A BOOK OF VASSAR VERSE REPRINTS FROM THE VASSAR MISCELLANY MONTHLY 1894-1916 PUBLISHED BY THE VASSAR MISCELLANY MONTHLY 1916 mv. library. UC Santo uui Copyright 1916 by The Vassar Miscellany Monthly Press of The A. V. Haight Company Poughkeepsie, N. Y. TABLE OF CONTENTS Page A Waltz by Chopin E. H. Haight, 1894 I! The Mad Poet Nancy Vincent McClelland, 1897 12 Before the Dawn M. R., 1897 16 Night Wind Fanny Hart, 1898 17 Where the Dead Past Sits Enthroned Emma Lou Garrett, 1899 18 Sunset . 1901 20 Loneliness Adelaide Crapsey, 1901 21 With the Passing of the Sun Emma Lou Garrett, 1 899 22 A Fragment ...Evelina Pierce, 1902 23 Dutch Tulips Mary Atwater Mason, 1902 25 November fcLetitia Jean Smythe, 1901 26 Spring Song Mary Fleming, 1902 28 Through Winter Woods....Margaret Adelaide Pollard, 1902 29 The Seer Mary Burt Messer, S 30 White Wings Elsie Mitchell Rushmore, 1906 31 Song of An Irish Mother Olive Stewart, 1908 33 Elemental Eliza Adelaide Draper, 1907 34 The Chorus Louise Medbery, 1907 35 A Pagan Beatrice Dorr, 1909 36 On the Coast of Maine Louisa Brooke, 1907 38 To-Night Life's Web Seemed Twisted All Awry Dorothea Gay, 1911 42 Where the Waves Meet the Shore.. Katharine Taylor, 1910 43 Christmas Sarah Hincks, 1910 44 Fluctuation Hazel Bishop Poole, 1909 45 The Sea Shore Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909 46 In the Hospital Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909 47 Summer Winds Margaret Adams Hobbs, 1910 48 Flitter Moth Genevieve J. Williams, 191 1 49 Morning on the River Helen Lathrop, 191 1 50 The Poet's Mistress Sings .Genevieve J. Williams, 1911 51 Exile Marion Eleanor Crampton, 191 1 53 The Knot-Hole ^Margaret Frances Culkin, 1912 54 Saxon Lullaby Dorothea Gay, 191 1 56 Afterwards Genevieve J. Williams, 191 1 58 Queen's Lace Frances Shriver, 191 1 59 From the Dusk ......Elizabeth Toof, 1913 60 3 Page Pierrette Helen Clark, 1913 61 The Wind Song Henriette de Saussure Blanding, 1912 62 After the Season Helen Dorothea Romer, 1912 65 Sleep Song of the Pines Elizabeth Toof, 1913 67 Tristram Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 68 Alyth Elizabeth Toof, 1913 69 Winds and the Lilies Helen Lombaert Scobey , 1913 70 From Homer Rebecca Park Lawrence, 1913 71 A Prayer to Buddha Elizabeth Toof, 1913 73 The Abbey Bells of Middleburg Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913 74 To a Stranger Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 76 Love Song Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 77 0, I Went Down to the River Bank Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 78 Evening Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 79 Persephone to Orpheus Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 80 Interim Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917 81 Swing in the Swing Vivian Gurney, 1915 95 The Apprentice Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 96 Chanson Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915 98 The Dragon Lamp Louise Hunting Seaman, 1915 99 London Chimney Pots Vivian Gurney, 1915 101 Man Mending a Pipe Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 1 02 Love Song Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 104 Circe Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 105 The Lover Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915 1 06 Rebellion Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 108 Cathleen Ni Houlihan Miriam S. Wright, 1918 110 The Defiance of Lilith Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1916 111 Autumn Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 113 The Dreamer ElsieLanier, 1918 115 Horace C. I. 29 Agnes Rogers, 1916 116 Prologue (From the Pageant of Athena) 117 Alta Mater Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 119 Dawn .....Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 120 The Sandman Helen Johnson, 1918 121 The Fairy Ring Elizabeth Keller, 1916 122 Alone . ...Charlotte Vande Water, 1917 123 Road Song Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 124 Confidante Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 125 The Suicide Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917 126 An Etching Elsie Lanier, 1918 136 4 Page Attainment Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 137 Wind Rhythm.... ....Elizabeth Mary Hincks, 1917 139 Unseen.... .... Bee W. Hasler, 1917 140 Mid-Winter Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 142 AT RANDOM Dress A la Carte... 147 Nothing At All.... ... F. L. McK., 1898 148 Lament K. T., 1910 150 Irony 151 The Leading Man ... I. U., 1910 152 My Soul R. P. L., 1913 153 Sonnet to a Hair Pin M. M., 1915 154 A Psychological Disillusion H. E. B., 1917 156 The Ballad of Bad 'Boccy C. C. W., 1917 158 Piscis Vassariae C. C. W., 1917 160 Fluncture C. C. W., 1917 161 The Old Order Changeth C. C. W., 1917 162 Why Did I Ever Come to This Place?....E. St. V. M., 1917 153 Partiality.... ....M. A. P., 1905 167 Humanity.... ....L. B., 1907 169 Humility.... ...E.B.D., 1909 169 Bug of June.... ....V. L.B., 1911 170 A Valentine ....M. H., 1912 171 The Centipede ... E. K., 1916 172 Spring Song C. C. W., 1917 174 PREFACE In the selection of the verse in this vol- ume, the editors had a twofold purpose: first and foremost to preserve verse of the highest possible standard of excellence; and secondly, to show through the collec- tion the development of verse-making in the college since 1 893, when a similar an- thology was published. The poems have been arranged in chronological order, with reference to their appearance in The Mis- cellany, in order to make more evident the changing influences which have acted upon their authors, and the broadening scope of their themes. The book cannot fail to have a certain significance of symbolism, for in the lyric expression of the writers is apparent the widening range of the college girl's emotional and intellectual interest and the quickening of her contact with reality, as well as her increased power of expression. In a measure the editors have sacrificed the historical to the aesthetic. Propor- tionately, recent poetry is more completely represented than that of the older mag- azines because it seems superior in variety and in finish, Because of this lack of proportion, the reader may not sense as keenly as did the compilers the contrast between the masses of conventional nature poetry and lullabies of the older school, and the varied richness of subject in the more modern songs, He may, how- ever, watch imitation give way to in- terpretation, and thought and imagery deepen under the increasing grace of form. And he may trace to the end the spirit of courageous experiment, the reaching forth of young hands to new materials to be shaped into new forms. The editors make no apology for in- cluding nonsense verse at the end of the volume, because it represents a defi- nite phase of student life. To understand the life of a college without understanding the whimsies of its citizens is impossible. The critic who condemns us for a sacrifice of dignity condemns the truthfulness of our volume. And he condemns some- thing more he condemns the spirit which says, "We have worked for a purpose, we have loved our work, and we have smiled." Editors of the Vassar Miscellany Monthly 1916-1917. A WALTZ BY CHOPIN Far, far away We float upon a melody of sound; Blue sky above us, golden light around, And all the world one dreamy summer day. Far, far away A bird's soft note breaks o'er the water, clear, The answering song reveals his mate is near, And then they join in warbling on their way. Far, far away, Soft, softer grows the tender, dual strain, One last, faint note responsive comes again, Then silence falls. Breathless we wait in pain, But music, birds and spell have gone their way, Far, far away. . H. Haight, 1894. THE MAD POET Mad, quite mad, they tell you? Ah, poor fools! They little know of what they speak. For see, As no two sunsets ever were alike Into whose gold the evening world was dripped, As no two blossoms ever bloomed the same Though grown so close that one the other touched, So no two men. Go tell those prating fools The divine difference is but more in- creased Between themselves and me, and thus content Their minds. ************ If one of them had ever felt the touch 'Neath which my soul has quivered since its birth, 12 He would not call me mad. That yearn- ing love Which is the poet's food found place in me; And seized on all my little world contained To sate itself. With Nature's smile I smiled, and at her tears I wept. And then The love I bore all things was gathered in And centered on one being. Seemingly It greater grew in its intensity, And, looking in her eyes, I felt my heart Swell with a passion hitherto unknown, Swell until nigh to breaking, so that grief Stood next to joyfulness within my love. Once, as we played, I drew a flower across Her smiling lips and flower-like face, and thought The while, her lids were lovelier far Than those down-drooping petals of the bloom; And thereon cast the fragile thing aside, And smiled to think how long that fairer flower 13 Would stay to cheer me, sent to brush away The blossom's gold that clung upon her cheeks With burning kisses. Each time when my lips Touched her dear face our souls seemed made as one And mingled in a flood of ecstasy! Again I kissed, and held the face away 'Twixt both my hands, to view with ravished eyes The blushes that I knew o'erspread it. Fiend! What loathsome object met my madden- ed gaze! A face indeed that self-same face de- formed By awful brands. ********** Oh Heavens! Every kiss had made a scar! Her eyes alone were radiant as before, But burned into my soul. Look! See them there 14 There in that corner here before my face! Nothing but eyes, eyes, eyes they pierce my flesh They scorch my heart out! Yes, they want my soul To drag it down to Hell endless life Of torture! Savage, ceaseless misery! ************** And so men call me mad? Nancy Vincent McClelland, 1897. 15 BEFORE THE DAWN Before the dawn, when all the world's asleep, And even little brooks forget to sing, The mother moon her faithful watch must keep O'er all the stars. Her task it is to bring Her pretty children to their slumbering. She lays aside her own bright, golden veil, Then draws upon each shining baby head A little night-cap, soft and very pale. Soon all the sky is dark, untenanted Before the dawn the star-babes go to bed. M. R.. 1897. 16 NIGHT-WIND I called to the Night-wind, the Night- wind sang "No", Tossing the elms and the willows; Then clasping the stars to her breast she swept low In her storm-flowing hair on the billows. I called to the Night-wind, the Night- wind sighed "Yes", Mountain-tops golden were gleaming, Then I gathered her hair to me, tress by tress, The stars drooped, her eyes were dream- ing. Fanny Hart, 1898. 17 WHERE THE DEAD PAST SITS ENTHRONED Dark are the shadows, dark the walls of stone That close about her; silence over all. The dim light shows her regal figure, tall And stately, seated on an ancient throne. White-faced she is, and dead, and all alone. A withered palm her nerveless hands let fall, And white against the blackness of the wall Shines out her hair, with cobwebs over- grown. Wide are her eyes and straining through the gloom Far searching always, but the rocks that loom Throughout the void let never pilgrim nigh, Nor voice e'er break the silence of that tomb, 18 But now and then the dead thing throned on high Sends through the darkness one great, shuddering cry. Emma Lou Carreti, 1899. 19 SUNSET Now dark-eyed evening softly steals be- hind And hides the eyes of day with her cool hands, While lights and shadows play o'er mead- ow lands And up the hills, at sportive hood-man- blind. "Guess who am I?" with voice of mur- muring wind She softly asks. He falters, "Art thou night?" With loving smiles she doth his eyes un- bind, Herself revealing. He, in passion bright, Flames to an esctasy of rapturous delight. 1901. 20 LONELINESS The earth's all wrapped in gray shroud- mist, Dull gray are sea and sky, And where the water laps the land On gray sand-dunes stand I. Oh, if God there be, his face from me The rolling gray mists hide; And if God there be, his voice from me Is kept by the moan of the tide. Adelaide Crapsey. 1901. 21 WITH THE PASSING OF THE SUN Dead is the sun king on his royal couch Of gold and purple; and the night monks come And silently creep near it, one by one, And, sombre-robed, uplift their taper stars. And in the darkness chant a requiem. Emma Lou Carrett, 1899. 22 A FRAGMENT (Supposed continuation of line 277, Book V, Odyssey) And Calypso, fair among nymphs, lovely with grace of goddess, Stood on the sands of the sea-beach and gazed far out on the ocean. There on the dark-colored sea, like a bird on the high-vaulted heaven, Sped the great barge of Odysseus, tossed by the surge of the waters. Smaller and smaller it grew, till at last she could see it no longer. There sat she down and wept, mournful she was, and despairing; Slowly the stars came out like torches proclaiming the night-fall, Shining till dimmed by Aurora, they sank to their bath in the billows. 23 But Calypso, fair among nymphs, sat on the sands of the sea-beach, Weeping and hiding her face from the sight of the pitiless ocean. Evelina Fierce, 1902. 24 DUTCH TULIPS Acres of glowing color Stretching from dyke to stream, Lifting their blazing torches Bright as a fleeting dream; Like a flush of rose on the meadows, Or a blot of blood-red wine, Or a flaming field of cloth-of-gold, Is Holland, in tulip time! Mary Alwatcr Mason, 1902. 25 NOVEMBER Quiet, at peace, in silent strength she stands, The dull wind blowing on her rugged face, Roughing her heavy hair; with sombre grace Tall, leafless branches sway in her strong hands ; The rude burrs catch her dress, and thorny vines Touched with the last deep color of the year Cling to its hem, faded and frayed and sear, Fringing the coarse, dusk folds with fragile spines. A look far-seeing fills her wide, deep eyes, And the still light of long, gray after- noon. 26 Bravely she waits the future, asks no boon, Hers the year's precious past, its golden memories. Letitia Jean Smyth. 1901. 27 SPRING SONG The glad, mad hills All veined with rills, Are glowing a glory Of infinite green, And a lyric laughter flashes round With the onyx-emerald sheen. To the birch foam toss, To the throb of the glade, To the pulse of the wheat, To the surge of the blade, To the beat of the flood, To the reel of the blood, Dance! lilt! swing! And off! Awing With the gold-throat oriole. Mary Fleming, 1902. 28 THROUGH WINTER WOODS Gray mottled beech trunks locked in snow, And a muffled stillness all around; A stillness cut with the little smack Of a tiny twig a-springing back As a ball of snow with a breathy sound Drops from the iced green pines bent low. Pale yellow shafts on a snow blue-white And a molten sun behind the hill; And thickening shadows under the trees And the sharp little sting of a sudden breeze, As up from the crackled crusted rill Comes the clean-cut breath of the winter's night. Margaret Adelaide Pollard, 1902. 29 THE SEER To dwell alone in countries of the sun; To go all uncompanioned in the light; To see the valleys from a windy height, And long to rest therein, day being done. To weary of the beauties, one by one, That shine across the air too bleakly bright; To be too close upon the stars by night. And, lonely as the peak, abide thereon! Immortal mind and mortal heart that yearns, Grave wondrous soul to whom God speaks his word, The skies are cold, and earth is warm with love! Come for a space to where the hearth- fire burns. And then if God's own voice should sound unheard! Nay, thou shalt watch and wait and dream thereof. Mary Burl Maser, S. 30 WHITE WINGS She lingered for a while beside life's sea, Gathering strange, lovely thoughts to string like shells In lyric lengths of song, Numbering the rhythmic beating of the deep, Watching the soft, clear day steal from the east, Or westward fading, touch the crinkling waves With tender glory; and she saw the boats Glide with ribbed sails across the sun, and flit Whit'ning through the blue distance, where afar The heavenly country lies all wrapped in mist. There most of all she gazed, and if a gleam Threaded the mist, her passionate, grave eyes 31 With more than earthly lustre caught its light; Thus did she live until her soul took wing And vanished, like some white bird, in the blue. Elsie Mitchell Rtuhmore, 1906. 32 SONG OF AN IRISH MOTHER Out 'cross the swamp and the mire The weirdies are flashin' their fire, An* down in the log-wood the soft rains are fallin', Where the wee lonesome fairies are callin' and callin', With voices that sound like yours, With voices that sound like yours. Your daddy's old pipe's gettin' low, Where he sits in the hearth-fire's glow, And all 'round the thatch-roof the rain spirit's swishin' While I'm waitin' here, darlin', a wishin' an' wishin' You were back in this cradle o' yours, You were back in this cradle o' yours. Olite Steioart, 1908. 33 ELEMENTAL There are five elements of which all existing things are composed, Earth, Air Fire, Water, and Ether Japanese Legend. Driven wind on the gray hill's crest, Wandering breeze in the green marsh grass; Measureless height and endless reach, Deepening blue of the open sky; Flame, the sweep of a red-hot scourge, And the licking tongue of the leaping fire: Frolic of water over the stones; Limpid depths of a quiet pool: The odor of fresh-turned earth in spring, Warm and virile and rich with life. Passionate, vivid, wayward, free, Beloved, you're all of the world to me. Eliza Adelaide Draper, 1907. 34 THE CHORUS Whisper to the moon-gleam, Whisper to the sea, Whisper to the moonbeam, Follow, follow me. When the wind is in the willows, And the fireflies in the glen, And the moonlight on the pillows Of sleep-enamoured men, When the elves are in the forest, Seeking starshine in the dew, And their tiny tunes are chorused Where the starlight filters through; Then, whisper to the moon-gleams, Whisper to the sea, Whisper to the moonbeams, Follow, follow me. Louise Metier y, 1907. 35 A PAGAN I am a pagan, I! I worship earth and sun and sea and sky; I hold no faith, expressed in mankind's words. My creed comes to me in the song of birds, And waving grasses, and the sun's glad light, And strong, high hills and rivers, silver- bright, And soft, still clouds that silently float by,- I am a pagan, I! I never wonder why All men are born to sin, and then to die. I only love the whole great world around, And revel in its joy of sight and sound. I love it all, I love, and long to praise The strange, great unknown Soul of it always, 36 The Soul of earth and sun and sea and sky,-- Am I a pagan, I? Beatrice Daw, 1909. ON THE COAST OF MAINE I. Off-Shore The dappled blue of the evening sky, With the cloud-rack in the west, All purpled bright in the living light, Like the Islands of the Blest. And out of the islands sweeps the wind As much as the sails can hold, As we race home through the rustling foam And the grey waves laced with gold. II. In the Fog The cool grey wraps us more and more, Our slack sail lifts to the fitful wind, And I see through the rift where the fog has thinned The floating ghost of the distant shore. 38 III. On the Sand-Bar The curdling foam on the blue-black sands, The lap and splash of the rising tide, As it slowly creeps to the farther side, Where the lone tree stretches its ghostly hands. IV. A Summer Storm A leaden sea and a silver sky, A line of light at the sunset edge, Long wisps of cloud go drifting by, While the white foam licks at the rocky ledge. Then the shouting sea-wind takes its toll? From the moaning forest's pain, And the storm sweeps by with the thun- der's roll, And the rattle of the rain. 39 V. In the Pine- Woods The sunlight through the pines Touches the mossy stones with living green, And marks the silver lines Left where the fairy spinner's way has been. With tender murmuring The fragrant breezes steal from tree to tree, And now the vagrants bring The vital freshness of the distant sea. VI. Outward-Bound The schooner's sail is slack and drawn And the schooner's wheel is still, And the sick prow lifts through the shift- ing seas, Like a thing bereft of will. 40 For the grey fog wraps us round, my lads, And the good ship needs must stay, Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze, That drives the fog away. There's a crinkling over the sluggish waves, A whispering in the sail, And the schooner turns like a tired dog, At the sound of his master's hail. For the grey fog lifts off-shore, my lads, And the good ship bounds away. Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze That drives the fog away. Louisa Brooke, 1907. 41 TO-NIGHT LIFE'S WEB SEEMED TWISTED ALL AWRY To-night life's web seemed twisted all awry, Its faded colors trampled in the ground, Till here, within the darkening woods, I found This quiet pool beneath the starlit sky. The waters deeply still, the lissome reeds Scarce ruffling its smooth surface, the low, soft Monotonous murmur of the pines aloft, The very air a sweet contentment breeds. Above, a heron floats on softened wing. Deep in the woods a liquid-thrilling thrush Voices the dumb souled Night. And through the hush I feel your great, calm spirit comforting. The tangled webs grow straight. And now we seem Together, 'neath the stars, to sit and dream. Dorothea Gay, 1911. 42 WHERE THE WAVES MEET THE SHORE My fingers touch the cool, firm sand, They let it sift between them, lovingly. The little waves, with rhythmic melody, Hush, and whisper, and break forth in gentle song, As they plash in and out; As each recedes, the uncovered beach Is quickened with a life from out the west, And like the dew drops on the faery webs That breathe with color in the early morn- Each moment it receives the warm caress Of that far, radiant space beyond the sea, And, shimmering momently, gives back A quiet answer, with a flush Of soft dream fire. Katherine Taylor, 1910. 43 CHRISTMAS Mother, just listen town is sparkly bright, And windows full of gorgeous things, And holly, bundles, people Oh, I saw Such cunning angel's wings. But out doors here it is so very still, My stars are smiling far away, I can't tell why, and then the little wind Just kissed me, and won't say. Mother, you're smiling like the people too, And like the little wind, and why Am I so very happy just so glad, And inside want to cry? Sarah //incfr, 1910. 44 FLUCTUATION It lies o'er grain-fields surging in the breeze; On the dim wood-path in the glancing shift Of sunlight falling through the air-stirred trees; Or on the ocean in the breathless lift Of moon-tracked swells not risen to a wave; In autumn leaves revolving as they drift; In eyes, as Dante calls them, "slow and grave"; In smiles of earnest men and human seers. A certain rhythmic play of light and shade That weaves the shimmering fabric of our years. Hazel Bishop Poole, 1909. 45 THE SEA-SHORE The sun is warm upon my back, As warm as mother's hand, And where I've dug my well to-day 'There's water in the sand. The Chinese boys down underneath, Are they as warm as me? The water half-way down my well Is cold as it can be. Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909. 46 IN THE HOSPITAL These days when I am sick in bed I've been in bed so long you know I lie and listen to the steps And wonder where they go. They hurry past out on the walk And hurry up the empty street, They're going home's fast they can, I know those happy feet. Sometimes out in the corridor A nurse goes by with slow, soft slide; Sometimes she hurries then I know Some boy like me, has died. Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909. 47 SUMMER WINDS They rush along, the daughters of the wind, Grey-eyed, strong-limbed, their dust- brown hair swirled back. The children of the great warm west are they. One, high among the white cloud domes that hang So lazy in the sky, stirs them to life. Another skims across the grass that bends In silver waves beneath her scarce-felt tread. Then, darting up, past twinkling maple leaves, Bows down the tall elm's crown. But onward, ever onward still they rush, And meeting in the wood, sigh through the pines And pass and leave behind in drowsy heat, A breathless calm, close-wrapping like a shroud. Margaret Adams Hobbs, 1910. 48 FLITTER-MOTH On the road to Anywhere! once I met her singing; Such a little elf was she, Winsome, full of witchery, Shy as any sprite could be, Dancing, flitting, winging. On the road to Anywhere! over hill and hollow, Where the little witch demure, Ever beckoning, doth lure, Weary, humble and obscure, I, her pilgrim, follow. On the road to Anywhere! I will ne'er forsake her. Though the little witch may be Naught but errant Fantasy, Though she flout and mock at me, I will overtake her. GencoieceJ. Williams, 1911. 49 MORNING ON THE RIVER The river moves in silvery expanse, Soft-brushed with early mist along its shores, Whose peaceful slopes lie slumbering dim and gray, While far above one glistening white gull soars. Helen Lathrop, 1911. 50 THE POET'S MISTRESS SINGS My love is not as other lovers are He comes to me from planets more re- mote; The voice of distant worlds is in his throat, His eyes have caught the light of some strange star. Such gifts he brings as queens in vain de- sire, Proud queens, for all their crowns of carven gold, Their silken robes, in lustrous fold on fold, For all their gems that flame like frozen fire. Their hearts cry vainly for the gifts he brings Wild, winged songs that soar and flash and fall, 51 Dark, splendid songs, and beautiful and small Sweet songs that softly to my heart he sings. For through the circling worlds he takes his flight, Seeking rare songs, that I, his love, may be Clothed in the subtle splendor of the sea, Crowned with the ancient glory of the night. GeMtitccJ. Williams, 1911. 52 EXILE Alfalfa fields, at twilight purple-gray, Where western prairie bounds the curve of sky, A narrow road that has nor tree nor bend, A toiler from the mill who passes by. A figure with a tinge of Old World grace, Deep color in the kerchief knotted free, Young eyes that hold a hint of Athens' gleam, A longing for a sunlit, azure sea. Marion Eleanor Crampton, 191 1. 53 THE KNOT-HOLE There's a whiff of dust comin' down the road, It's fairies in dust clouds that's blowin', Find a knot-hole to look at them through, boyneen, And their errand you'll be knowin'. 'Tis I had better be lookin' myself, Wurra, be keepin' behind When the Little Men catch your eye through the knot, 'Tis the black curse they give, strike you blind. If they should bring me a changeling, now, 'Tis a trouble for some one they're bearin', See the crooked, dancin' legs on them, And the scraps of coats they're wearin'. 54 Mother Mercy, did one of them see me then? The crowd's gettin' distant and far, The corn crake is cryin' it's day then, sure, Boyneen, where is it you are! Margaret Frances Culkin, 1912. 55 SAXON LULLABY Folded asleep are the Hawthorne blows, And faint on the evening wind is the rose. Wriggle no more, little son, be still, For the Lord of Dreams waits here at the sill. By-low-low. Thou shalt ride this night on a milk- white steed, Shod by Weland with shoes of speed, Adown the gleaming Roman road, Its border with scarlet dream-blooms sowed, And the wind shall whistle through thy locks But when thou hearest the surf on the rocks. Draw rein and remember thy mother at home. Draw rein, turn back oh son of mine! Though sky is blue and white sails shine, 56 Though the ring-necked ships do thee courtesy, And in homage the sea-birds dip to the sea. Trust not the slow waves heaving black; More men go out than e'er come back Over the gannet road to Rome. So, so! I meant not to fright thee, hush! The linnet is singing good-night to the thrush. All out of doors is drowsy and gray, And I wait to speed thee on thy way. By-low-low. Dorothea Gay, 1911. 57 AFTERWARDS I think you sent the withered leaves That blew all day across the grass, All day, all day they rustled by, A tattered, flying mass. For all the world was whirling leaves Against the lonely, wind-swept sky, And every leaf was whispering Your name as it flew by. Tonight the leaves lie quietly, Sodden and still beneath the rain That drums along the eaves, and drives Against the window pane. GtneoieotJ. Williams. 1911. 58 QUEEN'S LACE Child! how high the brown weeds stand, Reaching up to touch your hand! Round your knees the Queen's lacedry Holds up cups as you pass by. You, who see the tiny elves In those seed-cups rock themselves, Tell the flowers to love me too, Reaching cups to me as you! Frances Shriccr, 1911. 59 FROM THE DUSK The dark'ning road had hidden you; I turned In dread to see the home we loved, but watched The garden changed to spirit; tinged trees That rose across the mist, or glowed like cloud About the lamps; a vague dim sky that made All distance nothing, even absence all Mistaken fear; then felt you close and groped And struck my hand against the iron gate. Elizabeth Too/, 1913. 60 PIERRETTE Ah, Pierrette! I see thee dance Amid the maskers gay. With piquant poise, with witching glance, As sweetly pale a face As an arbutus bud in May, Save for the scarlet lips, So laughing light with wind-swayed grace Through music's maze you trip. Ah, Pierrette! I know thy heart, A burning crimson rose By folly's rude hand plucked apart To many a bleeding shred, Robbed of its bloom by sorrow's snows. One night when I was near, "Ah, God! I wish that I were dead," You whispered in my ear. 1913. 61 THE WIND SONG I am the child of the sea I sweep the purple fog on its landward track, I cry in the thundering roar of the ocean surge, I beat the crests of the towering waves to foam, And dash them down to burst on the angry reefs; I tear the sea-weed black from the salt- sprayed rock, I lash the stark brown cliffs with hissing surf, I toss and buffet the treasure-laden ships, And strip the taut-stretched sail from the shivering mast, And strew the waste of waves with their golden spoils, And hurl them up to rot on the strangers' shore, And mock at the hopes of men. 62 I am the child of the land I whistle in whirling dust through the city street, I shriek through the rigid frame of slen- der steel, Looming black and bare to the cold green sky; I batter the thousand panes with shower of hail, Sweeping the roof and the cornice heaped with snow; I blow o'er the rolling prairies' inland sea, Where the fields of corn lie red in the evening light, And the deepening purple shadows creep to the east, As the curling smoke cloud beckons the laborer home; I rush o'er the western ranges wide and clear, With the sage brush green and gray in the morning sun, The rock-red soil and the brown of the stunted pine; I sing in the rhythmic beat of the broncho's hoofs, 63 The blast of the surging stream that seeks for gold, The thud of the axe as it swings in the clearing green; I moan through the desert's awful silences, Where the cold gray rocks, 'mid the miles of barren brush, From a level sea loom gaunt to the ghostly moon; I howl in the roar of the train with its shower of fire, The piercing engine's shriek through the black ravine, The wild coyote's cry to the lonely stars; I sweep o'er the empty wastes of sand, and yearn For the finite souls of men. Henrietie dc Saussurc Bland ing, 1912. 64 AFTER THE SEASON Untrampled lies the sand, smooth, hard and clean, Scattered with gleaming yellow cockle shells And bits of grey drift-wood. The cool air smells Freshly of salt, most when the wind blows keen From off south-lying fishing banks. Se- rene The pale blue sky bends down to meet the swells That set the buoys aswing and toll the bells, Then break upon the bar, wild white and green. The bathing beach is marked by rope- less posts; The vacant board-walk stretches dull and bare. The Old Casino's shuttered windows stare 65 Half-crazed by sighing of the uneasy ghosts Of tunes the band used, summer long, to play,-- Far out at sea one ship's smoke fades away. Helen Dorothea Romer, 1912. 66 SLEEP SONG OF THE PINES Dimness and dusky bars Drift on the branches' light; Dearer than song are stars, Dearer than day is night. Moon-quivers pale and long Meet on the mosses gray. Dearer is dream than song, Dearer is night than day. Elizabeth Toof, 1913. 67 TRISTRAM For me, Iseult, the shadows of your hair Hold all the .dusky sweetness of the night, Your eyes the joy of all the shining stars. Deep in your voice the comfort of the rain, The warmth and vibrant stillness of noon suns Lie folded, as in promise of the Spring. I can not let you go! Your loss would be The loss of all the meaning that is Life. Yet sometimes when the night wind holds her breath A voice cries through the darkness: "This is Death!" Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916. 68 ALYTH Naked as sun-fleck she treads the brook, Trailing the water weed tangled there; Glows of her hair make the shadows blind; Teased by her laughter the winds des- pair. Stain of the rushes and tear of thorn Darken her feet in the water's flow; Glimmers that fall from her breast and hair Mingle and stir like a lily's glow. Elizabeth Toof, 1913. 69 WINDS AND THE LILIES I wish I were the wind that blows In the wood-lilies, And bends and breaks them and then goes. What of the broken lilies then? Who knows, For who thinks twice of anything the wind Has torn and thinned! Deep golden petals scattered on the air Drift here and there- Deep tawny golden more like Inyr's hair Than anything I've dreamed of; she is pale And slim and frail As the slenderest lily-stalks Heaven knows. I wish I were the wind that blows In the wood-lilies And bends and breaks them and then goes. Helen Lombaerl Scobey, 1913. 70 FROM HOMER "Homer, thy song men liken to the sea, With every note of music in his tone, With tides that wash the wide dominion Of Hades, and light waves that lash in glee, Around the isles enchanted. *****" Before me sweeps the dark and widening sea And wistfully, I strain my eyes across the waves To glimpse the sturdy, wing-sailed ship that bears My son again to Ithaca * * * a fair haired lad, Boy to the battle-famed Odysseus, who had But lately left his play, to sail To far off Ilium, o'er the deepening sea. How long the years have been; how heavy-winged! 71 The lad mayhap has changed; his eyes less young, His voice less full of joyous mirth; His heart oh Zeus immortal, give to me His heart as sweet, as when he played at ball Beside me in the sunny megaron * * * * While I plied back and forth to spin for him A kiton from new-carded wool ***** How long the watch is; and how dark the sea. Rebecca Park Lawrence, 1913. 72 A PRAYER TO BUDDHA The wind has blown against my face A leaf of mist-wet bloom. In calm of depthless thinking, look forever Upon the leaves of lake-lapped lotus flowers, No chanting from thy temples break thy musing] Nor prayer bells mark the silence into hours. But when the smoke of sandal-wood is rising From Temples where the throbs of chant- ing cease, Because that scent once stilled thy prayer to silence, Upon thy people lay the spell of peace. The wind has blown against my face A leaf of mist-wet bloom. EUzaleA Too/. 1913. 73 THE ABBEY BELLS OF MIDDEL- BURG At Middelburg the night drags slow Because the chimes are never still, But mark the quarters as they go With carillons unending, shrill. You hear the bells at Middelburg, The Abbey bells of Middelburg, Until it seems the live-long night Is full of bells at Middelburg. You may have visions between bells Of Rosendaal with hedge-rimmed fields, Or Dort with Docks, or somewhere else With long low-lying poppy fields, Or Domburg's dykes and windmill wings- But these are visions that give place As night creeps on to sadder things, While quarters drag and bells keep pace. When hope is dead and sleep is vain. And thoughts are mad, but dreams are worse, 74 And every chime smites like a pain, And carillons become a curse, You hear the bells at Middelburg, The shrill high bells at Middelburg, Until you think the live-long night Is cursed with bells at Middelburg. Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913. 75 TO A STRANGER I have seen you arise and go forth in the night And run up a white winding way To the top of a hill, through the grass un- der stars, Where you chased the wild wind in your play. You were mad when you tossed back your bare head and laughed, When you caught at a star in its fall, It changed to a glimmering moth and flew by, tonight, when you pass, will you call? Ruth Thomas Pickering. 1914. 76 LOVE SONG I love you with a heart that dances in the sunshine, That sings the strangest wildness of a wild blue wave, That trembles in the fierce sweep of a green streaked wind storm, When pine trees break and lost birds cry, and sky-topped rock cliffs cave. I wait for you where clouds stretch pale and far off northward. Where fruits red ripe are hanging breath- less in noon light, Where yellow birds are flying over purple flowers. Where grasses blow with restless yearn- ing all the long white night. Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914. 77 O, I WENT DOWN TO THE RIVER BANK 0, I went down to the river bank Last night When a million stars were bright And you in the long grass lay. 0, the wind blew over the river bank Last night And the touch of your lips was light As we in the long grass lay. 0, I came up from the river bank Alone, While the weary wind made moan And the dawn on the crushed grass lay. Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914. 78 EVENING When Evening first, rising from day-long rest, Cups her slow hands 'round Day's too dazzling light, Still through her fingers slips a radiance bright Reddening and spreading in the darken- ing west. She sighs; and in the fragrant dusk, the breeze Makes whispered music through the qui- vering trees; Then strengthening Night snuffs out the Day's last spark And sets the first star shimmering in the dark. Carolyn Crosby Wihon, 1917. 79 PERSEPHONE TO ORPHEUS I do remember now a far off day And long-forgotten in this frozen place, A gleam of sunlit flowers, wet with spray, And the long sea beach whitening for a space Between the green land and the purple sea. The black car hurtles through the startled air. Forever mingled with my young despair The sharp tang of the sea-salt strangles me. Singer, your song has waked to life again The dear lost gift of tears, and all the whirl Of quick-pulsed love and hatred. Sweet is pain To one long dead to passion, Take the girl! Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916. 80 INTERIM A man speaks The room is full of you! As I came in And closed the door behind me, all at once A something in the air, intangible, Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!- Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed Each other room's dear personality. The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers, The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death, Has strangled that habitual breath of home Whose expiration leaves all houses dead; And whereso'er I look is hideous change. Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed- choked gate Had opened at my touch, and I had step- ped Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange, Sweet garden of a thousand years ago 81 And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!" You are not here. I know that you are gone, And will not ever enter here again. And yet it seems to me, if I should speak, Your silent step must wake across the hall; If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes Would kiss me from the door. So short a time To teach my life its transposition to This difficult and unaccustomed key! The room is as you left it; your last touch A thoughtless pressure, knowing not it- self As saintly hallows now each simple thing; Hallows and glorifies, and glows between The dust's gray fingers like a shielded light. There is your book, just as you laid it down, 82 Face to the table, I cannot believe That you are gone! Just then it seemed to me You must be here. I almost laughed to think How like reality the dream had been; Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still. That book, out-spread, just as you laid it down! Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next, And whether this or this will be the end," So rose and left it, thinking to return. Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed Out of the room, rocked silently a while Ere it again was still. When you were gone Forever from the room, perhaps that chair, Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while, Silently to and fro********** 83 And here are the last words your fingers wrote, Scrawled in broad characters across a page In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand, Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down. Here with a looping knot you crossed a . t And here another like it, just beyond These two eccentric "e's". You were so small, And wrote so brave a hand! How strange it seems That of all words these are the words you chose! And yet a simple choice; you did not know You would not write again. If you had known But then, it does not matter, and in- deed, If you had known there was so little time You would have dropped your pen and come to me, 84 And this page would be empty, and some phrase Other than this would hold my wonder now. Yet, since you could not know, and it befell That these are the last words your fingers wrote, There is a dignity some might not see In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to- day." To-day! Was there an opening bud be- side it You left until tomorrow? 0, my love, The things that withered, and you came not back! That day you filled the circle of my arms That now is empty. (0, my empty life!) That day that day you picked the first sweet-pea, And brought it in to show me! I recall With terrible distinctness how the smell Of your cool gardens drifted in with you. I know, you held it up for me to see 85 And flushed because I looked not at th e flower But at your face; and when behind my look You saw such unmistakable intent. You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips. (You were the fairest thing God ever made, I think.) And then your hands above my heart Drew down its stem into a fastening, And while your head was bent I kissed your hair. I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands! Somehow I cannot seem to see them still. Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven When earth can be so sweet? If only God Had let us love, and show the world the way! Strange cancelings must ink the eternal books When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right! That first sweet pea! I wonder where it is. It seems to me I laid it down somewhere, And yet, I am not sure. I am not sure, Even, if it was white or pink; for then Twas much like any other flower to me, Save that it was the first. I did not know, Then, that it was the last. If I had known But then it does not matter. Strange how few, After all's said and done, the things that are Of moment. Few indeed! When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more." 87 There, there it dangles, where's the little truth That can for long keep footing under that When its slack syllables tighten to a thought? Here, let me write it down! I wish to see Just how a thing like that will look on paper! "/ had you and I have you now no more" 0, little words, how can you run so straight Across the page, beneath the weight you bear? How can you fall apart, whom such a theme Has bound together, and hereafter aid In trivial expression that have been So hideously dignified? Would God That tearing you apart would tear the thread I strung you on! Would God 0, God, my mind Stretches asunder on this merciless rack Of imagery! 0, let me sleep awhile! Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back In that sweet summer afternoon with you. Summer? Tis summer still by the calen- dar! How easily could God, if he so willed, Set back the world a little turn or two! Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again! We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move, and you be stiff and still! That I could speak, and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre. And today The shining strip is rent; the exquisite Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled In the damp earth with you. I have been torn In two, and suffer for the rest of me. What is my life to me? And what am I To life, a ship whose star has guttered out? A Fear that in the deep night starts awake Perpetually, to find its senses strained Against the taut strings of the quivering air, Awaiting the return of some dread chord? Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor; All else were contrast, save that con- trast's wall Is down, and all opposed things flow to- gether 90 Into a vast monotony; where night And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life, Are synonyms. What now what now to me Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers That clutter up the world? You were my song! Now, now let discord scream! You were my flower! Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not Plant things above your grave; (the com- mon balm Of the conventional woe for its own wound!) Amid sensations rendered negative By your elimination stands to-day, Certain, unmixed, the element of grief; I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth With travesties of suffering, nor seek To effigy its incorporeal bulk In little wry-faced images of woe. I cannot call you back; and I desire 91 No utterance of my material voice. I cannot even turn my face this way Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you;" I know not where you are, I do not know If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute, Body and soul, you into earth again; But this I know: not for one second's space Shall I insult my sight with visionings Such as the credulous crowd so eager- eyed Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air. Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears! My sorrow shall be dumb! What do I say? God! God! God pity me! Am I gone mad That I should spit upon a rosary? Am I become so shrunken? Would to God I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch Makes temporal the most enduring grief; Tho* it must walk a while, as is its wont, 92 With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is That keeps the world alive. If all at once Faith were to slacken, that unconscious faith Which must, I know, yet be the corner- stone Of all believing , birds now flying fearless Across would drop in terror to the earth; Fishes would drown; and the all-govern- ing reins Would tangle in the frantic hands of God And the worlds gallop headlong to des- truction! 0, God I see it now,, and my sick brain Staggers and swoons! How often over me Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight In which I see the universe unrolled 93 Before me like a scroll and read thereon Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl Dizzily round and round and round and round, Like tops across a table, gathering speed With every spin, to waver on the edge One instant looking over and the next To shudder and lurch forward out of sight * * * * * Ah, I am worn out I am wearied out It is too much I am but flesh and blood, And I must sleep. Tho' you were dead again, I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep. Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917. 94 SWING IN THE SWING Swing in the swing and imagine, Swing in the swing and suppose, 'Magine if I was a lady Havin' a train to my clothes, I'd never stop eating candy, I'd never go up to bed, And when they talked about secrets I wouldn't be sent on ahead. Swing in the swing and imagine, Swing in the swing and p'tend, Swing in the swing and whoop-ti-oh- Jump to the ground in the end. y Man Carney. 1915. 95 THE APPRENTICE The devil take these foolish meek mad- onnas Their simpering smiles! Pray look at this one now There, grinning in the darkness, on her brow The crown of heaven, and that silly face Such as the people like to see, the fools! Gemma who sells the flowers on the bridge And those girls washing linen in the pools Have more of life, of beauty, of true grace, Well fit to be God's mother. Andrea Knows how to please the populace. I hear Him bargaining "Mother and Child, so much And so much added for each saint " he's dear It's just like selling cloth. Passion of God! To sell your soul by the square foot! and yet 96 It would not be so hard could I forget That damned soft smile on angel, saint and queen; If I could bring in Gemma for an hour And sing to her the song I learned last night, And while she laughed out loud, had I the power, I'd paint her in, large- mouthed, and strong and keen If not as Mary, at least, Magdalene. Elizabeth Jane Coatstoor A, 1915. 97 CHANSON My melody at first was slow and round: Then, breaking too much sweetness, a great chord Crashed out, swept up, and all its color poured Into a slender, dwindling, minor sound, That rippled into froth. Again the quiet roll Of steady notes that surged into a crest Hung, dropped, and melted with the rest Into an end that sang within the soul. I laughed aloud, for eagle-winged and bright I'd sent you flashing through my mighty song. I played it to my friends. They waited long, Then called it "pretty" ah! the night That chilled me, struck my senses numb, And made my song of you,forever dumb. Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915. 98 THE DRAGON LAMP That night we talked across a table's space, And with a tale of knight and nun I sought To please you. "These pale broideries," I thought, "This quaint, sweet, measured story will efface Her restlessness." Meanwhile with list- less grace Of curving wrist and cool white hand, you wrought Havoc amid the lamp's red fringe; you caught The sinuous dragon pattern on the base, With drooping glance retraced it. Once, forgetting My silver tale a breathless instant, letting Your widening eyes sink through the morphean maze 99 To where in dim, deep bronze your own tense gaze Answered, you shrank back from the glow afraid. "The nun can't have been young," you softly said. Louise Hunting Seaman, 1915. 100 LONDON CHIMNEY POTS London, London chimney pots, In the twilight sky, Rows and rows of chimney pots To mark the houses by. Pleasant London chimney pots Looking down at me, Can you smell the jasmine By my apple tree? Can you hear the children sing T'other side my hedge, Singing to the baby moon Showing one white edge, "Hokey pokey starlight Round the moon you go" London, London chimney pots, Is't a song you know? Vivian Carney. 1915. 101 MAN MENDING A PIPE The lowbrowed tunnel is baking black With a grimy blackness that smears his face, And dries his nose with its blasting stench, And pushes his eye-balls out of their place; All in the gulp of a breath. He drinks it down till this dusty death Is the native life of his dusty lungs. The thin blood pounds in his crowded head, Or the hot steam batters against the bungs; It's all the same in the choking dark. The spot-light cleaves a finger-mark And wavers against the retreating night. The steam pipes and their shadows crawl, Little and big, against the wall, From the roughcast ceiling spiders fall, And pale bugs scuttle out of the light. He crouches onward a weary space, 102 Searches and finds the broken pipe. His hot eyes strain on the tiny crack, The darkness presses against his back, Eternity hangs between the clack Of one steam-pipe and the next. Low and dusty and close and flat, The tunnel stifles him in its gripe. He shares its life with his brother the rat His work of the world in a broken pipe. Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916. 103 LOVE SONG There are some things too wonderful to tell; Sunset, red-gold, across a waveless sea; 'Twixt pool and pool a glen-stream's revelry; The morning star's pale fire and breath- less spell; And so I cannot say how wonderful you are. There are some things too beautiful to know; The silver song the shimmering planets sing; What the tall bending birch is whisper- ing; How sunlight kisses the shy buds a-blow. So I can only guess your beauty from afar! Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917. 104 CIRCE He stood before her tall and very strong. The swine and tigers crouched about her feet And licked them. His glance upon her was indifferent, Whereat her gray eyes blazed with sud- den joy, Eager she stretched her arms out, radiant, Her mouth grown sweet and tender, all her form Trembling with hope. Her very smile rejoiced, Then quivered at his kindled look. E'er he had reached the spot where yet she stood Her joy had smouldered out. "Your eyes are like a beast's," young Circe said. Elizabeth Jane Coatsworlh, 1915. 105 THE LOVER Ah yes My dearest, How well I guess That your slim soul Reaches out shyly Toward that same goal Whence mine has fled. I panted to the heights and found that there Though brave my aim, my soul Eternity without you did not dare. Well, we are here together, just for once. Your eyes brush past me straining to the height, While I who won and lost because of you, Powerless watch you pass. I scorn your purity, Your eager zeal. I long to feel Life surge about me, 106 Not forget, As you forget me here. You are a holy fool. And yet I love you. Elizabeth Jane Coats worth, 1915. Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915. 107 REBELLION Always when Absalom returned at night, Tired from hunting, yet adventure-filled, Twas Michal met him in the darkened court, Gave him his wine and listened to his tales. Seldom looked she at him from lowered lids But slow spoke words of praise he learned to love. When at bright noon he wandered in the groves Or lay in meditation 'neath a tree Michal would chance to meet him as she walked Michal, the queen, daughter of Saul was she. David, the king, never beheld her face Since she rebuked him; yet she never wept For that she lived a widow while a wife 108 She never spoke of those her five young sons Whom David gave to death, nor of her house Whose very name was seldom on men's lips So it had fallen before David's power Instead, She listened to the tales of David's son, Her white face near his eager beauteous- ness Or told him he was fair that he was strong, The people loved him more than the King's self, It was a grief to her he was not heir. And while she spoke with lips that scarce- ly moved, Her eyes kept watch of him 'neath lower- ed lids. Elizabeth Jane Coals worth, 1915. 109 CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN (In imitation of the poems of Egan O'Rahilly) When the yellow sun set on the hill And the mist crept up from the meadow Did you see the Lady Cathleen, As you came from the west, from the moorland? It was close by the wind-swept dune, At sunset I saw her. Fair is she, fair among maidens. The red of her hair is the color Of willows when comes the March wind, Bringing Spring in her bosom. Her eyes, ah who can describe them Save one who has seen in the dark fairy well of Killaha Heaven reflected, a flame in still water? When she smiled my heart sang with delight; When she weeps ah then I die for her. Miriam S. Wright. 1918. 110 THE DEFIANCE OF LILITH Swift searched they the universe, track- ing down Lilith Sennoi, Sansennoi and Sammargeloph, God-sent and terrible, bright-winged with fire Searched they for Lilith who dared defy Godhead, Utter Shem-hamphorash, Dread Name of Names, And, armed with might by that word un- speakable Scorned great Jehovah, cursed Adam's seed Adam who hated her, loved her, and fawned to her Then disappeared from the eyes of the Lord. Fearing her power, remembering her beauty, The strong fierce will of her, turned they from Eden 111 Left Adam smiling, Eve close beside him Through the three worlds searched they for Lilith, Sennoi, Sansennoi and Sammargeloph. Elizabeth Jane Coats worth, 1915. 112 AUTUMN Spring, teasing cumbrous Winter from her place, First charms me with her ever changing face, Now with a tear, yet oftener with a smile She doth beguile My dancing feet Into some pleasant, blossom-bo wered re- treat. And yet, when lazy, lavish Summer lies And smiles upon me through her half- closed eyes, Smiles welcome to her wide, reclining fields, Then my heart yields To her sly wooing, And drowsy minstrels shrill my sweet undoing. Until, one day, I catch the sudden flare Of glorious Autumn's wind-blown, flam- ing hair. 113 Her swift step stirs the rustling leaves, and then I meet again The wishful glow Of steady, azure eyes; and straightway go Into glad arms, outstretched, yet wearied not With long desire, and only half forgot. Then Spring and Summer child and wan- ton are, And Autumn my true love returned from afar. Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917. 114 THE DREAMER I ride on the riotous clouds of dawn And the roughened waves of the sea. I know how the horns of the moon are made And the grey crag's mystery. Borne aloft by the whirlwind's rage I rush through eternity. Elsie Lanier, 1918. 115 Puer quis ex aula capillis Ad cyathum statuztur unctis, Doctus sagittas tendere Sericas Arcu paterno Horace C. I. 29. Sometimes while passing round the fra- grant wine Fierce memory strikes. Quivering, he stands erect, Longing to tear aside the tunic soft, Fling on instead the roughened tiger skin, To dash the marble cup upon the ground, And free, to force a way to Seric plains But stifling breath of many-petalled rose Envelops him. He droops, until he meets The narrow smile of some dark Latin girl, Onward he glides, off'ring with servile grace Pomegranates, grapes, and sweet Faler- Agnes Rogers, 1916. 116 PROLOGUE (From the Pageant of Athena. Written and presented by the Students of Vassar College at their Fiftieth Anniversary Exercises, October, 1915.) Athena speaks ; Bright in the skein of time gleam many strands, Endlessly varied. I have chosen those Of flame, of fire, of rich luxuriant gold, And those whose beauty lies in their clear strength. My will it is to weave them, strand on strand, Tracing the course of learning through the years In one close wrought design. All those who come Shall pause before this fabric, ages old, Shaped by past lives in symmetry and truth, 117 And glorying in design so well begun, Themselves shall add thereto. And this my web Shall weaving be forever, never done. us ALTA MATER What gifts ask we at thy fair hands? Thy love what grace imparts? The will to dare, the hand to do, Thy light within our hearts. High, Mother, is thy heart, As thy gray tower's height. Strong, Mother, are thy hands, Thy torch burns ever bright. What gifts lay we at thy fair feet, Since we are greatly blest? Our strength, our hope, to bear thy light Undimmed from east to west. High, Mother, is thy heart, As thy gray tower's height. Strong, Mother, are thy hands, Thy torch burns ever bright. Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916. 119 DAWN At the feet of his lady the moon Lies the night. Aquiver and breathless and bright, With the light Of her smile on his face, And the shadows her slim fingers trace. And now she is gone, and he lies Black browed and brooding and still; And over the hill From afar The clear morning star Burns but to set him a- thrill. But the night steals away Seeking his lady, and leaves the star, pal- ing, with day. Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917. 120 THE SANDMAN He catches dust o' dreams to carry in his sack, The dust a falling star leaves shining in its track, He walks the milky-way, then down the dark-staired skies, His tinkling footsteps hush the world with lullabies. And when he reaches you, his fragrant gentle hands Fill deep your drowsy eyes with fairy golden sands. Helen Johnson, 1918. 121 THE FAIRY RING The fairies' ring is up in the night sky Around the moon; And little moonbeams silently dance by In silver shoon. The star lamps glow, The wind sings low A lullaby, A fairy tune. But all the woodland people sigh For their lost happy ring, and long to fly To the white moon. Elizabeth Keller,]9\6 122 ALONE Under the misty sky, low-hanging, gray, The hills stretched, dark and still in the half light; The wet air, scented like an April night With marshy sweetness, on our parched lips lay Unbroken silence save for the light stir Of dry, dead grass, And^once, along the forest edge, the whir Of a gray partridge startled into flight I felt the quiet pass Like balm into my heart. For grief that burned But yesterday, in the mad land of human ills, Here was no place. Instinctively I turned To you and found you staring at the hills And saw the fierce world-hunger in your face. Charlotte Van de Water. 1917. 123 ROAD SONG "Seek, seek, but not to find! Know the lonely heart of the wind, The rim of the hills with the stars behind, And the roads of all the world." The wind has a home behind the moon, The little stars sleep in the glare of noon. I walk alone and my heart is blind, On the roads of all the world. Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916. 124 CONFIDANTE I, who walk in the dark, Alone beyond all knowing, Must watch to-night Glad, sheltered light In strangers' windows glowing. Unto me, hungering With unfulfilled desires, The keen wind brings Warm scent of things That brew by strangers' fires. I find my darkened house, Silent and all alone, And my sup of bread, That is dry and dead, And no candle but my own. Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917, 125 THE SUICIDE 'Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparing- ly That I might eat again, and met thy sneers With deprecations, and thy blows with tears, Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawl- ed away, As if spent passion were a holiday! And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy vow Of tardy kindness can avail thee now With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown; Lonely I came, and I depart alone, 126 And know not where nor unto whom I go; But that thou canst not follow me I know." Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain My thought ran still, until I spake again: 'Ah, but I go not as I came, no trace Is mine to bear away of that old grace I brought! I have been heated in thy fires, Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires, Thy mark is on me! I am not the same Nor ever more shall be, as when I came. Ashes am I of all that once I seemed. In me all's sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed Is wakeful for alarm, oh, shame to thee, For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me, Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing! 127 Ah, Life, I would have been a happy Pithing To have about the house when I was grown If thou hadst left my little joys alone! I asked of thee no favor, save this one; That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun! And this thou didst deny, calling my name Insistently, until I rose and came. I saw the sun no more. * * * *It were not well So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell, Need I arise tomorrow and renew Again my hated tasks, but I am through With all things save my thoughts and this one night, So that in truth I seem already quite Free and remote from thee, I feel no haste And no reluctance to depart; I taste, Merely, with thoughtful mien, an un- known draught, 128 That in a little while I shall have quaff- i " ed. Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled, Looking at nothing! and my thin dreams filed Before me one by one till once again I set new words unto an old refrain: "Treasures thou hast that never have been mine! Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown Like blossoms out to me that sat alone! And I have waited well for thee to show If any share were mine, and now I go! Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain I shall but come into mine own again!" Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more, But, turning, straightway sought a cer- tain door In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low 129 And dark, a way by which none e'er would go That other exit had, and never knock Was heard thereat, bearing a curious lock Some chance had shown me fashioned fcultily, Whereof Life held, content, the useless key, And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust, Whose sudden voice across a silence must, I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear, A strange door, ugly like a dwarf. So near I came I felt upon my feet the chill Of a dread wind creeping across the sill. So stood longtime, till over me at last Came weariness, and all things other ' passed To make it room; the still night drifted deep Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep. 130 But suddenly, marking the morning hour, Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower! Startled, I raised my head, and with a shout Laid hold upon the latch, and was without. Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road, Leading me back unto my old abode, My father's house! There in the night I came, And found them feasting, and all things the same As they had been before. A splendor hung Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung As, echoing out of very long ago, Had called me from the house of Life, I know. So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame 131 On the unlovely garb in which I came! Then straightway at my hesitancy mock- ed: "It is my father's house!" I said, and knocked; And the door opened. To the shining crowd, Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud, Seeing no face but his; to him I crept, And "Father!" I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept. Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone I wandered through the house. My own, my own, My own to touch, my own to taste and smell, All I had lacked so long and loved so well! None shook me out of sleep, none hush- ed my song, None called me in from the sunlight all day long. I know not when the wonder came to me Of what my father's business might be, 132 And whither fared and on what errands bent The tall and gracious messengers he sent. Yet one day with no song from dawn till night Wondering I sat and watched them out of sight. And the next day I called; and on the third Asked them if I might go, but no one heard. Then, sick with longing, I arose at last And went unto my father, in that vast Chamber wherein he for so many years Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres. 'Father," I said, "Father, I cannot play The harp that thou didst give me; and all day I sit in idleness, while to and fro About me thy serene, grave servants go; And I am weary of my lonely ease. Better a perilous journey overseas 133 Away from thee, than this, the life I lead, To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed That grows to naught, I love thee more than they Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way. Father, I beg of thee a little task To dignify my days, 'tis all I ask Forever, but forever, this denied, I perish." "Child,*' my father's voice replied, "All things thy fancy hath desired of me Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee Within my house a spacious chamber, where Are delicate things to handle and to wear, And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song? My minstrels shall attend thee all day long. Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gar- dens stand 134 Open as fields to thee on every hand. And all thy days this word shall hold the same: No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name. But as for tasks" he smiled, and shook his head: Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by," he said. Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917. 135 AN ETCHING A grey ship sails into a misty sky. Grey sea gulls tipped with white go circl- ing by. Oh, ship! so like my life you seem to me, Grey life against a grey eternity. Oh, sea gulls! like the years you circling fly, Grey years white tipped with dreams that soar so high. Oh, ship, that you might rest against the sky While sea gulls tipped with white go circl- ing by! Elsie Lanier, 1918. 136 ATTAINMENT To reach the top you strove; You only saw brown earth that backward swept Beneath your feet; Above beyond the slim path dodged and leapt, Than you a thousand times more fleet, To lose itself in yon high-clinging grove. High up, a mountain spring Tossed its clear crystal freely down to you, With silken shiver, Shattered on every jagged rock anew, You only said, "Ah, here's a river; I'll quench my thirst; 'twill aid my labor- mg. A free wind from the crown Of other distant hills swept by and stir- red The waiting trees; 137 With pleasant quivers of surprise they heard That you were near; you said, 'The breeze Is good for climbing. Hope it won't die down." Why, when the day was cool On some poised cliff could you not pause, and there With grateful eye Scan the walled reaches of the valley fair; Or see unfathomable sky Gaze back from an unf athomed mountain pool? Thought you through pressing clouds the open sky to gain? Drenched is the summit with close mists and sleet-sharp rain! Carolyn Crosby Wibon. 1917. 138 WIND RHYTHM The moonlight glimmers in a pale green film on the frozen creek and the snow- covered hill beyond. Along the creek stand slender trees, their bare branches dark against the thinly-clouded, violet sky. Fine black twigs quiver across the mist-blurred moon. The wind rises in the heavy firs that droop their branches on the hill; "Sound and swell, Sound and swell, Rocking slow, rocking slow." It reaches the slender trees; "Swirl and sway, Swirl and sway, Bending low, bending low." Now the little twigs are caught by the wind; "Falter and fling, Falter and fling, Wildly blow, wildly blow." Elizabeth Mary Hinch. 1917. 139 UNSEEN In the blind darkness of unlit rooms I was groping, My curious finger-tips seeking elusive things. When a touch like the breath of a violet Brushed me and was gone. The myst'ry of delicate moth-wings held me In thrall. Hope whispered to me of the open path to the dream-world, Of wee sylphs in petal-soft dress. I waited Then tenderly sought In the silence, scarce breathing my prayer For that dream-caress. Once more it trembled near me 140 The spell of all enchanted things was just beyond my finger-tips. Softly I crushed it to hold forever A narcissus, frail-petalled and dead. Bee W. Hosier, 1917. 141 MID-WINTER If I were God, I'd mould hills rolling low, Smooth them and shape them, sift them deep with snow, And scatter them with furze that they might lie Softly against the wide, deep-tinted sky. In slow caress my forming hand would linger, Then a swift finger, Down some long slope, half carelessly would break A jagged course for melting snows to take. The out-scooped valley's length they'd run and then' Skirting new hills, go slipping out of ken. And distanced far, a low-hung sun I'd light, And paint blue shadows on the rose- touched white 142 Then, wearied, put aside my colors and my clay, And fashion paradise and man on some less perfect day. Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917. 143 AT RANDOM (A Department of Nonsense) DRESS A LA CARTE 'Tis Friday night, but customs change, How college doth progress! And so though pie is on the plate I wear my ice cream dress! 147 NOTHING AT ALL She was a tall and goodly Senior, I was an innocent Freshman small, I met her one night in the Ethics alcove, That was all. She was a spectacled Greek professor, I was an innocent freshman small, I asked in the hall, "Do you do our sweep- v mg? That was all. He was a gas-man, pleasantly smiling, I was an innocent freshman small, I only asked him to change my schedule, That was all. It was a beautiful senior parlor, I was an innocent freshman small, It looked so nice I stepped inside it, That was all. 148 Then why do they laugh and point the finger At me, an innocent freshman small? I'm only asking for information, That is all. F.LMcK., 1898. H9 LAMENT The Vassar student well displays Her slothful disposition She twines about the classroom chairs In serpentine position. In Sunday Evening Music, too, She finds it much more pleasing To lie recumbent on the seat, Her weary soul thus easing. In such wild ways she will persist, It tears my soul asunder; Do you suppose she thinks it's nice* I wonder, oh, I wonder K. T., 1910. 150 IRONY I thought that it was fit For me to study up a bit On the EC. conditions of the working class; But just lately I have learned That my study must be turned To an EC. condition of my own, alas! 151 THE LEADING MAN "Oh isn't the leading man good? Her voice " "And his gestures, my dear. He is more like herself when he smiles, But doesn't her moustache look queer?" "He is only pretending to smoke; Those puffs " "Come from her powder- can. And when she makes love to the girl," "She is the most wonderful man!" I. U.. 1910. 152 MY SOUL My soul is like an alley cat Long, mangy, lank and thin; It never feeds on porterhouse But from the garbage tin. Thou, who feedest hungry souls And seek'st to make them fat, 1 pray that Thou mayst make my soul A house not alley-cat. Then may it, sleeping, purr alway, Calm in its sleek rotundity, A boul'vard soul, and boul'vard fed, A perfect soul, the soul of me! R. P. L, 1913. 153 SONNET TO A HAIRPIN Implement of beauty and of use! Female Adorner! At such waste I frown- ed When first I saw thee broken on the ground, Dropped by some "libe" ward maid; with tresses loose Onward she fled and murmured low, "The Deuce". In thousands since, the pretty shell I've found, In millions, meeker ones in wire gowned, Oh stay of locks! How great is thy abuse! Yet some who shed thee most have learned in "Ec." (Or other class) that use is one great force And beauty t'other, to keep life's craft afloat. 154 These lost and gone, the ship is like to leak. But careless, thee they drop along their course, Knowing thy gifts. And yet they wish the vote! M. M., 1915. 155 A PSYCHOLOGICAL DISILLUSION They said it was a "cinchy", three lectures a week And nothing she'd tell you was new The quizzes were easy, and in the half- year There were only three topics to do. So I signed for the stuff with a smile on my face, In college such joy rides are few. And the first weeks slipped by, while I worked not at all I had only three topics to do. Then came round a week-end I meant to begin, But I found I'd a theme overdue, A tea and a lecture; my worry was small With only three topics to do. A trip to New York, a Hall Play, a guest, My conscience began to pursue 156 And poison my mind with the ghost of the thought There were still those three topics to do. Though I've worked like a Trojan to find some spare time, In a week the semester is through And with all my reviewing and several long themes I've still those three topics to do. H.E.B., 1917. 15/ THE BALLAD OF BAD 'BACCY Where Market and the Main Street meet In U. C. S. shop quite replete With every sort of smoky treat, I'm working. One day there came a maiden sweet On neat and hesitating feet, And her remarks I now repeat Sans shirking. "I want" said she, "kind sir, to get A mild but mellow cigarette That's pleasant for to smell, and yet Has pep." Whereat I did proceed to slip Her scented things with golden tip And winked, as who would say, quite flip, " T ' 1 " 1 m hep. Her look would make your heart to bleed, "I do not smoke the filthy weed," Said she, "I will explain my need Of nicotine. 158 For in my dormitory cellar There lives and smokes a wretched fellar, A silent subterranean dweller, Who's never seen. "And through my register a fume Each morning floods my sitting-room, And wraps me close in smoke and gloom All day. And if from morn till eve I choke, And folks all think 'tis I who smoke I'm going to choose the brand or croak, I say!" Said I, "Fatimas or Pell Mell Are famous for their pleasant smell But I've a plan that works as well Retire him! Go to the folks the help that hire, And with this motto raise their ire, 'There is no smoke without a fire So fire him!'" C. C. W. t 1917. 159 PISCIS VASSARIAE Entering the dining room in doubt, And gazing hopefully about, On every hand I hear a shout, "I pass!" 'By me!" and "One without!" Seeking my place I quickly feel A touch upon my arm. I wheel. A stranger queries at my heel "Do they play bridge at every meal?" A gentle guest I would not sass her For I was once as simple as her, And so, I murmur as I pass her "It is the day for fish at Vassar." C C. W.. 1917. 160 FLUNCTURE Once 'twas an oyster gaunt and pallid Enmeshed in coils of macaroni; And once it was a salmon sallid; And once 'twas fish both strong and boni. And once the heat came on at noon; And once it never came at all; And once it waned, as wanes the moon, When Fahrenheit began to fall. And once I flunked me flat in Ethics; And once I flunked in Mathematics. Who was it flunked in Dietetics? Who was it flunked in Thermostatics? C. c W., 1917. 161 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH The first bell rang at dawn of day; The air was chill, the sky was grey; I would have slept. The bed was cozy where I lay, And my first class three hours away; Yet up I leapt. Into my roomy's room I sped And slammed the window by her bed; In accents gay "Get up, it's pancake day," I said. She pulled the covers round her head "We had them yesterday!" C. C. W.. 1917. 162 WHY DID I EVER COME TO THIS PLACE? (An expedition in untrammelled verse) Sometimes When the eight o'clock bell rings, And the maids, In a long, black, frantic line, Scurry from the dining-room Like rats From a doomed ship, (Nor will any of them catch my eye Though I have been waiting As patient as a farmer's wife Since dawn) I say to myself, Or to any who cares to listen, That college is a bore, And that woman's place Is in the home. And again, When the chapel chimes, 163 Forgetting that it is TOWN SUNDAY, (Or uninformed) Ding, That is to say, "peal", For quite some time, As blithe, And inexorable, And out of tune, As anybody else in a bath-tub, (Or as foolishly complacent As a football player Who runs in the wrong direction And scores a goal For the other side) I turn in bed, And glare at the plaster, which is scarred By generations of thumb-tacks, For whose insertion I, As guiltless As is a Freshman of knowledge, Do semi-annually Settle, And I say to myself, Or to the servant who comes in just then To empty the waste-basket, 164 That college Is the misapprehension Of a June-bug mind, And that woman's place Is in the home. And always When with some youth, Whom I do not love, But might, In the proper environment, I have trudged for hours, Pointing out the Library And the Art Building, Over and over, (For the parlors Are full of parents, And five room-mates Are an insufficient chaperone) Always I say to myself, Or to the night-watchman, Who does not care, That I wish I were happily married To a dyspeptic widower 165 With six small children, And that higher education for women Is as paradoxical a quantity As prohibition at election time, And that woman's place Is in the home. E. St. V. M., 1917. 166 PARTIALITY I don't care much for water snakes and wiry centipedes, It seems to be a footless life the solemn fishworm leads, In fact, the crawling creatures that appeal to me are few But I love the gentle Caterpillar, snuggl- ing in my shoe. The reason for this preference is very plainly shown, 'Tis not for outside beauty, and his soul is little known, Still I love the Caterpillar 'tis love re- turned, you see, Because the gentle creature is so very fond of me. For he scrambles up the instep of my foot, or in my hair, And if he wants to take a snooze, t's always in my chair, 167 So I love the gentle Caterpillar dearly as can be Were there but one in all the land, he'd surely crawl on me. M. A. P., 1905. 168 HUMANITY Tread lightly on the humble bug, Step gently on the worm, And dry their tears and calm their fears And soothe them when they squirm. L. B., 1907. HUMILITY But should a big bug cross your path, Give place, with lowered eye. Let not a word from you be heard Till it has passed you by. . B. D.. 1909. 169 BUG OF JUNE bug of June that comest still When blossomed verdure clothes the hill, To thee my warblings I indite, Proud monarch of the sultry night. The campus glowing in the noon Is not thy province, bug of June. Thou wait'st till in the dying day Allures thee forth the droplight's ray. Thou buzzest in my private cup, My honey gives thee royal sup, Three room-mates lying in a swoon, Proclaim thy power, bug of June! Strong enough my filial loyalty To Alma Mater, yet for me The end cannot arrive too soon With freedom from thee, bug of June! y.L. B. t 1911. 170 A VALENTINE If I were but a lovely worm Which had a graceful, wiggly tail, My prepossessing, pretty squirm, To win your heart would never fail. I'd tie myself in knots for you, Or coyly wrinkle up my skin, Or stretch myself a foot or two As straight and slender as a pin. I'd let you bait your hook with me And gladly toss myself about 'Til all the fishes in the sea Thought me the worm of worms, no doubt. But, if you held me in your hand, Still as the great stone sphinx I'd lie, Nor any greater joy demand Before I curled me up to die. M. H. t 1912. 171 THE CENTIPEDE Of all the terrors of the night that make one's flesh to crawl The worst it is the centipede that walketh on the wall. Of all the dangers of the day that chill one to the core The worst it is the centipede that fleeth o'er floor. Of all the horrors of dawn and dusk that wring one on the rack The worst it is the centipede that crawleth from the crack. One finds him in one's teacup, in one's bathtub, and one's bed, And he drops quick from the ceiling on one's unsuspecting head, And his wiggly legs still wiggle after one has squashed him dead. He leaves a gooey brownish stain upon one's smooth cream wall When his crawly self is blotted out and nevermore will crawl; 172 Ah, yes, alive or dead he is of known beasts worst of all! Sometimes when I am working in my chamber late at night And look up at my wall with murders spotted, by dim light Each deathplace seems to move and crawl it is a ghastly sight. And far up near the ceiling where the gay mosquito hies Faint moving dots reveal themselves as spiders, moths, and flies, How deep I love their so few legs for this so sweet surprise. Perhaps the cause of centipedes in the great scheme of nature Is just to teach us heartfelt joy for every other creature. For of all the beasts in all the world that craze one's soul with fear The worst is sure the centipede that is my roommate here. E. K., 1916 173 SPRING SONG Worms! How I hate them writhing in the rain On all the paths from Josselyn to Main! And how I hate the slimy way they feel, Cringing and crushed beneath a rubber heel! And how I hate the bloated way they squirm See! There are twins and there is half a worm! C C W. t 1917. 174 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. To renew by phone, call 429-2756 Books not returned or renewed within 14 days after due date are subject to billing. 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