: YOUNG GIRL HILDEGARDE PLANNER f f f f 192,0 THE SEASON'S 1921 GREETINGS FROM H.S.CROCKER CO., INC SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA U. S. A. 'f f f f ? f YOUNG GIRL YOUNG GIRL AWARDED THE EMILY CHAMBERLAIN COOK PRIZE AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, AND OTHER F>OEMS BY HlLDEGARDE PLANNER WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND DECORATIONS BY PORTER GARNETT f SAN FRANCISCO PRINTED FOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION BY H.S.CROCKER COMPANY, INCORPORATED MDCCCCXX , .... , . . __. .. . .. ^ r ^^^f^^^ I pi 1 I fjfi I feS 1 1 te 1 \VA^ L Ayi 1 Kfi COPYRIGHT, 1920, by HILDEGARDE PLANNER INTRODUCTION THE publication of this volume of verse by Miss Hildegarde Planner has been un- dertaken by the Crocker Press not only because some of the poems it contains were selected by the committee of award for the Cook Prize at the University of California, but also because Miss Planner's poetry has proved with such frequency its power to move and to give pleasure to persons who .have read it, or who have heard it read. The publishers feel, moreover, that the selection is an appropriate one because it is representative of California. Although the author is not a Californian by birth, the poems here collected were all written while she was a student at Berkeley, and to claim them therefore as Californian is not per- haps a too flagrant exhibition of that acquisi- tiveness for literary and artistic personalities with which we of the extreme West have, at times and not without some color of truth, been charged. But the point is not an important one, for, since these poems have come out of Cali- fornia, and since, in thought and atmosphere, they so subtly refledl their provenience, may vii rV T; A 1 we not offer them here as a gift from this far shore, with confidence that they will in the fu- ture speak for our desire to foster creative abil- ity that is unfolded among us though it be not native to our soil ? There is in this approaching voice a fresh music that is quite its own. Its cadences, never severely patterned, possess an unfailing grace, and match a sensitive word-play, which in ap- perceptive images, gives us a spontaneous and valid transcription of emotion and expresses a vision at once various, intense, and delicate. This nai've but illuminating diftion is secure in the poet's instinctive acceptance of the artist's obligation to express himself always with sin- cerity, personality, and style, and we welcome in the freshness of her images a happy avoid- ance of imitative thought, of the approximate phrase, and of the cliche. The typographic and decorative dress with which these lyrics have been clothed will, we hope, appeal to the friends of the Crocker Press as an earnest and conscientious effort to main- tain a worthy standard in " the art preservative of all the arts/' PORTER GARNETT. Vlll CONTENTS YOUNG GIRL This Morning Garden Mood Confession OTHER POEMS Discovery Birch Grove" Boris Anisfeld The Singer Birds Ihe committee of award for the Emily Chamberlain Cook prize consisted of Professor Harold L. Bruce, Mr. Edgar Lee Masters, and Professor Paid Shorey. Acknowledgments for printing some of the poems in this volume are made to the University of California Chronicle, the Occident, and the New York Tribune. V THIS MORNING AFTER the emotion of rain The mist parts across the morning Like the smile of one Who has laughed in sleep And cannot remember why. The damp road companions my feet And is a friend to every step. Above me winter goldfinches Cling like fruit To the delighted birch trees ; And the studious earth, Thinking what flowers to speak in next, Moves restlessly with small, wise birds Who read the tucks in the moss, The symbols on the beetle-wings, And the comedies on pink and yellow pebbles, Which I am too tall to see. s OME day I might die For fear they cannot hear me laugh When I am being buried, Come and be merry on my grave, O cerise and yellow darlings, So that my friends may say, "It seems to me I hear her voice/' l II. COLUMBINE THERE is an eager hillside Thirsting to a lake, And on the sands a hundred toads Trilling to awake A band of ghosts with yellow brows Who stretch green hands and rise To look along their happy limbs With cherry-colored eyes. III. NASTURTIUM T SHALL hide my discretion 1 In your willing brightness And give you to a snail to hold, ill And say ' 1 'Catch me if you can, I am going to China/' IV. TIGRIDIA LET three naked men Carry me across the jungle. There is a broken temple Where I must meet the new moon At sunrise. V. PURPLE IRIS T COULD drown 1 In one deep petal. O^v THEY say that my grandmother often picked you And placed your quaint perfume At her tight girdle. My grandmother Did Vergil into French And then had seven children. . . . . I shall not pick you, Dianthus. YOU must have more wisdom than any, For the sun tells you What God says, And the wild canaries tell you What it is To be a yellow motion In the air. MOOD MY shadow going on before Flutters like a leaf, But it can never reach the door Before my grief. My grief goes first and takes the key To open the door and welcome me. He offers me a lonely cup Full of lily wine And says, "Come sister, share this drink, Yours and mine/' He weds a pale blue candle To a loving flame And, holding it before his lips, Breathes over it my name. He lays his forehead to my knee And I stroke his sorrowing hair. The look of it beneath my hands Is soft and fair. He opens his mouth and sings one note That strikes like rain against my throat ; Then he leads me jealously to bed, Lest I meet my dreams uncompanied ____ What a desolate thing my house would be If grief werejiot there to welcome me. m CONFESSION THERE is an angel Whose thoughts at morning Are like a newly broken pomegranate, And whose words at noon Are golden ice Warmed into music. There is an angel Whose eyes are like fuchsias Whoever sits beneath them Desires forthwith to be a passionate vine And bear a flower. There is an angel Whose steps are slower than white clover, For each motion Is so heavy with beauty That swiftness dies beneath the burden. But I would rather live blessedly with you Than go expectantly to heaven. DISCOVERY UNTI L my lamp and I Stood close together by the glass, I had not ever noticed I was a comely lass. My aunts have always nodded, " Sweet child, She has a gentle soul And mild/' And so, one night, I took my lamp and said " I'll look upon my gentle soul Before I go to bed. " I could not find it ; no, But gazing hard I spied Something much more near to me, White armed and amber-eyed. And as I looked I seemed to feel Warm hands upon my breast, Where never any hands but mine Were known to rest. sri I i F\X feM a And as I looked my startled thoughts Winged up in happy flight, And circled like mad butterflies About the light. I went to bed without my soul, And I had no mind to care, For a joyful little sin Slept pillowed on my hair. I went to bed without my soul What difference to me? I had a joyful little sin For company. And that is what came of listening To aunts who always lied. They never told me that I was White armed and amber-eyed. "BIRCH GROVE" Boris Amsfeld tf je peins ce que je sens, pas ce que je vots." I CANNOT find a path there For mortal feet at all, Where the shepherd boy is golden air And the leaves are a waterfall. I cannot wantonly intrude Into that pagan solitude, Where little dream-goats in a row Trot quaintly, primly to and fro. One hand upraised would be to crush The wonder-strung fragility Of trees that with a slow, still rush Flow down from high infinity. There is a chain I cannot sever .... There is a wall that never, never I watch the little dream-goats pace Within that dim and dryad place. m ^ ; * ft. m JA m THE SINGER SOME one is coming down the street singing With his carol-book held out to you. Come and lean against his broad, dusty shoulder. He sings the beautiful, gnarled hands of factories And the eyes that shine in a dark slum. He sings a mighty melody for friendship And a tender consolation for dishonor. He sings valleys that hide the foxes, Yellow pools along the sea-beach. The red gates of day And the black gates of prisons, With always and always the same refrain- Democracy, Myself, America! 10 BIRDS BELOVED, the black swans of my eyes Are loosed to your behest, And must I still keep caged from you The white swans of my breast ? My hands, like slender pigeons, Flutter the whole day through. Did you not know the little things Home unto you ? My lips, like slim canaries, Sing when I hear you speak. Beloved, bend and stroke once more The finches of my cheek. im ii PRINTED AT SAN FRANCISCO IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER. MDCCCCXX BY H. S. CROCKER COMPANY. INCORPORATED THE TYPOGRAPHY DESIGNED BY PORTER GARNETT f f f f f f J f f f f f f