PS 
 
 3521 
 
 I46 
 
 S7 
 
 1919 
 
 MAIN 
 
 CD 
 
GIFT OF 
 
Gaylord Bros. 
 
 Makers 
 
 Syracuse, N. Y. 
 PAT. JAN. 21, 1908 
 
 BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 SOUVENIRS 
 
 STANLEY KIMMEL 
 
 FORNIA LIBRARY 
 
Lsaeagfiiiy ;: jgfigisasi 
 
 SOUVENIRS 
 
 Stanley Kimmel 
 
 Author 
 Poems and Fantasies" 
 
Copyright 1919 
 
 "The Publishers of Little Books 
 San Francis90,,Calif. 
 
On entre, on crie, 
 Et c est la vie! 
 On bailie, on sort, 
 Et c est la mort! 
 A. de Chancel. 
 
 413167 
 
ATLANTIC 
 
 I love the freshness of the open sea, 
 The blue desert, the eternity 
 Of silent ships. Waves madly 
 
 embracing, 
 The blush of white foam on their wan 
 
 faces, 
 
 The aftermath of passion. 
 Drifting mountains of golden mist, 
 Forests of far away clouds, 
 And the purple evening approaching; 
 The passing of caravans 
 Upon a phantomed canvas, 
 The colors of day fading. 
 Darkness. 
 
BLUE RAIN 
 
 Rain in the forest and evening, 
 
 Blue rain and things which are green, 
 
 And squares where a shadow lingers, 
 
 Where Death stalks about, unseen. 
 
 Echoing roar of the cannons, 
 
 The click of the horses hoofs, 
 
 Rattling camions passing 
 
 The shattered grey walls and roofs; 
 
 "Post de Secours" on the hillside, 
 
 Skeleton towers which loom 
 
 Far to the rear of the troopers 
 
 Passing along through the gloom. 
 
 Rain in the forest and evening, 
 
 Blue rain and things which are green, 
 
 And squares where a shadow lingers, 
 
 Where Death stalks about, unseen. 
 
LEFT-OVERS 
 
 They were only women 
 
 Those things which stood 
 
 Before us in the drenching rain 
 
 Clasping small, frail bits 
 
 Of flesh to their breasts. 
 
 Half-naked they were, and half-starved, 
 
 Beaten and bruised and some, bleeding. 
 
 Like cattle they huddled together 
 
 For warmth. The doctors passed among 
 
 them 
 Caring for those who had just given 
 
 birth 
 
 And those whose hour was near. 
 They did not cry or blaspheme, 
 Simply looked as if thinking 
 Of something far away. 
 Soon the large wagons came, 
 And the ambulance corps, 
 And those who bury the dead. 
 They were all taken to the rear, 
 But the wagons were not very full. 
 
 About us, the ruins of the village. 
 Many old men and children, motionless, 
 And those who knew the smell 
 Of powder and blood and dirt. 
 
HOPELESSNESS 
 
 What good, the coming of the morrow, 
 If but to tread again through blood, 
 And hear the trailing cry of sorrow, 
 And mocking Death s dull drumming 
 thud. 
 
 What good the sun, the starlight s 
 
 shimmer, 
 
 The cooling breeze of early dawn, 
 If only on the dead to glimmer, 
 Or cool the cheeks of those beyond. 
 
 Verdun, 
 1917 
 
MORNING NEAR MORT 
 HOMME 
 
 O er the soil a faint ray of sunlight 
 
 gleams, 
 And falls on formless heaps of cold, 
 
 blue flesh. 
 The hills, once green, are bare and 
 
 desolate; 
 There, naught remains save those small 
 
 pools of blood 
 Which Freedom gave to Charon for 
 
 her fare 
 
 Across the bleak Cimmerian divide. 
 Beyond, a painted forest of rare jade, 
 Neath purple clouds fringed with 
 
 Moresque design. 
 And great, black birds which lounge in 
 
 the mid-air. 
 The dawn is torn by tireless, gulping 
 
 guns, 
 
 Where Liberty, like some vain courtesan 
 In a red robe, struts proudly to her 
 
 doom. 
 
TROOPS 
 
 They are passing 
 
 Over the dark ridge, 
 
 Thousands, yet all is still. 
 
 It is cold and the night is grey, 
 
 But they are a swarm of black 
 
 And tread along in silence. 
 
 Is it this one, whose sorrowful eyes 
 
 Scarcely notices us, is he the one 
 
 To be bayoneted, or is it the young man 
 
 Who smiled and said, "Americain," 
 
 Or the three to whom we gave cigarettes, 
 
 Are they to be shot down like wild animals, 
 
 These men who thanked us for cigarettes? 
 
 Remember the man whose legs and arms 
 
 Were missing when we found him 
 
 On Hill Three-hundred-four? 
 
 (He died five minutes later) 
 
 Will these men know such suffering? 
 
 And they who were left behind. 
 
 Mothers, fathers, sisters and those 
 
 Who walk the evening paths alone, 
 
 And those who draw 
 
 Their small tin soldiers over quiet ground; 
 
What will they do when the word is 
 
 Brought to them, when they 
 
 Tell them another victory has been won? 
 
 Jubecourt, 
 August, 1917 
 
THE BURDEN 
 
 Winds are tired of their wailing, 
 Rains of their weeping too, 
 Earth of its bloody burden, 
 Sky of its smoky blue; 
 Tired of their bitter sorrow, 
 Tired of their hellish night, 
 Tired of the roar of battle, 
 Tired of an endless fight. 
 
PRISONER 
 
 "I must go down now 
 
 And open the shop 
 
 The little shop where 
 
 I work for Herr Goff. 
 
 In an hour or so 
 
 She will come to buy 
 
 A loaf of bread, 
 
 (She gives me a rose 
 
 For her loaf of bread.) 
 
 She will come for 
 
 A loaf of bread, because 
 
 She gets a loaf every day 
 
 And because we are 
 
 To wed very soon, so every day 
 
 She comes to the shop. 
 
 But first I must find the keys. 
 
 The keys to the little shop 
 
 Of Herr Goff." 
 
THE OUTCAST 
 
 He spoke to me 
 
 Continually of Yvonne 
 
 And told me how, 
 
 When he arrived in Paris 
 
 On his permission, 
 
 He had searched for her. 
 
 She was not in the quarters 
 
 They had taken after the retreat 
 
 From Revigny. But one day, 
 
 As he was walking along the 
 
 boulevard, 
 
 She passed, gowned in black, 
 Silk as much as possible, 
 And a large hat. 
 Oh yes. he knew just why 
 She dressed like that, 
 And he knew 
 She was smiling and talking 
 Very lively to the British Officer. 
 
 The day following he reported 
 To his post on the front. 
 
I left him and went up to Montzeville. 
 When the return trip was made 
 I saw a man whom they told me 
 Was handling a hand grenade 
 W T hen it exploded and killed him. 
 The officer cautioned everyone 
 Standing near us to be careful. 
 And gave the accident as an example. 
 
BLUE STEEL 
 
 God! 
 
 Today I killed a man. 
 
 I stuck him through 
 
 And saw his blood spurt. 
 
 His flesh was like warm butter, 
 
 Heard him cry and say something 
 
 Which I did not understand. 
 
 He fell and took my gun with him, 
 
 And then I thought of Liege, 
 
 And did not give 
 
 A damn. 
 
THE DEAD 
 
 We looked at the dead 
 
 And wondered if they knew 
 
 The perfumed sweetness of rest, 
 
 And the softness of the dying day. 
 
 We wondered if they could hear 
 
 The distant roar of the cannon. 
 
 Those thing s which were once men, 
 
 Those pieces of human junk, 
 
 Stacked upon one another. 
 
 One without a head; 
 
 One whose limbs had been blown to dust; 
 
 The one whom the priest told us 
 
 "They thought was an officer:" 
 
 Only a small bundle and the worms 
 
 Waiting to devour it. 
 
 The peasant s house where 
 
 Crosses were made 
 
 And the hill, shorn of its grain. 
 
 The sound of the picks, 
 
 And the falling of dirt. 
 
 Bois de Bethelainville 
 
THE FIFTH DAY 
 
 The mud was over our boot-tops 
 
 And the rain still falling. 
 
 Some of the men were out of it already, 
 
 And many more near the point of being 
 
 sent back. 
 
 Our hearts were steeped 
 In the slime as we stood 
 There waiting, waiting, days of it, 
 With the shells pouring in upon us, 
 And the gas, when the wind was right. 
 But the S. A. sent up 
 Hot drinks and tobacco, 
 Which helped to keep the men going. 
 When the damn thing was over 
 The Red Cross gave warm clothing 
 To those who were left. 
 The nurses smiled in the rooms 
 And cried in the hall-ways. 
 A hospital is a very peculiar place. 
 
IN THE HOSPITAL 
 
 (Paris) 
 
 From the balcony 
 
 I see the courtyard below me, 
 
 And the walls round about, 
 
 Dotted with windows, 
 
 And those who gaze from white 
 
 covered beds. 
 
 Near the fountain are two Frenchmen. 
 One, a leg and arm missing, the other, 
 
 blind. 
 
 They are talking in low tones, 
 But they do not smile. 
 The sky is clear, 
 And the sun peeps over 
 The red tile roof. 
 A man in white, walks 
 Slowly toward them 
 Holding his hand to his lips. 
 The Frenchman sees him and calls, 
 "How is Jean, how is my brother?" 
 "Ah, Monsieur, all is finished." 
 The man bears his face 
 In his only hand while 
 His comrade speaks very softly, 
 But he does not smile. 
 The sky is clear, 
 And the sun peeps over 
 The red tile roof. 
 
CAFE IN RUE SAINT HONORE 
 
 The day glimmers 
 
 And the lights of evening flicker about. 
 Two old men sit by the window 
 Slowly shuffling cards across an iron 
 
 table. 
 
 Outside a group of soldiers carouse 
 And throw their half-drunken 
 Glances at those who pass. 
 High wheeled carts roll drowsily 
 Along the rue Saint Honor6 
 Like some aged man 
 Bound-up in a heavy coat. 
 Long, black veils of the women 
 Color the atmosphere. 
 Night is coming on. 
 Tomorrow there will be more black 
 
 veils, 
 Then the night again. 
 
THE DANCER 
 
 (Boulevard de Clicy) 
 
 Hi, with the dance! 
 The tambourines tinkle, 
 A girl in green, 
 Like an opiate queen, 
 Glides o er the mall 
 As a snake on the wall. 
 
 Hi, with the dance! 
 
 Give me a cigarette! 
 The police are asleep 
 In Pigalle street, 
 Where good people go 
 To church and pray, 
 (Their gowns they must show.) 
 Hi, with the dance! 
 
 Monsieurs; 
 
 Vingt sou, s il vous plait, 
 And the minx will prance 
 In her serpentine trance. 
 Ah, merci, merci, 
 Strike up the tambourines. 
 Hi, with the dance! 
 
AN OLD MAN 
 
 "Maps, maps, 
 
 Maps of Paris, 
 
 Buy a map, 
 
 Maps for the English, 
 
 You take one, Monsieur 
 
 I am a Belgian, and you see, 
 
 Here I was slashed on the cheek. 
 
 When a young man, 
 
 I worked in England, 
 
 My three sons were killed the first 
 
 year, 
 
 And two daughters led into Germany. 
 I have never heard from them. 
 I am very old; 
 My life is cheap 
 So are the maps. 
 Monsieur? 
 Thank you! Thank you!" 
 
OCTOBER 
 
 (Bois de Boulogne) 
 
 O er all the sky breathed a calm autumn 
 
 twilight, 
 The landscape drowsed in its veiled 
 
 auburn glow, 
 When you came gliding through pale, 
 
 silver shadows, 
 An image of some exquisite Watteau. 
 
 Thy voice was low in the fast-fading 
 
 evening, 
 
 As music of harps in the forest dim, 
 It might have been a chanson of 
 
 Debussy, 
 Or sighing of leaves, sensitively slim. 
 
 The delicate notes of the dryades flutes, 
 Ne er echo such charms in their fairy 
 
 flight, 
 As the soft, flowing words which hushed 
 
 e en the trees, 
 And left them to dream in the sylvan 
 
 night. 
 
 An Aphrodite in cloaked Grecian marble, 
 Swan-like and holy in this woodland 
 
 place; 
 Had Phidias known such enchanting 
 
 beauty, 
 His stone would have held thy immortal 
 
 grace. 
 
RUE DE L HOTEL DE VILLE 
 
 Like an old hump-backed woman 
 
 With heavy feet, you pass, 
 
 Carrying huge lamps 
 
 Upon your aged shoulders. 
 
 Creeping, crawling, staggering, 
 
 On to the river. 
 
 Your shoes are worn, 
 
 And your clothes smell of centuries, 
 
 You are a mother of criminals and saints. 
 
 Your breath comes in jerks, 
 
 And is like the foul air of a damp cellar. 
 
 Your hair is musty with cobwebs, 
 
 Yet you have defied Time. 
 
 But Time is a poor, weak thing. 
 
MADMEN 
 
 (Quos Deus vult perdere, prius demental) 
 
 Speak not of peace nor heed the mad 
 man s plea, 
 
 For madmen sail upon a crimson flood, 
 Their galleys glide o er streams of 
 
 Freedom s blood, 
 That they may rend the emblem of 
 
 Democracy. 
 
 They wander far, across a hopeless sea, 
 To do the biddings of their paltry 
 
 kings, 
 
 Who gloat with lust and vain imaginings 
 Of a world bound by false theocracy. 
 
 O madmen, think you, France can e er 
 
 forget 
 Her mute cathedrals mid the seething 
 
 towns? 
 Will Belgium cringe beneath your 
 
 servile threat, 
 Or fear the spectre of your braggart 
 
 crowns? 
 Think you, that Liberty neath her 
 
 white flame, 
 Will yield her rich inheritance and 
 
 name? 
 

 . 
 
Gaylord Bros. 
 
 Makers 
 
 Syracuse, N. Y. 
 PAT. JAN. 21, 1901 
 
 U, C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 
 
 iii 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY