The Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse The Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse Edited by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918 BY SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY All rights reserved Second Printing, February, 1919 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. TO MY FRIEND 3&tbgelp ^orrence SPIRITUAL POET AND DRAMATIST 401098 FOREWORD CT^HE selections in this book are gathered from American -*- magazines, during the period from 1905 to 1917, which embrace the editor s studies and summaries of contemporary poetry that have appeared in the BOSTON EVENING TRAN SCRIPT. The collection thus in part antedates the present vogue in poetry, while representing the various qualities and schools of the poetic revival in its progress. The magazines, it is clearly wished to be understood, have been the source from which the material is taken. Some of the poems have gone into the authors books, but a good many remain buried in the files of the various magazines an ill-deserved fate. It may not seem inappropriate, levying as the editor has upon the late Francis Palgrave s fortunately descriptive title for his anthologies of English songs and lyrics, to call this col lection, a "golden treasury" of magazine verse. If the editor were to make an apology for the omission of any poem that happens to be a favorite with the reader, he would have to make many such to many readers. He can only plead that, tastes and opinions are so various and opposite, were the reader or critic turned editor, he would needs be apologetic, if it were the custom of editors to be so, which it is not. What an editor includes, granting the reader the full exercise of his own opinion, he certainly will not break faith with. W. S. B. CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, March 20, 1918. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To the following publishers thanks are due for permission to include poems that have been issued in books having their copyright: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY: "The Field of Glory" from "Captain Crair. A Book of Poems," "Flammonde," "The Gift of God," and "Cassandra," from The Man a-jainst the Sky," by Edwin Arlington Robinson; "The Chinese Nightingale," from "The Chinese Nightingale and Other Poems;" "Yankee Doodle" from "The Conso and Other Poems," and "General William Booth Enters into Heaven" from "General William Booth and Other Poems," by Yachel Lindsav; "School" and "Fijht" from "The Present Hour, A Book of Poems," by Percy Mackaye; "Barter," "The Broken Field," "The Look," from "Love Songs" by Sara Teasdale; "The Flight" and "Comrades" from "The Flight and Other Poems," by George Edward Woodberry; "Doors," from "Ballads and Poems" by Hermann Hagedorn; "Autochthon" from "The Great Valley" and "Silence" from "Songs and Satires" by Edgar Lee Masters; and "1777" and "Patterns" from "Men, Women and Ghosts," "Hymn to Demeter" and " We Who Were Lovers of Life " from "The Story of Eleusis" by Louis V. Ledoux. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY: "The Hill-Wife," "The Death of the Hired Man" from "North of Boston," "The Road not Taken," "Birches" and "The Bonfire" from "Mountain Interval" by Robert Frost; "Emilia" from "Por traits and Protests " by Sara N. Cleghorn. HARPER AND BROTHERS: "Gayheart, A Story of Defeat," from "Poems" by Dana Burnet. THE CENTURY COMPANY: "The Night Court," "The Sin Eater" and "St. John of Nepomuc" from "The Nijht Court and Other Verse," by Ruth Comfort Mitchell; "Landscapes" and " Summo s" from "Challenge" by Louis Untermeyer; " We Deal " and " A Handful of Dust," from " Songs for the New Age" by James Oppenheim. FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY: "To a Phoebe-Bird," "Train-Mates" "To No One in Particular," "A Thrush in the Moonlight," from "Grenstone Poems" by Witter Bynner. CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS: "To a Hermit Thrush," "Path-Flower," "Old Fairincrdown" from "Path-Flower and Other Poems" by Olive Tilford par- pan; "From a Motor in May" from "One Woman to Another" by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; and "I Have a Rendezvous with Death" from the "Poems" of Alan Seeger. HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY: "The Monk in the Kitchen" and "Grieve not, Ladies" from "Rose of the Wind" by Anna Hempstead Branch; "Cradle- Song," "Harvest Moon: 1914" and "A Dog" from "Harvest Moon" by Josephine Preston Peabody; "A Memorial Tablet" from "The Ride House" by Florence Wilkinson Evans; "Lincoln" from "Some Imaeists Poets; 1917" by John Gould Fletcher; "Evensong" from "Turns and Movies" by ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Conrad Aiken; "The Adventurer," from "A Lonely Flute" by Odell Shep- ard; "The king of Dreams" from "Selected Poems" by Clinton Scollard; "With Cassock Black, Baret and Book" irom "The Little Gray Songs of St. Josephs" by Grace Fallow Norton; and "The Unconquered Air" and "Indian Pipe" from " Collected Poems" by Florence Earle Coates. GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY: "Trees" and "The Twelve-Forty-Five," from "Trees and Other Poems" by Joyce Kilmer; "In the Roman Forum" from "In Deep Places" and "The Poppies" from "Life and Living" by Amelia Josephine Burr. THE MANAS PRESS: "Cinquains" from "Verses" by Adelaide Crapsey. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY: " Sleep," from " The Wind in the Corn," by Edith Wyatt. THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY: "Miracles" from "The Ji<? of Forslin" by Conrad Aiken; and "Moods" from "A Cabinet of Jade" by David O Neil. THE LYRIC PUBLISHING COMPANY: "Ash Wednesday" from "The Shadowed Hour" by John Erskine. THE LITTLE BOOK PUBLISHER: "The Clerk," from "Streets and Faces," by Scudder Middleton. THE FRANKLIN PRESS: "He Whom a Dream Hath Possessed," "They Went Forth to Battle, but they Always Fell" from "A Blossomy Bough" and "Thanks giving for Our Task" from "The Feet of the Goat" by Shaemas O Sheel. SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY: "Song" and "Magic" from "White Fountains: Odes and Lyrics" by Edward J. O Brien; and "A Mountain Gateway" from "April Airs" by Bliss Carman. THE YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS: "The Horse Thief" from "The Burglar of the Zodiac" by William Rose Benet. G. P. PUTNAMS SONS: "The Unknown Brothers" and "Letters from Egypt" from "The Shadow of Aetna," by Louis V. Ledoux. RICHARD G. BADGER: "Grandmither, Think not I Forget," from "April Twi lights," by Willa Sibert Gather. ALFRED A. KNOPF: "The Interpreter" from "Asphalt and Other Poems" by Orrick Johns. THE MIDLAND PRESS: "Meanwhile" from "Barbed Wire and Other Poems" by Edwin Ford Piper. SHERMAN, FRENCH AND COMPANY: "Motherhood" from "The Border of the Lake," and " A Statue in a Garden" from " The Sharing," by Agnes Lee. THE CORNHILL COMPANY: "Over Ni^ht, a Rose" from "The Divine Image: A Book of Lyrics" by Caroline Giltinan. NICHOLAS BROWN: "Samson Allen" from "Nine Poems of a Valetudinarium " by Donald Evans. THOMAS BIRD MOSHER: " On a copy of Keats Endymion " from "Lyrics from a Library" by Clinton Scollard; and "Two Songs in Spring" from "The Voice in the Silence" by Thomas S. Jones, Jr. THE WOODBERRY SOCIETY: " Immortal Love " from " Ideal Passion Sonnets," by George Edward Woodberry. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS THE ROADSIDE PRESS: " Coming Home," from " Western Waters," by Elizabeth Sewell Hill. PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR: " November," from " Sonnets: A First Series," by Mahlon Leonard Fisher. To Ridgely Torrence. Eunice Tietjens. Amy Lowell, Carl Sandburg, Kendall Harrison, John Hall Wheclock, Willa Sibert Gather. Dana Burnet, Karle Wil son Baker, Bliss Carman. Ethel Syford, Anna Spencer Twitchell, James Oppenheim, Frederick Fuu<t, Margaret French Patton. David Morton. Cuth- bert Wright, Wallace Stevens, Charles Hanson Towne, Jessie Wallace Huchan, Orrick Johns, Edith Wharton, Dorothea Lawrence Mann, Louise Driscoll, and Katharine Lee Bates. I am indebted for the permission they gave me to include poems not yet collected by them. To the editors and proprietors of the magazines my thanks are due for permis sions to reprint. Under each poem is given the name of the magazine from which it is taken. CONTENTS 1. BARTER i Sara Teasdale 2. PATH-FLOWER i Olive Til} or d Dargan 3. HYMN TO DEMETER 5 Louis V. Ledoux 4. To IMAGINATION 6 Dorothea Lawrence Mann 5. Two SONGS IN SPRING 8 Thomas S. Jones, Jr. 6. TREES 9 Joyce Kilmer 7. LANDSCAPES 9 Louis Untermeyer 8. To A HERMIT THRUSH 12 Olive Tilford Dargan 9. To A PliCEBE-BlRD l6 Witter Bynner 10. BIRCHES 16 Robert Frost 11. INDIAN-PIPE 19 Florence Earle Coa .es 12. FROM A MOTOS. IN MAY ....." 20 Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 13. A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY 20 Bliis Carman 14. THE FLIGHT 22 George Edward Woodjerry xiii CONTENTS 15. MAGIC . . . Edward J. O Brien 16. EARTH John Hall Wheelock 17. THE ROAD NOT TAKEN . . . Robert Frost 18. THE ADVENTURER Odell Shepard 19. GOOD COMPANY Karle Wilson Baker 20. To No ONE IN PARTICULAR Witter Bynner 21. THE SEA-LANDS Orrick Johns 22. THE NEW PLATONIST Cuthbert Wright 23. EMILIA Sarah N. Cleghorn 24. THE INTERPRETER Orrick Johns 25. THE LOOK Sara Teasdale 26. "IMMORTAL LOVE" George Edward Woodberry 27. PETER QUINCE AT THE CLAVIER Wallace Stevens 28. THE UNKNOWN BELOVED . . . John Hall Wheelock 29. PATTERNS Amy Lowell 30. EVENSONG Conrad Aiken 31. WAITING Charles Hanson Towne xiv CONTENTS 32. THE BROKEN FIELD 51 Sara Teas dale 33. "GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET" 51 Will* Sibfrt Cclher 34. HUNGARIAN LOVE-LAMENT 53 Ethel Syford 35. OLD FAIRINGDOWN 54 Olive Tilford Dargan 36. MOTHERHOOD 58 Agnes Lee 37. THE HILL WIFE 59 Robert Frost 38. THE WIFE 62 Anna Spencer Twitchell 39. NEEDLE TRAVEL 63 Margaret French Patton 40. CRADLE SONG 65 Josephine Preston Peabody . 41. BACCHANTE TO HER BABE 68 Eunice Tietjens 42. THE SON 70 Ridgely Torrence 43. WITH CASSOCK BLACK, BARET AND BOOK 71 Grace Fallon Norton 44. MOODS 72 David O Neil 45- ClNQUAINS 74 Adelaide Crapsey 46. THE REGENTS EXAMINATION ". . . . 76 Jessie Wallace Hughan 47. TRAIN-MATES 76 Witter Bynner 48. THANKSGIVING FOR OUR TASK 78 Shaemas Sheel xv * CONTENTS 49. SCHOOL 81 Percy MacKaye 50. YANKEE DOODLE 86 Vachel Lindsay 51. CASSANDRA 88 Edwin Arlington Robinson 52. THE BONFIRE go Robert Frost 53. HARVEST-MOON: 1914 04 Josephine Preston Peabody 54. THE CHINESE NIGHTINGALE 96 Fachel Lindsay 55. HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED 104 Shaemas She el 56. THE KING OF DREAMS 105 Clinton Scollard 57. FLAMMONDE 106 Edwin Arlington Robinson 58. SANDY STAR 109 William Stanley Rraithivaite 59. SAINT JOHN OF NEPOMUC 112 Ruth Comfort Mitchell 60. SAMSON ALLEN - u6 Donald Evans 61. GAYHEART 117 Dana Bur net * 62. THE UNCONQUERED AIR 131 Florence Earle Coates 63. A LIKENESS 132 Willa Sibert Gather 64. ON A COPY OF KEATS "ENDYMION" 134 Clinton Scollard 65. SILENCE 136 Edgar Lee Masters xvi CONTENTS 66. MIRACLES 139 Conrad Aiken 67. ASH WEDNESDAY 143 John Erskine 68. To A LOGICIAN 150 Dana Burnct 69. THE CLERK 151 Sc udder Middle ton 70. A DOG 152 Josephine Preston Peabody 71. THE NIGHT COURT 154 Ruth Comfort Mitchell 72. GUNS AS KEYS: AND THE GREAT GATE SWINGS . . 157 Amy Lowell 73. THE FIELD OF GLORY 184 Edwin Arlington Robinson 74. FIGHT 186 Percy Mac Kay e 75. THE HORSE THIEF 201 William Rose Ben et 76. THE BIRD AND THE TREE 207 Ridgely Torrence 77- 1777 208 Amy Lowell 78. LETTERS FROM EGYPT 215 Louis V. Ledoux 79. IN THE ROMAN FORUM 215 Amelia Josephine Burr 80. THE SIN EATER 217 Ruth Comfort Mitchell 81. EYE-WITNESS 220 Ridgely Torrence 82. THE GIFT OF GOD 227 Edwin Arlington Robinson xvii CONTENTS 83. MEANWHILE 228 Edwin Ford Piper 84. GRIEVE NOT, LADIES 232 Anna Hempstead Branch 85. COOL TOMBS 233 Carl Sandburg 86. MEMORIES OF WHITMAN AND LINCOLN 234 James Oppenheim 87. AUTOCHTHON s 238 Edgar Lee Masters 88. LINCOLN 247 John Gould Fletcher 89. GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN . 250 Fachel Lindsay 90. THE POPPIES , 253 Amelia Josephine Burr 91. YELLOW CLOVER 255 Katharine Lee Bates 92. OVER NIGHT, A ROSE 258 Caroline Giltinan 93. EVENSONG 259 Ridgely Torrence 94. BATTLE SLEEP 260 Edith Wharton 95. SONG 261 Edward ]. O Brien 96. A STATUE IN A GARDEN 261 Agnes Lee 97. THE LESSER CHILDREN 262 Ridgely Torrence 98. A THRUSH IN THE MOONLIGHT 269 Witter Bynner 99. NOVEMBER 269 Mahlon Leonard Fisher xviii CONTENTS 100. THE WINTER SCENE 270 Bliss Carman 101. THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE 272 Joyce Kilmer 102. COMING HOME 275 Elizabeth Sewell Hill 103. WE WHO WERE LOVERS OF LIFE 278 Louis V. Ledoux 104. SUMMONS 280 Louis Untermeytr 105. THE DEAD 282 David Morton 106. WE DEAD 283 James Oppenheim 107. To A DEAD SOLDIER 288 Kendall Harrison 108. THE DEATH OF THE HIRED MAN 288 Robert Frost 109. A HANDFUL OF DUST 295 James Oppenheim no. "I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH" 296 Alan Seeger in. THE SECRET 297 Frederick Faust 112. SCINTILLA 2 gg William Stanley Braithwaite 113. SLEEP 299 Edith Wyatt 114. A MEMORIAL TABLET 302 Florence Wilkinson Evans 115. EPITAPH 3O3 Louise Driscoll 116. COMRADES - o - George Edward Woodberry xu CONTENTS 117. THEY WENT FORTH TO BATTLE BUT THEY ALWAYS FELL 307 Shaemas Sheet 118. THE UNKNOWN BROTHERS . 308 Louis V. Ledoux 119. THE MONK IN THE KITCHEN 310 Anna Hempstead Branch 1 20. DOORS 314 Hermann Hagedorn INDEX OF AUTHORS 315 INDEX OF POEMS 317 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 321 The Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse Barter LIFE has loveliness to sell All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Climbing fire that sways and sings, And children s faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit s still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been or could be. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Sara Teasdale Path-Flower A RED-CAP sang in Bishop s wood, A lark o er Golder s lane, As I the April pathway trod Bound west for Willesden. GOLDEN TREASURY At foot each tiny blade grew big And taller stood to hear. And every leaf on every twig Was like a little ear. As I too paused, and both ways tried To catch the rippling rain, So still, a hare kept at my side His tussock of disdain, Behind me close I heard a step, A soft pit-pat surprise, And looking round my eyes fell deep Into sweet other eyes; The eyes like wells, where sun lies too, So clear and trustful brown, Without a bubble warning you That here s a place to drown. "How many miles?" Her broken shoes Had told of more than one. She answered like a dreaming Muse, "I came from Islington." "So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods, Then seemed to lift a wing, And words fell soft as willow-buds, "I came to find the Spring." A timid voice, yet not afraid In ways so sweet to roam, As it with honey bees had played And could no more go home. OF MAGAZINE VERSE Her home! I saw the human lair, I heard the hucksters bawl, I stifled with the thickened air Of bickering mart and stall. Without a tuppence for a ride, Her feet had set her free. Her rags, that decency defied, Seemed new with liberty. * But she was frail. Who would might note That trail of hungering That for an hour she had forgot In wonder of the Spring. So shriven by her joy she glowe d It seemed a sin to chat. "A tea-shop snuggled off the road;" Why did I think of that? Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept, But she was passing on. And I but muddled, "You ll accept A penny for a bun?" Then up her little throat a spray Of rose climbed, for it must; A wilding lost till safe it lay Hid by her curls of rust; And I saw modesties at fence With pride that bore no name; So old it was she knew not whence It sudden woke and came; THE GOLDEN TREASURY But that which shone of all most clear Was startled, sadder thought That I should give her back the fear Of life she had forgot. And I blushed for the world we d made, Putting God s hand aside, Till for the want of sun and shade His little children died; And blushed that I who every year With Spring went up and down, Must greet a soul that ached for her With "penny for a bun!" Struck as a thief in holy place Whose sin upon him cries, I watched the flowers leave her face, The song go from her eyes. Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout, And of her charity A hand of grace put softly out And took the coin from me. A red-cap sang in Bishop s wood, A lark o er Golder s lane; But I, alone, still glooming stood, And April plucked in vain; Till living words rang in my ears And sudden music played: Out of such sacred thirst as hers The world shall be remade. OF MAGAZINE VERSE Afar she turned her head and smiled As might have smiled the Spring, And humble as a wondering child I watched her vanishing. The Atlantic Monthly Olive Tilford Dargan 3 Hymn to Demeter From " The Story of Eleusis " WEAVE the dance, and raise again the sacred chorus; Wreathe the garlands of the spring about the hair; Now once more the meadows burst in bloom before us, Crying swallows dart and glitter through the air. Glints the plowshare in the brown and fragrant furrow; Pigeons coo in shady coverts as they pair; Come the furtive mountain folk from cave and burrow, Lean, and blinking at the sunlight s sudden glare. Bright through midmost heaven moves the lesser Lion; Hide the Hyades in ocean caverns hoar; Past the shoulders of the sunset flames Orion, Following the sisters seaward evermore. Gleams the east at evening, lit by low Arcturus; Out to subtle-scented dawns beside the shore, Yet a little and the Pleiades will lure us: Weave the dance and raise the chorus as of yore. Far to eastward up the fabled gulf of Issus, Northward, southward, westward, now the trader goes, Passing headlands clustered yellow with narcissus, Bright with hyacinth, with poppy, and with rose. 5 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Shines the sea and falls the billow as undaunted, ?i~: : -r r.j-.r; ::*:r.r i:ir? :~.i: r.: rr.ir. .-.:?. Sails he onward through the StfaJ siren-haunted, . :.. ~~= :.2i:.~~ -;< :: :::. r-e:::= .-.in: /.:<c. Kindly If other of the beasts and bods and UWULA Gracious bringer of the barley and the grain, Earth anaLened feels thy sunlight and thy Umnneis; Great Demeter! Let us call thee not in vain; Lead afcly tnrnn **** m JJIMJ^ to tfc^ Aar^AaB^ Past the harvest and the vineyard s purple stain; Let us see thy corn-pale hair die sunlight meshing, When the Mm^Jiag flails of > swing again. TV Yak Jfcruw Lo-aif T. Ledamx To Imagination [Suggested by Maxfield Pamsh s "Air Castles"] O BEAUTEOUS boy a-dream, what visions sought Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, What umvtU from a breath of beauty rolled ! Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled A mystic iiiugtiy of castled thought, A thousand worlds to lose, or win and mold, A radiant iridescence swiftly caught Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught. Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky, A fl"*M*i wonders in thy dreamfit face, Eyes that beheld afar the turrets high Of 111 um, and the uansicni mortal grace 6 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Of Deirdre s sadness, all the conquering race Of Athens, eyes that saw Eden s beauty lie In passionate adoration visions trace Across the tender brooding of the sigh That wrecked a city and made chieftains die. Forward not backward turns the mystic shine Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line On line the wizard tracery of a dream. O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, Beyond what bounds of visioning divine Came that far f mile, from what long-strayed sunbeam Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine The power to build and mold the deep design: Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white. Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell The eternal silence of the dark or light? Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict The symbolled mystery write the final knell Of rainbow fancy is the distant sight A nothingness encircled by the spell Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty s shell? In vain to question, where the mystery Of Youth s short golden dream is lord and king. The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy. Were never meant to paint the immortal thing They see, nor understand the joy they bring. The misty baubles of the sky and sea 7 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry. The Poetry Journal Dorothea Lawrence Mann Two Songs in Spring O LITTLE buds all bourgeoning with Spring, You hold my winter in forgetfulness; Without my window lilac branches swing, Within my gate I hear a robin sing O little laughing blooms that lift and bless! So blow the breezes in a soft caress, Blowing my dreams upon a swallow s wing; O little merry buds in dappled dress, You fill my heart with very wantonness O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring! At hint of Spring I have you back again The blush of apple-blossoms on the bough, A scent of buds far sweeter for the rain . . . At hint of Spring I have you back again, And all the time is lost since then and now. Your voice is hidden in the thrush s song, And in the south wind s slumbering refrain; 8 OF MAGAZINE VERSE You needs faiust come, love is so very strong, And we whA found each other waited long At hint on Spring I have you back again! The Pathfinder Thomas S. Jones, Jr. Trees I THINK that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree! Poetry : A Magazine of Verse Joyce Kilmer 9 Landscapes (For Clement R. Wood) THE rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of grass appear Vivid and startling everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere. 9 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The golden-rod with all its million fires; (A million torches swinging in the wind) A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; - The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field How bountifully were they all revealed! How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive So frank and strong, so radiantly alive! And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose . . . Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive * And keep the very dirt that died, alive. And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm or drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, 10 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And flying in the wind her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rushing spirits running over . . . What made a sober tree seem such a rover Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below. What lit the heart of every golden-glow Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame? . . . Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth. And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise. Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where the green Silence laughed or stood enthralled. Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled. The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea. . . . A stirring landscape and a generous earth! Freshening courage and benevolent mirth And then the city, like a hideous sore . . . Good God, and what is all this beauty for? The Century Magazine Louis Untermeyer ii THE GOLDEN TREASURY 8 To a Hermit Thrush DWELLER among leaves, and shining twilight boughs That fold cool arms about thine altar place, What joyous race Of gods dost serve with such unfaltering vows? Weave me a time-fringed tale Of slumbering, haunted trees, And star-sweet fragrances No day defiled; Of bowering nights innumerable, And nestling hours breath-nigh a dryad s heart That sleeping yet was wild With dream-beat that thou mad st a part Of thy dawn-fluting; ay, and keep st it still, Striving so late these godless woods to fill With undefeated strain, And in one hour build the old world again. Wast thou found singing when Diana drew Her skirts from the first night? Didst feel the sun-breath when the valleys grew Warm with the love of light, Till blades of flower-lit green gave to the wind The mystery that made sweet The earth forever, strange and undefined As life, as God, as this thy song complete That holds with me twin memories Of time ere men, And ere our ways Lay sundered with the abyss of air between? 12 OF MAGAZINE VERSE List, I will lay The world, my song, Deep in the heart of day, Day that is long As the ages dream or the stars delay! Keep thou from me, Sigh-throated man, Forever to be Under the songless wanderer s ban. I am of time That counteth no dawn; Thy aons yet climb To skies I have won, Seeking for aye an unrisen sun! Soft as a shadow slips Before the moon, I creep beneath the trees, Even to the boughs whose lowest circling tips Whisper with the anemones Thick-strewn as though a cloud had made Its drifting way through spray and leafy braid And sunk with unremembering ease To humbler heaven upon the mossy heaps. And here a warmer flow Urges thy melody, yet keeps The cool of bowers; as might a rose blush through Its unrelinquished dew; Or bounteous heart that knows not woe, Put on the robe of sighs, and fain Would hold in love s surmise a neighbour s pain. Ah, I have wronged thee, sprite! So tender now thy song in flight, THE GOLDEN TREASURY So sweet its lingerings are, It seems the liquid memory Of time when thou didst try Thy gleaning wing through human years, And met, ay, knew the sigh Of men who pray, the tears That hide the woman s star, The brave ascending fire That is youth s beacon and too soon his pyre, Yea, all our striving, bateless and unseeing, That builds each day our Heaven new. More deep in time s unnearing blue, Farther and ever fleeing The dream that ever must pursue. Heart-need is sorest When the song dies: Come to the forest, Brother of the sighs. Heart-need is song-need, Brother, give me thine! Song-meed is heart-meed, Brother, take mine! I go the still way, Cover me with night; Thou goest the will way Into the light. Dust and the burden Thou shalt outrun; Bear then my guerdon. Song, to the sun! OF MAGAZINE VERSE little pagan with the heart of Christ, 1 go bewildered from thine altar place, These brooding boughs and grey-lit forest wings, Nor know if thou deniest My destiny and race, Man s goalward falterings, To sing the perfect joy that lay , Along the path we missed somewhere, That led thee to thy home in air, While we, soil-creepers, bruise our way Toward heights and sunrise bounds That wings may know nor feet may win For all their scars, for all their wounds; Or have I heard within thy strain Not sorrow s self, but sorrowing That thou didst seek the way more free, Nor took with us the trail of pain That endeth not, e er widening To life that knows what Life may be; And e er thou fall st to silence long Would golden parting fling: Go, man, through death unto thy star; I journey not so far; My wings must fail e en with my song. Scribner s Magazine Olive Tilford Dargan m THE GOLDEN TREASURY 9 To a Phoebe-Bird UNDER the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech. You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest. And when in frequent, dainty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid, And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings. Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phoebe, with so little noise, What eloquence you teach! The Bellman Witter Bynner 10 Birches WHEN I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy s been swinging them. But swinging does n t bend them down to stay. 16 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father s trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away THE GOLDEN TREASURY Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It s when I m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig s having lashed across it open. I d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth s the right place for love: I don t know where it s likely to go better. I d like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. The Atlantic Monthly Robert Frost 18 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 11 Indian-Pipe IN the heart of the forest arising, Slim, ghostly, and fair, Ethereal offspring of moisture, Of earth and of air; With slender stems anchored together Where first they uncurl, Each tipped with its exquisite lily Of mother-of-pearl; Mid the pine-needles, closely enwoven Its Foots to embale, The Indian-pipe of the woodland, Thrice lovely and frail! Is this but an earth-springing fungus This darling of Fate Which out of the moulding darkness Such light can create? Or is it the spirit of Beauty, Here drawn by love s lure To give to the forest a something Unearthy and pure: To crystallize dewdrop and balsam And dryad-lisped words And starbeam and moonrise and rapture And song of wild birds? Harper s Magazine Florence Earle Coates THE GOLDEN TREASURY 12 From a Motor in May THE leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flash of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined, The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring. The Outlook Corinne Roosevelt Robinson A Mountain Gateway I KNOW a vale where I would go one day, When June comes back and all the world once more Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies, A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills, A cool, dim gateway to the mountains heart. On either side the wooded slopes come down, Hemlock and beech and chestnut; here and there Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness 20 OF MAGAZINE VERSE That still perfection from the world withdrawn, As if the wood gods had arrested there Immortal beauty in her breathless flight. Far overhead against the arching blue Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. The road winds in from the broad riverlands, Luring the happy traveler turn by turn, Up to the lofty mountains of the sky. And where the road runs in the valley s foot, Through the dark woods the mountain stream comes down, Singing and dancing all its youth away Among the boulders and the shallow runs, Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang, Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. There, light of heart and footfree, I would go Up to my home among the lasting hills, And in my cabin doorway sit me down, Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace. And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, It well might be, in wisdom and in joy, The seraphs singing at the birth of time The umvorn ritual of eternal things. The Smart Set Bliss Carman 21 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 14 The Flight OWILD Heart, track the land s perfume, Beach-roses and moor-heather! All fragrances of herb and bloom Fail, out at sea, together. O follow where aloft find room Lark-song and eagle-feather! All ecstasies of throat and plume Melt, high on yon blue weather. " O leave on sky and ocean lost The flight creation dareth; Take wings of love, that mounts the most; Find fame, that furthest fareth! Thy flight, albeit amid her host Thee, too, night star-like beareth, Flying, thy breast on heaven s coast, The infinite outweareth. ii "Dead o er us roll celestial fires; Mute stand Earth s ancient beaches; Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires, The passing hour outreaches; The soul creative never tires Evokes, adores, beseeches; And that heart most the god inspires Whom most its wildness teaches. "For I will course through falling years, And stars and cities burning; 22 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And I will march through dying cheers Past empires unreturning; Ever the world-flame reappears Where mankind power is earning, The nations hopes, the people s tears, One with the wild heart yearning." Scribner s Magazine George Edward Woodberry 15 Magic IRAN into the sunset light As hard as I could run: The treetops bowed in sheer delight As if they loved the sun: And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Were joined as they were one. And down the streaming golden sky A lark came circling with a cry Of wonder-weaving joy: And all the arch of heaven rang Where meadowlands of dreaming hang As when I was a boy. And through the ringing solitude In pulsing lovely amplitude A mist hung in a shroud, As though the light of loneliness Turned pure delight to holiness, And bathed it in a cloud. 23 THE GOLDEN TREASURY I stripped my laughing body bare And plunged into that holy air That washed me like a sea, And raced against its silver tide That stroked my eager glancing side And made my spirit free. Across the limits of the land The wind and I swept hand in hand Beyond the golden glow. We danced across the ocean plain Like thrushes singing in the rain A song of long ago. And on into the silver night We strove to win the race with light And bring the vision home, And bring the wonder home again Unto the sleeping eyes of men Across the singing foam. And down the river of the world Our glowing limbs in glory swirled As spring within a flower, And stars in music of delight Streamed gaily down our shoulders white Like petals in a shower. And tears of awful wonder ran Adown my cheeks to hear the clan Of beauty chaunting white 24 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The prayer too deep for living word, Or sight of man, or winging bird, Or music over forest heard At falling of the night. And dropping slowly as the dew On grasses that the winds renew In urge of flooding fire, And softly as the hushing boughs The gentle airs of dawn arouse To cradle morning s quire, The murmur of the singing leaves Around the secret Flame, Like mating swallows neath the eaves In rustling silence came, And flowing through the silent air Creation fluttered in a prayer Descending on a spiral stair, And calling me by name. It nestled in my dreaming eyes Like heaven in a lake, And softened hope into surprise For very beauty s sake, And silence blossomed into morn, Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn Could scarcely bear to break. I sang into the morning light As loud as I could sing, The treetops bowed in sheer delight Before a slanting wing, 25 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Adored the Risen Spring. The Trimmed Lamp Edward J. O Brien 16 Earth GRASSHOPPER, your fairy song And my poem alike belong To the deep and silent earth From which all poetry has birth; All we say and all we sing Is but as the murmuring Of that drowsy heart of hers When from her deep dream she stirs: If we sorrow, or rejoice, You and I are but her voice. Deftly does the dust express In mind her hidden loveliness, And from her cool silence stream The cricket s cry and Dante s dream: For the earth that breeds the trees Breeds cities too, and symphonies, Equally her beauty flows Into a savior, or a rose Looks down in dream, and from above Smiles at herself in Jesus love. Christ s love and homer s art Are but the workings of her heart; 26 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Through Leonardo s hand she seeks Herself, and through Beethoven speaks In holy thunderings around The awful message of the ground. The serene and humble mould Does in herself all selves enfold Kingdoms, destinies, and creeds, Great dreams and dauntless deeds, Science that metes the firmament, The high, inflexible intent Of one for many sacrificed Plato s brain, the heart of Christ: All love, all legend, and all lore Are in the dust forevermore. Even as the growing grass Up from the soil religions pass, And the field that bears the rye Bears parables and prophecy. Out of the earth the poem grows Like the lily, or the rose; And all man is, or yet may be, Is but herself in agony Toiling up the steep ascent Towards the corr plete accomplishment When all dust shall be, the whole Universe, one conscious soul. Yea, the quiet and cool sod Bears in her breast the dream of God. THE GOLDEN TREASURY If you would know what earth is, scan The intricate, proud heart of man, Which is the earth articulate, And learn how holy and how great, How limitless and how profound Is the nature of the ground How without terror or demur We may entrust ourselves to her When we are wearied out, and lay Our faces in the common clay. For she is pity, she is love, All wisdom she, all thoughts that move About her everlasting breast Till she gathers them to rest: All tenderness of all the ages, Seraphic secrets of the sages, Vision and hope of all the seers, All prayer, all anguish, and all tears Are but the dust, that from her dream Awakes, and knows herself supreme Are but earth when she reveals All that her secret heart conceals Down in the dark and silent loam, Which is ourselves asleep, at home. Yea, and this my poem, too, Is part of her as dust and dew, Wherein herself she doth declare Through my lips, and say her prayer. The Yale Review John Hall Wheekck 28 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 17 The Road not Taken TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. The Atlantic Monthly Robert Frost 18 The Adventurer HE did not come in the red dawn, Nor in the blaze of noon, And all the long bright highway Lay lonely to the moon, 29 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And nevermore, we know now, WJX[ he come wandering down The breezy hollows of the hills That gird the quiet town. For he has heard a voice cry A starry-faint " Ahoy ! " Far up the wind, and followed Unquestioning after joy. But we are long forgetting The quiet way be went, With looks of love and gentle scorn So sweetly, subtly blent. We cannot cease to wonder, We who have loved him, how He fares along the windy ways His feet must travel now. But we must draw the curtain And fasten bolt and bars And talk here in the firelight Of him beneath the stars. The Bellman OkU Shtpard 19 Good Company TO-DAY I have grown taller from walking with the trees, The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. 30 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke Lord, who am I that they should stoop these holy folk of thine? The Poetry Review of America Karle Wilson Baker 20 To No One in Particular LOCATE your love, you lose your love, Find her, you look away. . . Now mine I never quite discern, I trace her every day. She has a thousand presences, As surely seen and heard As birds that hide behind a leaf Or leaves that hide a bird. Single your love, you lose your love, You cloak her face with clay; Now mine I never quite discern And never look away. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Witter Bynner 21 The Sea-Lands WOULD I were on the sea-lands, Where winds know how to sting; And in the rocks at midnight The lost long murmurs sing. THE GOLDEN TREASURY Would I were with my first love To hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door. My first love was a fair girl With ways forever new; And hair a sunlight yellow, And eyes a morning blue. The roses, have they tarried Or are they dun and frayed ? If we had stayed together, Would love, indeed, have stayed? Ah, years are filled with learning, And days are leaves of change! And I have met so many I knew . . . and found them strange. But on the sea-lands tumbled By winds that sting and blind, The nights we watched, so silent, Come back, come back to mind. I mind about my first love, And hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door. The Forum Orrick Johns OF MAGAZINE VERSE The New Platonist Circa 1640 OUR loves as flowers fall to dust; The noblest singing hath an end; No man to his own soul may trust, Nor to the kind arms of his friend; Yet have I glimpsed by lonely tree, Bright baths of immortality. My faultless teachers bid me fare The cypress path of blood and tears, Treading the thorny wold to where The painful Cross of Christ appears; T was on another, sunnier hill, I met you first, my miracle. The painted windows burn and flame Up through the music-haunted air; These were my gods and then you came, With flowers crowned and sun-kissed hair, Making this northern river seem Some laughter-girdled Grecian stream. When the fierce foeman of our race Marshals his lords of lust and pride, You spring within a moment s space, Full-armed and smiling to my side. O golden heart! The love you gave me, Alone has saved, and yet will save me. 33 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY Perchance we have no perfect city Beyond the wrack of these our wars, Till Death alone in sacred pity Wash with long sleep our wounds and scars; So much the more I praise in measure The generous gods for you, my treasure. The New Republic Cuthbert Wright 23 Emilia HALFWAY up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water s arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlot Farm. Sitting sewing by the western window As the too brief mountain sunshine flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes? When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the wildflowers pale plantation waves (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves), 34 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Falls forgotten, then, Emilia s needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain; And a rainbow Seems to brighten through the gusty rain. Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery, shifting wind; Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a kerchief pinned, Younger sister Of the damsel-errant Rosalind. When she helps to serve the harvest supper In the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall. Hark, Emilia! In her ear the airy voices call. Hidden papers in the dusky garret, Where her few and secret poems lie, Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankards Foaming cider in the glasses high. "Would she mingle with her young companions!" Vainly do her aunts and uncles say; Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away. Whither vanished? With what unimagined mates to play? 35 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange: Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change: Desdemona; Mariana of the Moated Grange. Up this valley to the fair and market When young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chanting In the meadows by the turnpike side; Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride. The Atlantic Monthly Sarah N. Cleghorn 24 The Interpreter IN the very early morning when the light was low, She got all ready and she went like snow, Like snow in the springtime on a sunny hill, And we were only frightened and can t think still. We can t think quite that the katydids and frogs And the little cheeping chickens and the little grunting hogs, And the other living things that she spoke for to us Have nothing more to tell her since it happened thus. She never is around for anyone to touch, But of ecstasy and longing she too knew much. . . . And always when anyone has time to call his own She. will come and be beside him as quiet as a stone. Contemporary Verse Orrick Johns 36 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 25 The Look STREPHON kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon s kiss was lost in jest, Robin s lost in play, But the kiss in Colin s eyes Haunts me night and day. Harper s Magazine Sara Teasdale 26 " Immortal Love" OTHOU who clothest thyself in mystic form, Color, and gleam, and lonely distances; Whose seat the majesty of ocean is, Shot o er with motions of the skyey storm! Thou with whose mortal breath the soul doth warm Her being, soaring to eternal bliss; Whose revelation unto us is this Dilated world, starred with its golden swarm! Thee rather in myself than heaven s vast light Flooding the daybreak, better I discern; The glorious morning makes all nature bright, But in the soul doth riot more, and burn; A thousand beauties rush upon my sight, But to the greater light within I turn. 37 THE GOLDEN TREASURY I know not who thou art to whom I pray, Or that indeed thou art, apart from me; A dweller in a lone eternity, Or a participant of my sad way. I only know that at the fall of day Fain would I in thy world companion thee; Upon the mystery of thy breast to be Unconscious, and within thy love to stay. I lose thee in the largeness when I think; And when again I feel, I find thee nigh; The more my mind goes out to nature s brink, The more thou art removed like the sky; But when concentrated in love I sink, Thou art my nucleus; there I live and die. in Immortal Love, too high for my possessing, Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose? Long in my youth I sang the morning rose, By earthly things the heavenly pattern guessing! Long fared I on, beauty and love caressing, And finding in my heart a place for those Eternal fugitives; the golden close Of evening folds me, still their sweetness blessing. O happy we, the first-born heirs of nature, For whom the Heavenly Sun delays his light! 38 OF MAGAZINE VERSE He by the sweets of every mortal creature Tempers eternal beauty to our sight; And by the glow upon love s earthly feature Maketh the path of our departure bright. Scribner s Magazine George Edward Woodberry 27 Peter Quince at the Clavier JUST as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna: Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. II In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. THE GOLDEN TREASURY She searched The touch of Springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody. Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering. A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned A cymbal crashed, And roaring horns. in Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines. They wondered why Susanna cried Against the elders by her side; 40 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And as they whispered, the refrain Was like a willow swept by rain. Anon, their lamps uplifted flame Revealed Susanna and her shame. And then, the simpering Byzantines, Fled, with a noise like tambourines. IV Beauty is momentary in the mind The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body s beauty lives, So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of Winter, done repenting. So maidens die, to the auroral Celebration of a maiden s choral. Susanna s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise. Others: A Magazine of the New Verse Wallace Stevens THE GOLDEN TREASURY 28 The Unknown Beloved I DREAMED I passed a doorway Where for a sign of death White ribbons one was binding About a flowery wreath. What drew me so I knew not, But drawing near I said, " Kind sir, and will you tell me Who is it here lies dead?" Said he, "Your most beloved Died here this very day, That had known twenty Aprils Had she but lived till May." Astonished I made answer, "Good sir, how say you so! Here have I no beloved, This house I do not know." Quoth he, "Who from the world s end Was destined unto thee Here lies, thy true beloved, Whom thou shalt never see." I dreamed I passed a doorway Where for a sign of death White ribbons one was binding About a flowery wreath. The Lyric John Hall Wheelock OF MAGAZINE VERSE 29 Patterns I WALK down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only a whale-bone and brocade. , And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. 43 pi THE GOLDEN TREASURY And the splashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon I am very like to swoon 44 OF MAGAZINE VERSE With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade. Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday sen night." As I read it in the white morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down. In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broken the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as lady, 45 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said. * Now he is dead. In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for? The Little Review Amy Lowell 30 Evensong This song is of no importance, I will only improvise; Yet, maybe, here and there, Suddenly from these sounds a chord will start And piercingly touch my heart. 46 OF MAGAZINE VERSE IN the pale mauve twilight, streaked with orange, Exquisitely sweet, She leaned upon her balcony and looked across the street; And across the huddled roofs of the misty city, Across the hills of tenements, so gray, She looked into the west with a young and infinite pity, With a young and wistful pity, as if to say The dark was coming, and irresistible night, Which man would attempt to meet With here and there a little flickering light. . . . The orange faded, the housetops all were black, And a strange and beautiful quiet Came unexpected, came exquisitely sweet, On market-place and street; And where were lately crowds and sounds and riot Was a gentle blowing of wind, a murmur of leaves, A single step, or voice, and under the eaves The scrambling of sparrows; and then the hush swept back. She leaned upon her balcony, in the darkness, Folding her hands beneath her chin; And watched the lamps begin Here and there to pierce like eyes the darkness, From windows, luminous rooms, And from the damp dark street Between the moving branches, and the leaves with rain still sweet. It was strange: the leaves thus seen, 47 p THE GOLDEN TREASURY With the lamplight s cold bright glare thrown up among them, The restless maple leaves, Twinkling their myriad shadows beneath the eaves, Were lovelier, almost, than with sunlight on them, So bright they were with young translucent green; Were lovelier, almost, than with moonlight on them. . . . And looking so wistfully across the city, With such a young, and wise, and infinite pity For the girl who had no lover To walk with her along a street like this, With slow steps in the rain, both aching for a kiss, It seemed as if all evenings were the same, As if all evenings came With just such tragic peacefulness as this; With just such hint of loneliness or pain, The quiet after rain. in Would her lover, then, grow old sooner than she, And find a night like this too damp to walk? Would he prefer to stay indoors and talk, Or read the evening paper, while she sewed, or darned a sock, And listened to the ticking of the clock: Would he prefer it to lamplight on a tree? Would he be old and tired, And, having all the comforts he desired, Take no interest in the twilight coming down So beautifully and quietly on the town ? Would her lover, then, grow old sooner than she? 48 OF MAGAZINE VERSE IV A neighbor started singing, singing a child to sleep. It was strange: a song thus heard, In the misty evening, after an afternoon of rain, Seemed more beautiful than happiness, more beautiful than pain, Seemed to escape the music and the word, Only, somehow, to keep A warmth that was lovelier than the song of any bird. Was it because it came up through this tree, Through the lucent leaves that twinkled on this tree, With the bright lamp there beneath them in the street? It was exquisitely sweet: So unaffected, so unconscious that it was heard. Or was it because she looked across the city, Across the hills of tenements, so black, And thought of all the mothers with a young and infinite pity? . . . The child had fallen asleep, the hush swept back, The leaves hung lifeless on the tree. It was too bad the sky was dark. A cat came slinking close along the wall. For the moon was full just now, and in the park, If the sky were clear at all, The lovers upon the moonlight grass would sprawl, And whisper in the shadows, and laugh, and there She would be going, maybe, with a white rose in her hair . . . But would youth at last grow weary of these things, 49 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Of the ribbons and the laces, And the latest way of putting up one s hair? Would she no longer care, In that undiscovered future of recurring springs, If, growing old and plain, she no longer turned the faces And saw the people stare? Would she hear music and not yearn To take her lover s arm for one more turn? . . . The leaves hung breathless on the dripping maple tree, The man across the street was going out. It was the evening made her think such things, no doubt. But would her lover grow old sooner than she? . . . Only the evening made her think such things, no doubt. . . . VI And yet, and yet, Seeing the tired city, and the trees so still and wet, It seemed as if all evenings were the same; As if all evenings came, Despite her smile at thinking of a kiss, With just such tragic peacefulness as this; With just such hint of loneliness or pain; The perfect quiet that comes after rain. The Poetry Review of America Conrad Aiken 31 Waiting I THOUGHT my heart would break Because the Spring was slow. I said, "How long young April sleeps Beneath the snow!" 5 OF MAGAZINE VERSE But when at last she came, And buds broke in the dew, I dreamed of my lost love, And my heart broke, too! Harper s Magazine Charles Hanson Towne 32 The Broken Field 1\ yf"Y soul is a dark ploughed field 1VJL In the cold rain; My soul is a broken field Ploughed by pain. Where windy grass and flowers Were growing, The field lies broken now For another sowing. Great Sower, when you tread My field again, Scatter the furrows there With better grain. The Yale Review Sara Teasdale 33 "Grandmither, Think not I Forget" /^RANDMITHER, think not I forget, when I come Vj back to town, An wander the old ways again an tread them up an down. I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. THE GOLDEN TREASURY I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap t is that I d change wi ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine. I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score, I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows an they beat the cold black air, They go seekin in the darkness, an they never find him there, As They never find him there. Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin full o love that must not shine for me. Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be red wi burnin thirst an he must never know. Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin in the night when I am sick wi fear; A-singing when the moonlight over a the land is white Aw God! I ll up an go to him a-singin in the night, A-callin in the night. OF MAGAZINE VERSE Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. It beats an throbs forever for the things that must not be,- An* can ye not let me creep in an* rest awhile by ye? A little lass afeard o dark slept by ye years agone Ah, she has found what night can hold twixt sunset an the dawn! So when I plant the rose an* rue above your grave for ye, Ye 11 know it s under rue an* rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be. McClurc s Magazine Willa Sibert Gather 34 Hungarian Love-Lament THEY say the cranes last night did cry Overhead. I did not hear them, For in a hut by Tisza s torrents My love lies dead. I heard the whinny of her milk-white steed Calling to her, That heard I. They say the oak-tree s leaves are sere What care I? I have some faded violets; Those I hold dear She gave them me. 53 THE GOLDEN TREASURY They say that Szolnok s field s afire; If so, I care not. That could not keep me from my love Were she not cold. Saw st Szolnok s flames? Oh, well, they could not warm me; My blood is chilled. They say three gypsies at the tavern Sang their songs. Let them sing! I could not dance I am too lonely for their minstrelsy. I wish my love might waken, But she cannot. Fresh violets she would bring me, But she will not. For cold in death she lies, by Tisza s torrents, And she ll not come again! She cannot. Let the wild cranes cry, far and high, Overhead. Lippincott s Magazine Ethel Syford Old Fairingdown SOFT as a treader on mosses I go through the village that sleeps; The village too early abed, For the night still shuffles, a gypsy, In the woods of the east, And the west remembers the sun. 54 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Not all are asleep; there are faces That lean from the walls of the gardens. Look sharply, or you will not see them, Or think them another stone in the wall. I spoke to a ston^, and it answered Like an aged rock that crumbles Each falling piece was a word. "Five have I buried," it said, "And seven are over the sea." Here is a hut that I pass, So lowly it has no brow, And dwarfs sit within at a table. A boy waits apart by the hearth; On his face is the patience of firelight, But his eyes seek the door and a far-world. It is not the call to the table he waits, But the call of the sea-rimmed forests, And cities that stir in a dream. I haste by the low-browed door, Lest my arms go in and betray me, A mother jealously passing. He will go, the pale dwarf, and walk tall among giants; The child with his eyes on the far land, And fame like a young curled leaf in his heart. The stream that darts from the hanging hill Like a silver wing that must sing as it flies, Is folded and still on the breast Of the village that sleeps. Each mute old house is more old than the other, And each wears its vines like ragged hair 55 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Round the half-blind windows. If a child should laugh, if a girl should sing, Would the houses rub the vines from their eyes, And listen and live? A voice comes now from a cottage, A voice that is young and must sing, A honeyed stab on the air, And the houses do not wake. I look through the leaf-blowsed window, And start as a gazer who, passing a death-vault, Sees Life sitting hopeful within. She is young, but a woman, round-breasted, Waiting the peril of Eve; And she makes the shadows about her sweet As the glooms that play in a pine-wood. She sits at a harpsichord (old as the walls are), And longing flows in the trickling, fairy notes Like a hidden brook in a forest Seeking and seeking the sun. I have watched a young tree on the edge of a wood When the mist is weaving and drifting; Slowly the boughs disappear, and the leaves reach out Like the drowning hands of children, Till a grey blur quivers cold Where the green grace drank of the sun. So now, as I gaze, the morrows Creep weaving and winding their mist Round the beauty of her who sings. They hide the soft rings of her hair, Dear as a child s curling fingers; 56 OF MAGAZINE VERSE They shut out the trembling sun of eyes That are deep as a bending mother s; And her bridal body is scarfed with their chill. For old, and old, is the story; Over and over I hear it, Over and over I listen to murmurs That are always the same in these towns that sleep; Where, grey and unwed, a woman passes, Her cramped, drab gown the bounds of a world She holds with grief and silence; And a gossip whose tongue alone is unwithered Mumbles the tale by her affable gate; How the lad must go, and the girl must stay, Singing alone to the years and a dream; Then a letter, a rumor, a word, From the land that reaches for lovers And gives them not back; And the maiden looks up with a face that is old; Her smile, as her body, is evermore barren; Her cheek like the bark of the beech-tree Where climbs the grey winter. Now have I seen her young, The lone girl singing, With the full, round breast and the berry lip, And heart that runs to a dawn-rise On new-world mountains. The weeping ash in the dooryard Gathers the song in its boughs, And the gown of dawn she will never wear. 57 THE GOLDEN TREASURY I can listen no more; good-by, little town, old Fairingdown. I climb the long, dark hill side, But the ache I have found here I cannot outclimb. O Heart, if we had not heard, if we did not know There is that in the village that never will sleep! Hampshire, England. Scribner s Magazine Olive Tilford Dargan 36 Motherhood MARY, the Christ long slain, passed silently, Following the children joyously astir Under the cedrus and the olive-tree, Pausing to let their laughter float to her. Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, She saw a little Christ in every face; When lo, another woman, gliding near, Yearned o er the tender life that filled the place. And Mary sought the woman s hand, and spoke: "I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost. " I, too, have rocked my little one, O, He was fair! Yea, fairer than the fairest sun, And like its rays through amber spun His sun-bright hair. Still I can see it shine and shine." "Even so," the woman said, "was mine." OF MAGAZINE VERSE "His ways were ever darling ways," And Mary smiled, "So soft, so clinging! Glad relays Of love were all His precious days. My little child! My infinite star! My music fled!" "Even so was mine," the woman said. Then whispered Mary: "Tell me, thou, Of thine." And she: "O, mine was rosy as a bough Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, To bloom for me! Jiis balmy fingers left a thrill Within my breast that warms me still." Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour, And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not: "Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?" "I am the mother of Iscariot." The North American Review Agnes Lee The Hill Wife LONELINESS (Her Word) ONE ought not to have to care So much as you and I Care when the birds come round the house To seem to say good-bye; 59 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Or care so much when they come back With whatever it is they sing; The truth being we are as much Too glad for the one thing As we are too sad for the other here With birds that fill their breasts But with each other and themselves And their built or driven nests. HOUSE FEAR Always I tell you this they learned Always at night when they returned To the lonely house from far away To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray, They learned to rattle the lock and key To give whatever might chance to be Warning and time to be off in flight: And preferring the out- to the in-door night, They learned to leave the house-door wide Until they had lit the lamp inside. THE SMILE (Her Word) I did n t like the way he went away. That smile! It never came of being gay. Still he smiled did you see him? I was sure! Perhaps because we gave him only bread And the wretch knew from that that we were poor. Perhaps because he let us give instead 60 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Of seizing from us as he might have seized. Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed, Or being very young (and he was pleased) To have a vision of us old and dead). I wonder how far down the road he s got. He s watching from the woods as like as not. THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM She had no saying dark enough For the dark pine that kept Forever trying the window-latch Of the room where they slept. The tireless but ineffectual hands That with every futile pass Made the great tree seem as a little bird Before the mystery of glass! It never had been inside the room, And only one of the two Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream Of what the tree might do. THE IMPULSE It was too lonely for her there, And too wild, And since there were but two of them, And no child, And work was little in the house, She was free, And followed where he furrowed field, Or felled tree. 61 THE GOLDEN TREASURY She rested on a log and tossed The fresh chips, With a song only to herself On her lips. And once she went to break a bough Of black alder. She strayed so far she scarcely heard When he called her - And did n t answer did n t speak Or return. She stood, and then she ran and hid In the fern. He never found her, though he looked Everywhere, And he asked at her mother s house Was she there. Sudden and swift and light as that The ties gave, And he learned of finalities Beside the grave. The Yale Review Robert Frost 38 The Wife HE sees the wife, from slim young comeliness, With bearing of his children and their care, Grow stooped and withered, and the shining hair That was his pride grow thin and lustreless; OF MAGAZINE VERSE Day after day, with wordless, pained distress, He strives to ease the load her shoulders bear, Lifting a burden here, a burden there, Or offering some clumsy, rare caress. But ah! her girl-face never was so fair, And eyes and lips that answered his desire, Are limned with sacred meaning to him now; To his rapt sight, an angel might aspire To claim the stature of her soul, or wear The halo that surrounds her mother-brow. The Delineator Anna Spencer Twitchell 39 Needle Travel I SIT at home and sew, I ply my needle and thread, But the trip around the garment s hem Is not the path I tread; My stitches neat, With their rhythmic beat, Keep time to very different feet, On a different journey sped. Now, glad heart Tip-toe, tip-toe, They must not hear you, They must not know,. They must not follow where you go. 63 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Bare, brown feet on the dusty road, Unbound body free of its load, Limbs that need no stinging goad Step, step out on the dusty road. Friends to greet on the jolly road, Lopeing rabbit, and squatting toad, Beetle, trundling along with your load; Hey, little friends, Good-day, good-morrow, You see me to-day, You forget me to-morrow. Time to chase you across the road, Lopeing rabbit, and poke you, toad, Upset you, beetle with your load; Hey, little friends, Good-day. Bare, brown feet in the shelving pool, Unbound body, relaxed and cool, Limbs lying bare and beautiful; Hey, green pool, Good-day, good-morrow, You hold me to-day, You forget me to-morrow. Time to float in you, rapt and cool, Swim the rapids above you, pool, Dive in your waters bountiful; Hey, sweet friend, Good-day. OF MAGAZINE VERSE I sit at home and sew, I ply my needle and thread, But the trip around the garment s hem Is not the path I tread. The Masses Margaret French Potion 40 Cradle Song LORD GABRIEL, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy s Cheek lies heavy as a rose, .And his eyelids close? Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfully I 11 undo, for thee alone, From his mother s own. Then the far blue highways paven With the burning stars of heaven He shall gladden with the sweet Hasting of his feet Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool; From a little laughing boy Splashing rainbow joy! Gabriel, wilt thou understand How to keep his hovering hand ? Never shut, as in a bond From the bright beyond: THE GOLDEN TREASURY Nay, but though it cling and close Tightly as a climbing rose, Clasp it only so, aright, Lest his heart take fright. (Dormi, dormi, tu: The dusk is hung with blue.} Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoice When at last a little boy s Heart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him unto thee? Wilt thou heed thine armor well, To take his hand from Gabriel So his radiant cup of dream May not spill a gleam? He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o er thy breastplate, all Colors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each. (Dormi, dormi tu. Sapphire is the blue; Pearl and beryl, they are called, Chrysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst. .Numbered so, and kissed.} 66 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Ah, but find some angel word For thy sharp, subduing sword! Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubt He will find it out: (Dormi) dormi tu!) His eyes will look at you. in Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy place Where Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers sake. Bosomed with the Blessed One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms, In her shrining arms. (In her veil of blue, Dormi) dormi tu.) So; and fare thee well. Softly, Gabriel . . . When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home, For the bright World s sake, To my heart, awake. Scribners Magazine Josephine Preston Peabody THE GOLDEN TREASURY 41 The Bacchante to her Babe Scherzo E, sprite, and dance! The sun is up, The wind runs laughing down the sky That brims with morning like a cup. Sprite, we must race him, We must chase him You and I! And skim across the fuzzy heather You and joy and I together Whirling by! You merry little roll of fat! Made warm to kiss, and smooth to pat, And round to toy with, like a cub; To put one s nozzle in and rub And breathe you in like breath of kine, Like juice of vine, That sets my morning heart a-tingling, Dancing, jingling, All the glad abandon mingling Of wind and wine! Sprite, you are love, and you are joy, A happiness, a dream, a toy, A god to laugh with, Love to chaff with, The sun come down in tangled gold, The moon to kiss, and spring to hold. 68 OF MAGAZINE VERSE There was a time once, long ago, Long oh, long since ... I scarcely know. Almost I had forgot . . . There was a time when you were not, You merry sprite, save as a strain, The strange dull pain Of green buds swelling In warm, straight dwelling That must burst to the April rain. A little heavy I was then And dull and glad to rest. And when The travail came In searing flame . . . But, sprite, that was so long ago! A century! I scarcely know. Almost I had forgot When you were not. So, little sprite, come dance with me! The sun is up, the wind is free! Come now and trip it, Romp and skip it, Earth is young and so are we. Sprite, you and I will dance together On the heather, Glad with all the procreant earth, With all the fruitage of the trees, And golden pollen on the breeze, W 7 ith plants that bring the grain to birth, With beast and bird, Feathered and furred, With youth and hope and life and love, 69 pj THE GOLDEN TREASURY And joy thereof While we are part of all, we two For my glad burgeoning in you! So, merry little roll of fat, Made warm to kiss and smooth to pat And round to toy with, like a cub, To put one s nozzle in and rub, My god to laugh with, Love to chaff with, Come and dance beneath the sky, You and I! Look out with those round wondering eyes, And squirm, and gurgle and grow wise! Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Eunice Tietjens 42 The Son (Southern Ohio Market Town) I HEARD an old farm-wife, Selling some barley, Mingle her life with life And the name "Charley." Saying: "The crop s all in, We re about through now; Long nights will soon begin, We re just us two now. 70 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Twelve bushel at sixty cents, It s all I carried He sickened making fence; He was to be married "It feels like frost was near His hair was curly. The spring was late that year. But the harvest early." The New Republic Ridgely Torre net 43 With Cassock Black, Baret and Book WITH cassock black, baret and book, Father Saran goes by; I think he goes to say a prayer For one who has to die. Even so, some day, Father Saran May say a prayer for me; Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells, Should pray unceasingly. They kneel who pray: how may I kneel Who face to ceiling lie, Shut out by all that man has made From God who made the sky? They lift who pray the low earth-born A humble heart to God: But O, my heart of clay is proud -- True sister to the sod. THE GOLDEN TREASURY I look into the face of God, They say bends over me; I search the dark, dark face of God O what is it I see? I see who lie fast bound, who may Not kneel, who can but seek I see mine own face over me, With tears upon its cheek. The Atlantic Monthly Grace Fallow Norton 44 Moods AN ASTRONOMER ON a lone hillside A Navajo shepherd Wrapt in his blanket, Hugged his knees, Dreamed into the night A wisp of a crescent, A sky full of stars In his thought He was asking: "Do my lanterns Shine up to the stars?" ii A VASE OF CHINESE IVORY In the museum It had no name: 72 OF MAGAZINE VERSE It was only the life work Of one almond-eyed heathen Just one of a million! Look closer And you will see A soul, Unique and beautiful. ill MESSAGES He plodded along The deep-rutted road, The old farmer, Face as red as sumach, Wind-colored; Happy. The bee-drone hum Of wires overhead Was song and laughter to him, Yet the wires were laden With messages of strife, and sorrow, and sin. IV THE HEIGHTS Alone, On a high mountain trail, I drew strength from the sky; My thoughts went out Like my shadow at sunset: I grew great as my shadow at sunset. 73 THE GOLDEN TREASURY SOLITUDE Youth! If there be madness In your soul, Go to the mountain solitudes Where you can grow up To your madness. The Little Review David O Neil 45 Cinquains TRIAD THESE be Three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead. MOON-SHADOWS Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead. 74 OF MAGAZINE VERSE in SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS "Why do You thus devise Evil against her?" "For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore." IV NIGHT WINDS The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep? v AMAZE I know Not these hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these. VI THE WARNING Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk ... as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. . . . Why am I grown So cold? Others: A Magazine of the New Verse Adelaide Crapsey 7S THE GOLDEN TREASURY 46 The Regents Examination TV /TUFFLED sounds of the city climbing to me at the 1VA window, Here in the summer noon-tide students busily writing, Children of quaint-clad immigrants, fresh from the hut and the Ghetto, Writing of pious ^Eneas and funeral rites of Anchises. Old-World credo and custom, alien accents and features, Plunged in the free-school hopper, grist for the Anglo- Saxons Old-World sweetness and light, and fiery struggle of heroes, Flashed on the blinking peasants, dull with the grime of their bondage! Race that are infant in knowledge, ancient in grief and traditions Lore that is tranquil with age and starry with gleams of the future What is the thing that will come from the might of the elements blending? Neuter and safe shall it be? Or a flame to burst us asunder? Scribners Magazine Jessie Wallace Hughan 47 Train-Mates OUTSIDE hove Shasta, snowy height on height, A glory; but a negligible sight, For you had often seen a mountain-peak But not my paper. So we came to speak. , 76 OF MAGAZINE VERSE A smoke, a smile, a good way to commence The comfortable exchange of difference! You a young engineer, five feet eleven, Forty-five chest, with football in your heaven, Liking a road-bed newly built and clean, Your fingers hot to cut away the green Of brush and flowers that bring beside a track The kind of beauty steel lines ought to lack, And I a poet, wistful of my betters, Reading George Meredith s high-hearted letters, Joining betweenwhile in the mingled speech Of a drummer, circus-man, and parson, each Absorbing to himself as I to me And you to you a glad identity! After a time, when the others went away, A curious kinship made us choose to stay, Which I could tell you now; but at the time You thought of baseball teams and I of rhyme, Until we found that we were college men And smoked more easily and smiled again; And I from Cambridge cried, the poet still: "I know your fine Greek Theatre on the hill At Berkeley!" With your happy Grecian head Upraised, "I never saw the place," you said. "Once I was free of class, I always went Out to the field." Young engineer, you meant As fair a tribute to the better part As ever I did. Beauty of the heart Is evident in temples. But it breathes Alive where athletes quicken curly wreaths, 77 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Which are the lovelier because they die. You are a poet quite as much as I, Though differences appear in what we do, And I am athlete quite as much as you. Because you half-surmised my quarter-mile And I your quatrain, we could greet and smile. Who knows but we shall look again and find The circus-man and drummer, not behind But leading in our visible estate, As discus-thrower and as laureate? The Yale Review Witter Bynner 48 Thanksgiving for our Task THE sickle is dulled of the reaping and the threshing- floor is bare; The dust of night s in the air. The peace of the weary is ours: All day we have taken the fruit and the grain and the seeds of the flowers. The ev ning is chill, It is good now to gather in peace by the flames of the fire. We have done now the deed that we did for our need and desire: We have wrought our will. And now for the boon of abundance and golden increase, And immured peace, Shall we thank our God? Bethink us, amid His indulgence, His terrible rod? 78 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Shall we be as the maple and oak, Strew the earth with our gold, giving only bare boughs to the sky? Nay, the pine stayeth green while the Winter growls sullenly by, And doth not revoke For soft days or stern days the pledge of its constancy. Shall we not be Also the same through all days, Giving thanks when the battle breaks on us, in toil giving praise? O Father who saw at the dawn, That the folly of Pride would be the lush weed of our sin, There is better than that in our hearts, O enter therein, A light burneth, though wan And weak be the flame, yet it gloweth, our Humility! Ah, how can it be Trimmed o the wick, And replenished with oil to burn brightly and golden and quick? For deep in our hearts We wish to be thankful through lean years and fat with out change, Knowing that here Thou hast set for the spirit a range: We would play well our parts, Making America throb with the building of souls and the glory of good; Yea, and we would, 79 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And before the last Autumn we will Build a temple from ocean to ocean where deeds never still Melodiously shall proclaim Thanksgiving forever that Thou hast set here to our hand So wondrous a mystical harvest, that Thou dost demand Sheaves bound in Thy name, Yea, supersubstantial sheaves of strong souls that have grown Fain to be known As the corn of Thine Occident field: O Yielder of All, can America worthily thank Thee till such be her yield? In the mellowing light Of the goldenest days that precede the gray days of the year, We sing Thee our harvesting song and we pray Thee to hear, In the midst of Thy might: Labor is given to us, Let us give thanks! Power worketh through us, Let us give thanks! Not for what we have (So might speak a slave), Not for the garnering, Gratefully we sing, But for the mighty thing We must do, travailing! OF MAGAZINE VERSE For our task and for our strength; For the journey and its length; For our dauntless eagerness; For our humbling weariness; For these, for these, O Father, Let us give thanks! For these, O Mighty Father, Take Thou our thanks! The Forum Shaemas Shefl 49 School OLD Hezekiah leaned hard on his hoe And squinted long at Eben, his lank son. The silence shrilled with crickets. Day was done, And, row on dusky row, Tall bean poles ribbed with dark the gold-bright after glow. Eben stood staring: ever, one by one, The tendril tops turned ashen as they flared. Still Eben stared. Oh, there is wonder on New Hampshire hills, Hoeing the warm bright furrows of brown earth, And there is grandeur in the stone wall s birth, And in the sweat that spills From rugged toil its sweetness; yet for wild young wills There is no dew of wonder, but stark dearth, In one old man who hoes his long bean rows, And only hoes. 81 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Old Hezekiah turned slow on his heel. He touched his son. Through all the carking day There are so many littlish cares to weigh Large natures down, and steel The heart of understanding. "Son, how is t ye feel? What are ye starin on a gal?" A ray Flushed Eben from the fading afterglow: He dropped his hoe. He dropped his hoe, but sudden stooped again And raised it where it fell. Nothing he spoke, But bent his knee and crack! the handle broke, Splintering. With glare of pain, He flung the pieces down, and stamped upon them; then Like one who leaps out naked from his cloak Ran. "Here, come back! Where are ye bound you fool?" He cried "To school!" ii Now on the mountain Morning laughed with light With light and all the future in her face, For there she looked on many a far-off-place And wild adventurous sight, For which the mad young autumn wind hallooed with might And dared the roaring mill-brook to the race, Where blue-jays screamed beyond the pine-dark pool "To school! To school!" 82 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Blackcoated, Eben took the barefoot trail, Holding with wary hand his Sunday boots; Harsh catbirds mocked his whistling with their hoots; Under his swallowtail Against his hip-strap bumping, clinked his dinner pail; Frost maples flamed, lone thrushes touched their lutes; Gray squirrels bobbed, with tails stiff curved to backs, To eye his tracks. Soon at the lonely crossroads he passed by The little one-room schoolhouse. He peered in. There stood the bench where he had often been Admonished flagrantly To drone his numbers: Now to this he said good-bye For mightier lure of more romantic scene: Goodbye to childish rule and homely chore Forevermore! All day he hastened like the flying cloud Breathless above him, big with dreams, yet dumb. With tightened jaw he chewed the tart spruce gum, And muttered half aloud Huge oracles. At last, where through the pine-tops bowed The sun, it rose! His heart beat like a drum. There, there it rose his tower of prophecy: The Academy! in They learn to live who learn to contemplate, For contemplation is the unconfined God who creates us. To the growing mind Freedom to think is fate, 83 p THE GOLDEN TREASURY And all that age and after-knowledge augurate Lies in a little dream of youth enshrined: That dream to nourish with the skilful rule Of love is school. Eben, in mystic tumult of his teens, Stood bursting like a ripe seed into soul. All his life long he had watched the great hills roll Their shadows, tints and sheens By sun- and moon-rise; yet the bane of hoeing beans, And round of joyless chores, his father s toll, Blotted their beauty; nature was as not: He had never thought. But now he climbed his boyhood s castle tower And knocked: Ah, well then for his after-fate That one of nature s masters opened the gate, Where like an April shower Live influence quickened all his earth-blind seed to power. Strangely his sense of truth grew passionate, And like a young bull, led in yoke to drink, He bowed to think. There also bowed their heads with him to quaff The snorting herd! And many a wholesome grip He had of rivalry and fellowship. Often the game was rough, But Eben tossed his horns and never called it off; For still through play and task his Dream would slip A radiant Herdsman, guiding destiny To his degree. 84 OF MAGAZINE VERSE IV Once more old Hezekiah stayed his hoe To squint at Eben. Silent, Eben scanned A little roll of sheepskin in his hand, While, row on dusky row, Tall bean poles ribbed with dark the gold-bright after glow. The boy looked up: Here was another land! Mountain and farm with mystic beauty flared Where Eben stared. Stooping, he lifted with a furtive smile Two splintered sticks, and spliced them. Nevermore His spirit would go beastwise to his chore Blinded, for even while He stooped to the old task, sudden in the sunset s pile His radiant Herdsman swung a fiery door, Through which came forth with far-borne trumpetings Poets and kings, His fellow conquerors: there Virgil dreamed, There Caesar fought and won the barbarous tribes, There Darwin, pensive, bore the ignorant gibes, And One with thorns redeemed From malice the wild hearts of men: there flared and gleamed With chemic fire the forges of old scribes, Testing anew the crucibles of toil To save God s soil. So Eben turned again to hoe his beans, But now, to ballads which his Herdsman sung, 85 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Henceforth he hoed the dream in with the dung, And for his ancient spleens Planting new joys, imagination found him means. At last old Hezekiah loosed his tongue: "Well, boy, this school what has it learned ye to know?" He said: "To hoe." The Forum Percy MacKaye 50 Yankee Doodle [This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington s Birthday.l DAWN this morning burned all red Watching them in wonder. There I saw our spangled flag Divide the clouds asunder. Then there followed Washington. Ah, he rode from glory, Cold and mighty as his name And stern as Freedom s story. Unsubdued by burning dawn Led his continentals. Vast they were, and strange to see In gray old regimentals: Marching still with bleeding feet, Bleeding feet and jesting Marching from the judgment throne With energy unresting. 86 OF MAGAZINE VERSE How their merry quickstep played Silver, sharp, sonorous, Piercing through with prophecy The demons rumbling chorus Behold the ancient powers of sin And slavery before them! Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, The pit-black clouds hung o er them. Plagues that rose to blast the day Fiend and tiger faces, Monsters plotting bloodshed for The patient toiling races. Round the dawn their cannon raged, Hurling bolts of thunder, Yet before our spangled flag Their host was cut asunder. Like a mist they fled away . . . Ended wrath and roaring. Still our restless soldier-host From East to West went pouring. High beside the sun of noon They bore our banner splendid. All its days of stain and shame And heaviness were ended. Men were swelling now the throng From great and lowly station Valiant citizens to-day Of every tribe and nation. Not till night their rear-guard came, Down the west went marching, And left behind the sunset-rays IP THE GOLDEN TREASURY In beauty overarching. War-god banners lead us still, Rob, enslave and harry Let us rather choose to-day The flag the angels carry Flag we love, but brighter far Soul of it made splendid: Let its days of stain and shame And heaviness be ended. Let its fifes fill all the sky, Redeemed souls marching after, Hills and mountains shake with song, While seas roll on in laughter. The Metropolitan Magazine Vachel Lindsay Cassandra I HEARD one who said: "Verily, What word have I for children here? Your Dollar is your only Word, The wrath of it your only fear. "You built it altars tall enough To make you see, but you are blind; You cannot leave it long enough To look before you or behind. "When Reason beckons you to pause, You laugh and say that you know best; But what it is you know, you keep As dark as ingots in a chest. OF MAGAZINE VERSE "You laugh and answer, We are young; O leave us now, and let us grow. Not asking how much more of this Will Time endure or Fate bestow. "Because a few complacent years Have made your peril of your pride, Think you that you are to go on Forever pampered and untried? "What lost eclipse of history, What bivouac of the marching stars, Has given the sign for you to see Millenniums and last great wars? "What unrecorded overthrow Of all the world has ever known, Or ever been, has made itself So plain to you, and you alone? "Your Dollar, Dove, and Eagle make A Trinity that even you Rate higher than you rate yourselves; It pays, it flatters, and it s new. "And though your very flesh and blood Be what your Eagle eats and drinks, You ll praise him for the best of birds, Not knowing what the Eagle thinks. "The power is yours, but not the sight; You see not upon what you tread; You have the ages for your guide, But not the wisdom to be led. 89 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "Think you to tread forever down The merciless old verities? And are you never to have eyes To see the world for what it is? "Are you to pay for what you have With all you are?" No other word We caught, but with a laughing crowd Moved on. None heeded, and few heard. The Boston Transcript Edwin Arlington Robinson 52 The Bonfire OH, let s go up the hill and scare ourselves, As reckless as the best of them to-night, By setting fire to all the brush we piled With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow. Oh, let s not wait for rain to make it safe. The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough Down dark converging paths between the pines. Let s not care what we do with it to-night. Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile The way we piled it. And let s be the talk Of people brought to windows by a light Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper. Rouse them all, both the free and not so free With saying what they d like to do to us For what they d better wait till we have done. 90 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Let s all but bring to life this old volcano, If that is what the mountain ever was And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will . . ." "And scare you too?" the children said together. "Why would n t it scare me to have a fire Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know That still, if I repent, I may recall it, But in a moment not: a little spurt Of burning fatness, and then nothing but The fire itself can put it out, and that By burning out, and before it burns out It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars And sweeping round it with a flaming sword, Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle Done so much and I know not how much more I mean it shall not do if I can bind it. Well if it does n t with its draft bring on A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter, As once it did with me upon an April. The breezes were so spent with winter blowing They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them Short of the perch their languid flight was toward; And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven As I walked once round it in possession. But the wind out of doors you know the saying. There came a gust. You used to think the trees Made wind by fanning since you never knew It blow but that you saw the trees in motion. Something or someone watching made that gust. It put that flame tip-down and dabbed the grass Of over-winter with the least tip-touch 91 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand. The place it reached to blackened instantly. The black was all there was by day-light, That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke And a flame slender as the hepaticas, Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now. But the black spread like black death on the ground, And I think the sky darkened with a cloud Like winter and evening coming on together. There wer- enough things to be thought of then. Where the field stretches toward the north And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it To flames without twice thinking, where it verges Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear They might find fuel there, in withered brake, Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod, And alder and grape vine entanglement, To leap the dusty deadline. For my own I took what front there was beside. I knelt And thrust hands in and held my face away. Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating. A board is the best weapon if you have it. I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew, And said out loud, I could n t bide the smother And heat so close in; but the thought of all The woods and town on fire by me, and all The town turned out to fight for me that held me. I trusted the brook barrier, but feared The road would fail; and on that side the fire Died not without a noise of crackling wood Of something more than tinder grass or weed That brought me to my feet to hold it back 92 OF MAGAZINE VERSE By leaning back myself, as if the reins Were round my neck and I was at the plough. I won! But I m sure no one ever spread Another color over a tenth the space That I spread coal black over in the time It took me. Neighbors coming home from town Could n t believe that so much black had come there While they had backs turned, that it had n t been there When they had passed an hour or so before Going the other way and they not seen it. They looked about for someone to have done it. But there was no one. I was somewhere wondering Where all my weariness had gone and why I walked so light on air in heavy shoes In spite of a scorched Fourth of July feeling. Why should n t I be scared remembering that?" "If it scares you, what will it do to us?" "Scare you. But if you shrink from being scared, What would you say to war if it should come? That s what for reasons I should like to know If you can comfort me by any answer." "Oh, but war s not for children it s for men." "Now we are digging almost down to China. My dears, my dears, you thought that we all thought it. So your mistake was ours. Have n t you heard, though, About the ships where war has found them out At sea, about the towns where war has come 93 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY Through opening clouds at night with droning speed Further o erhead than all but stars and angels, And children in the ships and in the towns? Have n t you heard what we have lived to learn? Nothing so new something we had forgotten: War is for everyone, for children too. I was n t going to tell you, and I must n t. The best way is to come up hill with me And have our fire and laugh and be afraid." The Seven Arts Robert Frost 53 Harvest-Moon: 1914 OVER the twilight field, The overflowing field, Over the glimmering field, And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman men had called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon. And one, the Harvest-Moon, Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: OF MAGAZINE VERSE "But we were crazed . . . We should laugh now together, I and you, We two. You, for your ever dreaming it was worth A star s while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind, Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind! Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men, For men to slay again: Lorcfing it over anguish but to give My life that men might live For this. You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, Yes, so we named you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men." Over the field, that there Gave back the skies A scattered upward stare From blank white eyes, The furrowed field that lay Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way The Harvest-Moon. The Boston Transcript Josephine Preston Peabody 95 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 54 The Chinese Nightingale A Song in Chinese Tapestries Dedicated to S. T. F. HOW, how," he said. "Friend Chang," I said, "San Francisco sleeps as the dead Ended license, lust and play: Why do you iron the night away? Your big clock speaks with a deadly sound, With a tick and a wail till dawn comes round. While the monster shadows glower and creep, What can be better for man than sleep?" "I will tell you a secret," Chang replied; "My breast with vision is satisfied, And I see green trees and fluttering wings, And my deathless bird from Shanghai sings." Then he lit five fire-crackers in a pan. "Pop, pop!" said the fire-crackers, "cra-cra-crack!" He lit a joss-stick long and black. Then the proud gray joss in the corner stirred; On his wrist appeared a gray small bird: And this was the song of the gray small bird: "Where is the princess, loved forever, Who made Chang first of the kings of men?" And the joss in the corner stirred again; And the carved dog, curled in his arms, awoke, Barked forth a smoke-cloud that whirled and broke. 96 OF MAGAZINE VERSE It piled in a maze round the ironing-place, And there on the snowy table wide Stood a Chinese lady of high degree, With a scornful, witching, tea-rose face . . . Yet she put away all form and pride, And laid her glimmering veil aside With a childlike smile for Chang and for me. The walls fell back, night was aflower, The table gleamed in a moonlit bower, While Chang, with a countenance carved of stone, Ironed and ironed, all alone. And thus she sang to the busy man Chang: "Have you forgotten . . . Deep in the ages, long, long ago, I was your sweetheart, there on the sand Storm-worn beach of the Chinese land? We sold our grain in the peacock town Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown . . . "When all the world was drinking blood From the skulls of men and bulls, And all the world had swords and clubs of stone, We drank our tea in China, beneath the sacred spice-trees, And heard the curled waves of the harbor moan. And this gray bird, in Love s first spring, With a bright bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Do you remember, ages after, At last the world we were born to own ? You were the heir of the yellow throne 97 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The world was the field of the Chinese man And we were the pride of the sons of Han. We copied deep books, and we carved in jade, And wove white silks in the mulberry shade." . "I remember, I remember That Spring came on forever, That Spring came on forever." Said the Chinese nightingale. My heart was filled with marvel and dream Though I saw the western street-lamps gleam, Though dawn was bringing the western day, Though Chang was a laundryman, ironing away Mingled there, with the streets and alleys, The railroad-yard, and the clock-tower bright, Demon-clouds crossed ancient valleys; Across wide lotos-ponds of light I marked a giants firefly s flight. And the lady, rosy-red, Opened her fan, closed her fan, Stretched her hand toward Chang, and said: "Do you remember, Ages after, Our palace of heart-red stone? Do you remember The little doll-faced children With their lanterns full of moon-fire, That came from all the empire Honoring the throne? The loveliest fete and carnival Our world had ever known? 98 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The sages sat about us With their heads bowed in their beards, With proper meditation on the sight. Confucius was not born; We lived in those great days Confucius later said were lived aright . . . And this gray bird, on that day of Spring, With a bright-bronze breast, and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Late at night his tune was spent. Peasants, Sages, Children, Homeward went, And then the bronze bird sang for you and me. We walked alone, our hearts were high and free. I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name do you remember The name you cried beside the tumbling sea?" Chang turned not to the lady slim He bent to his work, ironing away; But she was arch and knowing and glowing. And the bird on his shoulder spoke for him. "Darling . . . darling . . . darling . . . darling . . Said the Chinese nightingale. The great gray joss on a rustic shelf, Rakish and shrewd, with his collar awry, Sang impolitely, as though by himself, Drowning with his bellowing the nightingale s cry: 99 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Back through a hundred, hundred years ear the waves as they climb the piers, Hear the howl of the silver seas, Hear the thunder! Hear the gongs of holy China How the waves and tunes combine In a rhythmic clashing wonder, Incantation old and fine: Dragons, dragons, Chinese dragons; Red fire-crackers, and green fire-crackers, And dtagons, dragons, Chinese dragons. " Then the lady, rosy-red, Turned to her lover Chang and said: "Dare you forget that turquoise dawn When we stood on our mist-hung velvet lawn, And worked a spell this great joss taught Till a God of the Dragons was charmed and caught? From the flag high over our palace-home He flew to our feet in rainbow-foam A king of beauty and tempest and thunder Panting to tear our sorrows asunder, We mounted the back of that royal slave With thoughts of desire that were noble and grave. "We swam down the shore to the dragon-mountains We whirled to the peaks and the fiery fountains. To our secret ivory house we were borne. We looked down the wonderful wing-filled regions Where the dragons darted in glimmering legions. Right by my breast the nightingale sang; 100 OF MAGAZINE VERSfe The old rhymes rang in the sunlit mist That we this hour regain Song-fire for the brain. When my hands and my hair and my feet you kissed, When you cried for your heart s new pain, What was my name in the dragon-mist, In the rings of the rainbowed rain?" "Sorrow and love, glory and love," Said the Chinese nightingale. "Sorrow and love, glory and love," Said the Chinese nightingale. And now the joss broke in with his song: "Dying ember, bird of Chang, Soul of Chang, do you remember? Ere you returned to the shining harbor There were pirates by ten thousand Descended on the town In vessels mountain-high and red and brown, Moon-ships that climbed the storms and cut the skies. On their prows were painted terrible bright eyes. But I was then a wizard and a scholar and a priest; I stood upon the sand; With lifted hand I looked upon them And sunk their vessels with my wizard eyes, And the stately lacquer-gate made safe again. Deep, deep below the bay, the sea-weed and the spray, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies." Then this did the noble lady say: 101 THE GOLDEN TREASURY " Bird, do you dream of our home-coming day When you flew like a courier on before From the dragon-peak to our palace-door, And we drove the steed in your singing path The ramping dragon of laughter and wrath; And found our city all aglow, And knighted this joss that decked it so? There were golden fishes in the purple river And silver fishes and rainbow fishes. There were golden junks in the laughing river, And. silver junks and rainbow junks: There were golden lilies by the bay and river, And silver-lilies and tiger-lilies, And tinkling wind-bells in the gardens of the town By the black lacquer-gate Where walked in state The kind king Chang And his sweetheart mate . . . With his flag-born dragon And his crown of pearl . . . and . . . jade; And his nightingale reigning in the mulberry shade, And sailors and soldiers on the sea-sands brown, And priests who bowed them down to your song By the city called Han, the peacock town, By the city called Han, the nightingale town, The nightingale town." Then sang the bird, so strangely gay, Fluttering, fluttering, ghostly and gray, A vague, unravelling, answering tune, Like a long unwinding silk cocoon; Sang as though for the soul of him Who ironed away in that bower dim: 102 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "I have forgotten Your dragons great, Merry and mad and friendly and bold. Dim is your proud lost palace-gate. I vaguely know There were heroes of old, Troubles more than the heart could hold, There were wolves in the woods Yet lambs in the fold, Nests in the top of the almond tree . . . The evergreen tree . . . and the mulberry tree Life and hurry and joy forgotten Years on years I but half-remember . . . Man is a torch, then ashes soon, May and June, then dead December, Dead December, then again June. Who shall end my dream s confusion? Life is a loom, weaving illusion . . . I remember, I remember There were ghostly veils and laces . . . In the shadowy, bowery places . . . With lovers ardent faces Bending to one another, Speaking each his part. They infinitely echo In the red cave of my heart. * Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart! They said to one another. They spoke, I- think, of perils past. They spoke, I think, of peace at last. One thing I remember: Spring came on forever, 103 .THE GOLDEN TREASURY Spring came on forever," Said the Chinese nightingale. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Vachel Lindsay 55 He whom a Dream hath Possessed HE whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no mo of doubting, For a mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing < words he scorns; Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knight shouting, And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a mi lion morns. He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more roaming; All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest fligl he knows, But wherever his feet are s~t, his soul is forever homing And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call ar goes. He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more sorrow, At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading suns he smiles, For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire a morrow, And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultima isles. 104 OF MAGAZINE VERSE He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches, From the dust of the day s long road he leaps to a laugh ing star, And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches, And rides God s battlefield in a flashing and golden car. The Forum Shaemas Sheet 6 The King of Dreams SOME must delve when the dawn is nigh; Some must moil when the noonday beams; But when the night comes, and soft winds sigh, Every man is a King of Dreams! One must plod while another must ply At plow or loom till the sunset streams, But when night comes, and the moon rides high, Every man is a King of Dreams! One is slave to a master s cry, Another serf to a despot seems, But when night comes, and the discords die, Every man is a King of Dreams! This you may sell and that may buy, And this you may barter for gold that gleams, But there s one domain that is fixed for aye, Every man is a King of Dreams! Lippincott s Magazine Clinton Scollard 105 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 57 Flammonde THE man Flammonde, from God knows where, With firm address and foreign air, With news of nations in his talk And something royal in his walk, With glint of iron in his eyes, But never doubt, nor yet surprise, Appeared, and stayed, and held his head As one by kings accredited. Erect, with his alert repose About him, and about his clothes, He pictured all tradition hears Of what we owe to fifty years. His cleansing heritage of taste Paraded neither want nor waste; And what he needed for his fee To live, he borrowed graciously. He never told us what he was, Or what mischance, or other cause, Had banished him from better days To play the Prince of Castaways. Meanwhile he played surpassing well A part, for most, unplayable; In fine, one pauses, half afraid To say for certain that he played. For that, one may as well forego Conviction as to yes or no; 106 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Nor can I say just how intense Would then have been the difference To several, who, having striven In vain to get what he was given, Would see the stranger taken on By friends not easy to be won. Moreover, many a malcontent He soothed and found munificent; His courtesy beguiled and foiled Suspicion that his years were soiled; His mien distinguished any crowd, His credit strengthened when he bowed; And women, young and old, were fond Of looking at the man Flammonde. There was a woman in our town On whom the fashion was to frown; But while our talk renewed the tinge Of a long-faded scarlet fringe, The man Flammonde saw none of that, But what he saw we wondered at That none of us, in her distress, Could hide or find our littleness. There was a boy that all agreed Had shut within him the rare seed Of learning. We could understand, But none of us could lift a hand. The man Flammonde appraised the youth, And told a few of us the truth; And thereby, for a little gold, A flowered future was unrolled. 107 THE GOLDEN TREASURY There were two citizens who fought For years and years, and over nought; They made life awkward for their friends, And shortened their own dividends. The man Flammonde said what was wrong Should be made right; nor was it long Before they were again in line, And had each other in to dine. And these I mention are but four Of many out of many more. So much for them. But what of him So firm in every look and limb? What small satanic sort of kink Was in his brain? What broken link Withheld him from the destinies That came so near to being his? What was he, when we came to sift His meaning, and to note the drift Of incommunicable ways That make us ponder while we praise? Why was it that his charm revealed Somehow the surface of a shield ? What was it that we never caught? What was he, and what was he not? How much it was of him we met We cannot ever know; nor yet Shall all he gave us quite atone For what was his, and his alone; 108 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Nor need we now, since he knew best, Nourish an ethical unrest: Rarely at once will nature give The power to be Flammonde and live. We cannot know how much we learn From those who never will return, Until a flash of unforeseen Remembrance falls on what has been. We ve each a darkening hill to climb; And this is why, from time to time In Tilbury Town, we look beyond Horizons for the man Flammonde. The Outlook Edwin Arlington Robinson 58 Sandy Star SCULPTURED WORSHIP THE zones of warmth around his heart, No alien airs had crossed; But he awoke one morn to feel The magic numbness of autumnal frost. His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, And tangled emotions, vague and dim; And sacrificing what he loved He lost the dearest part of him. 109 THE GOLDEN TREASURY In sculptured worship now he lives, His one desire a prisoned ache; If he can never melt again His very heart will break. The Crisis LAUGHING IT OUT He had a whim, and laughed it out Upon the exit of a chance; He floundered in a sea of doubt If life was real or just romance. Sometimes upon his brow would come A little pucker of defiance; He totalled in a word the sum Of all man made of facts and science. And then a hearty laugh would break, A reassuring shrug of shoulder; And we would from his fancy take A faith in death which made life bolder. The Crisis in EXIT No, his exit by the gate Will not leave the wind ajar; He will go when it is late With a misty star. One will call, he cannot see; One will call, he will not hear; iio OF MAGAZINE VERSE He will take no company, Nor a hope or fear. We shall smile who loved him so They who gave him hate will weep; But for us the winds will blow Pulsing through his sleep. The Forum IV THE WAY He could not tell the way he came, Because his chart was lost: Yet all his way was paved with flame From the bourne he crossed. He did not know the way to go, Because he had no map: He followed where the winds blow, And the April sap. He never knew upon his brow The secret that he bore, And laughs away the mystery now The dark s at his door. Scribner s Magazine ONUS PROBANDI No more from out the sunset, No more across the foam, No more across the windy hills Will Sandy Star come home. in THE GOLDEN TREASURY He went away to search it With a curse upon his tongue: And in his hand the staff of life, Made music as it swung. I wonder if he found it, And knows the mystery now Our Sandy Star who went away, With the secret on his brow. The Atlantic Monthly William Stanley Braithzuaite 59 Saint John of Nepomuc LAST summer I Columbused John, in Prague, that deadly Bush League town I d quit em cold on pictures and cathedrals for awhile. I hung around for Ma and Sis (Good Lord, there was n t one they d miss Pale martyrs till you could n t sleep, Madonnas by the mile!) I read some dope in Baedeker about a tablet on the bridge, And how they slipped this poor old scout the double cross for fair. I m off high-brow historic truck, but Father John of Nepomuc, You must admit he was the goods. Believe me, he was there! The king was Wenzel Number Four. John was sky-pilot for the court. 112 OF MAGAZINE VERSE King gets a hunch that Mrs. King has something on her mind. He goes to sleuthing more and more. He says, "Gad- zooks! I 11 have their gore!" (Don t ever let em string you on that bunk that love is blind!) The queen I ll bet she was some queen she tangoes blithely on her way. She fails to see the storm clouds on her regal husband s dome. I got him guessed, that Wenzel guy harpoons a girl that s young and spry, And tries to seal her up for life in the Old People s Home! The way I had it figured out she married him to please her folks: "Our son-in-law, the Kink, you know!" (Some speed! I guess that s poor?) So, when she sights a Maiden s Dream some real live wire that s made the team, Well, she sits up and notices, like any girl. Why, sure! Old Wenzel can t quite cinch the case, but what he does n t know, he thinks. The lump he calls a heart congeals beneath his fancy vest. He sends for poor old Father John and says as follows: "I am on! I merely lack a few details! What hath the queen con fessed?" He holds the court upon the bridge. "Speak up," he says, " or otherwise 113 THE GOLDEN TREASURY These spears shall thrust you down to death! Come through! I am the king! Kick in! What did my spouse confess? * The queen sends frantic S. O. S. . . . Maybe I sort of dozed, but well here s how I got this thing . . . He saw the startled courtiers, straining their ears; He saw the white queen swaying, striving to stand; He saw the soldiers tensely gripping their spears, Waiting the king s command: He heard a small page drawing a sobbing breath; He heard a bird s call, poignant and sweet and low; He heard the rush of the river, spelling death, Mocking him, down below. But he only said, "My liege, To my honor you lay siege, And that fortress you can never overthrow." . He thought of how he had led them, all the years; He thought of how he had served them, death and birth; He thought of healing their hates, stilling their fears . . . Humbly, he weighed his worth. He knew he was leaving them, far from the goal; He knew, with deep a joy, it was safe . . . and wise. He knew that now the pale queen s pitiful soul Would awake, and arise. And he only said, "My king, Every argument you bring Merely sets my duty forth in sterner guise." 114 OF MAGAZINE VERSE He felt the spears points, merciless, thrust him down; He felt the exquisite, fierce glory of pain; He felt the bright waves eager, reaching to drown, Engulf him, body and brain. He sensed cries, faint and clamorous, far behind; He sensed cool peace, and the buoyant arms of love; He sensed like a beacon, clear, beckoning, kind, Five stars, floating above . . . To the ones who watched it seemed That he slept . . . and smiled . . . and dreamed. "And the waters were abated . . . and the dove." And there I was on that old bridge boob freshman me, on that same bridge! The lazy river hummed and purred, and sang a sleepy song. Of course, I know it listens queer, but, gad, it was so real and near, I stood there basking in the sun for goodness knows how long- Sometimes I see it even now. I see that little, lean old saint Put up against the shining spears his simple nerve and pluck: And once, by Jove, you know, he came right down beside me in -the game . . . We know who made the touchdown then, old John of Nepomuc! Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Ruth Comfort Mitchell THE GOLDEN TREASURY 60 Samson Allen THERE was the drum he played so poorly, Though all his days he prayed for skill. Never in life would he beat it surely, Even if the stars in heaven stood still. There was the village band renewing Always his ancient ache to play. It was the sum of his soul s undoing, And never he knew would it wear away. Little the village found amusing, With no more than one straggling street, So that without so much as choosing It turned to him as its jest complete. Thus in a humor quite bucolic It clutched at him as its lawful prey; Would it not add to the county s frolic If he should lead the band that day? Mindful he of the vain, balked playing Could not take such a crown to wear; But he would were there no gainsaying Beat the drum for the county fair. With the event well worth the coming All the village was there to laugh No matter if the clouds urged homing, Should not rain write his epitaph? 116 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Here they come with piccoli shrilling, He, head high, with the raised sticks dumb Now the silence that will break thrilling In the crash of the rolling drum. All the years of his patient failing Shrouded are by a blinding light, For none sees, since they all are quailing, Just how the lightning made wrong right! The Poetry Review of America Donald Evans 61 Gayheart A Story of Defeat GAYHEART came in June, I saw his heels Go through the door, and broken heels they were. His eyes were big, and blue, and young. He said, "Could you direct me to the Basement, Sir?" I knew the Basement; I had grubbed there once Before a client tumbled in my net And brought me riches. It was coffin-cold And on its bare walls seeped a moldy sweat. T was next the kitchen, too, and had the breath Of cheap things cooking but I led him down. The stairs dropped naked through the clammy dark He paused, and gasped, as men do when they drown. 117 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "Is it down there?" I turned and took his arm (Thin as a boy s it was; all skin and bone); I said: "The dark is just a pleasant cloak To veil you off", and keep your thoughts alone. "A Boarding-House is all-inquisitive; You re safer here." "How did you know," he said, "That I would want to be alone? Am I An open book to be so simply read?" We stumbled down until I felt the door Beneath my fingers. Then I struck a light The room grinned at us like an ugly face Caught in a heart-beat from the cloak of night. The boy s breath cracked his lips. I saw his soul Stand in his eyes, and look, and shrink again, Sick with the moment s shattered visionings, And on his face went the slow feet of pain. "It strikes you bleak, eh? Come, it s not so bad. The gas won t whimper if you turn it low. The bed is lame, but friendly. Here s a desk To scribble at." He said: "I write, you know. "I ve come to be a writer." And he smiled, As boys do when they say their heart s desire; "I m from the South a paper took me on, But that s just keeping fagots in my fire." He smiled again, for he had all his youth To smile from. "My real work," he said, "will be To sketch the city not in prosy books, But in its native, living poetry. 118 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Cities were made for measures and for rhyme, They have an ancient minstrelsy of feet, And rivers sweep their shipping like a song, And there is endless music in a street. "Endless, I say, and never caught by man. Your books? Ah, how they walk, walk, walk, with words; But verse runs on light feet, as Cities do O God, I ve dreamed it till it hurts like swords "Not to be writing; but I ve got to learn, Learn, learn it all the streets, the parks, the ships, The subway and the skyscrapers!" He stopped And brushed his hand across his trembling lips. "Excuse me, sir. You were the first kind soul I d spoken to the rest are like the tomb." He smiled and touched my hand; and then I turned, Leaving him standing in his wistful room. June passed, and weather came that seared our flesh. The soft streets crawled; old men dropped down and died; Within the House our summer tempers snarled, And every night the lady boarder cried. Her alcove shouldered mine and so I knew. She came at six, her feet as slow as lead Dragged through her door, and cried till supper-time. I never saw her but her eyes were red. THE GOLDEN TREASURY Poor Gayheart whitened slowly, till his face Was like the paper that he scribbled on. But he had youth, and some vague bravery That held him taut until his task was done. He rasped our nerves, though, with his restless ways, His restless, silent ways. . . . He never seemed To see us when we passed him in the hall His eyes were distant with the thing he dreamed. He bolted dinner like a dog, as though He feared his fate would snatch him unaware With all his dreams unproved then, starting up, Would grope the shadowed hallway to the stair, And down to his eternal folderol, His spitting gaslight and his scratching pen, Until we cursed him for his industry, His being different from the ruck of men. Then one dead night when all the stars did sweat He plucked my sleeve, and smiled, and drew me down His damned black stairs. Then, while the clogged jet whined, He read me what he d written of the Town. It struck me wonderful. It had the ache Of rush-hour traffic in it, and the swing Of wheels, as though he d listened in a street, A crowded street where life ran thundering. . . . It made me think of going to my work; Of men in crowds, and women s faces drawn With painted lines, and shops and ships and spires And skyscrapers that reached up for the dawn. 120 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And then beneath the step of rhyme I heard The boy s soul speaking. . . . And I knew that he Had spent himself like dust among the crowd To catch the heart-beat for his poetry. His voice went out like flame. I found myself Shocked by the still, small room. To me it seemed Great throngs had passed with various noise. He said: "That s just the gateway to the thing I ve dreamed!" HI There is a street s end, where the coasters sleep, And there, at twilight, purple waters run, And o er their breast the crimson-coated day Trails the last silver of the fallen sun. A wall is there, for men to dream upon; And so young Gayheart went, with all his scars Unhealed . . . and saw the lights sown through the dusk, And his tall city in a cloak of stars. Tier upon tier the golden windows burned, As though men sought new freedom in the skies; And somehow, lured by starlight and by dawn, Built his blind cities up to paradise! Afar the bridges spun their silver webs, The mellow whistles talked along the stream; But Gayheart leaned athirst upon a stone, Hurt with the shining beauty of his dream. 121 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And he was like a child with wistfulness, Holding his hands out through the summer night, Where in the dusk the great, clean towers flared, Like swords thrust up in some red battle-light! And then he turned, all dumb with his desire, And stumbled through still streets, until he found The great bridge trembling underfoot and heard The trains go by him with a tempest sound. Black, shapeless forms came shrieking with bright eyes; The sea-wind rolled like drums against his ears, And he was singing, singing as he trod, And in his eyes were sudden, smarting tears. The tallest spire enraptured him! He strode Under the roofed bridge, where the newsboys cry, And out into that little breathing-space From whence the windows go into the sky. And there he sought a bench and sat him down, Between two snoring vagabonds, who lay Sprawled on their faces, . . . but his wakefulness Was like a lamp within him till the day. What did it mean? the stone flung like a song? The desk-light brothering the star? The whole Up-sweep of roofs that is our native-land What meaning had it, and what secret soul? He sat with upturned eyes, as young men do, Until the lamp upon his face grew wan; He saw his nation toiling in its House, Its tall, strange House that reached up for the dawn! 122 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And dreaming, saw the Elder Worlds asleep In their low houses, beautiful with Time. . . . The vagrant at his left side groaned and breathed, Lifting a face of cumulative grime "What s in yer gizzard, lad, that twists ye so? I know! You re one of them wot s got a brain! Now me " His brother raised a blowzy head: "Aw, hell!" he snarled, and fell asleep again. Across the roofs the first, faint gold of dawn Streaked the dun heavens, and the Day Men took The windows of the sleepless, so that life Went smoothly like a never-written book. And Gayheart shook the cramps from his dull limbs, Rose and went up the paper s curling stair Until he reached the City Room. The Staff, Half stripped of cloth, already sweated there. But he dropped at his crazy, limping desk, In the dim corner where the cubs are kept, And wrote: "America is zuakefulness!" And fell face upon the words, and slept. IV Gayheart s book came back, and back again, And still he mailed it out, with little lies To cloak its failure but I think we saw The naked, frightened soul behind his eyes. 123 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The lady boarder knew. I heard her say A cruel thing: "Your book is home," she said, "For Sunday dinner." But he passed her by Without the slightest turning of his head. She hated him. . . . And so mid-autumn fell, With no abating coolness. Each new sun Was like a murderer-let out of locks, And life went sickly, praying to be done. A night fell when all sleep was vain. ... I rose And stumbled to the windowful of stars, That was my share of heaven. . . . There I stood Letting the soft night seep into my scars. The window opened on a little court, And suddenly a feeble thrust of flame Stabbed like a pettish dagger through the dark, Out of the night a ragged breathing came. ... I saw the Basement boarder stooping down, His lean face bloodied with the touch of light. A tongue of fire licked his hands . . . and died, Brief as the flutter of a star in flight. Somehow I sensed a tragedy. . . . The gloom Was like a grave, the light leaped up no more. I turned and groped down through the breathless house; Until I saw him crouching by his door. He stood there, staring at his empty hands As though they d done his dearest dream to death; The palms were soiled and smeared with paper ash; There was a reek of whisky on his breath. 124 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "What s this?" I said. He raised his head and smiled With a deep drunkenness that touched his soul. "I ll tell you what it is! I ve been a fool The sort of fool that makes a dream his goal. "I ve worked my heart out; done a decent thing And no one wants it! No one wants to look Beneath the surface of this world of ours. It s all damned artifice. . . . I ve burned my book." Even to me the thing seemed tragical As though he d set a torch to half himself. "What!" I cried, "burned your splendid poetry? Laid yourself out like that upon a shelf? "What will you do?" "I ll do as other men; Harness my talent as a modern should. I ll do the obvious with all my age The cheap, the counterfeit, the understood! "I ve a new job this night; a fine, new job He spat into the shadows of the place "Verse-making on a magazine! The sort That wears a painted simper on its face. "I m rich . . . and drunk. I had to drink or scream, And drink goes deep with me; . . . get me to bed. I ve slaughter on my soul and verse to make. My editor wants something light he said "Something that s brisk and funny!" There he stood, With those raw, suffering eyes and stared at me, Until I near cried out. He was so white! And older . . . older than a man should be. THE GOLDEN TREASURY I swear whole ages crumbled in his face, For he had dreamed, and dreams are ancient things, Bearing a harsher reckoning than Time When once despair has crumbled up their wings. I got him stripped and into bed at last, The poor, spent lad! He lay there still and stark, His smudged hands clenched across his shallow chest, And moaned once as I crept out through the dark. Success came to him swiftly; made him drunk. He gulped life as a drunkard gulps his bowl, Forgetting all his splendid futile dreams He was an altered person to his soul. He fattened and grew flushed; he learned to sneer; His verses ran like swift, malignant flame, Smirching the thing they touched and burning on To wipe the pathway for his striding fame. He left the Basement then; soared up two flights With braggart wings, bought furniture and prints, Nonsense, we called it! and to crown the show Decked out his trappings in a flowered chintz. But that phase passed. His true self s tide flowed back, We saw him drowning in his own strange deeps; A crawling restlessness crept from his eyes, The sort of serpent thing that never sleeps. A month or two he clung to his gay nest, Beat his wings breathlessly within a shell, Made himself live with all his flaunted things, Grim as a tortured convict in a cell. 126 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And then his self s self conquered. . . . One May night When earth was breathing fragrance to its core, And open windows drank the breath of Spring, He came and stood within my open door. "Please," he said, "would you mind?" . . . And there he stopped, Sucking his cheeks in like a timid boy. "I ve gone back to the Basement. ... I ve gone back! The other room made life seem just a toy. "And that s not right. . . . There s something more to life Than turning it to playthings. . . . I ve gone back, To find my book again, to do the work I d planned to do according to my knack." "Your book," I said, "your book? You burned it, boy!" He flinched. "I know. I feel its ashes still Here on my hands. That s what I want of you I know that you can help me if you will." His tone was light, and yet I heard him breathe As men do in the ache and grip of strife. I rose and went with him. Again he said, "There s something more than toys to make of life." The Basement, with its yellow tooth of light, Grinned at us like a long-familiar face, Whose daily wont of ugliness, revealed, Mounts to a sin within the moment s space. 127 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Its gaping door still breathed the winter s chill, Its single window level with the street Flickered with fragments of the passing world, Hummed with a whispered drudgery of feet. And yet to him its very barrenness Was like a savage penance. Standing there He bruised himself upon its ugliness Until the sweat stood out beneath his hair. "I asked you down," he said, "to help me think, To help remember." Once again the sweat Stood out on him, and as I looked I knew It was his soul had made his body wet. He gripped me with the hunger of his eyes, Hard as a knife his glance was, hard as steel. "How did it go? My book? I ve thought and thought Until my brain is like a going wheel." I stared at him in sudden choking pain. "Boy!" I said. "For my life" He cried, "You must! It s all behind a door inside your mind; It s there, if you will brush aside the dust! "My own mind s locked against me. Now and then A line comes back, a bare crumb at the most. My plan, my meaning all the soul within Peers with faded features of a ghost." "It was the Town," I said, "in all its guise. The Town! It was the crowds along the street; Faces and spires and stately shipo and dreams, Desires, and winnings, and I think defeat." 128 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Defeat," he gasped, "defeat!" And then he dropped Down at his palsied desk and bowed his head Upon his arms. ... I felt my flesh grow cold As though that gesture meant a man struck dead. "Oh," he said, from the prison of his arms, "What god would wreck a man with one mistake? Give him two selves and to each self a sword So he s half slain or ever he s awake!" He raised his haggard face. "In every man There is division of the dust and dream, And Youth is just the crossing of the swords Before he takes his place within the scheme. "The Town s a citadel for all things flesh, And yet a man might storm it with a song, Played he not traitor to himself ... I quit, And oh, it was the quitting that was wrong! "I was so lonely for a thing to love, A single look, a passing word of praise I was as near to triumph as a smile, And now defeat, defeat for all my days! "Cities are cruel things," he whispered then, "Their slaves are Failure, and their gods Defeat." In at the window came a thrust of wind, E earing the weary music of the street . . . He leaped up with an oath, snapped off the light, An instant, unforgetable, there gleamed His white face. . . . Then a whisper through the dark, "I would to God that I had never dreamed." 129 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The years go slowly in a boarding-house, Sharpened with neither passions nor despairs; . Time seems to falter in those dim, gray halls The days are only footsteps on the stairs. The Basement yawned for tenants, but none came; It seemed completer for its emptiness. Gayheart had been its last ... To me the room_ Still wore the mantle of his soul s distress. I never saw his face but once again; It was a sharp cold midnight in the fall; Broadway lay flaming like a polished sword, As though one night were given to flame its all. The theaters, bright-mouthed, poured forth a stream Of pallid faces that the glare struck dead. The street crawled, and the noise went up to God In formless cries, like some great need unsaid. The buffet of false brightness swept the night With rosy blushes to the firmament. Here ran the riot of a hoarded world, Here life was only reckoned to be spent! And here, carved in that graceless art of fire, Stood Gayheart s name, a star s height o er the street. His words came back to me as clear as bells, " Their slaves are Failure, and their gods Defeat!" Was this defeat, then? Was his fame defeat? I knew the sort of comic thing he d done. Had he forgot those ashes on his hands? Had he by hard forgetting played and won? 130 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Then suddenly I saw him in the crowd, Beneath that scarlet flaunting of his name. A smooth, smug mask of flesh was on him now; He was the very creature of his fame. His boyishness had died. . . . His hard, clean youth Was gone forever neath a whelm of clay. Yet as I looked I saw him lift his head, And all his grossness seemed to fall away. His hungry look went straight to Heaven s throne, High up into the folded book of stars, And on his face I saw the Quest again He was the seeker, fainting with his scars! One glimpse and he was gone, ... a soul blown on And lost at last beneath those painted skies. Yet he still lives! There never dawns a day But I behold him in the City s eyes. The North American Review Dana Burnet 62 The Unconquered Air OTHERS endure Man s rule: he therefore deems I shall endure it I, the unconquered Air! Imagines this triumphant strength may bear His paltry sway! yea, ignorantly dreams, Because proud Rhea now his vassal seems, And Neptune him obeys in billowy lair, That he a more sublime assault may dare, Where blown by tempest wild the vulture screams! 131 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Presumptuous, he mounts: I toss his bones Back from the height supernal he has braved: Ay, as his vessel nears my perilous zones, I blow the cockle-shell away like chaff, And give him to the Sea he has enslaved. He founders in its depths; and then I laugh! II Impregnable I held myself, secure Against intrusion. Who can measure Man? How should I guess his mortal will outran Defeat so far that danger could allure For its own sake? that he would all endure, All sacrifice, all suffer, rather than Forego the daring dreams Olympian That prophesy to him of victory sure? Ah, tameless courage! dominating power That, all attempting, in a deathless hour Made earth-born Titans godlike, in revoltl Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings: Who fears nor Fate, nor Time, nor what Time brings, May drive Apollo s steeds, or wield the thunderbolt! Harper s Magazine Florence Earle Coates 63 A Likeness Portrait Bust of an Unknown, Capitol, Rome N every line a supple beauty I The restless head a little bent Disgust of pleasure, scorn of duty, The unseeing eyes of discontent. 132 OF MAGAZINE VERSE I often come to sit beside him, This youth who passed and left no trace Of good or ill that did betide him, Save the disdain upon his face. The hope of all his House, the brother Adored, the golden-hearted son, Whom Fortune pampered like a mother; And then a shadow on the sun. Whether he followed Caesar s trumpet, Or chanced the riskier game at home To find how favor played the strumpet In fickle politics at Rome; Whether he dreamed a dream in Asia He never could forget by day, Or gave his youth to some Aspasia, Or gamed his heritage away; Once lost, across the Empire s border This man would seek his peace in vain; His look arraigns a social order Somehow entrammelled with his pain. "The dice of gods are always loaded"; One gambler, arrogant as they, Fierce, and by fierce injustice goaded, Left both his hazard and the play. Incapable of compromises, Unable to forgive or spare, The strange awarding of the prizes He had no fortitude to bear. 133 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Tricked by the forms of things material The solid-seeming arch and stone, The noise of war, the pomp imperial, The heights and depths about a throne He missed, among the shapes diurnal, The old, deep-travelled road from pain, The thoughts of men which are eternal, In which, eternal, men remain. Ritratto d ignoto; defying Things unsubstantial as a dream An Empire, long in ashes lying His face still set against the stream. Yes, so he looked, that gifted brother I loved, who passed and left no trace, Not even luckier than this other His sorrow in a marble face. Scribner s Magazine Willa Sibert Gather 64 On a Copy of Keats "Endymion" HAS not the glamoured season come once more, When earth puts on her arras of soft green ? See where along the meadow rillet s shore The wild-rose buds unfold! Eastward the boughs with murmurous laughter lean To warn themselves in morning s generous gold. The foxgloves nod along the English lanes That saw erewhile the dancing sprites of snow; Night-long the leaf-hid nightingale complains With such melodious woe OF MAGAZINE VERSE That Sleep, enamored of her soaring strains, Is widely wakeful as the dim hours go. Ope but the page and hark, the impassioned bird That through the hush of the be-shadowed hours Pours in the ear of dark its melting word! Here is as mellow song As ever welled from pleached laurel bowers, Or e er was borne soft orient winds along; Here may one list all ecstasies they sung, The shepherds and the maids of Arcady, Flower-garlanded what time the world was young; Pandean minstrelsy, Low flutings from slim pipes of silver tongue Played by the dryads on some upland lea. And blent w r ith these are heavenly whisperings As fa|nt as whitening poplars make at dawn, Sublime suggestions of fine-fingered strings Touched in celestial air, And earthward through the dulling ether drawn,^ Yet falling on us more than earthly fair; The voice divine that young Endymion knew In the cool woodland s darkmost depths by night, When godlike ardors thrilled him through and through; And his voice from the height Whither, on wakening, drenched with chilly d^ew, He sought the goddess in the gathering light. But ah, what mournful memories are mine, Song-wakened at this lavish summer-tide! Can I forget that sombre cypress line THE GOLDEN TREASURY By old Rome s ruined wall, The lonely grave that alien grasses hide, And the pathetic silence shrouding all? Who would forget? Blest be the song that bears My soul across aerial seas of space As wingedly as airy fancy fares! For now that earth s worn face The radiant glow of life s renewal wears, Would I in reverence seek that sacred place. There would I lay these woven shreds of rhyme In lieu of scattered heart s-ease and the rose. Behold how Song has triumphed over Time, For still his song rings clear, Though where the tender Roman violet grows Deep has he slumbered many a fateful year! If to the poet s rapt imaginings Beauty be wed, with love of purpose high, Despite the cynic and his scornful flings Song shall not fail and die, But like the bird that up the azure springs Still thrill the heart, still fill the listening sky! The North American Review Clinton Scollard 65 Silence I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, Arid the silence for which music alone finds the word, 136 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And ths silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask: For the depths Of what use is language? A beast of the fields moans a few times When death takes its young. And we are voiceless in the presence of realities We cannot speak. A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?" And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg, It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off." And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed. But if he could describe it all He would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe. There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, 137 THE GOLDEN .TREASURY And the silence of a deep peace of mind, And the silence of an embittered friendship, There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life. And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech, There is the silence of defeat. There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours. There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it. There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders. There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth. And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo. And the silence of Jeanne d Arc Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope. And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life. 138 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And there is the silence of the dead. If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death? Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Edgar Lee Masters 66 Miracles TWILIGHT is spacious, near things in it seem far, And distant things seem near. Now in the green west hangs a yellow star. And now across old waters you may hear The profound gloom of bells among still trees, Like a rolling of huge boulders beneath seas. Silent as though in evening contemplation Weaves the bat under the gathering stars. Silent as dew we seek new incarnation, Meditate new avatars. In a clear dusk like this Mary climbed up the hill to seek her son, To lower him down from the cross, and kiss The mauve wounds, every one. Men with wings In the dusk walked softly after her. She did not see them, but may have felt The winnowed air around her stir. 139 THE GOLDEN TREASURY She did not see them, but may have known Why her son s body was light as a little stone. She may have guessed that other hands were there Moving the watchful air. Now, unless persuaded by searching music Which suddenly opens the portals of the mind, We guess no angels, And are content to be blind. Let us blow silver horns in the twilight. And lift our hearts to the yellow star in the green, To find, perhaps, if while the dew is rising, Clear things may not be seen. Under a tree I sit, and cross my knees, And smoke a cigarette. You nod to me: you think perhaps you know me. But I escape you, I am none of these; I leave my name behind me, I forget . . . I hear a fountain shattering into a pool; I see the gold fish slanting under the cool; And suddenly all is frozen into silence. And among the firs, or over desert grass, Or out of a cloud of dust, or out of darkness, Or on the first slow patter of sultry rain, I hear a voice cry "Marvels have come to pass, The like of which shall not be seen again!" And behold, across a sea one came to us, Treading the wave s edge with his naked feet, Slowly, as one might walk in a ploughed field. 140 OF MAGAZINE VERSE We stood where the soft waves on the shingle beat, In a blowing mist, and pressed together in terror, And marvelled that all our eyes might share one error. For if the fishes fine-spun net must sink, Or pebbles flung by a boy, or the thin sand, How shall we understand That flesh and blood might tread on the sea water And foam not wet the ankles? We must think That all we know is lost, or only a dream, That dreams are real, and real things only dream. And if a man may walk to us like this On the unstable sea, as on a beach, With his head bowed in thought Then we have been deceived in what men teach; And all our knowledge has come to nought; And a little flame should seek the earth, And leaves, falling, should seek the sky, And surely we should enter the womb for birth, And sing from the ashes when we die. Or was the man a god, perhaps, or devil? They say he healed the sick by stroke of hands; And that he gave the sights of the earth to the blind. And I have heard that he could touch a fig-tree, And say to it, "Be withered!" and it would shrink Like a cursed thing, and writhe its leaves, and die. How shall we understand such things, I wonder, Unless there are things invisible to the eye? And there was Lazarus, raised from the dead: To whom he spoke, quietly, in the dusk, Lazarus, three days dead, and mortified; 141 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And the pale body trembled; as from a swoon, Sweating, the sleeper woke, and raised his head; And turned his puzzled eyes from side to side . . . Should we not, then, hear voices in a stone, Whispering softly of heaven and hell? Or if one walked beside a sea, alone, Hear broodings of a bell? . . . Or on a green hill in the evening s fire, If we should stand and listen to poplar trees, Should we not hear the lit leaves suddenly choir A jargon of silver music against the sky? . . . Or the dew sing, or dust profoundly cry? . . . If this is. possible, then all things are: And I may leave my body crumpled there Like an old garment on the floor; To walk abroad on the unbetraying air; To pass through every door, And see the hills of the earth, or climb a stair. Wound me with spears, you only stab the wind; You nail my cloak against a bitter tree; You do not injure me. I pass through the crowd, the dark crowd busy with murder, Through the linked arms I pass; And slowly descend the hill through dew-wet grass. in Twilight is spacious, near things in it seem far, And distant things seem near. Now in the green west hangs a yellow star; And now across old waters you may hear 142 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The profound gloom of bells among still trees, Like a rolling of huge boulders beneath seas. Peter said that Christ, though crucified, Had not died; But that escaping from his cerements, In human flesh, with mortal sense, Amazed at such an ending, He fled alone, and hid in Galilee, And lived in secret, spending His days and nights, perplexed, in contemplation: And did not know if this were surely he. Did Peter tell me this? Or was I Peter? Or did I listen to a tavern-story? Green leaves thrust out and fall. It was long ago. Dust has been heaped upon us. ... We have perished. We clamor again. And again we are dust and blow. Well, let us take the music, and drift with it Into the darkness. ... It is exquisite. The Poetry Journal Conrad Aiken 67 Ash Wednesday (After hearing a lecture on the origins of religion) HERE in the lonely chapel I will wait, Here will I rest, if any rest may be; So fair the day is, and the hour so late, I shall have few to share the blessed calm with me. Calm and soft light, sweet inarticulate calls! THE GOLDEN TREASURY One shallow dish of eerie golden fire By molten chains above the altar swinging, Draws my eyes up from the shadowed stalls To the warm chancel-dome; Crag-like the clustered organs loom, Yet from their thunder-threatening choir Flows but a ghostly singing Half-human voices reaching home In infinite, tremulous surge and falls. Light on his stops and keys, And pallor on the player s face, Who, listening rapt, with finger-skill to seize The pattern of a mood s elusive grace, Captures his spirit in an airy lace Of fading, fading harmonies. Oh, let your coolness soothe My weariness, frail music, where you keep Tryst with the even-fall; Where tone by tone you find a pathway smooth To yonder gleaming cross, or nearer creep Along the bronzed wall, Where shade by shade thro deeps of brown Comes the still twilight down. Wilt thou not rest, my thought? Wouldst thou go back to that pain-breeding room Whence only by strong wrenchings thou wert brought? O weary, weary questionings, Will ye pursue me to the altar rail Where my old faith for sanctuary clings, And back again my heart reluctant hale Yonder, where crushed against the cheerless wall 144 .OF MAGAZINE VERSE Tiptoe I glimpsed the tier on tier Of faces unserene and startled eyes Such eyes as on grim surgeon-work are set, On desperate outmaneuverings of doom? Still must I hear The boding voice with cautious rise and fall Tracking relentless to its lair Each fever-bred progenitor of faith, Each fugitive ancestral fear? Still must I follow, as the wraith Of antique awe toward a wreck-making beach Drives derelict? Nay, rest, rest, my thought, Where long-loved sound and shadow teach Quietness to conscience overwrought. Harken! The choristers, the white-robed priest Move thro the chapel dim Sounding of warfare and the victor s palm, Of valiant marchings, of the feast Spread for the pilgrim in a haven d calm. How on the first lips of my steadfast race Sounded that battle hymn, Quaint heaven-vauntings, with God s gauntlet flung, To me bequeathed, from age to age, My challenge and my heritage! "The Lord is in His holy place" How in their ears the herald voice has rung! Now will I make bright their sword, Will pilgrim in their ancient path, Will haunt the temple of their Lord; Truth that is neither variable nor hath H5 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Shadow of turning, I will find In the wise ploddings of their faithful mind; Of finding not, as in this frustrate hour By question hounded, waylaid by despair, Yet in these uses shall I know His power As the warm flesh by breathing knows the air. futile comfort! My faith-hungry heart Still in your sweetness tastes a poisonous sour; Far off, far off I quiver neath the smart Of old indignities and obscure scorn Indelibly on man s proud spirit laid, That now in time s ironic masquerade Minister healing to the hurt and worn! What are those streams that from the altar pour Where goat and ox and human captive bled To feed the blood-lust of the murderous priest? 1 cannot see where Christ s dear love is shed, So deep the insatiate horror washes red Flesh-stains and frenzy-sears and gore. Beneath that Cross, whereon His hands outspread, What forest shades behold what shameful rites Of maidenhood surrendered to the beast In obscene worship on midsummer nights! What imperturbable disguise Enwraps these organs with a chaste restraint To chant innocuous hymns and litanies For sinner and adoring saint, Which yet inherit like an old blood-taint Some naked caperings in the godliest tune, Goat-songs and jests strong with the breath of Pan, That charmed the easy cow-girl and her man 146 OF MAGAZINE VERSE In uncouth tryst beneath a scandalous moon! Ah, could I harken with their trust, Or see with their pure-seeing eyes Who of the frame of these dear mysteries Were not too wise ! Why cannot I, as in a stronger hour, Outface the horror that defeats me now? Have I not reaped complacent the rich power That harvest from this praise and bowing low? On this strong music have I mounted up, At yonder rail broke bread, and shared the holy cup, And on that cross have hung, and felt God s pain Sorrowing, sorrowing, till the world shall end. Not from these forms my questionings come That serving truth are purified, But from the truth itself, the way, the goal, One challenge vast that strikes faith dumb If truth be fickle, who shall be our guide? "Truth that is neither variable, nor hath Shadow of turning?" Ah, where turns she not! Where yesterday she stood, Now the horizon empties lo, her steps Where yonder scholar woos, are hardly cold, Yet shall he find her never, but the thought Mantling within him like her blood Shall from his eloquence fade, and leave his words Flavor d with vacant quaintness for his son. What crafty patience, scholar, hast thou used, Useless ere it was begun What headless waste of wing, Beating vainly round and round! 147 THE GOLDEN TREASURY In no one Babel were the tongues confused, But they who handle truth, from sound to sound Master another speech continuously. Deaf to familiar words, our callous ear Will quiver to the edge of utterance strange; When truth to God s truth-weary sight draws near, Cannot God see her till she suffer change? Must ye then change, my vanished youth, Home customs of my dreams? Change and farewell! Farewell, your lost phantasmic truth That will not constant dwell, But flees the passion of our eyes And leaves no hint behind her Whence she dawns or whither dies, Or if she live at all, or only for a moment seems. Here tho I only dream I find her, Here will I watch the twilight darken. Yonder the scholar s voice spins on Mesh upon mesh of loveless fate; Here will I rest while truth deserts him still. What hath she left thee, Brother, but thy voice? After her, have thy will, And happy be thy choice! Here rather will I rest, and harken Voices longer dead but longer loved than thine. Yet still my most of peace is more unrest, As one who plods a summer road Feels the coolness his own motion stirs, But when he stops the dead heat smothers him. Here in this calm my soul is weariest, 148 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Each question with malicious goad Pressing the choice that still my soul defers To visioned hours not thus eclipsed and dim, Lest in my haste I deem That truth s invariable part Is her eluding of man s heart. Farewell, calm priest who pacest slow After the stalwart-marching choir! Have men thro thee taught God their dear desire? Hath God thro thee absolved sin? What is thy benediction, if I go Sore perplexed and wrought within? Open the chapel doors, and let Boisterous music play us out Toward the flaring molten west Whither the nerve-racked day is set; Let the loud world, flooding back, Gulf us in its hungry rout; Rest? What part have we in rest? Boy with the happy face and hurrying feet, Who with thy friendly cap s salute Sendest bright hail across the college street, If thou couldst see my answering lips, how mute, How loth to take thy student courtesy! What truth have I for thee? Rather thy wisdom, lad, impart, Share thy gift of strength with me. Still with the past I wrestle, but the future girds thy heart. Clutter of shriveled yesterdays that clothe us like a shell, Thy spirit sloughs their bondage off, to walk newborn and free. 149 THE GOLDEN TREASURY All things the human heart hath learned God, heaven, earth, and hell Thou weighest not for what they were, but what they still may be. Whether the scholar delve and mine for faith-wreck buried deep, Or the priest his rules and holy rites, letter and spirit, keep, Toil or trust in breathless dust, they shall starve at last for truth; Scholar and priest shall live from thee, who art eternal youth. Holier if thou dost tread it, every path the prophets trod; Clearer where thou dost worship, rise the ancient hymns to God; Not by the priest but by thy prayers are altars sanctified; Strong with new love where thou dost kneel, the cross whereon Christ died. The Yale Review John Erskine 68 To a Logician /^OLD man, in whom no animating ray V_> Warms the chill substance of the sculptor s clay; Grim Reasoner, with problems in your eyes, Professor, Sage however do they call you? Far-seeing Blindman, fame shall yet befall you; Carve you in stone that Winter of the wise! And set you up in some pale portico To frown on heaven above, on earth below. 150 OF MAGAZINE VERSE I shall make songs, and give them to the breeze, And die amid a thousand ecstasies! I shall be dust, and feel the joyous sting Of that sweet arrow from the bow of Time Which men call Spring. And out of my dead mouth a rose shall come like rhyme! But you, in your eternal state of snows, Shall thrill no more to life s resurgent flood, Nor cast death s laughter into April s rose! You shall be marble, who were never blood. Harper s Magazine Dana Burnet 69 The Clerk TWO and two are four, four and three are seven" That is all that he can say where he sits in Heaven; "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Through the long celestial day. "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Once he used to sing it down the halls of Heaven; "Work is hard but there s an answer, Far ahead great things are waiting, I will add the magic Figures, I will seek the gleaming Balance I will win the Master s praise." "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Not so careful now in the place of Heaven; "Work is good but there is pleasure, I am young with time before me O bright angel, from the shops of Heaven, THE GOLDEN TREASURY Dance awhile, the Harper s playing Drink the rainbow wine with me!" "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Then he only droned it on his stool in Heaven; "Work is bread and bread is living, Little mouths grow very hungry In the rooms of Paradise She must wear a golden feather When she walks along the sky." "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Just a whisper now through the walls of Heaven; "O I can not find the error, Can not strike the gleaming Balance All the magic s out of Figures, All the wonder out of loving, And the Master has no praise." "Two and two are four, four and three are seven" Still he mutters on at the books of Heaven "Work is bread and bread is living" Through the long celestial day. Contemporary Verse Scudder Middleton 70 A Dog ), back again? And is your errand done, Unfailing one? How quick the gray world, at your morning look. Turns wonder-book! 152 . OF MAGAZINE VERSE Come in, O guard and guest. Come, you breathless from a life-long quest; Search here my heart; and if a comfort be, Ah, comfort me! You eloquent one, you best Of all diviners, so to trace The weather-gleams upon a face; With wordless, querying paw, Adventuring the law! You shaggy Loveliness, What call was it? \Vhat dream beyond a guess, Lured you, gray ages back, From that lone bivouac Of the wild pack?- Was it your need? Or ours, the calling trail Of faith that should not fail? - Of hope dim understood? - That you should follow our poor humanhood, Only because you would ! To search and circle, follow and outstrip, Men and their fellowship; And keep your heart no less, Your back-and-forth of hope and wistfulness, Through all world-weathers and against all odds! Can you forgive us, now, Your fallen gods? Josephine Preston Peabody The Poetry Review of America 153 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 71 The Night Court CALL Rose Costara!" Insolent, she comes. The watchers, practised, keen, turn down their thumbs. The walk, the talk, the face, that sea-shell tint, It is old stuff; they read her like coarse print. Here is no hapless innocence waylaid. This is a stolid worker at her trade. Listening, she yawns; half smiling, undismayed, Shrugging a little at the law s delay, Bored and impatient to be on her way. It is her eighth conviction. Out beyond the rail A lady novelist in search of types turns pale. She meant to write of them just as she found them, And with no tears or maudlin glamour round them, In forceful, virile words, harsh, true words, without shame, Calling an ugly thing, boldly, an ugly name; Sympathy, velvet glove, on purpose, iron hand. But eighth conviction! All the phrases she had planned Fail; "sullen," "vengeful," no, she is n t that. No, the pink face beneath the hectic hat Gives back her own aghast and sickened stare With a detached and rather cheerful air, And then the little novelist sees red. From her chaste heart all clemency is fled. "Oh, loathsome! venomous! Off with her head! Call Rose Costara!" But before you stop, And shelve your decent rage, Let s call the cop. IS4 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Let s call the plain-clothes cop who brought her in. The weary-eyed night watchman of the law, A shuffling person with a hanging jaw, Loose-lipped and sallow, rather vague of chin, Comes rubber-heeling at his Honor s rap. He set and baited and then sprung the trap The trap by his unsavory report. Let s ask him why but first Let s call the court. Not only the grim figure in the chair, Sphinx-like above the waste and wreckage there, Skeptical, weary of a retold tale, But the whole humming hive, the false, the frail, An old young woman with a weasel face, A lying witness waiting in his place, Two ferret lawyers nosing out a case, Reporters questioning a Mexican, Sobbing her silly heart out for her man, Planning to feature her, "lone desperate, pretty," Yes, call the court. But wait! Let s call the city. Call the community! Call up, call down, Call all the speeding, mad, unheeding town! Call rags and tags and then call velvet gown! Go, summon them from tenements and clubs, On office floors and over steaming tubs! Shout to the boxes and behind the scenes, Then to the push-carts and the limousines! Arouse the lecture-room, the cabaret! 155 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Confound them with a trumpet-blast and say, "Are you so dull, so deaf and blind indeed, That you mistake the harvest for the seed?" Condemn them for but stay! Let s call the code That facile thing they ve fashioned to their mode: Smug sophistries that smother and befool, That numb and stupefy; that clumsy thing That measures mountains with a three-foot rule, And plumbs the ocean with a pudding-string The little, brittle code. Here is the root, Far out of sight, and buried safe and deep, And Rose Costara is the bitter fruit. On every limb and leaf, death, ruin, creep. So, lady novelist, go home again. Rub biting acid on your little pen. Look back and out and up and in, and then Write that it is no job for pruning-shears. Tell them to dig for years and years and years The twined and twisted roots. Blot out the page; Invert the blundering order of the age; Reverse the scheme: the last shall be the first. Summon the system, starting with the worst The lying, dying code! On, down the line, The city and the court, the cop. Assign The guilt, the blame, the shame! Sting, lash, and spur! Call each and all! Call us! And then call her! The Century Magazine Ruth Comfort Mitchell 156 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 72 Guns as Keys : and the Great Gate Swings PART I DUE East, far West. Distant as the nests of the opposite winds. Removed as fire and water are, as the clouds and the roots of the hills, as the wills of youth and age. Let the key-guns be mounted, make a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of Pan dora s box once more. Get in at any cost and let out at little, so it seems, but wait wait there is much to follow through the Great Gate! They do not see things in quite that way, on this bright November day, with sun flashing, and waves splashing, up and down Chesapeake Bay. On shore, all the papers are running to press with huge headlines: "Commodore Perry Sails." Dining-tables buzz with travellers tales of old Japan culled from Dutch writers. But we are not like the Dutch. No shutting the stars and stripes up on an island. Pooh! We must trade wherever we have a mind. Naturally! The wharves of Norfolk are falling behind, becoming smaller, confused with the warehouses and the trees. On the impetus of the strong South breeze, the paddle- wheel steam frigate Mississippi of the United States Navy, sails down the flashing bay. Sails away, and steams away, for her furnaces are burning, and her paddle-wheels turning, and all her sails are set and full. Pull, men, to the old chorus: 157 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "A Yankee ship sails down the river, Blow, boys, blow; Her masts and spars they shine like silver, Blow, my bully boys, blow." But what is the use? That plaguey brass band blares out with "The Star-Spangled Banner," and you cannot hear the men because of it. Which is a pity, thinks the Commodore, in his cabin, studying the map, and mark ing stepping-stones: Madeira, Cape Town, Mauritius, Singapore, nice firm stepping-places for seven-league boots. Flag-stones up and down a hemisphere. My! How she throws the water off from her bows, and how those paddle-wheels churn her along at the rate of seven good knots! You are a proud lady, Mrs. Missis sippi, curtseying down Chesapeake Bay, all a-flutter with red, white and blue ribbons. At Mishiwa in the Province of Kai, Three men are trying to measure a pine tree By the length of their outstretched arms. Trying to span the bole of a huge pine tree By the spread of their lifted arms. Attempting to compress its girth Within the limit of their extended arms. Beyond, Fuji, Majestic, inevitable, Wreathed over by wisps of cloud. The clouds draw about the mountain, But there are gaps. The men reach about the pine tree, But their hands break apart; 158 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The rough bark escapes their hand-clasps; The tree is unencircled. Three men are trying to measure the stem of a gigantic pine tree, With their arms, At Mishiwa in the Province of Kai. Furnaces are burning good Cumberland coal at the rate of twenty-six tons per diem, and the paddle-wheels turn round and round in an iris of spray. She noses her way through a wallowing sea; foots it, bit by bit, over the slanting wave slopes; pants along, thrust forward by her breathing furnaces, urged ahead by the wind draft flattening against her taut sails. The Commodore, leaning over the taffrail, sees the peak of Madeira swept up out of the haze. The Missis sippi glides into smooth water, and anchors under the leeofthe"Desertas." Ah! the purple bougainvillia! And the sweet smells of the heliotrope and geranium hedges! Ox-drawn sledges clattering over cobbles what a fine pause in an endless voyaging. Stars and stripes demanding five hundred tons of coal, ten thousand gallons of water, resting for a moment on a round stepping-stone, with the drying sails slatting about in the warm wind. "Get out your accordion, Jim, and give us the Sewanee River to show those Dagos what a tune is. Pipe up with the chorus, boys. Let her go." The green water flows past Madeira. Flows under the paddle-boards, making them clip and clap. The green water washes along the sides of the Commodore s steam flagship and passes away to leeward. 159 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "Hitch up your trousers, Black Face, and do a horn pipe. It s a fine quiet night for a double shuffle. Keep her going, Jim. Louder. That s the ticket. Gosh, but you can spin, Blackey!" The road is hilly Outside the Tiger Gate, And striped with shadows from a bow moon Slowly sinking to the horizon. The roadway twinkles with the bobbing of paper lanterns, Melon-shaped, round, oblong, Lighting the steps of those who pass along it; And there is a sweet singing of many semi, From the cages which an insect seller Carries on his back. Westward of the Canaries, in a wind-blazing sea. Engineers, there, extinguish the furnaces; carpenters, quick, your screwdrivers and mallets, and unship the paddle-boards. Break out her sails, quartermasters, the wind will carry her faster than she can steam, for the trades have her now, and are whipping her along in fine clipper style. Key-guns, your muzzles shine like basalt above the tumbling waves. Polished basalt cameoed upon malachite. Yankee-doedle-dandy! A fine upstand ing ship, clouded with canvas, slipping along like a trotting filly out of the Commodore s own stables. White sails and sailors, blue-coated officers, and red in a star sparked through the claret decanter on the Commodore s luncheon table. The Commodore is writing to his wife, to be posted 160 OF MAGAZINE VERSE at the next stopping place. Two years is a long time to be upon the sea. Nigi-oi of Matsuba-ya Celebrated oiran, Courtesan of unrivalled beauty, The great silk mercer, Mitsui, Counts himself a fortunate man As he watches her parade in front of him In her robes of glazed blue silk Embroidered with singing nightingales. He puffs his little silver pipe And arranges a fold of her dress. He parts it at the neck And laughs when the falling plum-blossoms Tickle her naked breasts. The next morning he makes out a bill To the Director of the Dutch Factory at Nagasaki For three times the amount of the goods Forwarded that day in two small junks In the care of a trusted clerk. The Northeast trades have smoothed away into hot, blue doldrums. Paddle-wheels to the rescue. Thank God, we live in an age of invention. What air there is, is dead ahead. The deck is a bed of cinders, we wear a smoke cloud like a funeral plume. Funeral of whom? Of the little heathens inside the Gate? Wait! Wait! These monkey-men have got to trade, Uncle Sam has laid his plans with care, see those black guns sizzling there. "It s deuced hot," says a lieutenant, "I wish I could look in at a hop in Newport this evening." THE GOLDEN TREASURY The one hundred and sixty streets in the Sanno quarter Are honey-gold, Honey-gold from the gold-foil screens in the houses, Honey-gold from the fresh yellow mats; The lintels are draped with bright colors, And from eaves and poles Red and white paper lanterns Glitter and swing. Through the one hundred and sixty decorated streets of the Sanno quarter, Trails the procession, With a bright slowness, To the music of flutes and drums. Great white sails of cotton Belly out along the honey-gold streets. Sword bearers, Spear bearers, Mask bearers, Grinning masks of mountain genii, And a white cock on a drum Above a purple sheet. Over the flower hats of the people, Shines the sacred palanquin, "Car of gentle motion," Upheld by fifty men, Stalwart servants of the god, Bending under the weight of mirror-black lacquer, Of pillars and roof-tree Wrapped in chased and gilded copper. Portly silk tassels sway to the marching of feet, Wreaths of gold and silver flowers Shoot sudden scintillations at the gold-foil screens. 162 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The golden phoenix on the roof of the palanquin Spreads its wings, And seems about to take flight Over the one hundred and sixty streets Straight into the white heart Of the curved blue sky. Six black oxen, With white and red trappings, Draw platforms on which are musicians, dancers, actors, Who posture and sing, Dance and parade, Up and down the honey-gold streets, To the sweet playing of flutes, And the ever-repeating beat of heavy drums, To the constant banging of heavily beaten drums, To the insistent repeating rhythm of beautiful great drums. Across the equator and panting down to Saint Helena, trailing smoke like a mourning veil. Jamestown jetty, and all the officers in the ship making at once for Long- wood. Napoleon! Ah, tales tales with nobody to tell them. A bronze eagle caged by floating wood-work. A heart burst with beating on a flat drop-curtain of sea and sky. Nothing now but pigs in a sty. Pigs rooting in the Emperor s bedroom. God be praised, we have a plumed smoking ship to take us away from this desolation. " Boney was a warrior Away-i-oh; Boney was a warrior, John Francois." 163 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "Oh, shut up, Jack, you make me sick. Those pigs are like worms eating a corpse. Bah!" The ladies, Wistaria Blossom, Cloth-of-Silk, and Deep Snow, With their ten attendants, Are come to Asakusa To gaze at peonies. To admire crimson-carmine peonies, To stare in admiration at bomb-shaped, white and sulphur peonies, To caress with a soft finger Single, rose-flat peonies, Tight, incurved, red-edged peonies, Spin-wheel circle, amaranth peonies. To smell the acrid pungence of peony blooms, And dream for months afterwards Of the temple garden at Asakusa, Where they walked together Looking at peonies. The Gate! The Gate! The far-shining Gate! Pat your guns and thank your stars you have not come too late. The Orient s a sleepy place, as all globe-trotters say. We ll get there soon enough, my lads, and carry it away. That s a good enough song to round the Cape with, and there s the Table Cloth on Table Mountain and we ve drawn a bead over half the curving world. Three cheers for Old Glory, fellows. A Daimino s procession Winds between two green hills, 164- OF MAGAZINE VERSE A line of thin, sharp, shining, pointed spears Above red coats And yellow mushroom hats. A man leading an ox Has cast himself upon the ground, He rubs his forehead in the dust, While his ox gazes with wide, moon eyes At the glittering spears Majestically parading Between two green hills. Down, down, down, to the bottom of the map; but we must up again, high on the other side. America, sail ing the seas of a planet to stock the shop counters at home. Commerce-raiding a nation; pulling apart the curtains of a temple and calling it trade. Magnificent mission! Every shop-till in every by-street will bless you. Force the shut gate with the muzzles of your black cannon. Then wait wait for fifty years and see who has conquered. But now the Mississippi must brave the Cape, in a crashing of bitter seas. The wind blows East, the wind blows West, there is no rest under these clashing clouds. Petrel whirl by like torn newspapers along a street. Albatrosses fly close to the mast-heads. Dread purrs over this stormy ocean, and the smell of the water is the dead, oozing dampness of tombs. Tiger rain on the temple bridge of carved greenstone, Slanting tiger lines of rain on the lichened lanterns of the gateway, On the stone statues of mythical warriors. 165 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Striped rain making the bells of the pagoda roofs flutter, Tiger-footing on the bluish stones of the courtyard, Beating, snapping, on the cheese-rounds of open um brellas, Licking, tiger-tongued, over the straw mat which a pilgrim wears upon his shoulders, Gnawing, tiger-toothed, into the paper mask Which he carries on his back. Tiger-clawed rain scattering the peach-blossoms, Tiger tails of rain lashing furiously among the crypto- merias. "Land O." Mauritius. Stepping-stone four. The coaling ships have arrived, and the shore is a hive of Negroes, and Malays, and Lascars, and Chinese. The clip and clatter of tongues is unceasing. "What awful brutes!" "Obviously, but the fruits they sell are good." "Food, fellows, bully good food." Yankee money for pine-apples, shaddocks, mangoes. "Who were Paul and Virginia?" "Oh, a couple of spooneys who died here, in a shipwreck, because the lady would n t take off her smock." "I say, Fred, that s a shabby way to put it. You ve no sentiment." "Maybe, I don t read much myself, and when I do, I prefer United States, something like old Artemus Ward, for instance." "Oh, dry up, and let s get some donkeys and go for a gallop. We ve got to begin coaling to-morrow, remember." The beautiful dresses, Blue, Green, Mauve, Yellow; And the beautiful green pointed hats Like Chinese porcelains! 1 66 OF MAGAZINE VERSE See, a band of geisha Is imitating the state procession of a Corean Am bassador, Under painted streamers, On an early afternoon. The hot sun burns the tar up out of the deck. The paddle-wheels turn, flinging the cupped water over their shoulders. Heat smoulders along the horizon. The shadow of the ship floats off the starboard quarter, floats like a dark cloth on the sea. The watch is pulling on the topsail halliards: "O Sally Brown of New York City, Ay, ay, roll and go." Like a tired beetle, the Mississippi creeps over the flat, glass water, creeps on, breathing heavily. Creeps creeps and sighs and settles at Pointe de Galle, Ceylon. Spice islands speckling the Spanish Main. Fairy tales and stolen readings. Saint John s Eve! Midsummer Madness! Here it is all true. But the smell of the spice- trees is not so nice as the smell of new-mown hay on the Commodore s field at Tarrytown. But what can one say to forests of rose-wood, satin-wood, ebony! To the talipot tree, one leaf of which can cover several people with its single shade. Trade! Trade! Trade in spices for an earlier generation. We dream of lacquers and precious stones. Of spinning telegraph wires across painted fans. Ceylon is an old story, ours will be the glory of more important conquests. . But wait wait. No one is likely to force the Gate. 167 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The smoke of golden Virginia tobacco floats through the blue palms. "You say you killed forty elephants with this rifle!" "Indeed, yes, and a trifling bag, too." Down the ninety mile rapids Of the Heaven Dragon River, He came, With his bowmen, And his spearmen, Borne in a gilded palanquin, To pass the Winter in Yedo By the Shogun s decree. To pass the Winter idling in the Yoshiwara, While his bowmen and spearmen Gamble away their rusted weapons Every evening At the Hour of the Cock. Her Britannic Majesty s frigate Cleopatra salutes the Mississippi as she sails into the harbor of Singapore. Vessels galore choke the wharves. From China, Siam, Malaya; Sumatra, Europe, America. This is the bargain counter of the East. Goods Goods, dumped ashore to change boats and sail on again. Oaths and cupidity; greasy clothes and greasy dollars wound into turbans. Opium and birds -nests exchanged for teas, cassia, nan keens; gold thread bartered for Brummagem buttons. Pocket knives told off against teapots. Lots and lots of cheap damaged porcelains, and trains of silken bales awaiting advantageous sales to Yankee merchantmen. The figurehead of the Mississippi should be a beneficent angel. With her guns to persuade, she should lay the 1 68 OF MAGAZINE VERSE foundation of such a market on the shores of Japan. "We will do what we can," writes the Commodore, in his cabin. Outside the drapery shop of Taketani Sabai, Strips of dried cloth are hanging out to dry. Fine Arimitsu cloth, Fine blue and white cloth, Falling from a high staging, Falling like falling water, Like blue and white unbroken water Sliding over a high cliff, Like the Ono Fall on the Kisokaido Road. Outside the shop of Taketani Sabai, They have hung the fine dyed tloth In strips out to dry. Romance and heroism; and all to make one dollar two. Through grey fog and fresh blue breezes, through heat, and sleet, and sheeted rain. For centuries men have pursued the will-o -the-wisp trade. And they have got what? All civilization weighed in twopenny scales and fastened with string. A sailing planet packed in a dry-goods box. Knocks, and shocks, and blocks of ex tended knowledge, contended for and won. Cloves and nutmegs, and science stowed among the grains. Your gains are not in silver, mariners, but in the songs of violins, and the thin voices whispering through printed books. "It looks like a dinner-plate," thinks the officer of the watch, as the Mississippi sails up the muddy river to Canton, with the Dragon s Cave Fort on one side, and the Girl s Shoe Fort on the other. 169 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The Great Gate looms in a distant mist, and the anchored squadron waits and rests, but its coming is as certain as the equinoxes, and the lightning bolts of its guns are ready to tear off centuries like husks of corn. The Commodore sips bottled water from Saratoga, and makes out a report for the State Department. The men play pitch-and-toss, and the officers poker, and the bet ting gives heavy odds against the little monkey-men. On the floor of the reception room of the Palace They have laid a white quilt, And on the quilt, two red rugs; And they have set up two screens of white paper To hide that which should not be seen. At the four corners, they have placed lanterns, And now they come. Six attendants, Three to sit on either side of the condemned man, Walking slowly. Three to the right, Three to the left, And he between them In his dress of ceremony With the great wings. Shadow wings, thrown by the lantern light, Trail over the red rugs to the polished floor, Trail away unnoticed, For there is a sharp glitter from a dagger Borne past the lanterns on a silver tray, "O my Master, I would borrow your sword, 170 OF MAGAZINE VERSE For it may be a consolation to you To perish by a sword to which you are accustomed." Stone, the face of the condemned man, Stone, the face of the executioner, And yet before this moment These were master and pupil, Honored and according homage, And this is an act of honorable devotion. Each face is passive, Hewed as out of strong stone, Cold as a statue above a temple porch. Down slips the dress of ceremony to the girdle. Plunge the dagger to its hilt. A trickle of blood runs along the white flesh And soaks into the girdle silk. Slowly across from left to right, Slowly, upcutting at the end, But the executioner leaps to his feet, Poises the sword Did it flash, hover, descend? There is a thud, a horrible rolling, And the heavy sound of a loosened, falling body, Then only the throbbing of blood Spurting into the red rugs. For he who was a man is that thing Crumpled up on the floor, Broken, and crushed into the red rugs. The friend wipes the sword, And his face is calm and frozen As a stone statue on a Winter night Above a temple gateway. 171 THE GOLDEN TREASURY PART II Four vessels giving easily to the low running waves and catspaw breezes of a Summer sea. July, 1853, Mid- Century, but just on the turn. Mid-Century, with the vanishing half fluttering behind on a foam-bubbled wake. Four war ships steering for the "Land of Great Peace," caparisoned in state, cleaving a jewelled ocean to a Dragon Gate. Behind it, the quiet of afternoon. Golden light reflecting from the inner sides of shut portals. War is an old wives tale, a frail beautiful embroidery of other ages. The panoply of battle fades. Arrows rust in arsenals, spears stand useless on their butts in vestibules. Cannon lie unmounted in castle yards, and rats and snakes make nests in them and rear their young in un molested satisfaction. The sun of midsummer lies over the "Land of Great Peace," and behind the shut gate they do not hear the paddle-wheels of distant vessels unceasingly turning and advancing, through the jewelled scintillations of the encircling sea. Susquehanna and Mississippi, steamers, towing Sara toga and Plymouth, sloops of war. Moving on in the very eye of the wind, with not a snip of canvas upon their slim yards. Fugi! a point above nothing, for there is a haze. Stop gazing, that is the bugle to clear decks and shot guns. We must be prepared, as we run up the coast straight to the Bay of Yedo. "I say, fellows, those boats think they can catch us, they don t know that this is Yankee steam." Bang! The shore guns are at work. And 172 OF MAGAZINE VERSE that smoke-ball would be a rocket at night, but we can not see the gleam in this sunshine. Black with people are the bluffs of Uraga, watching the "fire-ships" lipping windless up the bay. Say all the prayers you know, priests of Shinto and Buddha. Ah! The great splashing of the wheels stops, a chain rattles. The anchor drops at the hour of the ape. A clock on the Commodore s chest of drawers strikes five with a silvery tinkle. Boats are coming from all directions. Beautiful boats of unpainted wood, broad of beam, with tapering sterns, and clean runs. Swiftly they come, with shouting rowers standing to their oars. The shore glitters with spears and lacquered hats. Compactly the boats advance, and each carries a flag white-black-white and the stripes break and blow. But the tow-lines are cast loose when the rowers would make them fast to the "black ships," and those who would climb the chains slip back dismayed, checked by a show of cutlasses, pistols, pikes. " Naru Hodo!" This is amazing, unpre cedented! Even the Vice Governor, though he boards the Susquehanna, cannot see the Commodore. "His High Mighty Mysteriousness, Lord of the Forbidden Interior," remains in his cabin. Extraordinary! Horrible! Rockets rise from the forts, and their trails of sparks glitter faintly now, and their bombs break in faded colors as the sun goes down. Bolt the gate, monkey-men, but it is late to begin turning locks so rusty and worn. Darkness over rice-fields and hills. The Gold Gate hides in shadow. Upon the indigo-dark water, millions of white jelly-fish drift, like lotus-petals over an inland 173 THE GOLDEN TREASURY lake. The land buzzes with prayer, low, dim smoke hanging in air; and every hill gashes and glares with shooting fires. The fire-bells are ringing in double time, and a heavy swinging boom clashes from the great bells of temples. Couriers lash their horses, riding furiously to Yedo; junks and scull-boats arrive hourly at Shinagawa with news; runners, bearing dispatches, pant in govern ment offices. The hollow doors of the Great Gate beat with alarms. The charmed Dragon country shakes and trembles. lyeyoshi, twelfth Shogun of the Tokugawa line, sits in his city. Sits in the midst of one million, two hundred thousand trembling souls, and his mind rolls forward and back like a ball on a circular runway, and finds no goal. Roll, poor distracted mind of a sick man. What can you do but wait, trusting in your Dragon Gate, for how should you know that it is rusted. But there is a sign over the "black ships." A wedge- shaped tail of blue sparklets, edged with red, trails above them as though a Dragon were pouring violet sulphurous spume from steaming nostrils, and the hulls and rigging are pale, quivering, bright as Taira ghosts on the sea of Nagato. Up and down, walk sentinels, fore and aft, and at the side gangways. There is a pile of round shot and four stands of grape beside each gun; and carbines, and pistols, and cutlasses, are laid in the boats. Floating arsenals floating sample-rooms for the wares of a continent, shop- counters, flanked with weapons, adrift among the jelly- fishes. Eight bells, and the meteor washes away before the wet, white wisps of dawn. Through the countrysides of the "Land of Great 174 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Peace," flowers are blooming. The greenish-white, sterile blossoms of hydrangeas boom faintly like distant in audible bombs of color exploding in the woods. Weigelias prick the pink of their slender trumpets against green backgrounds. The fan-shaped leaves of ladies slippers rustle under cryptomerias. Midsummer heat curls about the cinnamon-red tree- boles along the Tokaido. The road ripples and glints with the passing to and fro, and beyond, in the road stead, the "black ships" swing at their anchors and wait. All up and down the Eastern shore of the bay is a feverish digging, patting, plastering. Forts to be built in an hour to resist the barbarians, if, peradventure, they can. Japan turned to, what will it not do! Fishermen and palanquin-bearers, packhorse-leaders and farm-laborers, even women and children, pat and plaster. Disaster batters at the Dragon Gate. Batters at the doors of Yedo, where Samurai unpack their armour, and whet and feather their arrows. Daimios smoke innumerable pipes, and drink un numbered cups of tea, discussing discussing "What is to be done?" The Shogun is no Emperor. What shall they do if the "hairy devils" take a notion to go to Kioto! Then indeed would the Tokugawa fall. The prisons are crammed with those who advise opening the Gate. Open the Gate, and let the State scatter like dust to the wind! Absurd! Unthinkable! Suppress the "brocade pictures" of the floating monsters with which book-sellers and picture-shop keepers are delighting and affrighting the populace. Place a ban on speech. Preach, inert Daimios the Commodore will not go to Nagasaki, and the roar of his guns will drown the clattering fall of your Dragon 175 THE GOLDEN TREASURY doors if you do not open them in time. East and West, and trade shaded by heroism. Hokusai is dead, but his pupils are lampooning your carpet soldiers. Spare the dynasty parley, procrastinate. Appoint two Princes to receive the Commodore, at once, since he will not wait over long. At Kurihama, for he must not come to Yedo. Flip flap flutter flags in front of the Confer ence House. Built over night, it seems, with unpainted peaked summits of roofs gleaming like ricks of grain. Flip flutter flap variously-tinted flags, in a cres cent about nine tall standards whose long scarlet pennons brush the ground. Beat tap fill and relapse the wind pushing against taut white cloth screens, bellying out the Shogun s crest of heart-shaped Asarum leaves in the panels, crumpling them to indefinite figures of scarlet spotting white. Flip ripple brighten over serried ranks of soldiers on the beach. Sword-bearers, spear- bearers, archers, lancers, and those who carry heavy, antiquated match-locks. The block of them five thousand armed men, drawn up in front of a cracking golden door. But behind their bristling spears, the cracks are hidden. Braying, blasting blares from two brass bands, ap proaching in glittering boats over glittering water. One is playing the "Overture" from "William Tell," the other, "The Last Rose of Summer," and the way the notes clash, and shock, and shatter, and dissolve, is wonderful to hear. Queer barbarian music, and the monkey-soldiers stand stock still, listening to its reverber ation humming in the folded doors of the Great Gate. Stuff" your ears, monkey-soldiers, screw your faces, shudder up and down your spines. Cannon! Cannon! from one of the "black ships." Thirteen thudding ex- 176 OF MAGAZINE VERSE plosions, thirteen red dragon tongues, thirteen clouds of smoke like the breath of the mountain gods. Thirteen hammer strokes shaking the Great Gate, and the seams in the metal widen. Open Sesame, shotless guns; and "The Only, High, Grand and Mighty, Invisible Mysteri- ousness, Chief Barbarian" reveals himself, and steps into his barge. Up, oars, down; drip sun-spray rowlock-rattle. To shore! To shore! Set foot upon the sacred soil of the "Land of Great Peace," with its five thousand armed men doing nothing with their spears and match-locks, because of the genii in the black guns aboard the "black ships." jOne hundred marines in a line up the wharf. One hundred sailors, man to man, opposite them. Officers, two deep; and, up the centre the Procession. Bands together now: "Hail Columbia." Marines in file, sailors after, a staff with the American flag borne by seamen, another with the Commodore s broad pennant. Two boys, dressed for ceremony, carrying the President s letter and credentials in golden boxes. Tall, blue-black negroes on either side of THE COMMODORE! Walking slowly, gold, blue, steel-glitter, up to the Conference House, walking in state up to an ancient tottering Gate, lately closed securely, but now gaping. Bands, rain your music against this golden barrier, harry the ears of the monkey-men. The doors are ajar, and the Commodore has entered. Prince of Idzu Prince of Iwami in winged dresses of gold brocade, at the end of a red carpet, under violet, 177 THE GOLDEN TREASURY silken hangings, under crests of scarlet heart-shaped Asarum leaves, guardians of a scarlet lacquered box, guardians of golden doors, worn thin and bending. In silence the blue-black negroes advance, and take the golden boxes from the page boys; in silence they open them and unwrap bine velvet coverings. Silently they display the documents to the Prince of Idzu the Prince of Iwami motionless, inscrutable beyond the red carpet. The vellum crackles as it is unfolded, and the long silk-gold cords of the seals drop their gold tassels to straight glistening inches and swing slowly gold tassels clock-ticking before a doomed, burnished gate. The negroes lay the vellum documents upon the scarlet lacquered box; bow, and retire. "I am desirous that our two countries should trade with each other." Careful letters, carefully traced on rich parchment, and the low sun casts the shadow of the Gate far inland over high hills. "The letter of the President of the United States will be delivered to the Emperor. Therefore you can now go." The Commodore, rising: "I will return for the answer during the coming Spring." But ships are frail, and seas are fickle, one can nail fresh plating over the thin gate before Spring. Prince of Idzu Prince of Iwami inscrutable statesmen, insensate idiots, trusting blithely to a lock when the key- guns are trained even now upon it. Withdraw, Procession. Dip oars back to the "black ships." Slip cables and depart, for day after day will lapse and nothing can retard a coming Spring. 178 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Panic Winter throughout the "Land of Great Peace." Panic, and haste, wasting energies and accomplishing nothing. Kioto has heard, and prays, trembling. Priests at the shrine of Ise whine long slow supplications from dawn to dawn, and through days dropping down again from morning. lyeyoshi is dead, and lyesada rules in Yedo; thirteenth Shogun of the Tokugawa. Rules and struggles, rescinds laws, urges reforms; breathless, agitated endeavors to patch and polish where is only corroding and puffed particles of dust. It is Winter still in the Bay of Yedo, though the plum-trees of Kamata and Kinagawa are white and fluttering. Winter, with green, high, angular seas. But over the water, far toward China, are burning the furnaces of three great steamers, and four sailing vessels heel over, with decks slanted and sails full and pulling. "There s a bit of a lop, this morning. Mr. Jones, you d better take in those royals." "Ay, ay, Sir. Tumble up here, men! Tumble up! Lay aloft and stow royals. Haul out to leeward." "To my, Ay, And we ll furl Ay, And pay Paddy Doyle for his boots." "Tauht band knot away." Chug! Chug! go the wheels of the consorts, salting smokestacks with whirled spray. The Commodore lights a cigar, and paces up and 179 THE GOLDEN TREASURY down the quarter-deck of the Powhatan. "I wonder what the old yellow devils will do," he muses. Forty feet high, the camellia trees, with hard, green buds unburst. It is early yet for camellias, and the green buds and the glazed green leaves toss frantically in a blustering March wind. Sheltered behind the forty feet high camellia trees, on the hills of Idzu, stand watch men straining their eyes over a broken dazzle of sea. Just at the edge of moonlight and sunlight moon setting; sun rising they come. Seven war ships heeled over and flashing, dashing through heaped waves, sleep ing a moment in hollows leaping over ridges, sweeping forward in a strain of canvas and a train of red-black smoke. "The fire-ships! The fire-ships!" Slip the bridles of your horses, messengers, and clatter down the Tokaido; scatter pedestrians, palanquins, slow moving cattle, right and left into the cryptomerias; rattle over bridges, spatter dust into shop-windows. To Yedo! To Yedo! For Spring is here, and the fire- ships have come! Seven vessels, flying the stars and stripes, three more shortly to join them, with ripe, fruit-bearing guns pointed inland. Princes evince doubt, distrust. Learning must beat learning. Appoint a Professor of the University. Delay, prevaricate. How long can the play continue? Hayashi, learned scholar of Confucius and Mencius he shall confer with the Barbarians at Uraga. Shall he! Word comes that the Mighty Chief of Ships will not go to 180 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Uraga. Steam is up, and Horror! Consternation! The squadron moves toward Yedo! Sailors, midshipmen, lieutenants pack yards and cross-trees, seeing temple gates, castle towers, flowered pagodas, and look-outs looming distantly clear, and the Commodore on deck can hear the slow booming of the bells from the temples of Shiba and Asakusa. You must capitulate, great Princes of a quivering Gate. Say Yokohama, and the Commodore will agree, for they must not come to Yedo. Rows of japonicas in full bloom outside the Confer ence House. Flags and streamers, and musicians and pikemen. Five hundred officers, seamen, marines, and the Commodore following in his white-painted gig. A jig of fortune indeed, with a sailor and a professor ma noeuvring for terms, chess-playing each other in a game of future centuries. The Americans bring presents. Presents now, to be bought hereafter. Goodwill, to head long bills of imports. Occidental mechanisms to push the Orient into limbo. Fox-moves of interpreters, and Pandora s box with a contents rated far too low. Round and round goes the little train on its circular railroad, at twenty miles an hour, with grave dignitaries seated on its roof. Smiles, gestures, at messages running over wire, a mile away. Touch the harrows, the plows, the flails, and shudder at the "spirit pictures" of the daguerreotype machine. These Barbarians have harnessed gods and dragons. They build boats which will not sink, and tinker little gold wheels till they follow the swinging of the sun. Run to the Conference House. See, feel, listen. And 181 THE GOLDEN TREASURY shrug deprecating shoulders at the glisten of silk and lacquer given in return. What are cups cut out of conch- shells, and red-dyed figured crepe, to railroads, and burning engines! Go on board the "black ships" and drink mint juleps and brandy smashes, and click your tongues over sweet puddings. Offer the strangers pickled plums, sugared fruits, candied walnuts. Bruit the news far inland through the mouths of countrymen. Who thinks of the Great Gate! Its portals are pushed so far back that the shining edges of them can scarcely be observed. The Commodore has never swerved a moment from his pur pose, and the dragon mouths of his guns have conquered without the need of a single powder-horn. The Commodore writes in his cabin. Writes an account of what he has done. The sands of centuries run fast, one slides, and an other, each falling into a smother of dust. A locomotive in pay for a Whistler; telegraph wires buying a revolution; weights and measures and Audubon s birds in exchange for fear. Yellow monkey-men leap ing out of Pandora s box, shaking the rocks of the Western coastline. Golden California bartering panic for prints. The dressing-gowns of a continent won at the cost of security. Artists and philosophers lost in the hour-glass and pouring through an open Gate. Ten ships sailing for China on a fair May wind. Ten ships sailing from one world into another, but never again into the one they left. Two years and a tip-turn is accomplished. Over the globe and back, Rip Van Winkle ships. Slip into your docks in Newport, in Nor- 182 OF MAGAZINE VERSE folk, in Charlestown. You have blown off the locks of the East, and what is coming will come. POSTLUDE In the Castle moat, lotus flowers are blooming, They shine with the light of an early moon Brightening above the Castle towers. They shine in the dark circles of their unreflecting leaves. Pale blossoms, Pale towers, Pale moon, Deserted ancient moat About an ancient stronghold, Your bowmen are departed, Your strong walls are silent, Their only echo A croaking of frogs. Frogs croaking at the moon In the ancient moat Of an ancient, crumbling Castle. 1903. JAPAN The high clifF of the Kegon waterfall, and a young man carving words on the trunk of a tree. He finishes, pauses an instant, and then leaps into the foam-cloud rising from below. But, on the tree-trunk, the newly-cut words blaze white and hard as though set with diamonds: "How mightily and steadily go Heaven and Earth! How infinite the duration of Past and Present! Try to measure this vastness with five feet. A word explains the Truth of the whole Universe unknowable. To cure my agony I have decided to die. Now, as I stand 183 THE GOLDEN TREASURY on the crest of this rock, no uneasiness is left in me. For the first time I know that extreme pessimism and extreme optimism are one." 1903. AMERICA "Nocturne Blue and silver Battersea Bridge. Nocturne Grey and Silver Chelsea Embankment. Variations in Violet and Green." Pictures in a glass-roofed gallery, and all day long the throng of people is so great that one can scarcely see them. Debits credits? Flux and flow through a wide gateway. Occident Orient after fifty years. The Seven Arts Amy Lowell 73 The Field of Glory WAR shook the land where Levi dwelt, And fired the dismal wrath he felt, That such a doom was ever wrought As his, to toil while others fought; To toil, to dream and still to dream, With one day barren as another; To consummate, as it would seem, The dry despair of his old mother. Far off one afternoon began The sound of man destroying man; And Levi, sick with nameless rage, Condemned again his heritage, 184 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And sighed for scars that might have come, And would, if once he could have sundered Those harsh, inhering claims of home That held him while he cursed and wondered. Another day, and then there came, Rough, bloody, ribald, hungry, lame, But yet themselves, to Levi s door, Two remnants of the day before. They laughed at him and what he sought; They jeered him, and his painful acre; But Levi knew that they had fought, And left their manners to their Maker. That night, for the grim widow s ears, With hopes that hid themselves in fears, He told of arms, and featly deeds, Whereat one leaps the while he reads, And said he d be no more a clown, While others drew the breath of battle. The mother looked him up and down, And laughed a scant laugh with a rattle. She told him what she found to tell, And Levi listened, and heard well Some admonitions of a voice That left him no cause to rejoice. He sought a friend, and found the stars, And prayed aloud that they should aid him; But they said not a word of wars, Or of a reason why God made him. THE GOLDEN TREASURY And who s of this or that estate We do not wholly calculate, When baffling shades that shift and cling Are not without their glimmering; When even Levi, tired of faith, Beloved of none, forgot by many, Dismissed as an inferior wraith, Reborn may be as great as any. The Outlook Edwin Arlington Robinson 74 Fight The Tale of a Gunner at Plattsburgh, 1814 1 JOCK bit his mittens off and blew his thumbs; He scraped the fresh sleet from the frozen sign: MEN W T ANTED VOLUNTEERS. Like gusts of brine He whiffed deliriums Of sound the droning roar of rolling rolling drums And shrilling fifes, like needles in his spine, And drank, blood-bright from sunrise and wild shore, The wine of war. With ears and eyes he drank and dizzy brain Till all the snow danced red. The little shacks 1 In the naval battle of Plattsburgh, the American commander " Macdonough himself worked like a common sailor, in pointing and handling a favorite gun. While bending over to sight it, a round shot cut in two the spanker boom, which fell on his head and struck him senseless for two or three minutes; he then leaped to his feet and continued as before, when a shot took off the head of the captain of the gun crew and drove it in his face with such force as to knock him to the other side of the deck" From "The Naval War of 1812," by Theodore Roosevelt. 186 OF MAGAZINE VERSE That lined the road of muffled hackmatacks Were roofed with the red stain, Which spread in reeling rings on icy-blue Champlain And splotched the sky like daubs of sealing-wax, That darkened when he winked, and when he stared Caught fire and flared. MEN WANTED VOLUNTEERS! The village street, Topped by the slouching store and slim flagpole, Loomed grand as Rome to his expanding soul; Grandly the rhythmic beat Of feet in file and flags and fifes and filing feet, The roar of brass and unremitting roll Of drums and drums bewitched his boyish mood Till he hallooed. His strident echo stung the lake s wild dawn And startled him from dreams. Jock rammed his cap And rubbed a numb ear with the furry flap, Then bolted like a faun, Bounding through shin-deep sleigh-ruts in his shaggy brawn, Blowing white frost-wreaths from red mouth agap Till, in a gabled porch beyond the store, He burst the door: "Mother!" he panted. "Hush! Your pa ain t up; He s worser since this storm. What s struck ye so?" "It s volunteers!" The old dame stammered "Oh!" And stopped, and stirred her sup Of morning tea, and stared down in the trembling cup. 187 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "They re musterin on the common now." "I know," She nodded feebly; then with sharp surmise She raised her eyes: She raised her eyes, and poured their light on him Who towered glowing there bright lips apart, Cap off, and brown hair tousled. With quick smart She felt the room turn dim And seemed she heard, far off, a sound of cherubim Soothing the sudden pain about her heart. How many a lonely hour of after-woe She saw him so! "Jock!" And once more the white lips murmured "Jock!" Her fingers slipped; the spilling teacup fell And shattered, tinkling but broke not the spell. His heart began to knock, Jangling the hollow rhythm of the ticking clock. "Mother, it s fight, and men are wanted!" "Well, Ah well, it s men may kill us women s joys, It s men not boys!" "I m seventeen! I guess that seventeen " " My little Jock !" "Little! I m six-foot-one. (Scorn twitched his lip.) You saw me, how I skun The town last Hallowe en* At wrastlin ." (Now the mother shifted tack.) "But Jean? You won t be leavin Jean?" "I guess a gun Won t rattle her." He laughed, and turned his head. His face grew red. 1 88 OF MAGAZINE VERSE " But if it does a gal don t understand : It s fight!" "Jock, boy, your pa can t last much more, And who s to mind the stock to milk and chore?" Jock frowned and gnawed his hand. "Mother, it s men must mind the stock our own born land, And lick the invaders." Slowly in the door Stubbed the old, worn-out man. "Woman, let be! It s liberty: "It s struck him like fork-lightnin* in a pine. I felt it, too, like that in seventy-six; And now, if t wa n t for creepin pains and cricks And this one leg o mine, I d holler young Jerusalem like him, and jine The fight; but fight don t come from burnt-out wicks; It comes from fire." "Mebbe," she said, "it comes From fifes and drums." " Dad, all the boys are down from the back hills. The common s cacklin like hell s cocks and hens; There s swords and muskets stacked in the cow-pens And knapsacks in the mills; They say at Isle aux Noix Redcoats are holding drills, And we re to build a big fleet at Vergennes. Dad, can t I go?" "I reckon you re a man: Of course you can. "I ll do the chores to home, you do em thar!" "Dad!" "Lad!" The men gripped hands and gazed upon The mother, when the door flew wide. There shone A young face like a star, 189 THE GOLDEN TREASURY A gleam of bitter-sweet gainst snowy islands far, A freshness, like the scent of cinnamon, Tingeing the air with ardor and bright sheen. Jock faltered: "Jean!" "Jock, don t you hear the drums? I dreamed all night I heard em, and they woke me in black dark. Quick, ain t you comin ? Can t you hear em? Hark! The men-folks are to fight. I wish I was a man!" Jock felt his throat clutch tight. "Men-folks!" It lit his spirit like a spark Flashing the pent gunpowder of his pride. "Come on!" he cried. "Here wait!" The old man stumped to the back wall And handed down his musket. "You ll want this; And mind what game you re after, and don t miss. Good-by: I guess that s all For now. Come back and get your duds." Jock, loom ing tall Beside his glowing sweetheart, stooped to kiss The little shrunken mother. Tiptoe she rose And clutched him close. In both her twisted hands she held his head Clutched in the wild remembrance of dim years A baby head, suckling, half dewed with tears; A tired boy abed By candlelight; a laughing face beside the red Log-fire; a shock of curls beneath her shears The bright hair falling. Ah, she tried to smother Her wild thoughts "Mother! OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Mother!" he stuttered. "Baby Jock!" she moaned And looked far in his eyes. And he was gone. The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn All that she once had owned Her heart s proud empire passed, her life s dream sank unthroned. With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan. "Hark, woman!" said the bowed old man. "What s tolling?" Drums drums were rolling. Shy wings flashed in the orchard, glitter, glitter; Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves, And Phoebe! Phoebe! whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves Of Spring, save only in an old dame s heart That grieved apart. Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep: Creak went the pole; the bucket came up brimming. On the bright water lay a cricket swimming Whose brown legs tried to leap But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep. The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skim ming. "Dear Lord, he s drowned," she mumbled with dry lips; "The ships! the ships!" 191 , THE GOLDEN TREASURY Gently she laid him in the sun and dried The little dripping body. Suddenly Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree And "Look! a letter!" cried A laughing voice, "and lots of news for us inside!" "How s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where where is he?" " Down in Vergennes the ship-yards." "Ships! Ah, no! It can t be so." "He s goin to fight with guns and be a tar. See here: he s wrote himself. The post was late. He could n t write before. The ship is great! She s built, from keel to spar, And called the Saratoga; and Jock s got a scar Already " "Scar?" the mother quavered. "Wait," Jean rippled, "let me read." "Quick, then, my dear, He ll want to hear "Jock s pa: I guess we 11 find him in the yard. He ain t scarce creepin round these days, poor Dan!" She gripped Jean s arm and stumbled as they ran, And stopped once, breathing hard. Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep- cropped sward And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse: "Well, ma; what news?" "From Jockie there s a letter!" In his chair The bowed form sat bolt upright. "What s he say?" "He s wrote to Jean. I guess it s boys their way To think old folks don t care 192 OF MAGAZINE VERSE For letters." "Girl, read out." Jean smoothed her wilding hair And sat beside them. Out of the blue day A golden robin called; across the road A heifer lowed; And old ears listened while youth read: " Friend Jean, Vergennes: here s where we ve played a Yankee trick. I m layin* in my bunk by Otter Crick And scribblin you this mean Scrawl for to tell the news what-all I Ve heerd and seen: Jennie, we ve built a ship, and built her slick A swan! a seven hundred forty tonner, And I m first gunner. " You ought to seen us launch her t other day! Tell dad we ve christened her for a fight of hisn He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen! She s twice as big, folks say, As Perry s ship that took the prize at Put-in Bay; Yet forty days ago, hull, masts and mizzen, The whole of her was growin , live and limber, In God s green timber. "I helped to fell her main-mast back in March. The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder: A straight white pine. She fell like roarin thunder And left a blue-sky arch Above her, bustin all to kindlin s a tall larch. Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under! Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle Yelled Yankee-Doodle! 193 THE GOLDEN TREASURY " My, how we haw d and gee d the big ox-sledges Haulin her long trunk through the hemlock dells, A-bellerin to the tinkle-tankle bells, And blunted our ax edges Hackin new roads of ice longside the rocky ledges. We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin - Lord, wa n t we cheerin ! "Since then I ve seen her born, as you might say: Born out of fire and water and men s sweatin , Blast-furnace rairin and red anvils frettin* And sawmills, night and day, Screech-owlin like t was Satan s rumhouse run away Smellin of tar and pitch. But I m forgettin The man that s primed her guns and paid her score: The Commodore. "Macdonough he s her master, and she knows His voice, like he was talkin to his hound. There ain t a man of her but ruther d drown Than tread upon his toes; And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin eyes, a rose Ain t friendlier than his looks be. When he s round, He makes you feel like yo re a gentleman American. " But I must tell you how we re hidin here. This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug, And we re inside. The Redcoats want to plug The mouth, and cork our beer; So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near 494 OF MAGAZINE VERSE To fill our channel, but us boys had dug Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries Stung em like bees "Till they skedaddled whimperin up the lake; But while the shots was flyin , in the scrimmage, I caught a ball that scotched my livin image. Now Jean, for Sam Hill s sake, Don t let-on this to mother, for you know she d make A deary-me-in that would last a grim age. T ain t much, but when a feller goes to war What s he go for " If t ain t to fight, and take his chances?" Jean Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak. "Go on," said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek. "Truly I did n t mean There ain t much more. He says: Goodbye now, little queen; We re due to sail for Pittsburgh this day week. Meantime I m hopin hard and takin stock. Your obedient Jock. " The girl s voice ceased in silence. Glitter, glitter, The shy wings flashed through blbssom-colored leaves, And Phoebe! Phoebe! whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter. The mother s heart spurned May s sweet make-believes, For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming, Guns guns were booming. I9S THE GOLDEN TREASURY in Plattsburgh and windless beauty on the bay; Autumnal morning and the sun at seven: Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heaven Dwindles, and far away Dim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their .prey Lie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin, The war-ships Eagle, Preble, Saratoga, Ticonderoga. And now a little wind from the northwest Flutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks. A gunner, on Macdonough s silent decks, Peers from his cannon s rest, Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crest Behind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls necks, Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened wales Of bellying sails. Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view, Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance: Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly Confiance Leading with Downie s crew The line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to, Whistling their flock of galleys who advance Behind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast, Tack landward, west. 196 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore; Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffs And blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs. Waiting the cannon s roar A nation holds its breath for knell of Nevermore Or peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughs Of generations and one old dame s joy: Her gunner boy. One moment on the quarter deck Jock kneels Beside his Commodore and fighting squad. Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God - Toward God, to whom appeals Still rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals Of man, still boastful of his brother s blood. They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silently The enemy. Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout: "He that wavereth is like a wave of the sea Driven with the wind. Behold the ships, that be So great, are turned about Even with a little helm." Jock tightens the blue clout Around his waist, and watches casually Close-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirs And spreads his spurs. Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoop Wings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire; The English Linnet answers, aiming higher, And crash along Jock s poop Her hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock s coop, 197 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crier Strutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew Yankee-do odle-doo! Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar: "You bet we ll do em!" "You re a prophet, cocky!" "Hooray, old rooster!" "Hip, hip, hip!" cries Jockie. Calmly the Commodore Touches his cannon s fuse and fires a twenty-four. Smoke belches black. "Huzza! That s blowed em pockey!" And Downie s men, like pins before the bowling, Fall scatter-rolling. Boom! flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys. The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bay With both her port-bow anchors torn away, Flutters, but proudly rallies To broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys. Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray, And double-shotted from his roaring flail Hurls the black hail. The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom. Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouth And grapples with great winds. The winds blow south, And scent of lilac bloom Steals from his mother s porch in his still sleeping room. Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth! He staggers up, and stares at blinding light: "God! This is fight!" 198 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins; He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming, Where little round suns in a dance go rimming The dark with golden coins; Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoins Reel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning Lonely and loud of ululating choirs Strangling with wires. Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums, The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spume Filling his spirit with a wild perfume; Now noisome anguish numbs His sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums. Whang! splits the spanker near him, and the boom Crushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck, Stunned on the deck. No time to glance where wounded leaders lie, Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm Only to fight! The prone commander s form Stirs, rises stumblingly, And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry, Men s bodies wamble like a mangled swarm Of bees. He bends to sight his gun again, Bleeding, and then Oh, out of void and old oblivion And reptile slime first rose Apollo s head; And God in likeness of Himself, t is said, Created such an one, Now shaping Shakespeare s forehead, now Napoleon, 199 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Various, by infinite invention bred, In His own image moulding beautiful The human skull. Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gun To fire but in his face a ball of flesh, A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a mesh Of tangled rope and tun, While still about the deck the lubber clod is spun And, bouncing from the rail, lies in a plesh Of oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red A gunner s head. Above the ships, enormous from the lake, Rises a wraith a phantom dim and gory, Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory; And little children quake And lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake, And bards proclaim her in their fiery story; And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding, Hearts hearts are bleeding. IV Macdonough lies with Downie in one land. Victor and vanquished long ago were peers. Held in the grip of peace an hundred years, England has laid her hand In ours, and we have held (and still shall hold) the band That makes us brothers of the hemispheres; Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhood Of law and blood. 200 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Yet one whose terror racked us long of yore Still wreaks upon the world her lawless might: Out of the deeps again the phantom Fight Looms on her wings of war, Sowing in armed camps and fields her venomed spore, Embattling monarch s whim against man s right, Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of time Back in the slime. We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought, First rose in the eyes of patient Washington, And through the molten heart of Lincoln won To liberty forgot, Now, standing lone in peace, mid titans strange dis traught, Pray much for patience, more God s will be done! For vision and for power nobly to see The world made free. The Outlook Percy MacKaye 75 The Horse Thief THERE he movedj cropping the grass at the purple canyon s lip. His mane was mixed with the moonlight that silvered his snow-white side, For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the wake of a spectral ship, I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my lariat coil looped wide. 201 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Dimly and dark the mesas broke on the starry sky. A pall covered every color of their gorgeous glory at noon. I smelt the yucca and mesquite, and stifled my heart s quick cry, And wormed and crawled on my belly to where he moved against the moon! Some Moorish barb was that mustang s sire. His lines were beyond all wonder. From the prick of his ears to the flow of his tail he ached in my throat and eyes. Steel and velvet grace! As the prophet says, God had "clothed his neck with thunder." Oh, marvelous with the drifting cloud he drifted across the skies! And then I was near at hand, crouched and balanced, and cast the coil; And the moon was smothered in cloud, and the rope through my hands with a rip! But somehow I gripped and clung, with the blood in my brain aboil, With a turn round the rugged tree-stump there on the purple canyon s lip. Right into the stars he reared aloft, his red eye rolling and raging. He whirled and sunfished and lashed, and rocked the earth to thunder and flame. He squealed like a regular devil horse. I was haggard and spent and aging Roped clean, but almost storming clear, his fury too fierce to tame. 202 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And I cursed myself for a tenderfoot moon-dazzled to play the part, But I was doubly desperate then, with the posse pulled out from town, Or I d never have tried it. I only knew I must get a mount and start. The filly had snapped her foreleg short. I had had to shoot her down. So there he struggled and strangled, and I snubbed him around the tree. Nearer, a little near hoofs planted, and lolling tongue Till a sudden slack pitched me backward. He reared right on top of me. Mother of God that moment! He missed me . . . and up I swung. Somehow, gone daft completely and clawing a bunch of his mane, As he stumbled and tripped in the lariat, there I was up and astride. And cursing for seven counties! And the mustang? Just insane! Crack-bang! went the rope; we cannoned off the tree then gods, that ride! A rocket that s all, a rocket! I dug with my teeth and nails. Why we never hit even the high spots (though I hardly remember things), 203 THE GOLDEN TREASURY But I heard a monstrous booming like a thunder of flap ping sails When he spread well, call me a liar! when he spread those wings, those wings! So white that my eyes were blinded, thick-feathered and wide unfurled, They beat the air into billows. We sailed, and the earth was gone. Canyon and desert and mesa withered below, with the world. And then I knew that mustang; for I was Bel- lerophon! Yes, glad as the Greek, and mounted on a horse of the elder gods, With never a magic bridle or a fountain-mirror nigh! My chaps and spurs and holster must have looked it? What s the odds? I d a leg over lightning and thunder, careering across the sky! And forever streaming before me, fanning my forehead cool, Flowed a mane of molten silver; and just before my thighs (As I gripped his velvet-muscled ribs, while I cursed my self for a fool), The steady pulse of those pinions their wonderful fall and rise! The bandanna I bought in Bowie blew loose and whipped from my neck. My shirt was stuck to my shoulders and ribboning out behind. 204 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The stars were dancing, wheeling and glancing, dipping with smirk and beck. The clouds were flowing, dusking and glowing. We rode a roaring wind. We soared through the silver starlight to knock at the planets gates. New shimmering constellations came whirling into our ken. Red stars and green and golden swung out of the void that waits For man s great last adventure; the Signs took shape and then I knew the lines of that Centaur the moment I saw him come! The musical-box of the heavens all around us rolled to a tune That tinkled and chimed and trilled with silver sounds that struck you dumb, As if some archangel were grinding out the music of the moon. Melody-drunk on the Milky Way, as we swept and soared hilarious, Full in our pathway, sudden he stood the Centaur of the Stars, Flashing from head and hoofs and breast! I knew him for Sagittarius. He reared, and bent and drew his bow. He crouched as a boxer spars. 205 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Flung back on his haunches, weird he loomed then leapt and the dim void lightened. Old White Wings shied and swerved aside, and fled from the splendor-shod. Through a flashing welter of worlds we charged. I knew why my horse was frightened. He had two faces a dog s and a man s that Baby lonian god! Also, he followed us real as fear. Ping! went an arrow past. My bronco buck-jumped, humping high. We plunged ... I guess that s all! I lay on the purple canyon s lip, when I opened my eyes at last Stiff and sore and my head like a drum, but I broke no bones in the fall. So you know and now you may string me up. Such was the way you caught me. Thank you for letting me tell it straight, though you never could greatly care. For I took a horse that was n t mine! . . . But there s one the heavens brought me, And I 11 hang right happy, because I know he is wait ing for me up there. From creamy muzzle to cannon-bone, by God, he s a peerless wonder! He is steel and velvet and furnace-fire, and death s supremest prize; 206 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And never again shall be roped on earth that neck that is "clothed with thunder" . . . String me up, Dave! Go dig my grave! / rode him across the skies! Poetry: A Magazine of Verse William Rose Benet 76 The Bird and the Tree BLACKBIRD, blackbird in the cage, There s something wrong to-night. Far off the sheriff s footfall dies, The minutes crawl like last year s flies Between the bars, and like an age The hours are long to-night. The sky is like a heavy lid Out here beyond the door to-night. What s that? A mutter down the street. What s that? The sound of yells and feet. For what you did n t do or did You ll pay the score to-night. No use to reek with reddened sweat, No use to whimper and to sweat. They ve got the rope; they ve got the guns, They ve got the courage and the guns; And that s the reason why to-night No use to ask them any more. They ll fire the answer through the door You re out to die to-night. There where the lonely cross-road lies, There is no place to make replies; 207 THE GOLDEN TREASURY But silence, inch by inch, is there, And the right limb for a lynch is there; And a lean daw waits for both your eyes, Blackbird. Perhaps you ll meet again some place. Look for the mask upon the face; That s the way you ll know them there A white mask to hide the face. And you can halt and show them there The things that they are deaf to now, And they can tell you what they meant To wash the blood with blood. But how If you are innocent? Blackbird singer, blackbird mute, They choked the seed you might have found. Out of a thorny field you go For you it may be better so And leave the sowers of the ground To eat the harvest of the fruit, Blackbird. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Ridgely Torrence 77 1777 I The Trumpet-Vine Arbor THE throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangor of brass beats against the hot sunlight. They bray and blare at the burning sky. 208 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky. In long streaks of sound, molten metal, The vine declares itself. Clang! from its red and yellow trumpets; Clang! from its long, nasal trumpets, Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. I sit in the cool arbor, in a green and gold twilight. It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, I only know that they are red and open, And that the sun above the arbor shakes with heat. My quill is newly mended, And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. Down the long white paper it makes little lines, Just lines up down criss-cross. My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. My hand marches to a squeaky tune, It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. My pen and the trumpet-flowers, And Washington s armies away over the smoke-tree to the southwest. "Yankee Doodle," my darling! It is you against the British, Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the housetop, 209 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Through Father s spy-glass, The red city, and the blue, bright water, And puffs of smoke which you made Twenty miles away, Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, But the smoke was white white! To-day the trumpet-flowers are red red And I cannot see you fighting; But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. II The City of Falling Leaves Leaves fall, Brown leaves, Yellow leaves streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall again. The brown leaves, And the streaked yellow leaves, Loosen on their branches And drift slowly downwards. One, One, two, three, One, two, five. 210 OF MAGAZINE VERSE All Venice is a falling of autumn leaves Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. "That sonnet, Abate, Beautiful, I am quite exhausted by it. Your phrases turn about my heart, And stifle me to swooning. Open the window, I beg. Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! T is really a shame to stop indoors. Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! See how straight the leaves are falling. Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. Am I well painted to-day, caro Abate mio? You will be proud of me at the Ridotto, hey? Proud of being cavaliere servente to such a lady?" "Can you doubt it, bellissima Contessa? A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, And Venus herself shines less . . ." "You bore me, Abate, I vow I must change you! A letter, Achmet? Run and look out of the window, Abate. I will read my letter in peace." The little black slave with the yellow satin turban Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. 211 THE GOLDEN TREASURY His yellow turban and black skin Are gorgeous barbaric. The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings Lies on a chair, Beside a black mantle and a black mask. Yellow and black, Gorgeous barbaric. The lady reads her letter, And the leaves drift slowly Past the long windows. "How silly you look, my dear Abate, With that great brown leaf in your wig. Pluck it off, I beg you, Or I shall die of laughing." A yellow wall, Aflare in the sunlight, Chequered with shadows Shadows of vine-leaves, Shadows of masks. Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, Then passing on, More masks always replacing them. Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind Pursuing masks with veils and high heels, The sunlight shining under their insteps. One, One, two, One, two, three, There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. Yellow sunlight and black shadows, 212 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Yellow and black, Gorgeous barbaric. Two masks stand together, And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, Marking the wall where they are not. From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, From elbow to sword-hilt, The leaf falls. The shadows mingle, Blur together, Slide along the wall and disappear. Gold of mosaics and candles, And night-blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. Saint Mark s glitters with flames and reflections. A cloak brushes aside, And the yellow of satin Licks out over the colored inlays of the pavement. Under the gold crucifixes There is a meeting of hands Reaching from black mantles. Sighing embraces, bold investigations, Hide in confessionals, Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. Gorgeous barbaric. In its mail of jewels and gold, Saint Mark s looks down at the swarm of black masks; And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, Flutter, Fall. Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. 213 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Blue-black the sky over Venice, With a pricking of yellow stars. There is no moon, And the waves push darkly against the prow Of the gondola, Coming from Malamocco And streaming toward Venice. It is black under the gondola hood, But the yellow of a satin dress Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. Yellow compassed about with darkness, Yellow and black, Gorgeous barbaric. The boatman sings, It is Tasso that he sings; The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. But at Malamocco in front, In Venice behind, Fall the leaves, Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Amy Lowell 214 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 78 Letters from Egypt MEMPHIS and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile: Of these your letters told; and I who read Saw loom on dim horizons Egypt s dead In march across the desert, mile on mile, A ghostly caravan in slow defile Between the sand and stars; and at their head From unmapped darkness into darkness fled The gods that Egypt feared a little while. There black against the night I saw them loom With captive kings and armies in array Remembered only by their sculptured doom, And thought: What Egypt was are we to-day. Then rose obscure against the rearward gloom The march of empires yet to pass away. The Poetry Journal Louis V. Ledoux 79 In the Roman Forum NOTHING but beauty, now. No longer at the point of goading fear The sullen, tributary world comes near Before all-subjugating Rome to bow. No more the pavement of the Forum rings To breathless Victory s exultant tread Before the heavy march of captive kings. Here stood the royal dead In sculptured immortality, their gaze Remote above the turmoil of the street Hoarse with its living struggle at their feet. 215 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Here spoke the law that voice of bronze was heard By all the world, and stirred The latent mind of nations in the bud. Bright with the laurels, bitter with the blood Of heroes upon heroes was this place Where the strong heart of an imperial race Beat with the essence of a nation s life. Princes and people evermore at strife Incense and worship clash of armored rage Ambition soaring up the sky like flame Interminable war that mortals wage From century to century the same. Still Fortune holds the crown for those who dare; Mankind in many a distant otherwhere Leaps panting toward the promise of her face But here, no more of coveting nor care. No longer here the weltering human tide Sluices the market-place and scatters wide The weak as foam, to perish where they list. Now by the Sovereign Silence purified, Spring showers all with fragrant amethyst. Were once these pulses violent and swift As those that shake the cities of to-day? How indolently sweet the petals drift From yonder nodding spray! Warming their broidered raiment in the sun, The little bright-eye d lizards bask and run O er fallen temples gracious in decay. Man s arrogance with calculated art Boasted in marble now the quiet heart Of the Great Mother dreams eternal things In brief bright roses and ethereal green, 216 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Or more exuberant, sings In poppies poured profusely to the air From secret hoards of scarlet. Nothing seen But swoons with beauty beauty everywhere Nothing but beauty . . . now. Here is the immortality of Rome. Not where the city rises, dome on dome, Seek we the living soul of ancient might, But in this temple of green silence here Flame purer than the vestal is alight. The world again draws near In reverence, but now it comes to pay The tribute of a nobler coin than fear. In wondering worship, not in fierce dismay, Men bow the knee to what of Rome remains. Time s long lustration has effaced her stains. All that is perishable now is past And earth her portion tenderly transmutes To evanescent beauty of her own, Jubilant flowers and nectar-breathing fruits Living in deathless glory at the last Divinity alone. The Bellman Amelia Josephine Burr 80 The Sin Eater HARK ye! Hush ye! Margot s dead! Hush! Have done wi your brawling tune! Danced, she did, till the stars grew pale; Mother o God, an she s gone at noon! 217 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Sh-h . . . d ye hear me? Margot s dead! Sickened an drooped an died in an hour! (Bring me th milk an th meat an bread.) Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower. Come an look at her, how she lies, Little an lone, and like she s scared. . . . (She lost her beads last Friday week, Tore her Book, an she never cared.) . . . Eh, my lass, but it s winter, now You that ever was meant for June, Your laughing mouth an your dancing feet An now you re done, like an ended tune. Where s that woman? Ah, give it me quick, Food at her head an her poor, still feet. . . . There s plenty, fool! D ye think the wench Had so many sins for himself to eat? Take up your cloak an hand me mine. . . . Are we fetchin him? Eh, for sure! An* you ll come with me for all your quakes. Clear to his cave across the moor! Margot, dearie, don t look so scared, It s no long while till your peace begins! What if you tore your Book, poor lamb? I m bringin you one will eat your sins! It s a blood-red sun that s sinkin . . . , Ohooo, but the marshland s drear! Woman, for why will you be shrinkin ? I m tellin you there s nought to fear. What if the twilight s gloomish An th shadows creep an crawl? 218 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Woman, woman, here 11 be th cave! Stand by me close till I call! "Sin Eater! Devil Cheater!" (Eh, it echoes hollowly!) "Margot s dead at Willow Farm! Shroud your face and follow me!" in One o th clock . . . two o th clock. . . . This night s a week in span! Still he crouches by her side. . . . Devil . . . ghost ... or man? . . . IV Woman, never cock s crow sounded sweet before! Set the casement wide ajar, fasten back the door! Eh, but I be cold an stiff, waitin for th dawn; Fetch me flowers jessamine see, the food is gone. . . . Light enough to see her now. . . . Mary! How her face Shines on us like altar fires, now she s sure o grace! Never mind your Book, my lamb, never mind your beads, There s th Gleam before you now, follow where it leads. v Tearful peace and gentle grief Brood on Willow Farm: Margot, sleeping in her flowers, Smiles, secure from harm: In a cave across the moor, Dank and dark within, Moans the trafficker in souls, Freshly bowed with sin. The Smart Set Ruth Comfort Mitchell 219 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 81 Eye-Witness DOWN by the railroad in a green valley By dancing water, there he stayed awhile Singing, and three men with him, listeners, All tramps, all homeless reapers of the wind, Motionless now and while the song went on Transfigured into mages thronged with visions; There with the late light of the sunset on them And on clear water spinning from a spring Through little cones of sand dancing and fading, Close beside pine woods where a hermit-thrush Cast, when love dazzled him, shadows of music That lengthened, fluting, through the singer s pauses While the sure earth rolled eastward bringing stars Over the singer and the men that listened There by the roadside, understanding all. A train went by but nothing seemed to be changed. Some eye at a car window must have flashed From the plush world inside the glassy Pullman, Carelessly bearing off the scene for ever, With idle wonder what the men were doing, Seeing they were so strangely fixed and seeing Torn papers from their smeary dreary meal Spread on the ground with old tomato cans Muddy with dregs of lukewarm chicory, Neglected while they listened to the song. And while he sang the singer s face was lifted, And the sky shook down a soft light upon him 220 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Out of its branches where like fruits there were Many beautiful stars and planets moving, With lands upon them, rising from their seas, Glorious lands with glittering sands upon them, With soils of gold and magic mould for seeding, The shining loam of lands afoam with gardens On mightier stars with giant rains and suns There in the heavens; but on none of all Was there ground better than he stood upon: There was no world there in the sky above him Deeper in promise than the earth beneath him Whose dust had flowered up in him the singer And three men understanding every word. The Tramp Sings: I will sing, I will go, and never ask me "Why?" I was born a rover and a passer-by. I seem to myself like water and sky, A river and a rover and a passer-by. But in the winter three years back We lit us a night fire by the track, And the snow came up and the fire it flew And we could n t find the warming room for two. One had to suffer, so I left him the fire And I went to the weather from my heart s desire. It was night on the line, it was no more fire, But the zero whistle through the icy wire. 221 THE GOLDEN TREASURY As I went suffering through the snow Something like a shadow came moving slow. I went up to it and I said a word; Something flew above it like a kind of bird. I leaned in closer and I saw a face; A light went round me but I kept my place. My heart went open like an apple sliced; I saw my Saviour and I saw my Christ. Well, you may not read it in a book, But it takes a gentle Saviour to give a gentle look. I looked in his eyes and I read the news; His heart was having the railroad blues. Oh, the railroad blues will cost you dear, Keeps you moving on for something that you don t see here. We stood and whispered in a kind of moon; The line was looking like May and June. I found he was a roamer and a journey man, Looking for a lodging since the night began. He went to the doors but he did n t have the pay, He went to the windows, then he went away. Says: "We ll walk together and we ll both be fed," Says: "I will give you the other bread." 222 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Oh, the bread he gave and without money! drink, O fire, O burning honey! It went all through me like a shining storm: 1 saw inside me, it was light and warm. I saw deep under and I saw above, I saw the stars weighed down with love. They sang that love to burning birth, They poured that music to the earth. I heard the stars sing low like mothers. He said: "Now look, and help feed others." I looked around, and as close as touch Was everybody that suffered much. They reached out, there was darkness only; They could not see us, they were lonely. I saw the hearts that deaths took hold of, With the wounds bare that were not told of; Hearts with things in them making gashes; Hearts that were choked with their dreams ashes; Women in front of the rolled-back air, Looking at their breasts and nothing there; Good men wasting and trapped in hells; Hurt lads shivering with the fare-thee-wells. 223 THE GOLDEN TREASURY I saw them as if something bound them; I stood there but my heart went round them. I begged him not to let me see them wasted. Says: "Tell them then what you have tasted." Told him I was weak as a rained-on bee; Told him I was lost. Says: "Lean on me." Something happened then I could not tell, But I knew I had the water for every hell. Any other thing it was no use bringing; They needed what the stars were singing, What the whole sky sang like waves of light, The tune that it danced to, day and night. Oh, I listened to the sky for the tune to come; The song seemed easy, but I stood there dumb. The stars could feel me reaching through them; They let down light and drew me to them. I stood in the sky in a light like day, Drinking in the words that all things say Where the worlds hang growing in clustered shapes Dripping the music like wine from grapes. With "Love, Love, Love," above the pain, The vine-like song with its wine-like rain. 224 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Through heaven under heaven the song takes root Of the turning, burning, deathless fruit. I came to the earth and the pain so near me, I tried that song but they could n t hear me. I went down into the ground to grow, A seed for a song that would make men know. Into the ground from my Reamer s light I went; he watched me sink to night. Deep in the ground from my human grieving, His pain ploughed in me to believing. Oh, he took earth s pain to be his bride, While the heart of life sang in his side. For I felt that pain, I took its kiss, My heart broke into dust with his. Then sudden through the earth I found life springing; The dust men trampled on was singing. Deep in my dust I felt its tones; The roots of beauty went round my bones. I stirred, I rose like a flame, like a river, I stood on the line, I could sing for ever. Love had pierced into my human sheathing, Song came out of me simple as breathing. 225 THE GOLDEN TREASURY A freight came by, the line grew colder. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. Says, "Don t stay on the line such nights," And led me by the hand to the station lights. I asked him in front of the station-house wall If he had lodging. Says: "None at all." I pointed to my heart and looked in his face. "Here, if you have n t got a better place." He looked and he said: "Oh, we still must roam But if you ll keep it open, well, I ll call it home. " The thrush now slept whose pillow was his wing. So the song ended and the four remained Still in the faint starshine that silvered them, While the low sound went on of broken water Out of the spring and through the darkness flowing Over a stone that held it from the sea. Whether the men spoke after could not be told, A mist from the ground so veiled them, but they waited A little longer till the moon came up; Then on the gilded track leading to the mountains, Against the moon they faded in common gold And earth bore East with all toward the new morning. Scribner s Magazine Ridgely Torrence 226 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 82 The Gift of Cod BLESSED with a joy that only she * Of all alive shall ever know, She wears a proud humility For what it was that willed it so, That her degree should be so great Among the favored of the Lord That she may scarcely bear the weight Of her bewildering reward. As one apart, immune, alone, Or featured for the shining ones, And like to none that she has known Of other women s other sons, The firm fruition of her need, He shines anointed; and he blurs Her vision, till it seems indeed A sacrilege to call him hers. She fears a little for so much Of what is best, and hardly dares To think of him as one to touch With aches, indignities, and cares; She sees him rather at the goal, Still shining; and her dream foretells The proper shining of a soul Where nothing ordinary dwells. Perchance a canvass of the town Would find him far from flags and shouts, And leave him only the renown Of many smiles and many doubts; 227 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Perchance the crude and common tongue Would havoc strangely with his worth; But she, with innocence unwrung, Would read his name around the earth. And others, knowing how this youth Would shine, if love could make him great, When caught and tortured for the truth Would only writhe and hesitate; While she, arranging for his days What centuries could not fulfil, Transmutes him with her faith and praise, And has him shining where she will. She crowns him with her gratefulness, And says again that life is good; And should the gift of God be less In him than in her motherhood, His fame, though vague, will not be small, As upward through her dream he fares, Half clouded with a crimson fall Of roses thrown on marble stairs. Scribner s Magazine Edwin Arlington Robinson 83 Meanwhile THE August sun had still two hours of sky When the white flag a-flutter from the house Signalled him in to find his wife at watch At the boy s bed. He laid his calloused hand Lightly on that soft face now fever flushed. "Much worse," she said. 228. OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Yes, much worse. I ll ride Jeff Cross-country, try to borrow a saddle horse At Campbell s. If the doctor is at home Get there by one, to-night, and home again In the morning, maybe eight, at most by nine." His rough lips touched the boy who moaned and stirred. The sweating plough-horse changed from jolting trot To clumsy gallop, soon was winded, fell Back to a walk, gained breath and galloped on. At Campbell s ranch few words. They learned his need, Saddled the pony, promised to relay The doctor s team in the morning. It was ride. When sunset came the man was galloping On gentle prairie. Soon he dropped from the ridge, Picking a way down canyon banks to follow In the chill dusk of the draw a winding mile; Then stiff ascent and upland track. The sky Afar off held its tender sunset hues, Slow fading. One by one the big white stars Budded and blossomed. Sometimes prairie owls Gave chuckling notes and made dim fluttering. The balm of cooling dews healed all the air, And ripening grass was fragrant, and late flowers, While from the wheeling stars a gentle glow Fell on the prairies like a luminous veil. The vast plain s prayer was answered utterly. As the dusk gathered in the little room The woman still could see the pillow white, And the child s tousled hair in outline dark About his face. He broke from out his sleep Babbling of strange wild fancies; hardly knew .229 THE GOLDEN TREASURY At times, his name, her kindness. Lest the dark Loose more disorder in his wits, she brought A lighted lamp and sang old ballad songs In a soft voice that won him ease again, And quiet breathings. She could hear the clock Lag noisily, and from the distant draws The shrill wail of the coyote, and close by The creaking misery of some cricket-thing. Minutes seemed hours. She would try to read. She got her Bible, but the tears came fast. Try praying: surely there is help in prayer That the boy should recover, that her man Might find the doctor ready. She can see As in a living vision the sunshine, The doctor s rattling buggy racing up In time. In time? Thus praying, a slight noise Led her eyes to the door. She saw it move, Open, and a strange, dirty face looked in Bristling with thickets of wild, brush-like beard. How her heart did beat! She did not rise nor scream, But with a finger at her lip, said, "Hush. My boy is sick, out of his head, indeed, And must not see you. It might make him die. So leave us. Maybe you are hungry. Look In the cupboard, you will find some bread and meat, And coffee on the stove. Go, wash and eat." Came a low "Thank ye," and the door went shut. She turned to where the clock hands pointed ten. There would be minutes while the tramp would eat, This outcast fifty miles from the grading camps 230 . OF MAGAZINE VERSE Meant anything. She could not think nor move, A chill so numbed her, weakening every pulse. But something somehow steadied all her tone When the door opened once more, and the voice Asked, "Is there only you?" "My husband s gone For the doctor, and should be here even now. Hush, the boy s waking. Go to the pump, and bring Cold water for the headcloths. Put the bucket Upon the table. In the shed you will find Fresh hay and blankets." He was gone. Once more The sweet voice crooning low the ballad tune Without a tremble or any sign of fear Mastered the boy s wild fancies, brought him rest. She listened to the clock, and hours went by; * She looked out to the stars, and hours went by; At last a grayness, light grew, dawn increased, In two more hours. At nine o clock they came In time and happily. How like a tale, Or a heart-breaking dream the afterwards! But while death s presence from the noiseless dark Saturates all the air of some child s room Where the mother prays for one more breath un harmed Meanwhile how measure her agony of fear? How ease the watching of her wide-stretched eyes? Edwin Ford Piper The Midland: A Magazine of the Middle West 231 THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 84 Grieve not, Ladies OH, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel your beauty going. It was a web of frail delight, Inconstant as an April snowing. In other eyes, in other lands, In deep fair pools, new beauty lingers, But like spent water in your hands It runs from your reluctant fingers. Ye shall not keep the singing lark That owes to earlier skies its duty. Weep not to hear along the dark The sound of your departing beauty. The fine and anguished ear of night Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow. Oh, wait until the morning light! It may not seem so gone to-morrow! But honey-pale and rosy-red! Brief lights that made a little shining! Beautiful looks about us shed They leave us to the old repining. Think not the watchful dim despair Has come to you the first, sweet-hearted! For oh, the gold in Helen s hair! And how she cried when that departed! OF MAGAZINE VERSE Perhaps that one that took the most, The swiftest borrower, wildest spender, May count, as we would not, the cost And grow more true to us and tender. Happy are we if in his eyes We see no shadow of forgetting. Nay if our star sinks in those skies We shall not wholly see its setting. Then let us laugh as do the brooks That such immortal youth is ours, If memory keeps for them our looks As fresh as are the spring-time flowers. Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake, to feel the cold December! Rather recall the early light And in your loved one s arms, remember. The Atlantic Monthly Anna Hempstead Branch 85 Cool Tombs WHEN Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs he forgot the copperheads and the assassin ... in the dust, in the cool tombs. And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes ... in the dust, in the cool tombs. Pocahontas body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a paw-paw in May, did she wonder, does she remember? ... in the dust, in the cool tombs? 233 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Take any streetful of people buying clothes and grocer ies, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get more than lovers ... in the dust ... in the cool tombs. The Craftsman Carl Sandburg 86 Memories of Whitman and Lincoln "When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed." W. W. LILACS shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Spring hangs in the dew of the dooryards These memories these memories They hang in the dew for the bard who fetched A sprig of them once for his brother When he lay cold and dead. . . . And forever now when America leans in the dooryard And over the hills Spring dances, Smell of lilacs and sight of lilacs shall bring to her heart these brothers. . . . Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Who are the shadow-forms crowding the the night? What shadows of men? The still star-night is high with these brooding spirits Their shoulders rise on the Earth-rim, and they are great presences in heaven 234 OF MAGAZINE VERSE They move through the stars like outlined winds in young- leaved maples. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Deeply the nation throbs with a world s anguish But it sleeps, and I on the housetops Commune with souls long dead who guard our land at midnight, A strength in each hushed heart I seem to hear the Atlantic moaning on our shores with the plaint of the dying And rolling on our shores with the rumble of battle. . . . I seem to see my country growing golden toward California, And, as fields of daisies, a people, with, slumbering up turned faces Leaned over by Two Brothers, And the greatness that is gone. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Spring runs over the land, A young girl, light-footed, eager . . . For I hear a song that is faint and sweet with first love, Out of the West, fresh with the grass and the timber, But dreamily soothing the sleepers. . . . I listen: I drink it deep. Softly the Spring sings, Softly and clearly: 235 pt THE GOLDEN TREASURY " / open lilacs for the beloved. Lilacs for the lost, the dead. And, see, for the living, I bring sweet strawberry blossoms, And I bring buttercups, and I bring to the woods anemones and blue bells . . . I open lilacs for the beloved, And when my fluttering garment drifts through dusty cities, And blows on hills, and brushes the inland sea, Over you, sleepers, over you, tired sleepers, A fragrant memory falls . . . I open love in the shut heart, I open lilacs for the beloved." Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Was that the Spring that sang, opening locked hearts, And is remembrance mine? For I know these two great shadows in the spacious night, Shadows folding America close between them, Close to the heart . . . And I know how my own lost youth grew up blessedly in their spirit, And how the morning song of the mighty native bard Sent me out from my dreams to the living America, To the chanting seas, to the piney hills, down the railroad vistas, Out into the streets of Manhattan when the whistles blew at seven, Down to the mills of Pittsburgh and the rude faces of labor . . . 236 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And I know how the grave great music of that other, Music in which lost armies sang requiems, And the vision of that gaunt, that great and solemn figure, And the graven face, the deep eyes, the mouth, O human-hearted brother, Dedicated anew my undevoted heart To America, my land. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Now in this hour I was suppliant to these two brothers, And I said: Your land has need: Half-awakened and blindly we grope in the great world. . . . What strength may we take from our Past, what promise hold for our Future ? And the one brother leaned and whispered: "I put my strength in a book, And in that book my love. . . . This, with my love, I give to America. . . ." And the other brother leaned and murmured: "I put my strength in a life, And. in that life my love, This, with my love, I give to America." Lilacs bloom for Walt \Vhitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. 237 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Then my heart sang out: This strength shall be our strength : Yea, when the great hour comes, and the sleepers wake and are hurled back, And creep down into themselves There shall they find Walt Whitman And there, Abraham Lincoln. O Spring, go over this land with much singing And open the lilacs everywhere, Open them out with the old-time fragrance Making a people remember that something has been forgotten, Something is hidden deep strange memories strange memories Of him that brought a sprig of the purple cluster To him that was mourned of all. . . . And so they are linked together While yet America lives. . . . While yet America lives, my heart, Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. The Seven Arts James Oppenheim 87 Autochthon Ea rude country some four thousand miles 7rom Charles and Alfred s birthplace you were born, In the same year. But Charles and you were born On the same day, and Alfred six months later. 238 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Thus start you in a sense the race together. . . . Charles goes to Edinburgh, afterwards His father picks him for the ministry, And sends him off to Cambridge where he spends His time on beetles and geology, Neglects theology. Alfred is here Fondling a Virgil and a Horace. But you these years you give to reading JEsop, The Bible, lives of Washington and Franklin, And Kirkham s grammar. In 1830 Alfred prints a book Containing "Mariana," certain other Delicate, wind-blown bells of airy music. And in this year you move from Indiana And settle near Decatur, Illinois, Hard by the river Sangamon where fever And ague burned and shook the poor Swamp saffron creatures of that desolate land. While Alfred walks the flowering lanes of England, And reads Theocritus to the song of larks You clear the forests, plow the stumpy land, Fight off the torments of mosquitoes, flies And study Kirkham s grammar. In 1831 Charles takes a trip Around the world, sees South America, And studies living things in Galapagos, Tahiti, Keeling Island and Tasmania. In 1831 you take a trip Upon a flat-boat down to New Orleans 239 p THE GOLDEN TREASURY Through hardships scarcely less than Joliet And Marquette knew in 1673, Return on foot to Orfutt s store at Salem. By this time Jacques Rousseau was canonized; Jefferson dead but seven years or so; Brook Farm was budding, Garrison had started His Liberator, Fourier still alive; And Emerson was preening his slim wings For flights into broad spaces there was stir Enough to sweep the Shelleyan heads, in truth Shelley was scarcely passed a decade then. Old Goodwin still .was writing, wars for freedom Swept through the Grecian Isles, America Had "isms" in abundance, but not one Took hold of you. In 1832 Alfred has drawn Out of old Mallory and Grecian myths The "Lady of Shalott" and fair "CEnone," And put them into verse. This is the year you fight the Black Hawk war, And issue an address to Sangamon s people. You are but twenty-three, yet this address Would not shame Charles or Alfred; it s restrained, And sanely balanced, without extra words, Or youth s conceits, or imitative figures, dreams Or "isms" of the day. No, here you hope That enterprise, morality, sobriety May be more general, and speak a word For popular education, so that all May have a "moderate education" as you say. 240 OF MAGAZINE VERSE You make a plea for railroads and canals, And ask the suffrages of the people, saying You have known disappointment far too much To be chagrined at failure, if you lose. They take you at your word and send another To represent them in the Legislature. Then you decide to learn the blacksmith s trade. But Fate comes by and plucks you by the sleeve, And changes history, doubtless. By 36 when Charles returns to England You have become a legislator; yes You tried again and won. You have become A lawyer too, by working through the levels Of laborer, store-keeper and surveyor, Wrapped up in problems of geometry, And Kirkham s grammar and Sir William Blackstone, And Coke on Littleton, and Joseph Chitty. Brook Farm will soon bloom forth, Francois Fourier Is still on earth, and Garrison is shaking Terrible lightning at Slavocracy. And certain libertarians, videlicet John Greenleaf Whittier and others, sing The trampling out of grapes of wrath; in truth The Hebrews taught the idealist how to sing Destruction in the name of God and curse \Vhere strength was lacking for the sword but you Are not a Robert Emmet, or a Shelley, Have no false dreams of dying to bring in The day of Liberty. At twenty-three You re measuring the world and waiting for Dawn s mists to clear that you may measure it, 241 THE GOLDEN TREASURY And know the field s dimensions ere you put Your handle to the plow. In 1833 a man named Hallam, A friend of Alfred s died at twenty-two. Thereafter Alfred worked his hopes and fears Upon the dark impasto of this loss In delicate colors. And in 1850 When you were sunk in melancholia, As one of no use in the world, adjudged To be of no use by your time and place, Alfred brought forth his Dante dream of life, Received the laureate wreath and settled down With a fair wife amid entrancing richness Of sunny seas and silken sails and dreams Of Araby, And ivied halls, and meadows where the breeze Of temperate England blows the hurrying cloud. There, seated like an Oriental king In silk and linen clothed took the acclaim Of England and the world! . . . This is the year You sit in a little office there in Springfield, Feet on the desk and brood. What are you thinking? You re forty-one; around you spears are whacking The wind-mills of the day, you watch and weigh. The sun-light of your mind quivers about The darkness every thinking soul must know, And lights up hidden things behind the door, And in dark corners. You have fathomed much, Weighed life and men. O what a sphered brain, Strong nerved, fresh blooded, firm in plasmic fire, 242 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And ready for a task, if there be one! That is the question that makes brooding thought: For you know well men come into the world And find no task, and die, and are not known Great sphered brains gone into dust again, Their light under a bushel all their days! In 1859, Charles publishes His "Origin of Species," and t is said You see it, or at least hear what it is. Out of three travelers in a distant land One writes a book of what the three have seen. Perhaps you never read much, yet perhaps Some books were just a record of your mind. How had it helped you in your work to read The "Idylls of the King"? As much, perhaps, Had Alfred read the Northwest Ordinance Of 1787. . . . But in this year Of 59 you re sunk in blackest thought About the country maybe, but, I think, About this riddle of our mortal life. You were a poet, Abraham, from your birth. That makes you think, and makes you deal at last With things material to the tune of laws Moving in higher spaces when you re called To act and show a poet moulding stuff Too tough for spirits practical to mould. Here are you with your feet upon the desk. You have been beaten in a cause which kept Some strings too loose to catch the vibrate waves Of a great Harp whose music you have sensed. 243 THE GOLDEN TREASURY You are a mathematician using symbols Like Justice, Truth, with keenness to perceive Disturbance of equations, a logician Who sees invariable laws, and beauty born Of finding out and following the laws. You are a Plato brooding there in Springfield. You are a poet with a voice for Truth, And never to be claimed by visionaries Who chant the theme of bread and bread alone. But here and now They want you not for Senator, it seems. You have been tossed to one side by the rush Of world events, left stranded and alone, And fitted for no use, it seems, in Springfield. A country lawyer with a solid logic, And gift of prudent phrase which has a way Of hardening under time to rock as hard As the enduring thought you seal it with. You ve reached your fiftieth year, your occultation Should pass. If ever, we should see a light: In all your life you have not seen a city. But now our Springfield giant strides Broadway, Thrills William Cullen Bryant, sets a wonder Going about the East, that Kirkham s grammar Can give a man such speech at Cooper Union, Which even Alfred s, trained to Virgil s style, Cannot disdain for matching in the thought With faultless clearness. And still in 1860 all the Brahmins Have fear to give you power. You are a backwoodsman, a country lawyer 244 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Unlettered in the difficult art of states. A denizen of a squalid western town, Dowered with a knack of argument alone, Which wakes the country school-house, and may lift Its devotees to Congress by good fortune. But then at Cooper Union intuitive eyes Had measured your tall frame, and careful speech, Your strength and self-possession. Then they came With that dramatic sense which is American Into the hall with rails which you had split, And called you Honest Abe, and wearing badges With your face on them and the poor catch words Of Honest Abe, as if you were a referee Like Honest Kelly, when in truth no man Had ever been your intimate, ever slapped you With brisk familiarity, or called you Anything but Mr. Lincoln, never Abe, or Abraham, and never used The Hello Bill of salutation to you O great patrician, therefore fit to be Great democrat as well! In 1862 Charles publishes "How Orchid Flowers are Fertilized by Insects," And you give forth a proclamation saying "The Union must have peace, or I wipe out The blot of Negro slavery. You see, The symphony s the thing, and if you mar it, Contending over slavery, I remove The source of the disharmony. I admit The freedom of the press but for the Union. When you abuse the Union, you shall stop. 245 0) THE GOLDEN TREASURY And when you are in jail, no habeas corpus Shall bring relief I have suspended it." To-day they call you libertarian Well, so you were, but just as Beauty is, And Truth is, even if they curb and vanquish The lower heights of beauty and of truth. They take your speech and deeds and give you place In Hebrew temples with Ezekiel, Habakkuk and Isaiah you emerge From this association, master man! You are not of the faith that breeds the ethic Wranglers, who make economic goals The strain and test of life. You are not one, Spite of your lash and sword threat, who believe God will avenge the weak. That is the dream Which builds millenniums where disharmonies That make the larger harmony shall cease A dream not yours. And they shall lose you who Enthrone you as a prophet who cut through The circle of our human sphere of life To let in wrath and judgments, final tests On Life around the price of sparrows, weights Wherewith bread shall be weighed. . . . There is a windless flame where cries and tears, Where hunger, strife, and war and human blood No shadow cast, and where the love of Truth, Which is not love of individual souls, Finds solace in a Judgment of our life. That is the Flame that took both Charles and You O leader in a Commonwealth of Thought! Reedy s Mirror Edgar Lee Masters 246 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 88 Lincoln LIKE a gaunt, scraggly pine Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills; And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence, Untended and uncared for, starts to grow. Ungainly, labouring, huge, The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its branches; Yet in the heat of midsummer days, when thunder-clouds ring the horizon, A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade. And it shall protect them all, Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silence; Until at last one mad stray bolt from the zenith Shall strike it in an instant down to earth. There was a darkness in this man; an immense and hollow darkness, Of which we may not speak, nor share with him, nor enter; A darkness through which strong roots stretched down wards into the earth Towards old things; Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and spoke with God, Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not what, and found their goal at last; 247 IP THE GOLDEN TREASURY Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently when all seemed lost, Many bitter winters of defeat; Down to the granite of patience These roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, seeking, And drew from the living rock and the living waters about it The red sap to carry upwards to the sun. Not proud, but humble, Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through service; For the axe is laid at the roots of the trees, and all that bring not forth good fruit Shall be cut down on the day to come and cast into the fire. in There is a silence abroad in the land to-day, And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence; And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly open, Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light. Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the endless silence Like labouring oxen that drag a plow through the chaos of rude clay-fields; " I went forward as the light goes forward in early spring, But there were also many things which I left behind. 248 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Tombs that were quiet; One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the dark ness, One, of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long falling, One, only of a child, but it was mine. "Have you forgot your graves? Go, question them in anguish, Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages to silence, Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without sunsetting, No victory but to him who has given all." IV The clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth of the battle is silent. The midwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takes on afresh its bright colours, But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we scorned and mistrusted, He has descended, like a god, to his rest. Over the uproar of cities, Over the million intricate threads of life wavering and crossing, In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, perplex ing, ensnaring, Rises one white tomb alone. Beam over it, stars, Wrap it round, stripes stripes red for the pain that he bore for you 249 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Enfold it forever, O flag, rent, soiled, but repaired through your anguish; Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shaft bow to your law. Strew over him flowers: Blue forget-me-nots from the north, and the bright pink arbutus From the east, and from the west rich orange blossom, But from the heart of the land take the passion-flower; Rayed, violet, dim, With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and the circlet, And beside it there lay also one lonely snow-white magnolia, Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed. The Poetry Review of America John Gould Fletcher 89 General William Booth Enters into Heaven [To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indi cated instrument] I [Bass drum beaten loudly] BOOTH led boldly with his big bass drum (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He s come." (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, 250 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail: Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) [Banjos] Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang: "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free. Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare On, on upward thro the golden air! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) ii [Bass drum slower and softer] Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land. [Sweet flute music} Jesus came from out the court-house door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. 251 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there Round and round the mighty court-house square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. [Bass drum louder} Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl! Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green! [Grand chorus of all instruments. Tambourines to the foreground} The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) O, shout Salvation! It was good to see Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. The banjos rattled and the tambourines Jing-j ing-jingled in the hands of Queens. [Reverently sung, no instruments] And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro the flag-filled air. Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Fachel Lindsay 252 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 90 The Poppies THIS is the garden of our joyous care, Where such a little time before you died You walked with pleasant pride And pointed out your favorites, the rare Tree roses, and the riotous delight Of poppies, from the crimson to the white Sounding the gamut of ecstatic hue. So richly coloured was all life to you! You never called the world a vale of tears. Such long and loving labor overgrown! How soon the wild undoes your patient years . . Not wholly; with each summer s weeds I see Poppies arise, self-sown. They are your garden s immortality. What would be Heaven for you ? It comforts me To picture you with leisure and with strength To bring to life at length Your dreams of beauty all your soul set free From the mean goading of necessity, And from the bodily pain You bore so bravely, like a galling chain That heavy grew and heavier each day. When death struck these away I knew the magnitude of your release By your high look of peace. God knows I had no lack of tears, but they Were not for you. My sorrow was my own. I read "/ will not leave you comfortless, But I will come to you." I had not known 253 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The meaning of those words until your death. You were less near to me when I could press Your hand and feel your breath Upon my cheek, than now. You seem so near, So full of life, so constantly more dear, I feel it only needs to turn my gaze To see you standing here Among your flowers, as in other days. Like little shouts of exultation sweet The poppies at my feet Loose to the wind their petals. Let them die From them shall spring new beauty, by and by. They are not over-greedy for a pledge Of immortality; they give their best To earth God knows the rest. So did you tread your path across the edge Of this our visible world. You did not hoard Your spirit s treasure for a world unseen Nor chaffer with your God for a reward Ere you would serve. You did not even trust Your Master would be just. You w r ent your way generous and serene, And gave unquestioning all you had to spend As friend to friend. If you had known that all should end in dust You would have thought it shame to drop your sword, Because you fought your beasts at Ephesus Not for yourself for us, Who loved in you the love of righteousness. There is no soul that touched you in the stress Of that great battle where you did your part So gallantly, which you did not impress 254 OF MAGAZINE VERSE With your own chivalry. In every heart That knew .you, there is sown Some ruddy-blossomed seedling of your own. Whatever Heaven there beyond may be, This I can see! If this dear presence by my love discerned Be your own self, the self I knew, returned From larger life in some transfigured guise Unseen by mortal eyes, Or if it be your spirit as it grew Unconsciously of my own self a part, Could it be any nearer, if I knew, Or dearer to my heart? You are in God, as you have always been. Although I find it sweet To dream that I shall know you when we meet In such a garden as you cherished here, I will not wait until I die, my Dear, For Heaven to begin. Sweeter it is to know that I can give Your deathless bounty to a world in need. I sow you as the poppy sows her seed, And in my love you live. The Bellman Amelia Josephine Burr 91 Yellow Clover MUST I, who walk alone, Come on it still, This Puck of plants The wise would do away with, 255 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The sunshine slants To play with, Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover, Which once in parting for a time That then seemed long, Ere time for you was over, We sealed our own? Do you. remember yet, O Soul beyond the stars, Beyond the uttermost dim bars Of space, Dear Soul, who found earth sweet, Remember by love s grace, In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song, How suddenly we halted in our climb, Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill, Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet, And gave them as a token Each to each, In lieu of speech, In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken, Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet With a strange dew of tears? So it began, This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover, To be our tenderest language. All the years It lent a new zest to the summer hours, As each of us went scheming to surprise The other with our homely, laureate flowers, Sonnets and odes Fringing our daily roads. OF MAGAZINE VERSE Can amaranth and asphodel Bring merrier laughter to your eyes? Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes, Keep any wistful consciousness of earth, Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love, Simplicities of mirth, Must follow them above With touches of vague homesickness that pass Like shadows of swift birds across the grass. Beneath some foreign axch of sky, How many a time the rover You or I, For life oft sundered look from look, And voice from voice, the transient dearth Schooling my soul to brook This distance that no messages may span, Would chance Upon our wilding by a lonely well, Or drowsy watermill, Or swaying to the chime of convent bell, Or where the nightingales of old romance With tragical contraltos fill Dim solitudes of infinite desire; And once I joyed to meet Our peasant gadabout A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat, Twinkling a saucy eye As potentates paced by. Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame From friendship s altar fire! How proudly we would pluck and tame 257 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay! How swiftly they were sent Far, far away On journeys wide, By sea and continent, Green miles and blue leagues over, From each of us to each, That so our hearts might reach, And touch within the yellow clover, Love s letter to be glad about Like sunshine when it came! My sorrow asks no healing; it is love; Let love then make me brave To bear the keen hurts of This careless summertide, Ay, of our own poor flower, Changed with our fatal hour, For all its sunshine vanished when you died; Only white clover blossoms on your grave. The Poetry Review of America Katharine Lee Bates 92 Over Night, a Rose THAT over night a rose could come I, one time did believe, For when the fairies live with one, They wilfully deceive. But now I know this perfect thing Under the frozen sod 258 OF MAGAZINE VERSE In cold and storm grew patiently Obedient to God. My wonder grows, since knowledge came Old fancies to dismiss; And courage comes. Was not the rose A winter doing this? Nor did it know, the weary while, What color and perfume With this completed loveliness Lay in that earthly tomb. So maybe I, who cannot see What God wills not to show, May, some day, bear a rose for Him It took my life to grow. The Boston Transcript Caroline Giltinan 93 Evensong BEAUTY calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day. In the twilight, in the quiet evening, We shall rise and smile and go away. Over the flaming leaves Freezes the sky. It is the season grieves/ Not you, not I. All our spring-times, all our summers, We have kept the longing warm within. Now we leave the after-comers To attain the dreams we did not win. 259 THE GOLDEN TREASURY O we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth, And that s the end of earth; And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light, And that s the end of night. The Atlantic Monthly Ridgely Torrence 94 Battle Sleep SOMEWHERE, O sun, some corner there must be Thou visitest, where down the strand Quietly, still, the waves go out to sea From the green fringes of a pastoral land. Deep in the orchard-bloom the roof-trees stand, The brown sheep graze along the bay, And through the apple-boughs above the sand The bees hum sounds no fainter than the spray. There through uncounted hours declines the day To the low arch of twilight s close, And, just as night about the moon grows gray, One sail leans westward to the fading rose. Giver of dreams, O thou with scatheless wing Forever moving through the fiery hail, To flame-seared lids the cooling vision bring, And let some soul go seaward with that sail! The Century Magazine Edith Wharton 260 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 95 Song From "Flesh: A Gregorian Ode" EBB on with me across the sunset tide And float beyond the waters of the world, The light of evening slipping from thy side, Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled. Flow on into the flaming morning wine, Drowning the land in color. Then on high Rise in thy candid innocence and shine Like to a poplar straight against the sky. The Boston Transcript Edward J. O Brien 96 A Statue in a Garden I WAS a goddess ere the marble found me. Wind, wind, delay not! Waft my spirit where the laurel crowned me! Will the wind stay not? Then tarry, tarry, listen, little swallow! An old glory feeds me: I lay upon the bosom of Apollo! Not a bird heeds me. For here the days are alien. O, to waken Mine, mine, with calling! But on my shoulders bare, like hopes forsaken, The dead leaves are falling. 261 THE GOLDEN TREASURY The sky is gray and full of unshed weeping As dim down the garden I wait and watch the early autumn sweeping. The stalks fade and harden. The souls of all the flowers afar have rallied. The trees, gaunt, appalling, Attest the gloom, and on my shoulders pallid The dead leaves are falling. Poetry : A Magazine of Verse Agnes Lee 97 The Lesser Children A THRENODY AT THE HUNTING SEASON IN the middle of August when the southwest wind Blows after sunset through the leisuring air, And on the sky nightly the mythic Bee Leads down the sullen dog star to his lair, After the feverous vigil of July, When the loud pageant of the year s high noon Passed up the ways of time to sing and part, Grief also wandered by From out the lovers and the leaves of June, And one night, at the hiding of the moon, I knew his heart was very Love s own heart. Deep within dreams he led me out of doors As from the upper vault the night outpours, And when I saw that to him all the skies Yearned as a sea asleep yearns to its shores He took a little clay and touched my eyes. 262 OF MAGAZINE VERSE What saw I then, what heard? Multitudes, multitudes, under the moon they stirred! The weaker brothers of our earthly breed; Watchmen of whom our safety takes no heed; Swift helpers of the wind that sowed the seed Before the first field was or any/ruit; Warriors against the bivouac of the weed; Earth s earliest ploughmen for the tender root, All came about my head and at my feet A thousand, thousand sweet, With starry eyes not even raised to plead; Bewildered, driven, hiding, fluttering, mute! And I beheld and saw them one by one Pass and become as -nothing in the night. Clothed on with red they were who once were white; Drooping, who once led armies to the sun, Of whom the lowly grass now topped the flight: In scarlet faint, who once were brave in brown; Climbers and builders of the silent town, Creepers and burrowers all in crimson dye, Winged mysteries of song that from the sky Once dashed long music down. O who would take away music from the earth? Have we so much? Or love upon the hearth? No more they faded; The great trees bending between birth and birth Sighed for them, and the night wind s hoarse rebuff Shouted the shame of which I was persuaded. Shall Nature s only pausing be by men invaded? Or shall we lay grief s fagots on her shoulders bare? Has she not borne enough ? 263 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Soon will the mirroring woodland pools begin to con her, And her sad immemorial passion come upon her; Lo, would you add despair unto despair? Shall not the Spring be answer to her prayer? Must her uncomforted heavens overhead, Weeping, look down on tears and still behold Only wings broken or a fledgling dead, Or underfoot the meadows that wore gold Die, and the leaves go mourning to the mould Beneath poor dead and desperate feet Of folk who in next summer s meadows shall not meet? Who has not seen in the high gulf of light What, lower, was a bird, but now Is moored and altered quite Into an island of unshaded joy? To whom the mate below upon the bough Shouts once and brings him from his high employ. Yet speeding he forgot not of the cloud Where he from glory sprang and burned aloud, But took a little of the day, A little of the colored sky, And of the joy that would not stay He wove a song that cannot die. Then, then the unfathomable shame; The one last wrong arose from out the flame, The ravening hate that hated not was hurled Bidding the radiant love once more beware, Bringing one more loneliness on the world, And one more blindness in the unseen air. Nor may the smooth regret, the pitying oath Shed on such utter bitter any leaven. 264 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Only the pleading flowers that knew them both Hold all their bloody petals up to heaven. Winds of the fall that all year to and fro Somewhere upon the earth go wandering, You saw, you moaned, you know: Withhold not then unto all time to tell Lest unborn others of us see this thing. Bring our sleek, comfortable reason low: Recount how souls grown tremulous as a bell Came forth each other and the day to greet In morning air all Indian-Summer sweet, And crept upstream, through wood or field or brake, Most tremblingly to take What crumbs that from the Master s table fell. Cry with what thronging thunders they were met, And hide not how the least leaf was made wet. Cry till no watcher says that all is well With raucous discord through the leaning spheres. But tell With tears, with tears How the last man is harmed even as they Who on these dawns are fire, at dusk are clay. Record the dumb and wise, No less than those who lived in singing guise, Whose choric hearts lit each wild green arcade. Make men to see their eyes, Forced to suspect behind each reed or rose The thorn of lurking foes. And O, before the daylight goes, After the deed against the skies, After the last belief and longing dies, 265 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Make men again to see their eyes Whose piteous casements now all unafraid Peer out to that far verge where evermore, Beyond all woe for which a tear atones, The likeness of our own dishonor moans, A sea that has no bottom and no shore. What shall be done By you, shy folk who cease thus heart by heart? You for whose fate such fate forever hovers ? O little lovers, If you would still have nests beneath the sun Gather your broods about you and depart, Before the stony forward-pressing faces Into the lands bereft of any sound; The solemn and compassionate desert places. Give unto men no more the strong delight To know that underneath the frozen ground Dwells the warm life and all the quick, pure lore. Take from our eyes the glory of great flight. Let us behold no more People untroubled by a Fate s veiled eyes, Leave us upon an earth of faith forlorn. No more wild tidings from the sweet far skies Of love s long utmost heavenward endeavor. So shall the silence pour on us forever The streaming arrows of unutterable scorn. Nor shall the cry of famine be a shield The altar of a brutish mood to hide. Stains, stains, upon the lintels of our doors W r ail to be justified. 266 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Shall there be mutterings at the seasons yield? Has eye of man seen bared the granary floors? Are the fields wasted? Spilled the oil and wine? Is the fat seed under the clod decayed? Does ever the fig tree languish or the vine? Who has beheld the harvest promise fade? Or any orchard heavy with fruit asway Withered away? No, not these things, but grosser things than those Are the dim parents of a guilt not dim; Ancestral urges out of old caves blowing, When Fear watched at our coming and our going The horror of the chattering face of Whim. Hates, cruelties new fallen from the trees Whereto we clung with impulse sad for love, Shames we have had all time to rid us of, Disgraces cold and sorrows long bewept, Recalled, revived, and kept, Unmeaning quarrels, blood-compelling lust, And snarling woes from our old home, the dust. Yet even of these one saving shape may rise; Fear may unveil our eyes. For know you not what curse of blight would fall Upon a land lorn of the sweet sky races Who day and night keep ward and seneschal Upon the treasury of the planted spaces? Then would the locust have his fill, And the blind worm lay tithe, The unfed stones rot in the listless mill, The sound of grinding cease. No yearning gold would whisper to the scythe, 267 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Hunger at last would prove us of one blood, The shores of dreams be drowned in tides of need, Horribly would the whole earth be at peace. The burden of the grasshopper indeed Weigh down the green corn and the tender bud, The plague of Egypt fall upon the wheat, And the shrill nit would batten in the heat. But you, O poor of deeds and rich of breath, Whose eyes have made our eyes a hue abhorred, Red, eager aids of aid-unneeding Death, Hunters before the Lord, If on the flinted marge about your souls In vain the heaving tide of mourning rolls, If from your trails unto the crimson goals The weeper and the weeping must depart, If lust of blood come on you like a fiery dart And darken all the dark autumnal air, Then, then be fair. Pluck a young ash tree or a sapling yew And at the root end fix an iron thorn, Then forth with rocking laughter of the horn And passing, with no belling retinue, All timorous, lesser sippers of the dew, Seek out some burly guardian of the hills And set your urgent thew against his thew. Then shall the hidden wisdoms and the wills Strive, and bear witness to the trees and clods How one has dumb lore of the rocks and swales And one has reason like unto the gods. Then shall the lagging righteousness ensue, The powers at last be equal in the scales, 268 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And the man s club and the beast s claw be flails To winnow the unworthy of the two. Then on the earth, in the sky and the heavenly court That broods behind it, Justice shall be awakened and aware, Then those who go forth greatly, seeking sport, Shall doubtless find it, And all things be fair. The Atlantic Monthly Ridgely Torre nee 98 A Thrush in the Moonlight IN came the moon and covered me with wonder, Touched me and was near me, and made me very still. In came a rush of song, like rain after thunder, Pouring importunate on my window-sill. I lowered my head, I hid it, I would not see nor hear, The bird song had stricken me, had brought the moon too near. But when I dared to lift my head, night began to fill With singing in the darkness. And then the thrush grew still. And the moon came in, and silence, on my window-sill. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse Witter Bynner 99 November HARK you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones; The old will feel the weight of mossy stones; The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear. 269 THE GOLDEN TREASURY It is the tread of armies marching near, From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; It is a bugle dying down the gale; It is the sudden gushing of a tear. And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors; And romp of spirit-children on the pave; It is the tender sighing of the brave Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars; It is such sound as death; and, after all, T is but the forest letting dead leaves fall. The Bellman Mahlon Leonard Fisher 100 The Winter Scene f I ^HE rutted roads are all like iron; skies J. Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling In the bare woods, or hardy bitter-sweet; Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on; And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick, Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop. Bring in the logs of oak and hickory, And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth. Now is the time, with winter o er the world, For books and friends and yellow candle-light, And timeless lingering by the settling fire, While all the shuddering stars are keen and cold. II Out of the silent portal of the hours, When frosts are come and all the hosts put on 270 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Their burnished gear to march across the night And o er a darkened earth in splendor shine, Slowly above the world Orion wheels His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk, Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue. Lord of the winter night, august and pure, Returning year on year untouched by time. To kindle faith with thy immortal fire, There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease, No ills that love cannot at last repair, In the courageous progress of the soul. ill Russet and white and gray is the oak wood In the great snow. Still from the North it comes, Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees, O erloading branch and twig. The road is lost. Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond Are made once more a trackless wilderness In the white hush where not a creature stirs; And the pale sun is blotted from the sky. In that strange twilight the lone traveller halts To listen while the stealthy snowflakes fall. And then far off toward the Stamford shore, Where through the storm the coastwise liners go, Faint and recurrent on the muffled air, A foghorn booming through the smother, hark! IV When the day changed and the mad wind died down, The powdery drifts that all day long had blown 271 * THE GOLDEN TREASURY Across the meadows and the open fields, Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun, Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light Flooded the earth with glory and with peace. Then in the west behind the cedars black The sinking sun made red the winter dusk With sudden flare along the snowy ridge, Like a rare masterpiece by Hokusai, Where on a background gray, with flaming breath The crimson dragon dies in dusky gold. The Nation Bliss Carman 101 The Twelve-Forty-Five (For Edward J. Wheeler] WITHIN the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its head. The smoke, a plume of red and white, Waves madly in the face of night. And now the grave, incurious stars Gleam on the groaning, hurrying cars. Against the kind and awful reign Of darkness, this our angry train, A noisy little rebel, pouts Its brief defiance, flames and shouts And passes on, and leaves no trace. For darkness holds its ancient place, Serene and absolute, the king Unchanged, of every living thing. 272 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The houses lie obscure and still In Rutherford and Carlton Hill. Our lamps intensify the dark Of slumbering Passaic Park. And quiet holds the weary feet That daily tramp through Prospect Street. What though we clang and clank and roar Through all Passaic s streets? No door Will open, not an eye will see Who this loud vagabond may be. Upon my crimson cushioned seat, In manufactured light and heat, I feel unnatural and mean. Outside the towns are cool and clean; Curtained awhile from sound and sight They take God s gracious gift of night. The stars are watchful over them. On Clifton as on Bethlehem The angels, leaning down the sky, Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I I ride, I blasphemously ride Through all the silent countryside. The engine s shriek, the headlight s glare, Pollute the still nocturnal air. The cottages of Lake View sigh And sleeping, frown as we pass by. Why, even strident Paterson Rests quietly as any nun. Her foolish warring children keep The grateful armistice of sleep. For what tremendous errand s sake Are we so blatantly awake? 273 THE GOLDEN TREASURY What precious secret is our freight? What king must be abroad so late? Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night And we rush forth to give him fight. Or else, perhaps, we speed his way To some remote unthinking prey. Perhaps a woman writhes in pain And listens listens for the train! The train, that like an angel sings, The train, with healing on its wings. Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries. My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes. He hurries yawning through the car And steps out where the houses are. This is the reason of our quest! Not wantonly we break the rest Of town and village, nor do we Lightly profane night s sanctity. What Love commands the train fulfils, And beautiful upon the hills Are these our feet of burnished steel. Subtly and certainly I feel That Glen Rock welcomes us to her And silent Ridgewood seems to stir And smile, because she knows the train Has brought her children back again. We carry people home and so God speeds us, wheresoe er we go. Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale Lift sleepy heads to give us hail. In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern, stand Houses that wistfully demand 274 OF MAGAZINE VERSE A father son some human thing That this, the midnight train, may bring. The trains that travel in the day They hurry folks to work or play. The midnight train is slow and old But of it let this thing be told, To its higTi honor be it said, It carries people home to bed. My cottage lamp shines white and clear. God bless the train that brought me here! The Smart Set Joyce Kilmer 102 Coming Home THEY have hauled in the gang-plank. The breast- line crawls back. It is "Port, and hard over!" and out through the black Of the storm and the night, and across to the mouth Of the harbor, where stretching far out to the south, Run the lights of the town. Swinging slowly we turn, Pointing out for mid-lake, past the long pier where burn The red harbor-lights, where the great billows churn Blow on blow on the spiles, spilling down the white foam But I ve written the home-folks that I m coming home. And I m coming; huddled close by the slow-falling rail, Blinking red through the mist and the spray, while the hail 275 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Rattles down the wet decks lifting high, with the wail Up the wind of the fog-horn and behind on our trail, And we nose straight out in the teeth of the gale, I know by the throb that the engines prevail, And steady, my courage unless the stars fail, We ll make it. But tell me, O gray eyes and blue, Did you know in your watching, O dim eyes and true, In that black night s wild fury while the storm-signals flew, While the storm beat us back and the hoarse whistles blew Did you know, O my dear ones, I was coming to you? The silence of midnight; the hiss of the swell; The creaking of timbers; the close cabin smell; The slow-swaying shadows; the jar of the screw; The wind at the shutter; the feet of the crew; The cry of a child is he coming home, too? There s a rent in the night and a star glimmers through. The skies clear above us; the west banks up brown; The wind dies across us; the sea s running down; And across the dim water, still breaking in foam, Stretches out the far shore-line and I m coming home. The hills smile a welcome; the long night is past; And the ship s turning into the harbor at last. The engines slow down; we steal through the slip, Past the low burning lamp and with quivering lip Call down to the life-savers cheering us on. 276 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The weary throb sends us straight into the dawn, Fair and white up the bay, half asleep, all adream, In its translucent purple and pearl. Just a gleam Out there of the earliest sail; here the curl Of the first lazy smoke from a cabin a girl Loops up the long vines at the doorway. A swirl Of white water behind us; then a stir at the dock. Steam slowly! The headline the stern-line the shock As we swing alongside, and across the plank flock Wan faces, with breath still a-quiver, the roar Of the night still above and about them, the floor Still uncertain; but over the grateful brown loam We crowd to the shore-boat and I m coming home. And away to the north over depths of cool green From the bluffs overhead, where the deep-set ravine Digs down to the heart of the wood, while a stream Trickles out over sands drifting white, and the pier Reaches out through the water to meet us. We re here! From the pier to the boat-house and away down the shore Flutters back to the group at the old farm-house door The word that I m coming. And from wrinkled old hands, As the dear old feet toil through the weary white sands, Bringing welcome and welcome, from boat-house and strand, The hurrying, white-winged signals all come God pity the mortal who has never come home! And I? I m not worth it. But gray eyes and blue, While the storms beat about me, O dear hearts and true, 277 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Or the fogs flinging far, blot the stars from the blue, If the pole star leads on or the rudder swings true, It s not Heaven I m after, I am coming to you. But Heaven it will be when down the blue dome Flutter out the white signals that I m coming home. The Century Magazine Elizabeth Sewell Hill 103 We who were Lovers of Life From " The Story of Eleusis" WE who were lovers of life, who were fond of the hearth and the homeland, Gone like a drowner s cry borne on the perilous wind, Gone from the glow of the sunlight, now are in exile eternal, Strangers sit in the place dear to us once as our own. Happy are they; and they know not we were as strangers before them; Nay, nor that others shall come: Knowledge belongs to the dead. Life is so rich that the living look not away from the present; Eyes that the sun made blind learn in the dusk to see. Once we had friends, we had kindred; all of us now are forgotten, All but the hero-kings, lords of the glory of war; 278 OF MAGAZINE VERSE These, with the founders of cities, live for a little in stories Told of the deeds they did, not of the men that they were. Those who were mighty but linger, shadowy forms in a legend; Never the minstrel s tale tells what they were to their wives. None on the lips of remembrance live as their children knew thei Merged in the darkness kings rank with the recordless dead. Whether our lifetime brought to us joy or the burden of sorrow, Whether in youth or age, all when we come from the earth Clinging to memories wander slow through the shadow- less meadows, Dash from the proffered cup Lethe s oblivious draught. Long are the years and uncounted passed in the season- less twilight Thinking of things that were, feeling the ache of regret; Slowly the echoes fade and the homeland hills are for gotten : Over the flame-swept waste waters of healing are poured. Lovers of action, lovers of sunlight, rovers of ocean, Shepherds, tillers of earth, yea, at the last we forget. Longer a woman remembers words that were uttered in moonlight, Girlhood s vision and dream, pitiful things of the home. 279 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Here by the rivers of Hades; Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, Wisdom comes, and. the dead judge what they did with their lives: Never the clustering vineyard yielded to any its fulness Ah, but the children here playing their desolate games! The Poetry Review of America Louis V . Ledoux 104 Summons ^ I ^HE eager night and the impetuous winds, A The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on. The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. A slender stream became a naked sprite, Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. A saffron moon, dangling among the trees, Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs, Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze. . And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, The whole world s lethargy was brushed away; The night kept tugging at my torpid mood And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; And over all indifference there streamed A myriad urges in one rushing wave. . . . Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, I felt the brave persistence of the grass; 280 OF MAGAZINE VERSE The far desire of rivulets; the keen, Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; The endless labors of the patient worm; The lichen s strength; the prowess of the ant; The constancy of flowers; the blind belief Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; The eternal struggles and eternal deaths And yet the groping faith of every root! Out of old graves arose the cry of life; Out of the dying came the deathless call. And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, The thing that was my boyhood woke in me Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth, With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh, Leaped up to face the heaven s unconcern. . . . And then veil upon veil was torn aside Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys, Danced gaily round me, plucking at my hand; The night, scorning its ancient mystery, Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song, Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; Love, and the faces of a world of children, Swept like a conquering army through my blood And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, Beauty, the passion of the universe, Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, And, like a wine, poured itself out for me To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go 281 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; To meet with confidence the cynic years; Battling in wars that never can be won, Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat. The Century Magazine Louis Untermeyer 105 The Dead THINK you the dead are lonely in that place? They are companioned by the leaves and grass, By many a beautiful and vanished face, By all the strange and lovely things that pass. Sunsets and dawnings and the starry vast, The swimming moon, the tracery of trees These they shall know more perfectly at last, They shall be intimate with such as these. T is only for the living Beauty dies, Fades and drifts from us with too brief a grace, Beyond the changing tapestry of skies Where dwells her perfect and immortal face. For us the passage brief: the happy dead Are ever by great beauty visited. ii All Souls Night! Forth from their dwelling places They cross the aching and uneasy night, Seeking old doors and dear remembered faces, Peering unseen in windows where a light 282 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Falls on some book they loved or on some chair Where they had rested many a night ago; And well for them if one dear face be there Whose unforgetting eyes they knew and know. Ah, well for them if in the quiet speech That passes round the low-burned candle flame, Some old familiar tale the listeners reach, And silence fall about a spoken name. Better their sleep in those dim dwelling places, For finding remembered and remembering faces. The Forum David Morton 106 We Dead WHEN from the brooding home, The silent immemorial love-house, The beloved body of the mother in her travail, Naked, the little one comes and wails at the world s bleak weather, We say that on Earth and to us a child has been born. . . . But now we move with unhal^ing pace toward the dark evening, And toward the cold lengthening shadow, And quick we avert our fearful eyes from the strange event, The burial and the bourne . . . That leaving home: the end . . . death. . . . Are these then birth and death? Does the cut of a cord bring life and dust to dust ex punge it? If so, what are we then, we dead ? 283 THE GOLDEN TREASURY For, in the cities, And dark on the lonely farms, and waifs on the ocean, As a harrying of wind, as an eddying of dust, We dead, in our soft shining bodies that are combed and are kissed, Are ghosts fleeing from the inescapable hell of oursejves . . . We are even as beetles skating over the waters of our own darkness, Even as beetles, darting and restless, But the depths dark and void . . . We have found no peace, no peace: though our engines are crafty: What avail wings to the flier in the skies While his dead soul like an anchor drags on the Earth? And what avails lightning darting a man s voice, linking the cities, While in the booth he is the same varnished clod, And his soul flies not after? And what avails it that the body of man has waxed mammoth, Limbed with the lightning and the stream, While his spirit remains a torment and a trifle, And gaining the world, profits nothing? Self-murdered, self-slain, the dead cumber the Earth. . . . And how did they die? A boy was born in the pouring radiance of creative magic: And with pulses of music he was born . . . Of himself he might have been shaping a song-winged poet . . . But he was afraid. . . . 284 OF MAGAZINE VERSE He feared the gaunt garret of starvation and the lonely years in his soul s desert, And he feared to be a jest and a fool before his friends. . . . Now he clerks, the slave . . . And the magic is slimed with disastrous opiates of the Night. A girl was bathed with the lissome beauty of the seeker of love, The call of the animals one to another in the Spring, The desire of the captive woman in her heart, as she ran and leaped on the hills; But the imprisoned beast s cry terrified her as she looked out over the love-quiet of the modern world . . . Yet she desired to take this man-lure and release it into loveliness, Become a dancer, lulling with witchcraft of her young body the fevered world But, no, her mother spied here a wickedness. . . . Shamefully she submitted, making a smoldering inferno of the hidden Nymph in her soul, And so died. A woman was made body and heart for the beautiful love-life. . . . But of the mother-miracle, How the cry of a troubled child whitens the red passions, She did not know. . . . Fear of poverty corrupted her: she chose a fool that her heart hated, And now through him no release for her native passions, But only a spending of her loathsome fury on adornment and luxury. . . . Ah, dead glory! and the heart sick with betrayal! 285 THE GOLDEN TREASURY There is no grace for the dead, save to be born again: Engines shall not drag us from the grave, Nor wine nor meat revive us. For our thirst is a thirst no liquor can reach nor slake, And our hunger a hunger by no bread filled. . . . The waters we crave bubble up from the springs of life, And the bread we would break comes down from invisible hands. We dead! awake! Kiss the beloved past goodby, Go leave the love-house of the betrayed self, And through the dark of birth go and enter the soul s bleak weather. . . . And I, I will not stay dead, though the dead cling to me, I will put away the kisses and the soft embraces and the walls that encompass me, And out of this womb I will surely move to the world of my spirit. . . . I will lose my life to find it, as of old, Yea, I will turn from the life-lie I lived to the truth I was wrought for, And I will take the creator within, sower of the seed of the race, And make him a god, shaper of civilization. . . . Now on my soul s imperious surge, Taking the risk, as of death, and in deepening twilight, I ride on the darkening flood and go out on the waters 286 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Till over the tide comes music, till over the tide the breath Of the song of my far-off soul is wafted and blown, Murmuring commandments. . . . Storm and darkness! I am drowned in the torrent! I am moving forth irrevocably from the sheltering womb! I am naked and little! Oh, cold of the world, and light blinding, and space terrifying! Now my cry goes up and the wailing of my helpless soul: Mother, my mother! Lo, then, the mother eternal! In my opening soul the footfall of her fleeting tread, And the song of her voice piercing and sweet with love of me, And the enwinding of her arms and adoring of her breath, And the milk of her plenty! Oh, Life, of which I am part; Life, from the depths of the heavens, That ascended like a water-spring into David of Asia on the eastern hills in the night, That came like a noose of golden shadow on Joan in the orchard, That gathers all life: the binding of brothers into sheaves, That of old, kneelers in the dust Named, glorying: Allah, Jehovah, God. The Century Magazine James Oppenheim THE GOLDEN TREASURY 107 To a Dead Soldier THOUGH all the primrose paths of morning called Your feet to follow them, and all the winds Of all the hills of earth, with plucking hands Wooed you to slopes that shone like emerald, You might not go. The thin green grass that binds Your feet had Earth and Death to forge its bands. The rain s wet kiss is on your lips, where lay Once the live pulses of a woman s soul; Your eyes give back unto the quiet sky Only the sheen of stars, the glare of day, Or darkness when the kindly shadows roll Up from the sea to hide you where you lie. No woman s whisper holds your strong heart spent And breathless. All the silver horns that blew While legions cheered, are still. These things are done, But these you have: a death for monument, And peace you died to buy, and after you The laughing play of children in the sun. The Eliot Literary Magazine Kendall Harrison 108 The Death of the Hired Man MARY sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage To meet him in the doorway with the news And put him on his guard. "Silas is back." 288 OF MAGAZINE VERSE She pushed him outward with her through the door And shut it after her. "Be kind," she said. She took the market things from Warren s arms And set them on the porch, then drew him down To sit beside her on the wooden steps. "When was I ever anything but kind to him? But I ll not have the fellow back," he said. "I told him so last haying, did n t I? If he left then, I said, that ended it. What good is he? Who else will harbor him At his age for the little he can do? What help he is there s no depending on. Off he goes always when I need him most. He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, Enough at least to buy tobacco with, So he w r on t have to beg and be beholden. All right, I say, I can t afford to pay Any fixed wages, though I wish I could. Someone else can. Then someone else will have to. "I should n t mind his bettering himself If that was what it was. You can be certain, When he begins like that, there s someone at him Trying to coax him off with pocket-money, In haying time, when any help is scarce. In winter he comes back to us. I m done." "Sh! not so loud: he ll hear you," Mary said. "I want him to: he ll have to soon or late." "He s worn out. He s asleep beside the stove: When I came up from Rowe s I found him here, 289 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep, A miserable sight, and frightening, too You need n t smile I did n t recognize him I was n t looking for him and he s changed. Wait till you see." "Where did you say he d been?" "He did n t say. I dragged him to the house, And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke. I tried to make him talk about his travels. Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off." "What did you say? Did he say anything?" "But little." "Anything? Mary, confess He said he d come to ditch the meadow for me." "Warren!" "But did he? I just want to know." "Of course he did. What would you have him say? Surely you would n t grudge the poor old man Some humble way to save his self-respect. He added, if you really care to know, He meant to clear the upper pasture, too. That sounds like something you have heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard the way He jumbled everything. I stopped to look Two or three times he made me feel so queer To see if he was talking in his sleep. 290 OF MAGAZINE VERSE He ran on Harold Wilson you remember The boy you had in haying four years since. He s finished school, and teaching in his college. Silas declares you ll have to get him back. He says they two will make a team for work: Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! The way he mixed that in with other things. He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft On education you know how they fought All through July under the blazing sun, Silas up on the cart to build the load, Harold along beside to pitch it on." "Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot." "Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. You would n t think they would. How some things linger! Harold s young college boy s assurance piqued him. After so many years he still keeps finding Good arguments he sees he might have used. I sympathize. I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late. Harold s associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold s saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he liked it that an argument! He said he could n t make the boy believe He could find water with a hazel prong Which showed how much good school had ever done him. He wanted to go over that. But most of all He thinks if he could have another chance To teach him how to build a load of hay " 291 THE GOLDEN TREASURY "I know, that s Silas one accomplishment. He bundles every forkful in its place, And tags and numbers it for future reference, So he can find and easily dislodge it In the unloading. Silas does that well. He takes it out in bunches like big birds nests. You never see him standing on the hay He s trying to lift, straining to lift himself." "He thinks if he could teach him that, he d be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folks, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different." Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night. "Warren," she said, "he has come home to die: You need n t be afraid he ll leave you this time." "Home," he mocked gently. "Yes, what else but home It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail." 292 OF MAGAZINE VERSE "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in." "I should have called it Something you somehow have n t to deserve." Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back. And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. "Silas has better claim on us you think Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles As the road winds would bring him to his door. Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day. Why did n t he go there? His brother s rich, A somebody director in the bank." "He never told us that." "We know it though." "I think his brother ought to help, of course. I ll see to that if there is need. He ought of right To take him in, and might be willing to He may be better than appearances. But have some pity on Silas. Do you think If he d had any pride in claiming kin Or anything he looked for from his brother, He d keep so still about him all this time?" "I wonder what s between them?" "I can tell you. Silas is what he is we would n t mind him But just the kind that kinsfolk can t abide. 293 THE GOLDEN TREASURY He never did a thing so very bad. He don t know why he is n t quite as good As anyone. He won t be made ashamed To please his brother, worthless though he is." "/ can t think Si ever hurt anyone." "No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back. He would n t let me put him on the lounge. You must go in and see what you can do. I made the bed up for him there to-night. You ll be surprised at him how much he s broken. His working days are done; I m sure of it." "I d not be in a hurry to say that." "I have n t been. Go, look, see for yourself. But, Warren, please remember how it is: He s come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You must n t laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may. I ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon." It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she. Warren returned too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited. "Warren," she questioned. "Dead," was all he answered. The New Republic Robert Frost 294 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 109 A Handful of Dust I STOOPED to the silent Earth and lifted a handful of her dust. . . . Was it a handful of humanity I held? Was it the crumbled and blown beauty of a woman or a babe? For over the hills of Earth blows the dust of the withered generations; And not a water-drop in the sea but was once a blood- drop or a tear: And not an atom of sap in leaf or bud but was once the love-sap in a human being: And not a lump of soil but was once the rosy curve of lip or breast or cheek. , Handful of dust, you stagger me ... I did not dream the world was so full of the dead: And the air I breathe so rich with the bewildering past: Kiss of what girls is on the wind ? Whisper of what lips is in the cup of my hand? Cry of what deaths is in the break of the wave tossed by the sea? I am enfolded in an air of rushing wings: I am engulfed in clouds of love-lives gone. . . . Who leans yonder? Helen of Greece? Who walks with me? Isolde? The trees are shaking down the blossoms from Juliet s breast: And the bee drinks honey from the lips of David. . . 295 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Come, girl, my comrade: Stand close, sun-tanned one, with your bright eyes lifted: Behold this dust . . . This is you: this of the Earth under our feet is you: Raised by what miracle? shaped by what magic? Breathed into by what god? And a hundred years hence one like myself may come, And stoop, and take a handful of the yielding Earth, And never dream that in his palm Lies she that laughed and ran and lived beside this sea On an afternoon a hundred years before. . . . Listen to the dust in this hand: Who is trying to speak to us? The Century Magazine James Oppenheim 110 " / Have a Rendezvous with Death" I HAVE a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, 296 OF MAGAZINE VERSE When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows t were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I ve a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. The North American Review Alan Seeger 111 The Secret THEY drew the blinds down, and the house was old With shadows, and so cold, Filled up with shuddery silence like held breath. And when I grew quite bold And asked them why, they said that this was death. They walked tiptoe about the house that day And turned their heads away Each time I passed. I sat down in surprise And quite forgot to play, Seeing them pass with wonder in their eyes. My mother came into my room that night Holding a shaded light 297 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Above my face till she was sure I slept; But I lay still with fright, Hearing her breath, and knowing that she wept. And afterward, with not a one to see, I got up quietly And tried each step I made with my bare feet Until it seemed to me That all the air grew sorrowful and sweet. So without breathing I went down the stair, In the light chilly air, Into the parlor, where the perfumes led, I lit my candle there And held it a long time above my head. There was an oblong box, and at its base Grew lilies in a vase As white as they. I thought them very tall In such a listening place, And they threw fearful shadows on the wall. I tiptoed to the box, then, silently, To look what death could be; And then I smiled, for it was father who Was sleeping quietly, He dreamed, I think, for he was smiling, too. And all at once I knew death is a thing That stoops down, whispering A dear, forgotten secret in your ear Such as the winds can sing. And then you sleep and dream and have no fear. 298 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Perhaps the winds have told the dream to flowers On nights of lonely hours; Perhaps we, too, could learn if we could seek The wind in his watch-towers; Perhaps the lilies knew, but could not speak. The Century Magazine Frederick Faust 112 Scintilla I KISSED a kiss in youth Upon a dead man s brow; And that was long ago, And I m a grown man now. It s lain there in the dust, Thirty years and more: My lips that set a light At a dead man s door! The Crisis William Stanley Braithwaite 113 Sleep WHERE do I go Down roads of sleep, Behind the blue-brimmed day? No more I know her silvered sweep Nor colors clear nor gray, Nor women s ways Nor those of men, Nor blame, nor praise. Where am I, then? 299 THE GOLDEN TREASURY ii Oh, fragrantly The airs of earth arise In waking hours of light, While vagrantly Sea symphonies Of changing sound surprise; Till for a space one goes Beyond the salt and snows And claimant tides along the wide-stretched beach, Beyond the last, faint reach Of odor, sight and sound, far forth far forth Where neither South nor North Points down the roads unguessed, Where East is not, nor West: At night down roads of sleep, Of dreamless sleep, Past all the compassed ways the reason tells, To unknown citadels. in Just as one turns, and while day s dusk-breathed blue And music, many-dappled, merge in flight, Half in a dream, one finds a tale is true That down one s memory sings, still and light. Just as the spirit turns, Half-dreaming one discerns Deeply the tale is true That long ago one knew: Of how a mermaid loved a mortal knight; And how, unless she died, she still must change, 300 OF MAGAZINE VERSE And leave his human ways, and go alone At intervals where seas unfathomed range Through coral groves around the ocean s throne, Where cool-armed mermaids dive through crystal hours, And braid their streaming hair with pearls, and sing Among the green and clear-lit water flowers, The lucent splendors of their ocean king. IV Like hers our ways on earth, Who, from our day of birth, Would die, unless we slept Must die, unless for hours, Beyond our senses powers, Down soundless space we leapt. Beyond the deepest roll Of pain s and rapture s sweep, Where goes the human soiil That vanishes in sleep? VI Down dreamless paths unguessed, beyond the senses powers, Beyond the breath of fragrance, sound and light, As once through crystal, unremembered hours The mermaid dived who loved a mortal knight: Far forth far forth Beyond the South or North, 301 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Past all the compassed ways the day has shown, To live divine and deep at night down roads of sleep, In citadels unknown. Poetry : A Magazine of Verse Edith Wyatt 114 A Memorial Tablet Oh, Agathocles^ fare thee well! "AKED and brave thou goest N Without one glance behind! Hast thou no fear, Agathocles, Or backward grief of mind? The dreamy dog beside thee Presses against thy knee; He, too, oh, sweet Agathocles, Is deaf and visioned like thee. Thou art so lithe and lovely And yet thou art not ours. What Delphic saying compels thee Of kings or topless towers ? That little blowing mantle Thou losest from thine arm No shoon nor staff, Agathocles, Nor sword, to fend from harm! Thou hast the changed impersonal Awed brow of mystery 302 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Yesterday thou wast burning, Mad boy, for Glaucoe. Philis thy mother calls thee: Mine eyes with tears are dim, Turn once, look once, Agathocles (The gods have blinded him.} Come back, Agathocles, the night Brings thee what place of rest? Wine-sweet are Glaucoe s kisses, Flower-soft her budding breast. He seems to hearken, Glaucoe, He seems to listen and smile; (Nay, Philis, but a god-song He follows this many a mile.) Come back, come back, Agathocles I (He scents the asphodel; Unearthly siuift he runneth.) Agathocles, farewell! Scribner s Magazine Florence Wilkinson Evans 115 Epitaph HERE lies the flesh that tried To follow the spirit s leading; Fallen at last, it died, Broken, bruised and bleeding, Burned by the high fires Of the spirit s desires. 303 THE GOLDEN TREASURY It had no dream to sing Of ultimate liberty; Fashioned for suffering, To endure transiently, And conscious that it must Return as dust to dust. It blossomed a brief hour, Was rosy, warm and strong; It went like a wilted flower, It ended like a song, Some one closed a door And it was seen no more. The grass is very kind; (It knows so many dead!) Those whom it covers find Their wild hearts comforted; Their pulses need not meet The spirit s speed and heat. Here lies the flesh that held The spirit prisoner A caged thing that rebelled, Forced to subminister; Broken it had to be; To set its captive free. It is very glad to rest, It calls to roots and rain, 304 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Safe in its mother s breast, Ready to bloom again. After a day and an hour T will greet the sun a flower. The New York Times Louise Dr is coll 116 Comrades WHERE are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming ? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! Where is he now, the dark boy slender Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains. Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman s war; Where is he now, for whom my heart s biding, Biding, biding but he rides far! O love that passes the love of woman! Who that hath felt it shall ever forget, When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad s heart is to a lad s heart set? 305 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Ever, forever, lover and rover They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart! They are dead, the American grasses under; There is no one now who presses my side; By the African chotts I am riding asunder, And with great joy ride I the last great ride. I am fey; I am fain of sudden dying; Thousands of miles there is no one near; And my heart all the night it is crying, crying In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. Hearts of my music them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o er. Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; And one, far faring o er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade s accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. Scribners Magazine George Edward Woodberry 306 OF MAGAZINE VERSE 117 They went Forth to Battle, but they always Fell THEY went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields; Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well, And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, They were not weak, as one who vainly wields A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell How on the hard-fought field they always fell. It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard. They went forth to battle but they alway fell; Their might was not the might of lifted spears; Over the battle-clamor came a spell Of troubling music, and they fought not well. Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; Their names are old sad stories in men s ears; Yet they will scatter the red Hordes of Hell, Who went forth to battle and always fell. The Forum Shaemas Sheet 307 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 118 The Unknown Brothers SINGING band by song united When the blue ^Egean plains Girdled isles where lovers lighted Lamps in Kypris seaward fanes; Singing Brothers, earth enfolden, What of you and of your olden Music now? What still remains? Scattered blooms, surviving only As the petal holds the rose, In the garden where the lonely Scarlet flower of Sappho blows; And of some no single token Leaf or bud, or blossom broken Now the mounded garden shows. Was there lack of exaltation In the burden of their song? Had they less of consecration? Proved the path of Beauty long? Did they pause for pleasant resting? Swerve or falter in their questing? Have the ages done them wrong? Some there may have been who faltered By the bright ^Egean foam, Seeing life with vision altered As the soul forgot its home; 308 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Some it may be in confusion, After youth s divine illusion, Turned to till the kindly loam. Some there are in all the ages Lonely vigil fail to keep; Some allured by wisdom s pages Chart the sky and sound the deep; Some give up the long foregoing Human touches, reaping, sowing Some with Sappho take the leap. But the most wait unrepining, Hopeful when all hope is fled, For fulfilment of the shining Dawn that lingers far ahead, And, by paths of no returning Where the hearth-fires are not burning, March companioned by the dead. Through neglect or loud derision, Mocked at by the worldly-wise, Bearing burdens of misprision, Seeking truth and finding lies, Follow they the glow or glimmer Of the vision growing dimmer As the death-mist fills their eyes. Never can you be requited, Unknown Brothers, staunch and brave; You the bitter gods have slighted, Only half their gift they gave, 309 THE GOLDEN TREASURY Gave the patience of endeavor, Kept fruition back forever, Felled the cypress by your grave. You are passed, but unknown brothers, Finding faith of small avail, Follow now as followed others, And I pause to bid them hail. Brothers are they in believing, Some it may be are achieving, But they triumph though they fail. The Bookman Louis V. Ledoux 119 The Monk in the Kitchen ORDER is a lovely thing; On disarray it lays its wing, Teaching simplicity to sing. It has a meek and lowly grace, Quiet as a nun s face. Lo I will have thee in this place! Tranquil well of deep delight, Transparent as the water, bright All things that shine through thee appear As stones through water, sweetly clear Thou clarity, That with angelic chanty Revealest beauty where thou art, Spread thyself like a clean pool. 310 OF MAGAZINE VERSE Then all the things that in thee are, Shall seem more spiritual and fair, Reflection from serener air Sunken shapes of many a star In the high heavens set afar. II Ye stolid, homely, visible things, Above you all brood glorious wings Of your deep entities, set high, Like slow moons in a hidden sky. But you, their likenesses, are spent Upon another element. Truly ye are but seemings The shadowy cast-off gleamings Of bright solidities. Ye seem Soft as water, vague as dream; Image, cast in a shifting stream. in What are ye? I know not. Brazen pan and iron pot, Yellow brick and gray flag-stone That my feet have trod upon Ye seem to me Vessels of bright mystery. For ye do bear a shape, and so Though ye were made by man, I know An inner Spirit also made And ye his breathings have obeyed. 3" THE GOLDEN TREASURY . / * " : . " " IV Shape, the strong and awful Spirit, Laid his ancient hand on you. He waste chaos doth inherit; He can alter and subdue. Verily, he doth lift up Matter, like a sacred cup. Into deep substance he reached, and lo Where ye were not, ye were; and so Out of useless nothing, ye Groaned and laughed and came to be. And I use you, as I can, Wonderful uses, made for man, Iron pot and brazen pan. What are ye? I know not; Nor what I really do When 1 move and govern you. There is no small work unto God. He requires of us greatness; Of his least creature A high angelic nature, Stature superb and bright completeness. He sets to us no humble duty. Each act that he would have us do Is haloed round with strangest beauty Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks Of his plainest child he asks. When I polish the brazen pan OF MAGAZINE VERSE I hear a creature laugh afar In the gardens of a star, And from his burning presence run Flaming wheels of many a sun. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. When I cleanse this earthen floor My spirit leaps to see Bright garments trailing over it, A cleanness made by me. Purger of all men s thoughts and ways, With labor do I sound Thy praise, My work is done for Thee. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. Therefore let me spread abroad The beautiful cleanness of my God. VI One time in the cool of dawn Angels came and worked with me. The air was soft with many a wing. They laughed amid my solitude And cast bright looks on everything. Sweetly of me did they ask That they might do my common task And all were beautiful but one With garments whiter than the sun Had such a face Of deep, remembered grace; That when I saw I cried "Thou art The great Blood-Brother of my heart. 313 THE fiOLDEN TREASURY Where have I seen thee?" And he said, "When we are dancing round God s throne, How often thou art there. Beauties from thy hands have flown Like white doves wheeling in mid air. Nay thy soul remembers not? Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot." VII What are we? I know not. The Craftsman Anna Hempstead Branch 120 Doors LIKE a young child who at his mother s door Runs eager for the welcoming embrace, And finds the door shut, and with troubled face Calls and through sobbing calls, and o er and o er Calling, storms at the panel so before A door that will not open, sick and numb, I listen for a word that will not come, And know at last, I may not enter more. Silence! And through the silence and the dark By that closed door, the distant sob of tears Beats on my spirit, as on fairy shores The spectral sea; and through the sobbing, hark! Down the fair-chambered corridor of years, The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors. The North American Review Hermann Hagedorn INDEX OF AUTHORS Aikcn, Conrad 47, 139 Baker, KarL- Wilson 30 iae I.oc 255 r.i-:i l. William R(.-e 201 llraitlnvaite, William Stanley 109,. 110, 111, 299 Branch, Anna HempsU-ad 232, 310 Burnet, Dana 117, 150 Burr, Amelia Josephine 215,253 Bynncr, Witter 16, 31, 76, 269 Carman, Bliss 20, 270 father, Willa Sibert 51, 132 Cleghorn, Sara N 34 Coates, Florence Karle 19, 131 Crapsey, Adelaide 74, 75 Duriran, Olive Tilford 1,12,54 Driscoll, Louise 303 Erskine, John 143 Evans, Donald 116 Evans, Florence Wil!-.in--<>n 302 Faust, Frederick 297 Fisher, Mahlon Leonard 269 Fletcher, John Gould 247 Frost, Robert 16, 29, 59, 90, 288 Giltinan, Caroline 258 Hagcdorn, Hermann 314 Harrison, Kendall 288 Hill, Elizabeth Sowell 275 Hughan, Jessie Wallace 76 Johns, Orrick 31,36 Jones, Jr., Thoma> S 8 Kilmer, Joyce 9 ( 272 Ledoux, Louis V 5, 215, 278. 308 Lee, Agnes . 58, 261 Lindsay. Vachel 86, 96, 250 Lowell Amy 43, 157, 203, 210 Mackayc. Percy 81, 186 315 INDEX OF AUTHORS Mann, Dorothea Lawrence 6 Masters, Edgar Lee 136, 238 Middleton, Scudder 151 Mitchell, Ruth Comfort 112, 154, 217 Morton, David 282 Norton, Grace Fallow 71 O Brien, Edward J 23, 261 O Neil, David 72, 73, 74 Oppenheim, James 234, 283, 295 O Sheel, Shaemas 78, 104, 307 Patton, Margaret French 63 Peabody, Josephine Preston 65, 94, 152 Piper, Edwin Ford 228 Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt 20 Robinson, Edwin Arlington 8, 106, 184, 227 Sandburg, Carl 232 Scollard, Clinton 105, 134 Seeger, Alan 296 Shepard. Odell 39 Stevens, Wallace 39 Syford, Ethel 53 Teasdale, Sara 1, 37, 51 Tietjens, Eunice 68 Torrence, Ridgcly 70, 207, 220. 259, 262 Towne, Charles Hanson 50 Twitchell, Anna Spencer 62 Untermeyer, Louis 9, 280 Wharton, Edith 260 Wheelock, John Hall . 26,42 Woodberry, George Edward 22,37,305 Wright, Cuthbert 33 Wyatt, Edith 260 3 l6 INDEX OF POEMS Adventurer, The Amaze An Astronomer Ash Wednesday Autochthon Bncchante to Her Babe, The . Barter Battle Sleep Birches Bird and the Tree, The . . . Bonfire, The Broken Field, The Cassandra Chinese Nightingale, The . . Cinquains City of Falling Leaves, The . Clerk, The Coming Home Comrades Cool Tombs Cradle Song Dead, The Death of the Hired Man, The Dog. A Doors Earth Emilia Epitaph Evensong . Evensong Exit Eye-Witness Field of Glory, The Fight Flammonde Flight, The. . OdrllShepard . . . Adelaide Crapscy . . David O Ncil . . . John Erskinc . 29 75 72 143 Edgar Lee Masters .... 238 Eunice Tietjcns 68 Sara Tcasdale i Edith Wliarton 260 Robert Frost 16 Ridgely Torrence 207 Robert Frost 90 Sara Teasdale 51 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 88 Va-hd Lindsay 96 Adelaide Crapsey 74 Amy Lowell 210 Scudder Middlcton .... 151 Elizabeth Sewell n ill ... 275 George Edward Woodberry . 305 Carl Sandburg 233 Josephine Preston Peabody . 65 Da-oil Morton 282 Robert Frost 288 Josephine Preston Peabody . 152 Hermann Ilagzdorn .... 314 John Hall Whcdock ... 26 Sarah N. Cleg/torn .... 34 Louise Driscoll 303 Conrad A ikcn 47 Ridgely Torrence 259 William Stanley Brailltwaite 110 Ridgely Torren:e 220 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 184 Percy Maekaye 186 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 106 George Edward Woodberry . 22 317 INDEX OF POEMS l- rom a Motor in May Gayheart, a Story of Defeat General William Booth Enters into Heaven Gift of God, The Good Company "Grandmither, Think Not I Forget" . . . Grieve Not, Ladies Guns as Keys: And the Great Gate Swings Handful of Dust, A Harvest-Moon: 1914 He Whom a Dream Hath Possessed .... Heights, The Hill Wife, The Horse-Thief, The Hungarian Love-Lament Hymn to Demeter "T Have a Rendezvous with Death" . . . "Immortal Love" In the Roman Forum Indian Pipe Interpreter, The 1777 King of Dreams, The Landscapes Laughing it Out Lesser Children, The Letters from Egypt Likeness, A Lincoln Look, The ... Magic Meanwhile Memorial Tablet, A Memories of Whitman and Lincoln .... Messages Miracles Monk in the Kitchen, The Motherhood Mountain Gateway, A Moods Moon-Shadows New Platonist, The Needle-Travel .... Night Court, The Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 2 Dana Burnet 11 Vacliel Lindsay 25 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 22 Karle Wilson Baker ... 3 W ilia Sibert Gather .... 5 Anna Ilempstcad Branch . 23 A my Lowell 15 James Oppenhcim .... 29 Josephine Preston Peabody . 9 Shaemas Sheet 10 David O Ncil 9 Robert Frost 5 William Rose Benct .... 20 Ethel Syford 5 Louis V. Ledoux Alan Seeger 29 George Edward Woodbcrry . 3 Amelia Josephine Burr . . 21 Florence Earle Coates ... 1 Orrick Johns 3 A my Lowell 20 Clinton Scollard 10 Louis Untermeyer .... William Stanley Braithwaite 1 1 Ridgely Torrence 26 Louis V. Ledoux 21 Willa Sibert Gather .... 13 J ohn Gould Fletcher . ... 24 Sara Teasdale 3 Edward J. O Brien .... 2 Edwin Ford Piper .... 22 Florence Wilkinson Evans . 30 James Oppenhcim .... 23 Da-jidO Neil 7 Conrad A iken 13 Anna Hempstead Branch . 31 Agnes Lee 5 Bliss Carman ...... 2 David O Neil 7 Adelaide Crapsey 7 Cuthbert Wright ..... 3 Margaret French Patton . . 6 Ruth Comfort Mitcliell . . . 15 INDEX OF POEMS Night Winds November On a Copy of Keats "Endymion" . . Old Fairingdown Onus Probandi Over Night, A Rose Path-Flower Patterns Peter Quince at the Clavier Poppies, The Regents Examination, The Road not Taken, The Samson Allen Sandy Star School Scintilla Sculptured Worship Sea-Lands, The Secret, The Silence Sin Eater, The Sleep Solitude Son, The Song St. John of Nepomuc Statue in a Garden, A Summons Susanna and the Elders Thanksgiving for Our Task They went Forth to Battle, but they always Fell Thrush in the Moonlight, A To a Dead Soldier To a Hermit Thrush To a Logician To a Phoebe-Bird To Imagination To Xo One in Particular Train-Mates Trees Triad The Trumpet-Vine Arbor Twelve-Forty-Five, The . . . Adelaide Crapsey 75 Mahlon Leonard Fisher . . 269 Clinton Scollard 134 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 54 William Stanley Braithwaite 111 Caroline Giltinon 258 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 1 Amy Lowell ....[.. 43 Wallace Stevens 39 A mclia Josephine Burr . . 253 Jessie Wallace Huglian . . 76 Robert Frost 29 Donald Evans 116 William Stanley Braitlnvaile 109 Percy Mackayc 81 William Stanley Braithwaitc 299 William Stanley Braithwaite 109 Or rick Johns 31 Frederick Faust 297 Elgar Lee Masters .... 136 Ruth Comfort Mitchell . . . 217 Edith Wyatt 299 David O Ncil ....... 74 Rid gel y Torrcnce 70 Edward J. O Brien .... 261 Ruth Comfort Mite hell . . . 112 Agues Lee 261 Louis Untermeyer .... 280 Adelaide Crapsey 75 Sliaemas Sheel 78 Shaemas Sited 307 Witter Bynner 269 Kendall Harrison 288 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 12 Dana Burnct 150 Wilier Bynner 16 Dorothea Lawrence Mann . 6 Wiitcr Bynner 31 Witter Bynner 76 Joyce Kilmer 9 Adelaide Crapsey 74 Amy Lowell 208 Joyce Kilmer 272 319 INDEX OF POEMS Two Songs in Spring Unconquered Air, The Unknown Beloved, The Unknown Brothers, The Vase of Chinese Ivory, A Waiting Warning, The Way, The We Dead We who were Lovers of Life .... Wife, The Winter Scene, The With Cassock Black, Baret and Book Yankee Doodle Yellow Clover . Thomas S. Jones, Jr. . . . 8 Florence Earle Coates ... 131 John Hall Wheelock ... 42 Louis V. Ledoux 308 David O Neil 72 Charles Hanson Towne . . 50 Adelaide Crapsey 75 William Stanley Braithwaite 1 1 1 James Oppenheim .... 283 Louis V. Ledoux 278 Anna Spencer Twitchell . . 62 Bliss Carman 270 Grace Fallow Norton ... 71 Vachel Linisay 86 Katharine Lee Bates . . 255 320 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Alone A Red-cap sang in Bishop s wood Beauty calls and gives no warning .... Blackbird, blackbird in the cage Blessed with a joy that only she Booth led boldly with his big brass drum . Call Rose Costara! Come sprite, and dance! The sun is up . . Cold man, in whom no animating ray . . . Dawn this morning burned all red Down by the railroad in a green valley . . Due East, far West. Distant as the nests of opposite winds . . . : Dweller among leaves, and shining twilight boughs Ebb on with me across the sunset tide. . . Eager night and the impetuous winds . . . Gayheart came in June, I saw his heels . . Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town Grasshopper, your fairy song Half way up the Hemlock valley turnpike . Hark ye! Hush ye! Margot s dead! . . . Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear Has not the glamoured season come once more He could not tell the way he came .... He did not come in the red dawn He had a whim, and laughed it out .... He plodded along He sees the wife, from slim young comeliness He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting Here in the lonely chapel I will wait . . . Here lies the flesh that tried . David O Neil 73 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 1 RiJgely Torren:e 259 Rilgely Torren:e 207 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 227 Va:hcl Linhay 250 Ruth Comfort Mitchell . . . 154 Eunice Tistjens 68 Dana Burnct 150 Vachel Lindsay 86 Ridgely Torrejice 220 Amy Lowell 157 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 12 Edward J. O Brien .... 261 Louis Untcrmeyer .... 280 Dana Burnet 117 WUla Sibert Catlter .... 51 John Hall Whzclock ... 26 Sarah N. Clcgharn .... 34 Ruth Comfort Mitchell . . . 217 Mahlon Leonard Fislter . . 269 Clinton Scollard 134 William Stanley Bra:l!:wa:t; 1 1 1 OddlShepard 29 William Stanley Bra:thwiits 110 Da-jii O Neil 73 Anna Spencer Twit :hc .l . . 62 SkaemasO Sited 101 JohnErs tin: 143 Louise Driscoll 303 321 INDEX OF FIRST LINES "How, how," he said. "Friend Chang," I said I dreamed I passed a doorway I have a rendezvous with death I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea I heard an old farm-wife I heard one who said: "Verily, I kissed a kiss in youth I know I know a vale where I would go one day . . I ran into the sunset light I sit at home and sew I stooped to the silent earth and lifted a handful of dust I think that I shall never see I walk down the garden paths I was a goddess ere the marble found me . . In a rude country s<jme four thousand miles In came the moon and covered me with wonder In every line a supple beauty In the heart of the forest arising In the middle of August when the south west wind In the museum In the pale mauve twilight, streaked with orange In the very early morning when the light was low Jock bit his mittens off and blew his thumbs Just as my fingers on these keys Just now Last summer I Columbused John, in Prague, that deadly Bush League town Leaves fall Life has loveliness to sell Life a gaunt, scraggly pine Like a young child who at his mother s door Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman . . . Locate your love, you lose your love. . . . Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice .... Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table 322 Vachel Lindsay . John Hall Wheelock Alan Seeger . . . Edgar Lee Masters .... Ridgely Torrence Edwin Arlington Robinson . William Stanley Brailhwaite Adelaide Crapsey Bliss Carman Edward J. O Brien .... Margaret French Pat ton . . James Oppenheim .... Joyce Kilmer Amy Lowell Agnes Lee Edgar Lee Masters .... Witter Bynner Willa Sibcrt Gather .... Florence Earle Coates . . . Ridgely Torrence David O Neil . Conrad Aiken Orrick Johns . . . Percy Mackaye Wallace Stevens. . Adelaide Crapsey . Ruth Comfort Mitchell. . , Amy Lowell , Sara Tcasdale , John Gould Fletcher . . . , Hermann Hagedorn ... James Oppenheim . . . Witter Bynmr Josephine Preston Peabody Robert Frost . INDEX OF FIRST LINES Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile Muffled sounds of the city climbing to me at the window Must I, who walk alone My soul is a dark ploughed field Naked and brave thou goest No, his exit by the gate Xo more from out the sunset Nothing but beauty, now O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring. . O thou who clot host thyself in mystic form O wild Heart, track the land s perfume . . Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Oh, let s go up the hill and scare ourselves Old Hezekiah leaned hard on his hoe . . . On a lone hillside One ought not to have to care Order is a lovely thing Others endure Man s rule: he therefore deems Our loves as flowers fall to dust Outside hove Shasta, snowy height on height Over the twilight field . Singing band by song united So, back again? Soft as a treader on mosses Some must delve when the dawn is nigh . . Somewhere, O sun, some corner there must be Still as Strephon kissed me in the Spring That over ni^ ht a rose could come .... The August sun had still two houis of sky . The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring The man Flammonde, from God knows where The old The rain was over, and the brilliant air . . The rutted roads are all like iron; skies . . The sickle is dulled of the reaping and the threshing-floor is bare Agnes Lee 58 Louis V. Lcdoux 215 Jessie Wallace II whan . . 76 Katharine Lee Bates . ... 255 Sara Teasdalc 51 Florence Wilkinson Evans . 302 William Stanley Braithwaite \ 10 William Stanley Braithwaite 1 1 1 A mdia Josephine Burr . . 215 Dorothea Lawrence Mann . 6 Thomas S. Jones, Jr. . . . 8 George Edward Woodbcrry . 37 George Edward Woodbcrry . 22 Anna Hempstead Branch . 232 Robert Frost 90 Percy Mackaye 81 David O Neil 72 Robert Frost 59 Anna Hempstead Branch . 310 Florence Earle Coatcs ... 131 Cuthbert Wright 33 Witter Bynner 76 Josephine Preston Pcabody . 94 Louis V. Ledoux 308 Josephine Preston Pcabody . 152 Olive Tilford Dargan ... 54 Clinton Scollard 105 Edith Wharton 260 Adelaide Crapsey 74 Sara Teasdale 37 Caroline Giltinan 258 Edwin Ford Piper .... 228 Corinne Roosevelt Robinson . 20 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 106 Adelaide Crapsey 75 Louis Untermeyer .... 9 Bliss Carman . .270 Shaemas Sheel 78 323 INbEX OF FIRST LINES The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open The zones of warmth around his heart . There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyon s lip There was the drum he played so poorly These be They drew the blinds down, and the house was old They have hauled in the gang-plank. The breast-line crawls back They say the cranes last night did cry They went forth to battle, but they always fell This is the garden of our joyous care Though all the primrose paths of morning called To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees Twilight is spacious, near things in it seem far Two and two are four, four and three are seven Two roads diverged in a yellow wood Under the eaves, out of the wet War shook the land where Levi dwelt We who were lovers of life, who were fond of the hearth and home land Weave the dance, and raise again the sacred chorus When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs When from the brooding home When I see birches bend to left and right Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying Where I go With cassock black, baret and book .... Within the Jersey City shed Would I were on the sea-lands Why do Youth! . Amy Lowell William Stanley Braithwaite William Rose Benet .... Donall Evans Adelaide Crapsey .... Frederick Faust Elizabeth Sewell Hill ... Ethel Syford . Shaemas Sheel .... Amelia Josephine Burr . . Kendall Harrison Karle Wilson Baker ... Conrad Aiken Scudder Middleton .... Robert Frost Witter Bynner Edwin Arlington Robinson . Louis V. Ledoux Louis V. Ledoux Carl Sandburg James Oppenhcim .... Robert Frost George Edward Woodberry . Edith Wyatt Grace Fallow Norton ... Joyce Kilmer Orrick Johns Adelaide Crapsey ... David Neil ... 324 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST BATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF LD 21-50?>i-8,-3" "- &. .877 401098 UNIVERSITV OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY