened me, cooled off the fire of soul 
 
 And damped my courage ? Then go on your way 
 
 To find a worthier leader ? 
 
 So to doubt 
 I taught you once, but now my mind believes. 
 And to deny the order of the world 
 I gave you words, now I affirm the plan. 
 To fight against the gods in man's behalf, 
 I made my leadership. Now I perceive 
 [213] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The cause of gods and men made one. You see 
 It is not individual gain that counts 
 In these external benefits of freedom 
 And satisfaction of material wants, 
 That counts so much, I say, as inner chains 
 Struck from the wrists, and inner scales peeled off 
 From inner eyes. I grant the human cause. 
 And say this, — Can I make you understand .? 
 To give you proof my heart is with you yet 
 Let me reveal my sacrifice. 
 
 Suppose 
 YouVe found a truth that others knew before you, 
 Seen, let us say, the cat, as single taxers 
 Are wont to say ? You hunt up some adherent 
 Who's labored with you, tell him, "Tm convinced, 
 I see the cat at last." You want to share 
 Your joy with some one, want his dragging hope 
 To hear you have arrived. And so with me 
 I hungered to communicate my vision 
 To some one who had seen it, and who knew 
 Its meaning, what it meant to me. 
 
 But then 
 You archangels and hot Promethean seed 
 Each time I thought of making the confession 
 To some delighted spirit, ranged yourselves 
 In thought around my sick bed, with contempt, 
 [214] 
 
THE RADICAL^S MESSAGE 
 
 Or pained compassion written on your brows, 
 
 And words like these : He has deserted us, 
 
 He has surrendered, cringed before the gods. 
 
 And so my sacrifice is this : You'll be 
 
 The first to know my second birth, you can 
 
 In such case never charge it up to fear, 
 
 Or weakness, shrunken nerves, or spirit 
 
 That lost the human touch through the effects 
 
 Of some delirium. What mind so clear. 
 
 Or will so strong to die with this denial 
 
 For your sakes ? For it may be best for you 
 
 To live the rebel out of you. And if 
 
 You thought — at least I fear it — if you thought 
 
 I had gone over to the hosts you hate. 
 
 As you are now, through weakness, made my peace 
 
 With heaven, as you'd call it, just to save 
 
 My wretched self, you'd have a mad regret, 
 
 A fine disgust to work through, added labor 
 
 To all you must achieve. That's why I die, 
 
 And seal this message. Break it on the day 
 
 They make me ashes 1 
 
 [215] 
 
BOMBYX 
 
 Sealed In a cocoon-cradle of white silk, 
 
 Locked fast in sleep ; 
 
 Or bound for years as a chrysalid, while the neap 
 
 Creative tides rise to the spring and slough 
 
 The torn strands and the golden pupa stuff, 
 
 You tear wings free for the connubial flight — 
 
 Break suddenly the embryo trance, drift off. 
 
 Whole troops of you in a looped and colorful clutter 
 
 Wobbling like leaves in a fresh wind's delight. 
 
 And over clover meadows in a flutter, 
 
 Or through sweet scented hollows, 
 
 You seek the expectant mate, 
 
 And the mad moment where life turns to death, 
 
 And both become one essence and one breath, 
 
 One undivided fate. 
 
 Together you fly 
 
 Drunken with life, yet mad to die. 
 Since soul achievement is death after all. 
 All rivals for the wedding festival. 
 Yet only one of you can win the prize ; 
 The rest shall sink exhausted in defeat, 
 While the triumphant bridegroom dies 
 In his own rapture and creative fire — 
 All perish in the flame of their desire. 
 
 [216] 
 
BOMBYX 
 
 For none of you is given strength to live 
 
 Beyond the quest, or the hymeneal kiss ; 
 
 The disappointed perish 
 
 One wins his joy, but may not keep or cherish 
 
 The moment which contains it, sudden doom 
 
 Falls on the winner of his bliss 
 
 And on the wings that quiver their frustration. 
 
 Bombyi ! to have more life than is enough 
 
 To win the mate, achieve the one success, 
 
 And on that life to mount and half survey 
 
 The universe — 
 
 Build cities with it, letter precious scrolls, 
 
 Plan for the race to be and have the vision 
 
 To labor for of ages half elysian, 
 
 Is that a benediction or a curse ? 
 
 Is it a good or evil to have strength 
 
 To soar beyond the sun, or planets even 
 
 If none of us at length 
 
 Reach heaven ? 
 
 If none of our infatuate souls 
 
 Sip the bright fire of God ? 
 
 If it be all a flying in a dream, 
 
 A lying down at last in deeper night, 
 
 To enrich the prodigal sod, 
 
 To breed new wings 
 
 For the same flight ? 
 
THE APOLOGY OF DEMETRIUS 
 
 Hyacinthus, your money, the idol you ordered is 
 finished. 
 
 May the grace of Diana be with you in strength un- 
 diminished. 
 
 Behold how the breast of it glitters, as if it were 
 
 wrought in with stipples. 
 The Ephesian goddess is nature and these are her 
 
 bountiful nipples. 
 
 So then do I fear for my trade ^ No, never 1 It's 
 
 past my conceiving. 
 There'll be work for the artist while gods change to 
 
 win our believing. 
 
 Come on then, you babblers and madmen from Jewry 
 
 and tell us and show us — 
 Yes, come with your tumult the like of which never 
 
 was known in Corinth or Troas. 
 
 They crowd in the markets and temples and gabble a 
 
 story that palters. 
 Well, I whistle and hammer the silver, a maker of 
 
 statues and altars. 
 
 [218I 
 
THE APOLOGY OF DEMETRIUS 
 
 Who says I am wroth lest in Samothrace, Lystra and 
 
 Delos 
 The craft of the maker of images fail through the 
 
 speech of these fellows ? 
 
 And the temple of Artemis perish ? Oh, well, however 
 
 they hate us 
 Can they burn it as once it was burned by the wretch 
 
 Herostratus ? 
 
 But we built it again and carved it all newly in beauty 
 
 and wonder — 
 Destroy it, oh man, who was crazed by lightning and 
 
 roaring of thunder ! 
 
 Oh virgin Diana, if virgin, what virgin whose altar is 
 
 older ! 
 If matron what breasts hang with milk for the eyes of 
 
 her temples' beholder ! 
 
 For centuries gone — when these Jews prayed to ser- 
 pents of bronze and calves that were golden 
 
 In Ephesus, Arcady, Athens, our reverent love was 
 beholden 
 
 To the goddess of prophecy, music, the lyre, of light, 
 i inspiration, 
 
 Who guarded and watches the city and lays the foun- 
 dation 
 
 [219]* 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Of nations and laws. What works we have done, yea 
 
 still we would heed her — 
 And look at your barbarous ark in your temple of jewels 
 
 and cedar ! 
 
 What is our pollution, our idols, our sacrificed things 
 
 which are strangled ? 
 I ask you already divided in turbulent parties who 
 
 wrangled 
 
 Concerning salvation of God to the faith of the uncir- 
 
 cumcision 
 In Cyprus and Paphos, where poets of love keep the 
 
 Hellenic vision. 
 
 I am filled with my loathing ! Oh keep me a Greek 
 
 though you make me a whoreson, 
 When the worship of beauty is dead you may pare off 
 
 my foreskin. 
 
 When the symbol is dead which I mould to Diana our 
 
 goddess 
 ril retire to the country of Nod, no matter where Nod 
 
 is. 
 
 It will live when your temples are built, if any are 
 
 builded. 
 And Jesus in silver is nailed on a cross which is gilded. 
 
 [ 220] 
 
THE APOLOGY OF DEMETRIUS 
 
 And touching this thing is it different to worship a 
 
 man or abstraction ? 
 Or an idol of silver or stone ? — go talk to your spirit's 
 
 distraction ! 
 
 Areopagus listened to Paul, I am told, for Athens is 
 spending 
 
 Her time, as of old, in weighing new things and at- 
 tending. 
 
 They heard him in silence! Let his arguments pass 
 uncorrected — 
 
 Why, Plato had told us of Er from the dead resur- 
 rected ! 
 
 Now, mark me! For showing the wisdom, compas- 
 sion of poets and sages 
 
 That silence like lightning will aureole Paul to the end 
 of the ages. 
 
 Oh Athens, who set up that shrine, do you think it was 
 
 just superstition 
 Which carved for all passers to see that profoundest 
 
 inscription : 
 
 To the unknown God ? Do you think it was cowardice 
 
 even ? 
 Make altars and gods as you will, unknown is the 
 
 planeted heaven. 
 
 [ 221 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And we who are richest in gods — have exhausted all 
 
 thought in creating 
 Both symbols and shapes for interpreted loving and 
 
 hating 
 
 Still sense the Unknown, though in blindness, in love 
 
 as in duty 
 Would worship it most — the Unknown is the ultimate 
 
 beauty. 
 
 Yes, Athens who set up the altar and chiseled the wor- 
 shipful letters 
 
 To the Unknown God — what ignorance fastened with 
 fetters 
 
 Did you loosen, oh wonder of Tarsus, how help their 
 
 unknowing 
 Who told them he dwelt not in temples, nor needed 
 
 the flowing 
 
 Of prayers from men's hearts — the Giver of life and 
 
 of all things, and seeing 
 He is lord of the heavens, in whom we are living and 
 
 having our being. 
 
 So quoting our poet who centuries since with the mon- 
 arch Gonatas 
 
 Lived and wrote the Phaenomena, known to the 
 Greeks as Aratus. 
 
 [ 222 ] 
 
THE APOLOGY OF DEMETRIUS 
 
 And yet Hyacinthus I pity this Paul for profoundest 
 
 compassion 
 Of Jesus before him. This sky and this earth I can 
 
 fashion 
 
 Through mystical wonder or fear to the Sphinx or the 
 
 Minotaur dreaded. 
 There's Persephone dying and rising, and Cerberus the 
 
 dog many-headed. 
 
 We have thought it all through ! Yet I say if a virtue 
 
 Elysian 
 Resides in the doctrine Til leave off the goddess 
 
 Ephesian; 
 
 Sell my tools, shut my shop, worship God in a way 
 
 that is safer, 
 Make the Unknown the known ! Have they shown 
 
 you a magical wafer ? 
 
 [223] 
 
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 Act One 
 
 There was slight rain that afternoon, 
 And tempest in the apple trees ; 
 But as the sun went down the moon 
 Sailed swiftly to a western breeze. 
 
 Day kindled something in your blood, 
 Your fancies roved with dove and hawk ; 
 There was no promise in your mood 
 Nor soft assurance in your talk. 
 
 I felt you might mislead my trust 
 And slight a love too surely yours ; 
 You were so wild, I felt you must 
 Be kindred to the woods and moors. 
 
 But when we passed the orchard through 
 The dusk had crept into the sky ; 
 Your eyes betrayed a dream which grew 
 Until I thought I heard you sigh. 
 
 You were an ardent star that waited 
 For night to be yourself and show 
 [224] 
 
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 How surely afternoon had fated 
 A love that nothing could forego. 
 
 Act Two 
 
 The sky was full of clouds at rest 
 Like dolphins in a waste of blue. 
 We tramped along a country road 
 Into the village, I and you. 
 
 The dogwood bloomed along the fences. 
 We heard the songs of larks and thrushes. 
 The country door-yards teemed with hues 
 Of lilac trees and almond bushes. 
 
 The long blaze of the setting sun 
 Shone in your eyes and analyzed 
 Their little rifts of gray and brown, 
 And left your secret undisguised. 
 
 And I was silent thinking over 
 The old threads raveled from your heart. 
 I hear you clearer now than then : 
 "How can we part ? How can we part ?" 
 
 Act Three 
 
 Shadows upon the wall 
 
 And the ghost of a past on the floor, 
 
 Here where the hours made carnival 
 
 In the days that are no more. 
 
 Q [ 225 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And the chamber Is cold and bare, 
 And the wax from the taper drips ; 
 But I bury my face in your hair, 
 And swoon at the touch of your lips. 
 
 We went from the house to the wood, 
 But never a word we spoke ; 
 And an eerie wind like our mood 
 Rustled the leaves of the oak. 
 
 Dead leaves, tremulous, crisp. 
 That breathed a forgotten tune ; 
 A cloud the shape of a wisp 
 Blotted the soaring moon. 
 
 Silent we walked the path. 
 And then the wild farewell ; 
 I saw your form like a wraith 
 Fade in the forest's dell. 
 
 If joy would never depart. 
 
 If we could but still the pain — 
 
 Dear, I awoke with a pang in my heart 
 
 And heard the sound of the rain. 
 
 Act Four 
 
 Michigan Avenue streams with people — 
 Ten years alter the avenue. 
 It's April again, and there are dolphin 
 Clouds at rest in a waste of blue. 
 [226] 
 
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 A girl goes by with a spray of lilacs 
 Pinned at her breast, and quick as thought 
 Country fences, dogwood blossoms 
 Over the granite scene are wrought. 
 
 You come in my mind ! It's spoiled by the glimpse 
 Of a monster diamond that glints and glows ; 
 A black-eyed Gadarene goes past 
 Insolent, heavy, and hooked of nose. 
 
 I scan his face that runs with fat, 
 And the fleshly sag of his under lip ; 
 Then back to the diamond again, the hand 
 Holds your arm with a master grip ! 
 
 [227] 
 
THEODORE DREISER 
 
 Jack o' Lantern tall shouldered, 
 
 One eye set higher than the other, 
 
 Mouth cut like a scallop in a pie, 
 
 Aslant showing powerful teeth. 
 
 Swaying above the heads of others. 
 
 Jubilant with fixed eyes, scarcely sparkling. 
 
 Moving about rhythmically, exploding in laughter. 
 
 Touching fingers together back and forth. 
 
 Or toying with a handkerchief. 
 
 And the eyes burn like a flame at the end of a funnel. 
 
 And the ruddy face glows like a pumpkin 
 
 On Halloween ! 
 
 Or else a gargoyle of bronze 
 Turning suddenly to life 
 And slipping suddenly down corners of stone 
 To eat you : 
 
 Full of questions, objections. 
 Distinctions, instances. 
 Contemptuous, ironical, remote. 
 Cloudy, irreverent, ferocious, 
 Fearless, grim, compassionate, yet hateful, 
 [228I 
 
THEODORE DREISER 
 
 Old, yet young, wise but virginal. 
 
 To whom everything is new and strange : 
 
 Whence he stares and wonders. 
 
 Laughs, mocks, curses. 
 
 Disordered, yet with a passion for order 
 
 And classification — hence the habitual 
 
 Folding into squares of a handkerchief. 
 
 Or else a well cultivated and fruitful valley, 
 
 But behind it unexplored fastnesses, 
 
 Gorges, precipices, and heights 
 
 Over which thunder clouds hang, 
 
 From which lightning falls. 
 
 Stirring up terrible shapes of prey 
 
 That slink about in the blackness. 
 
 The silence of him is terrifying 
 
 As if you sat before the sphinx. 
 
 The look of his eyes makes tubes of the air 
 
 Through which you are magnified and analyzed. 
 
 He needs nothing of you and wants nothing. 
 
 He is alone, but content. 
 
 Self-mastered and beyond friendship, 
 
 You could not hurt him. 
 
 If he would allow himself to have a friend 
 
 He could part from that friend forever 
 
 And in a moment be lost in wonder 
 
 Staring at a carved rooster on a doorstep, 
 
 Or at an Italian woman 
 
 [229] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Giving suck to a child 
 
 On a seat in Washington Square. 
 
 Soul enwrapped demi-urge 
 Walking the earth, 
 Stalking Life ! 
 
 [230] 
 
JOHN COWPER POWYS 
 
 Astronomer and biologist 
 
 And chemical analyst and microscopist, 
 
 Observer of men's involuted shells 
 
 Where they conceal their hate and even their love 
 
 Under insipid ooze or nacreous stuff. 
 
 Tracer of criss-cross steps made when great hells 
 
 Kept lime as soft as wax 
 
 Which thereupon took the imprint of the air 
 
 From gnat-like wings of joy or shadowy care. 
 
 He makes hard secrets stand in the cul de sac's 
 
 Entrance and face him till he lays all bare 
 
 That eyes hold or heart of blood contains, 
 
 And curious traits in diverse curious brains, 
 
 And starved desires in hearts and hopes forgot 
 
 Under the sifting ashes of one's lot. 
 
 X-ray photographer who flashes 
 What's in you out of you with sudden crashes 
 Of wit or oratory in a flood. 
 
 He samples and tests the book's, also your blood. 
 Shows what you are and whence you came. 
 And who your kindred are, and what your flame 
 In heat and color is. Poet and wag, 
 [231] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Prophet, magician taking from a bag 
 
 Eggs, rabbits, silver globes ; the old engram ! 
 
 Scoffer with reverence, visioned, quick to damn, 
 
 Yet laugh at, looking keenly through the sham. 
 
 Confessing his own sins, devoid of shame. 
 
 He knows himself and laughs, 
 
 Or blames himself as he would others blame. 
 
 A naughty boy who kicks away the staff 
 
 Which poor decrepits walk by, nearly blind, 
 
 Then hurrying up with varied thought to find 
 
 Medicinal clay with which dim eyes to heal. 
 
 What is the human secret but Proteus' ? 
 And who can catch the old man but his kind ? . 
 He was Poseidon's herdsman, knew the streams 
 Of early being, sea-filled ponds and sluices. 
 Where life took birth through elemental dreams. 
 And Proteus glanced with lightning and divined 
 The cause of Bacchus' madness. But at noon 
 He counted his sea-calves and ocean-sheep 
 On Carpathos where waters made a tune 
 Following the Orphic sun out of the deep — 
 Then in his cave he hid him, turned to sleep. . . 
 
 So runs our life to change ! and who can catch 
 The Protean thought must watch, 
 And be adept at wrestling, in the chase. 
 And know the god whatever be his face, 
 [232] 
 
JOHN COWPER POWYS 
 
 Through roar of water where the porpoises 
 And extravagant dolphins play, in silences 
 Of noon or midnight. So John Cowper Powys 
 You stand before us gesturing, shoulder bent 
 A little like King Richard, frizzed of hair, 
 Rolling your eye for secrets, for the word. 
 The thresher of your mind is eloquent 
 With hulls and flakes of words, until at last 
 The kernel itself pops out, not long deferred. . - 
 
 Here Is our wrestler then, 
 
 Hunter of secrets of creative souls. 
 
 Eluded he may be, he tries again. 
 
 His hand sHps clutching at the Irlsed shoals 
 
 Of rapturous thought. And at times his eyes 
 
 Are blinded by a light, or a disguise. 
 
 But finally both eye and hand 
 
 Obey the Infallible senses' brave command — 
 
 He catches Proteus then, and with a shout. 
 
 The god shouts too, and we who watch the bout 
 
 Join In the panic of their merriment 1 
 
 233 
 
NEW YEAR'S DAY 
 
 She was a woman who even as a child 
 
 Hungered for gifts with hunger passionate 
 
 And in her childhood made a hard fate 
 
 For a father who had failed and who was wild 
 
 With a kind of laughing despair, 
 
 That comes of having failed. 
 
 She had plain dresses, only a little strand 
 
 Of coral beads, and ribbons for her hair 
 
 Bestowed by grandmama. And on her hand 
 
 A ring of beads that maddened her and paled 
 
 Beside the gold rings other girls could show. 
 
 So she grew up out of this woe 
 
 Of wanting and not having things. 
 
 And round this nucleus of desire 
 
 Her nature wound itself into a spire, 
 
 As a vine climbs up and clings 
 
 Till it becomes the tree ; 
 
 So she became all fire 
 
 For the world's glittering glory. 
 
 Then in the process of her being's story 
 She married a man of riches and took over 
 Dresses and jewels, houses, with her lover. 
 [234] 
 
NEW YEAR'S DAY 
 
 And learned the ways of Paris and New York, 
 
 And how to sit, or look, or use one's fork. 
 
 And how to speak in French, and how to dress. 
 
 And how to find and use the loveliness 
 
 That gold brings. And she lived where thought is 
 
 white 
 With its great longing for the infinite, 
 Where pale youths dream and write, 
 And starve and lie awake at night ; 
 Where sculpture, music and where painting is 
 On priceless canvases. 
 But none of this saw she 
 In feeding her desire with jollity 
 In the cafes and in society ; 
 Wherever the denials of her youth 
 Could be made whole, or leveled up 
 With idle splendor or the champagne cup. 
 That was her dream of making her life truth, 
 Till she devoured her husband like a leman — 
 She was at last one of this kind of women. 
 Then as a widow she came journeying back 
 With trunks and maids upon a New Year's day 
 Over her childhood's disappointed track. 
 
 Her father meanwhile had gone on the way 
 Which was his at the start. 
 His life was like a bruise which does not smart 
 Now that it has grown hard. 
 
 [235] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And he was stoical like one who hugs 
 
 His inner self until sensation dies, 
 
 Or dulls his fears or sorrows with strong drugs. 
 
 There was a light of hardness in his eyes 
 
 Through which no one could see his secret pain. 
 
 Failure had made him so — he could explain 
 
 To no one how he had been caught in life ; 
 
 Sometimes It seemed himself, sometimes his wife, 
 
 And he had thought of it so much he lost 
 
 Perspective of himself, therefore he kept 
 
 Great silence, speaking little, even then 
 
 But trivial things. He trod his path and slept, 
 
 And rose to tread the path and slept again. 
 
 He was resolved to pay the bitter cost 
 
 And not cry out — his thinking stood on guard 
 
 To this end chiefly. 
 
 With Impassive heart 
 He wrote his daughter on a postal card 
 To come, if It should please her, and be home 
 On Christmas, if she could, on New Year's day 
 If she preferred, but anyway to come. 
 
 If a ghost could patch Its tomb 
 
 With a trowel from time to time, 
 
 If It had a little lime. 
 
 So as to stop the cracks and growing rifts. 
 
 That would be like this man who hated gifts 
 
 [236] 
 
NEW YEAR'S DAY 
 
 Because he scarce could give them, and had patched 
 
 With hardness where his heart had broken 
 
 In years gone for the holidays when she 
 
 Cried in such ignorance of his poverty. 
 
 Now with walled feelings he could sit unspoken 
 
 Of what he felt, regretted, or had lost — 
 
 He was that kind of ghost. 
 
 So when the daughter came he only had 
 
 Her mother and the dinner, greetings glad, 
 
 And certain pride because her life had matched 
 
 With childhood's hopes — but still he had no gifts 
 
 For Christmas or for New Year's, and the daughter 
 
 Wept when she found it so, — 'twas always so, — 
 
 It made her youthful bitterness alive. 
 
 And so she spilled her water 
 
 Out of a trembling hand at dinner and arose 
 
 And left the table. But with specs on nose 
 
 Self-mastered, not revealing 
 
 What was his feeling, 
 
 The father ate the dinner alone, while mother 
 
 Was comforting the daughter. 
 
 "He might have given me a dollar, a little book, 
 A handkerchief, or any other 
 Little thing, he always acted so." 
 The mother tried to soothe her daughter's woe. 
 But while they were together, the father took 
 His steps up town and when the two came back 
 [237] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 They found him gone and the room growing black 
 From falling night. . . . 
 
 But later he came in 
 And sat by the fire all silent. This had been 
 His New Year's day ! And later his wife came 
 And sat across him silent in her blame 
 Of him and of his life. 
 
 She said at last: 
 "Blanche is heart sick." 
 
 "Well, I am sixty-five," 
 He answered her, "and never while I'm alive 
 Will I remember Christmas or a New Year's day. 
 I'm glad so many of such days are past, 
 They have been always this way. We had dinner 
 And ourselves for her and she brought herself 
 And nothing else. This is the way to win her 
 Admiration, yet this thing of giving 
 Dollars or books, wins only a little thrill 
 Of tickled pride or egotism, still 
 I might have done it, just to have the peace 
 Of her self-satisfaction." 
 
 Said the wife : 
 "You might find happiness in her happiness. 
 The only thing you understand in living 
 
 [238] 
 
NEW YEAR'S DAY 
 
 Is how to stand your misery, one can guess 
 The working of your thought." 
 
 Ere she could cease 
 The daughter entered like the devil's elf, 
 And saw her father bent before the fire. 
 And saw the back of his head which spoke to her 
 Of hardness, or of something that she hated 
 Which moved her pity and her hate at once. 
 
 And then the mother said : "You two are fated 
 To be as blind as two cliffs to each other. 
 You need I think a spiritual re-birth, 
 Something that you could have upon this earth. 
 For I can see a book or handkerchief 
 Would give one happiness and one relief 
 From hardness which is girding in your soul. 
 That would be rich return for small outlay, 
 God give us all another New Year's day." 
 
 [239] 
 
PLAYING BLIND 
 
 You used to play at being blind — 
 Now you are blind — you used to say : 
 "Play I am blind and help me find 
 Where the gate opens on the way." 
 
 I laughed at you, we laughed together 
 When you were playing blind, your staflF 
 My walking cane of varnished leather — 
 Now you are blind and still you laugh. 
 
 You sit beneath the reading lamp 
 With long lashed eyelids closed and pale 
 And make me read you Riley's Tramp, 
 And Grimm and many a fairy tale. 
 
 Sometimes I stop — you see I choke 
 Before the tale is done by half — 
 One's eyes blur from tobacco smoke — 
 I cannot laugh now when you laugh. 
 
 240 
 
I SHALL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN 
 
 If I could only see you again — 
 
 If I could only see you again ! 
 
 How can it be 
 
 I shall never see you again ? 
 
 For the world has shown it can roll on its way 
 
 And blot you out forever — 
 
 And I shall never see you again ! 
 
 I thrill as one who slips on the edge of a gulf 
 
 When I think I shall never see you again ! 
 
 As a dead leaf is hurtled over the tops of trees ; 
 
 As a dead leaf is dizzily driven through woodland 
 
 valleys 
 I am driven and tossed in the storms of living. 
 But as the dead leaf escapes the breeze's fingers, 
 And sinks till it nestles motionless under a rock 
 So in quiet moments I dream 
 Of you, 
 
 I dream of all that you were — 
 And I shall never see you again ! 
 
 There never was any one like you ! 
 There never yet was such joy in a heart, 
 R [ 241 ] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Such strength to live whatever the fate, 
 
 Such love to love, 
 
 Such thought to see how life is good, 
 
 Such maternal passion, 
 
 Such breasts eager to nurse child after child — 
 
 And I shall never see you again 1 
 
 Your breasts were made to suckle conquerors, 
 
 Warriors, prophets. 
 
 Invincible souls 
 
 Loving life, and loving death at last. 
 
 And now your breasts are dust, 
 
 You are all dust, 
 
 You are lost save for my memory. 
 
 And this morning I woke 
 
 As a leaf might wake in its sheltered place 
 
 Under the rock 
 
 Stirred by a breath of April. 
 
 And I lived again the last time I saw you — 
 
 The last visit ! 
 
 You were almost ninety then. 
 
 But there was the old zest in your heart 
 
 To do all things and have all things 
 
 Unchanged, as I had known them 
 
 As a boy. 
 
 You gave me the same room, 
 
 Nothing was changed, 
 
 [242] 
 
I SHALL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN 
 
 Not a chair, a curtain, a picture. 
 
 And you came up-stairs before it was day 
 
 And lighted a fire in the little stove 
 
 To have the room warm for me to dress in — 
 
 There never was love like yours ! 
 
 And I went down to the kitchen and found you 
 
 Frying batter cakes, and laughing, 
 
 And bringing back my boyhood days 
 
 With the old stories. 
 
 And how you kissed me, and hugged me 
 
 With your withered arms ! 
 
 And then you sat down with me, 
 
 And ate with me as of old. 
 
 And brought out priceless jars of things 
 
 Which you had made and saved for me ! 
 
 The breath of memory stirs me 
 
 Under the rock. 
 
 I must have the madness of life to drive me, 
 
 To toss me 
 
 Into forgetfulness of my loss of you — 
 
 For I shall never see you again ! 
 
 243 1 
 
ELIZABETH TO MONSIEUR D- 
 
 I pace the rooms and wait for John's return. 
 My heart beats all too fast, I feel a pain 
 Around my heart, my hands grow cold, I burn 
 Through neck and cheeks. And thus I live in vain. 
 John comes at last and says, "There is no mail, 
 No letter for you." And with whirling brain 
 I turn away in silence, growing pale. 
 And whisper to myself: to be resigned 
 To wretchedness perhaps is to prevail 
 O'er wretchedness and win a peace of mind. 
 To love you so, to thirst for you, to pay 
 For outward calm with inner storms confined, 
 To lie awake by night and spend the day 
 In restless thoughts, is life too hard to bear. 
 I see you in my troubled dreams alway. 
 You face me with a grave and haughty air, 
 Serene, incensed against me who intrude 
 An interest which you have no heart to share. 
 Forgive me then my sorrow's servitude. 
 To write to you my suffering will ease. 
 And fill the aching of my solitude. 
 I have gone forth to Nature to find peace : 
 [244] 
 
ELIZABETH TO MONSIEUR D 
 
 The woods are filled with purple lupine now, 
 Small yellow asters, phlox, and cramoisies 
 Of columbine and roses, vine and bough. 
 The wild grape and the cherry haunt the dunes 
 With odors sweet as love. To cool my brow 
 I walk the heights upon these afternoons 
 And watch the blue waste of the sky's descent. 
 And yesterday where golden light festoons 
 With flickering sorcery the way we went 
 'Twixt sprays of beech and sassafras I stole 
 Till once again at the hill's top half-spent 
 I saw the shore dunes and the waters roll. 
 We climbed it once together — it was there 
 The Bacchic madness came into your soul 
 To take me in your arms. And now I bear 
 Your coldness, your reproaches, you who call 
 My longing and my spiritual despair 
 A mere neurosis, or hysterical 
 Outcropping to be conquered. It was wrong 
 To take me in your arms, and then when all 
 Was not yours then to tell me to be strong. 
 And urge your marriage vows now I have thought 
 The problem of my love through. I belong 
 To you Monsieur ; whatever grief is wrought 
 Of body or of soul to satisfy 
 The flame is better, and is far less fraught 
 With mad regret than it can be to lie 
 In restless torture. O my friend withdraw 
 [245] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Your friendship from me never lest I die ! 
 Yes, I could live and work if I foresaw 
 Your friendship mine and letters by your hand 
 Arriving in this lonely place to thaw 
 The ice around my heart's flame. Understand 
 From those I love but little love I need : 
 Crumbs from your feast you scarce can countermand, 
 And crumbs are all I ask, and just the meed 
 Of friendly interest. I abase my pride. 
 The strong can suffer silently and bleed 
 As long as strength lasts, keep the blood Inside, 
 Until one weakens when it spurts and drips. 
 And Pride turns Nature, careless now to hide 
 The inner bleeding bubbling at the lips. 
 I write you this without regret or shame. 
 My strength has left me in the blue eclipse 
 Of agony. Monsieur, I take the blame. 
 If any come, of fanning dangerously 
 The spark that brightened once and would be flame — 
 Is that not true ^ Or do you say to me : 
 "You are no more my pupil, I retrench 
 **The memory of things that cease to be, 
 "And go my way with teaching young girls French, 
 "As I taught you. Two years have passed since then. 
 "What is this thought that time has failed to quench ? 
 "You who are laureled in the world of men, 
 "A genius risen like a morning star, 
 "Does not that glory fill you .^" Yet again 
 
 [246] 
 
ELIZABETH TO MONSIEUR D 
 
 I answer you one's genius burns afar 
 In useless splendor if it warm no cheek, 
 Make bright no eye, lead on no darkling spar — 
 Genius Is love. Is freedom, it must speak, 
 Work out its fate from egocentric life ; 
 It Is more swift than other feet to seek 
 Its ruin with its hope, or take the knife 
 More willingly to breast than those who sink 
 In Involuted growth. To be your wife 
 I do not dream, I only wish to drink 
 The cup with you and break the bread with you, 
 To feel thereby our lives are one and think 
 We are one creed and one communion, new 
 In spirit, born anew, that I may have 
 An altar for my genius, something true 
 And near In flesh to triumph for, or brave 
 The world or evil for. Genius is love. 
 It cannot bear Itself alone to save; 
 It must another rescue, it must prove 
 Its growing strength In ministry. Monsieur, 
 Bruise not my soul by ignorance hereof. 
 My reverend father thinks my thoughts are pure • 
 If he should read this ! But If you dismiss 
 This letter with a smile and say her cure 
 Is the reaction of forbidden bliss, 
 It Is most true, but you would not degrade 
 My love for you with that analysis, 
 And that alone. For surely God who made 
 [247 I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Our souls and bodies so meant we should rise 
 Through their desires, and does God pervade 
 This glowing mass of life, these starry skies 
 With other power ? Now scorn me, if you will. 
 The unburdened heart has tamed its agonies. 
 
 248 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 In time Til tell you all the dreams Tve had — 
 
 But now — well, let me think I O yes three times 
 
 IVe dreamed a creature with a dragon's head, 
 
 Which was her head as well, for so it seemed, 
 
 Gemmed with her brazen eyes half luminous 
 
 And half opaque, slate colored, lay across 
 
 My breast and hurt my heart, and breathed her breath 
 
 From half-dead, livid overlapping lips 
 
 (As when you crush a snake's head jaws will lie 
 
 Awry and out of plumb) like pestilence 
 
 Right in my nostrils. This interpreted 
 
 Means characters are breaths, and most are bad 
 
 When closely known. Such breath suits well the 
 
 dragon. 
 But would not suit her, so you'd think to see 
 How fair her face, how seeming fair her soul. 
 So let me tell you. 
 
 All my hair is gray. 
 My youth is gone, pretense will work no more. 
 I'm fifty-seven, yet I cling to youth. 
 Because I cling to love, have never known 
 Aught but successions of immoderate — what ? 
 
 [249] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Some call it lust — you call it libido. 
 
 Well it is urge, creative fire and drives 
 
 The artist half-soul mad, as I am mad — 
 
 Look how my poor hand trembles, my voice breaks 
 
 No 1 ril go on. I'll tell you all, be done. 
 
 Then if you cannot cure me, there's a balm 
 
 I know myself. 
 
 If I had only loved 
 Elizabeth, who wrote me years ago 
 Such pleading letters — every man can win 
 Some woman's love completely, had she won 
 My love as well ! O what a monstrous world 
 Where such envenomed fire is, held by Chance 
 And shot in blindness. So she felt the flame 
 And looked on me, I felt the flame and looked 
 Uoon this cockatrice. 
 
 So as I said 
 I had been teacher, actor, writer, poet, 
 Had seen my face on lithographs, felt warm 
 In every capillary for that face 
 Which seemed star-guided, noble, to be loved, 
 Revered, and thus through self-esteem I bore 
 My failures hoping, buoyed by some success 
 As the swift years went by. 
 
 But on a day 
 When I was forty-five, looked thirty-five, 
 [250] 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 No gray hairs then, they called me thirty-five, 
 
 My name went round the city, in the press 
 
 They hailed me as a genius, I had played 
 
 Othello to their liking, was yet young 
 
 And promised much, they said. That afternoon 
 
 A woman came to see me in my suite. 
 
 Wonder and admiration in her eyes. 
 
 Her manner halted, as she thumbed a book 
 
 Upon the table, while she told her tale : 
 
 She had won favor as an amateur. 
 
 Could I, the greatest talked of man to-day, 
 
 Show her the way to greatness, might it be 
 
 A modest part could be assigned to her 
 
 When I played mad Othello ? 
 
 I have found 
 That when a woman has no business with you 
 Her calling speaks the oldest one of all. 
 So true to this I acted. We commenced 
 And for three months I struggled for the prize. 
 Her first play was to make me pity her. 
 She told me of her suffering, her youth, 
 (She was then thirty-five), her poverty. 
 Her labor to learn French. And like a man 
 I pitied her and opened up my purse. 
 She said, "No 1 No ! this hat and dress will do, 
 It brushes well." She would not take a cent. 
 I saw her daily for a month before 
 
 [251] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I won her. Though she gave me hands and Hps — 
 There was a fury in her Hps, my heart 
 Seemed Hke to stop — I could not win the prize. 
 One day she broke in tears : "You seemed so noble, 
 So great of mind, are you then like the rest 
 Who want a woman's body, nothing else?" 
 "I want your love," I said, *'your love for mine, 
 I love you, dearest!" faugh, must I repeat 
 The gagging words ? So I declared the love 
 I felt too deeply, and to prove my love 
 I added : "I'll renounce the gift of love, 
 My Lady Wonderful, worship you afar. 
 You would not have me tortured by your eyes. 
 Nor have me see you often, in this case !" 
 So I had given love as I had given 
 All wealth that I could pour of soul, achievement, 
 Name in the world, all pride, all thought of self 
 Present or future to this woman, now 
 For love's sake I renounced the gift of love. 
 And so I left her. Well, she called me back. 
 And though I was a fool, and blinded too, 
 I saw her thought and won her in an hour. 
 So then commenced my madness, for she said 
 It could not be again. The blood I tasted 
 Could not be drunk. "You love me," she would say, 
 "Then bring me not to shame, it will be known 
 If we go on. I cannot lose my bread. 
 Librarians cannot have their names in doubt 
 [252] 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 Who serve the public, as I do." So it was 
 
 The madness braced my will, and unrelenting 
 
 I sought her, won her. In a little while 
 
 We were adjusted to habitual love. 
 
 And I was happy save when I was mad. 
 
 For she knew younger men who came to call. 
 
 Or take her to the theatre, with one 
 
 She corresponded. "Let it be," she said, 
 
 "1 must not be in public with you, dear. 
 
 Whose name and greatness in the world would point 
 
 To our relationship, how could it be 
 
 You would be with a woman without station, 
 
 Celebrity or wealth, except for this .? 
 
 These others are a blind." 
 
 I could not solve 
 Out of the whirling clouds of passion truth — 
 My days were tortured, in the dreams of sleep 
 I saw this dragon head I told you of. 
 And so through heavy venery, and dread. 
 And anger, doubt, faith, love and much of hate, 
 I took to drink. 
 
 So drinking with her once, 
 For she could drink me blind, I turned and said : 
 *'You say I am the first, I think you lie." 
 She wailed a flood of tears. A hundred eyes 
 Turned on us in the cafe where we sat. 
 
 [253I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 We left and walked the park. I goaded her, 
 Pried out the secret. Why, at twenty-three 
 She had become the mistress of a man. 
 It ended just six months before she came 
 To see me in my suite. 
 
 Now here I was : 
 To hold on to myself I had to hold 
 This woman, win her wholly, crush her soul, 
 Destroy her so she would no longer be 
 My heart's desire. For I had given all. 
 And I could see she valued it the less 
 As time went on. My name, what was it now ? 
 My art, what was it now ? She even hinted 
 I could not act Othello. There was nothing 
 I could do more to keep her, hold her love, 
 Her admiration. O how good esteem 
 Seems to a man who forfeits it to her 
 Whose body he can have, who cannot have 
 That sympathy whereby a man is nerved 
 To daily work and living. What is Art ^ 
 No picture would be painted, poem sung 
 Save for the thought that woman close at hand, 
 Or somewhere in the world yet to be found 
 By reason of the picture or the poem, 
 Will see and love you for it. 
 
 Let me say 
 In passing, and dismiss it, I began 
 [254I 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 With little sums until I gave her much. 
 There's matter of more moment. 
 
 I confess, 
 In spite of my licentious life, the creed 
 One sees among the artists, where I've lived. 
 To strong belief in woman's virtue, yes, 
 In spite of lip avowal of the faith 
 Of love called free, I have not quite believed it. 
 But it was in her soul. She sucked that milk, 
 A child upon her mother's breast, she said — 
 It all came out at last from many talks, 
 And then, just then, I thought I saw foreshadowed 
 A social change upon the things of sex ; 
 We read together Ann Veronica, 
 And Bernard Shaw, and laughed and said, at last 
 We see each other clearly. We have found 
 A footing for our life. I slept at last. 
 The dragon vanished from my dreams. I waked 
 A song upon my lips, left drink alone. 
 Could face my image in the looking-glass, 
 And find restored a noble quality, 
 A strength and genius. 
 
 But if love be free 
 And if you love though only for an hour 
 Why not the cup of love ^ Her former friend 
 Piqued to an interest by my love for her 
 [2SSl 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Came back to see If he had overlooked 
 A beauty he would have. Well, she confessed 
 Their night together. It was at the time 
 My poor canzones which sang our stormy love 
 Had just been finished. Every artist fool 
 Writes sonnets or canzones once in his life. 
 And so I had to add a verse to tell 
 Her faithlessness — or was it faithlessness ? 
 Since she declared she loved me, did not love 
 This older friend. But if she did not love him 
 What was this act I She called it just a trial 
 Of our love which had stood the test, O God 
 Such mazes for my soul 1 
 
 Flushed then with wrath 
 And drink I beat her cruelly. She stood 
 With scarce a cry of pain and let me strike, 
 And said if I considered it was just 
 To beat her so, she wished to bear the pain. 
 Then with a cry I ceased. We fell asleep 
 Stretched on the bed together. When we woke 
 She kissed me her forgiveness. I returned 
 The kiss, ah me ! 
 
 So now the story turns. 
 There was a woman critic who pursued 
 My work with hateful words. Before I knew 
 The cockatrice I found it best to fold 
 [2S6] 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 This critic's column under, never read. 
 
 And in a day or two from that on which 
 
 I beat my mistress, what should I behold ? — 
 
 A letter from her — she had left the town 
 
 Without my knowing, she was visiting 
 
 This critic enemy at her summer home. 
 
 And in this mail I found my poor canzones 
 
 Returned to me, and in the letter this : 
 
 "My friend says for some reason you would try 
 
 To compromise me by this wretched verse, 
 
 So I return it to you, go and burn. 
 
 I shall not see you more — so she advises. 
 
 And so I think. I wish you well no less. 
 
 You are a little old to rise to fame, 
 
 Or excellence in acting, yet go on. 
 
 Perhaps there is not aught beside to do, 
 
 And it will occupy your mind, good-bye." 
 
 So shortly everywhere I seemed to sense 
 The feeling that they deemed me foul and base. 
 While we were friends I made her known to artists, 
 And writers in the city. With this start 
 She had gone on and multiplied her friends 
 Among this folk. I saw it all at once 
 As one sees dawn from darkness. Then 
 The social standard melted, gave away 
 To all that had been written for some years. 
 Free love had won at last. And we who kept 
 s [257] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Our love In hiding, she who lied to keep 
 
 Her name as one who lived a maiden's life, 
 
 And I who doubted, hated her because 
 
 She was not freshly mine, we, she and I, 
 
 Stepped to a world all new, she to enjoy 
 
 And I to perish. I was weak from loss 
 
 Of blood from wounds she gave me, spent for love 
 
 Poured for her sorrow, for she grieved and wept 
 
 That I was not her early love, her love 
 
 At love's beginning. I went here and there 
 
 To build her life up, make it rich, repair 
 
 The injuries of her youth, retrieve the days 
 
 Which had brought loneliness. Forbear with me — 
 
 I thought I could tell all in just a word — 
 
 Yes, this is it — She learned what was my strength 
 
 And took it for her own, found out my faults 
 
 And struck me there. She gave me confidence 
 
 And trust, I fancied. On analysis 
 
 She had concealed herself, there had not been 
 
 Clear understanding with us. So she took 
 
 My friends, and friends are never wholly friends. 
 
 And made them hers, through these made other friends, 
 
 Explored my havens, my alliances, 
 
 My secret powers of prestige in the world. 
 
 And I awoke to find the world my foe 1 
 
 And every desk of every editor 
 
 Silent for knowledge of me, breaking silence 
 
 In just a word of hate. You see she loosed 
 
 [258] 
 
MONSIEUR D TO THE PSYCHOANALYST 
 
 This story like a mist which creeps through cracks 
 
 That I had compromised her. Then behold 
 
 I who had helped to bring this era in 
 
 Of sex equality, yes, in spite of all, 
 
 My ingrained feelings I have spoken of, 
 
 Found myself robbed of her by just the creed 
 
 I had upheld, and saw her live with him 
 
 Who was her friend, before I knew her, yes, 
 
 And justified by those whom she had feared, 
 
 Because they hated me, and pitied him 
 
 Bound to a woman in a loveless life 
 
 Who would not free him, let him marry her. 
 
 Then the last atom of my strength I summoned 
 To play Othello. It was death or life ! 
 Soul triumph or soul ruin. But you see 
 The cockatrice had sent the word around 
 And sharpened every critic eye. I faced 
 An audience of one mind, could sense it all 
 Where hatred, mild amusement were well mixed 
 To poison, paralyze creative power, 
 And even break my memory. But I said 
 Show now your genius, drink the hatred in 
 Till all your spirit sparkles as a star 
 When the north wind of winter blows at night. 
 Nothing opposes but a woman's hate. 
 Rise on its wreckage. So I spurred myself. 
 And even when I saw her critic friend 
 [259]. 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 Limned from the mass of faces, lost my clue 
 And waited for the prompter, then my rage 
 Upheld me — yes, but wait — the rest is brief. 
 
 I had not acted through the strangle scene 
 
 When I heard calls and bells, the curtain fell, 
 
 My understudy led me from the stage. 
 
 Out in the night we went — I knew not where — 
 
 It was a night of drink, and I awoke 
 
 To strange surroundings in a scented room, 
 
 A woman with light hair lay by my side 
 
 "How did I get here" — then the woman laughed 
 
 She was a Fury, for the Furies had me. 
 
 Out of the house I ran, from place to place, 
 
 All day went wandering in the city, thus 
 
 My wanderings of ten years began, they seem 
 
 Ten centuries. What do you think of this ? 
 
 Vm. fifty-seven, with a bad complex, 
 
 Can you unravel it and make me well ? 
 
 260] 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 Dear, if you knew how my poor heart 
 Aches for your heart by day and night — 
 Forever lost to life's delight, 
 As seasons pass and years depart, 
 You would not let the invisible flame 
 Of hatred sear and scar your soul, 
 Where once in living light my name 
 Was lettered like an aureole I 
 
 You, who lost faith in me, will not 
 Believe this last confession, made 
 To lift your spirit from the shade 
 Wherein it walks and views the spot 
 Of my offense. But when I saw 
 That our love's life must have an end, 
 I looked back o'er our path with awe 
 And traced it toward us to the sign 
 Where our ways severed, yours and mine. 
 There stood Remorse's dreaded shape ! 
 Your Disbelief ! Your Self-Contempt ! 
 I saw our love was not exempt 
 From ruin and could not escape. 
 [261] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 We could not separate and smile, 
 And keep a faithful thought the while 
 Of understanding (like a spring 
 Hidden, refreshing, murmuring) 
 As friend sometimes takes leave of friend. 
 Then what was left ? It was this thought 
 That at the last came forth to slay 
 Your love, without a warning brought 
 Ere my lips tightened to betray ! 
 
 For as our love found depths too deep ; 
 As absence almost deadened sense; 
 As often I awoke from sleep 
 And looked for hours at you, all tense, 
 Lest you awake and see my eyes, 
 Where the one thought of purest love 
 Shone like a fixed star's paradise, 
 I learned to know that Self above — 
 Making the heart's hierarchy pure — 
 Stands the archangel Truth, preferred — 
 Throned over Love which can endure 
 Only where Truth has stood, unstirred. 
 Watchful and with his torch of stars 
 Held o'er Love's face, although it shows 
 The forehead's pain, the bosom's scars, 
 The cheeks bleached out from secret tears 
 In memory of impalpable blows, 
 Shed in the night's long solitude. 
 [2621 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 You see I could not give you truth ! 
 There was the Shadow in my Hfe 
 Cast by the fierce Sun of my youth. 
 And as our day fell to the west 
 The Shadow lengthened and the strife 
 'Twixt Love and Truth within my breast 
 Waxed fiercer. Heaven's deathless blue 
 Leaned on my hungering soul and pained 
 Its wings, as if a joy were lost, 
 Or never had been quite attained, 
 Or captured at too great a cost. 
 I could not give you truth all true. 
 My love for you and then the thirst 
 For all your love, made me accursed 
 Of fear that if you knew me first. 
 Just as I am, your heart would cease 
 To cherish mine. And then much more 
 Was this fear venom to my peace 
 When all the world spread out before 
 Our astonished eyes, as our own world, 
 And we its children, each for each. 
 
 This was the sleepless worm which curled 
 In my heart's petals, at the root 
 Where my heart's sweetness had its source. 
 You never saw the worm ! My speech 
 Poised like a bee who knows the loot 
 Of honey's gone, and turns his course. 
 
 [263] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 I kept the petals closed, and you 
 
 Breathed at their tips, but would have known 
 
 All of their fragrance, or of blight. 
 
 That's love — to have no place where light 
 
 And understanding have not shone. 
 
 Your face reproached me — I who knew 
 
 No sweet or bitter essences 
 
 Can be withheld from Love that keeps 
 
 An onward flight, which ever sees. 
 
 Or would see, all in the heart's deeps. 
 
 Then Life came, and with lifted sword 
 
 Laid on our souls his dread command; 
 
 "Say your farewells, part hand from hand, 
 
 You the adorer, and adored. 
 
 Duty is seeking you ! And Grief 
 
 Would have her child return and see 
 
 The changeless halls of Misery, 
 
 And the bare board and darkened hearth." 
 
 I reeled with anguish as the earth 
 
 Sank from my feet. For oh the end 
 
 Seemed far as death ! And when it came 
 
 It was my hope, my soul's desire 
 
 To part as friend may part from friend, 
 
 And that you'd keep alive my name 
 
 Bright as an altar's quenchless fire. 
 
 It could not be ! How could it be ? 
 
 I was not truth ! I was not true — 
 
 [264] 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 I kept my soul's real self from you. 
 
 Then I bethought me: "Since his earth 
 
 Is Autumn-stricken with a doubt 
 
 That I am worth not his love's worth, 
 
 Were it no better he should know 
 
 Disloyalty made definite 
 
 By a suspected past re-knit, 
 
 And see our love a play played out, 
 
 Than to live through the soft decline 
 
 Of our bright day to solemn eve — 
 
 A sunset of remembrance — where 
 
 He walks devoured by love and hate — 
 
 Love for the love I strove to give. 
 
 Hate for a thought intuitive : 
 
 Some newer love her heart hath won 
 
 Or some first love hath won her back. 
 
 No, to my faith, he says, "I'll cleave. 
 
 Believing that I can't believe." 
 
 "Slow death to love ! Exquisite rack !" 
 
 Ah me ! I had not made this fate — 
 
 The warp was stretched, the woof was spun. 
 
 The roof-tree laid long years before 
 
 You entered at the unbolted door. 
 
 "Then what is best } What can be done ? 
 
 To give him back his pride and strength. 
 
 And even his peace of mind at length .? 
 
 Better a quick blow ! Better blood ! 
 
 To brace the soul and poise the brain 
 
 [26s] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And make him what he was again." 
 Just then the Shadow near me stood 
 Who stepped aside for you. He took 
 With unabated comradeship 
 My hand in his. That closed our book. 
 I woke to hear the water drip 
 Blown out of heavens low and dim. 
 He brushed my tears off with his hand — 
 Nor clouds nor memory trouble him. 
 And my one thought of you was this : 
 Fve cured you with this sacrifice — 
 The hate has come to you I planned. 
 The hate that may take form in words, 
 For scorn like this : "I found a seam 
 "Right at the contact of our love. 
 "No recreative fire can warm 
 "And fuse fine gold with lifeless dross, 
 "Or worthy metal make thereof." 
 This killed your love and wrecked your dream ! 
 This is my soul's confession. Wait, 
 A trickster in a hooded form 
 Stands by as we begin to pull 
 The weaving beam, and throws between 
 The warp and woof a ball of wool. 
 It catches and is woven in 
 The colors, spoils the conscious blend. 
 Changes the pattern to the end. 
 Whatever it be I call it fate. 
 [266] 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 In misery or in happiness 
 
 We must live on awhile no less. 
 
 Shall we be master weavers, climb, 
 
 Or leave the loom, or waste the time ? 
 
 Or guide the shuttle till the threads 
 
 Weave clear or turn to worthless shreds ? 
 
 267] 
 
IN THE LOGGIA 
 
 There were seven nights of the moon 
 
 This August, beloved. 
 
 There were nights before the seven 
 
 When we scarcely saw the moon, 
 
 Or perhaps as we canoed, ere the sun sank, 
 
 We saw her as a transparent tissue of white 
 
 Against a sky as white. 
 
 But when we first saw the moon 
 
 She had risen before the sun had sunk. 
 
 Then the next night she was brighter 
 
 With the evening planet above her. 
 
 Despite the tongues of fire in the west 
 
 Where the sun had set on fire 
 
 Great coils of cloud ! 
 
 And then there were those nights between 
 
 Her growth and her o'erflowing fullness 
 
 When hand in hand we walked in your garden 
 
 Amid the Chinese balloons and coreopsis, 
 
 Hibiscus, marigold, hydrangeas. 
 
 Under the rose arches, 
 
 And by the hedge of California privet. 
 
 And looked at the lake, 
 
 [268] 
 
IN THE LOGGIA 
 
 And the moon in the sky 
 And the moon on the lake. 
 
 And do you remember what we saw 
 
 As we stared at the wake of the moon 
 
 On the lake ? 
 
 The ripples made blacknesses, 
 
 And the moon made silver splendors, 
 
 And as we stared we saw 
 
 In the shadows of waves 
 
 Running into the light of the moon on the water 
 
 Youths and maids and children 
 
 Coming from darkness into the light in a dance, 
 
 Joining hands, falling into embraces. 
 
 Hurrying to evanishment at the path of light 
 
 Where the moon had paved the water. 
 
 I shall never see the moon on the water 
 
 Without seeing these youths and maids and children, 
 
 And without thinking of that night 
 
 Of the full moon 1 
 
 This was the night 
 
 We saw the moon rise, from the very first. 
 
 Across the lake o'ertopping the forest. 
 
 A spire of pine stood up 
 
 Against a sky made pale as of the northern lights. 
 
 But in a moment a bit of fire lit the spire of the pine 
 
 As it were a candle lighted. 
 
 [269] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 And she rose so fast that I took my watch 
 
 To time the rising of the moon 
 
 Free and clear of the spire. 
 
 And she rose so fast that as we gazed 
 
 She cleared the spire, 
 
 And soared with such silent glory above the forest, 
 
 And sailed to the southwest of the spire. 
 
 And at that moment the whippoorwills 
 
 Began to sing in the woodlands near — 
 
 We had not heard them before in all this summer. 
 
 And we stood in the loggia 
 
 In the silence of our own thoughts, 
 
 In the silence of the full moon ! 
 
 And it was then that the pressure of your hand 
 
 Gave me a meaning of sorrow. 
 
 It was then that the pressure of your hand 
 
 Spoke, as flame which turns in the wind. 
 
 Of a change in your heart. 
 
 But if not a change, of another's heart 
 
 Toward whom you turned. 
 
 And I sit in the loggia to-night 
 
 Waiting for the moon to rise, 
 
 She will not rise till midnight. 
 
 And then she will rise, a poor half wreck of herself. 
 
 No whippoorwill has sung to-night. 
 
 And none will sing. 
 
 [270] 
 
IN THE LOGGIA 
 
 And if there are youths and maids and children 
 
 Hurrying into the dance on the water, 
 
 Embracing and fading in light, 
 
 I shall not see. 
 
 No, in this darkness where I breathe 
 
 The scent of the sweet alyssum 
 
 Which you planted and tended 
 
 I shall wait for midnight, 
 
 And the rise of our ruined moon. 
 
 In the darkness of the loggia 
 
 Under a sky that hopes for no moon to-night, 
 
 Save the wasted moon of midnight, 
 
 I am filled with a deep happiness 
 
 And a thankfulness to the Power 
 
 Behind the sky : 
 
 I am filled with a joy as wide and deep as nature 
 
 That my love for you 
 
 Can live without your love for me. 
 
 And asks nothing of you, 
 
 And nothing for you 
 
 Save that you find what you seek ! 
 
 [271 
 
BE WITH ME THROUGH THE SPRING 
 
 The snow has passed, the crocus blooms, 
 
 A swelling tide of life returns ; 
 
 Green lights invade the forest glooms, 
 
 All nature wakes and yearns. 
 
 The breeze lifts and the ships take wing 
 
 To havens which we long have known ; 
 
 And yet — and yet I dread the spring, 
 
 For fear you may be gone. 
 
 Life gives us sweet delights and then 
 Gathers them back and buries them deep. 
 Oh, wanton hearts, that kill them when 
 They do not tire or sleep. 
 The breeze lifts and the ships take wing — 
 Be with me through the spring. 
 
 [272] 
 
DESOLATE SCYTHIA 
 
 X^OVOS fJiCV €S TTjXovpbv ^KOfACV TTeSoV. AES. 
 
 When there are no distances In music, 
 
 No far off things suggested of faery forests or celestial 
 
 heights ; 
 When nothing undiscovered stands back of the written 
 
 page, 
 And the landscape contains nothing hidden, 
 And no alluring spirits of further places ; 
 When no more in eyes shines the light of mystery, 
 And the thrill of discovered kinships 
 Has fallen into the familiar recognition 
 That takes all men and women 
 As daily associates of an accustomed world, 
 Then you have come to the uttermost plain of earth 
 Where lie the rocks of desolate Scythia. 
 
 [273] 
 
THE SEARCH 
 
 When the hill grows green at midway time, 
 And bronze buds toss in the lane 
 It is sweet to follow the river swallow 
 Where the tiles are red from rain. 
 
 When the slanting wind shakes apple blossoms, 
 And the willow trees are bowed 
 The balcony banners flutter up 
 Where sails the hilltop cloud. 
 
 The balcony banners are ever the same 
 Wherever the heart may stray ; 
 One sports the tiger and one the dragon 
 Whether you weep or play. 
 
 Where Little Boy Blue and the Knave of Hearts 
 And the Goose Girl dance on the green ; 
 Where Knights in red and gold ride forth 
 Guarding the King and Queen ; 
 
 Where the glint of swords is the only light 
 On a passing storm of men ; 
 Or where the Furies rocking wait 
 For the world to die again ; 
 [274I 
 
THE SEARCH 
 
 Where horsemen ride by the winding river 
 Galloping in the quest : 
 One wears black and one wears yellow, 
 And one in red is dressed. 
 
 One fares in the flaunt of a scholar's cloak, 
 And a velvet hat and plume ; 
 Two ride with eyes fixed on the ground. 
 And one with a face of gloom. 
 
 One laughs at the others and laughs at himself, 
 Two think of themselves alone ; 
 One sees a goal for his thirsting soul, 
 And life as a stepping stone. 
 
 They pass through a village where 
 Some boys are flying kites. 
 The people come with food and wine 
 To entertain the Knights. 
 
 And one takes bread and one takes cake, 
 Three drink a little wine. 
 And two drink for their heart's delight. 
 And one for an anodyne. 
 
 And the Knight in red sHps off to a tavern 
 And drinks him deep and strong, 
 And then he hurries to catch his fellows 
 And hails them with a song. 
 [275I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 They come to a village that lay 
 Within a King's domains : 
 The Knight in yellow takes his sword 
 And strikes away the chains. 
 
 They come to a place of festival 
 Through which there passed a hearse : 
 The Knight in black reins in his steed 
 To look thereon and curse. 
 
 They come to a hall of curious books 
 Under a mountain peak : 
 The Knight in the scholar's cloak goes in 
 And talks with them in Greek. 
 
 And all the way by the winding river 
 By heaven's breeze unfurled 
 The tiger banner and dragon banner 
 Flutter around the world. 
 
 As night drew down they come to a palace 
 Of laughter, lights and din. 
 Says the Knight in red, "I tarry here, 
 For I hear the violin." 
 
 "Nay," says the Knight in yellow dressed ; 
 "Nay," says the Knight in black; 
 "Nay," says the scholar, "I sleep in the open 
 To study the Zodiac." 
 
 [276] 
 
THE SEARCH 
 
 Out comes to them an equerry 
 And sees their piteous dole : 
 "Come in," says the ruddy equerry, 
 "And dine with Old King Cole." 
 
 He seized their horses ere they could turn 
 And led them where candles shone. 
 And there with a crown tipped on his head 
 Sat the monarch on his throne. 
 
 "What is your name, all yellow dight, 
 And where does your sovereign reign ?" 
 The sorrowful Knight then answered the King 
 "I'm traveling back to Spain." 
 
 "What is your name, all dressed in black, 
 And whither do you roam .^" 
 "I was a mad prince they sent to England 
 And now I'm going home." 
 
 "What is your name, in a scholar's cloak. 
 And what is your heart's joy ?" 
 "I search through Europe night and day 
 For a spouse for Helen of Troy." 
 
 "They're as mad as hatters," said King Cole 
 As he straightened his crown on his head. 
 "Go call in the fiddlers, bring my bowl, 
 Fetch me my pipe," he said. 
 [277I 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 "But hold," said Cole, "who are you, fellow, 
 "Now answer me fair and well ?" 
 "I was born in France," said the Knight in red, 
 "And my name's Pantagruel." 
 
 "That's a good name," laughed old King Cole. 
 
 "But whither are you bound ?" 
 
 "I search for the Holy Bottle, King, 
 
 "And I pray it may be found." 
 
 "That's a true answer," said Old King Cole, 
 "And here you shall abide; 
 "Come up to my throne and reign forever, 
 "And sit you by my side." 
 
 "Away with the rest," said Old King Cole, 
 "And fetch my bowl," said he. 
 "Here is Pantagruel found at last, 
 "To keep me company." 
 
 From under the throne he drew the bottle 
 And poured wine into the bowl ; 
 Pantagruel stepped to the dais 
 And drank with Old King Cole. 
 
 "Give yellow and black and scholar's cloak 
 A bed In the royal room." 
 But Old King Cole and Pantagruel 
 Drank till the morning's bloom. 
 
 [278] 
 
THE SEARCH 
 
 They laughed and drank till the dawn was red, 
 While the sleepers prayed and wept. 
 They sang to the violins till day, 
 While black and yellow slept. 
 
 But Old King Cole, the merry old soul, 
 Was a curious soul as well : 
 "Who are these fellows," queried he 
 Of his friend Pantagruel. 
 
 "Well, never ask me," said Pantagruel, 
 
 "I met them down by the river; 
 
 "But whether they came from the Land of Lanterns 
 
 "They're traveling on forever." 
 
 They went to the room with a candle light 
 And looked in the face of the three — 
 "They're a sorry lot," said Old King Cole; 
 "They're a sorry lot," said he. 
 
 They held the candle to gray beard's face, 
 And gray beard moaned in his rest. 
 And pricked in color of India ink 
 Was a windmill on his breast. 
 
 The other muttered "Life is a shadow," 
 And his face was young and pale : 
 And pricked on his arm was a green serpent 
 Devouring its own tail. 
 
 [279] 
 
THE GREAT VALLEY 
 
 The other sighed : "I still must struggle 
 And strive until I die." 
 And over his heart was pricked the shape 
 Of a winged butterfly. 
 
 "What do I see," said Old King Cole, 
 
 "Has the wine gone Into my brain ? 
 
 "Who's Helen of Troy ? Who'd leave England ? 
 
 "And who'd return to Spain?" 
 
 Pantagruel and Old King Cole 
 
 Slip down the stairs in stealth. 
 
 They fill the bowl from the Holy Bottle 
 
 And drink each other's health. 
 
 They stand at the window to watch the sun 
 And the mists of morning clear : 
 Three knights on horses climb the hill, 
 And silently disappear. 
 
 And yellow and black and scholar's cloak 
 Into the light have gone ; 
 And the tiger banner and dragon banner 
 Flutter against the dawn. 
 
 There's the dragon banner," says Old King Cole, 
 "And the tiger banner," he sighs. 
 Pantagruel breaks into a laugh. 
 As the monarch dries his eyes. 
 [280I 
 
 Printed in the United States of America. 
 
T 
 
 HE following pages contain advertisements of 
 books by the same autiior or on kindred subjects. 
 
NEW MACMILLAN POETRY 
 
 Spoon River Anthology 
 
 By EDGAR LEE MASTERS 
 
 New edition with new poems. 
 With illustrations and decorations by Oliver Herford 
 
 j^2.00 
 " The first successful novel in verse we have had in American litera- 
 ture ... it more vividly paints a community than any other 
 work in prose or verse in American literature . . . it at once 
 takes its place among those masterpieces which are not for a time or a 
 locality." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Once possessing the book, one is unwilling to part with it. It is 
 too notable a piece of American literature to omit from one's library." 
 
 — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 "An interesting and notable work." — New York Post. 
 
 "A wonderfully vivid series of transcripts from real life." — Current 
 Opinion. 
 
 "A big book and deserves all the success it is having." — Los 
 Angeles Graphic. 
 
 " One of the most remarkable of recent publications from the point 
 of view of originality . . . the work is striking." — Springfield 
 Republican. 
 
 " It is a book which, whether one likes it or not, one must respect." 
 
 — New Republic. 
 
 "The natural child of Walt Whitman . . . the only poet with 
 true Americanism in his bones." — John Coivper Powys in New York 
 Times. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
NEW MACMILLAN POETRY 
 By RABINDRANATH TAGORE 
 
 Author of " Sadhana," " The King of the Dark Chamber," etc. 
 
 Fruit Gathering 
 
 Perhaps of all Tagore's poetry the most popular volume is 
 " Gitanjali." It was on this work that he was awarded the Nobel 
 Prize in Literature. These facts lend special interest to the an- 
 nouncement of this book, which is a sequel to that collection of 
 religious " Song Offerings." Since the issue of his first book, some 
 four years ago, Tagore has rapidly grown in popularity in this country, 
 until now he must be counted among the most widely read of modern 
 poets. Another volume of the merit, the originality, the fine spiritual 
 feeling of " Gitanjali " would even further endear him to his thousands 
 of American admirers. 
 
 The Hungry Stones and Other Stories 
 
 Some of the more notable of Mr. Tagore's short stories are here 
 presented in translations by the author and with illustrations by native 
 Indian artists. Ernest Rhys, in his biography of Tagore, devotes 
 much space to a consideration of him as a short story writer, advanc- 
 ing the opinion that this particular form of literature is one of the 
 most important expressions of Tagore's genius. Now for the first 
 time English readers are given the opportunity of acquainting them- 
 selves with the new Tagore and of forming their own estimate of him. 
 None of the material in this volume has ever appeared before in 
 English. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
NEW MACMILLAN POETRY 
 
 The New Poetry. An Anthology 
 
 Edited by HARRIET MONROE and ALICE 
 CORBIN HENDERSON, Editors of Poetry 
 
 Probably few people are following as closely the poetry of to-day 
 as are the editors of the Poetry Magazine of Chicago. They are 
 eminently fitted, therefore, to prepare such a volume as this, which 
 is intended to represent the work that is being done by the leading 
 poets of the land. Here, between the covers of one book, are 
 brought together poems by a great many different writers, all of 
 whom may be said to be responsible in a measure for the revival of 
 interest in poetry in this country. The volume is unusual, not only 
 in the number of names which it contains, but in the splendid in- 
 sight which it gives into a literatiu-e which seems to be coming once 
 more into its own. 
 
 Poems of the Great War 
 
 By J. W. CUNLIFFE 
 
 Here are brought together under the editorship of Dr. Cunlifife 
 some of the more notable poems which have dealt with the great 
 war. Among the writers represented are Rupert Brooke, John 
 Masefield, Lincoln Colcord, William Benet, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, 
 Hermann Hagedorn, Alfred Noyes, Rabindranath Tagore, Walter 
 De La Mare, Vachel Lindsay and Owen Seaman. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
NEW MACMILLAN POETRY 
 
 Californians 
 
 By ROBINSON JEFFERS 
 
 California is now to have its part in the poetry revival. Robinson 
 Jeffers is a new poet, a man whose name is as yet unknown but 
 whose work is of such outstanding character that once it is read he 
 is sure of acceptance by those who have admired the writings of 
 such men as John G. Neihardt, Edgar Lee Masters, Edwin Arlington 
 Robinson, and Thomas Walsh. Virtually all of the poems in this 
 first collection have their setting in California, most of them in the 
 Monterey peninsula, and they realize the scenery of the great State 
 with vividness and richness of detail. The author's main source of 
 inspiration has been the varying aspects of nature. 
 
 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS' S POEMS 
 
 Responsibilities 
 
 By WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
 Author of " The Cutting of an Agate," 
 " The Hour Glass and Other Plays," etc. 
 
 Under the title of Responsibilities William Butler Yeats brings 
 together some of his recent poems. It is, after all, as a poet that the 
 majority of people like to think of Mr. Yeats, and this newest collec- 
 tion, the first in a number of years, is assured of a warm welcome. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New Tork 
 
 %h^ 
 

 
 ^ ..^". '^c 
 
 ^"^ 0^"^* ^ 
 
 
 *-^o^ •«g'^i?>-; "oV .""^^MS". '-^0^ 
 
 .<^°^ -,^^/ .J'''-^. '.''^^/ K^^"-*- "' 
 
 ^O 
 
 :^'* .^o'^ V '^•*\**^ 
 
 
 VV 
 
 ,' ...^^%_ '°^w^* . .^^% . -.ac/ ./\ 
 
 
 ; "^ o' 
 
 ,^o.e. \ 
 
 lOv\ 
 
 i^ 
 
 
 c^^^ : 
 
 
 '^V 
 
 * aV ^^ 
 
 ;* ^^' '^.^ •-.^*^^/ J'^^U ^v%\^/ -^^^ "^^ 
 
 
 
 * aV •^ . 
 
 
\« >^-^^. 
 
 
 ^^..^'^ 
 
 
 
 
 J'"^^. 
 
 
 A°, 
 
 ■<t> "• 
 
 
 -^..^^ Z^^'. V/ .'ffi^«. %.^^ .'^^•: 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^°-^*. 
 
 6°^ 
 
 
 
 %/ •*- 
 
 * ^r. ^ 
 
 
 
 WERT 
 
 B00K81^O^J<' 
 
 Cfar,tv;Ue, F^ 
 Sept— Oct 1QPI 
 
 
 . '^^ 
 
 '^V 
 
 .c.^^^.