/oV 
 
THE BELLMAN 
 BOOK OF VERSE 
 
 1906—1919 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bellmanbookofverOObellrich 
 

 The Bellman 
 Book of Verse 
 
 1906-1919 
 
 » »o» -- 
 
 
 Chosen and Edited by 
 
 WILLIAM C. EDGAR 
 
 late Editor of The Bellman 
 
 Minneapolis, Minn., U. S. A. 
 
 The Bellman Company 
 
 1919 
 
■'■■'K i !- ; ,t»pyrigKt 1919 
 by 
 The Bellman Company 
 
TO 
 
 A. R. E. 
 
 THE bellman's BEST FRIEND 
 
 AND A 
 
 DISCRIMINATING READER 
 
 OF GOOD VERSE, 
 
 WHO SUGGESTED THE 
 
 PUBLICATION OF 
 
 THIS BOOK. 
 
 M40515 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE first manuscript submitted to and the first 
 bought by The Bellman was verse. Several short 
 poems by Arthur Upson, purchased through a 
 mutual friend, the late Mr. Edmund D. Brooks, were 
 acquired and put aside for subsequent use almost a year 
 before the first number of The Bellman was printed. 
 
 It was a part of his original plan to give room to 
 poetry, on the theory that there was an ample supply of 
 good material being produced in America which, at 
 that time, did not find much opportunity of acceptance, 
 the periodicals publishing verse being limited and ap- 
 parently disposed to use it chiefly as a sort of stop-gap, 
 to fill in otherwise vacant spaces at the bottom of the 
 pages. 
 
 This plan was. discouraged by the earlier sub-editors 
 of The Bellman, who contended that he could not afford 
 to pay sufficient to secure really high-class poetry and 
 certainly did not desire to print any other. For this 
 reason, except for occasional contributions by Arthur 
 Upson and Richard Burton, few verses appeared in his 
 pages during the first years of The Bellman's existence. 
 
 Later, it was found possible to secure poetic contri- 
 butions of the right quality at the modest price The 
 Bellman was able to pay; and it was also found that the 
 poets, God bless them, were not mercenary and liked the 
 way in which their productions were presented in The 
 Bellman, appreciating the deference shown them in the 
 position and typographical setting given their verses. 
 
 In time The Bellman grew famous for his poetry and 
 the good poets became increasingly kind to him, so that, 
 toward the end, there was never a lack of this material 
 with which to embellish his pages and seldom a number 
 that did not contain some notable verse. 
 
 The Bellman counted himself most fortunate in the 
 friendship and good will of the poets, and while, being 
 
PREFACE 
 
 human, lie had his favorites among them, yet never was 
 a poem accepted or rejected because of its writer's name. 
 For this reason, perhaps, The Bellman had the very great 
 satisfaction of printing the contributions of compara- 
 tively unknown poets who subsequently became celebrated 
 and now find their oflferings eagerly accepted by periodi- 
 cals that once knew them not. Possibly on this account, 
 as well as because, by honouring verse with a position of 
 distinction in his columns, he taught many to read and 
 love contemporary poetry who hitherto had ignored it. 
 The Bellman may justly claim to have been of some small 
 service to American poetry during his thirteen years 
 of life. 
 
 Had it been possible within the limits of this small 
 volume to have printed all the poems which appeared in 
 The Bellman, it would gladly have been done, for none 
 of them was unworthy of republication, but only a selec- 
 tion was permissible and, while many are omitted with 
 regret, those here printed have been carefully chosen as 
 the favorites of The Bellman. 
 
 These are here presented, as nearly as possible, in the 
 order of their original appearance with the belief that 
 their chronological sequence will be interesting to the 
 reader as, in some degree, indicating the development of 
 the authors in their art as well as that of The Bellman 
 in respect of his appreciation thereof. 
 
 — W. C. E. 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 Christmas Tide 
 
 CHRISTMAS tide is a time of cold. 
 Of weathers bleak and of winds ablow; 
 Never a flower — fold on fold 
 Of grace and beauty — tops the snow 
 Or breaks the black and bitter mold. 
 
 And yet 'tis warm — for the chill and gloom 
 Glow with love and with childhood's glee; 
 And yet 'tis sweet — with the rich perfume 
 Of sacrifice and of charity. 
 Where are flowers more fair to see? 
 
 Christmas tide, it is warm and sweet: 
 A whole world's heart at a Baby's feet ! 
 
 EDITH IVES WOODWORTH 
 An Italian Garden 
 
 B 
 
 ELOW a little shadowed hill 
 * My garden-ways wind cool; 
 A hundred pale-lipped lilies lie 
 Above a purple pool. 
 
 Gray dusk upon the olive trees 
 And oh — the heart o' me! 
 
 For all the winds of Italy 
 Are blowing in from sea! 
 
; ; ; EDITIf , THOMPSON 
 
 3«c V * • 1 • Sky <Shd4ows 
 
 OUR most high moo(is ai^e like swift shadowings 
 of clouds 
 Crossing the hill, midafternoon, and gone; 
 Never to come again to this high ridge 
 To loiter where spring violets come, and come anon; 
 leaving no track across the sunswept grass 
 That we may trace the going of their way. 
 
 O eyes, that linger where the grass was dark, 
 With gaze that holds the golden afternoon, 
 Image immortally the shadowy mood 
 Crossing your inner sight to vanish soon 
 Leaving no trail whereby the soul may pass 
 Into this yearning, where it turns to pray. 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON 
 
 4. *'Up the Minnesota'' 
 
 UP the Minnesota through the mellow June, 
 Sky beneath our paddles tessellated blue; 
 Cottonwoods were moulting, meadow-larks in tune- 
 Up the green-roofed river shot our shell canoe. 
 
 I was stroking forward, you were stroking stern. 
 Under oaks and maples like a bird wc flew; 
 Kingfishers, canaries, even cranes might learn 
 Points on steady steering, watching that canoe. 
 
 Overhead the blackbird flashed a crimson feather; 
 Down the marshy clearing ^'Indian paint-brush" grew; 
 Iris, gold and azure, half a mile together;— 
 Colors veered and vanished past our fleet canoe. 
 
 2 
 
ARTHUR UPSON 
 
 Afternoon forgot us for the yesterdays; 
 Then with slowing measure up to shore we drew; 
 Long we sat in silence by our dead-wood blaze, 
 Heard the drowsy river calling our canoe. 
 
 Fumes of fragrant coifee, pungent smoke of wood, 
 Blankets spread for slumber 'neath the tipped canoe ;- 
 Oh, the golden Summer ! Sweet it was and good 
 Up the Minnesota camping out with you ! 
 
 NINA MORAIS COHEN 
 5. The Conqueror 
 
 IN glittering gold and burnished bronze they stand, 
 In velvet-green, storm-frayed and summer-torn, 
 Not like the little leaves — the leaves just born. 
 Sung by the Tuscan. This a veteran band 
 Waiting the Conqueror. 
 
 In ranks of crimson — pageant of delight — 
 Old fire imprisoned in the summer days, 
 Hiding their shriveled wounds, they light the ways 
 
 With glows and flushings for the austere sight 
 Of the near Conqueror. 
 
 Fearless, they stand in splendor of array. 
 Erect, not languorous, in the autumn sun, 
 One flash consummate ere their task is done, 
 
 Reluctant to depart, yet loth to stay — 
 Hail Conqueror ! 
 
E 
 
 EDITH THOMPSON 
 
 Rommany Roads 
 
 LFIN rings are gone, and the ashen ring is blowing 
 Far from the empty camp of gypsy-haunted dell ; 
 Fairy songs are gone, their echoes all are going 
 Down the winding road of Rom — O Comrade, is it 
 well? 
 
 Dreams are not true, their fire-charm is dying 
 
 Only in the glinting eyes of vagrant men of hell. 
 
 Their whispers of the future prove us they are lying — 
 Let them hear the ocean roar, so we hold the shell. 
 
 Still dance our hearts away beyond our voice's following, 
 Drawn by the power unseen that makes the ocean 
 swell ; 
 
 Is not the gypsy call to our spirits- halloing. 
 
 Louder in its unheard sound than ring of blessed bell? 
 
 Love-lure and fancy-fire, willow-wisp and charming, 
 Crimson flash of gypsy-robe and starlight in a well, 
 
 Never yet were caught and held, robbed of sting alarm- 
 ing- 
 See, the wind has blown the ash, where we cannot tell. 
 
 Gold at the rainbow-end they alone go hoping; 
 
 Star falling through the night, they your meaning tell ; 
 Hazel-twig, moon-witched, secret spring-deeps oping. 
 
 Your streams cross only roads of Rom — O Comrade, 
 is it well? 
 
ARTHUR UPSON 
 Minstrels in Bloomshury 
 
 TO Covent Garden people stream 
 To drink the music there; 
 We stand along the curb and dream 
 To melodies more rare: 
 Sing on, enchanted mninstr el-girl, 
 Thou artless, young and fair! 
 
 The 'busses of Southampton Row, 
 
 The jingling hansoms here, 
 Bear London, heedless, to and fro 
 
 In search of evening cheer: 
 For uts, thou art enough, dear voice 
 
 Forgetful-sweet and clear! 
 
 Our daylong toil but goes to win 
 
 Another toilsome day; 
 Play on, oblivious violin! 
 
 Soft harp, beseech thee, play! 
 And thou, pale girl, with eyes a/lame, 
 
 Sing on for us who stay! 
 
 LEWIS WORTHIXGTON SMITH 
 
 Only a Rose 
 
 LET this but be my guerdon 
 J As we part, 
 
 The flower that lies a burden 
 On your heart. 
 Only a rose. 
 Its leaves shall close 
 Over a thought of you too sweet and fair 
 To lose itself in perfume on the air. 
 
LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH 
 
 Let this be one last token 
 
 Ere I break 
 My heart with things unspoken 
 For your sake. 
 Only a rose. 
 In your repose 
 It leaves no pain of memories that cry 
 Their vain reproaches while your joy goes by. 
 
 Let this be but my passion 
 
 Flung away, 
 The pretty, changing fashion 
 Of a day. 
 Only a rose, 
 Its petals close 
 Over a smile you gave. If you forget, 
 My heaven is that I brought you no regret. 
 
 CHARLES CARTER ROLLIT 
 
 The Dreamer 
 
 THE dreamer dreamed: and the busy world 
 Passed by with a mocking smile, 
 As it went in search of the world's rewards. 
 But the dreamer dreamed the while. 
 
 He saw the world, as the world should be. 
 
 When longer years had run. 
 And the world but paused in its work to ask: 
 
 "Pray, what has the dreamer done?" 
 
CHARLES CARTER ROLLIT 
 
 Yet ever the dreamer dreamed his dream, 
 
 Until, in some wondrous way — 
 As the water springing in deeps of earth, 
 
 Finds passage to upper day — 
 
 The dreamer's dream found the man of power — 
 'Tis strange how men's lives are knit — 
 
 Who knew not the dreamer, but took his dream 
 And transformed the world with it. 
 
 The world bows down to the man of power — 
 
 Forgotten the dreamer lies- 
 Yet the dream he dreamed is the secret force 
 
 That has forged man's destinies. 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON 
 
 10. The Sons of Men 
 
 THE whine of the Weak to God on High arose: 
 "Hast Thou made all things, O Lord, for the Great, 
 our foes? 
 Behold, how under the Strong our ranks are hurled! 
 Tell us, O Lord, for whom mad'st Thou Thy world?" 
 
 And the Ancient of Days looked down on the cripple 
 
 throng. 
 And answered, ''I made My world for the Great and 
 
 Strong!" 
 
 The rage of the Great arose to God on High: 
 "We are baffled by cowards that twist our schemes awry ! 
 We are dragged to earth by the weaklings everywhere! 
 For whom mad'st Thou Thy world, O God, declare?" 
 
 And the Lord replied from His lofty place apart, 
 
 "7 made My icorld for the Weak and Faint of Heart!" 
 
 T 
 
ARTHUR UPSON 
 11. Attar of Roses 
 
 
 
 YEARS, I charge you, be as a flower. 
 
 As a rose to the friends I love; 
 Red with life, and sweet with power 
 That comes from the sun above! 
 
 Petals that perish one by one, 
 
 Falling away like these, 
 Are the red years ripening under the sun 
 
 In the yard of the centuries. 
 
 As they fall, as they fall, so may they fall 
 
 That tenderly like to these. 
 They shall fade but to sweeten some soul withal 
 
 From the rose-bowl of memories. 
 Christmas J 1904. 
 
 LILY A. LONG 
 
 12. When She Came 
 
 A LL the maples were aflame 
 J^\^ As she came 
 
 Through the long and shadowy alleys of the cool 
 September wood. 
 Goldenrod with yellow plume. 
 Asters purple in their bloom, 
 Sprang to spread a royal carpet in the places where 
 she stood. 
 And my heart was all aflame 
 As she came 
 
 8 
 
LILY A. LONG 
 
 Through the long and silent alleys that must lead her 
 unto me. 
 Flowers before unknown, unguessed, 
 Woke where'er her footstep pressed, 
 And my life outbroke in beauty, since her eyes were 
 there to see. 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON 
 13. Of Marguerite Playing Airs from Carmen 
 
 THERE'S a new beauty thrilling in my soul 
 When I behold those supple, childish hands 
 Winning the proud piano to control, 
 Taming the passionate music of wild lands: 
 
 Slender maid-fingers rousing melodies 
 Within the mighty sleeping instrument 
 
 Where thunder-toned sonatas lie at ease, 
 And infinite fair fugues dream on content ! 
 
 Soft girl-hands that transpose the airs of Spain 
 By white, still magic to a lovelier key 
 
 Unknown to wise maestri, and in vain 
 
 Looked for in books where written measures be! 
 
 I almost think that Carmen's is no more 
 
 The madly willful heart, but fine and sweet. 
 
 And that her voice, not mournful as of yore. 
 Sings joy beneath the touch of Marguerite! 
 
ARTHUR UPSON 
 14. When the Song Is Done 
 
 (The last poem written by Arthur Upson) 
 
 WHEN the song is done 
 And his heart is ashes, 
 Never praise the Singer 
 Whom you, silent, heard. 
 What to him the sound? 
 
 What your eyes' fond flashes? 
 When the singing's over 
 Say no word ! 
 
 Ye who darkling stood. 
 
 Think, your noon of praises. 
 
 Can it glimmer down 
 To his deepset bower? 
 
 Never round him shone 
 Once your garden-mazes : 
 
 Now his wandering's over 
 Bring no flower! 
 
 JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 
 15. In Memory of Arthur Upson 
 
 STILL round the fire we cling with hands outspread. 
 He has stepped forth and closed the door behind 
 Upon a moment's errand, but with kind 
 Solicitude has left us in his stead 
 This eager fire with seasoned timber fed. 
 
 Draw close, and watch the ardent colors wind 
 The big sticks round, with ocean-tears, embrined. 
 This fire will last our stay out, have no dread! 
 
RICHARD WARNER BORST 
 
 16. Another Day 
 
 TODAY I found a grass-grown grave, and read 
 The rain-worn name upon the leaning stone; 
 And felt, with sudden awe, the years long sped 
 O'er the dead face of her laid there alone. 
 
 And I forgot that on another day 
 
 Some stranger soul may read the far-fled year 
 Above my face, and in the silence say, — 
 
 "I^ong hath he lain beneath the cypress here!" 
 
 HELEN A. SAXON 
 
 17. Just Once a Year 
 
 JUST once a year the Saskatoon 
 Arrays herself in filmy white 
 And glimmers in the misty moon, 
 A fairy bride for love bedight. 
 
 Just once a year the columbine 
 Puts on her dainty scarlet hood 
 
 To join the gypsies brave and fine 
 That dance within the windy wood. 
 
 And once a year when purple fires 
 Are lighted in the lilac tree 
 
 What wistful hopes and far desires 
 Ache softly at the heart of me! 
 
 Just once a year the world is filled 
 With beauty in such wild excess 
 
 That we as. at a shrine are stilled 
 And satisfied with loveliness ! 
 
 11 
 
I 
 
 HAROLD B. CROZIER 
 
 18. The Men of Iron 
 
 SING of the Men of Iron, 
 Who in the days gone by, 
 Full fifty years and more ago. 
 Through winter's numbing, drifting snow, 
 And then when summer's sun was high, 
 Bravely built the iron highway, 
 Over Indian trail and byway, 
 Over the wilder West, 
 Over the mountain crest, 
 Over the river's breast. 
 
 Aye, sing of the Men of Iron; 
 Young men who dreamed the dreams, 
 Old men who saw the visions grand 
 Of Western empire, mighty, spanned 
 By engine travelled trail that gleams 
 From where the lakes and streams abound 
 On and on to Puget Sound, 
 Over prairies wide, 
 Over the Main Divide, 
 On to the ocean's side. 
 
 Yes, sing of these Men of Iron; 
 
 Undying be their fame. 
 
 For many a graceful, arching bridge. 
 
 And many a conquered mountain ridge, 
 
 And many a city bears their name. 
 
 Empire Builders, they of old, — 
 
 Poets, prophets, princes bold: 
 
 Men of Iron — strong. 
 
 To you shall e'er belong 
 
 A glad, triumphant song. 
 
EDITH THOMPSON 
 
 19. Christ Mass for Toilers 
 
 COME in from the plowing, and the sowing, and the 
 reaping, and the garnering of lands; 
 Come in from the spinning, and the weaving, and 
 the shaping of the scarlet garments 'gainst 
 the cold; 
 From the hunting, and the slaying, for the feasts of 
 
 hungry lips; 
 From the delving, and the melting, and the coining 
 
 of gold; 
 From the sea, and the toiling of the ships; 
 Come in from the hewing, and the sawing, and the build- 
 ing of the house with hands; 
 Gather round the cradle of the Babe, hushed and serious. 
 And let those eyes of innocence, deep and mysterious, 
 Search yours to find if there be any room for him 
 In the bent form, the lined face, the hidden soul and dim. 
 
 In that look, you will remember dumb, hurt things; 
 You will recall the loud cry upon the hills when great 
 
 trees fell. 
 The sighing keen of grain, when sickles sing, 
 The kindnesses forgot, when the shine of gold seemed 
 wise. 
 
 You needs must grieve. 
 And, in the great foreshadowing of those infant eyes. 
 The deep significance, the solemn gift of all this sacrifice 
 You will receive. 
 
 And you will turn in humbleness away 
 
 To celebrate with heart subdued this holy day 
 
 In the house of your soul, 
 At a table spread to fill love's highest need, 
 Clothed in garb woven out of tenderness indeed; 
 In the house of your soul, the temple of high God. 
 
GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 (His last poems) 
 
 20. The Front of Morn 
 
 FROM labours through the night, outworn, 
 Above the hills, the front of morn 
 We see, whose eyes to heights are raised. 
 And the world's wise ones call us crazed. 
 While yet her lord lies under seas. 
 She takes us, as the wind the trees' 
 Delighted leafage; all in song 
 We mount to her, to her belong. 
 
 21. A Wilding Flower 
 
 A WILDING little stubble flower 
 The Sickle scorned which cut for wheat ; 
 Such was our hope in that dark hour 
 When nought save uses held the street. 
 And daily pleasures, daily needs. 
 With barren vision looked abroad. 
 And still the same result of seeds 
 Gave likeness 'twixt the live and dead. 
 
 22. Love of Nature 
 
 THIS love of nature, that allures to take 
 Irregularity for harmony 
 
 Of larger scope than our hard measures make; 
 Cherish it as thy school for when on thee 
 The ills of life descend. 
 
NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 
 
 23. Kareol 
 
 1IKE Tristram desolate by a sunlit sea, 
 J I wait for you, Beloved, and I stand 
 Gazing forever toward a foreign land, 
 Where you sojourn and where I cannot be; 
 But here the waters sparkle joyfully 
 And, heartsick, I desire God's almighty hand. 
 That I may cross the ocean, as that band 
 Which walked dryshod to life and victory. 
 You wander in old cities, still and gray, 
 And with the hum of summer, or the breath 
 Of spring, or thin-toned bells at close of day. 
 Perchance the thought of me will come, like Death, 
 And sink into your soul, and take away 
 Something of you, to show that you keep faith. 
 
 NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 
 
 24. For a Book 
 
 A MONK once labored in a lonely cell. 
 Gilding the pages of a missal rare. 
 And those who passed looked in to see him 
 there. 
 His lips soft smiling, and a light that fell 
 Glorious about his head; and one would tell: 
 "Here sits he all the day and will not spare 
 Himself for weariness, but his look will bear 
 Such peace as in God's face alone may dwell." 
 Lady, I give thee this and ask thee here, 
 To read these pages in the light that made 
 The monk smile always, and his task, each year, 
 Grow lighter and his soul more unafraid: 
 Love had its wonder on his spirit laid; 
 And in that vision's brightness all was dear. 
 
 15 
 
PAULINE CARRINGTON BOUVE 
 
 25. Divided 
 
 NOT by the gray, dividing seas, 
 Nor by the mountain's circling height, 
 Nor by the river's winding length, — 
 Ah! by none of these 
 Was thy life loosed from mine. Only the might 
 Of wrong done for wrong's sake could compass 
 
 strength 
 To break the bonds of wedded faith and love 
 And send me henceforth on my path alone ! 
 Knowing that sin divides, but loving prayer 
 
 To God's high place above. 
 As surely as 'tis sent will find a way 
 To bring thee to thy soul's fair dwelling place 
 Which thou hast left, I, meanwhile, am content. 
 Since God has given me power to smite and stay 
 The crime of unforgiveness from my heart 
 
 And given me grace 
 That for thy soul's best good I still may pray. 
 
 AILEEN CLEVELAND HIGGINS 
 
 26. Signals 
 
 INTO a garden that I know and love 
 A-quiver with sweet bud and bloom. 
 All warm with glowing sun above — 
 There stole today a sudden gloom. 
 The shadow of the fog crept there 
 
 And into chill of shifting gray was drawn 
 The brightness of my garden fair — 
 As held in clouded dawn. 
 
 16 
 
AILEEN CLEVELAND HIGGINS 
 
 The sun was lost — but through the gray 
 
 There gleamed my rose — brave bit of red; 
 Then came another signal gay — 
 
 White shimmer from my lily-bed; 
 And so when shadows strike across 
 
 Our lives, and take the glamour of the light, 
 There flash quick smiles to brighten loss — 
 
 Kind eyes — ^how good to sight ! 
 
 AGNES LEE 
 27. Valentine 
 
 10! he knocks at your door, 
 _j In the moonshine. 
 
 Bid him the threshold o'er, — 
 Poor Valentine! 
 
 Warmth may he never win. 
 
 Cold are the stars. 
 Red is the fire within. 
 
 Fast are the bars. 
 
 All within guards complete 
 
 Joy warm and still. 
 None saw the sorry feet 
 
 Trudge up the hill. 
 
 None knew the song, apart. 
 
 Patient and long. 
 None heard a breaking heart 
 
 Sob in the song. 
 
 Dim grows the curtained light. 
 
 Soft is the sign: 
 He may forth in the night, — 
 
 Poor Valentine! 
 
 17 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 28. Clown's T>ay 
 
 (Choosing April First as an appropriate day, a number of 
 professional clowns held a meeting in New York to perfect a 
 permanent organization.) 
 
 B 
 
 ROTHER fools from everywhere, 
 
 Let us gather and grow wise. 
 Ours the day, so let us 6»i?e 
 Show the world our sober guise. 
 
 We must mum it through the year. 
 Hide behind the painted grin; 
 
 Let us be more human here, 
 Men of memories, men of sin. 
 
 Life's no jest, we know it well; 
 
 Care lurks close behind the scene. 
 Heaven's not half so sure as hell 
 
 For a clown whose purse is lean. 
 
 Ours to make the simple laugh, 
 Ours to give the sad surcease; 
 
 This our only epitaph: 
 
 "Here the jester is at peace." 
 
 God above ! We merry men 
 Smile and caper up and down. 
 
 Sing our foolish catches, when 
 
 Death looks sweet to many a clown. 
 
 We are fain to weep and love. 
 
 Pray, and think of mighty things; 
 
 Turn our dreamy gaze above. 
 Mount to visions, float on wings. 
 
 Twenty raptures may go by 
 
 Just outside the big white tent; 
 
 We would taste them ere we die, 
 Since for this our life was lent. 
 
 18 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 We must pace the little ring; 
 
 Yet Life has her golden goals 
 For us all, to that we cling; 
 
 Clowns are we, — but living souls ! 
 
 Lads in motley, brothers dear. 
 Gather now and hark to me: 
 
 April Fools, our day, is here; 
 I-^t us use it soberly. 
 
 HELEN LANYON 
 
 29. Mdire 
 
 WHEN Maire at the fireside sits, 
 A farmer's lass in homespun dressed; 
 I watch her as she sews or knits. 
 And there is hunger in my breast. 
 
 My thought is all a wand'ring dream, 
 
 I see her not as others may, 
 A young girl in the firelight's gleam. 
 
 Doing her work at close of day. 
 
 I see a queen all shod with gold. 
 
 And crowned with gems of glittering fire, 
 
 Her royal robes about her rolled, 
 Too great for any man's desire. 
 
 I see a saint whose holy eyes 
 
 Have looked beyond all evil things. 
 
 To catch in fields of Paradise 
 
 A sudden glint of rainbow wings. 
 
 And I am troubled in her sight. 
 
 My throat is choked with swelling tears, 
 
 The queen's too high, the saint's too white: — 
 I. must go lonely all my years. 
 
 19 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 30. The Voice of the Unborn 
 
 FROM the Unseen I come to you tonight, 
 The Hope and Expectation of your world. 
 I am Omniscience that seeks of you 
 A tongue to utter the Eternal Thought. 
 I am Omnipotence that claims of you 
 The tools whereby my power may profit earth. 
 All love am I, that seeks to spend itself 
 Embodied in a human sacrament. 
 For I have heard the wailing of the world, 
 Not faint and far away as in a dream; 
 But very near — and lo, I understood 
 It need not be. Wherefore I come to you. 
 
 O you to whom my tenderness goes out. 
 
 To whom I fain would bring an end of groans 
 
 And blind, bewildered tears, a cloudless dawn 
 
 Of unimagined joy and strength unguessed. 
 
 What welcome will you give to me, O World? 
 
 Since I whose dwelling is the universe 
 
 Will stoop to walls and rafters for your sake. 
 
 What is the home you have prepared for me ? 
 
 O Men and Women, is it beautiful, 
 
 A place of peace, a house of harmony? 
 
 Will you be glad, who know me as I am, 
 
 To see me make my habitation there? 
 
 Since I will hamper my divinity 
 
 With weight of mortal raiment for your sake. 
 
 What vesture have you woven for my wear? 
 
 O Man and Woman who have fashioned it 
 
 Together, is it fine and clean and strong, 
 
 Made in such reverence of holy joy 
 
 Of such unsullied substance, that your hearts 
 
 Leap with glad awe to see it clothing me, 
 
 The glory of whose nakedness you^know? 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Oh long, long silence of the wakening years ! 
 Thus have I called since man took shape as man; 
 Thus will I call till all mankind shall heed 
 And know me, who today am one with God, 
 And whom tomorrow shall behold, your child. 
 From the Unseen I come to you tonight — 
 
 
 
 AGNES LEE 
 
 Forest Fires 
 
 MOTHER, I cannot sleep tonight, 
 
 For the air blows thick from the dune. 
 And through my windoio a glaring fright 
 Peeps the blood-red face of the moon! 
 
 Far from our village, little lad. 
 
 The forest fires are raging. 
 The fire-king hastens hard and mad, 
 
 His furious battle waging. 
 
 His doomful breath has every town. 
 As through the distant mazes 
 
 Of woodland green he rushes down, 
 And scorches black the daisies. 
 
 He gathers little homes and mills. 
 
 He beats apart the bridges, 
 And leaps the streams and climbs the hills 
 
 And flames the mountain-ridges. 
 
 Tall in the land sweet hosts of pines 
 Are flanking close to daunt him. 
 
 But he shall mow their million lines, 
 And onward still shall vaunt him. 
 
AGNES LEE 
 
 All beauty smites he with his hand, 
 
 Himself its last beholder. 
 Twice twenty miles of timberland 
 
 Upon his pathway smoulder. 
 
 Look, mother, the world seems thirsting so! 
 
 The day and the night are one. 
 And over the gables leaning loio 
 
 The moon is as red as the sun! 
 
 But I'll draw together my curtains dark. 
 
 And back in my bed again 
 ril pray me asleep, or, waking, hark 
 
 For the sound of the conquering rain. 
 
 NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 
 
 32. To Eva in Paradise 
 
 I GAVE you all my heart, so long ago 
 I have forgotten when the gift was made, 
 
 Receiving part of yours, that I might know 
 
 How great a portion in my hands was laid. 
 Each morn I leave the ready task of life. 
 
 And seek the corner where your heart, enshrined, 
 Lends peace which, with a thousand colors rife. 
 
 Fills every chamber of my eager mind. 
 Lady, I look to you as men of old 
 
 Looked to their Virgin, and like them I pray: 
 "Lead me but upward; give me grace to hold 
 
 Fast to the spirit and escape the clay." 
 Your heart, perchance, some day all mine will be. 
 Why should I ask? Enough is granted me. 
 
 22 
 
RUTH SHEPARD PHELPS 
 
 B 
 
 The Subway 
 
 ROADWAY roars above my head, 
 
 China seethes below. 
 As I — swiftly, strangely sped — 
 Through the dark earth go. 
 
 Barks are riding on the sea, 
 
 Air-ships skim the blue: 
 Iron chariots carry me 
 
 These dim caverns through. 
 
 Fleeing 'neath a churchyard old, 
 
 Next the quiet dead, 
 Rushing past we stir their mould. 
 
 Shake their ancient bed. 
 
 Underneath the river now! 
 
 Waters of the sea 
 Cleft by some great ship's smooth prow 
 
 Sweeping over me! 
 
 Dante, pilgrimaging where 
 
 Lucifer was hurled. 
 Journeyed not thus debonair 
 
 Through the underworld! 
 
 Thus I mused as on we swept 
 Forty fathoms down. 
 
 Then, my journey done, I stept 
 Out into the town. 
 
ALLAN UPDEGRAFF 
 
 84. Lament for an Owl 
 
 A 
 
 LONG the edge of dusk he'd hoot and howl, 
 A most down-hearted, lonesome sort of owl, 
 A grim, sardonic bird, a graveyard fowl. 
 
 He spoiled the singing of the hermit thrust; 
 
 The whippoorwill 
 
 Grew suddenly still 
 When his outlandish hoots broke evening's hush. 
 
 Wherefore I counted it a cause for joy 
 When one nightfall I met the general pest. 
 
 Whom gently I addressed: 
 
 Just sit you there, old boy. 
 And take a hint from those your hoots annoy. 
 Myself, the hermit thrush, and all the rest. 
 With which I shot him through his speckled breast. 
 
 He tumbled down, torn breast and ruddled jowl. 
 
 That poor old owl! 
 In after dusks the sweet, light poets made 
 Music as sweet in the moon-enameled shade; 
 But I missed my wise old hooter from his glade, 
 My questioning seer, my wearer of the cowl. 
 
 Long since departed thrush and whippoorwill. 
 Leaving me lonely on my windy hill; 
 And now that woods are bare and ways are foul, 
 Much more I miss my owl. 
 
REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 35. My Brother 
 
 "And he said unto him, Man, who made me a judge or 
 divider over you?" — St. Luke, xii, 14. 
 
 I 
 
 CANNOT see what many see: 
 
 A Heaven far distant from the clod; 
 I seek and find, not two or three, 
 
 But all our persons in One God. 
 
 For most the birth, 'mid portents wild, 
 
 The cryptic youth half-sorcerer; 
 For me the unnoted, mangered child. 
 
 The manly, sweating carpenter; — 
 No great detective in the skies; 
 
 No crafty hand that sets a snare, 
 And then, all powerfully wise, 
 
 Slays me because I venture there; 
 But Him of Sorrows, who forgave 
 
 The woman taken in her sin. 
 Who had the human heart to save 
 
 The sorry-painted Magdalen. 
 
 Jesus, they tremble at your name — 
 
 They at high altars hymning low — 
 But would their tongues have wagged the same, 
 
 Say, nineteen hundred years ago? 
 Are you their Lord, your servants those 
 
 Who for your garments would have diced? 
 Who wills may dread the Master's blows — 
 
 / am your weaker brother, Christ! 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 36. The Standard-Bearer 
 
 SWIFTLY the shrieking fire-bird gleams 
 Before his blank, bewildered face; 
 Close to his ear the bullet screams, 
 The battle swirls about his place. 
 
 One thought alone stands clear to him 
 Whose rigid hands the standard keep. 
 
 Before whose desperate eyes and dim 
 The ranks reel by as seen in sleep, 
 
 One longing — in the orchard lane, 
 Far from this blazing blare of death. 
 
 To stand at twilight once again 
 
 And draw one deep, untroubled breath. 
 
 HELEN A. SAXON 
 37. What Moved Him Most 
 
 WHAT moved Him most — the lilies robed in white? 
 The flush of April on the meadows wide? 
 Dawn mirrored in the Galilean tide? 
 The lark's transporting song outpured in flight? 
 Or — dearer still to yearning hearts — the light 
 Within the eyes of those who at His side 
 Braved prejudice and fear and would have died 
 To save — although they slept that one great night ! 
 
HELEN A. SAXON 
 
 Earth showed to Him her most enchanting guise, 
 
 And comradeship was never yet so dear, 
 
 Since He beheld with more than mortal eyes — 
 
 What was it then that moved Him most when here? 
 
 The lonely, grieving heart, the leper's sighs. 
 
 The sinnefs anguish and the widow's tear. 
 
 RICHARD WARNER BORST 
 
 38. Matins 
 
 THE breezes of the spring 
 Have taken wing, 
 And on the soft airs fling, 
 From vaporous censers swinging in their hands, 
 The perfumes of far lands. 
 
 And, as they upward leap, 
 
 Lightly they sweep 
 
 The deep and solemn sounding strings 
 
 Of nature's lyre, and sweet there rings 
 A note that from the roadside springing. 
 Sets every swaying tree-top singing 
 
 The song of growing things ! 
 
 As through the lanes I pass, 
 
 I hear in all the dells 
 
 A music low, that wells 
 
 From everywhere and tells 
 
 Of joy among the bending blades of grass, 
 
 That chant their early mass. 
 
 27 
 
THOMAS WALSH 
 39. The Market-Place 
 
 i 
 
 rp^HERE strode a Bedouin through the market-place, 
 A frown like some archangel's on his face. 
 
 And as the merchants spread their richest ware, 
 Their silver woofs and gold, their jeweled lace, 
 
 Their gems of Samarkand and perfumes rare. 
 He cried them off. ... "I seek a gift more fine . . . 
 All these Maisuna hath . . . and still doth pine." 
 
 Then whispered him his slave-boy from Cashmere: 
 "Master of Life, thou hast seen all things here. 
 
 Yet since no trinket, pearl, nor vesture seems 
 Of worth for her whom thou dost hold most dear, 
 
 I know hard-by a little booth of dreams. 
 Wherein a gentle scribe of Persia writes 
 Such fond ghazdls as bring the heart delights." 
 
 In vain were gilt and santal'd case unrolled: 
 "Songs like to these she hath in heaps untold ! 
 
 What ho! — some witch, some scholar from the East, 
 With spells for sale for good Tunisian gold!" 
 
 Then at his cloak plucked Ishmael the priest, 
 And whispered: '^Lay beneath her feet thy pride; 
 'Tis with the meek of heart that love and Allah bide." 
 
 EDITH THOMPSON 
 
 40. At Sunset 
 
 I CLIMB the hill's steep stairway 
 To its galleries under the sky. 
 Seeking but sanctuary for soul beset, at bay 
 Within the wings of music in the wind. 
 
 28 
 
EDITH THOMPSON 
 
 Tall birch trees stand along the lane, 
 
 As down some dim, hushed aisle. 
 
 Like white cathedral candles, twain and twain, 
 
 Burning with soft fall fire. 
 
 At the end, through arching branches 
 John's vision of a city new, • 
 Built out of the lights of the sunset, 
 Four square, of fire and dew — 
 God of that saint on Patmos, 
 Thou, God, revealed anew. 
 
 ARTHUR STRINGER 
 41. From the New World to the Old 
 
 DO you know them, Old-World Brother, open prairies 
 of the West? 
 Do you know them, Troubled Spirit, where the out- 
 ward trail is best? 
 Have you seen them in the gloaming, greening acres of 
 
 the Spring? 
 Have you watched them in the autumn where the ripened 
 wheatlands swing? 
 
 Have you scented. Restless Brother, through your cities 
 
 old and gray, 
 Once the odor of the camp-fire where the North Trail 
 
 leads away? 
 Have you known this deep renewal where the dreams of 
 
 youth return. 
 Where the prairie meets the foothills and " the sunlit 
 
 Rockies burn? 
 
 29 
 
ARTHUR STRINGER 
 
 Have yau known the thrill of rapture where the great 
 
 wide spaces call? 
 Have you faced the opal valleys where the wine-red 
 
 shadows fall? 
 Have you raced into the sunrise down the mist-draped 
 
 coulee-slope, 
 Where all life is crowned with wonder and the years are 
 
 young with Hope? 
 
 EDWARD H. S. TERRY 
 42. The Poet 
 
 AH, heart, I know you're tired, I too am torn, 
 ^^^I know you've suffered — that you understand 
 
 The vigil of the night, in sorrow born. 
 The burden of the people through the land, 
 All this you comprehend — and more beside. 
 
 You too can comfort those who've loved and lost, 
 Or lives that have been crushed, yet outward pride 
 Keeping the smiling face, whate'er the cost; 
 And you have been with freinds who have just died, 
 Yea! in the valley also, near the grave. 
 
 And you have sung with singer's voice sublime. 
 Or battled in the war with soldiers brave; 
 You too have spoken messages divine. 
 And sailed with sturdy sailors o'er the wave. 
 Or suffered as the prisoners do in jail. 
 
EDWARD H. S. TERRY 
 
 And so you're weary, heart of mine, and sad, 
 You cannot win when others 'round you fail, 
 But when mankind is happy, you are glad; 
 You too are searching for the Holy Grail 
 And only he that's pure in heart, shall find! 
 
 Though you may stand aloof, yet you behold 
 The inmost workings of each human mind; 
 The struggle of the poor when days are cold. 
 The wretchedness of those that are born blind. 
 Are all your portion, and you suflFer all. 
 
 The sins of others are your sins also; 
 
 If men are vile you too will feel the fall; 
 
 And bright and burning thoughts within you glow 
 
 When man has climbed the heights and gained the wall, 
 
 Success is yours, as well as his, ah! well. 
 
 But no one shares your life as on you go: 
 Along the highway, o'er the moor and dell, 
 Passing along through sunshine, cloud and snow. 
 You too have been in Paradise and Hell, 
 And some will call you Fool — but God is wise ! 
 
 EDITH THOMPSON 
 43. A Quiet Hour 
 
 EVER green and ever murmurous they stand against 
 the west. 
 Their shadows weaving softly through the grass 
 Of the old grave-yard, where have gone to rest. 
 
 After their day of earth and stress, men's bodies 
 brave and worn. 
 
 31 
 
EDITH THOMPSON 
 
 The place is quiet like an upper chamber made for sleep 
 Close underneath the sky where sunsets aureole their 
 heads, 
 
 The tall pines, dark and soothing, velvet deep, 
 
 Draw softest curtains 'round their hour of calm. 
 
 In the long sighing of the pines' unebbing tide. 
 Hear the profound hushed moving of that vail 
 
 Behind which, those no longer here, abide 
 The years, unseen, unheard of us without. 
 
 And in their shifting shades that tread the grass, 
 Calm and unhurried through the afternoon. 
 
 Shadows within the shadows seem at times to pass 
 Down the long lanes that thread eternity. 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 44. The Abandoned Farm 
 
 ALL in the far-set Shadow-land it lies, 
 ^ Dreaming away the idle hours at will. 
 Song there is mute, and even sound is still 
 As twilight when the last day-echo dies. 
 Voiceless, it sleeps, save where the lone wind sighs 
 Softly, as if to self, through fields of grass 
 Fallow and futile but for bees that pass — 
 Fields that were Eden-sweet to wistful eyes. 
 
 All in the far-set Shadow-land it waits 
 
 Press of tired feet which may return no more. 
 Weeds romp, in blossomy riot, by the door. 
 
 Like children gathering home; and where the gate's 
 Low wicket rots with age that makes or mars. 
 The Morning Glory mends the broken bars. 
 32 
 
JOHN CARTER 
 
 45. Ballade of Misery and Iron 
 
 HAGGARD faces and trembling knees, 
 Eyes that shine with a weakling's hate, 
 Lips that mutter their blasphemies, 
 Murderous hearts that darkly wait: 
 These are they who were men of late. 
 Fit to hold a plow or a sword. 
 
 If a prayer this wall may penetrate. 
 Have pity on these my comrades. Lord ! 
 
 Poets sing of life at the lees 
 
 In tender verses and delicate; 
 Of tears and manifold agonies — 
 
 Little they know of what they prate. 
 
 Out of this silence, passionate 
 Sounds a deeper, a wilder chord. 
 
 If song be heard through the narrow grate, 
 Have pity on these my comrades. Lord ! 
 
 Hark, that wail of the distant breeze. 
 
 Piercing ever the close-barred gate, 
 Fraught with torturing memories 
 
 Of eyes that kindle and lips that mate. 
 
 Ah, by the loved ones desolate 
 Whose anguish never can pen record. 
 
 If Thou be truly compassionate. 
 Have pity on these my comrades, Lord ! 
 
 L'Envoi 
 These are pawns that the hand of Fate 
 
 Careless sweeps from the checker-board. 
 Thou that know'st if the game be straight. 
 
 Have pity on these my comrades. Lord! 
 
 33 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 46. In April 
 
 I A ST year I dreamed of days to be, 
 ^ Pale April days, when you and I 
 Should read God's dearest mystery 
 Joy-blazoned upon earth and sky. 
 'Tis April now — the robins sing — 
 New life is green upon the hill — 
 But you have blossomed with the Spring 
 In violet and daffodil. 
 
 The grass grows brighter on a grave: 
 Oh fellow-comrades of despair, 
 Blossom our hearts more blithely brave 
 For what lies buried there? 
 The lovelier for hidden grief 
 Unfolds the Spring's green panoply: 
 And shall the frail unconscious leaf 
 More godlike live than we? 
 
 HELEN LANYON 
 
 47. The Valley of Tears 
 
 THERE'S a little Irish village in the shadow of the 
 hill, 
 Where the folded valley turns toward the sea, 
 The wind is never weary there, the waves are never still. 
 And there I dwell, and Sorrow dwells with me. 
 
 When all the folk are sleeping, and the silver-fingered 
 moon 
 Draws ghostly shadow-pictures on my blind, 
 I lie and chide the loitering dawn, and cry, "Come soon, 
 ah soon. 
 That I may put my sorrow out of mind !" 
 
 34 
 
HELEN LANYON 
 
 And when the village wakens and I go into the street, 
 And see the children playing in the sun, 
 
 And scent the far-off heather, and the near sweet smell 
 of peat, 
 I cry aloud, "Would God the day were done!" 
 
 The golden sun is scattered on the lifting, shifting wave. 
 
 The shining pools are flooded by the tide, 
 And on the distant hillside the whin's as bright and brave 
 
 As e'er it was before my lover died. 
 
 There's a little Irish village in the shadow of the hill. 
 Where the folded valley turns toward the sea, 
 
 The wind is never weary there, the waves are never still. 
 And there I dwell, and Sorrow dwells with me. 
 
 NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 
 
 i8. The Dream City 
 
 I GAZED at you and saw your eyes were sad, 
 And in that sadness I, too, had a share; 
 
 But your hand crept near mine, and then how 
 glad 
 
 Was I, in turn, that you had placed it there: 
 For we together wandered through the world, 
 
 Amid its darkness we alone could see 
 The path which, round a rocky hillside curled. 
 
 Led to the city where our dreams would be. 
 Somber those walls, like shadows of the night. 
 
 And round the turret's ever-changing haze ; 
 Within the streets the sad of heart are bright; 
 
 Love is the stipend paid for happy days. 
 Still stands the city, and the sunset glow 
 Shall lead us thither by the path we know. 
 
 35 
 
RUTH KAUFFMAN 
 
 4-9. Le Jardin de France 
 
 GENTLE touratigelle, Renee, 
 In your flowering garden gay 
 I can see you, short, trim dress, 
 Fluted cap that hides each tress. 
 Sabots clattering their way 
 Through my dreams of you, Renee. 
 
 Peasant-pretty, peasant-poor. 
 
 When you lived in France-wrapped Tours, 
 
 Virgin voice that sings and sings 
 
 In the shadow of dead kings, — 
 
 Throat that laughs and eyes that play, — 
 
 These my dreams of you, Renee. 
 
 Peasant-maid, or peasant-wife. 
 Have you lost or won with life? 
 Years ago you were Romance 
 Near the chdteau'd Lx)ire of France, — 
 I am half a world away; 
 Where are you, Renee, Renee? 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 50. To Mine Own People 
 
 WHEN ye pass by there is no need to cry 
 Or call across the tumult of the street. 
 In my shut chamber's hush where none is nigh 
 My heart can hear you between beat and beat, — 
 Yea, in the silver hour can hear you call 
 Ere the birds' clamorous antiphonal 
 Ushers the morning up the eastern sky. 
 
 36 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 I will not run before my task is done 
 
 To seek you, for I know where'er you be 
 
 When the hour strikes, your journeys are begun, 
 
 And in good time my waiting eyes shall see 
 
 Between the forest of the huddle spears 
 
 Of the vain army of opposing years. 
 
 Your faces dawn like planets, one by one. 
 
 What care I though you come only to go? 
 
 Yours is the Highway, and from my abode 
 
 I wave Godspeed rejoicing, for I know 
 
 Some day my time will come to take the road, — 
 
 To find the fires you left, your steps to trace, 
 
 And at the journey's ending, face to face 
 
 To meet you, waiting by the Hearth's calm glow. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 51. The End of It 
 
 THE earth weighs down my lids — they forget the 
 feeling of tears; 
 The heavy clods on my heart, numb it to pleasure 
 and pain. 
 And my blood shall freeze or flame to your mood as in 
 bygone years 
 Never again, Beloved, — never again. 
 
 I strove to see as you saw, I strove to hear as you heard, 
 I strove to stride with your strength, catching my labour- 
 ing breath, — 
 And never you slackened your speed to toss me a heart- 
 ening word — 
 W^eary to death, Beloved— weary to death. 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 If you called in the name of our love, I would not open 
 
 mine eyes; 
 If you called in the name of my sorrow, no sigh would 
 
 stir in my breast; 
 If you called me with God's own voice, I would answer 
 
 not nor arise. 
 Now that I rest, Beloved^ — now that I rest. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 52. The Cricket in the Path 
 
 SHE passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and 
 so white, 
 Her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's 
 upturned, 
 And it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her 
 head with the light 
 Of an aureole burned. 
 
 But where she had trodden unseeing, I found on the path 
 A cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet 
 
 strong 
 To valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermath 
 Of its yesterday song. 
 
 And I whispered, "Alas, Little Brother, why must it 
 
 befall 
 That the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us 
 
 to die? 
 Poor imp of the greensward, God trumpets me clear in 
 thy call; 
 Thou art braver than I. 
 . 38 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 "The Bright Ones of Heaven have trodden me down as 
 
 they passed; 
 I crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing. 
 I know not the reason, nor question henceforth; to the 
 
 last, 
 While I live, I will sing." 
 
 MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON 
 
 W" 
 
 53. Not to the Swift 
 
 ^E ran, and I outdistanced him; 
 
 Yea, I had surely won the race. 
 
 But as I reached to touch the goal 
 My backward look caught that man's soul. 
 Straining from out his weary face. 
 And all my hot desire grew dim. 
 How he had toiled, the goal to gain! 
 Could I make that brave striving vain? 
 
 MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON 
 
 54. The Fasting Brother 
 
 RIDES here stern brother John to town 
 With us poor sinners, great and small; 
 Jew and Gentile, sage and clown, 
 Light-hearted school girl, soldier tall. 
 Throughout the noisy car the while 
 Fly jest and laughter, to and fro. 
 For them he hath nor frown nor Smile; 
 Aloof, dispassionate as snow. 
 Only his dark eyes seem to say, 
 "Vanity this, and passeth away: 
 . For you, poor fools, I fast and pray." 
 
 39 
 
MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON 
 
 Yet last night, through a garden gate 
 
 Where cowled brothers pace the gloom 
 
 I saw him all alone and late 
 
 Over a lilac's windswept bloom 
 
 Bent, with wrung hands and tortured brow. 
 
 Was it old passion racked him so? • 
 
 Dreams, with that scent resurgent now? 
 
 I know not; this alone I know, 
 
 That if tonight on God he call 
 
 For us poor sinners, great and small, 
 
 Himself he nameth, chief of all! 
 
 REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 
 55. The Easier Gospel 
 
 "T)ECAUSE," He cries today, "for you 
 jj The Freeman-of-the-Grave, 
 
 I rise, hear what I say for you, 
 And use the Gift I gave. 
 I lived a life of loss for you; 
 I heard the world condemn; 
 I died upon a cross for you: 
 Do you as much for them. 
 
 '*Do you as much for them that weep. 
 
 As much for them that slave; 
 
 Your brothers battle with the deep; 
 
 They labor in a grave. 
 
 Be you to them that evil do 
 
 What you would have Me be 
 
 To you that evil did, and you 
 
 This day shall rise with Me." 
 
 40 
 
GEORGE NORTON NORTHROP 
 56, Beyond 
 
 OH Time, Oh Space, Oh Thoughts to be ! 
 I wed you gladly, with no sigh; 
 And I divorce you and am free 
 For death, to live again and die. 
 
 Upon the hills are crowned things 
 With stars abundant in their hair; 
 
 Of dreaming destinies the kings; 
 Mysterious, they beckon there. 
 
 And I through lives successive go 
 
 Unto those sovereign forms that bend 
 
 Upon the heights I fain would know. 
 Beyond the road my feet would wend. 
 
 THOMAS WALSH 
 
 57. The Baby Moon 
 
 "TTTISEST of the story-tellers, 
 W All in furs and feathers clad, 
 
 Tell us little wigwam-dwellers 
 Why the moon is always sad." 
 
 "Listen, tiny chief and maiden, 
 
 'Tis an old Algonquin tale; 
 Once when pumpkin fields were laden 
 
 With the yellow harvest trail, 
 By the fire the sachems waited 
 
 For the idle little scamp 
 Melgasoway who, belated, 
 
 Brought no pumpkin for the camp: 
 
 41 
 
THOMAS WALSH 
 
 All because a hare before him 
 
 Darted past the setting sun, 
 And he chased it until o'er him 
 
 Fell the night and nought was done. 
 Now of old there was another 
 
 Moon, a baby one, that rose 
 Always following its mother 
 
 Where by Milky Ways she goes. 
 Through the leaves he peeped and thought it 
 
 Just the pumpkin for a pie. 
 And his bow and arrow brought it 
 
 Tumbling down from out the sky. 
 Then it splashed into the thicket — 
 
 Just a dead and blackened pile — 
 Was there ever boy so wicked ! — 
 
 Now the moon no more will smile." 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 58. At Shottery 
 
 ON such a day of quiet rain, 
 When all the air was gray and sweet 
 With unseen flowers, and Spring's dear pain 
 Of longing in her pulses beat. 
 
 She may have stood with arms outspread 
 Amid the box-trees dripping spice. 
 And listened for his coming tread 
 As for the harps of paradise. 
 
 We sigh for him, whom God's red spur 
 Drove up the hallowed heights of tears — 
 But in the valley, what of her. 
 And her long, aching, outgrown years? 
 
 42 
 
EDITH THOMPSON 
 59. An Inscription on a Door 
 
 AS the gj^psy carts were following a blown and driz- 
 zled road, 
 They came to a house where the supper fire glowed; 
 But they found on its closed door these words of bitter 
 
 bode: 
 "Smile, sun; sing, wind; dance, rain, you'll not get in; 
 Smile, sing, and dance, gypsy, neither shall you nor sin." 
 
 "Ah, but when ye shut the sun out. 
 
 What did ye shut out too? 
 
 Day-dawn, and nightfall in mingled fire and blue. 
 
 Color's dear mystery of seven-tinted hue. 
 
 And when ye drove the wind away. 
 
 What failed ye as it flew? 
 
 Voices, and callings, and tunings fit to woo 
 
 Music's best melody from the octaves gods first blew. 
 
 And when ye turned the rain about. 
 
 What did ye turn from you? 
 
 The silver-sandaled joyance of the tender flowery crew, 
 
 Motion's own magic, and measured heart-beat's clue. 
 
 But when ye said us Romany, 
 
 Perhaps 'twas wisdom due? 
 
 For ye saved your gauds and gear, and jewels new. 
 
 Your dull light, your mute air, and dry dust — ooh ! 
 
 And we're off with the brown leaf to the tune of a sough- - 
 
 ing gale 
 To meet the rain for dancing along green Wheeling 
 
 Swale, 
 Or to smile to the sun if he come to the hill-top trail. 
 So, smile, sun; sing, wind; dance, rain, with us your kin. 
 For this locked door has kept us Romany from sin!" 
 
 43 
 
Y' 
 
 THOMAS WALSH 
 
 60. The Bells of Roncevaux 
 
 ''OU can hear them as you go, 
 
 Whilst the mules creep higher, higher, 
 Where the torrents overflow 
 And each summit lifts a spire — 
 Through the vales you hear them soaring 
 In a silvery chant adoring — 
 
 Hark, the bells of Roncevaux! 
 
 Lone the proud old abbey stands, 
 
 Dreaming over lost Navarre; 
 Stony lie the folded hands. 
 
 Stony gaze, by lamp and star, 
 They who lit the world of story 
 With the soul's first glint of glory — 
 
 'Neath the bells of Roncevaux. 
 
 Knightly comrades, row on row 
 
 In their mountain shrine, forgotten. 
 
 By their feudal towns below, — 
 
 There they lie — Fame's first-begotten: 
 
 Helms collapsed and hauberk rust. 
 
 Dust where all the stars are dust — 
 Round the bells of Roncevaux. 
 
 Through our hearts their vision steal 
 Out of ancient midnights telling 
 
 How they woke the Christmas peal. 
 
 How their Easter chimes went swelling 
 
 Through the springtime morns of old 
 
 Ere the world was deaf and cold 
 To the bells of Roncevaux. 
 
RUTH SHEPARD PHELPS 
 
 61. Hollyhocks in Venice 
 
 STRANGE round world ! with all 
 Of Venice, and Japan, 
 The green woods that were Arden's 
 And those New England gardens 
 Wherein my. life began! 
 
 Today by the palace wall 
 
 Bright hollyhocks appear, 
 (The same that stand like wardens 
 In old New England gardens) 
 
 And bring what far things near! 
 
 REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 62. The Seeker 
 
 "T TOO, was born in Arcady"; 
 J|_ Yet all your wise men's wit 
 
 Can never lead me back, and I — 
 Try as I do, and try and try — 
 Must work and wait and live and die 
 Remembering and regretting it! 
 
 I see your whole world sick to be 
 One moment like my Arcady — 
 My native, lost, loved Arcady — 
 
 In these last days of Time; 
 And, oh, before your dull sun drops 
 Behind your prisoning mountain-tops, 
 
 I want to shout: 
 
 "Come up ! Come out ! 
 One step beyond those peaks will be 
 The flowered fields of Arcady; 
 
 Take heart, be brave and climb ! 
 
REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 
 "Just there across the eternal snows 
 Eternal summer buds and blows; 
 Could we a little farther see, 
 
 Could we but hear — and, oh, we can!— 
 There are the nymphs upon the lea; 
 
 There — ^hark ! — there sound the Pipes of 
 Pan! 
 One brief ascent, and even we, 
 
 The slaves of Time, 
 Shall hear and see. 
 Be glad and free. — 
 
 Oh, climb!" ... 
 
 And then — and then I know in vain 
 
 I plead with you, since even I 
 Can nevermore return again, 
 
 Must work and wait and live and die 
 An exile out of Arcady 
 With nothing left but memory 
 Beneath your peaks of snow. . . . 
 
 "I, too, was born in Arcady" — 
 But that was long ago. 
 
 AGNES LEE 
 63. The Drudge 
 
 I OUL, what hath her soul to say. 
 At the twilight's umber? 
 "Solitude and workaday 
 And a little slumber." 
 
 S' 
 
 In the house, yet of it not. 
 No existence sharing. 
 Smile for wound her weary lot, 
 Paid to be forbearing. 
 
 46 
 
AGNES LEE 
 
 Bounded, loveless, growing old, 
 By a tile and rafter; 
 Never to herself to hold 
 Any moonbeam's laughter; 
 
 Never even joy to know 
 How the Scythe befriending 
 Calleth: "Dream and work I mow 
 To a level ending. 
 
 '*Ye are stubble — weed and grain, 
 Nettle and sweet clover, — 
 All that ever shall remain, 
 All the wide world over. 
 
 "What avail within the Past 
 Tarantelles, andantes? 
 Leveled stalks are all at last. 
 Martyrs or Bacchantes." 
 
 JOSEPHINE WHITNEY 
 64. Requital 
 
 "TORD, if the body be 
 I J Drudge unto purity. 
 
 What by thy great decree 
 Shall the soul gain? 
 
 "Lord, if the thirsty drain 
 Goblets of bitter rain. 
 What shall they thereby gain 
 Thirsting the more? 
 
 "Lord, whom we much adore. 
 What, if our prayers soar, 
 Up from this mortal shore, 
 Shall we attain?" 
 
JOSEPHINE WHITNEY 
 
 "Child, if thy body be 
 Perfect in purity 
 It shall provide for me 
 Fittingest fane. 
 
 "Child, if thou thirst amain. 
 Patient beneath thy pain, 
 Thou shalt not drink in vain 
 ' Water I pour. 
 
 "Child, if thy heart implore 
 Grace from the hidden store, 
 Thou shall receive — and more: 
 Give, as from me." 
 
 WARWICK JAMES PRICE 
 65. Growth 
 
 (1100) 
 
 TRADITION, garbed in samite, gold-inwrought, 
 Authority, in regal pomp arrayed, 
 In austere majesty ruled human thought, 
 As pious monks, low kneeling, blindly prayed 
 "Credo, Domine!" 
 (1500) 
 New worlds were rising over ocean's brim. 
 New vistas opening out before men's eyes. 
 And those who worshipped raised a clearer hymn. 
 Which answered to the promise of the skies — 
 "S'pero, Domine!" 
 (1900) 
 Unreasoning faith, unsatisfied desire. 
 Alike have yielded, like the April snow. 
 And we today led surely on and higher 
 May, grateful-hearted, feel at last we know: 
 "Video, Dominer 
 
 48 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 66. Psyche 
 
 THE noonday sun is dim, 
 The gold o' the world is gray 
 To her who has looked on him 
 And turned away. 
 The beauty is hard to find 
 In the meadows of Paradise 
 For her who has left behind 
 His longing eyes. 
 For still in the rising sun 
 She sees him waiting stand, 
 And the breeze when day is done 
 Is his beckoning hand; 
 The stretch of the ebb-cleared beach 
 Is a place where his foot may fall, 
 And she hears the sound of his speech 
 In the flood-tide's call. 
 Yet onward she strives to go. 
 Fearing herself forgot. 
 Psyche, return — and know 
 Love changes not. 
 
 HERBERT J. HALL 
 67. . The Tow Boat 
 
 HEAD down, ears back, like a leashed Great Dane, 
 The tow boat breasts the seas, 
 Far out in the reach of the rolling main 
 Where the white caps fly in the breeze. 
 Astern string the barges, like anchors they drag, 
 Number one spitting foam as she rolls, 
 While bulky and silent and helpless they lag. 
 Two arid three with their burden of coals. 
 
 49 
 
HERBERT J. HALL 
 
 Scarce a sign does she give of her long, long fight 
 With the wind and the sea and the tow, — 
 Scarce a sign of the steady, invincible might 
 Of her great engines throbbing below. 
 
 Somewhere there are mines and an office, no doubt, 
 And a typewriter clicking its keys, 
 Great ledgers, long records, trim files all about — 
 But the tow boat she scorns such as these. 
 
 She knows not her servitude, asks not for fee; 
 Her pride is the time of her run. 
 Her joy is the lift of the limitless seas. 
 Her peace is her anchorage won. 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 68. As an Old Mercer 
 
 AS an old mercer in some sleepy town 
 Jl^ Swings wide his windows new day after day, 
 Sets all his wares around in arch array 
 To please the taste of passers up and down, — 
 His hoard of handy things of trite renown. 
 Of sweets and spices and of faint perfumes, 
 Of silks and prints, — and at the last illumes 
 His tiny panes to foil the evening's frown; 
 So Nature spreads her proffered treasures: such 
 As daily dazzle at the morning's rise, — 
 Fair show of isle and ocean merchandise. 
 
 And airy offerings filmy to the touch; 
 
 Then, lest we like not these, in Dark's bazaars 
 She nightly tempts us with her store of stars. 
 
 50 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 69. Afterglow 
 
 NO, no, signora, I am not too old — 
 I still can swing an oar — and you are light. 
 Eighty — full eighty years — and see, how strong! 
 I learned to row in Venice; there ten years 
 I was a gondolier. When I came back, 
 I rowed upon this lake. . . . You know at first 
 Only the little wild Cordevole 
 Went roaring through the valley; there was then 
 No lake, signora, only villages. 
 
 Tilled fields and vineyards, and the saw-mills droned 
 Loud as the river — sixty years ago. 
 The water's clear today — look down — ^you see 
 The village there below you? Down — straight down — 
 The house that stands a little way apart — 
 That was my house. There was beside the door 
 A rose-bush growing, that I planted there 
 The day our child was born, and right beside 
 We marked her height each birthday, and we laughed 
 Because she could not overtake the rose. 
 "But some day she will have to stoop," we said, 
 "To pluck the roses" — there were just two marks — 
 Long, long ago they were washed out, and yet 
 I see them there today as I look down. 
 Shall we go on? 
 
 'Tis sixty years ago. 
 We married young, signora — we were poor 
 But we were strong, and — when one loves, it seems 
 Youth is too short and sweet to wait apart 
 Lentil one prospers. There's a savour, too. 
 In hard-won bread with love to season it — 
 You understand. And children as we were. 
 We walked upon the mountain-tops of joy. 
 Look how Civetta towers, peak on peak, 
 
 51 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Soft in its rosy pallor; she was pale 
 
 For all her strength. How often I have said 
 
 Civetta taught her cheeks their faint sweet glow. 
 
 She was not ruddy like the other girls. 
 
 "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," 
 
 The priest would say, and then, **the strength of tlieni 
 
 Is also His." It seemed to us we built 
 
 Our nest within the hollow of God's hand 
 
 There in the valley, for about us rose 
 
 The hills like guardian angels, and we named 
 
 The child Civetta, for the mountain seemed 
 
 Strong as a saint to us. Yet spite of that, 
 
 'Twas Piz we held the dearest, like a hoar 
 
 Old kindly giant, brooding o'er the pass 
 
 To keep out evil comers. Ah, those days ! 
 
 You would not think, seeing that silent house 
 
 Below the water, what it used to be. 
 
 There never was a throat so full of music 
 
 As my Costanza's — always I could hear 
 
 A snatch of song that told me where she was. 
 
 Her heart was full of joy — how could it help 
 
 But bubble into melody? And when 
 
 She slept, it seemed the nightingale sang on 
 
 The night through, in her stead. The little one 
 
 Was like her mother. We had made two marks 
 
 Beside the rose-bush . . . sixty years ago. . . . 
 
 We had worked hard, signora, and had saved 
 
 To buy a yoke of oxen ; so I went 
 
 Down to Belluno, for the market-day. 
 
 The two went with me to the valley's mouth. 
 
 For in a village at the foot of Piz 
 
 Costanza's cousin lived, and there she said 
 
 That they would stay the night, the earlier 
 
 To greet me on the morrow, and we all 
 
 Could journey home together. So we planned 
 
 52 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Walking together toward the valley's mouth, 
 Civetta on my shoulder; and I asked 
 If I should buy a kerchief for my dear, 
 But she said no — I was to buy instead 
 Some trinket for the child. That was her way. 
 And then, because it wrung my heart to go, 
 I lifted up mine eyes unto the hills 
 And saw the forest-bearded face of Piz 
 Bending as if he blessed us, and my heart 
 Was glad as at a sign from heaven. I said: 
 **May God and Piz watch over you." And so — 
 And so I left them at the valley's mouth. 
 She took the faded kerchief from her head, 
 Waving it as I went, and I could see 
 The sunlight on her hair. When I no more 
 Could see her face, her hair was shining still. 
 
 And the next day I bought my oxen there. 
 
 In the Belluno market, — comely beasts 
 
 With gentle eyes, and on their horns I bound 
 
 Garlands of poppies. She will clap her hands, 
 
 I thought, and kiss them 'twixt the gentle eyes, 
 
 And hold Civetta up to fondle them. 
 
 And since she had forbidden me to buy 
 
 A kerchief for her head, I bought instead 
 
 A silver pin to wear on holy-days. 
 
 So light of heart I was that all the way 
 
 I laughed and sang aloud, and all the way 
 
 I lifted up my face unto the hills 
 
 That made me glad. But when at last I came 
 
 In sight of home — I could not see my home, 
 
 For Piz was gone, and that which had been Piz 
 
 Crammed all the valley's entrance, and below 
 
 Three villages were buried. They were there. . . . 
 
 A neighbor told me all there was to tell — 
 
 53 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Little enough. A sudden rending crasli, 
 
 And all was done. I stood and could not speak. 
 
 The knowledge fell upon me as the hill 
 
 Fell upon them. He wept who told it me. 
 
 I did not weep — I laughed, remembering 
 
 How I commended them to God and Piz, 
 
 And thus it was they had kept faith with me ! 
 
 And then he bade me take my goods and go 
 
 Up to a higher village, for the fall 
 
 Had dammed Cordevole, and silently 
 
 The creeping waters rose and rose and rose. 
 
 And then I laughed again. What use to me 
 
 Were house or goods? I gave my goods to him, 
 
 The pair of oxen and the silver pin; 
 
 He had a wife — a kindly soul who nursed 
 
 Costanza in her travail. So I turned 
 
 Nor looked again upon my empty house; 
 
 Turned and went back the way that I had come. . 
 
 But as I went, I did not lift my face. 
 
 I hoped some mountain kindlier than the rest 
 
 W^ould fall upon me, too — but none would fall — 
 
 And all the grass was full of little flowers. 
 
 So I went down to Venice — to the sea; 
 
 No mountains there. 
 
 Signora! Pardon me — 
 I had not thought my tale would make you weep. 
 You are too kind — all this was long ago — 
 In sixty years there's time for tears to dry. 
 And yet it leaves a sear; see, even now 
 There's only bareness . . . yonder. Older still, 
 The naked wilderness that seams Peron — 
 Not all the summers of five centuries 
 Have made it green again. 
 
 I used to think 
 That when I came to die, and stood at last 
 
 54 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Right face to face with God, I would not wait 
 For Him to judge me — 'twas for me to judge. 
 I would speak out: "Why did you do this thing? 
 I trusted You. Why did You do this thing, 
 You and the mountains, if indeed the strength 
 Of them is Yours?" But since I did not die, 
 I said, "I will have naught of them henceforth, 
 God and the mountains. They have smitten me 
 Unjustly, cowardly. I trusted them. 
 And then they struck a woman and a child 
 Suddenly in the darkness. Cowardly!" 
 So for ten years I never went to mass 
 Nor looked upon the hills. But I would stand 
 Often before the crucifix and think, 
 "Oh, Brother Signor Jesu, you have known 
 How He betrays a trust. You trusted too, 
 And He forsook you in your agony." 
 I was so young, signora — I had known 
 Only our people, simple, kindly, good; 
 But in the city I saw other things — 
 Greed, hatred and uncleanness — and I saw 
 The sea . . . signora, do you know the sea? 
 As year by year I saw the ships come in, 
 Some prosperous and gay with little flags. 
 And some all battered, scarce escaped alive. 
 And — saw the women watch for other ships 
 That never came — I thought, "Here is a thing 
 Cruel as God and treacherous as the hills. 
 That favors or destroys just for a whim." 
 Until one day, musing as I was wont 
 Before the crucifix, it came to me: 
 "Perchance Costanza, as the mountain fell, 
 Cried out on me — and I was far away. 
 Had I been near, I might have died with her, 
 But saved her — no. It may be as she died 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 She, too, cried out, 'Thou hast forsaken me !' 
 Was God as powerless as I? Did He 
 Suffer like me?" 
 
 I took that afternoon 
 No passengers; I rowed out all alone 
 And moored my boat, and went where I could look 
 Straight out to sea; and all night long I lay 
 Upon the sands, and tried to think it clear. 
 And when the morning broke, I saw the sea 
 Shining before me, and I did not fear 
 Nor hate it, for at last I understood 
 There was in it no malice and no love; 
 Indifferent, it fulfilled its destiny, 
 And if its tempests rent the waves alone 
 Or beat a ship to driftwood, it nor knew 
 Nor cared. If men must needs go forth on it, 
 Theirs be the peril, theirs the profit, too. 
 The lives of men are nothing to the sea, 
 The lives of men are nothing to the hills. 
 Their strength is not of God, but all their own. 
 Ten years it was since I had said a prayer, 
 But there, beside the sea, in the pale dawn — 
 'Twas a gray dawn and cold — I stood and prayed. 
 '*Lord God," I said, "forgive me for my hate. 
 You who have suffered, You can understand 
 And know the cry of pain. You saw Your son 
 Slain by a thing pitiless as the sea. 
 Blind as the hills, and You could give no help. 
 Lord God, for my own grief I had no tears. 
 But for Your grief, and mine, and all the world's." 
 So I left Venice, and went back again. 
 There in Belluno, all men spoke to me 
 Kindly, a little hushed, as if afraid; 
 They thought I had been mad. As I went back 
 I neither spoke nor sang, but walked erect, 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Head up, and looked the mountains in the face. 
 
 I could not hate them any more, you see — 
 
 They knew not what they did. I understood 
 
 How Cristo could forgive upon the cross. 
 
 It seemed to me I walked, my hand in God's, 
 
 And sometimes as we went, I thought He wept 
 
 And that I whispered, "Lord, be comforted; 
 
 This thing must be." And so I came again 
 
 Into the valley. All was as you see. 
 
 Again the grass was full of little flowers. 
 
 For it was spring; the water was not clear 
 
 But green and turbid from the melting snows. 
 
 And I saw nothing. I was glad of that; 
 
 One learns to bear a little at a time. 
 
 The folk had taken up their life again, 
 
 As one must do, and all about the lake 
 
 I saw again the vineyards and tilled fields 
 
 And heard the saw-mills drone. My neighbor came 
 
 And made me free of all his goods; he said 
 
 My yoke of oxen so had prospered him 
 
 That he could halve his farm with me. His wife 
 
 Was "with him, and I saw the silver pin 
 
 Set in her hair. She marked my eyes on it 
 
 And made to take it out — down her kind face 
 
 The tears were running — but I stayed her hand. 
 
 It did not give me pain to see it there. 
 
 I made my home with them, but would not take 
 
 Aught of his land. What did I want of land? 
 
 I had forgotten how to hold a plow. 
 
 I built myself a boat, and back and forth 
 
 I rowed upon the lake, ferrying folk 
 
 And burdens, as they came and called to me. 
 
 And slowly, day by day, the water cleared ; 
 
 First I could see the tree-tops, then the tops 
 
 Of chimneys . . . and at last I saw the house. . . . 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 I thought the rose-bush still was by the door 
 Turned to a water-weed. Only two marks — 
 It may be there are roses where she is. 
 And in the winter when I could not row 
 I joined the timberers on the mountain-side. 
 They marveled at me, for I had no fear. 
 What should I fear? And often in the snow 
 Men came to deadly hurt, and those who wept 
 Would turn to me, knowing I understood. 
 Then would I say to them, "Be comforted. 
 This thing must be — " as I had said to God. 
 But though I prayed, I could not go to mass 
 And hear the priest, who did not understand. 
 Mock at Him, calling Him all powerful. 
 Master of all the world — who could not save 
 His son, nor aught that any man held dear. 
 
 My neighbor's youngest child I loved the best; 
 
 Her eyes were like Civetta's, and she sang 
 
 Always about her play, and as she grew. 
 
 About her work. There was a lad she loved ; 
 
 An honest lad — we timbered on the hills 
 
 Together in the winter, and one learns 
 
 To read a man, in that white loneliness. 
 
 And on a day, a dead bough sharp with ice 
 
 Fell on his head; a little while it seemed 
 
 That he was mad, and then he fell asleep 
 
 And breathed, but did not waken. Through the snow 
 
 I bore him to the village in my arms. 
 
 And when I saw my darling in the door 
 
 I strove to say to her, "Be comforted. 
 
 This thing must be — " But I could only say 
 
 "My child, my child !" At last there came a night 
 
 It seemed that he must die; her hand in mine 
 
 We sat beside him, and the clock ticked loud 
 
 58 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Upon the wall — the minutes seemed to trip 
 
 Upon each others* heels, so fast they ran. 
 
 I cannot tell you how it came to me, 
 
 But all at once I spoke: "This is not all. 
 
 The grief and dumb endurance. There is more — 
 
 There is a hidden meaning in it all, 
 
 And what for us is loneliness and tears 
 
 Shall blossom in the hearts of the unborn 
 
 To beauty, for we suffer not in vain 
 
 Although we cannot see the end, not now 
 
 Nor ever, with these eyes. Since God is love, 
 
 Although His ways be strange, they all lead home. 
 
 The patient wrestling of our shaken hearts, 
 
 The pitiless sea, the cruel strength of these 
 
 The hills — are His. His will for earth be done." 
 
 And she beside me, slipping to her knees. 
 
 Laid her hot forehead on my hands and said, 
 
 **His will for earth be done" — but all at once 
 
 He stirred — and she crept near, and raised herself 
 
 And looked into his face — and I could see 
 
 His opening eyes, and hear a whisper, faint 
 
 As falling embers, but in his own voice — 
 
 "Costanza. ..." 'Twas her name. So I went out 
 
 Under the stars and left those two alone. 
 
 See, 'tis their chimney smoking; and that house 
 With all the roses and the little ones 
 About the door, is his — their eldest boy's — 
 The boy they named for me. So many homes 
 I can call mine ! 
 
 Here is the shore at last; 
 Just one more stroke. 
 I have not wearied you? 
 
CHARLES T. RYDER 
 
 70. I That Have Lived 
 
 I THAT have lived and loved life well 
 Am scattered now through earth and air, 
 And cannot with clear words declare 
 What you would know and I could tell; 
 
 Yet do I speak with voices still. 
 
 Would you but hear and understand 
 The burthened speech of sea and land. 
 
 The myriad tongues of field and hill. 
 
 Such speech I early knew, and said, 
 
 "Through death and change, life never ends; 
 I yet may sojourn among friends": 
 
 And hopefully I joined the dead. 
 
 AGNES LEE 
 
 71. Two Houses 
 
 HOUSE of the past, house of the sunken stair, 
 In somnolence of long untrodden grass! 
 Tragedy, pleasure, sin, have crossed thy door, 
 Thy crumbling gables are no longer fair. 
 And all the sigh of all the heaven may pass 
 Along thy desert floor. 
 
 And thou, the newly builded, firmly set. 
 Wide-hailed, with gleaming porch and peristyle, 
 And windows clear to catch the sunlight's dole ! 
 What shalt thou say, O thou with no regret, 
 Proud in thy vigor, but, alas the while, 
 Still waiting for thy soul! 
 
E. NESBIT 
 
 72. Experience 
 
 DID you deceive me? Did I trust 
 A heart of fire to a heart of dust? 
 What matter? since once the world was fair, 
 And you gave me the rose of the world to wear. 
 
 That was the time to live for ! Flowers, 
 Sunshine and starshine and magic hours, 
 Summer about me. Heaven above, 
 And all seemed immortal, even Love. 
 
 The mortal rose of your love was worth 
 
 The pains of death and the pains of birth; 
 
 And the thorns may be sharper than death, who 
 
 knows ? 
 That crowd around the stem of a deathless rose. 
 
 HENRY ADAMS BELLOWS 
 
 73. Storm at Sea 
 
 NIGHT, hot and breathless; sails that flap, and 
 spars 
 Creaking like souls in an uneasy sleep; 
 The weary writhings of the windless deep; 
 Above, the dying fires of the stars. 
 Which one by one go out behind the pall 
 Slow rising from the shadowy northern wall. 
 
 A sudden gust, the snap of ropes pulled tight. 
 The ship's quick heeling to the northern blast, 
 A lull, — then other gusts that follow fast. 
 And we go driving madly through the night, 
 Blackness above, black water at the rail, 
 Blackness ahead, and on our heels the gale. 
 
 61 
 
HENRY ADAMS BELLOWS 
 
 No light except the binnacle's white stare, 
 No human voice, nought but the steady crash 
 Of breaking seas, that wind-flung come to lash 
 The steersman's face; and howling everywhere, 
 Through quivering shrouds, around the topmasts 
 
 stark, 
 The wind goes hurtling through the echoing dark. 
 
 The long-enduring hours go their way 
 
 In a monotony of ceaseless motion. 
 
 Till a sad grayness shows the whirling ocean 
 
 Writhing beneath the coming of the day; 
 
 And in each other's faces gaunt and white 
 
 Silent we read the fury of the night. 
 
 RICHARD WARNER BORST 
 
 74. Not All the Way 
 
 WITH eyes that time and tears have smitten 
 blind, 
 I pause upon my way and look behind; 
 And with an inner sight I seek once more 
 The face of her who at the break of day 
 Set out with me, but came not all the way. 
 And then, — half down a shadowy lane she stands. 
 Among the greenery and flowers of yore; 
 A red rose, plucked long stemmed, is in her hands, 
 And guilelessly she holds the scarlet flower, 
 Pressing its perfumed petals to her lips, 
 While all about her falls a mottled shower 
 Of sunlight through the quivering leaves, that slips 
 Into her shining hair and turns each twist 
 And plait to gold ; while from her rounded wrist 
 
 62 
 
RICHARD WARNER BORST 
 
 Her bonnet dangles on its loose-tied strings. 
 Ah, bent am I, and old and blind and gray, — 
 More blithe is she than any bird that sings! 
 My well beloved, who at break of day. 
 Set out with me, — but came not all the way. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 75. Queen Mary at Fotheringay 
 
 WHAT have I gained who gave so much? 
 A crown too slippery for my clutch — 
 A body misused and a heart abused. 
 What have I gained for all I spent? 
 Many a dead man's curse to rue, 
 Many a lover and not one true. 
 Many a bribe, though not my due — 
 Yet I have lived, and am content. 
 
 Say that I squandered life — confessed. 
 Had I been miser of my best. 
 Today I would be in penury 
 Even as now, a fool betrayed. 
 The crown of stars and the nether flame 
 Both have I proved in the teeth of blame. 
 Have not the years in pride and shame 
 Given the worth of all I paid? 
 
 The course I chose was the course I kept ; 
 In the face of doom like a flame I leapt. 
 Bitter and sweet have I known complete — 
 One adventure is left to try. 
 Life I have finished, mire to throne — 
 Here at life's end I stand alone. 
 Headsman, warder of worlds unknown, 
 Show me now what it means to die ! 
 
 63 
 
LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH 
 76. Whither Away 
 
 THIS is the road that you all must take. 
 Whither away so far? 
 Seek what you will, and your heart shall ache, 
 A glow-worm or a star. 
 After it all but a swirling wake 
 Across the harbor bar. 
 
 These are the things that you all have planned, 
 
 Whether to make or mar, 
 Love and the touch of a kindred hand, 
 
 Fame and the conqueror's car. 
 After it all but your boat unmanned 
 
 Across the harbor bar. 
 
 This is the thing that you all must know. 
 
 Travel you near or far; 
 Yours are the moments before they go. 
 
 Which shall be, not which are. 
 After it all but the lights burnt low 
 
 Across the harbor bar. 
 
 ETHEL BARSTOW HOWARD 
 
 77. The Fairy Tree 
 
 THE birch tree throws a scarf of green 
 Around her silver white. 
 Woven of little polished leaves 
 All delicate and bright, 
 It sways with every passing air 
 And shimmers in the light. 
 64 
 
ETHEL BARSTOW HOWARD 
 
 Oh, like a Dryad nymph she stands 
 The birch tree, silver white! 
 And all day long that flowing veil 
 Trembles for my delight. 
 She stirs it as she moves in it 
 As a young maiden might. 
 
 And is she then a tree at all 
 My birch, all silver white? 
 Clothed in a robe of little leaves, 
 Alive with wind and light. 
 And standing by the fairy ring. 
 With queenly slender height? 
 
 In truth I think she is a fay 
 
 The birch tree, silver white. 
 
 Bound by a spell the long bright day 
 
 But free again at night, 
 
 And she knows all the woodland ways 
 
 Under the gray moonlight. 
 
 JOYCE KILMER 
 
 78. Folly 
 
 WHAT distant mountains thrill and glow 
 Beneath our Lady Folly's tread? 
 Why has she left us, wise and woe, 
 Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? 
 We cannot love or dream or sing. 
 
 We are too cynical to pray. 
 There is no joy in anything 
 
 Since Lady Folly went away. 
 
 Many a knight and gentle maid. 
 
 Whose glory shines from years gone by. 
 
 Through ignorance was unafraid 
 And as a fool knew how to die. 
 
 65 
 
JOYCE KILMER 
 
 Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne 
 
 And broke the ranks of Hell with her, 
 
 And Folly's smile shone brightly on 
 Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper. 
 
 Our minds are troubled and defiled 
 
 By study in a weary school. 
 Oh for the folly of the child ! 
 
 The ready courage of the fool ! 
 Lord, crush our knowledge utterly 
 
 And make us humble, simple men; 
 And cleansed of wisdom, let us see 
 
 Our Lady Folly's face again. 
 
 HENRY ADAMS BELLOWS 
 
 79. Tarpaulin Cove 
 
 THE wind has fallen with the sun, and now 
 Only its faintest murmur moves the air; 
 The tiny ripples whisper at the bow 
 So quietly we scarce can hear them there. 
 
 The silent sea breathes slowly in its sleep; 
 Only the stars are waking, and they lie 
 Immeasurably distant in the deep 
 Unfathomable silence of the sky. 
 
 And so we creep to harbor, very still 
 Amid the sleeping stillness of the world, 
 To where the schooners lie beneath the hill. 
 Swaying in peace, with heavy mainsails furled. 
 
 We glide among them like a new-come ghost. 
 Shatter the stillness with our anchor-chain, 
 Set riding-lights like sentries at their post. 
 And sleep until the morning comes again. 
 
 66 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 80. On the Drive 
 
 OH, days whoop by with swingin' lope 
 And days slip by a-sleepin'. 
 And days must drag, with lazy rope. 
 Along the trail a-creepin'. 
 Heeya-a! you cattle, drift away! 
 Heeyow! the slow hoofs sift away 
 And sunny dust-clouds lift away, 
 Along the trail a-creepin'. 
 
 My pard may sing of sighin* love 
 
 And I of roarin' battle. 
 But all the time we sweat and shove 
 
 And follow up the cattle. 
 Heeya-a! the bawlin' crowd of you! 
 Heeyow ! the draggin' cloud of you ! 
 We're glad and gay and proud of you, 
 
 We men that follow cattle ! 
 
 But all the world's a movin' herd 
 Where men drift on together, 
 And some may spur and some are spurred, 
 
 But most are horns and leather! 
 Heeya-a! the rider sings along, 
 Heeyow! the reined hawse swings along 
 And drifts and drags and flings along 
 The mob of horns and leather. 
 
 The outlaws fight to break away; 
 The weak and lame are crawlin'. 
 But only dead ones quit the play, 
 
 The dust-cloud and the bawlin'. 
 
 Heeya-a! it's grief and strife to us; 
 
 Heeyow ! it's child and wife to us ; 
 
 By leap or limp, it's life to us ! 
 
 . The dust-cloud and the bawlin'. 
 
 67 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 
 Some dream ahead to pastures green, 
 Some stare ahead to slaughter, 
 
 But, anyway, night drops between 
 And brings us rest and water. 
 
 Heeya-a ! you cattle, drift away ! 
 
 Heeyow! the dust-clouds lift away; 
 
 The glarin' miles will shift away 
 And leave us rest and water. 
 
 M. E. BUHLER 
 
 81. As in the Beginning 
 
 SAID the Mother of all Living to the Mother of the 
 Dead, 
 "Thy place is mine, O Lilith, and thou and thine are 
 fled! 
 Thy salt, salt tears may dew the sea until thine eyes 
 
 are dim. 
 But Adam's God hath made in me a helpmeet unto him. 
 Thy Children of the Air and Mist are buried in the Sea, 
 But mine shall walk the living Earth and mock at thine 
 and thee!" 
 
 Said Adam's love to Adam's wife, "I come again, O Eve ! 
 Though buried in the deathless deeps, lo, I and mine may 
 
 grieve ! 
 For he was mine and I was his ere thou to him wast wed, 
 And mine and his shall reign again when the Sea gives 
 
 up its Dead!" 
 
MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 82. In Cool, Green Haunts 
 
 A SWEET, deep sense of mystery filled the wood. 
 A star, like that which woke o'er Bethlehem, 
 Shone on the still pool's brow for diadem — 
 The first to fall of summer's multitude ! 
 In cool, green haunts, where, haply, Robin Hood 
 Ranged royally, of old, with all his train, 
 A hushed expectance, such as augurs rain. 
 Enthralled me and possessed me where I stood. 
 
 Then came the wind, with low word as he went; 
 The quick wren, swift repeating what he said; 
 A chattering chipmunk lured me on and led 
 
 Where scented brakes 'neath some wee burden bent: — 
 One look — 'twas this those wild things yearned to say: 
 "A little brown-eyed fawn was born today!" 
 
 JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 
 83. In the Cornfield 
 
 S I was hoeing a hill of corn. 
 
 Thinking of nought but weeds and sand, 
 Suddenly on my arm I felt 
 The touch of a ghostly hand. 
 
 I looked not up, but I saw it all. 
 
 How the sun flashed hot through the bound- 
 less blue. 
 The firm earth rocked beneath my feet 
 
 As he followed his orbit through. 
 
 And I laughed out loud in the blazing sun 
 
 To think that ever I was born 
 To feel that hand upon my arm 
 
 And work among the corn ! 
 
 69 
 
 A^ 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 0" 
 
 84. Lie-Awake Songs 
 
 I 
 ^ FTEN when awake I lie 
 Listening to the clock go round 
 Hours and hours, I wonder why 
 My brother sleeps so sound. 
 
 II 
 
 The city is so kind to me; 
 
 It stays awake for company — 
 
 It never sleeps at all. 
 
 Its lamps are always burning bright 
 
 From when my mother says goodnight 
 
 Until the milkmen call. 
 
 The street is always full of wheels, 
 Horse-carriages and aut'mobiles— 
 The whole night long they pass, 
 Carrying home to marble halls 
 Princesses that have been to balls 
 In little shoes of glass. 
 
 Then there's the dog across the way — 
 He must be dreaming of the day 
 Or barking at a kitty — 
 And people talking as they go. . . . 
 I often wonder, do they know 
 That I'm awake and like them so. 
 Or is it just — the city? 
 
 Ill 
 
 God has a house three streets away, 
 And every Sunday, rain or shine. 
 My nurse goes there her prayers to say. 
 She told me of the candles fine 
 That burning all night long they keep 
 Because God never goes to sleep. 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 And there's a steeple full of bells — 
 All through the dark the time it tells. 
 I often hear it in the night 
 And think about those candles bright. 
 I wonder if God stays awake 
 For kindness, like the furnace man 
 Who comes before it's day, to make 
 Our house as pleasant as he can. 
 I like to watch the sky grow blue. 
 And think perhaps the whole world through 
 Everyone's sleeping but us three, 
 God and the furnace man and me. 
 IV 
 Out in the street there is a light 
 That through my window throws at night 
 The shadow of a pine-tree on the wall. 
 And while I see it nod and play 
 And dance in such a jolly way, 
 It isn't hard to lie awake at all. 
 
 I wish there were a friendly tree 
 To keep the children company 
 That in the city have to lie awake. 
 I think their mothers ought to fix 
 Window-box vines that climb on sticks — 
 What pleasant little shadows they would make! 
 V 
 
 Raining, raining, 
 
 All night long. 
 
 Sometimes loud, sometimes soft, 
 
 Just like a song. 
 
 There'll be rivers in the gutters 
 And lakes along the street. 
 It will make our lazy kitty 
 Wash his dirtv little feet. 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 The roses will wear diamonds 
 Like kings and queens at court — 
 But the pansies all get muddy 
 Because they are so short. 
 
 I'll sail my boat tomorrow 
 
 In wonderful new places, 
 
 But first I'll take my watering-pot 
 
 And wash the pansies' faces. 
 
 VI 
 
 The apples dropping from the tree 
 Make such a heavy bump at night, 
 I always am surprised to see 
 They are so little, when it's light. 
 
 And all the dark just sings and sings 
 So loud, I cannot think at all 
 How frogs and crickets and such things 
 That make the noise, can be so small. 
 
 And my own room seems bigger, too — 
 Corners so dark and far away. . . . 
 I wonder if things really do 
 Grow up at night and shrink by day? 
 
 For I dream sometimes — just as clear ! 
 I'm bigger than the biggest men. 
 Then Mother says, ^''Wake up, my dear — 
 And I'm a little boy again. 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 85. Vigil 
 
 WHY should it irk me, the night, 
 After the day that is done? 
 Stars, making distant delight. 
 Dew-pools, instead of the sun? 
 
 Soft, cool winds, and the scent 
 Of gardens, silent and sweet; 
 Why should I lack of content, 
 Joys like to these at my feet? 
 
 Ah, but the hours are long 
 Ere I may haste from afar, 
 Seeking your face like a song, 
 Seeking your soul like a star! 
 
 Winds, waters, skies, be my friend. 
 Grant me swift sleep, and to wake 
 Swiftly, my waiting at end, — 
 Dearest, be mine with daybreak! 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 86. The Return 
 
 E 
 
 ACH April night, when winds will not be still, 
 I hark the Old Years gathering at the gate — 
 Those hordes with whom 'tis neither soon nor late- 
 Like dead come back from slumber on the hill, 
 listen — how they haunt each sunken sill; 
 And how they beat at ancient doors in vain! 
 And oh their tears ! — like sudden April rain. 
 Whose brimming urns the lawny hollows fill. 
 
 73 
 
MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 I know that it is so (in truth they come !) : 
 For on the gravel ways and in the grass — 
 Wherever they may pause or lightly pass — 
 
 I see, 'mid snows of apple-bough and plum, 
 
 Pale plumes of lilac scattered, when I wake — 
 Flowers they have strewn for sweet remembrance sake. 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 87. The Speckled Trout 
 
 WITH rod and line I took my way 
 That led me through the gossip trees, 
 Where all the forest was asway 
 With hurry of the running breeze. 
 
 I took my hat off to a flower 
 That nodded welcome as I passed; 
 And, pelted by a morning shower, 
 Unto its heart a bee held fast. 
 
 A head of gold one great weed tossed, 
 And leaned to look when I went by; 
 And where the brook the roadway crossed 
 The daisy kept on me its eye. 
 
 And when I stooped to bathe my face, 
 And seat me at a great tree's foot, 
 I heard the stream say, "Mark the place: 
 And undermine it rock and root." 
 
 And o'er the whirling water there 
 A dragonfly its shuttle plied. 
 Where wild a fern let down its hair. 
 And leaned to see the water's pride — 
 
 74 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 A speckled trout. The spotted elf, 
 Whom I had come so far to see, 
 Stretched out above a rocky shelf, 
 A shadow sleeping mockingly. 
 
 And I have sat here half the day 
 Regarding it. It has not stirred. 
 I heard the running water say — 
 "He does not know the magic word. 
 
 "The word that changes everything. 
 And brings all Nature to his hand : 
 That makes of this great trout a king, 
 And opes the way to Faeryland." 
 
 ETHEL TALBOT SCHEFFAUER 
 
 88. Wind at Night 
 
 A THIN voice in the darkness all night long, 
 I hear the young west wind, the lover's wind; 
 No tumult in its voice, nor any song, 
 But pitiful, but strange and lost and blind. 
 If I should once unhasp the chamber door. 
 
 Set on the moonlit paths my naked feet, 
 Oh, then, no more a mendicant and poor. 
 
 But like a strong man, with wide wings that beat 
 
 The air, the midnight air, to rosy light. 
 
 The great, triumphant western wind would throng 
 To bear me to my lover through the night. 
 I hear it, like a child, so weak and slight, 
 
 A thin voice in the darkness, all night long. 
 
 75 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 89. Medieval 
 
 SHE said: "My babe is dead: 
 Unchristened did he die. 
 I wake in the long, lone night 
 And hear his plaintive cry. 
 
 "I wonder does God hear. 
 And will not let him in — 
 
 My little one who died 
 All innocent of sin? 
 
 "The wicked, who repent, 
 Win heaven, so men say; 
 
 And was my bonny child 
 
 Less dear to Him than they? 
 
 '^There's not a soul in bliss, 
 Rejoicing in God's Son, 
 
 That's purer or more sweet 
 Than was my little one ! 
 
 "Lowly, at Mary's shrine 
 Before the dawn of day 
 
 I kneel, for him to plead 
 Who was too small to pray ! 
 
 "Ah, mother blessed ! bring 
 My babe to know the light ! 
 
 Or, pitying, win for me 
 
 With him to roam the night!" 
 
KENNETH RAND 
 90. The Blind Gypsy 
 
 MY world is girt with a rampart of wonder and 
 shadow. 
 Sunless I wander, forlorn, on the barrens of Time 
 and Space — 
 With only the scent of the sun on the heather, the song 
 o'er the meadow. 
 The dust of the highway warm on my feet, and the 
 wind in my face. 
 
 The roads that I knew are the paths of an infinite terror. 
 Treacherous, threading morasses of peril, abysses 
 of night; 
 And only the feel of the wmd and the heat, in my mazes 
 of error. 
 To whisper of dawn or of noon, and the dear lost 
 rapture of light. 
 
 Yet, with the sun and the breeze and the dust on the 
 highway, 
 Only, O Lord, to feel! — and I cling to thy garment's 
 fold— 
 And the snapping of fires that I may not see, by the 
 hedge in the byway. 
 Is the crackle of flame-new stars, and the clangor 
 of gates of gold. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 91. Garden Closes 
 
 EARTH buffets and harasses 
 Her children, day by day; 
 Pricked on by harsh endeavor. 
 Debarred of prayer and play. 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 Chasing a Shade forever, 
 Man fares by perilous passes, 
 Till he be bent and gray. 
 
 But Life, — how deep the kindness 
 That saves us from despair! 
 Hath eke her garden closes • 
 
 Where all is calm and fair; 
 Some place of rest and roses 
 Where man puts off his blindness 
 Of canker and of care. 
 
 There music sounds, clear-hearted, 
 And star-eyed women smile. 
 There friends, estranged in seeming. 
 Forget their former guile; 
 Above, to help the dreaming, 
 The clouds are soft disparted 
 By warm, sweet moons the while. 
 
 Into this sacred haven 
 Of health and happy lure, 
 Come marred and haunted faces 
 To taste a pleasure pure; 
 In this most dear of places 
 What word or wish is craven 
 These walls may not immure. 
 
 So, frayed upon sharp edges 
 Of knives that cut full deep. 
 Our own lost souls pursuing, 
 We may thereafter creep 
 Away from sordid doing. 
 Behind these holy hedges 
 For solace and for sleep. 
 
RUTH SHEPARD PHELPS 
 
 92. The Guardian Deeps 
 
 THE past is like the sea, for both do hold 
 Our sunken treasure, all our ships gone down. 
 The riches men take with them when they drown, 
 Jasper and jade and ivory, coins untold, 
 The sea's green depths forever shall enfold, 
 
 While to and fro the sands wash, fine and brown, 
 Discovering, covering torque and ring and crown. 
 We see, yet may not reach, their gleaming gold. 
 
 Even so that other, widest of the seas 
 
 Receives our treasure — faces, memories, days, 
 
 And silenced voices — and, though over these 
 Our daily life its slow deposit lays 
 
 Of shifting thought, they shall be guarded fast. 
 
 Yet irrecoverable, in our past. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 93. Christmas Downtown 
 
 THE sleepless leave their lair, the sun begins 
 To charge the clouds with glory, and the bells 
 Sound forth above the city and its sins; 
 Hear, how the sudden music wells and swells ! 
 
 The sullen folk go forth in quest of bread. 
 Crime knows not holiday, nor hunger bliss. 
 Behold the living who are worse than dead. 
 Our fellow mortals who have come to this! 
 
 Are there good tidings for the out-of-work. 
 
 Or is the gladness but a mockery 
 
 To make more bitter vagrant, crook and shirk 
 
 And light o' love, — the slaves who think them free? 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 Lurks there deep down beneath the sodden scene 
 Some miracle shall flood the dark with light, 
 Some image of a joy that once has been, 
 Some pledge to make the errant heart go right? 
 
 The tattered legion of the luckless, lost, 
 Yea, all the confraternity of knaves, 
 Surely, for such He came, — else all the cost, 
 The gauds and gifts be barren as their graves. 
 
 His gift is love; His day a symbol sweet 
 To hint the heaven that seems so far from earth. 
 Drawn by that bond must saint and sinner meet 
 Within the radiance of the Stainless Birth. 
 
 Christmas shall ne'er be Christmas, till the hour 
 When every breathing thing may humbly learn 
 The clasp of comrades, pluck the fadeless flower 
 Of sacrifice, and toward some brother yearn. 
 
 Prate not of giving that is for the day; 
 Kindness is not computed by a sum; 
 The lore of Christ is here, not far away. 
 Out of the heart the holy wish must come. 
 
 Hark to the words: "To me a child is born." 
 It rings and sings, and rises once again, 
 Clear o'er the wailing of the wan, white morn, 
 The immemorial cry, "Good will to men !" 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 94. Petruchio's Wife 
 
 AY, go your ways, my lord. Look where he struts 
 jf\And ruffles it along the sunny street! 
 
 His doublet's broken at the seam again — 
 I'll look to it when he comes home. He's worse 
 Than any wanton youngling on his gear. 
 A gallant bearing — he is well worth ten 
 Of my fair sister's pretty mummer. Bah ! 
 Playing the schoolmaster to win a bride 
 He might have had by knocking at the door 
 And shaking a fat purse! Petruchio 
 Measures more nearly to a man's degree; 
 Yet he is but a boy, an o'er-grown boy. 
 Was ever man so easily deceived? 
 What, did he think that he could master me 
 By wearying my body, starving it, 
 Shaming it with vile raiment? Bless the fool! 
 And yet I swear I did not bless him then — 
 I could have slain him, rather; but I thought, 
 "Kate, thou art married ; make the best of it. 
 Thou hadst been wiser to lead apes in hell. 
 But since thy cup of folly has been poured. 
 Drink it off smiling. He shall pay anon." 
 There at Bianca's feast, when he would show 
 His power so braggartly, I had well-nigh 
 Defied him to his face, — but I recalled 
 Hortensio's fine madam, and her taunt. 
 **What other way to sting so well," thought I, 
 "As show myself the model, her the shrew?" 
 Eh, did I sweetly play the pattern wife? 
 Ask of Petruchio's purse, where merrily 
 His fellow-bridegroom's golden forfeits clinked — 
 (Until he spent the better part of them 
 Upon a cap richer an hundredfold 
 Than that I spurned to please him!) Am I tamed? 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Thus much, perhaps . . . that now I play my part 
 
 Not bitterly, but laughing in a sleeve 
 
 Which now is fashioned to my own desire, 
 
 I praying his approval; and instead 
 
 Of anger at his boastful boyishness 
 
 Is something, neither pity nor yet love — 
 
 The child of both, perchance. 
 
 I used to think 
 That when I held the larder keys, himself 
 Should fast some day, to pay that fast of mine. 
 But when the time came, I no longer cared 
 For little vengeance on a little wrong. 
 And so I feed him well, and speak him fair. 
 And keep him bravely clad, and when he meets 
 His friends, he vaunts the merits of his wife, 
 While they all marvel at the mastered shrew ! 
 Look — he comes home — he's never long away. 
 How boyish-gay he waves an eager hand, 
 Seeing me waiting at the window here! 
 God rest thee, merry, good Petruchio; 
 How I could love thee . . . wert thou more a man ! 
 My excellent dear lord! Art thou returned? 
 Then is the day grown bright for Katharine! 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 95. Battle-Song of Failure 
 
 WE strain toward Heaven and lay hold on Hell; 
 With starward eyes we stumble in hard ways, 
 And to the moments when we see life well 
 Succeeds the blindness of bewildered days, — 
 But what of that? Into the sullen flesh 
 
 Our souls drive home the spur with splendid sting. 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Bleeding and soiled, we gird ourselves afresh. 
 Forth, and make firm a highway for the King. 
 
 The loveless greed the centuries have stored 
 
 In marshy foulness traps our faltering feet. 
 The sins of men whom punishment ignored 
 
 Like fever in our weakened pulses beat; 
 But what of that? The shame is not to fail, 
 
 Nor is the victor's laurel everything. 
 To fight until we fall is to prevail. 
 
 Forth, and make firm a highway for the King. 
 
 Yea, cast our lives into the ancient slough, 
 
 And fall we shouting, with uplifted face. 
 Over the spot where mired we struggle now 
 
 Shall march in triumph a transfigured race. 
 They shall exult where weary we have wept — 
 
 They shall achieve where we have striven in vain- 
 Leaping in vigor where we faintly crept, 
 
 Joyous along the road we paved with pain. 
 What though we seem to sink in the morass? 
 
 Under those unborn feet our dust shall sing. 
 When o'er our failure perfect shall they pass. 
 
 Forth, and make firm a highway for the King. 
 
 JOYCE KILMER 
 96. St. Alexis 
 
 (Patron of Beggars) 
 
 WE who beg for bread as we daily tread 
 Country lane and city street. 
 Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway 
 To the saint with the vagrant feet. 
 
 83 
 
JOYCE KILMER 
 
 Our altar light is a buttercup bright, 
 
 And our shrine is a bank of sod, 
 But still we share St. Alexis' care, 
 
 The Vagabond of God! 
 
 They gave him a home in purple Rome 
 
 And a princess for his bride, 
 But he rowed away on his wedding day 
 
 Down the Tiber's rushing tide. 
 And he came to land on the Asian strand 
 
 Where the heathen people dwell; 
 As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed, 
 
 And he saved their souls from hell. 
 
 Bowed with years and pain he came back again 
 
 To his father's dwelling place. 
 There was none to see who this tramp might be, 
 
 For they knew not his bearded face. 
 But his father said, "Give him drink and bread 
 
 And a couch underneath the stair." 
 So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. 
 
 But he might not linger there. 
 
 For when night came down on the seven-hilled town, 
 
 And the emperor hurried in. 
 Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near 
 
 Who will cleanse us of our sin," 
 Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain, 
 
 For his soul had fled afar, 
 From his fleshly home he had gone to roam 
 
 Where the gold-paved highways are. 
 
 We who beg for bread as we daily tread 
 
 Country lane and city street. 
 Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway 
 
 To the saint with the vagrant feet. 
 
 84 
 
JOYCE KILMER 
 
 Our altar light is a buttercup bright, 
 And our shrine is a bank of sod, 
 
 But still we share St. Alexis' care, 
 The Vagabond of God! 
 
 M. E. BUHLER 
 97. On the Housetop 
 
 SERENE at sunset on the roof 
 I watch the daylight passing by; 
 The cares of earth have sunk abashed 
 Beneath the perfect sky. 
 
 All sounds have mingled into one 
 Deep rhythmic murmur, far, subdued, 
 
 As if the city's pulsing heart 
 Beat in the solitude. 
 
 Beyond the level roofs a sail 
 Creeps slowly over sunset seas; 
 
 A mist is on the evening hills, 
 And night amid the trees. 
 
 Far overhead a homing bird 
 
 Flies dark against the changing sky, 
 
 Now lost in cloud, now plunged in fire 
 Where lakes of sunlight lie. 
 
 Half shrouded in the harbor mists 
 
 Earth lights come twinkling into view; 
 
 As one by one majestic stars 
 The fields of heaven strew. 
 
MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 98. 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. 
 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, 
 'Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall. 
 
 BADGER CLARK 
 
 99. The Coyote 
 
 TRAILING the last gleam after 
 In the valleys emptied of light, 
 Ripples a whimsical laughter 
 Under the wings of the night. 
 Mocking the faded west airily. 
 Meeting the little bats merrily, 
 Over the mesas it shrills 
 To the red moon on the hills. 
 
 Mournfully rising and waning, 
 
 Far through the moon-silvered land 
 
 Wails a weird voice of complaining 
 Over the thorns and the sand. 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 
 Out of blue silences eerily, 
 On to the black mountains wearily, 
 Till the dim desert is crossed. 
 Wanders the cry, and is lost. 
 
 Here by the fire's ruddy streamers, 
 
 Tired with our hopes and our fears, 
 We inarticulate dreamers 
 
 Hark to the song of our years. 
 Up to the brooding divinity 
 Far in that sparkling infinity 
 
 Cry our despair and delight, 
 
 Voice of the desert night! 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 100. The Ancient Sacrifice 
 
 YE dead and gone great armies of the world. 
 Sweet gleam the fields where ye were used to pass. 
 With Death for leader, legioned like the grass. 
 Day after day by dews of morning pearled. 
 
 Ye dead and gone great armies, ye were hurled 
 'Gainst other armies, great and dead and gone. 
 In awful dark: ye died before the dawn, 
 Ne'er knowing how your flags in peace are furled ! 
 
 Ye are the tall fair forests that were felled 
 
 To build a pyre for strife that it might cease; 
 Ye are the white lambs slaughtered to bring peace; 
 
 Ye are the sweet ships sunk that storm be quelled; 
 And ye are lilies plucked and set like stars 
 About the blood-stained shrine of bygone wars! 
 
 87 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 101. The Child in Black 
 
 
 
 UT in the street the children play; 
 They shout and laugh till I come by, 
 Then they are still and go away — 
 I wonder why. 
 
 And grown-up people's faces too — 
 Until they see me, they are glad. 
 I wonder what it is I do 
 That turns them sad. 
 
 And father — when he looks at me. 
 He is sad too, and though he tries 
 To wink them back, I always see 
 Tears in his eyes. 
 
 Nobody looks at me the same 
 Since mother went to heaven to stay. 
 Do they think I am to blame 
 For sending her away? 
 
 WITTER BYNNER 
 
 102. Wirmier of Second 
 
 100K me in the face, lad, 
 _j Give me your hand to shake! 
 
 I saw you run your race, lad. 
 And I saw the sudden break 
 Bring hot upon your forehead 
 
 The anger asking why; 
 And there were more who saw it. 
 Others as well as I. 
 
WITTER BYNNER 
 
 We cried aloud our protest, 
 
 We crowded round the track; 
 But the judges had not noticed 
 
 His arm that swung you back. 
 Although that's what they're for, lad, 
 
 To spy a fault or foul, 
 We liked you all the more, lad, 
 
 For swiftness of your soul. 
 
 You heard the winner's statement 
 
 And silently you backed 
 His word without abatement 
 
 Of your knowledge of the fact. 
 But, lad, the dust shall thicken 
 
 On a forgotten prize. 
 And victory shall quicken 
 
 In your remembered eyes! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 103. Jewel-Weed 
 
 THOU lonely, dew-wet mountain road. 
 Traversed by toiling feet each day. 
 What rare enchantment maketh thee 
 Appear so gay? 
 
 Thy sentinels, on either hand 
 
 Rise tamarack, birch and balsam-fir. 
 
 O'er the familiar shrubs that greet 
 The wayfarer; 
 
 But here's a magic cometh new — 
 A joy to gladden thee, indeed: 
 
 This passionate out-flowering of 
 The jewel-weed, 
 
 89 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 That now, when days are growing drear, 
 As summer dreams that she is old,. 
 
 Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells 
 Of mottled gold! 
 
 Thine only, these, thou lonely road! 
 
 Though hands that take, and naught restore, 
 Rob thee of other treasured things, 
 
 Thine these are, for 
 
 A fairy, cradled in each bloom, 
 To all who pass the charmed spot 
 
 Whispers in warning: — "Friend, admire, — 
 But touch me not! 
 
 *^ Leave me to blossom where I sprung, 
 
 A joy untarnished shall I seem; 
 Pluck me, and you dispel the charm 
 
 And blur the dream!" 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 104. At the End of the Road 
 
 THIS is the truth as I see it, my dear. 
 Out in the wind and the rain: 
 They who have nothing have little to fear,- 
 Nothing to lose or to gain. 
 Here by the road at the end o' the year. 
 Let us sit down and drink of our beer, 
 Happy-Go-Lucky and her Cavalier, 
 Out in the wind and the rain. 
 
 Now we are old, hey, isn't it fine, 
 
 Out in the wind and the rain? 
 Now we have nothing, why snivel and whine? 
 
 What would it bring us again? 
 
 90 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 When I was young I took you like wine, 
 Held you and kissed you and thought you divine- 
 Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine, 
 Out in the wind and the rain. 
 
 Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led, 
 
 Out in the wind and the rain! 
 How we have drunken and how we have fed ! 
 
 Nothing to lose or to gain. 
 Cover the fire now; get we to bed. 
 Long is the journey and far has it led. . 
 Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead, 
 
 Out in the wind and the rain. 
 
 STOKELY S. FISHER 
 105. A Song of the Sunset 
 
 OWIND from the golden prairie, sweet from the 
 billowy lea 
 Where the orbed sun floats at setting like sunset 
 on the sea, 
 A fragrance, not of the flowers, is shaken from your 
 wings ; 
 
 In my breast a glow, 
 A burning, not of the sun, at touch of your kisses 
 
 springs; 
 And voices, not for the ear, a spirit in me can hear, 
 Far voices I know! 
 
 O tumbling ocean of light, O waves from the westward 
 
 rolled ! 
 From islands of desire in regions known of old, 
 From immortal years of hope in the charmed world of 
 the child, 
 
 Returns the tide 
 
 91 
 
STOKELY S. FISHER 
 
 With the spell of a pristine time when life was free and 
 
 wild; 
 And I fly away, away down the vistas of yesterday 
 Where dreams abide ! 
 
 Illusion the wonder-wrought progress! My heart to the 
 
 past is true, 
 And vision only is real, and only the vanished I view! 
 The wraiths of mother's flowers coax me back, enchanted, 
 
 To the home she made 
 In the cabin beside the trail, embowered in vines she 
 
 planted ; 
 Her roses and mignonette, I feel them blooming yet — 
 They cannot fade! 
 
 Our home, a little isle in a limitless ocean of grass! 
 
 Now over my soul again the silencing shadows pass 
 
 That fell in the lonesome gloaming, — the sorrow so sol- 
 emnly sweet. 
 
 The awe thereof! 
 
 How we nestled, like huddling birds, about our mother's 
 feet! 
 
 But we never wished to roam: our world was small as 
 home. 
 
 As large as love! 
 
 We dwelt in wonderland, and caught the secrets known 
 To fairy creatures with wings, and from timid blossoms 
 
 blown ; . 
 We knew the hearts of wild things, frank nature our 
 
 only book! — 
 
 Oh we were free — 
 In my heart is a hungry pang as out o'er the plain I look ! 
 But the cabin has crumbled down, and the old trail leads 
 
 to a town 
 
 Where it used to be! 
 
 92 
 
JAMES NORMAN HALL 
 
 106. Charwomen 
 
 THERE is a building on a city square 
 That soars in marble to a golden dome; 
 A temple reared to Pleasure, and her home. 
 Thither, at night, her votaries repair 
 To worship her in wine and dainty fare. 
 
 Laughter and lights and music dance and foam 
 Upon the liquid hours till day be come, 
 Driving them like thin vapors into air. 
 
 Then do these others, creeping on all fours, 
 
 Do Pleasure's drudge-work when herself hath fled. 
 To them her palace nothing is but floors 
 And staircases, all soilure with her tread. 
 
 They crawl through empty rooms and corridors, 
 Gathering broken meats and crusts of bread. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 107. The Symbol 
 
 WHAT is the symbol underneath it all, 
 The secret message of the throb of things: 
 The flower tossings and the whirl of wings. 
 The glow and scent when June makes carnival? 
 'Tis like a sweet lost word of some old speech 
 Man has forgotten yet can almost reach. 
 
 Listen! The sap doth murmur it, the rain 
 Chants it in sibilant monotone, the breeze 
 Lifting a voice among the fluttered trees. 
 Takes up the song, repeats it once again; 
 And all the movement in the summer grass 
 Seems pulsing to express it ere it pass. 
 
 93 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 Ever and alway, iterant and low, 
 
 The whisper and the hint, the half untold 
 
 Suggestion that is as the ages old. 
 
 Yet fresh-faced now as in the long ago: 
 
 '^Seek, ye shall find, for you and I are one, 
 
 Bound each to other since the years begun. 
 
 "You hear the call of kinship in my voice, 
 My very breathing makes me part of you; 
 The gifts I oflFer are a residue 
 Of your inheritance and natural choice; 
 Man is not man who hath not eye to see 
 My luminous gloss on Nature's mystery. 
 
 "Rich-languaged, fraught with memories and 
 
 dreams, 
 I lure you back in sacred moments when 
 You learn, oblivious to the lore of men. 
 The lesson of the forests, fields and streams; 
 Deep at my heart, deeper thain all my mirth. 
 The long-withholden meaning of tjie earth." 
 
 In syllables of beauty, yea, with words 
 That move like music through the summer ways. 
 Nature doth speak, and in her every phrase, — 
 The choiring rivers and the lyric birds, — 
 She draws us from false gods, and our release 
 Is certified by joy and love and peace. 
 
 94 
 
JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 
 108. The White Flag 
 
 WHOE'ER you be at whom in youthful scorn 
 My tongue has loosed the poisoned jibe, 
 A truce I crave! 
 Even though, beneath an alien planet born. 
 You could not every article subscribe 
 Of my peculiar creed. 
 
 How swift for both the desperate minutes speed 
 
 That bear us to a common grave 
 Without reprieve! 
 How steep the climb, and how profusely bleed 
 Your feet and mine along the heights we brave 
 
 For love of life and art ! 
 
 For longer strife I have not strength nor heart; 
 
 For misdirected blows I grieve. 
 I hold my creed ; 
 But, as I crave indulgence on your part, 
 That you have meant your best I must believe, 
 
 And wish us both, God-speed! 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 109. The Closed Book 
 
 SHUT it out of the heart— this grief, 
 O Love, with the years grown old and hoary ! 
 And let in joy that life is brief. 
 And give God thanks for the end of the story. 
 The bond of the flesh is transitory, 
 And beauty goes with the lapse of j^ears — 
 The brow's white rose and the hair's dark glory — 
 God be thanked for the severing shears ! 
 
 95 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 Over the past, Heart, waste no tears! 
 Over the past and all its madness, 
 Its wine and wormwood, hopes and fears — 
 They never were worth a moment's sadness. 
 Here she lies who was part of its gladness, 
 Wife and mistress, and shared its woe. 
 The good of life as well as its badness — 
 Look on her face and see if you know. 
 
 Is this the face — yea, ask it slow — 
 
 The hair, the form, we used to cherish? 
 
 Where is the glory of long-ago? 
 
 The beauty we said, would never perish. 
 
 Like a dream we dream, or a thought we nourish, 
 
 Nothing of earth immortal is: 
 
 This is the end however we flourish — 
 
 All that is fair must come to this. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 110. Idols 
 
 THEY made them idols in the elder days. 
 Idols and images of brass and stone, 
 To bow before their semblance, — when the praise 
 Should go, O God, to Thee and Thee alone. 
 
 Yet who shall say how much of tender trust, 
 Of deep-heart adoration and desire 
 Was hid behind these symbols of the dust 
 That rose like smoke to dim the central fire? 
 
 How often in those heathen hearts, indeed. 
 Ardent and upwardly there must have burned 
 A flame of worship, an imperious need 
 To clasp and kiss the thing toward which they 
 yearned ! 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 Midst of the mystic Orient today, 
 
 Far to the North, or where the great South Seas 
 
 Circle the islands, gather still to pray 
 
 The myriad folk whose faith is like to these. 
 
 Rebuke them not: even as a root at birth 
 Feels upward to the light, these simple men 
 Foredream the flower, and darkly from the earth 
 Salute a Mystery beyond their ken. 
 
 THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 111. Christmas Night in Belgium 
 
 WHERE are the Shepherds who watch the flocks? 
 The sheep are all astray; 
 The night is dark, the Wise Men far, 
 No sign there is of the Ancient Star; 
 Where are the Shepherds, pray? 
 
 The Shepherds lie stretched upon the ground, 
 
 And very still are they. 
 
 The Mothers call, the Babies cry, 
 
 The Angels gaze from the silent sky 
 
 And weeping turn away. 
 
 Where do the tears of the Angels fall? 
 They fall on the hearts of men. 
 Oh, smitten Babe on Belgium's knee. 
 The Nations run with their gifts for thee. 
 And dream of Peace again. 
 
 9T 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 112. The Lame Child 
 
 HE passed along our village street; 
 The fame of him had gone before. 
 They came in crowds on whispering feet 
 To mock or marvel or appeal. 
 I caught my child from where he lay 
 And stood expectant in the door, — 
 Many the sick he healed that day, 
 But mine he did not heal. 
 
 He paused before us where we stood. 
 And looked into my boy's blue eyes — 
 Those eyes of tortured babyhood 
 Reproaching life with mute surprise! 
 It would have taken but a word 
 From him, to make our way so clear, — 
 Many the prayers that day he heard, 
 But mine he did not hear. 
 
 Yet this he did — his head he bent 
 And kissed my boy upon the cheek; 
 He turned upon me as he went 
 Eyes that were terrible with tears. 
 Silent, I shrank before the deeps 
 Of mysteries too great to speak, — 
 But oh, my patient child who creeps 
 Along his crippled years ! 
 
STEPHEN PHILLIPS 
 
 113. Women and War 
 
 WOMEN, in war-time yours how hard the task, 
 Service from you how difficult we ask ! 
 Glorious to stand against the leaden hail. 
 In the mown war-line not to flinch or fail ! 
 Splendid the onrush and the charging cheer. 
 Yet glorious too to check the coming tear. 
 The doubt by night to stifle through the day; 
 The deep alarm not outwardly betray. 
 O dull expectancy that finds not vent! 
 O silent anguish that will not lament! 
 O mad uncertainty from dawn to eve! 
 O worse to wait than battle to receive! 
 Heroes are ye, who but the sob repress, 
 Your victory, dumb, is victory no less! 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 114. At a Child's Grave 
 
 HE is but biding here beneath the sod: 
 Who moved of old the seasons moves them yet: 
 How should he come, in slumber, to forget 
 The orphan'd flower and the wondering clod? 
 
 With slimmest wildwood lily-stem for rod. 
 He rules the forest and the folk thereof: 
 A myriad furry liegemen his; in love. 
 The pines o'erarch the path where last he trod. 
 
 Spring does his bidding still: the brook he knew 
 Leaps at a lisp from him, and every bird 
 Breaks into rippling rapture at the word 
 
 Which mixes with its song as rain with dew. 
 June tarries here alert, for well she knows 
 His little hands release the prisoned rose. 
 
 99 
 
A 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 115. Out of Babylon 
 
 ^ S I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders, 
 (My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!) 
 The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and 
 recorders. 
 Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low. 
 
 As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the babel, 
 The strife of life, the haggling in the square and mart, 
 
 Of the men who went in saffron and the men who went 
 in sable. 
 It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart. 
 
 As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towers 
 They seemed in very mockery to bar my way; 
 
 The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden flowers, 
 They lured me with their glamour, but I would not 
 stay. 
 
 We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its vying. 
 Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing to Baal; 
 
 We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sighing. 
 Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary 
 fail! 
 
 We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful, 
 That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but 
 a rind; 
 
 W^e still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forgetful 
 Of all within that thrall of wall threatening behind ! 
 
 Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your teeming. 
 Your canyons and your wonder-wealth, — not for such 
 
 as we 
 
 We who have fled from Babylon contented are with 
 dreaming, — 
 Dreaming of earth's loveliness, happy to be free ! 
 
 100 
 
MARGAREr WJJ)riEM>E>R;. > 
 
 116. The Dead Friend 
 
 A FRIEND of mine is dead at length today, 
 (O sooner than I thought she could 
 have died!) 
 And I must go the rest of life's long way 
 Without her by my side. 
 
 She was so gay, so glad of wind and sun, 
 Of mirth, of love, all sweet earth-things 
 that shine — 
 
 I do not know how living can be done 
 Without her hand in mine; 
 
 Yet I must smile as if the world was fair, 
 I must not veil my eyes or bow my head: 
 
 One may not grieve, or seem to feel or care 
 When only Youth is dead. 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 117. A Ghost of Yesterday 
 
 THERE is a house beside a way. 
 Where dwells a ghost of Yesterday: 
 
 The old face of a beauty faded 
 Looks from its garden: and the shaded 
 Long walks of locust-trees, that seem 
 Forevermore to sigh and dream, 
 Keep whispering low a word, that's true, 
 Of shapes that haunt its avenue, 
 Clad as in days of belle and beau. 
 
 Who come and go 
 Around its ancient portico. 
 
 At first, in stock and beaver-hat, 
 With flitting of the moth and bat, 
 
> ; .i .; : V MA}?ISON OAWEIN 
 
 An old man, leaning on a cane, 
 
 Comes slowly down the locust-lane; 
 
 Looks at the house; then, groping, goes 
 
 Into the garden where the rose 
 
 Still keeps sweet tryst with moth and moon: 
 
 And, humming to himself a tune, — 
 
 **Lorena" or "Ben Bolt," we'll say,— 
 
 Waits, bent and gray, 
 For some fair ghost of Yesterday. 
 
 The Yesterday that holds his all — 
 More real to him than is the wall 
 Of mossy stone near which he stands. 
 Still reaching out for her his hands — 
 For her, the girl, who waits him there, 
 A lace-gowned phantom, dark of hair, 
 Whose loveliness still keeps those walks, 
 And with whose Memory he talks; 
 Upon his. heart her happy head, — 
 
 So it is said, — 
 The girl, now half a century dead. 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 118. Stormy Sunset 
 
 THE clouds build black a giant hall, 
 Round which the winds like madmen stride; 
 Wild voices call from wall to wall. 
 And earth is tossed from side to side. 
 
 Fury and Madness meet at board 
 
 And sit at feast; anon they rise, 
 
 And thunderous sword smites thunderous sword. 
 
 And each one by the other dies. 
 
 102 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 Then suddenly a crimson hand 
 Hurls wide a window, deep as doom, 
 At which a Titan takes his stand. 
 Burning within a burning room. 
 
 The window slowly closes down 
 And leaves a crack at which appear 
 Two windy lights that glare and frown. 
 And seem the blood-shot eyes of Fear. 
 
 The sun is gone; and from the east 
 There comes a dripping step and lamp; 
 The wind's wild maunderings have ceased; 
 The moon looks down on dew and damp. 
 
 GEORGE NORTON NORTHROP 
 119. Wisdom 
 
 '•Ripeness is all" 
 I 
 
 THE air was keen, the shadows far had fled: 
 He stood upon the height, beyond all lore 
 Of seers and sages who had gone before: 
 He looked upon that region far outspread 
 And felt the eager pain, the joyous dread 
 Of entering in upon that unknown shore, 
 His flaming, dreamed-of hope to journey o'er, 
 Reward of all his toil among the dead. 
 
 He paused to linger there and, yearning, gazed 
 In dear expectancy of that lone quest: 
 How speedily with wide acquaintance blest 
 He would return to find a world amazed 
 At the new wonder-tale of Truth he brought 
 From that dim region where no hand had wrought. 
 
 103 
 
GEORGE NORTON NORTHROP 
 
 II 
 
 But as he leaned far out above the vale 
 And brushed the dew of gladness from his eyes 
 He heard beseeching words and wistful cries 
 Whence he had come, borne feebly on the gale, — 
 A voice of human need: he could not fail 
 To feel its lonely pain, its sad surmise 
 And all the vague bewilderments that rise 
 To terrify the helpless and the frail. 
 
 The dire entreaty of that nameless woe 
 Changed the fair scene unto an ashen shore: 
 A charnel-house he saw, of waste and bones 
 Where golden sands and flowers had been before. 
 Turning he sought the homeward way below. 
 Sighed not, nor wept, nor knew the bruising stones. 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 120. This Day in Spring 
 
 NOW I am minded of the works of Him — 
 His mountains, each in separate pattern cast; 
 His gracious plains and prairie-spaces vast. 
 Like 'lumined manuscripts age may not dim; 
 His hushless winds, like singing seraphim. 
 Or like loud organs in cathedrals played ; 
 His seas stupendous; and His skies arrayed; 
 And all the wonders wove of His high whim — 
 I marvel in my heart — nay, not that He 
 
 Could mould such might of nothing in an hour. 
 And fling for us the sweet flags of the shower — 
 But that — and 'tis for it, on reverent knee. 
 
 This day in spring my lips with prayer I fret — 
 He still found time to make a violet ! 
 
 104 
 
MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 121. Youth 
 
 w 
 
 HEN life has done with laughter and singing. 
 
 And love's no more in rhyme. 
 And the world goes dull in my old ears ringing. 
 And slow my feet with time. 
 
 Then my good gray soul may go seeking and flying 
 
 On high from roads of earth, 
 When my heart gives over its laughter and crying, 
 
 Its passion and pain and mirth ! 
 
 But now my heart beats merrily wild, 
 
 My feet would dance their fill, 
 And the heaviest prayers that the white saints piled 
 
 Could never have kept them still — 
 
 When I am old and quiet and gray 
 
 There's time to be hushed and bow — 
 
 I may have a soul in that dim day. 
 But oh, not now — not now! 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 122. Spring in War-Time 
 
 I 
 
 FEEL the spring far oflP, far off, 
 
 The faint, far scent of bud and leaf — 
 Oh how can spring take heart to come 
 To a world in grief, 
 Deep grief? 
 
 The sun turns north, the days grow long. 
 Later the evening star grows bright — 
 
 How can the daylight linger on 
 For men to fight. 
 Still fight? 
 
 105 
 
SARA TEASD ALE 
 
 The grass is waking in the ground, 
 Soon it will rise and blow in waves — 
 
 How can it have the heart to sway- 
 Over the graves, 
 New graves? 
 
 Under the boughs where lovers walked 
 The apple-bloonas will shed their breath- 
 
 But what of all the lovers now 
 Parted by Death, 
 Gray Death? 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN 
 123. The Old Dreamer 
 
 COME, let's climb into our attic, 
 In our house that's old and gray! 
 Heart, you're poor and I'm rheumatic, 
 . And — it's close of day. 
 
 Lay aside your rags and tatters. 
 Shirts and shoes, so soiled with clay ! 
 They're no use now. Nothing matters — 
 It is close of day. 
 
 Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire. 
 And no lamp to make a ray. 
 Where's our servant. Young Desire? — 
 Gone at close of day! 
 
 Oft she served us with fine glances. 
 Helped us out at work and play: 
 She is gone now. Better chances. 
 And — it's close of day. 
 106 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet? 
 Hope, who led us oft astray: 
 Has she proved herself a harlot 
 At the close of day? 
 
 What's become of Dream and Vision? — 
 Friends we thought were here to stay: 
 Has Life clapped the two in prison 
 At the close of day? 
 
 They are gone; and how we miss them! 
 They who made our garret gay: 
 How we used to hug and kiss them ! — 
 But — 'tis close of day. 
 
 Where's friend Love now? — ^Who supposes ?- 
 Has he flung himself away? 
 Left us for a wreath of roses 
 At the close of day? 
 
 And Where's Song,- the soul-elected ? — 
 Has he quit us too for aye? 
 Was it poverty he suspected 
 Near the close of day? 
 
 How our attic rang their laughter! 
 How it echoed laugh and lay! 
 None can take their place hereafter ! — 
 It is close of day. 
 
 We have done the best we could do: 
 Come, let's kneel a while and pray. 
 Now no matter what we would do, 
 It is close of day. 
 
 Let's to bed then ! — it's December : 
 Long enough since it was May ! 
 Let's forget it; — and remember 
 Now 'tis close of day, 
 
 107 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 
 124. On the Road 
 
 1ET us bid the world good-by! 
 J Now, while sun and cloud's above us, 
 While we've nothing to deny. 
 Nothing but ourselves to love us: 
 Let us fancy, I and you. 
 All the dreams we dreamed came true. 
 
 We have gone but half the road, — 
 Rugged road of root and bowlder; 
 Made the best of life's dark load, 
 Cares, that helped us to grow older: 
 We, my dear, have done our best — 
 Let us stop awhile and rest. 
 
 Let us by this halfway stile 
 Put away the world's desire. 
 And sit down, a little while. 
 With our hearts, and light a fire: 
 Sing the songs that once we sung 
 In the days when we were young. 
 
 Haply they will bring again. 
 From the lands of song and story. 
 To our sides the elfin train 
 Of the dreams we dreamed of glory. 
 That are one now with the crew 
 Of the deeds we did not do. 
 
 Here upon the road of life 
 Let us rest us; take our pleasure; 
 Free from care and safe from strife, 
 View again our only treasure — 
 Love, that helped us on our way, 
 Our companion night and day. 
 
JAMES LEROY STOCKTON 
 125. The Admonition of the Hills 
 
 A HILL said to another hill, 
 "This is my valley that lies between us"; 
 But the other hill was vexed. 
 "No," it said, "it is my valley"; 
 And the hills disputed and became more angry; 
 And dark storm-clouds gathered above them; 
 And the storm broke, 
 And shrieked about the crags, 
 And descended into the valley. 
 And laid it waste. 
 
 Then the God of the hills— 
 
 Who is your God and my God — 
 
 Reached out and took one of the hills in the hollow 
 
 of His hand. 
 And He put it behind His back. 
 Then He whispered to the hill that was left, 
 "Behold thee now thy valley"; 
 And the hill looked and the valley was not. 
 
 Then God said to the hill at His back, 
 "Look thou now down upon thy valley"; 
 And the hill looked and the valley was not. 
 
 And God returned the hill to its ancient place, 
 And, behold, the valley was there again. 
 
 And God was silent; 
 
 For He knew that the hills knew 
 
 What He would have said; 
 
 But the hills did not know whether God Himself 
 
 Could remove the scar of the storm which the 
 
 quarrel had brought 
 To shriek about the crags. 
 And to descend into the valley. 
 And to lay it waste. 
 
 109 
 
WITTER BYNNER 
 126. Ta 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, witty 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 your lack of noise. 
 What eloquence you teach! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 127. In War-Time 
 
 (An American homeward bound) 
 
 FURTHER and further we leave the scene 
 Of war — and Of England's care; 
 I try to keep my mind serene, — 
 But my heart stays there; 
 
 110 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 For a distant song of pain and wrong 
 My spirit doth deep confuse, 
 
 And I sit all day on the deck, and long— 
 And long for news! 
 
 I seem to see them in battle-line — ' 
 
 Heroes with hearts of gold, 
 But of their victory a sign 
 
 The Fates withhold; 
 
 And the hours too tardy-footed pass, 
 The voiceless hush grows dense 
 
 Mid the imaginings, alas! 
 That feed suspense. 
 
 Oh, might I lie on the wind, or fly 
 In the willful sea-bird's track. 
 
 Would I hurry on, with a homesick cry, — 
 Or hasten back? 
 
 ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 
 128. The Eternal Builder 
 
 ONCE on such an eve as this is, 
 Once in just such golden air. 
 Tyre and Troy and Babylon 
 Soared triumphantly and fair. 
 
 Tyre so fallen, Troy turned ashes, 
 Babylon superb no more, — 
 Splendors dead, alas, the sundowns 
 Burnished wondrously of yore. 
 
 Ah, but still immortal Beauty 
 Seeks new cities to illume, — 
 Lo, on yonder roofs and casements 
 How her gold flame-roses bloom! 
 
ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 
 
 What if all this rose and amber 
 Vanish when the genie Night 
 With his dread gaze scowls upon them 
 From his ancient Eastern height? 
 
 Still on such a golden evening, 
 When each turret, wall and spire 
 Glows as if no mortal builder 
 Tipped and veined its stones with fire,- 
 
 Still on such an eve as this is 
 Will the olden dream remain — 
 That however men's cities perish 
 Beauty still will build again. 
 
 Fashioned of her dreams eternal, 
 Who knows what fair towns arise, 
 Lifting now immortal columns 
 'Neath what other evening skies? 
 
 Nay, on such a golden evening, 
 More than fanciful desire 
 Seems it that earth's mortal builders 
 Deathless Beauty may inspire: 
 
 May some day so take their spirits, 
 Hands and brain may so enthrall. 
 As some perfect grace infuses 
 Column, spandril, arch and wall, 
 
 Till on such a golden evening. 
 None shall sigh to look upon 
 Fair new cities and remember 
 Tyre and Troy and Babylon. 
 
STEWART WELLS 
 129. The Silent Army 
 
 ACROSS the wind-swept winter sky 
 The great gray clouds go driving by. 
 A great gray host sweeps overhead, 
 Rank upon rank with measured tread — 
 The Silent Army of the Dead. 
 
 Upon the shattered, shell-torn town. 
 This voiceless multitude looks down. 
 Over the sodden, blood-drenched plain 
 These grim battalions march again — 
 The Deathless Legion of the Slain. 
 
 Born on the wailing wind there comes 
 The muffled throb of phantom drums, 
 And those who maimed and mangled lie 
 Hear the dread summons from on high — 
 The call to men about to die. 
 
 A call to men about to die — 
 The wounded soldier's glazing eye 
 Beholds the grisly column wait. 
 Reads the great lesson all too late — 
 The needless tragedy of hate. 
 
 His weary, war-worn soul he flings 
 To join the Host of Homeless Things, 
 The ever-moving, restless train. 
 The Deathless Legion of the Slain, 
 The souls of men who died in vain. 
 
 No land is theirs, no flag they know, — 
 Shoulder to shoulder, friend and foe. 
 Ever their swelling ranks increase, 
 Never their groping quest shall cease, 
 The hopeless striving after Peace. 
 
STEWART WELLS 
 
 Onward through ages yet to be, 
 Onward still to Eternity, 
 Leaderless, purposeless, helpless, blind, 
 Seeking the goal they shall never find — 
 Paying the debt of humankind. 
 
 Across the wind-swept winter sky, 
 The great gray clouds go driving by. 
 A great gray host sweeps overhead, 
 Rank upon rank with measured tread — 
 The Silent Army of the Dead. 
 
 GRACE HODSDON BOUTELLE 
 
 130. Spring at the British Museum 
 
 THE wind is sweet with hovering rain, 
 In slanting golden showers 
 The sunbeams blow, — what spells invade 
 This Hall of Silent Hours? 
 Fresh, wandering scents have dared their way 
 Past guards and barricade. 
 With shy insistence drift and stray. 
 Among the books make holiday 
 And will not be gainsaid; 
 
 It almost seems they set me free 
 
 To go where I would fain 
 
 Walk hand in hand with Spring and be 
 
 In Warwickshire again. 
 
 114 
 
GRACE HODSDON BOUTELLE 
 
 There in the quickening time of the year 
 
 Broad upland fields lie fair 
 
 In rippling green against the sky, 
 
 And all the limpid air 
 
 Is vibrant with a winged delight; 
 
 There beckoning lanes flit by. 
 
 Still, sun-bathed pastures, streams as bright 
 
 As molten amber, orchards white 
 
 Where bees hum jocundly. . . . 
 
 Yea, Master-Poet, we seek in vain 
 Who trace and question here, — 
 You roam the fields, a boy again. 
 With Spring in Warwickshire. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 131. Desolated Gardens 
 
 THE trampling armies leave discomfited 
 How many a garden ! Desolate and dead 
 The shining flowers whose soul breathed up 
 to God 
 In winsome odors from the quiet sod. 
 
 Where the rose laughed, the dark ensanguined mire. 
 And where the birds in many a leafy choir 
 Greeted the sun, the cannon and the shell 
 Have changed an Eden to a shrieking hell. 
 
 No lilies left that erst rose tall and white 
 Nor tulips proud ablow, nor that fair sight. 
 The pansies of the many-winking eyes; 
 Ah, blight for bloom and rain for tranquil skies ! 
 
 115 
 
RICHARD BURTON 
 
 Of old, how often lovers kept a tryst 
 
 In such sweet haunts, how tenderly they kissed; 
 
 But love is now turned hate, the very grass 
 
 Is color-changed with blood of those who pass. 
 
 Lovers and birds alike have fled the place. 
 The writhen body and the upturned face 
 Know naught of love or song or carefree hours 
 That blessed the alleys of these blameless flowers. 
 
 O refuges so rifled and so dim 
 Of color, what to you the martial hymn ! 
 How sweet ye were where now the battle raves, 
 O desolated gardens, with your graves! 
 
 MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 132. The Old Hunter 
 
 (A rune of forever and ever) 
 
 THE quarry is caught, the game-bag filled. 
 And the meal is eaten too; 
 The fire grows pale and the coals are spilled, 
 And what shall the hunter do? 
 
 The hunter shall lie where the game was caught. 
 
 Stiff heel and sinking chin; 
 The hunter shall rest with the meal he brought. 
 
 In Mother Earth's good inn. 
 
 And the rest shall weep while the embers fade, 
 
 Till the last fine fire is gone. 
 And if they be strong, and unafraid, 
 
 Hope for another dawn ! 
 
 116 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 
 133. The Medicine Man 
 
 "npHE trail is long to the bison herd, 
 J[ The prairie rotten with rain, 
 
 And look ! the wings of the thunder bird 
 Blacken the hills again. 
 A medicine man the gods may balk — 
 Go fight for us with the thunder hawk!" 
 
 ,The medicine man flung out his arms. 
 
 "I am weary of woman talk 
 And cook-fire witching and childish charms. 
 
 I fight you the thunder hawk!" 
 So he took his arrows and climbed the butte 
 While the warriors watched him, scared and mute. 
 
 A wind from the wings began to blow 
 
 And arrows of rain to shoot 
 As the medicine man raised high his bow, 
 
 Standing alone on the butte. 
 And the day went dark to the cowering band 
 As the arrow leaped from his steady hand. 
 
 For the thunder hawk swooped down to fight, 
 And who in his way could stand? 
 
 The flash of his eye was blinding bright 
 And his wing-clap stunned the land. 
 
 The braves yelled terror and loosed the rein 
 
 And scattered far on the drowning plain. 
 
 And after the thunder hawk swept by 
 They found him, scorched and slain, 
 
 Yet — fighting with gods, who fears to die? — 
 He smiled with a light disdain. 
 
 That smile was a glory to all his clan 
 
 But none dared touch the medicine man. 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 134. Art and War 
 
 WAR has its field of blood — heart-breaking war — 
 Wherein to rule with undisputed sway 
 Throughout its own mad, self-exhausting 
 day. 
 There, where it rashly sacrifices more 
 Than laboring Time may ever quite restore. 
 Shall it, amid red welter and decay. 
 Strive horribly; but let it not essay 
 To enter where peace guards the future's door ! 
 
 War has nor right, nor privilege, nor part 
 In lives high-dedicate the world to bind 
 
 Through love and hope and the great dream of art ! 
 All lands to such are Fatherland: they find 
 
 In alien realms love's grateful, welcoming heart — 
 They, chosen of the Gods to bless mankind! 
 
 WITTER BYNNER 
 
 135. Heart's Content 
 
 A TOWN called Heart's Content . , 
 I take the book and read again 
 Of farmers and of fishermen, 
 A distant town called Heart's Content. 
 
 Vessels are built there now and then. 
 And there a cable from the sea 
 Brings the wide world within the ken 
 Of Newfoundland simplicity. 
 
 118 
 
WITTER BYNNER 
 
 Oh, are they happier than we 
 With our unceasing incident 
 Of competition and degree? 
 And is the year a glad event ? 
 
 Or does their memory now frequent 
 A day when some one came to find 
 His hope and left the world behind? . 
 The town of Heart's Content ! 
 
 MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 
 136. Springtime — By an Outsider 
 
 THE little brown lads are flying kites 
 On the hilltops in the sun; 
 They gladly laugh and strongly pull, 
 And far and fast they run; 
 And the little fresh lassies toss their jacks . 
 
 On a pavement cool and gray; 
 My heart must drink a mingled draught 
 In watching them at play. . . . 
 
 The little brown lads are playing ball 
 And their arms are firm and round; 
 
 Their eyes are bright and the bare feet light 
 As they flash along the ground ; 
 
 And the little fresh lassies jumping rope — 
 They have caught the heart of me 
 
 With their "Sugar, pepper, mustard, salt, 
 . And vin-e-gar-in-e-gar-ee !" 
 
 119 
 
MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 
 The little brown lads are spinning tops 
 
 While the springtime smiles in joy; 
 Who would not give spring's sunniest day 
 
 To the love of one small boy? 
 And the little fresh lassies dress their dolls 
 
 In the shade of maple trees; 
 They rock them soft, as I would rock 
 
 My baby on my knees. . . . 
 
 The little brown lads are flying kites 
 
 Where the sloping hilltops shine; 
 O dear green hills, share this with me, 
 
 For none of them are mine ! 
 And the little fresh lassies toss their jacks 
 
 On the pavement cool and gray — 
 O city streets, share this with me. 
 
 For I am alone all dav! 
 
 ODELL SHEPARD 
 
 137. The Adventurer 
 
 HE did not come in the red dawn, 
 He did not come at noon, 
 And all the long bright highway 
 Lay lonely to the moon. 
 
 And never more, we know now. 
 Will he come wandering down 
 
 The breezy hollows of the hills 
 Into the quiet town. 
 
 For he has heard a voice cry 
 
 A starry- faint "Ahoy!" 
 Far up the wind, and followed 
 
 Unquestioning after joy. 
 
ODELL SHEPARD 
 
 But we are long forgetting 
 
 The quiet way he went, 
 With looks of love and gentle scorn 
 
 So sweetly, subtly blent. 
 
 We cannot cease to wonder, 
 We two who loved him, how 
 
 He fares along the windy ways 
 His feet must travel now. 
 
 But we must draw the curtain 
 And fasten bolts and bars 
 
 And talk, here in the firelight. 
 Of him beneath the stars. 
 
 JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 138. The Dance in the Steerage 
 
 THE lights are dim on the steerage deck, 
 But the stars are big and nigh. 
 And a white wave flashes by the rail 
 Whenever the deck goes high. 
 
 They have cleared a space among the ropes 
 
 Enough to spin a top. 
 And there the cook and a mother of nine 
 
 Spin round with never a stop, — 
 
 Spin like a top, spin like a ball. 
 
 Spin like a humming wheel. 
 Spin like a world upon its poles 
 
 On tireless toe and heel. 
 
 And what's the tune to which they spin? 
 
 Accordion, fiddle, flute? 
 Tune of the white wave, tune of the stars. 
 
 Tune of the great souls mute? 
 
JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 
 Never a word and never a smile 
 And never a glance they drop, 
 
 Never a pause to scrape and bow, 
 But round and round like a top. 
 
 Never a glance and never a word 
 And never the ghost of a smile. 
 
 While stars go marching down the west 
 And waves wash mile on mile. 
 
 And is it love? And is it prayer? 
 
 And is it childish glee? 
 It is the craving of the world 
 
 And that which had to be. 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 139. Death, the Lover 
 
 WHEN no one else will come, and Evening draws 
 His robe of restful velvet close about; 
 And stilled unto a whisper is the shout 
 Of children; and a kind of quiet awes 
 The very voice of Memory, because 
 There is no longer need of anything 
 That Memory can give; and fingers cling 
 To passionless pure fingers; 'mid the pause, 
 Ofttimes a scarce-expected step is heard; 
 And, in the heart, a hand upon the knob. 
 That sets the breast expectantly athrob; 
 And, out of silence, languageless, a word. 
 
 Oh ! then the soul may know her mate is found. 
 And rise and smile and make a joyful sound. 
 
 122 
 
HERBERT CROMBIE HOWE 
 140. As m a Belfry 
 
 AS in a belfry let me live, 
 ^ High above the toiling town, 
 Looking down 
 From the enchanted sunset gold. 
 To behold 
 
 The dusking roofs, and lights that glimmer, 
 Where the wet streets shimmer. 
 And the lit shop-windows shine, 
 In a line. 
 
 As in a belfry let me live. 
 
 Over the hum of the human hive, 
 
 And still alive 
 
 With the thrill that shot it up. 
 
 Like a tall white lily cup. 
 
 Out of throbbing love and pain. 
 
 That, not in vain, 
 
 It might look across the years. 
 
 With wide eyes 
 
 Undimmed by tears. 
 
 Serene and wise. 
 
 As in a belfry let me live — 
 
 Let the doves about me flutter. 
 
 While my bells utter 
 
 Each dear hour, from morning's light. 
 
 Through the solemn, marching night, 
 
 That, far below. 
 
 Men may know 
 
 They may trust their sentinel, 
 
 They may hear his friendly bell 
 
 Their moments tell 
 
 To heaven's ear. 
 
 Leaning near. 
 
 123 
 
HERBERT CROMBIE HOWE 
 
 Blow, then, winds, and dash the rain, 
 
 Stars scurry through the clouds, till sun- 
 light comes again. 
 
 Love lift me, sorrow search me, but this 
 guerdon give, — 
 
 As in a belfry let me live ! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 141. The Whisper of the Sands 
 
 N 
 
 IGHT, and the golden glory of the moon 
 
 Above the undulant sweep of desert lands. 
 And borne o'er dusky dale and shimmering 
 dune 
 The whisper of the sands ! 
 
 Faint as the faintest ripple on the shore 
 Of Nile that holds its enigmatic spell; 
 
 Faint as the dawn-wind where tall palm-trees soar, 
 Or murmur in a shell! 
 
 Faint and inscrutable, freighted with the breath 
 
 Of ages that have long, long ceased to be; 
 Weighted with mysteries of birth and death. 
 Time and eternity ! 
 
 And so I linger till the night grows old 
 
 And the rose-blossom of the morn expands. 
 
 And hear these ceaseless marvels manifold, — 
 The whisper of the sands ! 
 
 124 
 
STEPHEN PHILLIPS 
 142. Tell England Here We Lie Content 
 
 (This epitaph was found roughly inscribed on the 
 grave of some English soldiers.) 
 
 WHAT paean, what victorious cry. 
 By which the molten sky is rent, 
 Can with this silent message vie, 
 *'Tell England here we lie content"? 
 
 Not theirs the medal or the clasp, 
 Not theirs the bannered monument; 
 • Ah, not for these the wreath to grasp ! 
 
 But in the waste to lie content. 
 
 And from the wandering wave as well. 
 From sailor as from soldier spent. 
 Still comes that sweet but stern farewell: 
 "Tell England here we lie content." 
 
 From coral deep, from utmost shore. 
 One voice ascends, but no lament. 
 From English dead the wide world o'er, 
 "Tell England here we lie content." 
 
 This is the language, this the tongue, 
 That holds or sea or continent. 
 Stronger than any song yet sung: 
 "Tell England here we lie content." 
 
 JAMES B. KENYON 
 
 143. A Quaker Maid 
 
 SHE sits beneath the trellised vine, 
 Beside the open door; 
 AVarm arabesques of sunlight shine 
 Along the chequered floor. 
 
JAMES B. KENYON 
 
 Her busy needles wink and glance 
 
 As still her task she plies; 
 By bordered walks the midges dance; 
 
 Above, the swallow flies. 
 
 Her face is calm; her eyes are meek; 
 
 About her smooth young throat, 
 And lightly blown o'er either cheek, 
 
 The silken tendrils float. 
 
 Beneath the snow-white kerchief spread 
 
 Across her placid breast, 
 Unvexed by change or darkling dread. 
 
 Her spirit lies at rest. 
 
 Peace is her world; no thought of ill, 
 
 Nor breath of sordid strife. 
 E'er taints the pure desires that fill 
 
 Her cool hushed round of life. 
 
 Afar the city roars; there sweeps 
 The long white way that gleams 
 
 For other feet; she sits and keeps 
 Alone her quiet dreams. 
 
 WILLIAM C. EDGAR 
 
 144. The Flag in Belgium 
 
 WE stood on Belgium's tortured soil, 
 War-scarred it was — blood red. 
 While Hunger stalked the smitten land 
 And widows mourned their dead; 
 And there was nowhere sign of hope. 
 
 And nowhere help was nigh, 
 Save in that spot where flew our flag, 
 The Stars and Stripes, on high. 
 
WILLIAM C. EDGAR 
 
 Beneath it, safe protected, lay 
 
 The food by Pity sent. 
 And where it waved, Compassion stood 
 
 With succor for the spent. 
 The little children blessed the flag, 
 
 And women kissed its bars, 
 And men looked up, again with hope 
 
 To gaze upon its stars. 
 
 Go, trace its glories to their source 
 
 In fights by land or sea. 
 And tell of all that made this flag 
 
 The emblem of the free, 
 But nobler fight was never waged 
 
 Nor higher honour gained 
 Than when, in Belgium, hunger-swept, 
 
 God's mercv it maintained. 
 
 CHARLES T. RYDER 
 
 145. Not Without Hope 
 
 N 
 
 OT without hope nor vainly have we sought, 
 
 Although no morning star, no gleam of dawn 
 Illumine the stupendous night of thought 
 Where the dear dead are gone: 
 
 Their bright embodied lives wholly depart: 
 The well-loved reassuring hand at meeting, 
 
 The spoken music of the friendly heart. 
 The good, quick smile of greeting. 
 
CHARLES T. RYDER 
 
 This is our sorrow. But the generous soul, 
 
 The proud and passionate striving after good, 
 
 The honest human kindness toward earth's whole 
 Perplexed sad brotherhood, 
 
 These shall not perish, if with hearts made sound 
 We labor on, their labor to complete; 
 
 Their goal of immortality is found. 
 Their death is not defeat. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 146. Ulysses in Ithaca 
 
 ITHACA, Ithaca, the land of my desire! 
 I'm home again in Ithaca, beside my own hearthfire. 
 Sweet patient eyes have welcomed me, all tenderness 
 and truth. 
 Wherein I see kept sacredly the visions of our youth — 
 Yet sometimes, even as I hear the calm 
 Deep breathing of Penelope at rest 
 Beside me — cravingly my empty palm 
 Curves to the memory of Calypso's breast. 
 Ah, wild immortal mistress ! With a smile 
 You crowned my passion as a goddess can. 
 I would not, if I might, regain your isle — 
 Nor would I lose remembrance, being man. 
 
 128 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Ithaca, Ithaca, the wind among the trees, 
 
 The peasant singing at his toil, the murmuring of bees. 
 
 The minstrel plucking at the harp when cups are on the 
 
 board. 
 The measure of the martial dance, the rhythmic shield 
 and sword — 
 
 But oh, the sword-song broken in the beat, 
 
 The sword-song that I heard by Simois ! 
 
 The high fierce cry of battle's crimson heat — 
 
 Whatever else I hear, I lose not this. 
 
 No, nor that unimaginable song 
 
 When through my straining limbs the cord cut far. 
 
 Pallas, I thank thee that the bonds were strong — 
 
 Yet was the siren's music worth the scar! 
 
 Ithaca, Ithaca, and peace when day is done; 
 
 Life like a weary eagle folding wings at set of sun. 
 
 The round of homely duties, the temperate delight. 
 
 The simple pleasure of the day, the quiet rest at night — 
 
 But I have known the thrill of danger's face; 
 
 Have launched my spirit as a spear is cast. 
 
 The world and hell have been my living-place, 
 
 Who choose to die in Ithaca at last. 
 
 Odysseus has foregone the wanderer's part — 
 
 But, mighty Zeus ! how good it is to know 
 
 That I have held a goddess to my heart 
 
 And fought heroic giants, long ago! 
 
JOYCE KILMER 
 
 147. Wealth 
 
 FROM what old ballad or from what rich frame 
 Did you descend to glorify the earth? 
 Was it from Chaucer's singing-book you came? 
 Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth? 
 
 Nothing more exquisite than that slim hand 
 
 Did Raffael or Leonardo trace. 
 Nor could the poets learn in Fairyland 
 
 To write the lyric wonder of your face. 
 
 I would possess a store of lovely things 
 But I am poor and so this may not be: 
 
 Yet God, who lifts the poor and humbles kings 
 Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me. 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 148. Christmas Eve 
 
 WOULD Jesus come to me, Mither, 
 The morrow's Christmas morn, 
 Wearin' the bonny smile he had 
 That day that he was born, 
 Around his head a wreath o' light, 
 And not a twig o' thorn, — 
 
 I'd open wide the doore, Mither, 
 The way that he'd come in; 
 
 And not to gi' him pain at all, 
 I'd keep my heart from sin; 
 
 And all I could to pleasure him 
 I'd right at once begin. 
 130 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 Not in a stall should he be laid, 
 
 But on me own fine bed; 
 And half me porridge, wi' me own 
 
 Small spoon should he be fed, 
 The while his Mither smiled, and shared 
 
 Wi' you the bit o' bread. 
 
 'Twould be a time o' joy, Mither ! 
 
 But thinkin' o' they things, 
 'Tis maybe well he should be there, 
 
 Wi' ward o' angel-wings; 
 I doubt they'd miss him so! — the kine. 
 
 The shepherds, and the kings! 
 
 RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 
 149. Mary in Thy Clear Young Eyes 
 
 (A Madonna by Dagnan-Bouveret) 
 
 OMARY in thy clear young eyes 
 What sorrow came at His first cry? 
 What hint of how He was to die 
 Disturbed thee in that calm sunrise . . . 
 What shadow from the paling sky 
 Did fall across thy Paradise? 
 
 Dreamed thou the Garden . . . and the Tree? 
 Knew it was for the little child 
 Whose lips against thy warm breast smiled? 
 So sweet, that body close to thee . . . 
 By men's rough hands to be defiled; 
 So frail ... yet waiting Calvary! 
 * * * 
 
 Ah, once I too lay spent and wan, 
 A tiny head against my heart. 
 
RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 
 
 And had my vision of the part 
 A child must play when years had gone — 
 And then I felt the quick tears start, 
 Remembering Jesus in the dawn. 
 
 O Mary, mother without guile, 
 
 We mothers with the stain of earth 
 
 Marring the sanctity of birth, 
 
 See heaven in thy baby's smile, 
 
 And, sinning, know the holy worth 
 
 Of what thou, sinless, dreamed that while. 
 
 HENRY ADAMS BELLOWS 
 
 150. After Sunset in the Rockies 
 
 QUIETNESS everywhere: 
 The lake, that but an hour since was tossed 
 Into a make-believe of ocean rage, 
 Now lies beneath the eyes of heaven in calm. 
 Inscrutable peace. It has a loveliness 
 Too pure for motion. 
 
 All around, the peaks, 
 That in full day spoke terribly of strength 
 And storm and battle and of victory. 
 With nightfall put their rugged armor off. 
 And softly they draw near, and kindliness 
 
 Is in their silence. 
 
 Darker it grows. 
 And stars pierce through the infinite depth of sky; 
 The colors fade and vanish, till the world — 
 The silent lake, the cliffs and jagged peaks. 
 The star-strewn vault above — all join together 
 
 In blended darkness. 
 
HENRY ADAMS BELLOWS 
 
 These selfsame crags 
 But now were resonant with Valkyr shouts; 
 The flames of battle played round yon red peak, 
 And through the air the cavalry of storm 
 Drove their battalions, while the howling wind 
 
 Sounded the charge. 
 
 Peace after turmoil, 
 A peace as all-pervading as the dark, 
 That purifies the heart of willfulness 
 And all the insignificance of care, 
 Comes softly down the purple mountain-slopes, 
 
 The gift of night. 
 
 Nor time nor space 
 Can dim the vision of that silent lake 
 Charmed out of madness, and those gaunt, scarred 
 
 peaks 
 Turned by night's magic into loveliness, 
 While in the sky the stars came quietly. 
 
 And with them peace. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 151. A Song of Living 
 
 BECAUSE I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow 
 to die. 
 I have sent up my gladness on wings, to be lost in 
 the blue of the sky. 
 I have run and leaped with the rain, I have taken the 
 
 wind to my breast. 
 My cheek like a drowsy child to the face of the earth I 
 
 have pressed. 
 Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. 
 
 133 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 I have kissed young Love on the lips, I have heard his 
 
 song to the end. 
 I have struck my hand like a seal in the loyal hand of 
 
 a friend. 
 I have known the peace of heaven, the comfort of work 
 
 done well. 
 I have longed for death in the darkness and risen alive 
 
 out of hell. 
 Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. 
 
 I give a share of my soul to the world where my course 
 
 is run. 
 I know that another shall finish the task I must leave 
 
 undone. 
 I know that no flower, no flint was in vain on the path 
 
 I trod. 
 As one looks on a face through a window, through life 
 
 I have looked on God. 
 Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. 
 
 JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 152. Lynch Law 
 
 ("Bloody instructions which, being taught, return to plague 
 the inventor,") 
 
 WHEN they ran him down hill, what did Moyer 
 think? 
 Down the hill from Hancock, to the water's brink, 
 Down the hill from Hancock to put him on the train, 
 A bullet in his back and riot in his brain? 
 
 Shades of Harry Orchard! was he haunted then? 
 Dynamite, and buckshot, and dynamite again? 
 Independence depot, the horror and the pain? 
 Did he think of Cripple Creek and of Coeur d'Alene? 
 
 134 
 
JOSEPH WARREN BEACH 
 
 Could he read the future, how it followed suit 
 When they planted powder in the streets of Butte? 
 When the rebel miners turned upon the chief 
 And slipping out the back way, he vanished like a thief? 
 
 When they ran him down hill, what did Moyer think? 
 Did he hold his head high, or did he cower and slink? 
 Did he smile to greet the terrors he had loosed: — 
 "These are all my black-birds coming home to roost"? 
 
 RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 
 
 153. At the Old Ladies' Home 
 
 THERE in a row of chairs upon the porch 
 I saw them, women alien from the world. 
 Set in a niche to watch the world go by : 
 A few, born saints . . . but some had outworn sin; 
 Sisters at last, from having done with life. 
 
 Here Joan of Arc, grown past her soldier-dream. 
 And Mariamne, spared her Herod's wrath. 
 Forgetting Herod, gossiped for an hour; 
 While calm Francesca, once knowing Paolo's love, 
 Sat knitting peaceful in the noonday sun. 
 And Nicolette, with Aucassin long gone. 
 Made painful writing with a wrinkled hand. 
 
 "Ah, let me die," I prayed, "before the glow 
 Shall leave my body, and before my tears 
 Shall buy me patience; take me while I feel 
 The lure-of-things that blesses with its hurt — 
 Dear God, give me not age!" (For I would keep 
 You in my heart of hearts . . . for whose sad eyes 
 These lines are set, O Dearest ... to the last.) 
 
 135 
 
RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 
 
 Just then, among the many faces there, 
 I glimpsed a face most delicate and pale 
 And very lovely with that wistfulness 
 In which the shadows of long sorrow lie; 
 Meeting my look, she smiled, and, with that smile. 
 Somehow the lilacs by the iron fence, 
 The plumed grass brushing low across the path. 
 Brought back to me an afternoon in May 
 And a sweet garden where I sometimes played 
 When I fared forth in gingham pinafore: 
 I saw Another (dead so many years. 
 Her name I could not in that hour recall) : 
 Old she had been as ashes in a jar 
 She kept upon a high, old-fashioned chest 
 In an old-fashioned room in her still house . . . 
 Now I remembered with what passionate warmth 
 A cheek had once been pressed against my cheek. 
 What frail and trembling arms had lifted me 
 To touch that silvery dust within the jar. 
 
 Perhaps it is God's will I shall grow old 
 
 And none may read beneath my quietness . . . 
 
 Gardens in May, or any memory 
 
 Of you! And yet for very shame tonight 
 
 I change my prayer, and ask for strength to live. 
 
 THERESA HELBURN 
 154. The Aviator 
 
 SWIFT through the night I sped on vibrant wing, 
 The hooded death beside me slumbering. 
 And in my heart strange passions newly born. 
 Over the edge of night slow crept the morn, 
 And far beneath the patterned earth lay bare; 
 
THERESA HELBURN 
 
 Fallow and field and forest, square on square, 
 
 Tiny and tenantless, while overhead 
 
 The crimson, sleepless meadows of the dead 
 
 Had sent their messenger. Onward I flew 
 
 Until I saw, and seeing, slowly knew 
 
 The gray roof where the singing rails converged. 
 
 A leaping flame of exultation surged ! 
 
 The black death woke beneath my hand, and fell, 
 
 A sudden, swift ambassador of Hell, 
 
 Straight to its goal. The silence cried aloud 
 
 In agony, so shattered, and a crowd 
 
 Of lesser voices answered me in kind 
 
 With venomous tongue. Laughing, upon the wind 
 
 I rose . . . 
 
 The earth fell from me like a falling stone. 
 
 I scaled the steep cliff of the sky, and stung 
 
 The swift machine to madness! Lo, I hung 
 
 Motionless in a world where nothing moved ! 
 
 Distance was not and time had ceased to be! 
 
 Annihilated by eternity 
 
 Man's utmost effort failed ! My startled soul. 
 
 Stripped of its passions, humbled, and made whole, 
 
 Drank a new wisdom from that endless sea 
 
 Of silence, and I trod eternity, 
 
 God's equal, and God's peace within my heart ! 
 
 Downward at last. The uprising earth again. 
 
 The eager hands, the questionings of men. 
 
 And thunderous praise that roused no answering flame. 
 
 The deed they cheered, it was not mine to claim; 
 
 Somewhere beyond that farthest rim of cloud 
 
 The doer of the deed had found his shroud. 
 
 And the green crown they wreathed about my head 
 
 Was but a funeral token for one dead. 
 
 137 
 
TUDOR JENKS 
 155. A Portrait by Velasquez 
 
 (The portrait speaks) 
 
 "T3INALDO DE LA MURCIA— never mind my 
 XV titles- 
 
 Painted by Velasquez, if that's the fellow's 
 name. 
 It took a dozen sittings at least, as I remember; 
 As many wasted trials before the likeness came. 
 
 "Likeness, did I call it? Well, well, there's some re- 
 semblance ; 
 
 The chin's too sharp, the nose too thin, the eyes a 
 trifle light; 
 
 But still, it has distinction, the Duke and Duchess told 
 me. 
 
 Though Dona Ysabel insists the picture is a fright. 
 
 **I paid a thousand pieces in pity for the craftsman — 
 
 His doublet was wofn threadbare, and he had a 
 hatchet face. 
 
 Such creatures should be pensioned and kept to paint 
 our portraits, 
 
 For all posterity should know the men of mark and 
 race. 
 
 "I do not grudge the money, though it cost a month's 
 campaigning, 
 
 We took the castle, burned it, and carried oflF the gold. 
 
 It may be that this old daub will make the tale more 
 vivid 
 
 When to my children's children that sharp fray shall 
 be told." 
 
 * * m * 
 
 The painted lips were silent. I bent to scan the canvass. 
 
 It bore a date I could n^t read, and painter's name 
 alone. 
 
 And then I read the label: "A Portrait by Velasquez; 
 Recently discovered. The subject is unknown." 
 138 
 
JAMES B. KENYON 
 156. Belated 
 
 H 
 
 ERE through years she dwelt apart; 
 
 Still I see her, as of old; 
 Round her swallows wheel and dart, 
 Summer spreads its cloth of gold. 
 
 Droning bees in dew-wet flowers, 
 
 Ploughmen shouting to their teams, 
 
 Whisperings of fragrant showers — 
 All are mingled with her dreams. 
 
 Backward roll the cloudy years; 
 
 Other scenes before her rise; 
 Other sounds are in her ears; 
 
 Other suns climb other skies. 
 
 She, a damsel sore distressed, 
 From her ivied casement high 
 
 Leans with dolor-stricken breast. 
 Watching with a haggard eye; 
 
 Till, through mists that blur her sight, 
 Pricking o'er the wide champaign. 
 
 She beholds her proud young knight 
 Leading up his bannered train. 
 
 And she knows the hour is near 
 
 When, beyond that prisoning wall. 
 
 She shall vanish without fear — 
 Borne afar, love's happy thrall. 
 
 Or, through fields with daisies pied. 
 Hooded falcon on her wrist. 
 
 Slim hound frisking at her side. 
 Forth she fares to keep her tryst. 
 
JAMES B. KENYON 
 
 There where immemorial trees 
 
 Lift gnarled boughs to sun and rain, 
 
 Mid bird-haunted privacies, 
 
 Lives the old sweet tale again. 
 
 Thus, while tongues still clashed and strove, 
 
 And joy withered at a breath. 
 Her unaging spirit wove 
 
 Rainbows o'er the gulfs of death. 
 
 Gentle dreamer! soul of snow! 
 
 Out of place and season born. 
 Hither come — how, none may know — 
 
 Wandering from some earlier morn. 
 
 Teach us, though the world be wide, 
 And life miss its high emprise, 
 
 That the heart, whate'er betide. 
 Still may find its Paradise. 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 157. Vagabondage 
 
 IO, I have done awhile with haste, 
 ^ With weary wendings up and down; 
 
 Freed of all bonds I range the waste 
 Beyond the turmoil of the town. 
 
 More than may be revealed in words 
 I joy in what I hear and see; 
 
 I know the fellowship of birds, 
 And I am kinsman to the bee. 
 
 As fancy moves I pause or pass; 
 
 My tarrying is long or brief; 
 I join the wind-song to the grass. 
 
 The lyric laughters of the leaf. 
 
 140 
 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 A swaying fern my thought beguiles, 
 
 A ripple as it cools the cress; 
 A wayside flower upon me smiles, 
 
 And I am wrapt in happiness. 
 
 I have so yearned for artless things. 
 Have been so long unreconciled, 
 
 The tiniest gnat, with gauzy wings, 
 Transports me as it would a child. 
 
 Withdrawn from stress, apart from strife, 
 
 To loving nature I respond. 
 And drain the deepest draughts of life, 
 
 A vagrant and a vagabond! 
 
 ETHEL TALBOT SCHEFFAUER 
 158. The Valiant Dust 
 
 SO long it is since first the eddying world 
 Spun for itself a being; ah, since then, 
 Into the sterile waste of darkness hurled. 
 Have gone to dust so many goodly men. 
 
 So often through the seasonal wax and wane 
 
 From death to death by the strange gate of birth, 
 
 Strong men have slain each other and been slain. 
 And given their body's pride to the gray earth. 
 
 Under the plough there is not any clod, 
 
 Cumbering in late March the fruitful ground. 
 
 But was the fleshly raiment of a god. 
 
 Whom the earth clips within its narrow bound. 
 
 The thin house dust one lightly casts aside 
 Somehow distils the strength of armored men 
 
 And fragrance of all beauty that has died, — 
 This common dust that rides the wind again, — 
 
 141 
 
ETHEL TALBOT SCHEFFAUER 
 
 And like the soul that there inhabited, 
 
 No more beholds on heights far off the gleam 
 
 Where, on the dim innumerable dead. 
 
 Shines down the years the imperishable dream. 
 
 THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 159. In a Garden 
 
 WOMAN, Woman, idly dreaming 
 In thy sheltered garden sweet. 
 Dost thou hear the mighty music 
 And the tread of marching feet? 
 'Tis thy Sisters on the highway. 
 Wide their banners are unfurled 
 Flinging out an eager challenge, 
 "Come thou forth into the world ?" 
 
 Oh, I see my Sisters marching, 
 And I hear their onward cry, 
 And my spirit leaps to greet them 
 As they pass me proudly by; 
 But shall no one tend the garden, 
 Watch its miracles unclose? 
 Patient wait upon the lily 
 To consider how it grows? 
 
 Woman, Woman, art thou singing? 
 Dost not know, in times like these, 
 There is no one who will listen 
 To thy simple melodies? 
 Hast not heard the distant thunder. 
 Hast not seen the pallid things 
 That lie. helpless neath the shadow 
 Of the war-bird's awful wings? 
 
 142 
 
THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 I have heard the cannon roaring, 
 
 I have seen the vultures fly, 
 
 Have dreamed of moonlit battle-fields 
 
 Where the ghastly dead men lie. 
 
 And I've wakened to the singing 
 
 Of the skyward speeding lark, 
 
 I have watched the flush of morning 
 
 Creeping slowly o'er the dark. 
 
 Should the wearied God of Battles, 
 
 Fleeing from conflicting prayers, 
 
 Walk once more at cool of evening 
 
 In a garden unawares. 
 
 Should He find there some one singing, 
 
 Happy on the quiet ground. 
 
 Might not He who marks the sparrow 
 
 Pause to listen to the sound? 
 
 MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 160. And If You Came 
 
 AND if you came? — Oh, I would smile 
 And sit quite still to hide 
 My throat that something clutched the while, 
 My heart that struck my side. 
 
 And you would hear my slow words fall 
 
 (Men do not know!) and say, 
 "She does not love me now at all," 
 
 And rise and go away. 
 
 And I would watch, as quietly 
 
 Your footsteps crossed the sill. 
 The whole world dying out from me . . . 
 
 And speak on smiling still. 
 
 143 
 
LOUISE FOLEY FINERTY 
 
 161. The Grave 
 
 WHEN I am dead and must be buried deep, 
 Let it not be 
 
 Beneath commemorated sod 
 To sleep a still and formal sleep; 
 But in the green untrammelled sea, 
 Or in some mountain place untrod. 
 
 There will the things that I have loved so long 
 
 Be with me still, 
 
 There shall 1 keep high festival 
 
 With wind and wave, and hear the song 
 
 Of birds that haunt the spray or fill 
 
 The crags with clamour and fierce call. 
 
 Perhaps tall ships will sail across my breast, 
 
 Strong, lovely ships! 
 
 Or, mingled with the salty foam 
 
 Blown bright along the evening west, 
 
 I'll kiss the weather-beaten lips 
 
 Of sailors singing to be home. 
 
 Or my heart's dust, after long days and days, 
 
 Will be made one 
 
 With those huge, timeless rocks that know 
 
 The mysteries of space, and raise 
 
 Strange pinnacles of ice and snow. 
 
 Familiar with the stars and sun. 
 
 There shall I know again the loneliness 
 That did, in hours 
 Of close commune with nature, roll 
 A great cool tide to heal and bless 
 And change to unsuspected powers 
 The scorching passions of my soul. 
 
SCUDDER MIDDLETON 
 
 162. Children 
 
 THOUGH there is something that I long to tell, 
 I do not often stop and speak to them. 
 For when I do it is an awkward phrase 
 That comes self-conscious, halting to my lips — 
 A foolish chatter such as nurses make, — 
 And they grow ill at ease and turn away, 
 Or else look wide-eyed up at me and smile. 
 As though they thought it fun that I, so big. 
 Knew not the secret ways of little words; 
 And this is strange to me, for once I spoke 
 That very language they can understand. 
 I think I learned it from the simple flowers. 
 Or it was taught me by the quiet stars, — 
 But now, somehow, I have forgotten it. 
 Somehow have lost the secret of it all, — 
 Now I am silent when I am with them. 
 Though there is something that I long to say. 
 
 BADGER CLARK 
 
 163. The Bad Lands 
 
 NO fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide; 
 It is all stark red and gray. 
 And strewn with bones that had lived and died 
 Ere the first man saw the day. 
 When the sharp crests dream in the sunset gleam. 
 
 And the bat through the canyon veers, 
 You will sometimes catch, if you listen long. 
 The tones of the Bad Lands' mystic song, 
 A song of a million years. 
 
 The place is as dry as a crater cup. 
 
 Yet you hear, as the stars shine free. 
 
 From the barren gulches sounding up, 
 The lap of a spawning sea. 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 
 A breeze that cries where the great ferns rise 
 
 From the pools on a new-made shore, 
 With the whip and whirr of batlike wings, 
 And the snarl of slimy, fighting things, 
 And the tread of the dinosaur. 
 
 Then the sea voice ebbs through untold morns. 
 
 And the jungle voices reign, — 
 The hunting howl and the clash of horns. 
 
 And the screech of rage and pain. 
 Harsh and grim is the old earth hymn 
 
 In that far brute paradise, 
 And as ages drift the rough strains fall 
 To a single note more grim than all. 
 
 The crack of the glacial ice. 
 
 So the song runs on, with shift and change. 
 Through the years that have no name, 
 And the late notes soar to a higher range, 
 
 But the theme is still the same. 
 Man's battle-cry and the guns* reply 
 
 Blend in with the old, old rhyme 
 That was traced in the score of the strata marks 
 While millenniums winked like campfire sparks 
 
 Down the winds of unguessed time. 
 
 There's a finer fight than of tooth and claw, 
 
 More clean than of blade and gun. 
 But, fair or foul, by the Great Bard's law 
 
 'Twill be fight till the song is done. 
 Not mine to sigh for the song's deep "why," 
 
 Which only the Great Bard hears. 
 My soul steps out to the martial swing 
 Of the brave old song that the Bad Lands sing. 
 
 The song of a million years. 
 
SARA TEASDALE 
 
 164. Remembered Beauty 
 
 (To E) 
 
 I HAVE remembered beauty in the night, 
 Against black silences I waked to see 
 A shower of sunlight over Italy 
 And green Ravello dreaming on her height; 
 I have remembered music in the dark, 
 
 The clean swift beauty of a fugue of Bach's 
 And running water singing on the rocks 
 When once in English woods I heard a lark. 
 
 But all remembered beauty is no more 
 
 Than a vague prelude to the thought of you — 
 You are the rarest soul I ever knew, 
 
 Lover of beauty, knightliest and best; 
 
 My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the 
 
 shore, 
 And when I think of you, I am at rest. 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 
 165. Mastery 
 
 I WOULD not have a god come in 
 To shield me suddenly from sin, 
 And set my house of life to rights; 
 Nor angels with bright burning wings 
 Ordering my earthly thoughts and things; 
 Rather my own frail guttering lights 
 Wind-blown and nearly beaten out. 
 Rather the terror of the nights 
 And long sick groping after doubt, 
 Rather be lost than let my soul 
 Slip vaguely from my own control — 
 Of my own spirit let me be 
 In sole though feeble mastery. 
 
MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 166. The Sorceress 
 
 IN innermost mute closures of the sea 
 (Some say flotillas founder at her door!), 
 Amid the mildewed ruined ships ashore 
 And safe from wailing gales eternally. 
 
 Upon grown-duU doubloons enthroned is she. 
 Before her, lordly masts like pylons rise. 
 Drowned ermine and spoiled purple swathe her 
 
 thighs ; 
 And there is hint — which must voluptuous be — 
 
 Of jewelled anklets jangling without sound ! 
 Such necklaces as Death bestows on her 
 Would gleam upon that bosom did it stir; 
 
 But it is still, and in like silence bound 
 
 Are admirals and captains prisoned there — 
 Entangled in the torment of her hair! 
 
 JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 
 167. June 
 
 YON dragonfly is friends with me 
 And by my dingle goes 
 The solemn, priestly bumble-bee, 
 That marries rose to rose. 
 
 My book? In sooth I'm using it 
 To pillow up my head: 
 This day-lay is a brighter bit 
 Than any I have read. 
 
 My pipe and I are company. 
 (The cat-bird thinks it queer 
 That I should burn so carelessly — 
 Note now his call and leer.) 
 
 148 
 
JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 
 
 All morning-time, from dawn till noon, 
 I fished and mused and fished; 
 One wee-est bite had I for boon: 
 'Twas all the boon I wished. 
 
 I roam in eye-reach many a mile. 
 In fancy further roam; 
 The hours like fairy smiles beguile 
 My heart to my heart's home. 
 
 Yon veery is great friends with me. 
 And by my hollow goes 
 The grumbling, mumbling bumble-bee, 
 That weds red rose to rose. 
 
 HERBERT J. HALL 
 168. The End of the Storm 
 
 IN the dim east where weed-brown rocks lie bare 
 The weary sea uplifts a cloud of spray — 
 The last white banner of the vanquished storm. 
 A long, low wave sweeps onward to the shore, 
 It floods the worn vault of a rocky cave 
 With sharp compression like a great door shut. 
 Then slides back seaward, spent and spiritless. 
 That is the end. Thin foam will wash and fret 
 Along the blackened ledges but the tide 
 Runs low, the sea has lost its boisterous power. 
 Around the point the coastwise shipping spreads 
 Great mildewed sails to catch the drying sun. 
 
 149 
 
MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 169. My Heart Said *' Hasten !" 
 
 WHEN I come back in the gloom 
 To my lighted house once more 
 My heart says, "Haste tonight! 
 There is something you do not know, 
 Something to give you joy. 
 On the other side of the door 
 There in the firelight's glow, 
 There in the lighted room." 
 
 My quick heart whispers me, 
 "The lover you have not known 
 Is waiting you there tonight, 
 Do you wonder that I rejoice? . . . 
 Or the kinsman gone over-sea. 
 The one they have always said 
 Would surely come back some day 
 • Waits for you, brown, wind-blown . . . 
 
 Or the dearest one of the dead 
 Waits in the ring of light, 
 With the old glad face and voice 
 As if he were never away . . . 
 Hasten!" my heart has said. 
 
 But when I open the door 
 There are only the old lights 
 And the old accustomed faces 
 And the firelight on the floor. . . . 
 
HERBERT J. HALL 
 170. The Winged Victory 
 
 NO question shall I make of what you mean 
 Oh winged victory superb and free — 
 Nor wonder that your spirit lives serene, 
 Immortal in its spreading majesty. 
 Yours is a conquest all unmarred by hate 
 And gentle as the onward march of spring — 
 The sweeping glory of a soul elate 
 But tender in the hour of triumphing. 
 
 WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 MUSINGS OF PIERROT 
 171. Pierrot Gives an Accounting 
 
 I 
 
 AM rich, but not in gold, 
 
 Very young when she is by: 
 In her absence then am I 
 Very old. 
 
 Old, so old that, in eclipse. 
 
 My desire begins to freeze: 
 Then come kisses — velvet bees 
 On her lips. 
 
 Redder lips there never were, 
 
 Thawing frozen passion through, 
 Until swarming kisses do 
 Warm the air. 
 
 With what rapture and desire 
 Is my vagrant fancy filled! 
 Burning, where my veins were chilled, 
 What sweet fire! 
 
 151 
 
WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 Heart to heart and hour by hour, 
 
 Never a marauding bee 
 Cherished such a treasury 
 In a flower. 
 
 Wayward hair as dark as jet, 
 
 Blue eyes, tender as the dawn, 
 In a gown of snowy lawn 
 Thrills Pierrette. 
 
 172. Pierrot and Pierrette at the Window 
 
 w 
 
 HAT though we shape no mighty thing 
 
 In word or deed. 
 Nor sing as organ voices sing, 
 
 Hymning a creed ! 
 
 Good-will, Pierrette, to all the crowd 
 
 Is something still 
 Reserved for us to hum aloud; 
 
 To all, good-will! 
 
 Our windows, facing toward the sun. 
 
 Are dim and small; 
 And our own vision from each one 
 
 Is all in all. 
 
 Searching above and under ground. 
 
 Our fancies grope. 
 Only to learn what may be found 
 
 This side of hope. 
 
 What wonders haply glorify 
 
 The other side, 
 Where lurking, veiled from mortal eye, 
 
 The heavens hide! 
 152 
 
WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 173. The Home-Coming of Pierrette 
 
 w 
 
 HOSE footfall is it on the stair? 
 
 What sweet white spell 
 Is laid like perfume on the air. 
 
 Where we — we dwell? 
 
 A dear hand hovers at the door: 
 
 The gods begin 
 To open heaven more and more: 
 
 Come in — come in ! 
 
 Since morning has she been away, 
 
 Whose absence makes 
 Each moment longer than a day 
 
 That never breaks. 
 
 Ah me! that she should ever fail 
 
 To gladden all 
 The poor place, like a nightingale, 
 
 At evenfall! 
 
 Blinded by star-dust in our eyes, 
 
 Do we regret 
 Our home is very near the skies? 
 
 Pierrette, Pierrette! 
 
 174. The Protest of Pierrot 
 
 (1914) 
 
 1IKE harsh bells tolling in a trance, 
 J War is declared ! 
 
 Pierrette, the happiness of France 
 May not be spared ! 
 
 153 
 
WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 Think of sweet bleeding France and all 
 
 The joy to come, 
 Being defeated — and the pall 
 
 On hope and home! 
 
 Home — home, Pierrette, for us at least 
 
 Who waited long, 
 And who had put aside the feast 
 
 To hear the song! 
 
 War is declared ! Versailles ablaze ! 
 
 The world is bared! 
 God ! but the great nights and the days 
 
 Love had declared! 
 
 175. Pierrot Mourns the Death of Pierrette 
 
 A 
 
 H ! was the soul of Cain 
 More deeply shaken 
 
 At the red dawn of pain, 
 Or more forsaken? 
 
 Ages or hours ago. 
 
 Was it the sighing 
 News came from Bergamo? 
 
 Pierrette was dying. 
 
 She who had meant so much. 
 
 Not to me only. 
 But whose dear voice and touch 
 
 Made life less lonely. , 
 
 Ages or hours ago. 
 
 Was it the hurried 
 Message from Bergamo 
 
 Said she was buried? 
 
WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 Much had she been alone, 
 
 Gentle, forgiving, 
 Rapturous in her own 
 
 Wonder at living. 
 
 Placid and pale her brow, 
 
 Jealousies banished. 
 Nothing else matters now: 
 
 Pierrette has vanished. 
 
 Deep in my heart a drouth, 
 
 Parching, discloses 
 Cinders — and in my mouth 
 
 Ashes of roses. 
 
 MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 176. An Afternoon 
 
 THIS was one of the dreary whiles 
 When a woman sits and smiles 
 Wishing all the talk was over. 
 Inward thought a weary rover . . . 
 But my lips smiled vividly — 
 Ah, the women could not see 
 How my hand in yours lay warm 
 Through wide miles of sun and storm 
 (Far away, dear, did you know 
 That I smiled to feel it so?) 
 And my eyes burned bright, elate. 
 Into theirs of drearie.r fate 
 Seeing your eyes' lovingness 
 Into mine smile deep and bless, 
 (Far away, love, did you see 
 On your eyes mine lovingly?) 
 While between the words they made. 
 Weary words, I think, dull- weighed. 
 
MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 We were talking each to each; 
 Why, too short for all our speech 
 Was the lingering afternoon, 
 Throbbing fast and vanished soon 
 (Far away, love, did you hear 
 All I whispered in your ear?) 
 
 And they said — I heard them say — 
 *'What it is to be young and gay ! 
 How she pleasured in the day !" 
 
 ARTHUR GUITERMAN 
 
 177. The Quest 
 
 (A Lithuanian folk-song) 
 
 SWEET was the song that the Princess trolled 
 To the Youth as he rode away: 
 ''Bring me the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 And the Snow of a Summer Day !" 
 
 Afar he fared and his heart was bold — 
 
 He feared not flood nor fray. 
 Yet he found not the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 
 Nor the Snow ot a Summer Day. 
 
 The night was clear and the white moon rolled 
 
 When under the oak he lay 
 And dreamed of the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 
 And the Snow of a Summer Day. 
 
 156 
 
ARTHUR GUITERMAN 
 
 There came a Bird with a crest of gold 
 
 And carolled a roundelay, 
 And all of the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 
 And the Snow of a Summer Day: 
 
 "I see the fir on the frosty wold, 
 The foam on the waves at play, — 
 
 And there is the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 And the Snow of a Summer Day!" 
 
 He took of the plume of the fir tree old 
 And the foam of the billow gray, 
 
 And brought her the Flower of the Winter Cold 
 And the Snow of a Summer Day. 
 
 LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 178. The Road 
 
 DOWN the long road we went. 
 Friends and lovers, we two. 
 Incredibly content. 
 Tingling somehow with the commonplace view; 
 Amazed at the heaven's most casual blue. 
 Sniffing the air with astonishment, 
 As though for the first time we knew 
 The sharp smell of the pine-woods blent 
 With the vague wild rose's scent. 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 Each roadside flower that ran along with us 
 
 Suddenly seemed a thing miraculous; 
 
 Translating all its magic into song. 
 
 Even their names were music; faint and strong 
 
 They flashed godspeed and called from where they 
 
 grew — 
 The feathery clusters of the Meadow-Rue; 
 Red Lilies dancing by, with wanton feet; 
 The graceful spires of the Meadow-sweet. 
 Even the shy Sheep-laurel looked around 
 To stare with deep pink eyes; while, from the ground, 
 Soft as the thing from which it took its name. 
 The Infant's Breath with double sweetness came. 
 And over all the mingled richness lay 
 The hot, sweet fragrance of the drying hay . . . 
 
 The city slipped away; 
 
 Its harshness melted as the twilight grew; 
 
 Its power was spent. 
 
 Something was walking with us, something new; 
 
 It sang the world into our hearts and sent 
 
 Our spirits dancing to where Beauty lay 
 
 Over the heavens like a testament. 
 
 There was one star — and a great wash of blue . . . 
 
 Down the long road we went, 
 
 Friends and lovers, we two. 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 179. On Sunday Morning 
 
 FAR, far from here the church bells ring 
 As when I was a child; 
 And there is one I dearly love 
 Walks in the sunlight mild. 
 To church she goes and with her once 
 I went, a little child. 
 
 The church bells ring far, far away. 
 
 The village streets are bright. 
 The sunlight falls in slanting bars 
 
 And fills the church with light. 
 And I remember when I knelt 
 
 Beside her in delight. 
 
 There's something lost, there's something lost, 
 
 Some wisdom has beguiled ! 
 My heart has flown a thousand miles 
 
 And in the sunlight mild 
 It kneels and weeps beside her there. 
 
 And she prays for her child. 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 
 180. The Strawberry Man 
 
 THE April afternoon was long, 
 And though I heard a robin's song 
 From the grass-plot richly green 
 As the velvet cloak of a fairy queen, 
 And though the maple tips were red, 
 And many a jonquil bowed its head, 
 Yet Spring had sent no special word 
 Meant for me until I heard 
 Down in the street a man go by, 
 Calling low and calling high 
 **Straw-ber-ries, straw-ber-ries !" 
 
 159 
 
SARA TEASDALE 
 
 His passing voice had hurried me 
 Back to the child I used to be 
 Before the days when I was grown, 
 And all the years that I have known 
 Of storm and dream and love and grief 
 Fell like rain from a bending leaf — 
 I was a child with windy hair 
 Finding all things wild and fair, 
 And from my window looking far 
 Over roof and tree to the evening star, 
 And hearing a man sing far away 
 At the silver close of an April day 
 "Straw-ber-ries, straw-ber-ries." 
 
 JOSEPHINE LAWRENCE 
 181. Memory 
 
 I THOUGHT I had forgotten . . . 
 To help me to be brave, 
 I would not keep the treasures 
 That other women save. 
 
 The foolish little trifles 
 That wring our hearts with pain, 
 When, after aching silence. 
 They speak to us again. 
 
 The things that go on living 
 Long after love is dead — 
 I watched them burn to ashes. 
 Then faced the years ahead. 
 
 I thought I had forgotten: 
 I was serene, and strong, 
 Till, out of the dark last night. 
 Some one whistled your song! 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR. 
 182. A Prayer in Time of War 
 
 OGOD of battles, lift our hearts to Thee! 
 We had forgot, since Thou art Lord of life 
 That Thou art Lord of strife; 
 For we grew weary of the old stern ways. 
 Our spirits fine and thin 
 Winced at the name of sin — 
 That was an ugly word of cruder days. 
 We chose to learn and teach 
 A gentler thought, a softer sounding speech. 
 Heaven was a goal one could not help but win, 
 And there was no more hell, 
 Even on earth. We thought that to live well 
 Was to live long and prosper, so we beat 
 Our swords to ploughshares for the golden wheat. 
 From year to year we saw our wealth increase, 
 And when amid all this content we saw 
 Injustice in our land, we made a law — 
 And this, we said, was Peace . . . 
 While under our soft music was the roll 
 Of Thy resistless drum, that bade us face 
 The inevitable warfare of the soul. 
 But in our comfortable world no place 
 Was left for hate — even for hate of wrong. 
 We would not make a discord in our song. 
 God! how Thy trumpet blared 
 Wild terror on our spirits unprepared ! 
 Was Thy blind world so sodden in its ease 
 That Thou must write Thy warning on the sky 
 In characters like these? 
 
 That men may learn to live, must millions die? 
 Then, comrades, to the battle! Where is peace? 
 It was a dream that closed our drowsy eyes. 
 While evil is, our struggle may not cease. 
 Beyond the war that wakens us, there lies 
 
•AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Another and a fiercer war — the fight 
 
 Within our very souls, of wrong and right. 
 
 When freedom's flag for every nation flies. 
 
 Then comes the Armageddon of each heart, 
 
 Against the stealthy and insidious foes 
 
 That every conscience knows. 
 
 God grant us bravely each to do his part 
 
 For justice, honour, truth and brotherhood, 
 
 Knowing, whate'er the cost, the fight is good. 
 
 Not as today, with lives like wine outpoured 
 
 In sacrifice, O Lord, 
 
 But paying the true liberty's dear price 
 
 In living sacrifice. 
 
 O Ood of battles, give us victory! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 183. The Smile of Reims 
 
 "rriHE smile," they called her,— "La Sourire"; 
 \^ and fair — 
 
 A sculptured angel on the northern door 
 Of the Cathedral's west facade — she wore 
 Through the long centuries of toil and care 
 That smile, mysteriously wrought and rare. 
 As if she saw brave visions evermore — 
 Kings, and an armored Maid who lilies bore. 
 And all the glories that had once been there. 
 
 How like to thee, her undefeated Land! 
 Wounded by bursting shells, a little space 
 Broken she lay beneath her ancient portal; 
 But lifted from the earth with trembling hand. 
 Victorious, still glowed upon her face 
 
 Thy smile, heroic France, love-given and immor- 
 tal ! 
 
 162 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 184. The Man in White 
 
 "r^ OLDIER, knowest thou the land, 
 [3 The land that's home to thee?" 
 
 "Stranger, with the voice not strange, 
 Why do you lean to me, 
 A wounded man, and speak a word 
 That mocks my memory?" 
 
 "Soldier, I am from that land, 
 
 The land that's home to thee." 
 **0 stranger, with the gentle hands, 
 
 Now let your pity be. 
 You have no word what land is mine. 
 
 Your closed eyes cannot see 
 As mine, as mine, the land of lands. 
 
 The land where I would be." 
 
 "I see a field of apple-trees 
 
 That top a furrowed hill, 
 A little house, a little room, 
 
 A flowered window-sill, 
 A woman with a face like thine 
 
 But eyes more sweet and still, 
 Who prays across the gathered dusk 
 
 To guard her child from ill." 
 
 "My God, my God, I fear to look 
 
 Lest there be no man by! 
 If this be but a fever-dream 
 
 O let me sleep and die. 
 And never know a blessed ghost 
 
 From home had heard my cry!" 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 "See me, touch me, let thy head 
 
 On my bosom weigh. 
 This the kiss your mother sent 
 
 That on your lips I lay." 
 "Yes — it is hers — no other drives 
 
 The awful pain away — 
 I think — that I could fall asleep — 
 
 If you — would only — stay." 
 
 "Rest thee, rest thee on my breast. 
 
 Let the deep sleep come. 
 Rest thee, rest thee, soldier lad. 
 
 Time is past to roam. 
 Waking, I shall still be near 
 
 And we shall be at home." 
 
 FLORENCE BOYCE DAVIS 
 
 185. The Cow Path 
 
 NO chain has covered its distance, nor needle pointed 
 the way; 
 Up the rugged, sun-parched hillside it leads to 
 cranny and glade. 
 Where a brook down moss-green ledges tosses a silver 
 spray, 
 And 'tis cool in the hottest noontide, — that's where the 
 
 trail is laid. 
 The long trail, the wild trail, the trail that the cows 
 have made. 
 
 Skirting boulder and hillock it winds off into the woods; 
 In spring the early saxifrage, like billows of fragrant 
 foam. 
 And violets, yellow and blue and white, peering under 
 their hoods, 
 
 164 
 
FLORENCE BOYCE DAVIS 
 
 Blossom along the borders of the hard-packed pasture 
 
 loam; 
 Blossom and nod on the borders of the trail where 
 
 the cows come home. 
 
 Freed from shutter and rooftree when new green tints 
 
 the hill, 
 
 And every last year's mullein stalk is tipped with a 
 
 singing bird, 
 
 Come, let us take to the open and follow the trail at will, 
 
 Bringing our feet to the good brown earth that spring 
 
 has leavened and stirred; 
 Climbing, up the hill climbing in the wake of the 
 gypsy herd. 
 
 We shall hear the winds of summer softening through the 
 pine. 
 We shall find the purple trillium by the root of a 
 beechen tree; 
 Faring along together, you and I and the kine. 
 
 One quest theirs to follow, and another for you and 
 
 me, 
 Up the long trail, the steep trail, where beasts and 
 men go free. 
 
 Are there other pathways, tell me, that lead to holier 
 things — 
 Chickadees in the hemlocks, a winter wren in the 
 brush. 
 The drumming call of the ruffed grouse beating his 
 lover's wings, 
 And the song that fills the wood's edge after the sun- 
 set's flush, — 
 The wild, sweet hymn of the pasture sung by a hermit 
 thrush? 
 
 165 
 
FLORENCE BOYCE DAVIS 
 
 Come, then; for the day is ready, and spring is on the 
 land; 
 
 Over the hill the saxifrage is spilling its fragrant 
 foam, 
 
 There is peace in the winds of heaven, and treasure on 
 every hand; 
 
 We will fill our cups with gladness as up the trail we 
 roam. 
 
 As down the trail at set of sun we follow the cattle 
 home. 
 
 STOKELY S. FISHER 
 186. Under the Dead Stars 
 
 THE Roman road to the ferry ! A bullet, a dagger's 
 prod — 
 Oh frail is the lock of the gate, one need not wait 
 for God ! 
 But what was your welcome, I wonder, there in the land 
 
 of souls? 
 Were you met with the flash of swords and of angry 
 
 aureoles 
 When you rushed, uncalled, to the Presence? Or did 
 
 they extend kind hands. 
 The guarding angels there, with a pity that understands? 
 
 The Roman road to the ferry ! Oh you could not endure 
 The patient days of the toiler, the burdens which bend 
 
 the poor! 
 It seemed to you disgrace to yield the patrician place, 
 So the fate of Brutus and Cato you challenged with 
 
 smiling face. 
 Nor ever guessed of the courage that shames the sword 
 
 of Rome 
 In the humble service of love, the labor that guards the 
 
 home! 
 
 166 
 
STOKELY S. FISHER 
 
 The Roman road to the ferry ! Alas that ever the burden 
 Laid hard on the human heart should seem to outweigh 
 
 the guerdon; 
 That the eyes should so be filled with dust and sweat and 
 
 blood 
 They see not the winter seed, but only behold the mud! 
 Alas for the pagan despair, and the spirit in forming 
 
 flawed, 
 That know not Golgotha's midnight is only the shadow 
 
 of God! 
 
 The Roman road to the ferry ! O victim of brigand days. 
 All see the post deserted; who dares to give you praise? 
 The weakest who stays and strives at least has courage 
 
 to live; 
 Though you may be forgiven, there was something to 
 
 forgive ! 
 You turned your back to failure, you fled away in the 
 
 night. 
 But, oh, could you return, would you now not stand 
 
 and fight? 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 187. Overtones 
 
 I HEARD a bird at break of day 
 Sing from the autumn trees 
 A song so mystical and calm. 
 So full of certainties. 
 No man, I think, could listen long 
 
 Except upon his knees. 
 Yet this was but a simple bird, 
 Alone, among dead trees. 
 
 167 
 
WITTER BYNNER 
 
 188. The Golden Heart 
 
 I HAD a heart as good as gold 
 For spending or for buying; 
 It bought me many a hand to hold 
 And many a breath for sighing. 
 
 It bought me many a mouth to kiss, 
 And many a secret token — 
 But what's the good of all of this 
 Now that my heart is broken! 
 
 My heart that once, as good as gold, 
 Bought anything that mattered 
 Is like a tale completely told, 
 Like golden money scattered . . . 
 
 But somewhere there's a heart so young 
 It still can spare for spending 
 Will sing the song that I have sung, 
 Beginning with my ending. 
 
 BEATRICE WASHBURN 
 
 189. The Road to A sola 
 
 AS we rode down to Asola 
 ^ A thousand years ago, 
 The olive trees beside the way 
 Bent down their heads so low 
 To watch us as we passed along. 
 And, on the hills near by, 
 The almond flowers softly laid 
 Their cheeks against the sky. 
 
 We knew the road to Asola 
 Those centuries ago. 
 The glad acacias lightly danced 
 Along the fields to show 
 168 
 
BEATRICE WASHBURN 
 
 A golden pathway for our feet; 
 We wandered where it led. 
 The eucalyptus gravely bowed 
 Their crowns above our head. 
 
 Along the road to Asola 
 
 We rode in years gone by. 
 
 We watched the drowsy mountains melt 
 
 Into the evening sky. 
 
 We saw the tired sun go down 
 
 And fall across our way. 
 
 W^hile down the valleys sang the sea 
 
 Just as it does today. 
 
 G. A. PORTERFIELD 
 
 190. In. Hospital 
 
 HOW often have I heard the wind night-long 
 Making wild music in the tops of trees 
 Yet lulled and soothed by that mighty song 
 Sunk dreamwards into hollow, shadowy ease: 
 Each gust had seemed the chime of some low gong 
 Swelling together in vast symphonies . . . 
 Tonight the wind seems sinister and strong 
 And stirs my heart to dark and stormy seas. 
 
 Here hang low-burning lamps: dim figures pass 
 And repass, ghostly in the quietness 
 Like shadows mirrored in an antique glass. 
 The still white cots . . . 
 
 And outside storm and stress 
 The thunder and the beating of great wings; 
 I think it is death's dreadful pinionings . . . 
 
 169 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 191. Sanctuary 
 
 SWEEP over me, O lovely winds 
 That shake the tasseled oak. 
 The patience of the ancient earth 
 Turns blossom at your stroke: 
 The very grievance of the air 
 Thins out to silver smoke. 
 
 Sweep over me, O youthful winds, 
 
 And I will lie as dead 
 Upon the leaves that lived last year. 
 
 With new leaves overhead. 
 Has your beneficence no balm 
 
 For hearts grown wearied? 
 
 There's weariness of labor done 
 That dark and sleep appease: 
 
 There's fragrant weariness of flesh 
 Delightfuller than ease: 
 
 But there's a weariness that comes 
 More wearily than these. 
 
 With neither blossoms in its hair, 
 
 Nor sleepy sound of rain. 
 Nor bearing ointments to allay 
 
 The heart that's sick with pain. 
 There is a weariness that comes 
 
 And does not go again. 
 
 O ancient earth that never tires, 
 
 O heavens that renew, 
 O winds that foam and flash and blow 
 
 Forever fresh as dew. 
 There is a wounded thing that lies 
 
 Face-down and calls on you. 
 
 170 
 
SARA TEASDALE 
 
 192. In a Burying Ground 
 
 THIS is the spot where I will lie 
 When life has had enough of me, 
 These are the grasses that will blow 
 Above me like a living sea. 
 
 These gay old lilies will not shrink 
 To draw their life from death of mine, 
 
 And I will give my body's fire 
 To make blue flowers on this vine. 
 
 "O soul," I cried, "have you no tears, 
 Was not the body dear to you?" 
 
 I heard my soul say carelessly, 
 "The myrtle-flowers will grow more blue." 
 
 WITTER BYNNER 
 
 193. Grenstone 
 
 *'TS there such a place as Grenstone?" 
 J_ Celia, hear them ask! — 
 
 Tell me, shall we share it with them? 
 Shall we let them breathe and bask 
 
 On the windy, sunny pasture. 
 Where the hill-top turns its face 
 
 Toward the valley of the mountain. 
 Our beloved place? 
 
 Shall we show them through our churchyard. 
 
 With its crumbling wall 
 Set between the dead and living? 
 
 Shall our willowed waterfall, 
 
 Blueberries and pines and bluebirds. 
 Be a secret we shall share? . . . 
 
 If they make but little of it, 
 Celia, shall we care? 
 
 171 . 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 194. The Woman at Home 
 
 EACH at her post we women stand; 
 Mine is the safer, easier part — 
 And yet there is an iron band 
 Of envy round my heart 
 For her, the weary nurse who spent 
 Those last dear moments at his side, 
 The woman who in pity bent 
 And kissed him when he died. 
 
 CALE YOUNG RICE 
 
 195. Atavism 
 
 I LEANT out over a ledging cliff and looked down into 
 the sea, 
 Where weed and kelp and dulse swayed, in green 
 translucency ; 
 Where the abalone clung to the rock and the star-fish 
 
 lay about, 
 Purpling the sands that slid away under the silver trout. 
 
 And the sea-urchin too was there, and the sea-anemone. 
 It was a world of watery shapes and hues and wizardry. 
 And I felt old stirrings wake in me, under the tides of 
 
 time, 
 Sea-hauntings I had brought with me out of the ancient 
 
 slime. 
 
 And now, as I muse, I cannot rid my senses of the spell 
 
 That in a tidal trance all things around me drift and 
 swell 
 
 Under the sea of the Universe, down into which strange 
 eyes 
 
 Keep peering at me, as I peered, with wonder and sur- 
 mise. 
 . 172 
 
HERBERT J. HALL 
 
 196. Music of Great Spaces 
 
 MUSIC of great spaces, mighty organ tones 
 That leap along arched roofs, that crash and 
 break 
 Against high walls, that whisper faint and thin 
 Through quiet naves and chapels. Voice of worship, 
 Voice of prayer, voice of the mute who kneel. 
 Who worship but who know not how to pray. 
 What need of measured chant or halting word 
 While these great sounds go rolling, tumbling, rolling, 
 And spirit answers spirit everywhere! 
 
 G. A. PORTERFIELD 
 
 197. A Carol for Christmas: 1917 
 
 ^'/^ OD rest you merry, gentlemen, 
 \J( Let nothing you dismay ..." 
 
 Yes, rest you all, who gallantly 
 Go forward to the fray. 
 And may you see who so go forth 
 Some happier Christmas Day. 
 
 Adventurers for England's sake 
 Who these grim ways now roam, 
 
 God rest you all this Christmas Day 
 So far away from home, 
 
 Far from the villages and downs 
 That lie twixt Thames and Frome. 
 
 And you, O gallant gentlemen, 
 This Christmas Day who sleep 
 
 Alone far out on lonely fields. 
 Who never more shall keep 
 
 The Christmas-tide, God send to you 
 Untroubled dreams and deep. 
 
 173 
 
G. A. PORTERFIELD 
 
 "God rest you merry, gentlemen": 
 
 The living and the gay, 
 The very gallant gentlemen . . . 
 
 "Let* nothing you dismay: 
 Our Saviour Jesu Christ was born 
 
 This blessed Christmas Day." 
 
 BLISS CARMAN 
 198. After a Parting 
 
 (Written after what proved to be Mr. Carman's last good-by 
 to James Whitcomb Riley) 
 
 WHAT ails the air in Denmark, 
 And darkness all the day? 
 There is a shadow on the place, 
 Since Hamlet went away. 
 
 The morning and the noonday 
 Are no more magical. 
 And no more comes the witchery 
 That fell with evenfall. 
 
 There is no heart in laughter, 
 There is no cheer in wine. 
 Even the women's shining eyes 
 Have somehow veiled their shine. 
 
 There is no royal presence, 
 No smile to bless the day, 
 No word to make us gladder, now 
 The prince is gone away. 
 
 The fair and wide-spread city. 
 That used to bask in gold 
 Under the mellow autumn sun, 
 Is dull and gray and cold. 
 
BLISS CARMAN 
 
 The street-cries that were music 
 To herald in the morn, 
 Under a wintry twilight now 
 Fall minor and forlorn. 
 
 The lamps that flashed at sunset 
 Across the purple square 
 To make a twinkling fairyland, 
 Are dimmer than they were. 
 
 No lights are in the palace. 
 No crowd about the door, 
 The chain is rusting on the gate. 
 And dark is Elsinore. 
 
 There's something drear in Denmark 
 That saddens every day, 
 For lonely-hearted is the place 
 Since Hamlet went away. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 199, Immortalis 
 
 ALL loved and lovely women dear to rhyme: 
 ^Thais, Cassandra, Helen and their fames, 
 Burn like tall candles through forgotten time, 
 Lighting the Past's dim arras with their names. 
 Around their faces wars the eager dark 
 Wherein all other lights are sunken now, 
 Yet, casting back, the seeker still may mark 
 A flame of hair, a bright immortal brow. 
 
 175 
 
DAVID MORTON 
 
 Surely, where they have passed, one after one, 
 
 Wearing their radiance to the darkened room,- 
 
 Surely, new-comers to Oblivion 
 
 May still descry in that all-quenching gloom, 
 
 Rare faces lovely, lifted and alight, 
 
 Like tapers burning through the windy night. 
 
 VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD 
 200. The Little House 
 
 A LITTLE house, that sheltered lies 
 Near to the wood and field ; 
 I see it when serener skies 
 Burnish the river's shield. 
 And all the meadows mystic are 
 With twilight's subtle grace, 
 Yet friendlier for the fallen star 
 Of daisy and Queen's Lace. 
 
 A homely lane comes wandering down 
 
 Where bloom and brier meet, 
 
 And wildrose weaving, like life's crown. 
 
 Its bitter thorn and sweet; 
 
 Pansies and pinks and mignonette, 
 
 And precious olden things 
 
 All linger here, lest we forget 
 
 How luminous Time's wings. 
 
 My candle shines on an autumn night 
 When the rack of a wild wind blows; 
 God grant it send a kindly light 
 To a soul that lonely goes ! 
 Here, at the last, I find these best: 
 Stars that are calm and wise, 
 176 
 
VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD 
 
 Work, and the brooding wings of rest, 
 With peace and memories. . . . 
 
 O little house, in the sunset gleam, 
 Yet never wrought by hand: 
 He only. Who has given the dream. 
 Knows where you waiting stand ! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 20 L Song in Autumn 
 
 SHALL it be sad, the song that I shall sing. 
 Now that the paths are strewn with ruined 
 gold? 
 Shall it be set to some low plaintive string, 
 Now that the year grows old? 
 
 Shall it be tuned to sorrow, to some chord 
 Of mourning, like the sobbing of the pines. 
 
 Now the last rose-leaves lie upon the sward, 
 And the swift year declines? 
 
 Nay, love, no song I fashion shall be thus, 
 But filled with joy, with vernal rapturing! 
 
 What grievous thing can autumn hold for us 
 Who in our hearts find spring! 
 
 THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 202. The Christ-Child 
 
 THE ancient Star of Promise 
 Stands in the quiet sky. 
 Above deserted trenches 
 Where staring dead men lie. 
 A wounded boy beholding 
 That far prophetic ray 
 Is talking to his mother. 
 As fevered memories stray, 
 
THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 Of Shepherds and of Angels, 
 Of a Baby hi the hay. 
 
 A candle softly shining, 
 
 A wavering, wind-blown spark; 
 
 A woman at a window 
 
 Is gazing thro' the dark. 
 
 "Keeper of Lights," she whispers, 
 
 "To whom all lights are one, 
 
 By candle-light or star-light, 
 
 Before the night is done. 
 
 Guide Thou the wandering footsteps 
 
 Of the Christ-Child to my son." 
 
 Across the peaceful midnight 
 
 Rushes a blazing shell. 
 
 It bursts above the trenches 
 
 A lurid star of hell; 
 
 And by its glare illumined, 
 
 Fearless and undefiled. 
 
 Moving among the dead men 
 
 A little Shining Child; 
 
 The dying boy said, "Brother !" 
 
 And all the dead men smiled. 
 
 JOHN HALL WHEELOCK 
 
 203. Mochery 
 
 I 
 
 N dreams you come to mock me, in deep night 
 
 When dark is all the earth and slumber-still, 
 Save for the streaming of the pale starlight 
 And far-off wailing of the whippoorwill. 
 
JOHN HALL WHEELOCK 
 
 Then through the room that held you once you move 
 With the old carelessness and dear disdain, 
 
 And lift your hands up in the way I love — 
 And the old ritual we repeat again. 
 
 Still from your lips that secret I entreat — 
 The riddle still unanswered evermore — 
 
 And to your lips your finger-tip in sweet 
 Command you lift and silence as before; 
 
 And in the pallor of the waning night, 
 Laughing, but silently, you fade away: 
 
 And morning glimmers, and the feeble light 
 Widens into the common blaze of day. 
 
 BADGER CLARK 
 
 204. Latigo Town 
 
 YOU and I settled this section together; 
 Youthful and mettled and wild were we then. 
 You were the gladdest town out in the weather; 
 I was the maddest young scamp among men. 
 
 Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, 
 Child of the mesa sun-flooded and brown, 
 That hour of gracious romance and good leather. 
 Splendid, audacious, comes never again. 
 
 Many a rover as brash as a sparrow. 
 
 Loping in over the amethyst plains. 
 Reined for your spinning roulette and your faro, 
 
 Light-hearted sinning and fiddled refrains. 
 Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, 
 
 We made a past you are still living down, 
 Keen for a tussle, with salt in our marrow. 
 
 Steel in our muscles and sun in our veins ! 
 
 179 
 
BADGER CLARK 
 
 Rowels that jingled and rigs that were tattered, 
 
 Yet how we tingled to dreams that were high ! 
 Slim was the treasure we gathered and scattered, 
 
 But can you measure the wind and the sky? 
 Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, 
 
 Freedom and youth were a robe and a crown. 
 Then we were bosses of riches that mattered. 
 
 Laughing at losses of things you can buy. 
 
 Town that was fiery and careless and Spanish, 
 
 Boy that was wiry and wayward and glad — 
 Over the border to limbo they vanish; 
 
 Progress and order decreed they were bad. 
 Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, 
 
 Pursy with culture and civic renown. 
 Never censorious progress can banish 
 
 Dreams of the glorious youth that we had ! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 205. A Love-Song 
 
 THIS is the love-song we today are singing — 
 The song of her who, blessing, most is blest: 
 Giver of dreams that set the soul far winging. 
 And bring it home to rest. 
 
 This is the song of her, our fount of being, 
 
 The pilot of our hope, where'er we go: 
 Of her — the brave, the patient, the foreseeing — 
 
 To whom our all we owe. 
 
 The wronged, oppressed, — what poor, unfriended comer 
 Has not, with her, found shelter safe from storm? — 
 
 A smile of welcoming as sweet as summer, 
 A heart as deep and warm? 
 
 180 
 
FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 Can we have voice today for others' praises, 
 When evil and disaster threaten her? 
 
 Ah, no ! a passion that man's soul upraises. 
 New-born in us, doth stir 
 
 At thought of her, belov'd, who shows us living 
 Is not the mere continuance of breath. 
 
 Giving her favored ones a joy of giving. 
 Ineffable in death! 
 
 LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 206. Fantasy 
 
 A 
 
 BIRD ran up the onyx steps of night. 
 
 Seeking the moon upon her silver throne; 
 But insolent stars confused him with their light 
 And left him in the friendless skies, alone. 
 
 He watched the winds, disheveled and awry, 
 
 Hurling the clouds, like pillows from their beds; 
 
 He saw the mountain peaks that nudged the sky, 
 Take off the wreaths of sunset from their heads. 
 
 He heard the storms, a troupe of headstrong boys. 
 Locked up as punishment for petulant tears. 
 
 Beat on the ebony doors with such a noise, 
 That all the angels had to hold their ears. 
 
 Frightened, he left the halls of thundering sound 
 For a less dazzling height, a lowlier dream ; 
 
 And, perching on a watery bough, he found 
 
 The moon, her white laugh rippling from the 
 stream. 
 
 181 
 
JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 
 
 207. The Still Trees 
 
 I THANK you, Elm and Beech and all my friends 
 That live so wisely on the happy hills, 
 I thank you for your silence. Even a friend 
 (Especially a friend) must have his moods, 
 His long still days of dreaming silence spent 
 In strange communion with his soul and God. 
 
 And you, my friends, have chosen for your silence 
 The slow lean months of winter. All the burdens 
 And all the joys of this embattled earth 
 You dare forget, so that your soul and God 
 May have their hour of studious solitude. 
 
 So I, O friends, who walk among you now, 
 Go searching inward to the soul in me. 
 And bend my dreams unto the God we know. 
 I thank you, Elm and Beech and all my friends 
 That live so wisely on the happy hills. 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 208. In Our Yard 
 
 MOSES, Moses, seeing God 
 In a bush that burned, 
 Moses, Moses, hearing God 
 Advising, unconcerned, 
 
 I believe you, for myself 
 Saw him plain and heard — 
 
 Others saw a myrtle bush 
 That held a mocking-bird. 
 
NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 
 
 209. The Hill o' Breams 
 
 THE hill o' dreams? Ten days ago 
 The landscape looked brown, flat, and bare, 
 No rolling country anywhere; 
 You came upon my sight, and lo, 
 
 The hill o' dreams ! 
 
 It is a Fairy hill I climb, 
 Through magic country all unseen 
 Until I knew what might have been. 
 Found you, and in that moment's time 
 The hill o' dreams. 
 
 MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 210. The Story-Booh' s End 
 
 NOW their sorrows are done and through. 
 Closed and done, for the book is over, 
 Golden head of the princess true 
 On the golden heart of the prince her lover ! 
 What are all of the nets that bound them. 
 
 All of the bars between them laid. 
 Now that Joy and True Love have crowned them. 
 Now that Fate has condoned, repaid ! 
 
 Not for them is the loss of laughter, 
 
 Age, or weariness each of each, 
 Theirs is happiness ever after. 
 
 Loyal friendship and loving speech; 
 Lover-passion that does not alter. 
 
 Tender whispers that never tire — 
 Leave them now, where no love can falter. 
 
 Fair and young, with their heart's desire ! 
 
MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 Would that we might be swift to follow — 
 
 We, who know that all life goes still 
 Now with grief to the shadowed hollow, 
 
 Now with joy to the sunny hill — 
 Theirs is happiness ever new. . . . 
 
 Close the book, for the tale is over. 
 Golden head of the princess true 
 
 On the golden heart of the prince her lover ! 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 211. Rhyme for Remembrance of May 
 
 REMEMBER May? 
 ^O, till no more a color tincts the spray. 
 And Life's last branch goes bloomless; aye, 
 my Dear, 
 So long I shall remember that sweet year 
 And sweeter meeting, that divine soft day. 
 
 Remember you? 
 What glamoury of May I listen to 
 Or see, must have your voice, plead from your eyes. 
 I swear that month was dropped from Paradise 
 To date our dream, and bring the dreaming true ! 
 May means remembering you! 
 
 VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD 
 
 212. Isle of Dreams 
 
 OFAR, far away, where the kind winds blow. 
 Where the sea calls loud, and the sky leans 
 low. 
 Where the wild duck lingers and the lone gull cries, 
 A little isle of dreams, in solitude lies. 
 
 184 
 
VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD 
 
 Greener than all, where marsh grasses sweep, 
 And lullaby waves are whispering of sleep, 
 In and out the glistening ways each little white boat 
 A-rock with its joy is a lily-bud afloat ! 
 
 O, heart, my heart, if today, ay, today 
 
 We trod the marsh meadows, down the leaf-strewn 
 
 way. 
 Mirrored between rushes, with sky, bird and bough, 
 Would the wind in the pine murmur, "Child, is it 
 
 thou?" 
 
 Fold me, Memory, once as before. 
 My feet fare not with sunset on the shore. 
 They are set in the dust of the hard-worn track 
 And the wind of Today, it bloweth not back. 
 
 It bloweth not back, yet dust bears to me 
 The call of the marshes and the cry of the sea. 
 Till the heart leans and listens, — ay, now, even now,- 
 For the wind in the pine to murmur, "It is thou !" 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 213. April Song 
 
 A 
 
 PRIL, — and I go down the land with singing; 
 
 Surges of song about me ebb and flow. 
 
 Notes from the bluebird and the robin winging, 
 
 And blithe wind-lyrics that the wild flowers know. 
 
 Jack-in-the-pulpit perks his head and listens 
 To the low laughter of the willow leaf; 
 
 And where the dew upon the mosses glistens 
 The budding bluebell has forgot its grief. 
 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 April, — and I go down the land in rapture, 
 All the keen rapture olden lovers knew; 
 
 What joy, beloved, is there left to capture 
 When I may go with April and with you ! 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 214. Five O'clock 
 
 IN the old times of golden-gowned Romance, 
 When deeds wore grace, and color clung to speech. 
 When days were rich in splendid circumstance. 
 And living had a gesture and a reach, — 
 Then had we been what figures in a tale ! 
 
 You, with your crown of bronze and cloudy hair, 
 Child of what castle — till my dinted mail 
 
 Gleamed on your drawbridge, and you met me there. 
 
 Who knows what roads we might have gone together, 
 
 Helped by what friars to evening crust and ale 
 With candles sputtering in the windy weather . . . 
 Something . . . my soul remembers . . . and gives 
 hail 
 To you who sit there, pouring out my tea, 
 
 Something . . . remembers . . . "Yes, ah, thank 
 you — three." 
 
 THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 215. A Song for Marching Men 
 
 OWHO will give us a song for them, — 
 The silent marching men? 
 A martial song with a swing in it. 
 With measured rhythm and ring in it. 
 The breath of a deathless thing in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 186 
 
THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 O who will give us a song for them, — 
 
 The silent marching men? 
 A gallant song with a cheer in it, 
 A tender song with a tear in it, 
 And never a taint of fear in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 
 O who will give us a song for them, — 
 
 The silent marching men? 
 Trumpet and bugle and fife in it, 
 The passion and pride of life in it, 
 And the old mad joy of strife in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 
 O who will give us a song for them, — 
 
 The silent marching men? 
 With iron and blood and ruth in it. 
 Vision and beauty and truth in it, 
 Terrible pathos of youth in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 
 O who will give us a song for them, — 
 
 The silent marching men? 
 With a sacred wordless space in it, 
 With a clinging last embrace in it, 
 A song with a woman's face in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 
 O who will give us a song for them, — 
 
 The silent marching men? 
 A scorn for the tyrant's rod in it, 
 A thought of the crimsoned sod in it, 
 A faith in the Living God in it, 
 
 A song for marching men. 
 
 187 
 
EDITH IVES WOODWORTH 
 
 216. Aspiration 
 
 UNTIL I've had my fill 
 Of bluebells blowing by the hill, 
 Until the vision of the pine 
 Above the threading trail is mine. 
 Delay my steps to Thee, 
 O God of far Infinity! 
 
 Until the blue-eyed children bring 
 Shadow-flowers of shining spring, 
 Until from mists, and fields they roam 
 Laughing to the fires of home. 
 
 Delay my steps to Thee, 
 
 O God of far Infinity ! 
 
 Until the passion-flower dies 
 Her death into the blood-red skies, 
 Until outflaming France is white. 
 Her lilies holy in the light. 
 
 Delay my steps to Thee, 
 
 O God of far Infinity ! 
 
 SCUDDER MIDDLETON 
 
 217. The Prisoners 
 
 SHE came among us and we lived. 
 As unassuming as the day 
 That seeks no boon or token, 
 She came her elemental way 
 And healed us who were broken. 
 
 The faith that we had put aside 
 In years when we were master men, 
 Returned with her like flowers 
 The knowing spring lures back again. 
 To help the tired hours. 
 
SCUDDER MIDDLETON 
 
 So we began to see and know. 
 
 She brought the light and taught the truth 
 
 To us poor fools of duty. 
 
 It was her unimpeded youth 
 
 That filled pur lives with beauty. 
 
 They saw no change when she had gone. 
 But we, who seemed so very old, 
 Had snapped our chains to follow 
 Her face, that was the rainbow's gold, 
 Her heart, that was the swallow. 
 
 KATHARINE LEE BATES 
 
 218. The Dead of the Tuscania 
 
 FAR on the wild Scotch coast our boys are sleeping 
 Between the solemn cliffs and chanting waters, 
 Our soldiers, side by side in peaceful trenches. 
 Clad in their khaki, coffined in fresh timber. 
 Or sheeted, quiet score by score, in canvas; 
 Their brief, brave struggle over, there they rest them 
 Where nevermore shall enemy molest them. 
 Their country blesses all who did them honour, 
 The fishermen who sought those broken bodies 
 Among the rocks, the grief-wise Scottish women 
 Who all night long before the burial labored 
 Stitching with mother-tears a Starry Banner, 
 That so their flag might wave above them, lying 
 At their supreme salute of loyal dying. 
 Far from their prairie farms and inland cities, 
 Their sleep is listening to a new, strange music, 
 Thunder of stormy tides and cry of seagulls, 
 A mightier organ, but the same proud anthem 
 That shaped the hero dreams of childhood, Courage, 
 Faith, Sacrifice; and they, beloved, lamented. 
 Slumber like tired boys at home, contented. 
 
M. E. BUHLER 
 
 219. In a Colonial Churchyard 
 
 ^O God the glory! We, who lie 
 
 Ti 
 
 Humbly beneath the quiet sky, 
 Have drawn the water, hewn the wood. 
 And made the best of life we could, 
 Winning the sweetness born of strength 
 And, through much striving, peace at length. 
 
 Great were the perils in our way. 
 And hard the labors of that day; 
 But over all the blue sky bent, 
 And winding through the meadows went 
 The wide **Greate River" to the sea, 
 Catching the sunlight gloriously! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Still on the blue horizon sleep 
 The curving hill lines ; and there sweep 
 Cloud shadows over vale and hill, 
 Now chased by sunlight, and now still; 
 The locusts chant amid the trees; 
 Above the clover hum the bees; 
 And crickets chirping in the grass 
 Make sweet the long days as they pass. 
 
 To God the glory ! We, who dwelt 
 Long in these quiet vales, have felt 
 All that there is in life to feel, — 
 Its depths of woe, its heights of weal; 
 And to our children's children leave 
 Inheritance to joy and grieve. 
 And fight triumphantly as we! 
 To God the glory still shall be! 
 
 190 
 
CALE YOUNG RICE 
 
 220. To a Solitary Sea-Gull 
 
 10NE white gull with sickle wings, 
 ^ You reap for the heart inscrutable things : 
 Sorrow of mists and surf of the shore, 
 Winds that sigh of a nevermore; 
 Fret of foam and flurry of rain. 
 Swept far over the troubled tide; 
 Maths of mystery and gray pain 
 The sea's voice ever yields, beside. 
 Lone white gull you reap for the heart 
 Life's most sad and inscrutable part. 
 
 EUGENE PERRY 
 
 22 L West to East 
 
 YOU watch and abide on the sunrise side; 
 We keep the twilight rim. 
 With rifle and spade the trail has been made, 
 At the price of our life and limb. 
 For the way was long, the least odds great. 
 And our only security shooting straight; 
 But believe it, or leave it as empty boast — 
 We hold it between us, coast to coast. 
 
 Your eyes are bright with the morning light; 
 
 We walk in the sunset shade. 
 
 Yet, a touch of the key brings us knee to knee. 
 
 Friendly and unafraid. 
 
 'Tis yours to read what the world intends, 
 
 'Tis ours to answer our common ends; 
 
 We're answering now from the farthest post — 
 
 We'll hold it between us, coast to coast. 
 
 191 
 
SARA TEASDALE 
 
 222. Red Maples 
 
 IN the last year I have learned 
 How few men are worth my trust; 
 I have seen the friend I loved 
 Struck by death into the dust, 
 And fears I never knew before 
 Have knocked and knocked against my door- 
 "I will hope little and ask for less," 
 I said, "There is no happiness." 
 
 I have grown wise at last — but how 
 Can I hide the gleam of the willow-bough? 
 Or keep the fragrance out of the rain 
 Now that April is here again? 
 When maples stand in a haze of fire 
 What can I say to the old desire, 
 What shall I do with the joy in me 
 That is born out of agony? 
 
 ABBIE FARWELL BROWN 
 
 223. Fairy Ring 
 
 I STEPPED within the fairy ring. 
 Where it was green, so green ! 
 Then I heard the trill of a fairy bell. 
 And the song of the Fairy Queen. 
 
 The secret that she murmured me, 
 To the trill of the fairy bell. 
 
 Was sweet, so sweet you'd not believe 
 If I should try to tell. 
 
 But step you too in the fairy ring, 
 
 And hold fast to my hand; 
 Then we may hear a lovelier thing. 
 
 And both will understand ! 
 192 
 
KENNETH RAND 
 
 224. "Limited Service Only" 
 
 AM not one of those the gods' decision 
 
 I 
 
 Has chosen for that highest gift of all — 
 The sacrifice, the splendor, and the vision- 
 To fight, and nobly fall: 
 
 And yet I know — what though it be but dreaming ! 
 Should the day hang on some last desperate hope, 
 I — I — could lead one reckless column streaming 
 Down some shell-tortured slope. 
 
 To face the shadow-hell of Death's own Valley 
 With eyes unclouded and unlowered head — 
 Know, for an instant, one ecstatic rally 
 And then be cleanly dead. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 225. Maple Avenue 
 
 OCTOBER streets where yellow leaves are lying, 
 The tall, gray houses and a ruined wall, 
 The thinning trees where gusty winds are sighing. 
 The smell of wood smoke blowing through it all, — 
 And you beside me, silent where we go 
 Past windows showing fires against the damp, — 
 We find no word to say the thing we know: 
 The fire unkindled and the unlit lamp. 
 
 Often my love has been a storm that beat 
 
 Wide wings about my heart, too hot oppressed; 
 
 But not today; — here, in this twilit street. 
 
 Its want is all of quiet things, and rest: 
 
 A door to enter in on such a night, 
 
 And blinds to draw, and early fires to light. 
 
 193 
 
THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 226. October 
 
 ODAY of smoke and flame, 
 O ancient festal Day ! 
 Upon the altars of the earth 
 The heavenly fires play. 
 All passion, all desire, 
 Fulfillment, prophecy, — 
 Fuse into one consummate hour 
 Of quiet ecstasy. 
 
 Before those veiled hills. 
 
 The lake adoring lies; 
 
 And shadowed in the quiet lake 
 
 A migrant legion flies. 
 
 The meadow grass is mown, 
 
 In withered sheaves the grain; 
 
 And where the corn stood tall and sweet, 
 
 The stubble gleams again. 
 
 Again the hidden rites. 
 
 The old mysterious haze; 
 
 Again the leafy miracle. 
 
 The sacrificial blaze. 
 
 Up from the sacred fires 
 
 A fragrant mist distills. 
 
 As incense round a temple-dome. 
 
 It floats about the hills. 
 
 The plow-man drives his blade 
 
 In furrows deep and long; 
 
 **Flowers to the earth, earth to the sun," 
 
 The plow's primeval song. 
 
 My soul, an upturned field 
 
 The autumnal sun hath blessed, 
 
 Drinks of the ancient promises 
 
 And gives herself to rest. 
 
 194 
 
THERESA VIRGINIA BEARD 
 
 O Day of smoke and flame, 
 
 O sacrificial Day! 
 
 Upon the altars of the earth 
 
 The heavenly fires play; 
 
 All passion, all desire. 
 
 Fulfillment, prophecy, — 
 
 Fuse into one consummate hour 
 
 Of quiet ecstasy. 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 227. The Infantry That Would Not Yield 
 
 AH, yes; the French surprise us constantly; 
 A something in their spirit is so fine! . . . 
 I was in Paris when the famous Line 
 Went through after Verdun, and so could see 
 How a whole people, putting by its cares, 
 Came crowding to the well-loved thoroughfares 
 To view the men — not all — not all, alas ! — 
 Who, in a fateful hour of fear and woe. 
 Stood as a wall defensive 'gainst the foe, 
 And said: — They shall not pass! 
 
 How surely these had saved her Paris knew — 
 
 Heroes who fronting Death turned not aside! 
 
 Her heart beat faster as they nearer drew. 
 
 And swelled with unimagined love and pride. 
 
 Artillery and cavalry went by, — 
 
 The plaudits of the people reached the sky! 
 
 But for the infantry — At sight of these, 
 
 A poignant silence fell upon the crowd: 
 
 In reverence the people's heads were bowed. 
 
 And they were on their knees. 
 
 Ah, yes ; the French surprise us constantly ! 
 
 195 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 228. Wonder 
 
 THE poets cry, the preachers drone 
 Of glories that are never heard. 
 And yet the moon, a worn white stone, 
 Says all they say without a word. 
 
 Their praise is loud, they smite the air 
 With eloquent and clashing zeal; 
 
 They force their love, while they declare 
 'Tis only half of what they feel. 
 
 Their thundering speech is quickly done; 
 
 Hushed by the deathless hymn that flows 
 From the mute passion of the sun, 
 - The burning silence of a rose. 
 
 M. A. MORTLAND 
 
 229. A Prayer in War-Time 
 
 GUARD my beloved, God above! 
 Keep thou his young soul, in thy love. 
 Shining, untarnished, close to thee. 
 Through all the hell that he must see 
 Grant his sweet spirit may endure, 
 Shield his high courage, gay and sure, 
 With that quick tenderness of heart — 
 Our blessing, and his ready art. 
 But if this breaking world must be 
 Cleansed and renewed by agony. 
 In sore travail that none may spare — 
 Since weeping is my woman's share — 
 In mercy for his nineteen years 
 Count for his debt of pain my tears. 
 As through the drear long nights I keep 
 Sentry with him who must not sleep, 
 
 196 
 
M. A. MORTLAND 
 
 Lonely, afar. To suffer twice 
 
 Were for his weal so small a price ! 
 
 Take all my life may hold of light 
 
 When a new dawning shall requite 
 
 All this strife-torn, grief-ransomed earth, 
 
 And give to me, so little worth, 
 
 Place with the broken things of sorrow 
 
 In today's shadow. But the morrow 
 
 Save thou his splendid youth to leaven: 
 
 Guard my beloved, God of heaven! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 230. Autumn Wanderers 
 
 [ET us go, love, hand in hand, 
 
 I Wandering through the autumn land 
 When October spreads its gold 
 Lavishly, bright fold on fold ! 
 Following the feet of morn 
 Past the garnered fields of corn, 
 Past the crimson-pennoned pomp 
 Of the woodbines in the swamp. 
 Where they climb and where they cling, 
 Wandering, wandering! 
 
 Hand in hand, love, let us go 
 'Neath October's gleam and glow 
 When the mellow south winds swoon 
 In the languid heart of noon! 
 And there is no sound at all 
 Save a hidden bird's far call 
 ("Whip-poor-will, oh, whip-poor-will") 
 Luring us to mount the hill 
 With its iterative ring, 
 
 Wandering, wandering ! 
 
 TEl 
 
 Li 
 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 Let us go, love, hand in hand. 
 Homeward o'er the ripened land 
 When October's shadows deep 
 Beckon to the House of Sleep, 
 Where is rapture, where is rest. 
 The content that we hold best. 
 With the harvest moon above 
 Telling its old tale of love. 
 While the minstrel crickets sing, 
 Wandering, wandering! 
 
 GEORGE STERLING 
 
 23 L A Song of Friendship 
 
 FROM earth's horizon, dim and wide 
 The stained moon swings free. 
 Castor and Pollux, side by side, 
 Go downward to the sea. 
 
 Thy good sword to my needj O friend ! 
 
 And my strong shield to thine. 
 How bright, before the darkness end. 
 
 The star-companions shine ! 
 
 Two hearts may greatly dare the West, 
 Where one might know dismay, — 
 
 Two barks join surely in the Quest, 
 Where one might miss the way. 
 
 198 
 
GEORGE STERLING 
 
 Face thou with me the immortal sun. 
 And counsel me by night! 
 
 In wassail and the deed well done 
 We two shall fare a-right. 
 
 Ever wast thou the clean, blue blade, 
 The comrade of the skies, 
 
 The heart's, the hand's abiding aid. 
 With truth in heart and eyes. 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 232. Belgium 
 
 I 
 
 HAD a dream of Greatness; and I saw — 
 Not one enthroned, before whose golden crown 
 And jeweled scepter many bowed them down; 
 
 Not one full-armored who, more fearful awe 
 Inspiring, with war's pestilential breath 
 Sowed havoc as he moved, despair and death; 
 
 Nay, in my lofty dream, such greatness paled 
 Before the image of one nobly fair, 
 Despite torn raiment and disheveled hair, 
 
 The hope within whose eyes had never failed. 
 Victim of unrelenting Tyranny 
 That fain would hold her captive, she is free — 
 
 Stronger, I wis, than e'en her tyrants be — 
 Because of something that hath never died: 
 Her glorious, tameless soul, grief-crucified! 
 
 199 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 233. A Rose for France 
 
 SOLDIERS three at a county fair; 
 Soldiers — the eldest is only a boy — 
 Come to saunter and smile and stare 
 And perhaps to let the girls enjoy 
 The set of the khaki new and smart 
 On the strong young shoulders held so square. 
 Clean and sturdy of limb and heart, 
 Soldiers three at a county fair. 
 
 A Red Cross booth where the workers sit 
 
 All in white, and among them three 
 
 Gentle old women who knit and knit 
 
 In a quaint sweet dress from over the sea — 
 
 Sorrowful flotsam of ravaged France, 
 
 Under their kerchiefs woes untold. 
 
 And their capfrills hide from the careless glance 
 
 The patient eyes of the stricken old. 
 
 How should a boy's heart understand 
 The glory and grief of those knitters gray? 
 A moment's halt for the blithe young band 
 Then they drift with the crowd away — 
 Ah, but see! they are back again, 
 A crimson rose in the hand of each, 
 And slowly, clumsily, as it were pain 
 To put his soul into speech, 
 
 "We fellows thought — " so the eldest spoke 
 
 With a flush that burned to his close-cropped hair, 
 
 "That the old French ladies — " his young voice 
 
 broke — 
 "Should have a posy to wear." 
 France, O France! did you feel that day 
 The beating heart of this land of ours 
 Close at your side in the heat of the fray, — 
 Our love in the blood-red flowers? 
 
 200 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Those lads — and others — shall bring, maybe, 
 
 A brighter rose to your breast, O France, 
 
 When shoulder to shoulder the foe shall see 
 
 Your sons and our own advance — 
 
 The rose you have scattered ungrudgingly 
 
 On the fields where at last we may bear our part — 
 
 A rose with the thorns of Calvary, 
 
 And its root in a mothers heart. 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COAXES 
 234. A Soldier 
 
 D 
 
 EAR God, I raised my boy to be a soldier; 
 
 I tried to make him strong of will and true; 
 I told him many a tale of deeds heroic — 
 The noblest and the sweetest tales I knew. 
 
 In thought, he shared the charge at Balaclava, 
 
 With the Swiss Guard, o'ermastered coward Death, 
 
 With Gordon all renounced, with Scott and Peary 
 Breathed in his ardent youth heroic breath. 
 
 A little lad, he wept for wounded Sidney, 
 
 For Bayard, sans reproche, who knew no fears, 
 
 Yet, hurt himself, if one but said,— "My Soldier !"— 
 Straightway he smiled and swallowed down his tears. 
 
 I taught him that the brave are full of mercy; 
 
 That gentleness and love to strength belong; 
 That honour is the only High adventure, 
 
 And goodness the one everlasting song! 
 
 And so I raised my boy to be a Soldier: 
 
 A patriot soldier, brave, devoted, free! 
 And now, and now, — with grateful trust, O Father! 
 I give him to my Country and to Thee ! 
 
HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS 
 2S5. Echoes 
 
 M 
 
 Y two old salts are funny chaps; 
 
 From dawn till dark they sit outdoors 
 With brass-bound books upon their laps 
 And talk (I think) of pirate wars. 
 
 I watch them from my shadowed lawn 
 Across the sprinkled, muddy street, 
 
 Their well-worn blouses loosely drawn 
 And carpet slippers on their feet. 
 
 Oh, they are garrulous enough 
 When no one comes to interfere, 
 
 Because their voices, quick and gruff. 
 Are quite the only sounds I hear. 
 
 Yet when I cross and join them there 
 
 Where cool, white boughs whisk to and fro. 
 
 They kindly smile, but scorn to share 
 The meanest tale of all they know. 
 
 We damn the heat in quiet tones . . . 
 
 And each of us, as sure as doom. 
 Is dancing under skull and bones 
 
 To clang of sword and cannon boom ! 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 With a Brooch 
 
 I PLACE this bauble, shot with lovely light. 
 Against your bosom and its soft unrest. 
 You'll wear it, may be, when some summer night 
 By wandering odors and bland airs is blest; 
 And those who look, shall say in hushed delight: 
 "It has a double beauty — on her breast." 
 
 202 
 
GEORGE STERLING 
 
 237. A Morning Hymn 
 
 DESPITE the Fates' imputed ban,— 
 Despite all evil that we see, 
 Let us have faith in good to be. 
 And in the ascendant soul of man ! 
 
 No chain shall bind, no distance bar 
 The winged heart, the fearless feet 
 That from the midnight ran to meet 
 
 The morn below the morning star. 
 
 Tho' sages whisper him dismay, — 
 Tho' many doubt and many drowse, 
 The great foundations of his House 
 
 Man in his vision plans today. 
 
 The singing legions yet shall pour 
 From out the Future's shadowy gates, 
 To meet the challenge of new Fates 
 
 And issues of a vaster War. 
 
 To fashion man his shining mail, 
 A thousand thousand anvils ring; 
 From out his mills new voices sing. 
 
 Assuring that he shall not fail. 
 
 Prate not of leisures to the sea. 
 
 Nor taunt with age the blinding sun ! 
 A myriad years his course has run ; 
 
 A myriad seasons yet shall be. 
 
 On vassal sea and conquered soil 
 
 Shall man lay mighty hands and sure; 
 His flaming purpose shall endure, 
 
 Who yet shall yoke the sun to toil. 
 
 203 
 
GEORGE STERLING 
 
 Lit by that sun within his brain, 
 
 His will shall storm the giants' hold 
 Where hide the Energies untold, 
 
 And he shall portion each its chain. 
 
 Before his sword's astounding thrust, 
 Deathward his ancient foes shall reel. 
 Where stranger wars demand his steel, 
 
 In realms now formless in the dust. 
 
 No pain shall baffle nor deny 
 
 The legions of his victory. 
 
 "Vitality! Vitality!" 
 The billows and the forges cry. 
 
 All good the prophets could foretell 
 He hears his engines now repeat, 
 And from the pathless, holy wheat, 
 
 The promise, "All shall yet be well !" 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 238. The Young Squire 
 
 I 
 
 HAVE sung me a stave, a stave or two, 
 
 I have drunk me a stoop of wine, 
 I have roystered across a world that was dew 
 And a sea that was sunlight's brine. 
 
 And now I'll go down where the need is not 
 Of a singing heart, but a sword ; 
 
 I'll fight where the dead men welter and rot 
 With the hard-pressed host of the Lord. 
 
 204 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 And should I come back again, 'twill be 
 
 With accolade and spurs, 
 And many a tale of chivalry, 
 
 And the deeds of warriors. 
 
 And should I not, O break for me 
 No buds nor funeral boughs — 
 
 I go with the noblest company 
 That ever death did house. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 239. A Gentleman from Stratford Sees 
 the Play 
 
 FOR all the crowd that packed the house tonight, 
 Marked you the vacant seat none came to claim, — 
 The fourth row from the front, and to the right? — 
 Vacant, I call it now . . . but I could name 
 A thing that happened when the lights were off. 
 
 Of one who walked in buckles down the aisle, 
 Wearing a great hat that he scorned to doff. 
 
 And richly kerchiefed, wrist and neck, in style. 
 
 Once in the play — I swear it — once I heard, 
 Along the tumult of our loud applause, 
 
 A sly and ghostly chuckle at a word 
 
 That Falstaff mouthed with those outrageous 
 jaws. . . . 
 
 I think he liked the play . . . and stayed, no doubt, 
 Long after us, and lingered, going out. 
 
HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS 
 240. The Schoolmaster 
 
 FOUR o'clock and work is over; 
 All the little lads and lasses 
 Wander home through the clover, 
 Through the grasses. . . . 
 
 And I can dream — 
 
 Of what? 
 
 Well, Camelot, 
 
 Or border-thieves 
 
 Who have crossed the stream 
 
 And catch the gleam 
 
 Of a town ahead — oh, each horse heaves 
 
 For the day is hot! . . . 
 
 Or let me dream of a city street. 
 
 Where rich-man, poor-man, beggar-man meet; 
 
 A street just shining after a rain. 
 
 Where women, very fair and sweet. 
 
 Flash by in high disdain. . . . 
 
 Four o'clock and work is over; 
 
 All the little lads and lasses 
 Wander home through the clover. 
 
 Through the grasses. . . . 
 
 And I can dream. . . . 
 
 Some morning they will find the door 
 Bolted; and when the yokels pour 
 Into the room, they will see 
 Sorry me 
 
 Lying there with my poor, old head 
 Open wide, and my dreams on the floor 
 And all of us, who were under-fed. 
 Quite dead. 
 
 206 
 
SARA TEASDALE 
 
 241. In Memory of J. L, W. 
 
 SHE has gone out upon a quiet journey 
 Seeking a goal too great for us to know, 
 But she will not be tired, for there is only 
 Rest on the roads where she will go. 
 
 In the Still Country that she travels over 
 Past the last star lifted against the night. 
 
 There will be many a welcome to await her, 
 Greetings, and many a friendly light. 
 
 To her who gave such welcoming to strangers 
 Here on the earth, from her heart's gracious 
 store, 
 
 Surely to her Infinity will open 
 Door after glowing door. 
 
 WITTER BYNNER 
 
 242. Fire-Music 
 
 SPARROW in the heart of birch, 
 Ghost who once at set of sun 
 Whistled it your home and church, 
 Though you see it now undone. 
 
 Yet with your memorial mirth 
 You can sing like a caress, 
 
 "Never shall a bit of earth 
 
 Die and change to nothingness !" 
 
 Spirit in me! — when I die. 
 
 Will you laugh with equal glee? — 
 
 Will you whistle, where I lie. 
 Something of the sort for me? 
 
F 
 
 JOHN McCLURE 
 
 243. Ballad of Broken Tombs 
 
 (A Chaunt of Easter-Eve) 
 
 JRIEST Caiaphas brought one hundred men 
 Clad glittering and bright 
 With beaten blades and javelins 
 To guard the tomb by night. 
 
 **Ye must seal close the opening, 
 
 Nor let His body pass. 
 It is not fit that He should rise 
 
 And walk," said Caiaphas. 
 
 One hundred soldiers clad in steel 
 
 Set seals upon the door, 
 They bolted close the opening 
 
 And rolled a stone before. 
 
 "This stone will weigh one hundred ton; 
 
 His body cannot pass. 
 The father of all heresy 
 
 Is dead," said Caiaphas. 
 
 The high-priest vanished solemnly 
 
 As one who has his will. 
 The soldiers sat them down to watch 
 
 Beneath the quiet hill. 
 A strange wind quivered in the grass 
 
 And all the world was still. 
 
 The world was quiet utterly 
 
 Around them and afar: 
 The soldiers could see naught to watch 
 
 Save the new moon and a star. . . . 
 
 Betwixt the midnight and the morn 
 When the silence was most deep 
 
 An angel walked among them all 
 And touched their eyes with sleep, 
 
 208 
 
JOHN McCLl/RE 
 
 An angel that had touched them all 
 
 To make their vision dim 
 Sang low before the sepulcher 
 
 "Elohim! Elohim!" 
 
 Then hills and heavens echoed loud 
 
 With an unearthly din: 
 The still tombs of the country-side 
 
 Were shaken from within. 
 
 And sudden in Jerusalem 
 
 Aghast in their winding-sheets 
 
 The dead who had been dead so long 
 Came singing in the streets. 
 
 And the bolts of one tomb were broken 
 
 And the stone rent into two 
 While the soldiers slept in the moonlight 
 
 And the Christ came walking through.- 
 
 He walked so very quietly 
 
 It seemed He never had 
 Spent three days in a sepulcher 
 
 And never had been dead. 
 
 He walked so quietly between 
 They could not hear His feet 
 
 And He walked toward Jerusalem 
 Where the dead sang in the street. 
 
 Then rose the soldiers open-eyed 
 For a great song startled them. 
 
 An angel singing within a tomb 
 "Elohim! Elohim!" 
 
 They rose from sleep in terror 
 
 But nothing met their eye 
 Save an open door in the hillside 
 
 And the white dawn and the sky. 
 
DAVID MORTON 
 
 244. The Kings Are Passing Deathward 
 
 THE Kings are passing deathward in the dark 
 Of days that had been splendid where they went ; 
 Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark 
 Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent. 
 For all that they have seen disastrous things: 
 
 The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne, 
 They cannot quite forget the way of Kings: 
 Gravely they pass, majestic and alone. 
 
 Magnificent in guilt, their faces set 
 
 Toward the eternal night of restless shapes 
 
 They walk in awful splendor, regal yet, 
 
 Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes. . . . 
 
 Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see; 
 The Kings are passing deathward: let them be. 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 245. Embers 
 
 N 
 
 OW winds from polar field and floe 
 
 Sweep down, remorseless in their ire. 
 Still burns beneath the ice and snow 
 A slumberous heart of fire. 
 
 It only waits the kindling breath. 
 It only waits the magic name, 
 
 The lyric word that quickeneth, 
 To blow it into flame. 
 
 Sudden upon some dawning hour, 
 . When April speaks, we shall behold 
 The embers leap to radiant flower 
 In gleaming crocus-gold ! 
 
 210 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 246. Asleep 
 
 THESE hands, two nimble butterflies — 
 I never saw them at rest; 
 Nor knew a tide so regular 
 Could move through your stormy breast. 
 You loved to meet life dancing 
 With glistening steps, till all 
 Your fluent body seemed a curve 
 In a restless waterfall. 
 
 And now you lie here so coldly, 
 
 So unbelievably still; 
 A stone on a marble river. 
 
 Ice on a wintry hill. 
 Something has made your beauty 
 
 Inscrutable and grave; 
 Holding your once warm body 
 
 In the curve of a frozen wave. 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 247. The Piper 
 
 ACROSS the hilltops to the south 
 A buoyant breath is borne 
 From one who sets a pipe to mouth 
 And blows against the morn. 
 
 He needs must be a j^oungling thing 
 To sound so blithe a strain; 
 
 Hark, how the streams are answering 
 Through shimmering skeins of rain ! 
 
 From root to twig the sap-floods leap 
 That have been dormant long, 
 
 For he has cleft their deep white sleep 
 As with the sword of song. 
 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 Nearer his mounting measures come ; 
 
 The grasses all deploy, 
 And dance in green delirium 
 
 To silver notes of joy. 
 
 And you may hear the four winds cry 
 From shore to shining shore, — 
 
 "Put all your wintry sorrows by. 
 For Spring is at your door!" 
 
 MARY CAROLYN DAVIES 
 
 248. David 
 
 DAVID was a shepherd lad, beautiful as you, 
 Sang within a shadowed tent to sooth a king's un- 
 rest. 
 Oh, the bashful years in which he made the songs and 
 hoarded them. 
 By the other shepherd lads all unguessed. 
 
 David's song is in a book, for stupid folk to bow before. 
 Folk who think it wisdom, which is only lovely song. 
 
 You are kin to him, you see beauty in a little moon. 
 In branches bent to lash you with each faint gray 
 thong. 
 
 David, when he found his songs — did he use to practice 
 them 
 For a little shepherd maid who marveled at each line? 
 When he left his humble task, and drew the king from 
 weariness — 
 She who heard the songs first, was her pride like 
 mine? 
 
 212 
 
CHARLES WHARTON STORK 
 
 249. Zuloaga 
 
 SARDONIC master, you that dare betray 
 With piercing vision and relentless hand 
 The mournful features of a sombre land 
 Where youth and love and hope have had their day ; 
 Your silken senoritas, lissome, gay. 
 
 With soulless eyes inanimately bland; 
 
 Your tinsel toreadors that idly stand 
 
 Against the mountains' monotone of gray; — 
 
 What are they but the puppets of romance 
 Worn threadbare, tarnished by an evil time, 
 
 But gallant still for all their sad mischance; 
 
 A pageant of the glories that remain 
 
 Where towered once, exultant and sublime. 
 
 The grim and splendid chivalry of Spain. 
 
 MAHLON LEONARD FISHER 
 
 250. Should Beauty Sleep 
 
 SHOULD Beauty sleep, and God no longer care 
 If crocuses be plentiful or few; 
 Or violets their purple vows renew. 
 Or nevermore adorn the meadow's hair; 
 Or oaks refuse to put on fabrics fair, 
 When that the Spring is usual in the land; 
 And there be stretched from Heaven a restraining 
 
 hand, 
 Though April were but half-way down her stair, — • 
 
 Then men would, of a sudden, see, through tears. 
 How barren are the ways which they must go, 
 Forgetting, in that hour, when the soft flow 
 And endless ebb of ocean no one hears. 
 How faint the praises given them who kept 
 The broad world beautiful, and never slept ! 
 
 213 
 
OSCAR C. WILLIAMS 
 
 25 L Rain and Night 
 
 |AIN and night and tear-eyed mists, 
 
 R 
 
 But high, oh high above them — hark !— 
 The sobbing of the unseen stars 
 Like children crying in the dark. 
 
 Rain and night and cold-cheeked winds 
 
 That wander, careless, through each street 
 
 To watch the masquerading of 
 Innumerable little feet. 
 
 For where the lamp-posts pave the stones 
 With gleaming, stolen wealth, behold ! — 
 
 The lightning-footed ripples dance 
 A masquerade of black and gold ! 
 
 And I look on, and strange thoughts come 
 Like dreams that have no time and place, 
 
 But hover round a memory 
 Of some beloved face. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 252, For Us, the Living 
 
 THEY look upon us through the mystic door — 
 Those who have passed, those who shall 
 come to birth — 
 Waiting for us, the living, to restore 
 Beauty and fruitfulness to ravaged earth. 
 Where there were trees, there must be trees again, 
 Sweet servants of the soil's imperious needs. 
 Because the spring must not return in vain 
 Nor autumn's bounty waste itself in weeds. 
 
 214 
 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 Where there was hope, there must again be hope, 
 
 Immortal beauty shining through the. scars. 
 
 Because however men" may fall and grope 
 
 They must not lose the everlasting stars. 
 
 It were a work for angels to revive 
 
 The orchard's fragrant ecstasy of flowers, 
 
 To bid the murdered forest wake alive — 
 
 A work for angels — and God makes it ours; 
 
 A still diviner labor to reflower 
 
 The spirit's orchards after hate's red blight. 
 
 And He, the Lord of Life, who understands 
 
 All things, has laid it in our faltering hands. 
 
 O Will of God, upon our hands be power ! . 
 
 O Love of God, within our hearts be light ! 
 
 STOKELY S. FISHER 
 
 253. A Voice from the Twilight 
 
 WE of the twilight years that speed toward night 
 Are misers hoarding time ; we would not rest, 
 But plead that we may not be dispossessed 
 Of opportunity to use the light 
 Still shining for us. Though the hair fade white. 
 May not the red flame pulsing in the breast 
 Burn bright as ever? Put us to the test! 
 We want no arm to lean on, but our right ! 
 We who have learned to live by living, ask 
 No privilege now but to complete our task; 
 Our place of use and service we would keep. 
 The finer skill may help the failing strength; 
 Oh let us live life to its utmost length, 
 And then, when comes the sleep time, let us sleep ! 
 
 215 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 254. The Swallows 
 
 (Paris, April, 1918) 
 
 OVER the roofs the swallows fly 
 In the quiet evening air; 
 Though just above the homes of men 
 They have not any care. 
 
 The women on the balconies 
 That watch and seem to see — 
 
 The birds could touch them with their wings, 
 They stand so quietly. 
 
 So quietly! But if the birds 
 
 Had cognizance of pain, 
 Could hear the prayers that quiver past, 
 
 They would not fly again. 
 
 HERBERT J. HALL 
 255, Slim Flutes and Viols Gay 
 
 |LAY up, play up to the rising moon 
 Slim flutes and viols gay — 
 Silent you were in the sultry noon. 
 Wake now at the close of day. 
 Tall trees await your tuneful sound 
 With branches crossed and bare. 
 The great moon, still and cool and round, 
 Swings low to your far fan-fare. 
 How little in the world's great night 
 Your simple pipings are — 
 How little, yet how sure and right, 
 Right as the evening star. 
 
 P' 
 
 216 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 [The reference is to the number of the poem] 
 
 Bates, Katharine Lee, 218. 
 Beach, Joseph Warren, 15, 
 
 83, 108, 138, 152. 
 Beard, Theresa Virginia, 
 
 111, 159, 202, 215, 226. 
 Bellows, Henry Adams, 
 
 73, 79, 150. 
 Borst, Richard Warner, 
 
 16, 38, 74. 
 Boutelle, Grace Hodsdon, 
 
 130. 
 Bouve, Pauline Carring- 
 
 ton, 25. 
 Brown, Abbie Farwell, 
 
 223. 
 Buhler, M. E., 81, 97, 219. 
 Burr, Amelia Josephine, 
 
 30, 36, 46, 50, 51, 52, 58, 
 
 66, 69, 75, 84, 94, 95, 
 
 101, 112, 146, 151, 182, 
 
 194, 233, 252. 
 Burton, Richard, 1, 28, 85, 
 
 91, 93, 107, 110, 131, 211, 
 
 236. 
 Bynner, Witter, 102, 126, 
 
 135, 188, 193, 242. 
 Carman, Bliss, 198. 
 Carter, John, 45. 
 Cawein, Madison, 87, 104, 
 
 109, 117, 118, 123, 124. 
 Clark, Badger, 80, 99, 133, 
 
 163, 204. 
 
 Cloud, Virginia Wood- 
 ward, 200, 212. 
 
 Coates, Florence Earle, 
 89, 103, 127, 134, 148, 
 183, 205, 227, 232, 234. 
 
 Cohen, Nina Morals, 5. 
 
 Crozier, Harold B., 18. 
 
 Davies, Mary Carolyn, 
 248. 
 
 Davis, Florence Boyce, 
 185. 
 
 Edgar, William C, 144. 
 
 Finerty, Louise Foley, 
 161. 
 
 Fisher, Mahlon Leonard, 
 44, 68, 82, 86, 98, 100, 
 114, 120, 139, 166, 250. 
 
 Fisher, Stokely S., 105, 
 186, 253. 
 
 Griffith, William, 171, 172, 
 173, 174, 175. 
 
 Guiterman, Arthur, 177. 
 
 Hall, Herbert J., 67, 168, 
 170, 196, 255. 
 
 Hall, James Norman, 106. 
 
 Harding, Ruth Guthrie, 
 149, 153. 
 
 Helburn, Theresa, 154. 
 
 Higgins, Aileen Cleve- 
 land, 26. 
 
 Howard, Ethel Barstow, 
 77. 
 
 217 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Howe, Herbert Crombie, 
 
 140. 
 Jenks, Tudor, 155. 
 Kauifman, Reginald 
 
 Wright, 35, 55, 62. 
 Kauffman, Ruth, 49. 
 Kenyon, James B., 143, 
 
 156. 
 Kilmer, Joyce, 78, 96, 147. 
 Lanyon, Helen, 29, 47. 
 Lawrence, Josephine, 181. 
 Lee, Agnes, 27, 31, 63, 71. 
 Long, Lily A., 12. 
 McCarthy, John Russell, 
 
 167, 207. 
 McClure, John, 243. 
 McGill, Anna Blanche, 
 
 128. 
 Meredith, George, 20, 21, 
 
 22. 
 Middleton, Scudder, 162, 
 
 217. 
 Mortland, M. A., 229. 
 Morton, David, 199, 214, 
 
 225, 239, 244. 
 Nesbit, E., 72. 
 Northrop, George Norton, 
 
 56, 119. 
 O'Conor, Norreys Jephson, 
 
 23, 24, 32, 48, 209. 
 Percy, William Alexander, 
 
 179, 184, 187, 191, 208, 
 
 238, 254. 
 Perry, Eugene, 221. 
 Phelps, Ruth Shepard, 33, 
 
 61, 92. 
 Phillips, Stephen, 113, 142. 
 Porterfield, G. A., 190, 
 
 197. 
 Price, Warwick James, 65. 
 Rand, Kenneth, 90, 224. 
 Rice, Cale Young, 195, 
 
 220. 
 
 Rollit, Charles Carter, 9. 
 Ryder, C. T, 70, 145. 
 Saxon, Helen A., 17, 37. 
 Scheffauer, Ethel Talbot, 
 
 88, 158. 
 ScoUard, Clinton, 115, 141, 
 
 157, 201, 213, 230, 245, 
 
 247. 
 Shepard, Odell, 137. 
 Smith, Louis Worthing- 
 
 ton, 8, 76. 
 Stearns, Harold Craw- 
 ford, 235, 240. 
 Sterling, George, 231, 237. 
 Stockton, James Le Roy, 
 
 125. 
 Stork, Charles Wharton, 
 
 249. 
 Stringer, Arthur, 41. 
 Teasdale, Sara, 122, 164, 
 
 165, 180, 192, 222, 241. 
 Terry, Edward H. S., 42. 
 Thompson, Edith, 3, 6, 19, 
 
 40, 43, 59. 
 Untermeyer, Louis, 178, 
 
 206, 228, 246. 
 Updegraff, Allan, 34. 
 Upson, Arthur, 4, 7, 10, 
 
 11, 13, 14. 
 Walsh, Thomas, 39, 57, 60. 
 Washburn, Beatrice, 189. 
 Wells, Stewart, 129. 
 Wheelock, John Hall, 203. 
 Whitney, Josephine, 64. 
 Widdemer, Margaret, 116, 
 
 121, 160, 169, 176, 210. 
 Wilkinson, Marguerite, 
 
 132, 136. 
 Williams, Oscar C, 251. 
 Wilson, Margaret Ade- 
 laide, 53, 54. 
 Woodworth, Edith Ives, 
 
 2, 216. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A bird ran up the onyx steps of night . 
 
 A friend of mine is dead at length today 
 
 A hill said to another hill 
 
 A little house that sheltered lies . 
 
 A monk once labored in a lonely cell 
 
 A sweet, deep sense of mystery filled the wood 
 
 A thin voice in the darkness all night long 
 
 A town called Heart's Content 
 
 A wilding little stubble flower 
 
 Across the hilltops to the south 
 
 Across the wind-swept winter sky . 
 
 Ah, heart, I know you're tired, I too am torn 
 
 Ah! was the soul of Cain 
 
 Ah, yes; the French surprise us constantly 
 
 All in the far-set Shadow-land it lies 
 
 All loved and lovely women dear to rhyme 
 
 All the maples were aflame . . 
 
 Along the edge of dusk he'd hoot and howl 
 
 And if you came? — Oh I would smile . 
 
 April, — and I go down the land with singing 
 
 As an old mercer in some sleepy town . 
 
 As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid w 
 
 As I was hoeing a hill of corn 
 
 As in a belfry let me live 
 
 As the gypsy carts were following a blown 
 
 drizzled road 
 As we roae down to Asola 
 Ay, go your ways, my lord. 
 ^'Because," He cries today. 
 Because I have loved life 
 Below a little shadowed hill . 
 Broadway roars above my head 
 Brother fools from everywhere 
 Christmas tide is a time of cold 
 
 arders 
 and 
 
 Look where he struts 
 for you" 
 
 219 
 
 No. 
 206 
 116 
 125 
 200 
 
 24 
 
 82 
 
 88 
 135 
 
 21 
 247 
 129 
 
 42 
 175 
 227 
 
 44 
 199 
 
 12 
 
 34 
 160 
 213 
 
 68 
 115 
 
 83 
 140 
 
 59 
 
 189 
 
 94 
 
 55 
 
 151 
 
 2 
 
 33 
 
 28 
 
 1 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Come in from the plowing and the sowing 
 Come, let's climb into our attic 
 David was a shepherd lad 
 Dear God, I raised my boy to be a soldier 
 Despite the Fates' imputed ban 
 Did you deceive me? Did I trust . 
 Do you know them. Old- World Brother . 
 Down the long road we went 
 Each April night, when winds will not be still 
 Each at her post we women stand 
 Earth buffets and harasses 
 Elfin rings are gone, and the ashen ring is blowing 
 Ever green and ever murmurous they stand against 
 the west ....... 
 
 Far, far from here the church bells ring 
 Far on the wild Scotch coast our boys are sleeping 
 For all the crowd that packed the house tonight 
 Four o'clock and work is over 
 From earth's horizon, dim and wide 
 From labors through the night, outworn 
 From the Unseen I come to you tonight 
 From what old ballad or from what rich frame 
 Further and further we leave the scene 
 Gentle tourangelle, Renee 
 God has a house three streets away 
 "God rest you merry, gentlemen" . 
 Guard my beloved, God above! 
 Haggard faces and trembling knees 
 Hark you such sound as quivers ? . 
 He did not come in the red dawn . 
 He is but biding here beneath the sod 
 He passed along our village street 
 Head down, ears back, like a leashed Great Dane 
 Here through years she dwelt apart 
 House of the past, house of the sunken stair . 
 How often have I heard the wind night-long . 
 I am not one of those the gods' decision . 
 I am rich, but not in gold 
 I cannot see what many see . 
 I climb the hill's steep stairway 
 I feel the spring far off, far off 
 I gave you all my heart, so long ago 
 I gazed at you and saw your eyes were sad 
 220 
 
 No. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 I had a dream of Greatness . 
 
 I had a heart as good as gold 
 
 I have remembered beauty in the night . 
 
 I have sung me a stave ..... 
 
 I heard a bird at break of day 
 
 I leant out over a ledging cliff 
 
 I place this bauble, shot with lovely light 
 
 I sing the Men of Iron ..... 
 
 I stepped within the fairy ring 
 
 I thank you, Elm and Beech and all my friends 
 
 I that have lived and loved life well 
 
 I thought I had forgotten .... 
 
 "I, too, was born in Arcady" .... 
 
 I would not have a god come in . . . 
 
 In dreams you come to mock me . 
 
 In glittering gold and burnished bronze they stand 
 
 In innermost mute closures of the sea . 
 
 In the dim east where weed-brown rocks lie bare 
 
 In the last year I have learned 
 
 In the old times of golden-gowned Romance . 
 
 Into a garden that I know and love 
 
 *^Is there such a place as Grenstone?" . 
 
 Ithaca, Ithaca, the land of my desire! . 
 
 Just once a year the Saskatoon 
 
 Last year I dreamed of days to be 
 
 Let this but be my guerdon .... 
 
 Let us bid the world good-by ! . . . 
 
 Let us go, love, hand in hand 
 
 Like harsh bells tolling in a trance 
 
 Like Tristram desolate by a sunlit sea . 
 
 Lo ! he knocks at your door .... 
 
 Lo, I have done awhile with haste . 
 Lone white gull with sickle wings . 
 Look me in the face, lad .... 
 
 "Lord, if the body be drudge unto purity" 
 Moses, Moses, seeing God .... 
 
 Music of great spaces, mighty organ tones 
 My two old salts are funny chaps . 
 My world is girt with a rampart of wonder and 
 shadow ....... 
 
 Night, and the golden glory of the moon 
 
 Night, hot and breathless; sails that flap, and spars 
 
 No chain has covered its distance .... 
 
 No. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide , 
 
 No, no, signora, I am not too old . 
 
 No question shall I make of what you mean 
 
 Not by the gray, dividing seas 
 
 Not without hope nor vainly have we sought 
 
 Now I am. minded of the works of Him 
 
 Now their sorrows are done and through 
 
 Now winds from polar field and floe 
 
 O day of smoke and flame ... 
 
 O far, far away, where the kind winds blow 
 
 O God of battles, lift our hearts to Thee ! 
 
 O Mary in thy clear young eyes 
 
 O Mother, I cannot sleep tonight . 
 
 O strange, round world! ... 
 
 O who will give us a song for them 
 
 O wind from the golden prairie 
 
 O years, I charge you, be as a flower . 
 
 October streets where yellow leaves are lying 
 
 Often when awake I lie . 
 
 Oh, days whoop by with a swingin' lope . 
 
 Oh Time, Oh Space, Oh Thoughts to be ! 
 
 On such a day of quiet rain . 
 
 Once on such an eve as this . 
 
 Our most high moods are like swift shadowings of 
 
 clouds ...... 
 
 Out in the street the children play 
 Out in the street there is a light . 
 Over the roofs the swallows fly 
 Play up, play up to the rising moon 
 Priest Caiaphas brought one hundred men 
 Quietness everywhere .... 
 
 Rain and night and tear-eyed mists 
 
 Raining, raining, all night long 
 
 Remember May? O, till no more a color tincts the 
 
 spray 
 
 Rides here stern brother John to town . 
 "Rinaldo de la Murcia — never mind my titles" 
 Said the Mother of all Living to the Mother of the 
 
 Dead 
 
 Sardonic master, you that dare betray . 
 Serene at sunset on the roof . 
 Shall it be sad, the song that I shall sing 
 She came among us and we lived . 
 
 Xo. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 No. 
 She has gone out upon a quiet journey . . . 241 
 She passed through the shadowy garden, so tall 
 
 and so white ...... 
 
 She said: "My babe is dead" . . . 
 
 She sits beneath the trellised vine . 
 
 Should Beauty sleep and God no longer care . 
 
 Shut it out of the heart — this grief 
 
 So long it is since first the eddying world 
 
 "Soldier, knowest thou the land" . 
 
 Soldiers three at a county fair 
 
 Soul, what hath her soul to say 
 
 Sparrow in the heart of birch 
 
 Still round the fire we cling with hands outspread 
 
 Sweep over me, O lovely winds . . . 
 
 Sweet was the song that the Princess trolled . 
 
 Swift through the night I sped on vibrant wing 
 
 Swiftly the shrieking fire-bird gleams 
 
 The air was keen, the shadows far had fled . 
 
 The ancient Star of Promise stands in the quiet sky 
 
 The apples dropping from the tree 
 
 The April afternoon was long • . 
 
 The birch tree throws a scarf of green . 
 
 The breezes of the spring have taken wing 
 
 The city is so kind to me .... 
 
 The clouds build black a giant hall 
 
 The dreamer dreamed; and the busy world 
 
 The earth weighs down my 'lids — they forget the 
 
 feeling of tears ...... 
 
 The hill o' dreams, ten days ago . 
 
 The kings are passing deathward in the dark . 
 
 The lights are dim on the steerage deck 
 
 The little brown lads are flying kites 
 
 The noonday sun is dim .... 
 
 The past is like the sea, for both do hold 
 The poets cry, the preachers drone 
 The quarry is caught, the game bag filled 
 The Roman road to the ferry ! . . . 
 
 The sleepless leave their lair, the sun begins . 
 "The smile," they called her .... 
 
 "The trail is long to the bison herd" 
 The trampling armies leave discomfited . 
 The Whine of the Weak to God on High arose 
 The wind has fallen with the sun, and now 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 The wind is sweet with hovering rain 
 
 There in a row of chairs upon the porch 
 
 There is a building on a city square 
 
 There is a house beside a way 
 
 There strode a Bedouin through the market-place 
 
 There's a little Irish village in the shadow of the hill 
 
 There's a new beauty thrilling in my soul 
 
 These hands, two nimble butterflies 
 
 They look upon us through the mystic door . 
 
 They made them idols in the elder days . 
 
 This is the love-song we today are singing 
 
 This is the road that you all must take . 
 
 This is the spot where I will lie . 
 
 This is the truth as I see it, my dear 
 
 This love of nature, that allures to take . 
 
 This was one of the dreary whiles . 
 
 Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road 
 
 Though there is something that I long to tell . 
 
 To Covent Garden people stream . 
 
 To God the glory! We who lie . 
 
 Today I found a grass-grown grave 
 
 Tradition, garbed in samite, gold-inwrought . 
 
 Trailing the last gleam after 
 
 Under the eaves, out of the wet 
 
 Until I've had my fill of bluebells blowing by the hill 
 
 Up the Minnesota through the mellow June . 
 
 War has its field of blood — heart-breaking war 
 
 We of the twilight years that speed toward night 
 
 We ran, and I outdistanced him . 
 
 We stood on Belgium's tortured soil 
 
 We strain toward Heaven and lay hold on Hell 
 
 We who beg for bread as we daily tread 
 
 What ails the air in Denmark 
 
 What distant mountains thrill and glow . 
 
 What have I gained who gave so much . 
 
 What is the symbol underneath it all . 
 
 What moved Him most — ^the lilies robed in white? 
 
 What paean, what victorious cry . 
 
 What though we shape no mighty thing 
 
 When I am dead and must be buried deep . 
 
 When I come back in the gloom 
 
 When life has done with laughter and singing . 
 
 When Maire at the fireside sits 
 
 No. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 No. 
 
 When no one else will come and Evening draws . 139 
 
 When the song is done ...... 14 
 
 When they ran him down hill, what did Moyer 
 
 think? 152 
 
 When ye pass by there is no need to cry . . 50 
 
 Where are the Shepherds who watch the flocks? . Ill 
 
 Whoe'er you be at whom in youthful scorn . . 108 
 Whose footfall is it on the stair? . . . .173 
 
 Why should it irk me, the night .... 85 
 
 "Wisest of the story-tellers," 57 
 
 With eyes that time and tears have smitten blind . 74 
 
 With rod and line I took my way .... 87 
 
 Woman, Woman, idly dreaming .... 159 
 
 Women, in war-time yours how hard the task . 113 
 
 Would Jesus come to me, Mither .... 148 
 
 Ye dead and gone great armies of the world . . 100 
 
 Yon dragonfly is friends with me . . . ^ . 167 
 
 You and I settled this section together . . . 204 
 
 You can hear them as you go . . . «. . 60 
 
 You watch and abide on the sunrise side . . 221 
 
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