SERVICE AND SACRIFICE * POEMS CORINNE ROOSEVELT ROBINSON SERVICE AND SACRIFICE SERVICE AND SACRIFICE POEMS BY CORINNE ROOSEVELT ROBINSON AUTHOR OF "THE CALL OF BROTHERHOOD" AND "ONE WOMAN TO ANOTHER" NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBXER S SONS 1919 COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS Published April, 1919 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY SMALL. MAYNARD & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1918, 1919, BY THE MCCLURE PUBLICATIONS. INC. COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE FLYING MAGAZINE ASSN., INC. COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY ESS ESS PUB. CO. THE 8CRIBNER PRESS TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER THEODORE ROOSEVELT WHOSE WATCHWORDS WERE COURAGE AND SERVICE WHOSE LIFE WAS A TRUMPET CALL TO LOYALTY TO AMERICA THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED SAGAMORE At Sagamore the Chief lies low Above the hill in circled row The whirring airplanes dip and fly, A guard of honor from the sky ; Eagles to guard the Eagle. Woe Is on the world. The people go With listless footstep, blind and slow; For one is dead who shall not die At Sagamore. Oh ! Land he loved, at last you know The son who served you well below, The prophet voice, the visioned eye. Hold him in ardent memory, For one is gone who shall not go From Sagamore! CONTENTS PAGE To FRANCE 3 SERVICE 5 AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE 6 SUSPENSE 8 To PEACE, WITH VICTORY 9 THANKSGIVING DAY, 1917 10 THANKSGIVING, 1918 11 To GENERAL LEONARD WOOD 12 CHRISTMAS, 1918 13 ON THE MOHAWK HILLS 14 To ITALY 17 IN BED 19 To DOROTHY D 21 SOLDIER OF PAIN 23 THEODORE ROOSEVELT 24 To MY BROTHER 26 ix PAGE THE A. E. F 28 VALIANT FOR TRUTH 30 URIEL 32 THE LAST LEAF IN SPRING . 35 FLIGHT . 40 FROM A MOTOR AT MIDNIGHT 43 THE PATH THAT LEADS NOWHERE 45 "!F I COULD HOLD MY GRIEF" 47 "THE WOMAN SPEAKS" 48 "WE WHO HAVE LOVED" 49 LIFE HURT ME 50 THE OLD HOUSE 51 LE GRAND DISPARU 52 THE PLUS SIGN 53 IN LIGHTER VEIN VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE OFFICIAL BENEFIT FOR THE RELIEF OF BELGIAN WOMEN AND CHILDREN, DECEMBER 8, 1914. MISS SYBIL CARLISLE 58 MR. WALTER HAMPDEN 59 MR. THOMAS JEFFERSON 60 MISS EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON 60 PAGE MISS VIOLA ALLEN 61 MR. HOLBROOK BLINN 62 MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL 62 MISS ETHEL BARRYMORE 63 MR. WILLIAM H. CRANE 64 MISS FRANCES STARR 64 MLLE. DORZIAT 65 MR. FRANCIS WILSON 65 MISS JULIE OPP 66 MISS JANE COWL 66 MISS ANNIE RUSSELL 67 MR. HENRY MILLER 67 MRS. SOL SMITH 68 MISS PHYLLIS NEILSON TERRY 68 MR. WILLIAM GILLETTE 69 MME. ALDA 69 MR. WILLIAM FAVERSHAM 70 MME. NAZIMOVA 70 MR. EBEN PLYMPTON 71 MISS MARIE DORO 71 MESSRS. WEBER AND FIELDS 72 MISS ROSE COGHLAN 72 MR. HENRY DIXEY 73 MISS MARGARET ANGLIN 73 MISS MARY SHAW 74 MISS RUTH CHATTERTON 74 MISS BLANCHE BATES . .... 75 MISS ELLEN TERRY 75 XI PAGE To JOSEPH H. CHOATE ........ 77 A NEW YEAR S TOAST TO OUR G. O. M., JOSEPH H. CHOATE 80 TO SOTHERN AND MARLOWE 82 HENDERSON HOUSE 86 To A BISHOP 92 THE POETRY SOCIETY ANTHOLOGY ..... 93 Verses written for the annual dinner of the Poetry Society of America EDWARD J. WHEELER 95 MERLE ST. CROIX WRIGHT 97 JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE 99 MILES MENANDER DAWSON 101 PADRAIC COLUM 103 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 104 ARTHUR GUITERMAN 105 A PLEA FOR THE "ULTIMATE CONSUMER" IN LITER ATURE . 107 Xll SERVICE AND SACRIFICE TO FRANCE OCTOBER, 1916 A \ 7E, who have loved the France of old, The France that gave us Lafayette, Now deeper still our poignant debt, And tenderer ten thousandfold. Our youth has shed its blood for you, Because your valor wrung the heart. You, who have borne so brave a part, You builded better than you knew. If we of alien race and tongue Shall face, once more, the God of War, What you have been and what you are Shall be the flame before us flung. Your gallant heart shall strengthen ours To reach unswerving toward the goal, Through you, perchance, a new-born soul, Unrecognized, within us flowers. Ah! France, who gave us Lafayette When we were scarred as you are now, Before your wounds we humbly bow, And bless you for our deeper debt! SERVICE APRIL 6, 1917 IN terms of service, not of sacrifice, We pledge our bodies for our souls desire, Infused with flame, heart-high with holy fire, Yet not as martyrs would we pay the price. Rather as lovers, asking but to give, And giving only passion purified, Craving one epitaph "Behold here died A Freeman who would have his country live ! AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE "TAFAYETTE, we are here!" Doffed helmet, bowed head Greet you, the great Dead. Were it weakness to shed So impassioned a tear? Lafayette, we are here ! We are here, Lafayette ! Though we waited so long, We have come to right wrong, Here are arms lithe and strong That would pay the old debt, We are here, Lafayette ! 6 Lafayette, as we kneel, Can you hear in your grave That our pledge is to save Or to die as the brave Men of France do reveal How to die for her weal ! Lafayette, we are here! Vive la France! She shall live For her life we would give What you gave, and retrieve The dear debt by your bier; Lafayette, we are here ! SUSPENSE BEFORE THE AMERICAN TROOPS GO INTO ACTION MARCH 30, 1918 A \ 7E wait and hold our breath, for it must come, * ^ The hour of anguish which shall strike for all : When, like a heavy and unyielding pall, We know what we have sensed with pulses numb. The measured march of Sorrow strikes us dumb. Imprisoned by our dread, as by a wall, Breathless we wait, and neither rise nor call, Yet tremble at the echo of the drum. Oh ! Spring that we have loved and welcomed oft, When bursting buds acclaimed the new-born year, We shudder at the thought of what you bring, Each breeze that murmurs softer and more soft Hurries the breaking heart, the bitter tear, Death, the Intruder, tramples down the Spring ! TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY NOVEMBER 11, 1918 I COULD not welcome you, oh ! longed-for peace, Unless your coming had been heralded By victory. The legions who have bled Had elsewise died in vain for our release. But now that you come sternly, let me kneel And pay my tribute to the myriad dead, Who counted not the blood that they have shed Against the goal their valor shall reveal. Ah ! what had been the shame, had all the stars And stripes of our brave flag drooped still unfurled, When the fair freedom of the weary world Hung in the balance. Welcome then the scars! Welcome the sacrifice ! With lifted head Our nation greets dear Peace as honor s right; And ye the Brave, the Fallen in the fight, Had ye not perished, then were honor dead! 9 THANKSGIVING DAY, 1917 TET us give thanks, and lift our ringing voices, *~^ Though not for plenty, nor for paths of peace; Let us rejoice, as a strong man rejoices To run his race; nor pray for swift release: We who have doubted, dumb with indecision, Nor turned our faltering footsteps toward the Right, We who have heeded not the surer vision, Let us give thanks for we have seen the light ! Let us give thanks that once again, compelling, Our flag shall float for Freedom to the skies, Ten thousand times ten thousand voices swelling Proclaim our service and our sacrifice. Let us give thanks an undivided nation, One purposed now, we press toward the goal, To Thee, our Fathers God and our Salvation, Let us give thanks for we have found our Soul ! 10 THANKSGIVING, 1918 JET us give thanks, and meet with head uplifted *^ The pealing bells that ring for righteous peace; Now that the coward souls like sand are sifted, We, who are purged, can welcome our release. Had we not seen the light, our honor, lying Like unsheathed sword, had lost its dauntless edge, Had we not conquered death by our own dying, We had been false to Freedom s fairest pledge. But now we kneel, eyes lifted in thanksgiving With peace triumphant deep within our heart, W 7 e, who have failed nor fallen dead, nor living, Let us give thanks, for we have borne our part ! 11 TO GENERAL LEONARD WOOD NOVEMBER 11, 1918 WOUR vision keen, unerring when the blind, Who could not see, turned, groping, from the light, Your sentient knowledge of the wise and right Have won to-day the freedom of mankind. Honor to whom the honor be assigned! Mightier in exile than the men whose might Is of the sword alone, and not of sight, You march beside the victor host aligned. Had not your spirit soared, our ardent youth Had faltered leaderless; their eager feet, Attuned to effort for the valiant truth Through your command, swiftly, rushed to compete To hold on high the torch of Liberty Great-visioned Soul, yours is the victory ! CHRISTMAS, 1918 ONCE more with Christmas Eve comes "Peace, Good r Will." Once more the Christmas hope unstifled springs, And hearts are glad because it seems that still We hear the rustle of the Angels wings. As, long ago, the men who watched their sheep Welcomed the radiant messengers of light, So we who walked in darkness, woke to weep, No longer dream of slaughter in the night. Ring out oh! bells of Peace, and let your voice Be the new pledge of brotherhood in truth The valiant Dead would bid us to rejoice, For this they gave their ardor and their youth. That all the anguish, all the mortal pain Shall bring new vision to a world once blind; The booming guns, though silenced, call again Not now to die, but live for all mankind! ON THE MOHAWK HILLS THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1903 ""TWICE, threescore year and ten have passed * Since our first Independence Day, But hearts still beat as true and fast And wheresoe er our lines are cast, We gather in triumphant way To celebrate our Freedom s birth A Freedom echoed o er the earth. The wind that sweeps these rolling hills, The water in its tireless play Of mirrored streams or rushing rills Whose ripple all the valley fills, Is free to follow, free to sway, As we are free whose fathers died For Freedom and for countryside. 14 Then let us give our pledge that we Are not unworthy of our sires, But with a sure intent to be Both freely brave and bravely free Shall cast behind our base desires And swear by all we hold most dear, Our Country s call to answer here. Our Country s call ! It may not come As in those stirring days of yore With bugle note, and beat of drum And crash of arms mid terror dumb, And burning heart though pulses numb, IBut still our Country calls each one To fight and serve like Washington. 15 To fight for truth and serve the right, To battle with a royal will, To walk according to our light, Though rough the path and dim the sight, A soldier, and a conqueror still, As true unto the Flag as he Who led it once to victory. And as each year sweeps swiftly by, The mighty memories of this day Shall knit us with a stronger tie, Shall fit us more to live or die, For Home and Country, to repay The debt we owe our Patriot Dead, Our Freedom s price the blood they shed. 16 TO IT A L Y OCTOBER, 1918 land of dear desire, Where Beauty like a gleam Has waked the hidden fire Of what our souls would dream ! Where shining ilex glistens, And cypress sombre shade Above dim fountains listens In some forgotten glade. Oh ! land of dear desire, Thy beauty floods again My heart with sudden fire And burns away its pain. I dream with Perugino On some far Umbrian hill, Or pray with sweet St. Francis Till this world s fret is still. 17 Until my soul reposes As once, unscourged he lay, Amid the thornless roses Until the break of day. Dear Saint, who was the brother Of every living thing, Could we to one another Thy gracious message bring, The world renewed, awaking, Would shed the shattered, torn, Grim night of its own making, And pledge a peace reborn. Fair land of dear desire, Thy beauty like a gleam Shall kindle and inspire What all our souls would dream ! 18 IN BED WRITTEN FOR A BENEFIT FOR THE "ENFANTS DE LA FRONTIERS," 1917 WHEN evening comes And I m in bed And mother sits and sings And holds my hand And strokes my head, I think of all the things That I have heard Can they be true? That children just like me Are cold and lost and hungry too In lands across the Sea? They say they wander in their fright All dumb with cold and dread; And when I think of them at night I want to hide my head Upon my mother s gentle arm That holds me close and still, And seems to promise that no harm Can ever come, or ill. 19 And then I hear my mother s voice So tender in a prayer, "Dear God, may all the girls and boys Who wander Over there Be brought for kindly sheltering To those who crave to give, And they who mourn shall learn to sing And they who die shall live." And when the prayer is done I sleep So still without a sound, And dream no little child shall weep And all the lost are found! TO D O R () T II Y D . Ox HEK FIRST BIKTHDAY, JUNE 30, 1JJ17 TTHIS is to little Dorothy D. * Granddaughter mine so sweet is she, Long ago a poet knew A dear little girl called Dorothy Q.; But I am convinced she could not be Any sweeter than Dorothy D. Dorothy Douglas, may you grow Into the dearest girl I know: May you be loyal, frank and true, Just as your mother is; may you Loving, joyous, and honest be, Like your father, my Dorothy D. Welcome into the great, strange world, Now where the dogs of war have hurled Bitter cries that have stunned our ears, Into this world where no one hears Echoes of that sweet peace we knew. May your mother have peace through you- Peace of the heart that love shall bring, Love, that conquers the bitter sting Of grief or failure or suffering. Ah! my Dorothy, Dorothy D., Little bundle of joy to be, We who are grateful thank you, dear, For coming to bring us love and cheer. SOLDIER OF PAIN TO HER \ TOT in the trenches, torn by shot and shelling, Not on the plain, Bombed by the foe; but calm and unrebelling, Soldier of Pain ! Facing each day, head high with gallant laughter, Anguish supreme; What accolade in what divine hereafter Shall this redeem? Through the long night of racked, recurrent waking, Till the long day, Fraught with distress, brings but the same heart breaking Front for the fray. In a far land our Nation s patriots, willing, Fought, and now lie, But you as brave a harder fate fulfilling, Dare not to die ! 23 THEODORE ROOSEVELT A WOMAN SPEAKS TO HIS SISTER I NEVER clasped his hand, * He never knew my name, And yet at his command, I followed like a flame. I pressed amid the crowd To touch his garment s hem, As one of old once touched The Man of Bethlehem. I was of those who toil, Whose bread is wet with tears, A daughter of the soil, And bent, though not with years. His words would lift the veil That blurred my tired eyes, They seemed to strengthen me To serve and sacrifice. And all the values lost, ^Yhen life was cold and grim, Were clear and true again Interpreted by him. Our leader and our friend, He knew what we must bear, And to the gallant end He bade us do and dare. Clad in an armored truth And by high purpose shod, He gave us back our youth, Our country, and our God ! TO MY BROTHER T LOVED you for your loving ways, * The ways that many did not know; Although my heart would beat and glow When Nations crowned you with their bays. I loved you for the tender hand That held my own so close and warm, I loved you for the winning charm That brought gay sunshine to the land. I loved you for the heart that knew The need of every little child; I loved you when you turned and smiled, It was as though a fresh wind blew. I loved you for your loving ways, The look that leaped to meet my eye, The ever-ready sympathy, The generous ardor of your praise. I loved you for the buoyant fun That made perpetual holiday For all who ever crossed your way, The highest or the humblest one. I loved you for the radiant zest, The thrill and glamour that you gave To each glad hour that we could save And garner from Time s grim behest. I loved you for your loving ways, And just because I loved them so, And now have lost them, thus I know I must go softly all my days ! THE A . E . F . To T. R. FROM "THE STARS AND STRIPES" ONE is the joy, gone is the thrill of returning, We who had longed to share with you all our laurels, To lay them at the feet of our great companion; Hushed is rejoicing! Never again to see the light from your window, Shining across the land that you loved and in spired, "Put out the light," you said, and slept; but not dreaming The darkness for others. You, our leader, but more, our greatest companion- Near enough for the spur of your voice and your hand grip, Ever ready to share, but sharing, still leading Upward and onward. Listen ! This is our pledge, to fare and to follow, Follow 7 the trail you blazed, without shadow oi turning, We, who have learned of you, shall not be found wanting Here or hereafter ! VALIANT FOR TRUTH "And so Valiant for Truth passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side" WALIANT for Truth has gone Alas ! that he has V left us, Valiant for Truth, the leader that we love, Where shall we find his like? Grim death, thou hast bereft us Of that great force that lifted us above. Valiant for Truth, thy voice rang strong, and clear, and loudly, We had not borne to have its accents fail; Nor would we choose, oh ! Knight, that thou shouldst go less proudly Ardent and young, upon the last, long trail. 30 What though we stumble blindly over ways that darken, We are not worthy if we do not fare Forth to the W 7 est, where still thy voice calls us to hearken- Up to the heights, and we shall meet thee there. "Valiant for Truth has come," thus all the trumpets sounded, "Valiant for Truth who faltered not, nor fell; Fearless he rode the trail, the last long trail un bounded, Rode to the final goal, where all is well!" 31 URIEL II ESDRAS IV PHEN Uriel spake, the great angel, the angel of God- " Would ye know then the secrets of Yaveh, the rule of his rod? So, weigh me the weight of the fire, the blast of the wind That has left in the wake of the tempest no whisper behind; Or call me the day that has vanished, one hour of the day, And I will interpret Jehovah, His will and His way !" And I answered, "Oh! Angel of Yaveh, ye know and I know That the questions ye ask are a riddle. The gleam and the glow Of the flash of the fire are fitful, and cannot be weighed, And the whirl of the cyclone unmeasured can never be stayed, And the clay that is past could we call it then Heaven would he here, But, perchance, we could walk, even blindly, were the pathway more clear!" Then Uriel answered, "I ask ye of things ye have known. Ye have sat at the warmth of the fire; the breeze that has blown Has cooled ye when faint with the summer s long sweep of the sun, And the day that is past, ye have lived it, although it is done. If ye cannot discern, though half hidden, the things ye have seen, Would ye look on the veiled face of Yaveh, His might and His mien?" And I answered God s angel in sorrow, Twere better by far That we ne er had been born to the bitter, blind things that we are; To suffer, and not to know wherefore, to be but the sport Of Jehovah who reads not the riddle of all He has wrought." Then, gently, the angel of Yaveh made answer to me "When the flame of the fire has vanished, oh ! what do ye see, The smoke that is left? Yea, the ashes, but fire and flame Are greater than smoke or than ashes. The clouds are the same They pass to the earth in the shower, the drops shall remain, But greater than drops and unending the rush of the rain. What has been is but drops and but ashes to the more still to be, For the ways of Jehovah are wondrous. Wait, mortal, and see!" 34 THE LAST LEAF IN SPRING \A/HY am I here? * * I, who belonged to that dread season drear, When, wet and cold, November rains did change to formless mould My comrades, and did sweep Them all to their last sleep, But I- I was passed by. Even the storm that wild Autumnal night, When winds, tornado-like, rushed by in might, And carried my companions on their breast, Left me at rest. I had been happier far with them to fly Fiercely dissolved, against an avenging sky- Riding Death s ride upon the sounding gale, Than, wan and pale, Against this branch to cling, And wait a new-born Spring ! 35 I have no place Where buds do bloom apace. One near me now Burst into adolescence, How, ah ! how ? Her fragrant scents With youth s impertinence Importune me to know why I still hold The branch, with tendrils cold "Why," they would ask of me, "have you survived? Your brothers were short-lived And went their way, Why did you stay?" And I Can but reply, A monk at heart, As though apart, unshrived, "I know not nay I only know I would not have it so." And yet, and yet Perchance tis not so sad To see the earth once more, reborn and glad. I cannot feel it not one hollow vein Can nature s sap retain; But I can see The mystery of bloom, on bud and tree, Can hear new leaves Murmur within their shoots of days to come, Can almost hear the hum Of some precocious and marauding bee Around the roots Of flowers it may not see. And even I A skeleton indeed at such a feast, For one brief moment From my fate released, Can chant my threnody- Can lift my voice And in the thought rejoice, As one who, living still, though out of time, Has heard again the rhythm and the rhyme Of Earth s renewal. The sublime Recurrence of the beauty of the days Born but to praise, When, long and sweet and slow, The hours linger and the flowers grow. 37 All me ! Ah me ! I strive to think I am content to see, And not to feel. It is not true, I long to revel in the Heaven s blue, I long to dance And waver gayly in the wooing breeze Balanced at ease, Sure of my strength to brave its harmonies With no mischance. I long for mad Sweet ecstasy, when all the world is glad I strain to thrill When robins trill The song of passion to their waiting mate; But no, my fate Is otherwise. Come Wind, arise Blow, feigning Autumn, Blow, as though the world In cold November s fog and mist were furled, Blow fiercely till upon the new grass hurled, 38 I lie, a shattered thing That none regret: I had no right To that stupendous sight The promise and the pageant of the Spring. And yet ! and yet ! Hurried to Earth at last Upon the April blast I would not quite forget! 39 FLIGHT | HAVE followed the flush of the morn * To the heart of the sun. Aurora, the spirit of Dawn, Ere the day has begun, Has winnowed the way of the wind For the beat of my wings, Above the dim haunts of mankind To the essence of things. Apollo awaits me afar With his horses in-reined, As I float with the faint morning star Where the ether is stained. By the crimson that flares as he sweep? Down the fire-touched mist, As his chariot wavers and leaps From the heights amethyst. 40 I swing in the nebulous space Till I welcome the shroud Of night; and the stars in their race Are singing aloud, They chant of the past, of the days When the song of the spheres, The rhythm of prayer and of praise Knew no mortal ears. Orion has thrown me his belt As a life-line of light, The Pleiades shimmer and melt As a lure to my sight, Arcturus points up to the crown, To the crown I have won I am morning and night, I have mown My path to the sun. 41 Must I fall from the kingdom of air To the bondage of earth, Man calls me his shackles to bear, For twas he gave me birth. His vision has buoyed my flight, Has given me grace To conquer the dawn and the night, And the infinite space. Man-made, I have pierced the wide blue Of the heavens on high, Nor Hermes, winged God, as he flew Were freer than I Man-made, as a God, lo ! I dare Olympus to span I am kin to the uttermost air, Yet the daughter of Man ! FROM A MOTOR AT MIDNIGHT ! the strange wild thrill of a motor flight In the still, clear cold of an Autumn night, When led by the lure of the straight white road The car leaps loose to the engine s goad, And the front lamps shine down the distant track And the small red point at the motor s back Sends a crimson glow on the quick-left trail Like Antares eye in the scorpion s tail. How the brain responds to the pulsing throb, And the soul replies to the wind s faint sob As it meets the branch for a cool embrace Of the Autumn trees in their leafless lace. I look straight up in the wide-lit skies And I know that the vaulted depth replies, For it bids me join in the planets race While it offers the prize of a stellar place- Till I dream that Auriga, charioteer, Is at the wheel, and the whirling sphere 43 Answers my dream as I meet the stars. Orion s belt, with its golden bars, Is in my grasp; and a hunting-song Echoes the meadow road along, Borne on the breath of the midnight breeze Chanted by distant Pleiades. The hill sweeps low as we skirt the stream Where, upside down, with a laughing gleam The dipper flings from the milky way A frothing spoonful of yellow spray. And air and water, and earth and sky Call out "Good Speed" to us rushing by We are one with the spaces, and one with the dark, Alive as the flash of electric spark, In tune with nature, at one with man, Who has made us part of the cosmic plan By the child of his brain, which he curbs and reins, Or hurls headlong through the midnight plains Oh ! the strange, wild thrill of a motor flight In the still, clear cold of an Autumn night ! 44 THE PATH THAT LEADS NOWHERE HTHERE S a path that leads to Nowhere * In a meadow that I know, Where an inland island rises And the stream is still and slow; There it wanders under willows, And beneath the silver green Of the birches silent shadows Where the early violets lean. Other pathways lead to Somewhere, But the one I love so well Has no end and no beginning Just the beauty of the dell, Just the wind-flowers and the lilies Yellow-striped as adder s tongue, Seem to satisfy my pathway As it winds their scents among. 45 There I go to meet the Springtime, When the meadow is aglow, Marigolds amid the marshes, And the stream is still and slow. There I find my fair oasis, And with care-free feet I tread For the pathway leads to Nowhere, And the blue is overhead ! All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal, On the path that leads to Nowhere I have sometimes found my soul ! 46 "IF I COULD HOLD MY GRIEF" IF I could hold my grief in calm control, * And look its blinding terror in the face; If I could welcome it to its own place Deep in my heart; if I could sweep the whole Of this fierce pain, that seems to drown my soul, Into my being like a firm embrace, And let it with my life s stream interlace, Then Grief and I, perchance, might win the Goal. But if I shrink, with dim, averted eyes, Craving to hurry through the restless days, Seeking escape, a w r ounded creature, blind, Then all my deeper self, that hidden lies, In vain shall strive to lead me in the ways That Grief would teach my lagging feet to find. 47 THE WOMAN SPEAKS" IV AY would-be Lover, wait believe me, this * * * Perchance shall prove, of all, the fairest hour; When I have felt your arms compelling power, When I have known the rapture of your kiss, Life may not hold again such tranquil bliss- Eternal forfeit ! Friendship s perfect flower Withers before the Sun-God s golden dower, Will you not grant me, now, an armistice? Let us call loyal truce that we may steep The mind and heart and soul in this rich sense Of full communion. Faith, serene and deep, Shall hold our passion to an innocence Of spirit union Wait, and let Love sleep Before the blinding harvest he shall reap. 48 "WE WHO HAVE LOVED" A X 7E who have loved, alas ! may not be friends, * * Too faint, or yet too fierce, the stifled fire, A random spark and lo ! our dead desire Leaps into flame, as though to make amends For chill, blank days, and with strange fury rends The dying embers of Love s funeral pyre. Electric, charged anew, the living wire A burning message through our torpor sends. Could we but pledge, with loyal hearts and eyes, A friendship worthy of the fair, full past, Now mutilate, and lost beyond recall, Then might a Phoenix from its ashes rise Fit for a soul-flight; but we find, aghast, Love must be nothing if not all in all ! 49 LIFE HURT ME TIFE hurt me *-^ But I welcomed even pain- So keen I was the full deep cup to drain, I courted all the clamor and the strife, The grief, the joy I was in love with life. Death hurt me But I wept and bowed my head To learn the lesson Christ interpreted. With dear Love s help I raised my anguished eyes And thought I read the message of the skies. And then Love hurt me And I lost the whole Of faith and peace. "Ah!" cried my struggling soul, "If Love can fail its own, why live?" it said And lo ! still-born, I found my soul was dead ! 50 THE OLD HOUSE THE old House on the Hill Has harbored many a fire,- Keen heart and young desire, All silent now and still ! The old House on the Hill Behind its sheltering walls Held Joy that Hope recalls And Love that hearts fulfil. The old House on the Hill Surmounts the flying years, Fit frame for smiles, or tears, Strong shield for good or ill. The old House on the Hill Still harbors many a fire, New lives, but old desire- Soon silent, too, and still ! 51 LE GRAND DISPARU ON the far hill, where all your people love you Silent you lie, Neath the Scotch cross that rises there above you Under the sky. Stanch as its stone, the hand you held out gladly, To meet the need Of those who turned to you; who now greet sadly What was decreed. Deep in your heart s far innermost recesses, You held your Own, Scorning all lighter loves and their caresses You gave alone All that you had and it was worth the keeping To those who bore Your honored name. Ah ! may you now be reaping That love and more! THE PLUS SIGN CHRIST SPEAKS FROM A CRUCIFIX IX BRITTANY MY people, oh ! my people, pass not by, Or passing, turn again and look, for lo ! The shadow of my rough hewn cross and me Hangs in the waning West, a great Plus Sign, And bids you add us, add my cross and me, To every joy and every pain of yours. My arms outstretched, my weary head and feet Nailed to the rugged cross are like the sign The little children make to show that more, And even more shall still be added to The teacher s task until it all is done: And so, my people, look, and looking, learn For I would bid you add my cross and me To make the fulness of the final sum, The great Plus Sign of pain and penitence, My cross and I are penitence and pain, The great Plus Sign of joy and sacrifice, My cross and I are sacrifice and joy, The great Plus Sign of service and of love, For we are service, and, above all, love. My cross and I are love in everything, For love is pain, and love is penitence, And love is service, joy and sacrifice. Then pass not by, my people, turn and look; The great Plus Sign is fading in the West Above a weary and a waiting world. Before the shadow of my crucifix Is lost in murky mist of setting sun, Take it, and add it unto every day s Appointed task, and let the great Plus Sign Enrich your spirit with its priceless boon Of pain and joy and love and sacrifice, The sum of all that means my cross and me. My people, oh ! my people, turn and look, The great Plus Sign is waning in the West. 54 IN LIGHTER VEIN VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE OFFICIAL BENEFIT FOR THE RELIEF OF BELGIAN WOMEN AND CHILDREN, DECEMBER 8, 1914, STRAND THEATRE, NEW YORK, TO INTRODUCE THE DIS TINGUISHED ACTORS AND ACTRESSES WHO GAVE THEIR SERVICES READ BY COMEDY AND TRAGEDY MISS SYBIL CARLISLE As Comedy [ AM the Comic Muse, Soft as the summer rain, Come the children I bear Out of the breath of my brain; Love, and Laughter that lifts, Joy with the lilt of a song, Beauty that s born of praise, And Faith that has righted wrong. I am the heart of a child, I am the trust of a maid, Spirit and passion of man, Love that is unbetrayed; I am the Muse that smiles, Lo ! and gladness is rife, Comedy, I am called, I am the mirror of Life. MR. WALTER HAMPDEN As Tragedy I am the Tragic Muse; Born of the web of my brain, Lo ! my children shall pass, Poverty, Pathos, and Pain; Labor, and Love forsworn, Each in their turn I name. Jealousy, evil born Sorrow, and Sin and Shame. I am the World s despair, I am the heart s despite, Woven of me is fear, Shadow of mine is night; I am the Muse that weeps, Out of my grief is Strife, Tragedy, I am called, I am the mirror of Life ! 59 MR. THOMAS JEFFERSON As "Rip Van Winkle" His wondrous art revives in you, Oh ! gifted son of gifted sire, And Rip Van Winkle strikes anew, The spark that leaped in flame to fire; The Jefferson who joyed our youth Reborn, is here in very truth. MISS EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON As "Everyman" Could "Everyman" and every woman too, But hear your voice as we were wont to do, In deep rich tones invoking prayer or praise, Then Every Man were better all his days. 60 MISS VIOLA ALLEN As Hermione, in "A Winter s Talc" Hermione, thine was a "Winter s Tale," Chill winds of foul suspicion did prevail, Thou, ever blameless, Overborne by blame, Thou, never shameless, Crucified by shame. Hermione, we weep thy hapless fate, So swiftly sentenced, Justified so late ! 01 MR. HOLBROOK BLINN As Jack Marbury, in "Salomy Jane" Have you heard of Jack Marbury, he from the West ? He s a terror at cards But his heart is the best. Oh! the maids he caressed, And the sins he confessed. But he s white just the same For he ll take all the blame, Have you heard of Jack Marbury. he from the West ? MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL As Melisande, in " Pelleas and Melisande" Creator by your rare impersonation Of Melisande, a Master s fine creation, At your seductive charm, we cry again, "May God have pity on the hearts of men." MISS ETHEL BARRYMORE As Mme. Trenioni, in "Captain Jinks" Our Ethel Barry more, Queen of Queens In Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, Has made us thrill as she laughs and leans, To the Captain in the army. For she is a Siren through and through, And she calls to me and she calls to you, That is the way that Sirens do, To the Captains in Life s Army. MR. WILLIAM H. CRANE .4s "David Harum" Dear David Harum, your quaint wisdom comes Fresh from the land we love to call our own. It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums, The wind that blows across a grove o ergrown; In him who voices you, you live again, We know not which is Harum, Which is Crane! MISS FRANCES STARR As Juanita, in " The Rose of the Rancho" Rose of the Rancho, Flower-like you are, A rose indeed, But even more, a Starr ! 64 M L L E . D O R Z I A T As Countess Marina, in " The Hawk There is a land of language exquisite, Where every word may to the gesture fit, A tongue that s fashioned for divine finesse, Each syllable a song or a caress, From that fair land we have with us to-night, Mile. Dorziat for our delight. MR. FRANCIS WILSON As Cadeaux, in " Erminie" Come listen to the Dickey Bird," The gayest song you ever heard, Sung by a tramp as fresh and gay As ever wandered by the way- Incorrigible, fickle, fond, The first "Beloved Vagabond." MISS JULIE OFF As Portia, in "Julius Caesar" Thou, who with fine and fair nobility, Didst make to Brutus all thy wife-hood s plea, Fair Portia, mind of man, and heart of woman, Teach us to rise above the faulty human. MISS JANE COWL As Mary Turner, in "Within the Law" Protest supreme against the Law s lost soul, Your fine presentment would lay bare the whole Of tangled lack of justice, till in awe, We shudder at Life s wreck, "Within the Law." 66 MISS ANNIE RUSSELL As Kate Hardcastle, in "She Stoops to Conquer" "She stoops to conquer," But a xtar in falling, Brings a new gleam on earth, A heaven recalling. M R . HENRY MILLER As Sidney Carton, in " The Only Way" When Sidney Carton in the twice-told tale Would have us weeping, or perchance turn pale, The price of such sweet pain we gladly pay Is it not Henry Miller s Only Way"? 67 MRS. SOL SMITH As the Nurse, in "Romeo and Juliet" The kindest nurse that e er, young lovers true. Watched over and protected, would that you In future eons may that part rehearse, Which gave fair Juliet so beloved a nurse. MISS PHYLLIS NEILSON TERRY As Viola, in "Twelfth Night" Fair Viola, whose double part Of maid and youth, turned Cupid s dart To many a prank, this maid who plays you In her own person half betrays you; For gifted forebears lent their flame To her who bears their double name. 68 MR. WILLIAM GILLETTE An "Sherlock Holmes " Subtle, sincere, illumining, illusive, Convincing, captivating, and delusive, You who can thrill until we hold our breath, And hang suspended as twixt life and death Who are you then, but one of two? and yet You must be Sherlock Holmes You are Gillette! M M E . A L D A Now music unto Drama lends her spell The nightingale doth sing, and all is well 69 MR. WILLIAM FAVERSHAM As I ago, in "Othello" lago, sinister, unhappy role, The Bard with swift unswerving instrument Portrays the pit for every human soul That is not with a purer purpose blent. Degraded man ! Supreme indeed the art Of one who may interpret such a part. MME. NAZI M OVA As "Hedda Gabler" Nazimova, none but your potent gift, Could Ibsen s Hedda to perfection lift, Half woman, and half serpent, wholly vile, Yet Hedda in your person doth beguile. 70 MR. EBEN PLYMPTON As Mercntio, in "Romeo and Juliet" Mercutio, synonym for loyal friend, Who would not envy thee, thy gallant end? MISS MARIE DORO As "Oliver Twst" You, Marie Doro, do for us restore Poor little Oliver who "wanted more." Plaintive, pathetic youth foregone and missed, Oh ! sad anomaly, a child unkissed ! 71 MESSRS. WEBER AND FIELDS Two names that seem to all of us but one, What memories arise of happy fun ! Two names we hold together in the heart; Twice "Welcome Home" when they are not apart, For neither to the other glory yields, Immortal Weber ! And immortal Fields ! MISS ROSE COGHLAN As Lady Gay Spanker, in "London Assurance" Did ye ken our Rose as the Lady Gay, Have ye heard her tell how she rode away, To the crack of the whip at the break of day, With the horse and the hounds in the morning? Oh ! the sound of the horn on the echoing hill, And the cry of the pack as they ran at will, And our dear Lady Gay, I can hear her still, As she told of the hunt in the morning. MR. HENRY DIXEY As "Adonis" When Dixey in Adonis plays, All hearts would sing their lightest lays, For who could frown or who would sigh, Or feel the world had gone awry When, luring us to happy ways, Our Dixey in Adonis plays ! MISS MARGARET AN G LIN As Katharine, in " The Taming of the Shrew" Who would not try to tame a shrew, If she were fair and gay like you, Seductive, fierce, but heart entangling, This Katharine, is Margaret Anglin. 73 MISS MARY SHAW As Mrs. Airing, in Ibsen s "Ghosts " Heredity, the spectre of the past, Ghost of the present, Claims its own at last; Ghosts of the future, Lo ! the child unborn Yields its fair birthright To a fate forlorn. MISS RUTH CHATTERTON As Judy, in "Daddy Long-Legs" Of all the stars in this fair firmament, Where magnitude and brilliancy are blent; The latest, newest, youngest of them all, But singing from the heights a clear sweet call; Ruth tis the truth as Judy, that you are Shedding the light of art, a very star. 74 MISS BLANCHE BATES As "Madame Butterfly" Creator, of a smile, a sigh You gave us Madame Butterfly. MISS ELLEN TERRY As Portia, in "Merchant of Venice" And now the climax of it all, We yield to a familiar thrall. Here s Portia, here fair Rosalind, Gay Beatrice, and Kate unkind; Olivia whose tender folly Immortalized a sprig of holly Ah ! be they sad or sweet, or merry. All, all are you, dear Ellen Terry ! FINIS 75 TO JOSEPH H. CHOATE FEBRUARY 18, 1913 A LENTEN TOAST TO "ALL SAINTS I AST Friday night St. Valentine *-* Was pledged in many a bowl of wine, Our Patron Saint is now before us, So join with me in grateful chorus, St. Joseph, reverenced, and dear, We pledge you life, and love, and cheer! We cannot but rejoice that you The habits of Jerome eschew; It is not needful in the least To wander always with a beast, Especially if, like St. Joe, One is the "sure enough" whole show! No lion can compete with him, For Lion is his synonym ! 77 Unlike Sebastian, you are free From darts that pierce excessively And, here again, the reason why Is evident to any eye, Your darts are always flung before Another s sting your wit can floor, And so, unscathed, you bare your breast Secure that e en the sharpest jest Though aimed with skill, could never carry Against your "rapid fire" parry. Another Saint forever sits Upon an iron base that fits Above a slowly burning fire, A horrid scheme, both dread and dire. St. Lawrence, Joseph goes one better, No fire could his spirit fetter, For he, himself, so full of fire, Would conquer any funeral pyre, And, Phoenix-like, would put to shame The fate that tried to quench his flame. In fact, his friends have always boasted, He is the roaster, not the roasted! 78 Now last not least we come to her, Where Worshipped turns to Worshipper, For while we kneel at Joseph s shrine, He kneels before St. Caroline, And, thus, in him we honor too His loyal lady, liege and true, And so, once more, lift high the bowl, To pledge twin Saints, with heart and soul ! 79 A NEW YEAR S TOAST TO OUR G. O. M., JOSEPH H. CHOATE JANUARY 5, 1917 CILL high the glass a New Year s Toast ! *" To one who is our city s boast Of all her jewels, quite the Gem Here s to our charming G. O. M. ! The G. O. M. that England knew Was grand and wise and manly too, And strong and powerful, but he Could never, never, never be What our dear G. O. M. to us Has come to mean, for good or "wuss" (That rhyme is quite ridiculous !) With rapier wit and tender heart, On every side he bears his part, With literature and politics He doth a social glamour mix, Past master of diplomacy An adept in Philanthropy Who would not drink a New Year s brew, 80 Dear G. O. M., to such as you ! But when / dwell upon your gift, Your gift of gifts, it seems to lift My thought from social charm and wit, From epigram with laughter lit, Or legal eminence, or deep Desire to have your country reap From high ideals and strong endeavor A place within the sun forever. 1 Nay, when 7 think of you, I feel The dearest gift that you reveal Is that you never cease to lend Your finest self to be a friend And we who press an eager claim To call you by that priceless name, Would have you fully realize Your friendship is the gift we prize. Thus, as we drink our New Year s toast, The wish, perchance we wish the most, Is this, until our journey s end, That we may claim you as our friend. Your friendship is our diadem- Here s New Year s joy, dear G. O. M. : 81 TO SOTHERN AND MARLOWE TESTIMONIAL DINNER, MAY, 1917 CLANKED by such comrades, I am loath to lift * A trembling voice, as one who is the rift Within the lute; for how can I aspire To rival all the past and future fire Of incense burned before this gifted pair, Sothern and Marlowe two beyond compare! August is Thomas, waiting by my side, To prove that words and wit are fast allied And if he can t suffice in his short span To stir the house to homage Otto Kahn ! And Agnes Repplier, she of rapier blade, Has cast all other speakers in the shade Except that one whose method no one shames, So nobly conscious is he of his Ames ! Now mark em all, yes, Edwin Markham too, To think that I should follow one like you, Poet and prophet, master of the flow 82 That makes a hero wield for sword, a hoe! So, listen, Friends, with kind and lenient ear To these few lines that I would have you hear, Lines only worth your favor since they dwell On two we honor, two we love as well ! First to the man, though ladies should be first, Who but remembers how he slaked our thirst For high Romance, when tried, and true, and ten der, He made us all believe there was a Zenda, Or, who forgets him, gay and debonair, Inimitable, laughing Letterblair ! And Chumley echoes from a brilliant sire The memory of hours that could not tire. Magnetic magic, joined to all that s human Of course he knew "the way to win a woman"! And so he won her, she who had already Inflamed our brains and made our hearts unsteady Who, by the wonder of her low, deep voice Could make an audience tremble or rejoice, Whose Barbara Frietchie thrilled us overmuch, (Methinks she d sensed e en then the Sothern touch), 83 She who with dainty grace and poignant power, Had made us live "When Knighthood was in Flower"! He won her and, as one, they climbed the height Of Shakespeare s "Jocund Morn" or "dreadful night" And we, who enter now a holy place, Would bend with reverend knee, though lifted face, Before the fair presentments they have made. Here is our tribute, May it then be laid With loving ardor at the Altar-Throne Of two who made great Shakespeare all their own. This "wise young Judge," this madcap Rosalind, Gay shrew untamed, and yet not half unkind, Fair Juliet, so bewitching, her caress Had left sweet Romeo in a sorry stress Or Viola, part boy, yet wholly woman, Capricious, tender, petulant and human ! And now, in turn, behold, as in a glass The fawning Shylock, or Malvolio pass, Or, suddenly, with quick vibrating pain We sense the torture of the noble Dane, 84 Or, yield ourselves, philosophers as well, To "melancholy Jacques " potent spell We crown them with their vast achievement Rise And honor those who read the mysteries Of Avon s Bard, and read them all aright. Who would not then be Julia s Satellite, Or Sothern s slave? Once more the laurel bring To her, the Queen of Queens "If he were King!" 85 HENDERSON HOUSE ON PUTTING NEW WINE INTO OLD BOTTLES, OR THE TYRANNY OF THINGS I LONG to linger on the porch, I long to lie and dream- To watch a flash of singing blue, athwart the sunlight s gleam To close my eyes and lift my face to meet the sum mer breeze That plays amid the maple-grove a thousand har monies. But just as I would yield my soul to nature s potent spell, They come, and call me from my dream to smell a horrid smell ! A drain gone wrong, what shall be done ? No plumber for nine miles The telephone won t work at all, this modern life defiles 86 The crimson of the sunset sky, the shadow of the cloud I seek the porch once more, but they are calling fierce and loud "The fire in the northwest room won t burn, twill only smoke Come quickly, Mrs. Robinson, the lady there will choke!" What can be done? The horrid caps will ruin all the towers, But ladies must not choke, and so we pray the Heavenly powers That we the mason can persuade to build the chim neys higher, And in the meantime leave the guest to shiver with out fire ! 87 Again I seek a sheltered spot and hope for sweet repose To bathe my senses in the hush that comes at day light s close- But no ! They rush to find me there, the windmill won t go round, The wind has died, the engine s stopped, in sullen gloom profound I listen to the dreadful tale "one of the bathrooms leaks Four thousand gallons lost last night " I feel resentful shrieks Are creeping up my throat and soon will reach my trembling lips I want to go to far-off isles, too far for any ships, 88 Where there is nothing but the beach and just one scrub oak-tree, And plumbing never was, nor is, and never more shall be,- I want to have no modern joys, no "comforts," no, not one But just to sink upon the sand and swoon into the sun ! When " Great-Aunt Harriet " ruled the Roost, and ruled it very well She never had to smell a drain there were no drains to smell ! She never heard the windmill stop with sinking of the heart Or lost four thousand gallons of the pumping s bet ter part. 89 She caught the rain in little tubs and washed her guests in sections ! We have the tubs, they must have caused most graceful genuflections And by a small coal-stove each one was warmed and cheered aright A candle s blaze is better far than Gasoline s no light- Ah ! me, Ah ! me, when nature s call would bid my soul take flight, When fleecy mist of amethyst is mingled with the night And some pale crescent moon adown her silvery glamour flings, Must I still bow, a slave, before the Tyranny of Things? 90 Nay, for in spite of drains and flues and windmills gone astray And lights that flicker and burn low in weird and woful way In spite of watery waste galore, from plumbing all awry There is no place like Henderson beneath the mid night sky ! 91 TO A BISHOP WHO SAID HE KNEW NO FLOWERS BUT THE IRIS AND THE BRIDAL-WREATH OUR brilliant Bishop says he never knows Aught but the Iris and the Bridal-Wreath, And yet his words do blossom like the breath Of a most fragrant and redundant rose, Whose scent shall linger with us, for it blows Its scattered petals while it perisheth, As a fair day is fairest at its close ! May we not broaden, though, his floral scope With Monk s-Hood and with pious Mitrewort Whose fragile beauty foams in distant dells, While Jacks-in-Pulpits. on the forest slope, In surreptitious fashion, coyly flirt, W r ith careless clouds of Canterbury -Belles ! THE POETRY SOCIETY ANTHOLOGY VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE POETRY SOCIETY OF AMERICA WITH APOLOGIES TO EDGAR LEE MASTERS, AUTHOR OF "SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY" EDWARD J . WHEELER PRESIDENT OF THE POETRY SOCIETY OF AMERICA I WAS President not of the United States, * No, of something much more unique, Much more subtle I was the President of the Poetry Society ! Long ago, one of America s greatest statesmen Said he would rather be right than President / would much rather be President than Wright! Anyway, Wright could never have been President He did not have the power of public opinion or was it Current Opinion behind him And then, too, they elected me President because of my judicial manner and my reserve of speech- Wright s speech is torrential, He is about as reserved and as silent as Niagara- He could never have controlled himself as I did, When the authors of unpublished poems were being slaughtered My calm was never ruffled My smile never altered, 95 No one of those authors ever knew how I felt about . their poems And now they never will know, For I am dead And though I would not rather be Wright than President Sometimes I think I might Rather be dead than President of the Poetry Society ! MERLE ST. CROIX WRIGHT I WAS always Wright, and even though * I am dead, I am, still Wright- It was a habit of mine to be Wright, Pre-eminently right And even after death one does not get over a life long habit I never gave anybody time To prove me in the wrong Suave, sonorous, adequate, My words drowned patient protests And swept them away As the scum is swept from a river I was the Knower Do not mistake me Not Noah, spelt with an "N," Although my words were like a flood, But Knower, spelt with a capital K One who has knowledge Of all things and who expresses it in all ways At all times 97 Wheeler, who lies near me in this vault- Had no such bottomless well of water springing- And yet, the Poetry Society made him President- Why? 98 JESSIE B. KITTEN HOUSE SECRETARY I OUGHT not to have died and come here * I was young and strong until they made me Secretary- Secretary of the Poetry Society. It was not the work that killed me No, it was trying to be fair Fair about those unpublished poems. When Miles Dawson and Arthur Guiterman and Corinne Roosevelt Robinson and Dr. Smith Would get up and talk about "convincing" and "not convincing" And say the poems "left them cold" and "really were not poems at all," I could see spasms of rage Chase over the faces of the authors, Poor authors, unwitting attendants At their own "marche funebre. " And then, within me, would overflow The soft and soothing milk of human kindness 99 And all my veins would fill with a gentle anaemia Of desire to be fair to all present, And I, too, would rise, and say That "I had not thought much of the poem they were discussing Till I came to the last line, and then I did think There was punch in the last line, real punch"- Well, later, I became more anaemic and died and came here. I have never been quite sure if I died of anaemia or punch I mean the punch we all used to drink at the Poetry Society But that was not real punch! 100 MILES M E N A N D E R D A W S O N TREASURER I OFTEN wonder what the Poetry Society does, now that I am dead Perhaps there is no Poetry Society Or, if there is one, it can only be a little one that survives How its members must muse on my name, and all that it meant to them ! It is a beautiful name, and very suggestive- Miles ! Miles ! and Menander ! Those words seem to inspire a vision of leafy laby rinths And one who walked in them slowly with other sages Confucius Socrates and many more, talking and answering each other And then the end of my name, Daivson, Perhaps it was the end of my name that made me Yukonic, like a river, ceaselessly flowing. A chill, like the end of my name- Reminiscent of cold countries 101 Would > creep over the Poetry Society When I addressed them, A curious numb look would spread over their faces, As if they were snowed under Perhaps it was my name that did it The snow is heavy in the Klondike Dawson City is there, but Miles M. Dawson, him self, lies under other snowflakes. 102 PADRAI C COLUM MINE are the ashes of a valiant heart, It was I Who once disarmed the Mighty Imagiste, Amy, She, who, with fluent tongue, did hypnotize The wordiest members of the Poetry Society, And rendered them mute, impotent and dumb- She wiped the floor up with them One by one And then I rose, and with beguiling brogue, And that sweet voice that sings with Celtic charm, I laid her low I could never have done it if my name had been Patrick But it was Padraic! 103 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE DO not like being dead at all, * I was so fond of Manhattan Nobody ever knew of which I was most fond Man hattan or a Manhattan Not even the Poetry Society knew, Though they thought themselves so subtle ! Another thing they never knew was Whether I cared most for the Town or just for Towne It would have been easier to find that out, for some times I nearly gave it away for it was so plain to me that Towne Charles Hanson Towne was the Town, And the Town of Manhattan is the Earth- But the Poetry Society never were quite sure What I did think- I always kept them guessing It is easy to keep poets guessing ! 104 A R T H U R GUI T E R M A N I USED to wonder sometimes if they thought me as clever as I really was, When I criticised all the others In those far-away nights when we met at the Na tional Arts Club. I think Corinne Roosevelt Robinson knew I was clever Because I never liked any of her unpublished poems I tried to be lucid about it, but sometimes when I was speaking, I saw by the smile on the faces of some of the other writers That they thought I had come to a line of theirs that I really admired. Lucidity is a lost art, And Poets are very provincial, unless they can combine humor and pathos as I can- It is hard to be funny after one is dead, however. It is lonely being funny after one is dead 105 I think I would rather be at the Poetry Society than dead, At least there, the joke is on the other fellow ! FINIS 106 A PLEA FOR THE "ULTIMATE CONSUMER" IN LITERATURE WHEN Miss Burney s "Evelina" In her "delicate distress" Leaned upon her stalwart lover Till her "fragile loveliness" Filled him with immoderate ardor This despite his calm endeavor And he murmured "Lovely Burden, Why, ah! why not thus forever?" Then the "Ultimate Consumer" Knew the climax was at hand, And it did not take unusual Subtlety to understand ! In the "Children of the Abbey,"- Have you ever read that book? There the heroine had "vapors" If she ever undertook Anything at all emotional, But the hero would forgive 107 While he kissed her tear and called it "Just a pearly fugitive"- And the "Ultimate Consumer" Almost felt himself unmanned By the purity and pathos Which he, too, could understand ! In our day of modern Isms Tis a very different thing, For the "Ultimate Consumer" Finds a circus a three-ring If he wishes to be cultured, And he strives so very hard, He must try a dip in Ethics, He must battle with a bard Quite unlike the soothing singer Which the Eighties did demand And the "Ultimate Consumer" Really cannot understand. 108 He must take a dab at Science Some time in his busy day- He must feed on bits of faience In a most artistic way, All the question of the sexes, Intricate though it may be, He must solve, although it vexes Much his innate modesty; Books on china, be it crockery Or the ancient Manchu-land, How to make a garden rockery He must fully understand ! He must bow to polyphonic, Unpoetic, parlous prose (And for this he needs a tonic Stronger than his nature knows) He must struggle till he catches Faintly at the hazy gist 109 Of the cults, in sudden snatches, Futurist or Feminist, He must tackle every "newness," And, believe me, it takes sand, Till he sometimes feels discouraged, For he does not understand ! He must soar with Henri Bergson, He must sneer with Bernard Shaw, He must ask the Swedish Ellen For the key to Free-Love lore, He must thrill to the dramatic "Damaged" quality of "Goods" Which were better in an attic Kept with other poisoned foods; He must let his lower feelings To a flame be fiercely fanned Just to keep himself "eugenic," But how can he understand? 110 Ah ! dear Authors, let me ask you, I, the "Ultimate Consumer," I, whose rapid dissolution Borders on a "Russian Duma," Could you not, I only ask you, Be at times more clarifying, Like a Shakespeare, or a Sappho, Winged word with thought undying ? Socrates and all the Sages, Prophets from a far-off land, Thunder down the deathless ages Thoughts we still can understand ! Ill THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. MAR 15 1936 MAR 31t9S Hf. 4 SENT ON ILL JUN 7 1994 tt ^t mmLTt^f c *iy U. C. BERKELEY