THE POET S PACK ALVMNVS BOOK FYND >v e The Bookfellow Series Volume Three THE POET S PACK Other Titles in this Series: I. IN PRAISE OF STEVENSON, a poetic Anthology edited, with an introduction and notes, by Vincent Starrett. II. ADVENTURES WITH BOOKS AND AUTOGRAPHS, by George Steele Seymour. THE POET S PACK JOHN G. NEIHARDT, Editor-in-Chief LILY A. LONG, CLINTON SCOLLARD, FANNY HODGES NEWMAN, Associate Editors CHICAGO THE BOOKFELLOWS 1921 Five hundred copies of this first edition have been printed from type in 1921, for THE BOOKFELLOWS. Copyright 1921 by Flora Warren Seymour THE TORCH PRESS CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA NOTE In the fall of 1920, Bookfellows were invited to submit poems for a volume designed to represent the best work of members of the Order. No limit was set to the number that each might submit, nor was pub lished work excluded, though it was announced that preference would be given to unpublished work. About one thousand poems were submitted. These were given a preliminary reading by a committee of selection consisting of Lily A. Long of St. Paul, Fanny Hodges Newman of San Diego and Clinton Scollard of New York, two affirmative votes qualifying a poem for final consideration. About three hundred reached the editor-in-chief, who made further eliminations and called for additional contributions from a number of the surviving contributors, with the result that a volume of one hundred poems by forty-five poets was made. The material submitted ranged in form from free verse to the sonnet, from the quatrain to the ballade, and from the Sapphic stanza to the gazel. While a number of poets are represented whose names are familiar to all readers of modern poetry, it should be a source of special satis faction to Bookfellows that this enterprise has been the means of bring ing out a number of worthy writers whose work now appears in a book for the first time. Of these, at least half a dozen are quite likely to achieve distinction. JOHN G. NEIHARDT Die go* A, a* , *S+l To c+Tf* By TABLE OP CONTENTS AVERY, BERTHA GRANT Pierrot, Bookfellow . . . ... i * . 15 BALLOU, ROBERT 0. Died of Disease * 16 BANNING, KENDALL Behind the Arras .17 Heirlooms .18 BLANDEN, CHARLES G. Forsooth I am a Gypsy . . . V . . 19 The Valley of the Shadow . . $ V V . 20 Hereafter ; V 21 BOYD, MARION M. Today . . .< . . 22 BROWN, JOHN S. Evolution of a Genius ~ . v . 23 Hagiology ( . 26 BUTLER, GEORGE F. Nature s Sanctuary . . . . . . . ; 28 CHALMERS, STEPHEN Home . 29 CHENEY, JOHN VANCE The Weeds . , . , , * *; , ^ 31 Wind . . \ . * . l . i - ^, 32 COOKE, EDMUND VANCE Remembering .; > * v -i : 33 Born Without a Chance . * i^ 35 DILLER, HENRY CORNEAU Making a Sonnet . . . v 37 DIXON, WENDELL ERIC Sultan Mahmud III to His Love .... 38 DUMONT, HENRY Exiled 39 George Chavez 40 EARLE, BETTY The Hush 41 EATON, CHARLOTTE Paraclete 42 Chopin 43 War 44 Kegret 45 EDSON, CHARLES FARWELL Love in Spring 46 ERICSON, ETHEL M. Destiny 47 Chrysanthemum Child 48 FIELD, WALTER TAYLOR January 49 FIELDING-REID, FRANCIS Sonnet 50 FRANK, FLORENCE KIPER Sleep, The Mother 51 October 53 Elf-Child 54 GARNETT, LOUISE AYRES Ivory Thumbs 55 The Captive . 57 GESSLER, CLIFFORD FRANKLIN The Songless City 58 Free Russia * . 59 HAMMOND, ELEANOR Dust to Dust . . . . . v . "." ; -V 60 Interloper . . . . . . . . . . 61 Patchwork . . . . . , i " . . V . 62 Hymn for a Spring Night . . . . . ; 63 Defeat . T . .; 64 HANSON, JOSEPH MILLS Panama . . 65 Laramie Trail 67 HASELTINE, BURTON How Long Ago! 70 Non Repetetur 71 HENNESSEY, LE ROY Little House > . . 72 HEYWARD, JANIE SCREVEN The Spirit s Grace : * .. . 74 His Creed , ,. . 75 Daffodils 76 HUDSON, HOYT HOPEWELL Edwin Arlington Robinson ....... 77 At a Memorial Service 78 The Departure of the Birds . . . ... 79 HUTCHISON, HAZEL COLLISTER Palingenesis > . 80 Design , . * 81 We Who May Never Be . . . . . . 82 KENNEDY, THOMAS May Sunday . V ^- 83 Late Guest .V ; 85 LONG, LILY A. The Diver " ; . . . . . ;*.- ,. 86 The Singing Place . . 87 MARKHAM, LUCIA CLARK The Eternal . . , . . , ........... 89 Midnight 90 The Roses of Pieria 91 Bluebells 92 MILLER, J. C ORSON Epicedium 93 NEWMAN, FANNY HODGES Elementals 95 The Tavern Guest 96 NOE, COTTON The Redbird 97 To the Mocking Bird 98 The Golden Fleece 99 Pro Patria 100 That s What They Say 102 Inconsistent 103 RIHANI, AMEEN To the Sonnet 104 The Song of Siva 105 Andalusia 106 ROE, ROBERT J. Lassitude 109 Immortality 110 SCHRANK, JOSEPH The Vanity Box Ill SMERTENKO, JOHAN J. Hunter s Monotone 112 SMITH, LAURA BELL Kinnikinnick 113 "ForsanEtHaec" 114 STARRETT, VINCENT Falstaff . . . ... * : . -V c>:. * . 115 Pickwick . 116 Ambition . . To a Baby . . . . . . . . . . 118 Captive Goddesses . . . , . . . . 119 Return * . . . . . . . , . . 120 Dreamer . . . , . . . . . . . 121 STERLING, GEORGE Poe s Gravestone 122 Sonnets By The Night-Sea . 123 Atthan Dances 125 SWIFT, IVAN The Peasant s ^ Prayer . 126 Association 128 TOMPKINS, EUFINA C. Question . 130 TROMBLY, ALBERT EDMUND At a London Tavern 131 The Painting of Paolo and Francesca . . . 135 WILLIAMS, OSCAR Illusion 137 Revenge 138 Mood 139 THE CONTRIBUTORS 140 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 147 THE POET S PACK PIERROT, BOOKFEIiLCrW Castles in Spain to toss mid-air Where heroes dwell, where poets sing, Where fairies play and saint and seer Rich treasure from the ages bring Sweet flowers of life that cannot fade, What treasures rival these, man-made? Anguish with rapture these have known, Have thrilled to rainbow-tinted beams From morning stars ; shook from the tree Of life strange fruits, dreamed youth s white dreams: To other worlds yearned, undismayed What treasures rival these, man-made f While here upon this transient plane You caper jesting, vaunt the skill To juggle with man s precious lore, Sentient with star-aspiring will Pierrot, immortal, unafraid, What treasures rival these, man-made? BERTHA GRANT AVERY 15 V V 5DIED* OF DISEASE Tomorrow with the crowd as still as he A stupefying stillness in the air They will play taps above him carelessly, Nor suffer sorrow, being ordered there. Trumpets are heartless things. The buglers blow Much as they drill; with easy measured beat Play on unfeelingly. They do not know How well he lived whose life was incomplete. Ah, Bugles, Bugles, eyes that now are dim Shone with great light! Make music in your throats! Sing out the highest hopes that died with him, His losing battle in your trembling notes! ROBERT 0. BALLOU 16 BEHIND THE ARRAS Long is the night that waits without my door. Before the arras hung by Death, I keep The vigil of my best beloved, in sleep Eternal, that shall know the day no more. About my soul the wingless memories pour Like moonlight on the waters. Calm and deep, The great, majestic winds of sorrow sweep Love s day behind, and endless night before. Calm as the music of the autumn stars, Heart s love awaits heart s wakening love again, As night awaits the new day s heraldings. Beyond the dawn, Love sets his exemplars, Where, tender as echoes of a summer s rain, He guards her slumber with his golden wings. KENDALL BANNING 17 HEIRLOOMS She was a princess fair and stately ; He was a knight who loved her greatly; Boldly he wooed and passionately. Flourish of trumpet and glitter of lance! Three hundred years is their line unbroken ; A race blue-eyed and well bespoken, Tall and fair, is the princess token. Brave is the child of the True Romance! He was a dark and swaggering rover; Seven the seas he voyaged over Found him a maid and became her lover. Red are the lips that the gypsies bring! Of fortune s store he wrought good measure, But a tribe bred strong by pain and pleasure Is all that is left of his rover s treasure. Wild runs the Uood in the fires of spring! Sturdy the line that holds unbreaking ; Gypsy calls to prince for the taking; Queen and pirate blend in the making. What reck lovers of caste or king? Hearts held high by the dames who bore us, Limbs built strong by the sires before us, Dreams spun true by the spectral chorus, Such are the gifts that our fathers bring! KENDALL BANNING 18 FORSOOTH I AM A GYPSY My soul is full of morning, My heart is full of song; Forsooth, I am a gypsy That roves the world along. Beyond the Hills of Shadow, Beyond the Vales o Fear, I pitch my tent and tarry A day, a month, a year. And none shall tax my spirit, And none my dreams destroy ; For I am free as winds are, A comrade unto Joy! CHARLES G. BLANDEN 19 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW Not uninvited entered Death, For, in the twilight dim, We saw her smile, and gladly go Away with him. We wished not back to suffering The spirit that had passed, Nor troubled with our cries the night That gathered fast. We only knelt about her couch, And spoke with bated breath Of how the vale grew light when she Walked through with Death. CHARLES G. BLANDEN 20 HEREAFTER When all these worlds, like millet seed, Are blown into some crack of Space, I wonder shall I play my reed And sing some beauty of the place. CHARLES G. BLANDEN 21 TODAY Today is like old wine. The cloudless sky, the dancing light, the breeze, All set the quick blood coursing in my veins. The circling hills of yellow maple trees Chalice the day within a cup of gold. Once Sappho laughed beneath her apple tree And loved this day. Then it was Spring; the day was young; And, lavish of its blossoms, flung Its youth away. But, Sappho, smiling at the sky Sang it to immortality. Now you and I laugh with the yellow leaves, Blow off the dust of time. Here, rich and fine, Mellowed by centuries, sparkling, clear, Here is the once young day, now rich, rare wine. MARION M. BOYD 22 EVOLUTION OF A GENIUS Selections from the work of B. Harvey Blinking, aged nine, as reported by loving relatives I Goo goo goo Oh, goo ooo ooo ! Mama! (Composed at age two, displaying great feeling for the magic line.) II Please Santa Bring me a little horse And a sled And candy, of course. (Age three; first experiments in regular forms.) Ill Oh, the daisies are nodding Their heads at me And the buttercups tryst with The bumblebees. (Age four; strong leanings towards nature.) IV On the hill I have strolled Where the little lambs play And down by the brook In a hidden nook Where no children look God lives alway. (Age five; begins to shoiv the influence of Browning.) 23 V When boomed the guns of deadly strife And all the land with blood had run, There came one day to give his life A hero named George Washington. (Etc. for twenty stanzas. Age six. Culmination of the lyric period.) VI I stand beside the ebbing tide Where many ripples play And mourn the days of innocence Forever flung away. tasted youth, wasted youth ! Thy happy days I mourn, There s naught but bitterness and death For me when youth is gone. (Age seven. Sproutings of modernism.) , VII The world was black. Night seemed unending. My soul a-rack Suffered heart-rending. The stars were gone, And sin the deceiver Led me on and on, Fearing to leave her. Life and death were the same ; Then You came . . . (Age eight. Strong technique. Influence of Carl Sand- burg.) 24 VIII Under my door Crept a sunbeam And never stopped Until it reached A tack in the carpet. (Age nine. Free verse at last. Hailed far and wide as the Real Thing.) JOHN S. BROWN 25 HAGIOLOGY I ST. SEBASTIAN My happy lot the martyr s crown to wear, My happy lot the arrow s pain to bear who, thus blessed, would his place exchange With old Stylites on his pillar there ! II ST. ROSE OF LIMA Good people, stay your hurrying feet and view This needlework that I have done for you. The barb that wrought it goads my tortured side. So puissant are God s mercies in Peru! Ill ST. CYRIL Tho peaceful, I a holy sword became And purg d Hypatia of her mortal blame. 1 had her dragged to church and massacred And scraped her bones to glorify Thy Name. IV ST. SATAN Great Master God, Thy cleansing fires burn well ; Thy mercy shines for ev n Thy saint who fell. With burning throat I cry, Thy will be done ! Send me more souls, more souls to damn in hell ! 26 V ST. Pro Dear Lord, tis Thy decree that I in state Shall sit upon the Throne Pontificate. No longer peace and homely joys to know, But for Thy sake I must be rich and great. VI ST. Mio My loves, my hates, my fortune yet to find, Some random verse that I may leave behind These constitute my hagiology. Nor gods nor saints else occupy my mind. JOHN S. BROWN 27 NATURE S SANCTUARY In the cool glen where by the rushing river The branches drooping o er the crystal waters Sway in the enchanted breeze thou art with me, Spirit eternal! From the far hillside comes the mellow tinkle Of distant cow-bells long and listless falling A sound of earth, yet borne from airy regions In cloudland floating! Hark ! underneath the bowery vines and blossoms Ethereal loves in tenderest notes are stealing Where the lone woodbird to the streamlet poureth His delicate passion. From myriad leaflets quivering in the sunlight Soft insect murmurs fill the whispering silence So faint, so clear, yet sweet, faint echoes waking In my lone bosom. Oh ! were it mine to mingle with the fragrance And music of this morn these thoughts of beauty To guard one gleam of nature s joy forever, How sweet the rapture! GEORGE F. BUTLER 28 HOME Wherever smoke wreaths Heavenward curl Cave of a hermit, Hovel of churl, Mansion of merchant, princely dome Out of the dreariness, Into its cheeriness, Come we in weariness Home. I, too, have wandered Through the far lands. Home there was their home ; Open their hands. Yet though all brothers, born of the foam, Far o er appalling sea, Ever enthralling me, Blood still was calling me Home. Men speak of jewels Earth holds abroad. What can compare with One bit of sod, Full of the love-gold sunk in the loam? There lies my holy dead, And there my mother shed Tears o er my sleeping head Home. 29 Home . . . where I first knew Day was alight; Where I would fain be Ere the Long Night, That they might write this in some old tome : This earth the womb was; This earth the room was; This earth the tomb was. HOME. STEPHEN CHALMERS 30 THE WEEDS Men scorn them, but the wiser day Looks never from the weeds away. They honor him as best they may, And so their humble summer goes. Sometimes I think the soft winds stay With them the longest, in their play, And all the sweet things to them say They but say over to the rose. JOHN VANCE CHENEY 31 WIND Yellow Fox Beds in the rocks; Brown Bird, in the tree Houses he; But Wind, come forth Of south and north, Of east and west, Where shall he rest ? Snake and Eft Slip into the cleft; Marmot sleeps sound Underground ; Wind o the hill Is wandering still; And Wind o the sea, When sleepeth he? Clouds of the air Slumber there; Flowers droop the head, Leaves lie dead; But Wind, worn Wind, What rest shall he find? When shall he roam The wild road home? JOHN VANCE CHENEY 32 REMEMBERING I look for you in the liquid blue, Past the billowy folds of fleece, In the lights which lie in the deep, dark sky At the gates of eternal peace. I look for you in the first faint hue Which the earliest springtime wears, And I search the maze of the golden haze Which the opulent autumn bears. Is it you, is it you in the beaded dew, Perfumed by the morning rose ? Or are you set in that silhouette Of the moonlit pines and snows ? In the twilight gloom of your own white room, I listen to hear you stir, And I look for you when a door swings to, In a place where you never were. Are you in that mist by the hill-top kissed, Or the rose-pearled morning tinge? Do I hear you pass on the plumes of grass ? Are you veiled in the rainbow s fringe ? Are you there in the yield of the wind-worn field ? Or the calm of cathedralled woods ? Are you in the tide, where the Nereids ride And flourish their fleecy hoods ? I look in the spray of the Milky Way, I search in the violet s nook, I gaze in the mild, sweet eyes of a child, And oh ! were it but your look ! 33 I have sought, I have sought, but have found you not ; I am bruised by the blind, blank wall ; And yet, dearest one, though found in none, I have found you in them all! For wherever is hint, be it tone or tint, Of the beautiful, good, or true, Afar or at hand, on sea or on land, There is something which speaks of you. You have made your home in the field and foam ; You are flecked in the sunlight s ray ; You are part of the dark where my heart is a-hark, As the ageing Night grows gray. You are part of my innermost life, dear heart, And are part of the uttermost star. You are one with the sod and the soul of God, And because you have been, you are. EDMUND VANCE COOKE (Copyrighted 1917 by the author) 34 BORN WITHOUT A CHANCE (February 12, 1809) A squalid village set in wintry mud. A hub-deep ox-cart slowly groans and squeaks. A horseman hails and halts. He shifts his cud And speaks ; "Well, did you hear? Tom Lincoln s wife; today. The devil s luck for folk as poor as they. Poor Tom! Poor Nance! Poor young one ! born without a chance ! "A baby in that God-forsaken den, That worse than cattle-pen! Well, what are they but cattle ? Cattle ? Tut ! A critter is beef, hide and tallow, but Who d swap one for the critters of that hut ? White trash ! small fry ! Whose only instinct is to multiply ! "They re good at that, And so, to-day, God wot, another brat ! A puking, squalling, red-faced good-for-naught Spilled on the world, heaven only knows for what. Better if he were black, For then he d have a shirt upon his back And something in his belly as he grows. More than he s like to have, as I suppose. Yet there be those Who claim equality for this new brat, And that damned democrat Who squats to-day where Washington once sat, He d have it that this Lincoln cub might be Of even value in the world with you and me ! 35 "Yes, Jefferson, Tom Jefferson. Who but he, Who even hints that black men should be free. That feather-headed fool would tell you, maybe, A president might lie in this new baby, In this new squawker born without a rag To hide himself ! Good God, it makes me gag ! This beggar-spawn Born for a world to wipe its feet upon A few years hence, but now More helpless than the litter of a sow, And oh, well ! send the women-folks to Nance. Poor little devil ! born without a chance ! EDMUND VANCE COOKE (Copyright 1920, N. E .A.) 36 MAKING A SONNET I like to write a sonnet as I dress, With one same motion wash my mind and face, And as I sweep away deep slumber s trace, And quickly my full consciousness possess, Then forth from every hidden brain recess I draw the eager prisoned thoughts that race, And as I m tying up my last shoe lace The octave s done with small or great success. Then as I choose a collar stiff or soft, And start to pick a necktie for the day, I ll wear most anything that comes my way, Since mental works are whirring up aloft, And if for rhymes I do not have to beg, The sonnet s ready with the breakfast egg. HENRY CORNEAU DILLER 37 SULTAN MAHMUD III TO HIS LOVE (A Gazel, Ottoman Verse) The breathing cypress movement, thy slow grace resembles ; The silent dancing juniper, thy footpace resembles. The faint and rosy blush of morn, who early wakens To greet her ruddy lover, thy sweet face resembles. Thy black long hair of musky fragrance o er thy gleaming shoulders Hanging in coils yea writhing serpents in thy lace re sembles. Throw off thy golden veil and let me kiss thy lips forever! Low raptured music, thy soft warm embrace resembles. Ah, Mahmud s love, which bows to thy blue-purple sandals, A watchful slave, prostrate before thy grace, resembles. WENDELL ERIC DIXON 38 EXILED In western fields the golden poppies bloom ; Wild daisies spread their patterns on the hills ; On yellow sands the sea s blue goblet spills, And o er the pines the warding mountains loom, While here I smother in a little room, With flowers potted on the window sills, Flecked with the sooty spawn of smoking mills, The city s walls about me like a tomb. Exiled from scenes that burn in memory s eyes, To brooding grief my soul no more shall yield, Though mills instead of mountains meet the view ; No longer shall I pine for homeland skies, For old, familiar paths in wood, and field, Since one I love is with me, exiled too. HENRY DUMONT 39 GEORGE CHAVEZ Dauntless he soared above the Alpine snow That once had woven shackles for the feet Of conquering armies, and a burial sheet For many a fallen warrior long ago ; And gazing on the barrier below, "Where shades of Hannibal and Caesar meet, His soul their daring spirits dared to greet, And knew a joy that they could never know. Intrepid bird, on pinions young and frail, He dared the secret hazards of the skies, Scorning the safer paths their feet had trod ; And with the light of triumph in his eyes. He fell, the breaker of an airy trail, Pierced by the arrow of a jealous god. HENRY DUMONT 40 THE HUSH It was a hush that folded like a flower And awed away all anger quietly; And long before your dear low voice of power Brought comfort or forgiveness, I was free ; For in that hush I held my little hour, And in that hush God s heart beat once for me. BETTY EAELE 41 PAKACLETE They must be friendly with defeat Who would the paths of glory tread, And meekly walk with humbled head. For them, life s ways will not be sweet, But they will know the deathless dead ; They must be friendly with defeat, Who would the paths of glory tread. The spirit of the Paraclete Will on their path a radiance shed, And form a nimbus for the head. They must be friendly with defeat Who would the paths of glory tread, And meekly walk with humbled head. CHARLOTTE EATON 42 CHOPIN I hurried in from sleety rain, Fatigued from where my feet had strayed ; Some one below a Nocturne played. And all the pressure and the pain Out of my thought began to fade ; I hurried in from sleety rain, Fatigued from where my feet had strayed. The sweetness of that subtle strain, Dispersed the evils that degrade, And from my heart to God I prayed. I hurried in from sleety rain, Fatigued from where my feet had strayed ; Some one below a Nocturne played. CHARLOTTE EATON 43 WAR All through the war I could not thrill; Its dastard blight my spirit scarred; I could not praise; I am a bard. That man should organize to kill, Depressed my thought and pressed me hard. All through the war I could not thrill, I could not praise ; I am a bard. The arrant waste of so much skill, Science s fruit, misued, ill-starred, From its right purposes debarred, All through the war I could not thrill; Its dastard blight my spirit scarred. I could not praise I am a bard. CHARLOTTE EATON 44 REGRET It comes upon me with a rush, My life of helplessness and shame ; It burns into my flesh like flame. I feel it in the evening s hush; When thought coherence seeks to frame, It comes upon me with a rush, My life of helplessness and shame. Sometimes a hidden hermit thrush Seems wistfully to pipe your name That fills me with a poignant blame. It comes upon me with a rush, My life of helplessness and shame. It burns into my flesh like flame. CHARLOTTE EATON 45 LOVE IN SPRING Hummers at the hedge rows, Meadow larks in air, Mockers in the apricots, Music everywhere. Linnets feeding birdlings Just above my door, Spring, eternal lover, Greening all earth s floor. Joy and love in sunshine So rich, it makes you start ; All the world is singing, "Marita has your heart." CHARLES FAEWELL EDSON 46 DESTINY In the dusk at Galloway, The clover fragrance bade me stay. The crickets gainst the coming night Chanted praise of candle-light. The trees bent down and swept a sweet Home-searching spell about my feet. I groped, and groping found a ^door, As one long sought and waited for. ETHEL M. ERICSON 47 CHRYSANTHEMUM CHILD Just as instinctively as I would fold Protecting arms about a little child, And search its eyes for sudden love and trust, I bend above you, Child of God, and thrust My hand beneath your head, splendid and wild, With windy hair like winter sunset gold. Perhaps it is because you grow child-high, And I can reach and love you as I will, Or pause to feel you brushing by my side, The cunning fingers of your leaves spread wide In vague caresses wandering, until You touch an ancient love that cannot die ! ETHEL M. ERICSON 48 JANUARY The dawn comes late and cold and brings no cheer ; Blue shadows lie across the driven snow; Dim skies shut down upon the world below, Save in the east, where ruddy lines appear, Piercing the purple cloud-banks like a spear. Adown the road creaking wagons go ; The teamsters beat their breasts to keep aglow ; Their frosty breath floats upward, keen and clear. As thus I watch the coming of the day And think of summer suns and waving grain, The Master Artist, at my side alway, Sketches with frosty pencil on the pane Leaves, ferns and nodding flowers, as He would say, Take heart, and wait. All these shall come again. WALTER TAYLOR FIELD 49 SONNET And this is death ? To lie upon a hill "Warmed by the gentle breath of summer night, And swoon in olden memories that fill The soothed brain with dreams of cool delight : To see within the stars a loved one s eye Forgotten long ago, and in the wind To catch the little flutter of a sigh Borne from the years that linger far behind. And then to sleep, lulled by eternal rest, Watched by eternal peace that none may break, Deep in the sheltering stillness of the breast Of maiden time, whose youth shall never wake Calm as the waning twilight in the west, Fair as the morns that Springtimes overtake. FRANCIS FIELDING-REID 50 SLEEP, THE MOTHER Sleep, the mother, Has taken her over. She has slipped from my arms Into the arms of this other, Who has touched her softly, Who has flushed her with dreaming. This is not the same Sleep who gathers men Heavy with labor, Women drugged with pleasure. This is the mother Of little children only, Moving as a wind From white spaces, Flushing their faces With a soft flame, holily, To whom the mothers of the earth Give up their children Joyously, with a clean gladness, With only a little sadness, Such as hurts mothers, For their mortality. For they remember also, Remembering swiftly, Death too is a mother ! But now her lashes curl delicately, The blue veins of her eyelids Show sweetly in the soft skin. Her red mouth droops slowly. . . 51 And hovering over The child she is holding Is Sleep, the white mother, With arms enfolding ! FLORENCE KIPEB FRANK 52 OCTOBER I cannot get enough of trees, Nor sharp-lit mornings such as these When from my house s smallness I Step out and quick possess the sky, And feel along my blood the race Of leaves that scurry every place. O I m afraid that I shall be Dead, and the love gone out of me Before of life I ve had my fill And seen enough light upon the hill, Before this greedy joy is fed For clouds and winds and bushes red ! FLORENCE KIPEB FRANK 53 ELF-CHILD They ll get your rollicking spirit pretty soon, Taming you to the observances of days, They ll teach you how to tread the ordered maze, Little wild baby dancing under the moon ; Not to go prancing at the call of the loon, Mad little darling of the runaways ! Of conversation, manners, prim delays They ll tell you and nice use of the fork and spoon. O please, please don t let it be all wasted That you from streams have drunk a dear delight, You who have lived with faery, and have tasted Delicate rumours, stirrings of the sprite. Do sometimes put your fingers to your nose, And still go dancing on your little toes! FLORENCE KEPER FRANK 54 IVORY THUMBS "All flesh is not the same flesh: biit there is one kind of flesh of men" Turbulence of trumpets, insistency of drums, Imperious banners floating beneath whose flaunt there conies The worshipful Ivory Emperor with his consecrated thumbs. The cavalcade is halted, the Ivory Lord descends To his box by the arena where a multitude attends. He is here for the sport of a thousand kings, a sport that never ends. Around the field of combat the Pale Man leads the trail, Bearing a trident long and sharp, the devil s forked tail, And dangling a net, half mockingly, for the trick which can not fail. Through the grated doorway, harsh of hinge and grim, Another comes on the saffron sands, shadowy-hued of limb ; And the Pale Man looks at the Man of Bronze and the Bronze Man looks at him. Back of the Pale Man, lifted high, are the glories of Babylon ; The frieze of his sky is carven with the shafts of the Parthenon And the pride of Rome that had wrought its dreams in the brooding Pantheon. Back of the Bronze Man lie the deeps of the forests brazen gloom Where the jungle was his cradle and the jungle was his tomb, And his songs had the pulse of the naked night and the cadence of all doom. 55 Between the Bronze Man s lips whistles an anguished breath. He looks at the Ivory Emperor, at his thumbs of life and death. "Stir up the laggard," the Emperor says. "Too long he tar- rieth." The Bronze Man s knife is short, the Pale Man s spear is long, But back and forth they hew and hack in rhythm fierce and strong, And loud on the shield the trident falls with the clang of the burial gong. The Pale Man s spear is raised, his eyes upon the crown Swiftly the gleaming point descends to summon the floods that drown, For the thumbs of the Ivory Emperor, those terrible thumbs, are down. LOUISE AYRES GARNETT 56 THE CAPTIVE I am a bird and the fowler Has caught me within his net. I have no fear at my capture I only fear to forget. Always I would remember My nest at the river s edge, The call of my mate at sunrise, The swish of the bending sedge. Anguish for me to remember, But death for me to forget I am a bird and the fowler Has caught me within his net. LOUISE AYBES GARNETT 57 THE SONGLESS CITY "What do you see, Uncle Michael Ahanna, Over the sands at the falling day?" "I m seeing a city all golden and purple And a square in the middle for children to play. And there are fair tall groves in that city, And houses of agate with roofs agleam, And too many merchants more s the pity ! To traffick there in the courts of dream. But for all of that, tis a desolate sight, And its folk, that were mighty, are dying away For the lack of the dance in the streets by day, Or the sound of the harp from the roofs at night." CLIFFORD FRANKLIN GESSLER 58 FREE RUSSIA Love, and the glorious crimson wings of war, The dear familiar sadnesses of earth, Winds in the wood, and the new spring s sweet birth; Old madnesses that men have perished for And loveliness that thronged the ancient day With clash of crowding swords and trumpet call And heroes deeds high graven on time s wall These have been sung: there is no more to say. But out of the North, and from the frozen sea, From minds unquelled by force, unbought by hire, A Word goes forth, a faith for which men die, A roar of crashing thrones the folk are free ! Poet ! plunge your pen in that high fire And blazon it across the burnished sky ! CLIFFORD FRANKLIN GESSLER 59 DUST TO DUST Little dust whirl Dancing down this old white road, Are you the ghost Of my very great grandmother Tossing your hair again In the Spring wind? ELEANOR HAMMOND 60 INTERLOPER Your little head is downy as a yellow dandelion And your baby face is innocent as a sleeping rosebud Yet with your tiny, clutching hands You have torn open the gates of paradise, Where I and my beloved dwelt alone, And let in the troubled world ! ELEANOR HAMMOND 61 PATCHWORK I am a piece of patchwork Made of odds and ends of souls Stitched together hit or miss. What wonder you can not always follow my design Or comprehend my color scheme! ELEANOR HAMMOND 62 HYMN FOR A SPRING NIGHT Against the purple door curtains of your temple They have lighted seven flickering candles. The little moon throws incense on the air, And the wind calls like a muezzin. On the young grass, spread for a silken prayer rug, I will kneel And bow my forehead down into the dew And give thanks For this wild, wind-blown torch flame of young love That is mine! ELEANOR HAMMOND 63 DEFEAT Whenever sudden beauty flames Of circling gull or slender tree My heart grows tense with loneliness Because you are not there to see. And songs that once I should have made Fall dumb outside your bolted door. Why should I ever sing again? You will not hear me any more ! ELEANOR HAMMOND 64 PANAMA Where stands the shrunk mid-continent upreared, Its rib-rocks to a mountain cordon thinned, Beneath Thy favor, Lord, at last lies sheared The long-sought road to Ind. No fabled fairway this; for, lest men find Their dream fulfilled by deeds too lightly done, Thou willed that but by travail might we bind Thy sundered seas in one. These sun-scorched cordilleras, from whose crest Balboa saw the Western wave unrolled, These swamps, where fever-maddened men have pressed To fight and die for gold, Are cloven by the toil of countless hands, Are blasted, dredged and locked by brawn and brain To serve the high emprise of mightier lands Than plied the Spanish Main With questing galleons launched on ocean s flood To preach the Cross by firelock and by sword And sate their lust with trophies stained in blood Aztec and Inca poured. Now giant freighters of the Elbe and Wear Shall thread the jungles known of Morgan s men And tread down valleys whence the buccaneer Marched forth on Darien ; The steel-laced lattice of the dreadnaught s masts Shall glide between Culebra s man-made shores, Tall warriors on the pathways in dead pasts Worn by conquistadors. 65 Thy warders, Lord, the way is ours to hold, For all mankind a highroad fair at need ; Oh, shield us from the scarlet sins of old, Base arrogance and greed. For if men rose to speed this task of ours, Thou gavest them vision and the strength to strive; If faith grew faint, at war with Nature s powers, Thou madest that faith survive. The task stands done. No strange, new-conquered states Invoke our justice on imploring knees ; Imperial commerce at the portal waits, Drawn from the seven seas. Be Thou our mentor, Lord, that on this ground Where mailed and sceptred wrong has often stood, Nation with nation meeting, may be bound v In closer brotherhood. JOSEPH MILLS HANSON 66 LAEAMIE TRAIL Across the crests of the naked hills, Smooth-swept by the winds of God, It cleaves its way like a shaft of gray Close-bound by the prairie sod. It stretches flat from the sluggish Platte To the lands of forest shade ; The clean trail, the lean trail, The trail the troopers made. It draws aside with a wary curve From the lurking, dark ravine, It launches fair as a lance in air O er the raw-ribbed ridge between; With never a wait it plunges straight Through river or reed-grown brook ; The deep trail, the steep trail, The trail the squadrons took. They carved it well, those men of old, Stern lords of the border war, They wrought it out with their sabres stout And marked it with their gore. They made it stand as an iron band Along the wild frontier; The strong trail, the long trail, The trail of force and fear. For the stirring note of the bugle s throat Ye may hark today in vain, For the track is scarred by the gang-plow s shard And gulfed in the growing grain. But wait tonight for the moonrise white ; Perchance ye may see them tread 67 The lost trail, the ghost trail, The trail of the gallant dead. Twixt cloud and cloud o er the pallid moon From the nether dark they glide, And the grasses sigh as they rustle by Their phantom steeds astride. By four and four as they rode of yore And well they know the way ; The dim trail, the grim trail, The trail of toil and fray. With tattered guidons spectral thin Above their swaying ranks, With carbines swung and sabres slung And the gray dust on their flanks They march again as they marched it then When the red men dogged their track, The gloom trail, the doom trail, The trail they came not back. They pass, like a flutter of drifting fog, As the hostile tribes have passed, As the wild- wing d birds and the bison herds And the unfenced prairies vast, And those who gain by their strife and pain Forget, in the land they won, The red trail, the dead trail, The trail of duty done. But to him who loves heroic deeds The far-flung path still bides, The bullet sings and the war-whoop rings And the stalwart trooper rides, 68 For they were the sort from Snelling Fort Who traveled fearlessly The bold trail, the old trail, The trail to Laramie. JOSEPH MILLS HANSON HOW LONG AGO ! How long ago, and bravely I set forth To come to that high place Where Beauty dwells, and doubted not my worth To look upon her face. In pride of strength, conscious of high desire, It seemed not over bold That youth and faith and courage should aspire To see the realms of gold. The way is long; and I have known such sorrow, Such cruel burdens borne, Each day s success so waits upon tomorrow That I am overworn. And should I find, before my strength is spent, The place where Beauty stands, I could but kneel, a sorry suppliant, With poor, distorted hands. BURTON HASELTINE 70 NON KBPETETUR Never more for us to know Love undomiciled, Since such love, you say, will grow Fickle as a child. Well, suppose the world had said, " Bless you," long ago; Poured its unction on our head, Named us so and so. Think you life would be more sweet, Love more rich in flavor, Sitting at convention s feet, With discretion s favor? Given now to have again Years that we have had, Would we pause to ask if men Thought them good or bad? Would we choose the bonds of bliss None may put asunder, Or the pain and joy of this Love of ours? I wonder. BURTON HASELTINE 71 LITTLE HOUSE Let us build a little house Bight here among the happy oaks ; And let us live in sweet carouse With star-eyed, winsome woodland folks. And let us build it snug and warm, And friendly to the winds that blow ; And let us hide in it a charm To bring back friends who come and go. The walls shall be of gray and green, With brown eaves frowning overhead, And wonders through wide windows seen Shall speak delights of hearth and bed. A winding walk shall wander in, And lilac shrub shall lure the bees, And neighbor-folk will wag the chin At what that says and this one sees. An hawthorne hedge shall hold us round, And two deep stoops shall cool the breeze, And violets wink us from the ground, While tired grandames rest their knees. The morning sun shall break a lance Against the golden window-pane, And wake us up from dreams, perchance, To hail the east with, hearts aflame. The wide, white noon, in sun or snow, Will glad us if we come or go ; But oh, at dusk, the joy well know! The fire-log on the hearth a-glow! 72 And all the sky above the world; The wonder of the world around ; The whispering woods in shadows furled And we two, silent, slumber-bound. LE ROY HENNESSEY 73 THE SPIRIT S GRACE More brightly must my spirit shine Since grace of beauty is not mine; As shaded light and converse wise Fill with a wondering surprise The weary traveler seeking late A lodging at some cottage gate So would I that my Spirit s grace Should beautify its dwelling place. JANIE SCREVEN HEY WARD 74 HIS CREED When I behold a man, and read His kindly actions day by day, I question not the form of creed Conviction urges him to say. Nor care I if with head held high, Or with obeisance low He seeks the path that leads to God. He finds it, that I know. JANIE SCREVEX HEYWARD 75 DAFFODILS Pale yellow daffodils are like The sunlit souls of some I know ; All eagerness and yet compelled To blossom in an ordered row. JANIE SCREVEN HEYWARD 76 EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON The bruit about your name is not immense Ten men I know have never heard of you But in the eager listening of a few You have no slender meed of reverence. We do not come for study or defence, To learn if you are old, or somewhat new, Content to watch the wizard light gleam through The shadowed twilight of your reticence. Since Hamlet walked in chilly Elsinore Has your shrewd wit been fairly f ellowless ; And since one whispered of his lost Lenore Has failed that darkling spell our hearts confess In Tilbury town, when tempered sunlight showers Upon the man Flammonde among the autumn flowers. HOYT HOPEWELL HUDSON 77 AT A MEMORIAL SERVICE We have earth and the broad moon s light and the stars; We can still battle with great winds buoyantly leaping ; Dawn yet breaks for us ; sunset splendidly burns : Life has us in her keeping. They have turned from us ; dark death called and they went Under the earth or under the grey sea, bravely Holding the ultimate quest ; we gather and go, Speaking their fair names gravely. Why should we seek to recall them, trouble with words Those who have fronted the fear-girt presence, and wended Ways that our heroes and kings, crowned singers of old Took, and taking made splendid? Ah, but companions are gone, great loneliness comes ; Living is wistf ulness now, love yearns and remembers Voices that failed, blithe comrades that vanished and left Colder the hearth-fire embers. Only we know they are near, being one with the earth, One with the passionless dust and the great winds leaping : They are not gone from the sunlit range of the day! Life has them in her keeping. We too are one with the day, we move by the laws Ruling the swinging stars and the care-free sweep of the swallow. Live we or die, we shall not depart from their presence who passed Leading the way we follow! HOYT HOPEWELL, HUDSON 78 THE DEPARTURE OF THE BIRDS He looked at sombre clouds that crowded by Above the trembling oak and maple boughs, At stubble-fields, and idle rakes and ploughs; He heard a song the west wind used to sigh When he was young. So changing earth and sky Brought back the old days, when he drove his cows Along the lanes about his father s house, And made him wonder, Was that queer lad I?" There was reluctance in the autumn air, And in his heart as he turned back to town. The birds were starting south, their black wings flung Against the clouds; once more the birds would bear A part of him to exile, flying down Strange ways his dreams had gone when he was young. HOYT HOPEWELL HUDSON 79 PALINGENESIS And if I do return with finer passion Sloughed stark and clean and eager as the wind, Questing again but in a nobler fashion The rough, old world ways where I sought and sinned; Let me run tingling through a slender tree, Breaking like laughter into verdant flame, Drawing deep, fecund vision into me Out of the warmth and darkness whence I came, Let me, a quiet fragment of delight, Scatter dissolving fragrance down the air, Merged in the fluent beauty of the night, Caught in the trailing silver of her hair; Music or flame, God, blossom, bird or breeze If I return why not as one of these ? HAZEL COLLISTEB HUTCHISON 80 DESIGN Already you are slipping back Into your flamboyant cloak again, Tying it fast with the fluttering ribbons Of your laughter, Drawing its soft, close collar of content About you, Snapped at the throat with a glittering jewel Of hauteur. I am not deceived. For a moment I saw A slim, dark passion Of desire and pain Pricked with pale points of dream fire. Now I am remembering A tall, black juniper Starred with fire flies Seen once upon a country road somewhere At dusk. HAZEL COLLISTER HUTCHISON 81 WE WHO MAY NEVER BE We who may never be Wine, fire to each other, Only pain, We who must live forever waiting, Ever fain, Let us rejoice! One sorrow past enduring We need not know, The impotent, wan agony of watching Our glory go. Never shall sated love, Grim, livid with remembrance Like a scar Mock the white magic of that first awakening To high dream and star, But like a flame Forever glowing Passionate and strong Our love shall be a birth and a beginning, A climbing song. HAZEL COLLISTER HUTCHISON 82 MAY SUNDAY Birds who are all unlearned in sin and doubt Assail this quietness with careless rapture; They laugh at gloom ; they jest and jeer and flout. Teach me your lack of sorrow, thoughtless birds, Teach me your songs which have no use for words, Your lyric joy which I can never capture. Over the sullen quiet of the hills, A church bell flings its melancholy breath : Hamlet, apostrophising human ills; Solomon, preaching vanity and death. Vanity! . . . Vanity! . . . Vanity! ... It fills With aching numbness all the world of sound, Gathering curious echoes from the ground : * All flesh is grass, and, Evil are our wills. > > Answer him, birds, tell him you do not care ; Fling in his teeth your shrill, unthinking banter. Tell him What is there that you do not dare? Your sun-god is a potent old enchanter. How many thousand half -believing years Have seen him fashion winter into May, You know, glad birds ; you have no mind for fears ; This charm he makes is far too soon away To give you time for introspective mourning ; You will not heed these steeple-cries of warning, Or turn from life to penitence and tears. Gay chatterers among new-perfect boughs, Chanters of nonsense more divine than truth, Festive philosophers, whose creed allows No cloud to fall upon the joy of youth, 83 You have well answered him ; his strident gloom, His ominous hints of judgment and the tomb Are silent now. Tell once again your vows: Repeat your constancy to foaming trees Flinging white surf of blossoms to the sky; Swear you will love that vagabond, the breeze. When you go drifting with him by and by Into another summer, where the net Of winter lays no snare for happy things, You will forget this day of songs and wings, But, birds, be sure that I shall not forget. THOMAS KENNEDY LATE GUEST Half luminous, and dripping phosphorescent flashes, Night slips in fragrant and breathless out of the rain. Down the black-mirrored way, a street car clangs and crashes ; New leaves shape wavering silhouettes on the dark pane. Voices and footsteps echo, and fade in laughter; Her smile is a pale miracle in the gloom. I turn my eyes from Sleep, to follow after Her slim, gray silence, flitting about the room. THOMAS KENNEDY 85 THE DIVER I have plunged into life, God, As a diver into the sea, Knowing and heeding naught Save thine old command to me To go and seek for thy pearl, Hidden wherever it be. And the waters are in my eyes; They clutch at my straining breath ; They beat in my ears; yet, "Seek!" My heart still whispereth, And I grope, and forbear to call On the easy rescuer, Death. For thy pearl must be here in the sands, If ever a warrant there be For that old command of thine To plunge into life and see. So I search, for I trust in thy truth, thou Lord of the Truth, and of me. LILY A. LONG 86 THE SINGING PLACE Cold may lie the day, And bare of grace; At night I slip away To the Singing Place. A border of mist and doubt Before the gate, And the Dancing Stars grow still As hushed I wait. Then faint and far away I catch the beat In broken rhythm and rhyme Of joyous feet, Lifting waves of sound That will rise and swell, (If the prying eyes of thought Break not the spell,) Rise and swell and retreat And fall and flee, As over the edge of sleep They beckon me. And I wait as the seaweed waits For the lifting tide ; To ask would be to awake, To be denied. I cloud my eyes in the mist That veils the hem, And then with a rush I am past, I am Theirs, and of Them ! And the pulsing chant swells up To touch the sky, And the song is joy, is life, 87 And the song am I ! The thunderous music peals Around, o erhead, - The dead would awake to hear If there were dead; But the life of the throbbing Sun Is in the song, And we weave the world anew, And the Singing Throng Fills every corner of space Over the edge of sleep I bring but a trace Of the chants that pulse and sweep In the Singing Place. LILY A. LONG 88 THE ETERNAL The fire our love has kindled still will burn Upon the glowing hearthstone of the world After our own bright ingle-embers turn To ashen atoms on the four winds whirled. The tenderness and trust you gave to me, My glad renunciations for your sake, Will comfort many a lone heart s agony In far-off midnights when grim ghosts awake. Because of lovelight in your brooding eyes The stars will glisten with a softer flame, And in some distant April s minstrelsies My lips will still be whispering your name. For we are heirs of raptures Petrarch knew And hopes of Rachel by the Haran stream; Because of faithful Browning you are true, My joys are deeper for Francesca s dream. In summer evenings you have wondered why The scent of honeysuckle stirred my tears I knew a sweet regret came drifting by From some sad princess in forgotten years. The tender grief of Heloise is calling Through the lorn lyrics of the mourning doves, And every autumn wasted leaves are falling Stained with the fervor of immortal loves. All blest emotions of the past are ours, The future will be fragrant with our faith, Our love will bloom again in fadeless flowers Beyond the somber barriers of death. LUCIA CLARK MARKHAM 89 MIDNIGHT In the deep hush of night the old house wakes, Returning footsteps steal across the floor, Softly I hear the hinges of the door Creak at an unseen touch ; the silence quakes With stealthy rustlings that a silk gown makes, Low whispers and a sleepy baby s cry, A stifled laugh, a moan, a lullaby, And faint forgotten sighs and old heart-aches. Some shadowy presence lingers in the room, Ghost of a dream, wraith of a young despair ; A glint of silver breaks the brooding gloom Ah, who is leaning poised upon the stair With orange-blossoms dropping from her hair And in her eyes shades of oncoming doom? LUCIA CLARK MAEKHAM 90 THE ROSES OF PIERIA "Because thou hast no share in the roses of Pieria, thou shalt go to and fro, unnoticed, in the House of Hades, flitting among the dusky dead." SAPPHO. The sad day walks with ivory forehead bared Into the gray glades of oblivion; Where once our vesper star in splendor fared The last wan hour beyond the brink has gone, But we who face an undiscovered dawn The Roses of Pieria have shared. Somewhere new-leaved are all the blighted boughs, Retinted the frail petals summer shed, No bird is lost that sang his mating- vows, No wisp of cloud that o er the mountains sped We shall not stray among the dusky dead Nor wait, unhonored, in Aides House. It is enough to gain the Towers of Morn Where all the lost immortals keep the tryst, To be in wistful violets reborn And sing again when autumn winds are whist We who are swept into the stygian mist The Roses of Pieria have worn. LUCIA CLARK MARKHAM 91 BLUEBELLS Tonight from deeps of loneliness I wake in wistful wonder To a sudden sense of brightness, an immanence of blue O are there bluebells swaying in a shadowy coppice yonder, Shriven with the dawning and the dew ? For little silver echoes are all about me ringing, A crystal chime of waters where a wayward brooklet strays, Faint robin-trills and dove-calls and happy children s singing And merriment of long-forgotten Mays. And then my heart remembers a shady reach of wildwood Sweet with bloom and innocence, with joy of bird and stream Where bluebells rang their fragrant chimes in sunny springs of childhood Calling me to fairyland and dream. And so I know across the years that disenchant and harden, Through midnight s alien silence and the black wind s mockery, Down from some paradisal glade, some green, immortal gar den The souls of bluebells come to comfort me. LUCIA CLARK MARKHAM 92 EPICEDIUM (In Memory of America s Dead in the Great War) No more for them shall evening s rose unclose, Nor dawn s emblazoned panoplies be spread ; Alike, the rain s warm kiss and stabbing snows, Unminded, fall upon each hallowed head. But the bugles, as they leap and wildly sing, Rejoice . . . remembering. The guns mad music their young ears have known "War s lullabies that moaned on Flanders plain; Tonight the wind walks on them, still as stone, Where they lie huddled close as riven grain. But the drums, reverberating, proudly roll They love a soldier s soul! With arms outflung and eyes that laughed at death, They drank the wine of sacrifice and loss ; For them a life-time spanned a burning breath, And truth they visioned, clean of earthly dross. But the fifes, can you not hear their lusty shriek f They know, and now they speak! The lazy drift of cloud, the noon-day hum Of vagrant bees; the lark s untrammeled song, Shall gladden them no more, who now lie dumb In death s strange sleep, yet once were swift and strong. But the bells, that to all living listener^ peal, With joy their deeds reveal! They have given their lives, with bodies bruised and broken, Upon their country s altar they have bled; 93 They have left, as priceless heritage, a token That honor lives forever with the dead. And the bugles, as their rich notes rise cmd fall They answer . . . knowing all. J. CORSON MILLER 94 ELEMENTALS Elena and Mary went down the lane ; Both were questing, for both were young. Mary s hope was none so plain, But Elena s was light on her tongue. "I go," said Elena, "to preach and pose; To teach my brothers the worth of me. But Mary s silent mouth was a rose Scented with kisses to be. Elena has won what she went to get; Famed and laureled she comes again, Smiling as Mary smiles, and yet Mary comes suckling sons of men. FANNY HODGES NEWMAN 95 THE TAVERN GUEST Bring out the full decanter, Fate, goodwife; Just as it comes I ll have it, Sweet or gall; Down to the lees, the red lees, Pour me life. My heart will more than hold it, Give me all!" FANNY HODGES NEWMAN 96 THE BEDBIRD Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet, Teasing, tantalizing madcap varlet, Glooming, glinting through the boughs, Making, breaking lover s vows; Dashing leader of the choir, Standing on the topmost. spire, Scintillating song and fire, Calls me : Come up come up higher, higher, higher! Daytime meteor trailing light, Like a shooting star at night Just a moment of delight, Followed by a mad desire ; But the flaming flash of scarlet, Tantalizing madcap varlet, Hiding from my aching sight This time just a little nigher Laughing from his leafy height, Mocks me : Come up come up higher, higher, higher! COTTON NOE 97 TO THE MOCKING BIRD Whence is thy song, Voluptuous soul of the amorous South ? Oh ! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth ; The dews of eve ; the mists of morn ; The bloom of rose ; the thistle s thorn ; Whence light of love ; whence dark of scorn ; Whence joy ; whence grief ; Death, born of wrong Ah ! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng ? Thence is thy song ! Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor, The passionate love of Juliet ; Thy villainous art can weave a net With shreds of song, that never yet Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure. Ophelia s broken heart is thine, And Desdemona s, true and good; Thou paintest the damned spot of blood That will not out in stain or line ! Oh Lear ! Oh Fool ! Oh Witch, Macbeth ! And wondrous Hamlet in a breath ! Who knows thy heart ? thy song ? thy words ? Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds! COTTON NOE THE GOLDEN FLEECE Plays horseshoes at the crossroads shop, And hunts almost all night ; Just lets the ragweeds take his crop And living out of sight! The market means the same to him When brogans sell at five, And beefsteak s on the new moon s rim, But honey in the hive! Ginseng is strung in golden rows From joist and puncheon floor; And hides of twenty kinds repose On barn and cabin door. A coonskin brings ten savings stamps, A mink, a baby bond; Molasses in the sugar camps, And bullfrogs in the pond ! The ban is off on possum meat With wildgrapes everywhere; Let Wall Street buy four-dollar wheat, For what does Jason care ? COTTON NOE 99 PKO PATEIA Tip Sams had twins And a razor-backed sow, Five dogs and a mule And an old roan cow ; A bone-spavined filly And a one-room house, And a little wrinkled woman Just as meek as a mouse. Old Tip raised tobacco And he trafficked in skins, For he had seven sons In addition to the twins, And every mother s son, And the little mammy, Jude, Smoked a pipe all day And the twins both chewed. But Tip kept a-digging And he never lost heart, For the dogs hunted rabbits And they caught a right smart ; And the bone-spavined filly And the mule pulled a plow, And they lived off the givings Of the old roan cow, And the acorn-fattened farrow Of the razor-back sow. But here a chapter closes Of my little romance, For the seven sons are sleeping On the battlefields of France ; 100 But their daddy grows tobacco And trafficks still in skins, And the little wrinkled mammy Has another pair of twins. COTTON NOE 101 THAT S WHAT THEY SAY (With apologies to an old story) Two ancient spinsters one dark day Were chatting over tea. "Oh, Deborah," I heard one say, "Have you seen Frances Lee That s Margaret Maple s little child? The smallest babe that s ever been Born into this old world of sin." "That s just what I have heard them say; But, Prude, when I was born, They put my head that very day In father s powder horn." "And I do say; and did you live?" "Well, now that s what I hear them tell; They say I lived, and done right well." COTTON NOE 102 INCONSISTENT He hunted coons on Possum Ridge, And lived in Dead Man s Flat; He swam the river at the bridge, And had a dog called Bat. His best milk cow was still a calf ; His horse was just a colt; He leaned upon a broken staff And always slipped his holt. But now that he is dead he lives, Though living he was dead, For what he took, by will he gives To make the starved well fed. COTTON NOE 103 TO THE SONNET Many and loud the voices of to-day That would, in wild discordance, drown thine own ; But spite the raucities of trumpets blown By acolytes in the temple, and the bray Of cosmic brass, the riotous display Of Self by those who seek but Self to throne, Thy sempiternal flute-like undertone Still soars serene the crests of song to sway. Thine is the pagan power that can reach The fiery depths and crystal peaks to fuse A lyric fervor with a wisdom rare; Thou art the magic formula when Speech, A penitent returning to the Muse, Bespeaks the bard s devotion and despair. -AMEEN RIHANI 104 THE SONG OF SIVA Tis Night; all the Sirens are silent, All the Vultures asleep ; And the horns of the Tempest are stirring Under the Deep ; Tis Night ; all the snow-burdened Mountains Dream of the Sea, And down in the Wadi the River Is calling to me. Tis Night; all the Caves of the Spirit Shake with desire; And the Orient Heaven s essaying Its lances of fire; They hear, in the stillness that covers The land and the sea, The River, in the heart of the Wadi, Calling to me. Tis Night, but a night of great joyance, A night of unrest; The night of the birth of the spirit Of the East and the West; And the Caves and the Mountains are dancing On the Foam of the Sea, For the River inundant is calling, Calling to me. AMEEN RIHANI 105 ANDALUSIA ALCAZAR There was a rhapsody in all her moods, A child-like grace, a passion unrestrained ; Her throne, which bard and saki shared, was stained With virgin wine as with the blood of feuds ; And in her lyric-woven interludes, Epitomizing destiny and time, Her spirit, hid in opalescent rhyme, The shades of melancholy still eludes. Where er she trod, the rose and bulbul meet; Where er she revelled, gardens ever blow; Where er she danced, the henna of her feet Yet lends a lustre to the poppy s glow; Arabia, dark-eyed, light-hearted, fair, Is but a flower in Andalusia s hair. II ALHAMBRA Gods of the silence, still remembering The dying echoes of her lute, bemoan, In canticles of golden monotone, Her Orient splendor too soon vanishing ; And while lions guard her courts, grey eagles wing Around her turquoise domes, and seedlings blown From distant lands to her hushed fountains cling, Yea, and the sun himself sits in her throne. Time, once her vassal, lingers near the streams That woo the shadows of her crumbling walls, 106 And, musing of Alhambra s glory, dreams Of elegance and power in Myrtle Halls ; Arabia, once counted of the strong, Is but a sigh in Andalusia s song. Ill THE MOSQUE In the bewildering grove of colonnades, Once brilliant with a flood of saffron light, Poured from ten thousand lanterns day and night, Her memory, like spikenard in the glades Of distant Ind or Yemen, never fades; And her devotion, though the ages blight The mystic bloom of her divine delight, Still casts on alien altars longing shades. But through the mihrabs which the humble hand Of genius wrought, o er marbles hollowed deep By knees that only Piety could command, I see Oblivion coming forth to reap; Arabia, in Allah s chaplet strung, Is but a word on Andalusia s tongue. IV AL-ZAHRA Not with the Orient glamor of her pleasures, Nor her fond rhapsodies of prayer or song Could she her sovereign reign a day prolong ; Not in the things of beauty that man measures By the variable humor of his leisures, Or by the credibilities that change From faith to fantasy to rumor strange, Was she the mistress of immortal treasures. 107 But when the holy shrine Europa sought, Herself of sin and witchcraft to assoil, The sovereigns of Al-Zahra maxims wrought And Averroes burned his midnight oil; Arabia, the bearer of the light, Still sparkles in the diadem of Night. AMEEN RIHANI 108 LASSITUDE After the evening s play, The lights and smiling faces; After sweet talk and gay Movement in joyous places, J put off my happy mood; Sit staring at the floor, And in creeps lassitude Like water under the door. EGBERT J. ROE 109 IMMORTALITY I am no brooder on death. No calculator as to what I shall lose Or what gain by it. But this I knew once, That day when my foot slipped While making fast the foretopsail And I clung in space: My essence has impregnated the world, Modified it, leavened it. What you see, dies, But the essential ME Is everlasting; Straining through minds To eternity. ROBERT J. ROE 110 THE VANITY BOX She comes to it in hope and half in longing, Wearied and pale, stained with her labor s soil; That magic box brings happy visions thronging And hides her marks of toil. This moment in her day is made of gold Forgetting grim machine and subway crush, She tries to gain again the youth she sold, With a poor, painted blush. Poor child, she does not see the mirror s truth, The haggard lines, the hollowed cheeks and eyes, Forgetting all but whisperings of youth, She heeds the precious lies. Though beauty s heritage is not for you, Go take your harmless little slice of living An hour of vanities, though all untrue, That does not need forgiving. JOSEPH SCHRANK 111 HUNTER S MONOTONE The lake is dead. And through the haze around and overhead Peers the pale yellow circle of a sun, Making tri-colored beams upon the grey-green scum, Shaped in interminable stripes by unseen currents. The lake is dead. And not the slightest breath breaks through the mist To form a single ripple, Or shake the yellow drooping leaves Upon the trees that seem but shadows of themselves. The lake is dead. The heavy haze that rests upon it Makes water, sky and shore one with itself ; Though sometimes golden heat-waves shimmer through the gray, And white-backed wrens make for the trees from under wet, black rocks. The lake is dead. And motionless lie the decoys upon its surface, Luring the solitary diving duck near shore, Whence the reports of the rock-hidden gun Boom like the belching of the waters. JOHAN J. SMERTENKO 112 KINNIKINNICK Green leaf and berry red And a breath of autumn breeze, And it s back again in the hills I am, Under the silent trees. Wide ways and weary days Stretch them out between, But home is near to my heart tonight In this spray of mountain green. Green leaf and berry red Clustered under the pine ; Close as you cling to your mountain home Is clinging this heart of mine. LAURA BELL SMITH 113 "FORSANETHAEC" Oft in my schooldays Pve stumbled o er many a bit of learn ing; Slid through many a weary lesson that now has vanished ; Once in a while a phrase, learned long ago, is returning Out of the dusty limbo to which so many are banished ; Here is one memory holds, nor would I consent to rob it : "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit." Even these woes, perchance good old Pius Aeneas ! Even these woes, some day, will amuse us in the recalling." Today we slip on the ice and the small boy chortles to see us ; Tomorrow we re able to grin at the thought of our own clumsy sprawling; When you are down and out, say this, though even you sob it : "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit." Life brings us many a gift, and some are good and some bad ones; Some are bitter as aloes and some are sweeter than honey; The fault is ours, no less, if we join the plaints of the sad ones. Time tells which ills bring us good and which turn out to be funny. Time has his own little joke, and this of all sting can rob it : "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit." LAURA BELL SMITH 114 PALSTAFF Sir John, that loved the tankard and the frail, Fat rascal that you were, upon my word, For all your frantic follies and absurd Adventures, Gad ! I love you as good ale. Nay, John, it is because of them, I vow, I love you most. Od s bodikins and S death! You would have wrung a chuckle from Macbeth Had Master Will but cast you right enow. And that Blue Boar which Master Irving sought And failed to find ; I find it frequently : And Mistress Page and Mistress Ford ah me! The deeds, good John, that you and I have wrought. Yet two plays only know your jocund bawl. . , , Dear Jack ! I would that you were in them all ! VINCENT STARRETT 115 PICKWICK Immortal name, and thrice immortal man! Your hand, Sir, o er the board, and o er the years. God bless your spectacles, your eyes, your ears, Your gaiters, and your crazy caravan ! You draw my laughter, Sir, as few men can, And Dash it all ! sometimes you tempt my tears. Once more your hand, and (Sam, cry two more beers!) Your health, Sir, and the health of all your clan ! So, some day, I shall meet my oldest friend, And so, some day, I 11 greet him as he drinks : Twill be in some old inn, in some quaint town. A buxom widow shall our needs attend, A fire shall snap beside us, and methinks I ll try to drink that artless toper down! VINCENT STARRETT 116 AMBITION Then to be dead on plains of sonant glory ! To kneel, myself beside, with strangled breath; To bear away the litter spread the story And cry above the bier that shining death ! Mutely to stand, a multitude of mourners, Head bared, and sombre eyes upon the road Where, flag-draped, past the deeply-breathing corners, Slowly I pass to my strait, dim abode. To be the banner s boast, the bugle s sorrow; The volley o er the mounded earth, the tread Of marching feet; the silence of the morrow, When, with a shock, I read that I am dead. To be the quill that lustres famous pages, The hand that drives the pen, the eyes that see The worship and the wonder of the ages. . . To be the grief, the joy, the mystery! VINCENT STARRETT 117 TO A BABY Quaint little vampire of the browless eyes, The pledge of passion and the ward of pain, Back of that level glance of cold disdain Sometimes I seem to glimpse a dark surmise. Under the artlessness of your disguise You have an air of knowing all is vain. . . And yet they question if you have a brain! Life is indeed a curious enterprise. In the abyss of your unwinking gaze All knowledge and all mystery abide : You are so lately from the rainbow hurled. And yet, how unaccustomed to our ways Your searching, helpless lips grope far and wide For the glad breast that nourishes the world ! VINCENT STARRETT 118 CAPTIVE GODDESSES They sell their jewels in the market place, The little tawdry sisterhood of sin, With smiles of wood, with words unkempt and thin, Yet with an echo of a former grace That lends a touch of splendor to each face. . . To the harsh scraping of a violin, I watch their frenzied bodies whirl and spin In an unreal, delirious embrace. I have no mind to dance, no heart to sing ; These curious puppets hold no lure for me; Yet am I unrevolted of the scene. ., V Here is a mistress for a fallen king, Yonder a sister of Persephone, And here a twin to the sad Magdalene. VINCENT STARRETT 119 RETURN In rooms long stranger to my tread My soul knelt down and wept ; The gray walls whispered of the dead, The sad-eyed windows slept: And memories of perished years Were all that bade me stay. . And those I kissed with sudden tears, And those I bore away. VINCENT STAREETT 120 DREAMER He was dismayed by life s harsh waking view; Only in dreams he found escape from dread : And so he laid him down to sleep, and drew The coverlet of water o er his head. Then, as he slept, a murmur fled away : " Genius!" they whispered, wishing he might rise, And place upon his brow the wreath of bay. . . Poor dreamer, with the dead, clairvoyant eyes! VINCENT STARRETT 121 POE S GRAVESTONE ". . . . old friends and the school children of Richmond .... asked those great men of Boston who had been Poe s contemporaries .... to join in commemorating him. These invitations were either ignored or they were not accepted .... Lowell .... Bryant .... Whittier .... Longfel low ... ." The very tomb shall cover not the shame Of those that would have bound thy wings of light ! Toiling for Beauty in the quiet night, Little to thee were primacy or name; But now thy star is found a holy flame In heavens unpermitted to their flight Unseen by those who have not in their sight The slowly guttering candles of their fame. Puritanism s grey and icy ooze Was rheum in those inexorable eyes, That would not see wherein thy greatness stood. The meager honor that they dared refuse Was earth s, O thou that followed to the skies Beauty, whose final goal is human good ! GEORGE STERLING 122 SONNETS BY THE NIGHT-SEA I. The wind of night is like an ocean s ghost. The deep is greatly troubled. I, alone, See the wave shattered and the wave-crest thrown Where pine and cypress hold their ancient post. The sounds of war, the trampling of a host, Over the borders of the world are blown ; The feet of armies deathless and unknown Halt, baffled, at the ramparts of the coast. Yea! and the Deep is troubled! In this heart Are voices of a far and shadowy Sea, Above whose wastes no lamp of earth shall gleam. Farewells are spoken and the ships depart For that horizon and its mystery, Whose stars tell not if life, or death, is dream. II. The wind of night is mighty on the deep A presence haunting sea and land again. That wind upon the watery waste hath been; That wind upon the desert soon shall sweep. vast and mournful spirit, wherefore keep Thy vigil at the fleeting homes of men, Who need no voice of thine to tell them when Is come the hour to labor or to sleep? From waste to waste thou goest, and art dumb Before the morning. Patient in her tree The bird awaits until thy strength hath passed, 123 Forgetting darkness when the day is come. With other tidings hast thou burdened me, Whom desolations harbor at the last. GEORGE STERLING 124 ATTHAN DANCES The silver of the lyre Cries, and thy silver feet Like living flowers repeat Thy body s silver fire. What scents without a name Within thy tresses hide? What perfect roses died To give thy mouth its flame? Thy hands, uplifting, float More delicate than Love s. Thy breasts are two white doves Whose moan is in thy throat. As lyre and cithern swoon, Thou lingerest, in thy pace The panther s gift of grace, Who glides below the moon. linger where I sigh Above the golden wine, And touch thy mouth to mine A scarlet butterfly. GEORGE STERLING 125 THE PEASANT S PRAYER The roan cow rests content under the trees That shade the lane s end. Nearer, bumble-bees With golden thighs grip the sweet flowers Of the sun-lighted bridal-wreath. No showers Have laid the dry loam, and dust veils The dragman s team as wearily it trails The warping frame over the ocher ground Sloping to the blue marsh-edge. The main sound A fitful creaking of the half -shadowed mill That rests from labor, like a true bard, until Some god s good wind comes on to bid it move. No song but the faint cooing of a dove Lonely on the barn-ridge, mourning a mate. Here, in my tired heart, early and late, Shadows, dim lights, sounds of forgotten years, Old sorrow-songs from memory of tears. I have not known great love the less to grieve Nor hated aught but to its course must cleave. To books of wisdom, mirth and things of beauty I could not give the hour forepledged to Duty Calling on busy hands. Ill fares the soul. Around my life of labor scroll on scroll Of wonders I cannot read, music unheard By my dull ears. How understand the word The night-stars speak and language of the winds ? Grass is pasture; wheat, bread. To other minds Symbols of God mystery divinely sweet. To us man, cow or bee but straw and meat. 126 Mine the gray toil; all fair illusion yours. O, grant me, yet, one dream one that secures My childish hope of comfort in the grave And love beyond ! This gone, what do we peasants save ? IVAN SWIFT 127 ASSOCIATION Beyond the shore-guard pines the beach of sand Stretched off as warm and yielding as your hand That northern summers past had laid in mine. And yet the place had set no moving sign Within my heart too full of you for words, Too glad for tears, too wrapt to hear the chords Of Nature s playing. So I said no spell Attached to this of import to compel My song ; though we had lived a thousand days And grown to comradeship and mutual ways Within its keeping. Thus when love was young And you were by my side no song was sung, In joy and fulsome praise I had not thought Upon the frequent scene I had not caught Its inward meaning, as when oft alone I found some mystic message in a stone. The silent shade and your sweet gladness These were enough. Somehow the poet-madness Comes not of soft content and troths unbroken, And of such perfect peace no words are spoken. Today I am alone, for my offense Alone and penitent and wondering whence This golden light and gold-green of the lake, The waves dull symphony and dunes awake With laughing spirits of the happy dead Whose cast-off pains our birth inherited. The dancing trees lean down with precious gifts Of perfume. Every tiny plant uplifts Its tendrils to my touch and points to skies Of flowing opal where the free gull flies 128 To meet his mate beyond some blessed isle. Would I, as he, to mine might fly the while, Or she to me yea, thou to me, and here, Where days that are departed are twice dear And every leaf and twig bears memories Like faint, far bells across the midnight seas ! Alone I wait I know not what strange word : Alone I pray I know not what vague sign! But where we met and your sweet voice was heard Has been God s temple and shall be my shrine ! IVAN SWIFT 129 QUESTION When I am old and you are old And passion s fires are burned to embers And life is as a tale that s told And only worth what Love remembers, If we should meet, two quiet folk, And change opinions of the weather, Could any glance or word provoke The heart and eyes to speak together? The heart benumbed with so much ache, The eyes bedimmed with so much crying Do buds long blighted ever break To green the vine already dying ? When you are dead and I am dead, Our faces lost, our names unspoken, Shall then the mystery be read? Can heaven bind what earth has broken ? Oh, in that farther, fairer day To which the tides of life are moving, So sweet, withal, in this poor clay, What then must be the joy of loving ? BUFINA C. TOMPKINS 130 AT A LONDON TAVERN (June, 1493) (A wandering poet strolls in, sits down amid a crowd of drinkers and says:) With God s grace, if you ll hear me, gentle lords, And grace of His sweet Mother, I shall tell Of all the wonders which I saw and heard Not three months since, when I still was in Spain. I would not say the world is round, my lords, But stay a bit and hear me to the end. There was a dreamer, Messer Cristoforo I think is all he s called, a Genoese, Who swore to king and queen the world was round, And being round, the Indes could be reached By sailing west. They tried to laugh him down But there was in his voice and in his eye An eloquence and communicative fire Queen Isabella could not out of mind. When he had gone and was half way to France She sent her messengers to bring him back; Then gave him ships, three caravels; but crews, That was another matter. Find me men To follow blindly where a madman leads! By siege-like dint of bribing and cajoling He did succeed in manning ail three ships, Scantily, to be sure. And what a stir, What noise in Palos on that August morning At sailing-time, for all the town was there. Shops and markets closed as on a feast-day. Noise, noise, color and noise at first, 131 But when the priest had closed his benediction And they weighed anchor and the sails bent to, The din grew less; and farther off the ships The stiller we became. We gazed and in The hush that followed we could only hear The whispered godspeeds, prayers for safe return Of friends and folks of those abandoned men. Day followed listless day, and save the kin Of sailors gone, we turned to other thoughts Until the time we reckoned they were due. Then we would gather daily on the wharves And watch in-coming ships. Sail after sail Loomed large with hope; but now twas up from Lisbon, Another time it might be from the Loire Bringing in French wines. False ships, false hopes; And folk began to shake their sullen heads, And from his pulpit the good padre told How God had chartered out what sea and land He granted men to know; that they who tried To reach beyond would loose His mighty wrath ; That all this round world talk was blasphemy. And it was rumored that the maddened crews Had mutinied, thrown captains overboard And now were pirates off the Barbary coast. Daily about the quay the throng diminished Till finally, not one of us would go, Not one except an old half-witted woman The mother of the boatswain of the flagship. She, like a sentry watching enemies, Hallooed when any sail hove into sight, And we would scurry down to watch and hope. But when we were deceived a score of times, 132 We came no more, paid no more heed to her. For us those ships and men were lost, lost: We sometimes doubted if they d ever been. One day in early March, just in the midst Of market-time old madre Josefina, With all her years, came hobbling down the street Waving her hands and crying like a sergeant "Out! out! they ve come!" We looked off casually Yet no one stirred until the wine-shop keeper Ventured that though there was an only ship It did look promising. Folk soon assembled And as the ship veered to and cast its anchor We made out clearly that she was the Nina. Good sirs, twas then you should have heard the shouting, The men on board too, answering our vivas ! And when the first of them stepped on the landing, We were like madmen, screaming, weeping, laughing, Kissing the crew and kissing one another. Not one of you but would give half his years To see what I saw then! And by God s wounds I swear that what I tell these eyes beheld! Each boatful of the crew as they came up, Brought some new wonder: there were strangers bronzed Like weathered copper, naked, tall, and speechless, With feathers in their hair and faces painted; And there were birds, all manner of strange birds, Some fiery red and some with tails like lyres, And strangest of all, some green ones with hooked bills That jabbered Spanish; plants and animals The like of which no man has ever seen; And then the stranger s arms, great bows and arrows, Arrows straight as they, as supple too 133 Their bows; and gold, vessels and cups of gold, And hideous little gods, but all pure gold ! We, grown less clamorous then, had fallen back To either side to give these strange things room. We whispered or we pointed open-mouthed; And when at last Messer Cristoforo Himself appeared, wearing a purple cloak, A white plume in his hat, and in his eye The unslaked fire we had known before, Some crossed themselves, and some with genuflexions Approached, some touched some kissed his mantle s hem. Beside me I could hear the padre murmur "Praise be to God!" and in the eyes of others Who dared not speak you easily could have read: He found the Indes ! and the world is round ! Back there in Paris those light-headed Frenchmen W ould never hear me through, but scoffed and laughed And said that I was drunk as all of Poland. But you, my lords, you who have heard my tale, It s nine months since I ve tasted English ale! ALBERT EDMUND TROMBLY 134 THE PAINTING OF PAOLO AND FRANCESCA < He said to me: Tomorrow I begin My painting of Paolo and Francesca ; And you must pose with Beppe. I might use Bianca, but her lips are much too thin, And she has nothing of the languid grace That must have been Francesca s. 1 But Giulio - *I know .... the sitting will be short; and though He must embrace and hold you mouth to mouth, It will not be a kiss; where there s no love The lips lie cold and there can be no wrong. Beppe will understand, for he s my friend. I know not why I trembled .... all that night My sleep was broken by I know not what Voices and ghastly nightmares; and at length When I arose and dressed myself and looked Into my mirror, it occurred to me: Giulio will think these hollow eyes Francesca ? s. Finally Beppe came, and Giulio said: Lucia seems so much more like the type I think of as Francesca s mouth and eyes I ll have her pose with you instead of Bianca. I dared not look at either, struggling hard To seem composed and natural; still I felt, As Giulio placed us there, cold sweat upon My brow and the trembling come again. 135 Giulio must have noticed, for he asked If I were cold, and said the sketch would take Only a moment more. My hands were numb, But when I felt the warm blood in those hands Pulsate through mine, I trembled harder still. And when I knew that mouth upon my mouth I felt my soul pass throbbing from my lips. That night I could not sleep, and when I heard Giulio breathing heavily at my side, I rose and thought to cool my feverish brow By walking in the courtyard. As I passed Into the studio, the rising moon Was stealing in, and clearly I perceived The settle where we sat. I stopped. Nearby On one of Giulio s easels lay a knife The knife he used for trimming canvases. I started picked it up do I know why ? And do I know what happened then ? A dream ! A fiendish dream . . . and . . . and Giulio s dead! They call me murderess; but was it right To give my body to another s arms? Mother of God! I ll soon be in God s sight; And yet I hove no fear; for well I know God knows the fault was Giulio s and not mine." ALBERT EDMUND TROMBLY 136 ILLUSION We see the night drift toward us from the sky, And know not we are seeing Out of the secret shadows of our earth The darkness taking being. We feel the warm sweet blowing summer rains, Nor care that we are feeling The tears of dead men cleansed of bitterness By centuries of healing. We hear the wild strange pounding of the sea, The crashing and the breaking, And think not that we hear the sounding of Our own graves in the making. We weave our webs of rainbow gossamer Torn by a germ s intrusion; Death is the old eternal truth, and life A beautiful illusion. OSCAR WILLIAMS 137 REVENGE I have come out of my grave For my revenge upon death Who bound me to a wind-swirled, gnarled crag, And set the stars picking at my bones Like a million tiny vultures; Long, long before Prometheus I, too, had stolen a fire, Greater than his! But now I have come out of my grave For my revenge upon death ; Out of the curves of petals, The curves of my face; Out of the caverns of the winds, The little caverns of my lungs ; Out of the sunlight and the moonlight, The glimmer of my eyes; Out of the rains and snows, My heart s cataract of plunging flames; Out of the tip-toeing twilight, The hush of my soul; Oh, I have come out of my grave, For my revenge upon death, For the little revenge men call youth ! OSCAR WILLIAMS 138 MOOD A sky filling with shadow as a flower with rain. . . A wind gray with the secret moods of the sea. . . And the old singing comes back again, And the old aching perplexity. The old questioning comes back once more Asking the little shadows hiding in tears, Why love cries in the rain outside the door, And beauty blunders forever down the years. OSCAR WILLIAMS 139 THE CONTRIBUTORS BEETHA GEANT-AVEEY (Mrs.), of Anoka, Minn., is a devotee of out-of-door life. Though seldom appearing as a writer, she has done some beautiful book illuminating and initialing. EOBEET O. BALLOT! was born (1892) and raised on a farm twenty- five miles west of Chicago. Has been a reporter for the Chicago Ex aminer but is now engaged in business. Served in the World War. Married, in 1921 to Vera K. Edwardsen of Chicago. Besides in Chicago. KENDALL BANNING. Born New York, September 20, 1879. A.B. Dartmouth College, 1902 (class poet). Managing editor System, 1903- 17. Managing editor Hearst s, 1919-. World-war veteran, major on General Staff. Author numerous volumes poetry and two plays. Con tributor to magazines. Member Players Club and many literary and dramatic societies. Married; lives in New York City. CHAELES GEANGEE BLANDEN. Born Marengo, 111., January 19, 1857. Came to Chicago in 1890. Author of several books of verse, the latest of which, Lyrics, was published by the BOOKFELLOWS under one of his half-dozen pen names " Laura Blackburn. " Member of the " Cliff Dwellers," Chicago. GEOEGE F. BUTLEE. Born Moravia, N. Y., March 15, 1857. Baldwin s Academy, Groton, N. Y., 1874. Eush Medical College, Chi cago, 1889. Has practiced and taught for years in and around Chicago. Medical director of North Shore Health Eesort, Winnetka, 111. Sonnets of the Heart, 1909; Echoes of Petrarch, 1912; Travail of a Soul, 1914; Love and Its Affinities, 1890; Isle of Content, 1907; Exploits of a Phy sician-Detective, 1907; How the Mind Cures, 1921. Dr. Butler died in June, 1921, while this book was going through the press. MAEION M. BO YD. Born 1894 in Marietta, Ohio; graduated from Smith College in 1916. Is Assistant in the Department of English Language at Western College, Oxford, Ohio. 140 JOHN S. BROWN is the pen name of a well known BOOKTELLOW. STEPHEN CHALMERS. Born Dunoon, Scotland, February 29, 1880. Educated Dunoon Grammar School. Married Louise A. Root of Brock- port, N. Y., 1910. Newspaper man. Has traveled extensively in West Indies and South America and has written a number of books. Resi dence, Laguna Beach, California. JOHN VANCE CHENEY. Born Groveland, N. Y., December 29, 1848. Educated at Geneseo, N. Y. Married. Practiced law in New York, 1875-6. Librarian, Free Public Library, San Francisco, 1887-94; Newberry Library, Chicago, 1894-1909. Member National Institute of Arts and Letters. Author of many books of poems and essays. Wrote prize reply to Edwin Markham s The Man With the Hoe. Lives in San Diego. EDMUND VANCE COOKE of Cleveland, Ohio, was born at Port Devon, Canada, June 5, 1866. Married, 1897, Lilith Castleberry of Chicago. Lecturer, author and contributor to the leading newspapers and magazines. Among his books are Impertinent Poems, Rhymes to be Eead and Chronicles of the Little Tot. He is vice president for Ohio of the Society of Midland Authors. HENRY CORNEAU DILLER of Germantown, Pa., was born in Philadelphia, graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1903, served as a Four-Minute Man during the War Period, has been active in better government movements and is a banker by profession. WENDELL ERIC DIXON of Chicago, 111. Born June 5, 1893, on a farm in Illinois. Attended University of Chicago. Served in U. S. Army during the War of Nations. Married, 1917, Marjorie S. Howe. Is now engaged in business. HENRY DUMONT. Born San Francisco, March 17, 1878. Started in business at? the age of 13. At 19 he joined forces with the Pacific Coast Borax Company, and came to Chicago in 1908 to take command of its Chicago office, which command he still retains. Married, in 1904, Eleanor Larkin of Alameda, Cal. In 1910, published A Golden Fancy and Other Poems. Residence, LaGrange, 111. BETTY EARLE, pen name of writer in Nevada, Missouri Born, 1894. A.B. degree from Missouri University, 1915. Connected with University Extension Division, 1916-1917. Army Student Nurse at 141 Camp Greene, 1918. Teacher of English, 1919. Now devoting entire time to writing. CHARLOTTE EATON. Born in England. Wife of the late Wyatt Eaton, American Artist. Traveled and studied in New York, Canada, and Europe. Author Desire, 1904; A Last Memory of E. L. S., 1917; The Enchanted Sea Gull, 1916, in collaboration with Harriett Bartnett. Lives in studio near the campus of Columbia University. Student of classics and lover of poetic form. CHARLES FARWELL EDSON. Born San Francisco, Cal. Educat ed in Illinois; studied voice under Louis Gaston Gottschalk. Has been a teacher of voice in Los Angeles since 1899. Was one of the founders of the Gamut Club; served on the Municipal Music Commission and City Planning Committee; a founder and for two years vice president of the Music Teachers Association of California. Married in 1890, Katherine Philips of Kenton, Ohio. Was a Four-Minute Man during the Great War. Has published several songs and quartettes; also two books of poetry, San Francisco, the City of the Golden Gate, and Los Angeles from the Sierras to the Sea. ETHEL M. ERICSON. Born in New York City in 1894, where she still lives. Is a teacher of English in Washington Irving High School. Was editor of the college monthly and president of the English Club dur ing her course in Hunter College. Has contributed to Poets of the Future. WALTER TAYLOR FIELD. Born February 21, 1861. Educated Chicago schools and Denmark Academy, Iowa; Dartmouth, two years; Amherst, two years, graduating in 1883. Newspaper and magazine articles. Author of numerous text books for children. Resides in Chi cago, and is treasurer of the Society of Midland Authors. FLORENCE KIPER FRANK (Mrs. Jerome N.). Born Atchison, Kansas. Came to Chicago at the age of four. Attended University of Chicago. Author of The Jew to Jesus and Other Poems; has contribut ed poems and articles to The Century, The Forum, Poetry, McClure s, The Dial, The New Republic, etc., and has written several short and long plays which have been published and produced. Lives at Hubbard Woods, 111. LOUISE AYRES GARNETT (Mrs. Eugene H.). Lives in Evanston, 111. Has written dramas, songs, poems, and plays her Forest Eondo 142 was sung by fifteen hundred children. Among her works is The Court ship, a dramatization of Longfellow s Miles Standish. Many of her poems have been published in The Outlook. CLIFFORD FRANKLIN GESSLER. Born Milton Junction, Wis., 1893. B.A., Milton College, 1916; M.A., University of Wisconsin, 1917. Taught English. Worked on newspapers Milwaukee, Indianapolis, Chi cago. Now engaged in newspaper work in Hawaii. Contributor to The Nation, Contemporary Verse, Grinnell Review, etc. ELEANOR HAMMOND was born in California, of English-Irish descent. Now resides at Portland, Oregon. Contributes to Poetry, The Liberator, Contemporary Verse, Touchstone, Art World, etc. Has writ ten lyrics, child rhymes and short stories, but prefers to write free verse. JOSEPH MILLS HANSON (Capt.), vice president of the Society of Midland Authors for South Dakota, resides at Yankton, S. D., where he was born, July 20, 1876. Graduated St. John s Military School, Manlius, N. Y., 1897. Married Frances Lee Johnson of Holden, Mo., in 1909 (she died in 1912). Served through the Great War with distinction and emerged with several foreign orders. Author Frontier Ballads and numerous other books; recently, a series of papers in The Independent on Tlie Americans in the Great War. BURTON HASELTINE. Born Richland Center, Wis., 1874. Lived in Ozark Mountains two years. Graduated Hahnemann Medical Col lege of Chicago, 1896. Practiced medicine in Chicago since that time. Member consulting staff of Cook County Hospital. Member Chicago Yacht Club. Has written chiefly for medical journals and societies. LE ROY HENNESSEY. Born February 28, 1882, at LaSalle, 111. Has been a newspaper man since 1905; now connected with the Chicago American. Married, in 1916, Edith Sigler of Galveston, Texas. Was a Jackie during the war and won everlasting fame as the author of Jackie Jingles. Does not smoke nor drink, but occasionally tries to induce people to buy Florida real estate. Lives in Highland Park, 111. JANIE SCREVEN HEYWARD of Charleston, S. C., has never been a prolific writer, but has published a small book of verses in negro dialect. Is a charter member of the Poetry Society of South Carolina, of which her son, DuBose Heyward, was one of the organizers. HOYT HOPEWELL HUDSON. Born at Norfolk, Nebraska, 1893. 143 Graduate of the University of Denver; one year at the University of Chicago. Has taught in high schools in several western states; at present is instructor in Public Speaking at Cornell University. Mar ried. HAZEL COLLISTER HUTCHISON was born in Cleveland, Ohio, where she now teaches school. Has contributed poetry to several maga zines and plans to spend the coming year in Paris, writing and studying. THOMAS KENNEDY; instructor in English at Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa. Born San Francisco, Cal., September 18, 1888. Graduated from Wheaton College (111.), 1912. Seven years at newspaper work in Chicago. During the war, served in aviation service. Co-author with three others of Estrays (poems), the first book pub lished by THE BOOKFELLOWS. LILY A. LONG. Lives in St. Paul, Minn. Author Radisson, the Voyageur, a verse-drama. Poems have appeared in Atlantic, Harper s, Century, Poetry, Bellman, etc. Review-editor of St. Paul Pioneer Press two years. Has published short stories in most of the leading magazines. Is vice president for Minnnesota of the Society of Midland Authors. LUCIA CLARK MARKHAM (Mrs.), is a native of Kentucky; lives at Lexington. Educated in private schools and for several years a practicing physician in partnership with her husband. Has contributed to the leading magazines and in 1913 won a prize offered by the London Bookman for the best lyric. Devotes all her time to authorship. J. CORSON MILLER. Born at Buffalo, N. Y., November 13, 1883; educated at Canisius College. Has contributed verse and articles to various newspapers and magazines. His first volume of poems, Veils of Samite, is being issued by Small, Maynard & Co. He is a member of the Poetry Society of America. Engaged in the business of electric railway transportation at Buffalo. FANNY HODGES NEWMAN (Mrs. H. P.). Native of Michigan, educated in Chicago. Prominent in civic work in San Diego, Cal., where her husband is a leading physician. Was awarded the Palms by the French Government. Member of the Poetry Society of America. Au thor of Adventures, Out of Bondage, (poems), etc. JAMES T. COTTON NOE was born in Washington county, Kentucky. Went to college at Franklin, Ind. ; graduate work at Cornell University, 144 Practiced law for a while, then took to teaching. For fifteen years he has been on the staff of the University of Kentucky at Lexington, the last nine years as head of the Department of Education. Is editor of the Kentucky High School Quarterly. FRANCIS FIELDING-REID of Baltimore, Maryland, was born at Baltimore, April 15, 1892; educated at Princeton University and Cam bridge (Magdalene College); A.B. degree; winner of Newton Essay prize; married Miss Marie M. Svendsen of Norway in 1917. Was a captain in U. S. Field Artillery during the recent war, resigning in 1919. Writer of verse, essays and plays. AMEEN RIHANI. Born on Mount Lebanon, Syria; now a resident of New York City. Member of Authors Club, Poetry Society of America, etc. Came to this country in 1889, has since spent several years in Syria and has written a number of books both in Arabic and English. A Cliant of Mystics and Other Poems, and The Path of Vision (essays) were published in 1921. Is married to Bertha, an artist. Contributes regularly to The International Studio, The Print Connoisseur, The At lantic, The Forum, Harper s, and other periodicals. ROBERT J. ROE of Cave Creek, Maricopa county, Arizona, was born in New York City in 1895. Was with the Fifth New Jersey Infantry on the Mexican border, has made a trip to New Zealand and return in a four-masted schooner, and has tried several occupations, including journalism; at present is homesteading a quarter section in the desert. Is a frequent contributor of prose and poetry to magazines; confesses to a leaning towards so-called * new forms. JOSEPH SCHRANK was born in New York City where he still re sides. JOHAN J. SMERTENKO is a member of the faculty of Grinnell College, Grinnell, Iowa, and managing editor of The Grinnell Review. LAURA BELL SMITH is the pen name of a BOOKFELLOW. Of her two contributions, "Forsan et Haec" appeared in The Independent in 1911. VINCENT STARRETT. Born Toronto, Ontario, Canada, 1886. Ed ucated public schools, Toronto and Chicago. Engaged in newspaper work in Chicago for twelve years. Chicago Daily News correspondent in Mex ico, 1914-15. Author of Arthur Maclien, 1918, and Ambrose Bierce, 145 1920. Edited In Praise of Stevenson for BOOKFELLOWS in 1919. Lives in Chicago. GEOEGE STERLING. Born Sag Harbor, N. Y., December 1, 1869, Educated in Maryland. Has resided in California since 1898. Author of The Wine of Wizardry and other books of poems and poetic dramas. Member of the Bohemian Club of San Francisco. IVAN SWIFT. Born Wayne county, Michigan, June 24, 1873. Be gan writing verse at age of 14. Educated public schools Michigan and Art Institute, Chicago. Painted landscapes for a living. Member Poetry Society of America on invitation of Edwin Markhara. Author Fagots of Cedar, 1907, and Blue Crane and Shore Songs, 1918. Lives Harbor Springs and Detroit, Mich. EUFINA C. TOMPKINS (Mrs.). Has been engaged in newspaper and editorial work in Detroit, Toledo, San Francisco, and (at present) Los Angeles. ALBEET EDMUND TEOMBLY. Born in Massachusetts, now re sides at Austin, Texas. Is on the faculty of the University of Texas, contributes poetry to the leading magazines and has written a mono graph on Eosetti. OSCAE WILLIAMS. Born December 29, 1899, in a little town near Odessa, Eussia. Migrated with parents to America in 1909, and started to scribble verse in 1913. Lived in New York City until recently; then in Maine; now in Chicago. Poems have appeared in Midland, Forum, Smart Set, Nation, Freeman, Contemporary Verse, etc. Author of The Golden Darkness (Yale University Press) and In Gossamer Grey (BOOK- FELLOWS). 146 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For permission to reproduce certain of the poems in this volume, grateful acknowledgements are extended, as follows: To Poetry (Chicago) for Mrs. Frank s "Elf -child" and "Sleep, the Mother; " for Miss Long s "The Singing Place," and for Mr. Williams "Kevenge" and "Mood." To The Nation for Mr. Gessler s "Free Eussia," and Mr. Smerten- ko s "Hunter s Monotone." To Contemporary Verse for Mr. Eoe s "Lassitude" and "Immortal ity;" for Mrs. Garnett s "The Captive," and for Mrs. Hey ward s "Daffodils." To The Outlook for Mrs. Garnett s "Ivory Thumbs," and Mr. Swift s "Peasant s Prayer." To Smith s Magazine for Miss Hutchison s "We Who May Never Be." To Shadowland for Miss Earle s "The Hush." To The New York Times for Mr. Miller s Epicedium. To Scribner s Magazine for Mr. Hanson s "Panama" (Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner s Sons). To Harper s Magazine for Miss Long s "The Diver" (Copyright, May, 1906, by Harper & Brothers). To The Freeman for Mr. Starrett s "Shakespeare," "Falstaff," "Dumas," and "Pickwick." To The Smart Set for Mr. Starrett s "At the Curb." To All s Well for Mr. Starrett s "Return," and "House." To James T. White $ Co. for Mr. Swift s "Peasant s Prayer," and "Association;" and for Mr. Rihani s "To the Sonnet," "The Song of Siva," and "Andalusia." To The Independent for Miss Smith s "Forsan et Haec," and Mr. Swift s "Association." 147 To The Newspaper Enterprise Association for Mr. Cooke s "Remem bering" and "Born Without a Chance" (Copyright, 1920). To The Atlantic Monthly for Mrs. Tompkins "Question." To The Pagan for Mr. Williams "Illusion," and Miss Hammond s "Dust to Dust." To Town and Country for Miss Hammond s "Interloper." To The Liberator for Miss Hammond s "Defeat." To The Spectator of Portland, Oregon, for Miss Hammond s "Patch work." 148 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. so 17JanWPt 3 64 -4 p ibHAHy USE ONLY MAR 3 1995 CIRCULATION DEPT MAR <* 1395 CiRCULAHGivi Di PT. LD 21-100m-9, 47(A5702sl6)476 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY UC BERKELEY LIBRARIES