715-3 
 
STAR-POINTS 
 
STAR-POINTS 
 
 SONGS OF JOY, FAITH, AND PROMISE 
 FROM THE PRESENT-DAY POETS 
 
 SELECTED BY 
 
 MRS. WALDO RICHARDS 
 
 *' The flaming of a torch across the years 
 And through the world the rising of a star " 
 
 BOSTON ANirTTEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Ctitier^i&c pre?? Cambribge 
 
COPYRIGHT, IQ3I, BY GERTRUDE MOORE RICHARDS 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 SIXTH IMPRESSION, AUGUST, Ip23 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 
 
TO MY DEAR FRIENDS 
 CORA LEE RICE 
 
 AND 
 
 SUSAN DAY CLARK 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 THERE has never been a time in the history of our country when 
 the call was more insistent for us to emphasize the inspiring note 
 of Emerson's message: 
 
 "Hitch your wagon to a star! " 
 
 In this period of reconstruction, following the awful cataclysm 
 which has engulfed the entire world, there is larger need than ever 
 before of an uplifting and sustaining faith. Out of this thought 
 has come the title of the book: 
 
 "Star-Points." 
 
 The selections chosen from the Modern Poets are such as 
 would naturally fall under the points of my star: Joy, Vision, 
 Love, Beauty, Aspiration with two attributes added, for we 
 may never lose the association of the Star with Faith and Promise. 
 All these "Points " we must grasp and hold if we would be carried 
 through the apprehension, friction, and confusion of the present 
 time into the clear vision of a New Day! 
 
 GERTRUDE MOORE RICHARDS 
 November, 1920 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 MRS. RICHARDS wishes to extend her sincere thanks and apprecia 
 tion, not only to the poets who have been most gracious in their 
 cooperation, but to the publishers who have kindly permitted her 
 to reprint in this volume poems for which they hold the copyrights: 
 
 To B. H. Blackwell, Ltd., Oxford, for "Seasons," from The Sword 
 Poems, by G. O. Warren. 
 
 To Messrs. Boni & Liveright for "The Cobbler in Willow Street," 
 from the book of the same title, by George O'Neil. 
 
 To Brentano's for "The Mirror of all Ages are the Eyes," from 
 The Five Books of Youth, by Robert Hillyer; "Tell all the World" 
 and "The Hummingbird," from Chanteys and Ballads, by Harry 
 Kemp; and "A Song of April," from The Complete Poems of Francis 
 Ledwidge. 
 
 To The Century Company for "A Birthnight Candle," by John 
 Finley, from The Century Magazine; "Brotherhood," from Songs for 
 the New Age, by James Oppenheim; and "Twilight Content" and 
 "The Heart's Question," from Songs to A. H. R., by Gale Young 
 Rice. 
 
 To Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company for "Afternoon," by Fannie 
 Stearns Davis, from The Masque of Poets, edited by Edward J. 
 O'Brien. 
 
 To Messrs. George H. Doran Company for "Romany Gold" and 
 "Night Magic" from Hearts Awake, by Amelia Josephine Burr; 
 "Merchantmen," from Small Craft, by C. Fox Smith; "The Fairies 
 have never a Penny to Spend," from Fairies and Chimneys, by Rose 
 Fyleman; "After Grieving," from Candles that Burn, by Aline Kilmer; 
 "Thanksgiving," from Poems, Essays, and Letters, by Joyce Kilmer; 
 "To the Little House," from Songs for a Little House, by Christopher 
 Morley; "The Sacrament of Fire," from The Fiery Cross, by John 
 Oxenham; "The Birds," from The Birds, and Other Poems, by J. C. 
 
 ix 
 
Squire ; and "The Best Road of All " and " A Prayer for the Old Cour 
 age," from A World of Windows, by Charles Hanson Towne. 
 
 To Messrs. Doubleday Page & Company for "A Ballade-Catalogue 
 of Lovely Things" and "Sacred Idleness," from The Junkman, and 
 Other Poems, by Richard Le Gallienne; "The Dawn Wind," from 
 Rudyard Kipling's Verse (Inclusive Edition); "The Divine Strategy,' 
 "Man-Making," and "Courage, All," from The Gates of Parodist :, 
 and Other Poems, and Shoes of Happiness, and Other Poems, by Edwin 
 Markham. 
 
 To Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company for "Even-Song" and "The 
 Locomotive to the Little Boy," from Broken Music, by Benja 
 min R. C. Low; "The Music of a Tree," from The Dark Wind, by 
 W. J. Turner; "Autumn" and "De Glory Road," from The Earth 
 turns South, by Clement Wood; "Every One Sang," from Picture- 
 Show, by Siegfried Sassoon; "Out of the Desert," from Lanterns in 
 Gethsemane, by Willard Wattles; "The Hoir.ing-Heart," from Life's 
 Minstrel, by Daniel Henderson; and " She became what she beheld," 
 from Gifts, by Margaret Cecilia Furse (also to Messrs. Constable & 
 Company, London). 
 
 To Mr. A. C. Fifield, London, for "Nature's Friend" and "The 
 Best Friend," from Collected Poems, by William H. Davies. 
 
 To the Four Seas Company for stanzas from "Variations," from 
 The Charnel Rose, and Other Poems, by Conrad Aiken; "My April," 
 from Poems, by B. Preston Clark, Jr.; "Japanese Hokkus," by Yone 
 Noguchi, from book of same title; and "As when Saint Francis 
 walked the ways of earth" and "To One who is a Voice," from 
 Spindrift, by James L. McLane, Jr. 
 
 To Messrs. Harcourt, Brace and Howe, for "The Ould Apple 
 Woman" and "W'en Spreeng ees Com'," from Carmina and Madri- 
 gali, by Thomas Augustine Daly; "The Stirrup-Cup," from Chal 
 lenge, by Louis Untermeyer; lines from "The Roamer" and "The 
 Old House," from The Roamer, and Other Poems, by George Edward 
 Woodberry. 
 
 To Messrs. Harper & Brothers for "Three Swords," from Poems, 
 by Dana Burnet; "The Birth," from Dreams and Dust, by Don 
 
 x 
 
Marquis; " Wind-in-the-Hair and Rain-in-the-Face," from The Mirth 
 ful Lyre, by Arthur Guiterman; and "Love's Island," by Ian Oliver 
 (Mrs. L. J. Salisbury), "The Superman," by Albert Bigelow Paine, 
 "The Valley's Singing Day," by Robert Frost, and "Tell me your 
 Dream," by Edith Thomas, from Harper's Magazine. 
 
 To the Harvard University Press for "The Poet" from Life Im 
 movable, by Kostes Palamas (translated by Aristides E. Phoutrides). 
 
 To Messrs. Henry Holt & Company for "Joy to You" and "Hope's 
 Song," from The Cairn of Stars and My Ireland, by Francis Carlin; 
 "There was a Moon, there was a Star," from Portraits and Protests, 
 by Sarah Cleghorn; "The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks," and 
 "I have cared for you, Moon," from Wilderness Songs, by Grace 
 Hazard Conkling; "The Mocking Fairy," " Miss Loo," and "Winter," 
 from Collected Poems, by Walter de la Mare; "Monotone," from 
 Chicago Poems, by Carl Sandburg; "Refuge" and "The Great Di 
 vide," from Many, Many Moons, by Lew Sarett; "Sowing," from 
 Poems, by Edward Thomas; "A Man," from These Times, by Louis 
 Untermeyer; and "Mother-Prayer," from The Old Road to Paradise t 
 and Other Poems, by Margaret Widdemer. 
 
 To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for "Storm, "from The 
 Shoes that Danced, by Anna Hempstead Branch; "Green Crosses" 
 and "The Lost Playmate," from Heart of New England and Fresh 
 Posies, by Abbie Farwell Brown; "Dominion," from Poems, 1908- 
 1919, by John Drinkwater; "Faith" and "The Wakeful Dark," from 
 Clouds and Cobblestones, by Hortense Flexner; "The Hill-Born," 
 from In the High Hills, by Maxwell Struthers Burt; "Alms," from 
 The Singing Leaves, by Josephine Preston Peabody; "The Sun Wor 
 shipers," from Songs of the Trail, by Henry Herbert Knibbs; "After 
 Two Years," by Richard Aldington, from Some Imagist Poets, 1916; 
 "The Tryst" and "To Browning, the Music Master," from The 
 White Comrade, by Robert Haven Schauffler; " Pandora's Song," 
 from Poems and Poetic Dramas, by William Vaughn Moody; "Eastei 
 Song," by Stuart Merrill, and "Out of the Deep," by Charles Gue"rin, 
 from Fleurs-de-Lys (translated and edited by Wilfred Thorley); 
 "Windows," from The Door of Dreams, by Jessie B. Rittenhouse; 
 
 ri 
 
"Obligation," "A Sprig of Rosemary," and "Winter's Turning," 
 from Sword Blades and Poppy Seed and Pictures of the Floating World, 
 by Amy Lowell; and "The Flower Factory," from The Ride Home, 
 by Florence Wilkinson Evans. 
 
 To Mr. B. W. Huebsch for "Bell of Dawn," by Paul Fort, from 
 The Poets of Modern France, translated by Ludwig Lewisohn; and 
 "A Tree at Dusk" and "Driftwood," from The Hesitant Heart, by 
 Winifred Welles. 
 
 To Mr. Alfred A. Knopf for "The Home Land," by Witter Bynner 
 (translated from the French of fimile Cammaerts), from A Canticle of 
 Pan, and Other Poems; "A Pinch of Salt," from Fairies and Fusi 
 liers, by Robert Graves; and "The Great Man" and "Completion," 
 from Body and Raiment, by Eunice Tietjens. 
 
 To John Lane Company for "To One I Love" and "What if we 
 made our senses so astute," from Tossed Coins, by Amory Hare; "My 
 Lips would Sing " from My Ship, and Other Verses, by Edmund 
 Leamy; "Salutation to the Eternal Peace," from The Bird of Time, 
 by Sarojini Naidu; and "Resurrection," from The Hour has Struck, 
 and Other Poems, by Angela Morgan. 
 
 To Messrs. Little, Brown & Company for "The Childher," from 
 Heart Songs and Home Songs, by Denis A. McCarthy. 
 
 To Messrs. Longmans, Green & Company for "Sonnet," from 
 Poems, by Sir Cecil Arthur Spring-Rice. 
 
 To Mr. David McKay for "Quantity and Quality," from The 
 Songs of Leinster, by W. M. Letts. 
 
 To The Macmillan Company for "Star-Song," from Poems, by 
 Gladys Cromwell; "A New Star" and "The Listener," from Snow 
 Birds, by ri Ananda Acharya; "When Peter Jackson preached in 
 the Old Church" and "In Memory of my Friend Joyce Kilmer," 
 from The Golden Whales of California, by Vachel Lindsay; "On Grow 
 ing Old" and "Roses are Beauty," from Enslaved, and Other Poems 
 and Good Friday, and Other Poems, by John Masefield; "Johnny 
 Appleseed," from Towards the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters; "The 
 Journey," from The New Day, by Scudder Middleton; "On the 
 Verandah," from The Tree of Life, by John Gould Fletcher; "The 
 
 xii 
 
Gift of God," from The Man against the Sky, by Edwin Arlington 
 Robinson; "The Cell," from Escape and Fantasy, by George Ros- 
 trevor; "Stars," "The Coin," and "Peace," from Flame and Shadow 
 and Love Songs, by Sara Teasdale; "Semi-Choruses" and "Chorus," 
 from The Dynasts, by Thomas Hardy; "A Chant Out-of -Doors" and 
 "The Air," from Bluestone, by Marguerite Wilkinson; and "The 
 Wild Swans of Coole," from Poems, by William Butler Yeats. 
 
 To the Manas Press for "Cradle-Song," from Verses, by Adelaide 
 Crapsey. 
 
 To Mr. Elkin Mathews, London, and to Mr. Binyon personally for 
 "A Song" and "The Things that Grow," from The Secret: Sixty Poems, 
 by Laurence Binyon. 
 
 To Messrs. Maunsel & Company, Ltd., Dublin, and to Mr. Camp 
 bell personally for " The Old Woman," from Irishry, by Joseph Camp 
 bell (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil). 
 
 To Mr. Harold Monro, The Poetry Bookshop, London, for "The 
 Bird at Dawn" and "Week-End," from Strange Meetings, by Harold 
 Monro. 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Bird Mosher for "The Pines," "Dusk at Sea," 
 and "The Gifts of Peace," from The Voice in the Silence, by Thomas 
 S. Jones, Jr.; "Poetry," by Ella Crosby Heath, from Amphora, com 
 piled by T. B. Mosher; and "Immortality," from A Handful of 
 Lavender, by Lizette Woodworth Reese. 
 
 To Messrs. Norman, Remington Company, Baltimore, and to Miss 
 Reese personally for "His Mother in her Hood of Blue," from Spice- 
 wood, by Lizette Woodworth Reese. 
 
 To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for "The Road's End," from .As 
 the Larks Rise, by Theodosia Garrison; "Moonflowers," "Revela 
 tion," and "Who walks with Beauty," from Ships in Harbor, by 
 David Morton; and "Hermit Thrush," from The Potter's Clay, by 
 Marie Tudor. 
 
 To Mr. A. M. Robertson for "The Guerdon of the Sun" and 
 "Aldebaran at Dusk," from The House of Orchids, by George Sterling. 
 
 To Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "As we po on," from Songs 
 and Portraits, by Maxwell Struthers Burt; "One Hour," from The 
 
Call of Brotherhood, by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; "Thanks from 
 Earth to Heaven," from Dust and Light, by John Hall Wheelock; and 
 "To such as play only the Bass Viol," by John Finley, and "In the 
 Hospital," by Arthur Guiterman, from Scribner's Magazine. 
 
 To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company for " Triumph alis," from 
 Echoes from Vagabondia, by Bliss Carman; and "Heroes," from The 
 Heart of Peace, by Laurence Housman. 
 
 To Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company for "Neighbors," from 
 Grenstone Poems, by Witter Bynner; "The Lonesome Wave," from 
 Poems by a Little Girl, by Hilda Conkling; "Angeline," from High 
 Company, by Harry Lee; "Last Song in an Opera," from Ardours 
 and Endurances, by Robert Nichols; "The Little Roads," from The 
 New Morning, and "The Elfin Artist," from book of same title, by 
 Alfred Noyes; and "Life," from Poems, by Cecil Roberts. 
 
 To Messrs, James T. White & Company for "Sainte Jeanne of 
 France," from The Final Star, by Marian Couthouy Smith. 
 
 To The Yale University Press for "The Ploughman" and "Leaf- 
 Burning," from Blue Smoke, by Karle Wilson Baker; "The Falconer 
 of God " and " Her Way," from The Falconer of God, and Other Poems 
 and Perpetual Light, by William Rose Bene"t; "A Hillside Farmer" 
 and "Alone," from Forgotten Shrines, by John Chipman Farrar; 
 and "The Little Shepherd's Song," from April Once, by William 
 Alexander Percy. 
 
 To the Athenaeum (London) for "Nostalgia," by Iris Tree. 
 
 To the Atlantic Monthly for "A Blackbird Suddenly," by Joseph 
 Auslander. 
 
 To the Churchman for "Candle- Lighting Song" and "Counter 
 sign," by Arthur Ketchum. 
 
 To Contem-porary Verse for "Morning Song," by Karle Wilson 
 Baker; "Idyl," by Amanda Benjamin Hall; "Friends," by Vlyn 
 Johnson; "Moonlight in the Birch Wood," by Antoinette DeCour- 
 sey Patterson; "The Meeting," by Edward J. O'Brien; "The Natu 
 ralist on a June Sunday," by Leonora Speyer; and "Hope," by 
 Gamaliel Bradford. 
 
 xiv 
 
To the Dial for "The Singers in a Cloud," by Eidgely Torrence. 
 
 To the Forum for "Rank," by Ralph M. Thompson. 
 
 To Good Housekeeping for "The Philosopher," by Sara Teasdale. 
 
 To the King Features Syndicate, Inc., for "A Song of the New World," 
 by Angela Morgan. 
 
 To the Ladies' Home Journal for "Aloha," by William Griffith, 
 nnd "The Mother in the House," by Hermann Hagedorn. 
 
 To McCall's Magazine for "A B C's in Green," by Leonora 
 Speyer. 
 
 To the New Witness (London) for "Chopin Prelude," by Hon. 
 Eleanour Norton. 
 
 To the New York Evening Post for "A Flemish Madonna," by 
 Charles Wharton Stork. 
 
 To the New York Herald for "The Conqueror," by Morris Abel 
 Beer. 
 
 To the New York Sun for " Gifts," by Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff . 
 
 To the New York Times for "Late Plowing" and "Hold Fast 
 your Dreams," by Louise Driscoll. 
 
 To the Outlook for "The Christmas Carol of the Bees," by Nora 
 Archibald Smith. 
 
 To Poetry, a Magazine of Verse (Chicago) for "America," by Har 
 riet Monroe, and "The Little Tavern," by Edna St. Vincent Millay. 
 
 To the San Diego Sun for "Dawn," by Grace Atherton Dennen. 
 
 To the Saturday Evening Post and to Miss Davies personally for 
 " Sea-Gull Song," by Mary Carolyn Davies. 
 
 To the Sewanee Review for "Promise," by Norreys Jephson 
 O'Conor. 
 
 To the Yale Review for "Lyrical Epigrams," by Edith Wharton; 
 "Thrift," by John Drinkwater; and "Onset" and "Snow-Dust," by 
 Robert Frost. 
 
 To the Youth's Companion for "Click o' the Latch," by Nancy 
 Byrd Turner. 
 
 Personal acknowledgment is also made to the following poets and 
 "ndividual owners of copyrights: 
 
 xv 
 
To Miss Katharine Lee Bates for "The Star of Bethlehem" (in 
 manuscript). 
 
 To The Cambridge University Press and Professor William R. Sor- 
 ley for "Expectans Expectavi," from Marlborough, and Other Poems, 
 by Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley. 
 
 To Mrs. Florence Earle Coates for "Live thy Life" and "After." 
 
 To Fannie Stearns Davis (Mrs. A. McK. Gifford) for "I sing no 
 more "(in manuscript). 
 
 To Mrs. Jeanne Robert Foster for "Tell me, what is Poetry " 
 (in manuscript) and "The Backslider," horn Neighbors of Yesterday, 
 published by Messrs. Sherman, French & Company. 
 
 To Mr. Rudyard Kipling for "Dawn Song" from Rudyard Kip 
 ling's Verse, Inclusive Edition, 1885-1918. 
 
 To Mr. Scudder Middletcn for "A Woman," from Streets and 
 Faces, published by The Little Book Publishing Company. 
 
 To Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay for "Travel" and "The Little 
 Tavern." 
 
 To Miss Sarah Metcalf Phipps for "A Summer Day" (in manu 
 script). 
 
 To Ada M. Roberts (Mrs. Odin Roberts) for "Even the least of 
 these" (in manuscript). 
 
 To Mr. Clinton Scollard for "Beauty" and "Aspiration." 
 
 To Mrs. May Riley Smith for "My Life is a Bowl" and "The 
 Tree-Top Road" (in manuscript). 
 
 To Mr. Charles Wharton Stork for "Invocation." 
 
 To Mr. John Hall Wheelock for "The Modern Man," from The 
 Beloved Vagabond, published by Messrs. Sherman, French & Com 
 pany. 
 
 To Mrs. Frederic A. Whiting for "A Roadside Singer," by Frederic 
 A. Whiting. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A B C's in Green. Leonora Speyer 72 
 
 After. Florence Eark Coates 175 
 
 After Grieving. Aline Kilmer 131 
 
 After Two Years. Richard Aldington 44 
 
 Afternoon. Fannie Stearns Davis 95 
 
 Air, The. Marguerite Wilkinson 69 
 
 Aldebaran at Dusk. George Sterling ......... 147 
 
 Alms. Josephine Preston Peabody 139 
 
 Aloha. William Griffith 36 
 
 Alone. John Chipman Farrar 146 
 
 America. Harriet Monroe 214 
 
 And to such as Play only the Bass Viol. John Finky .... 106 
 
 Angeline. Harry Lee 167 
 
 April, My. B. Preston Clark, Jr 18 
 
 As We Go On. Maxwell Struthers Burt ........ 209 
 
 "As when Saint Francis walked the ways of earth." James L. 
 
 McLane, Jr 119 
 
 Aspiration. Clinton Scollard 15 
 
 Autumn. Clement Wood . 189 
 
 Backslider, The. Jeanne Robert Foster 181 
 
 Ballade-Catalogue of Lovely Things, A. Richard Le Gallienne . 9 
 
 Beauty. Clinton Scollard 27 
 
 xvii 
 
Bell of Dawn. Paul Fort (translated by Ludwig Lewisohri) . . 195 
 
 Best Friend, The. William H. Davies 37 
 
 Best Road of All, The. Charles Hanson Tovme 67 
 
 Bird at Dawn, The. Harold Monro 196 
 
 *";irds, The. J. C. Squire 120 
 
 3irth, The. Don Marquis 199 
 
 Birthnight Candle, A. John Finky 135 
 
 Blackbird Suddenly, A. Joseph Auslander 21 
 
 Brotherhood. James Oppenheim 117 
 
 Browning, the Music Master, To. Robert Haven Schauffler . . 142 
 
 Candle-lighting Song. (Dedicated to A. van B.) Arthur Ketchum 141 
 
 Cell, The. George Rostrevor 70 
 
 Chant out of Doors, A. Marguerite Wilkinson 28 
 
 Childher, The. Denis A. McCarthy 54 
 
 Chopin Prelude. Hon. Eleanour Norton 152 
 
 Christmas Carol of the Bees, The. Nora Archibald Smith . . 198 
 
 Click o* the Latch. Nancy Byrd Turner 45 
 
 Cobbler in Willow Street, The. George O'Neil 59 
 
 Coin, The. Sara Teasdak 94 
 
 Coming of Dawn, The. Grace Atherton Dennen 221 
 
 Completion. Eunice Tietjens 41 
 
 Conqueror, The. Morris Abel Beer . 102 
 
 Countersign. Arthur Ketchum 77 
 
 Courage, All! Edwin Markham 219 
 
 Oradle-Song. Adelaide Crapsey 200 
 
 xviii 
 
Dawn Wind, The. Rudyard Kipling 4 
 
 De Glory Road. Clement Wood .100 
 
 Divine Strategy, The. Edwin Markham 214 
 
 Dominion. John Drinkwater 104 
 
 Driftwood. Winifred Welles 141 
 
 Dusk at Sea. Thomas S. Jones, Jr 47 
 
 Easter Song. Stuart Merrill (translated from the French by Wil 
 fred Thorky) 24 
 
 Elfin Artist, The. Alfred Noyes 11 
 
 "Even the least of these." Ada M. Roberts 205 
 
 Even-Song. Benjamin R. C. Low 46 
 
 Every One Sang. Siegfried Sassoon 211 
 
 Expectans Expectavi. Charles Hamilton Sorley 107 
 
 Faith. Hortense Flexner 191 
 
 Falconer of God, The. William Rose Benet 38 
 
 Flemish Madonna, A. Charles Wharton Stork 117 
 
 Flower Factory, The. Florence Wilkinson Evans 174 
 
 Friends. Vlyn Johnson 83 
 
 Friendship. Edith Wharton 140 
 
 Gift of God, The. Edwin Arlington Robinson 50 
 
 Gifts. Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff 27 
 
 Gifts of Peace, The. Thomas S. Jones, Jr 108 
 
 Glory Road, De. Clement Wood 100 
 
 fat 
 
Great Divide, The. Lew Sarett 155 
 
 Great Man, The. Eunice Tietjens 96 
 
 Green Crosses. Abbie Farwell Brown 203 
 
 Growing Old, On. John Mase field .... * .\ . . .178 
 Guerdon of the Sun, The. George Sterling 6 
 
 Heart's Question, The. Cole Young Rice 176 
 
 Her Way. William Rose Benet 48 
 
 Hermit Thrush. Marie Tudor 34 
 
 Heroes. Laurence Housman 213 
 
 Hill-born, The. Maxwell Struthers Burt 183 
 
 Hillside Farmer, A. John Chipman Farrar 184 
 
 His Mother in her Hood of Blue. Lizette Woodworth Reeae . . 201 
 
 " Hold fast your dreams." Louise Driscoll 60 
 
 Home-Land, The. Witter Bynner (from the French of Smile 
 
 Cammaerts) 136 
 
 Homing Heart, The. Daniel Henderson 165 
 
 Hope. Gamaliel Bradford 173 
 
 Hope's Song. Francis Carlin 99 
 
 Hummingbird, The. Harry Kemp 93 
 
 " I have cared for you, Moon." Grace Hazard Oonkling ... 6 
 "I sing no more." Fannie Stearns Davis ....... 53 
 
 Idyl. Amanda Benjamin Hatt 154 
 
 Immortality. Lizette Woodworth Reese 192 
 
 In Memory of my Friend Joyce Kilmer, Poet and Soldier. 
 
 Vachel Lindsay . 128 
 
 xx 
 
In Salutation to the Eternal Peace. Sarojini Naidu . . . - . 218 
 
 In the Hospital. Arthur Guiterman 99 
 
 Invocation. Charles Wharton Stork 150 
 
 Japanese Hokkus. Yone Noguchi 116 
 
 Johnny Appleseed. Edgar Lee Masters 159 
 
 Journey, The. Scudder Middkton 113 
 
 Joy to You. Francis Carlin 218 
 
 Last Song in an Opera. Robert Nichols 17 
 
 Late Plowing. Louise Driscoll 22 
 
 Leaf -Burning. Karle Wilson Baker 14 
 
 Life. Cecil Roberts 211 
 
 Lines from " The Roamer." George Edward Woodberry ... 40 
 
 Listener, The. ri Ananda Ach&rya 90 
 
 Little House, To the. Christopher Morley 131 
 
 Little Roads, The. Alfred Noyes 149 
 
 Little Shepherd's Song, The. William Alexander Percy . .151 
 
 Little Tavern, The. Edna St. Vincent Millay 63 
 
 Live thy Life. Florence Earle Coates 114 
 
 Locomotive to the Little Boy, The. Benjamin R. C. Low . . 58 
 
 Lonesome Wave, The. Hilda Conkling 62 
 
 Lost Playmate, The. Abbie Farwell Brown 145 
 
 Love's Island. Ian Oliver 45 
 
 Lyrical Epigrams. Edith Wharton 140 
 
 Man, A. Louis Untermeyer 126 
 
 Man-making. Edwin Markham 125 
 
 fed 
 
Meeting, The. Edward J. O'Brien 103 
 
 Merchantmen. C. Fox Smith 171 
 
 Miss Loo. Walter de la Mare ,' . 163 
 
 Mocking Fairy, The. Walter de la Mare 31 
 
 Modern Man, To the. John Hall Wheelock 124 
 
 Monotone. Carl Sandburg 23 
 
 Moonflowers. David Morton 33 
 
 Moonlight in the Birch Wood. Antoinette DeCoursey Patterson . 144 
 
 Morning Song. Karle Wilson Baker 42 
 
 Mother in the House, The. Hermann Hagedorn 98 
 
 Mother-Prayer. Margaret Widdemer 52 
 
 Music of a Tree, The. W. J. Turner 13 
 
 My April. B. Preston Clark, Jr 18 
 
 "My life is a bowl." May Riley Smith 165 
 
 " My lips would sing " Edmund Leamy 164 
 
 Naturalist on a June Sunday, The. Leonora Speyer .... 29 
 
 Nature's Friend. William H. Davies 32 
 
 Neighbors. Witter Bynner 125 
 
 New Star, A. rt Ananda Acharya 221 
 
 Night Magic. Amelia Josephine Burr 57 
 
 Nostalgia. Iris Tree 138 
 
 Obligation. Amy Lowell 166 
 
 Old House, The. George Edward Woodberry 178 
 
 Old Woman, The. Joseph Campbell (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil) . Ill 
 
 xxii 
 
On Growing Old. John Masefield ITS 
 
 On the Verandah. John Gould Fktcher . . . "..'.. ... 79 
 
 One Hour. Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 81 
 
 Onset, The. Robert Frost V . . . .194 
 
 Ould Apple Woman, The. Thomas Augustine Daly .... 161 
 Out of the Deep. Charles Guerin (translated by Wilfred Thorky). 112 
 Out of the Desert. Willard Wattles 210 
 
 Pandora's Song. William Vaughn Moody . 2 
 
 Peace. Sara Teasdale 109 
 
 Philosopher, The. Sara Teasdale 180 
 
 Pinch of Salt, A. Robert Graves 105 
 
 Pines, The. Thomas S. Jones, Jr 14 
 
 Ploughman, The. Karle Wilson Baker 85 
 
 Poet, The. Kostes Palamas (translated by Aristides E. Phou- 
 
 trides) 89 
 
 Poetry. Ella Crosby Heath 10 
 
 Prayer for the Old Courage, A. Charles Hanson Towne . . 7 
 
 Promise. Norreys Jephson O'Conor 207 
 
 Puddle, The. Eden Phillpotts 189 
 
 Quantity and Quality. W. M. Letts 54 
 
 Rank. Ralph M. Thompson < . . 167 
 
 Refuge. LewSarett 18<1 
 
 Resurrection. Angela Morgan , . . 21 
 
 xxiii 
 
Revelation. David Morton ............ 75 
 
 Road's End, The. Theodosia Garrison 68 
 
 Roadside Singer, A. Frederic A. Whiting 148 
 
 "Roamer, The," Lines from. George Edward Woodberry . . 40 
 
 Romany Gold. Amelia Josephine Burr 63 
 
 "Roses are beauty." John Mase field 91 
 
 Sacrament of Fire, The. John Oxenham 132 
 
 Sacred Idleness. Richard Le Gallienne 64 
 
 Sainte Jeanne of France. Marian Couthouy Smith .... 84 
 
 Sea-Gull Song. Mary Carolyn Dairies 78 
 
 Seasons. Gretchen 0. Warren 190 
 
 Semi-Choruses and Chorus from " The Dynasts." Thomas Hardy 223 
 "She became what she beheld." Margaret Cecilia Furse . . 70 
 
 Singers in a Cloud, The. Ridgely Torrence 212 
 
 Snow Dust. Robert Frost 195 
 
 Song, A. Laurence Binyon 170 
 
 Song of April, A. Francis Ledwidge 20 
 
 Song of the New World. Angela Morgan 220 
 
 Sonnet. Sir Cecil Arthur Spring-Rice 134 
 
 Sowing. Edward Thomas 23 
 
 Sprig of Rosemary, A. Amy Lowell 47 
 
 Spring. Edith Wharton . . . 140 
 
 Stanzas from "Variations." Conrad Aiken 110 
 
 Star of Bethlehem, The. Katharine Lee Bates 197 
 
 Star Song. Gladys Cromwell .103 
 
 V.20UV 
 
Stars. Sara Teasdde . 3 
 
 Stirrup-Cup, The. Louis Untermeyer 166 
 
 Storm, The. Anna Hempslead Branch 185 
 
 Summer Day, A. (Dedicated to G. M. R.) Sarah Metcalf Phipps 35 
 
 Sun- Worshipers, The. Henry Herbert Knibbs 157 
 
 Superman, The. Albert Bigelow Paine 114 
 
 ,Tell All the World. Harry Kemp 71 
 
 "Tell me, what is poetry " Jeanne Robert Foster .... 89 
 
 "Tell me your dream." Edith M. Thomas 153 
 
 Thanks from Earth to Heaven. John Hall Wheelock ... 86 
 
 Thanksgiving. Joyce Kilmer 86 
 
 "The Fairies have never a penny to spend." Rose Fyleman . 145 
 "The mirror of all ages are the eyes." Robert Hillyer ... 94 
 "There was a moon, there was a star." Sarah N. Cleghorn . .147 
 
 Things that Grow, The. Laurence Binyon . 177 
 
 Three Swords. Dana Burnet 172 
 
 Thrift. John Drinkwater 76 
 
 To Browning, the Music Master. Robert Haven Schaujfler . 142 
 
 To One I Love. Amory Hare 41 
 
 To One who is a Voice. James L. McLane, Jr Ill 
 
 To the Little House. Christopher Morky 131 
 
 To the Modern Man. John Hall Wheelock 124 
 
 Travel. Edna St. Vincent Millay 158 
 
 Tree at Dusk, A. Winifred Welles 13 
 
 Tree-Top Road, The. May Riley Smith 65 
 
 xxv 
 
Triumphalis. Bliss Carman ............ 16 
 
 Tryst, The. Robert Haven Schauffler ......... f 
 
 Twilight Content. Cole Young Rice ......... lit* 
 
 VaUey's Singing Day, The. Robert Frost ....... 4T 
 
 "Variations," Stanzas from. Conrad Aiken ....... 110 
 
 Wakeful Dark, The. Hortense Flemer ........ 208 
 
 Week-End. Harold Monro ............ 72 
 
 Wen Spreeng ees Com '. T.A.Daly ......... 19 
 
 "What if we made our senses so astute." Amory Hare ... 93 
 When Peter Jackson Preached in the Old Church. Vachel 
 Lindsay .................. 118 
 
 "Who walks with Beauty." David Morton ....... 8 
 
 Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks, The. Grace Hazard Conkling . 79 
 Wild Swans at Coole, The. William Butler Yeats . . . .156 
 
 Wind-in-the-Hair and Rain-in-the-Face. Arthur Guiterman . 187 
 Windows. Jessie B. Rittenhouse .......... 95 
 
 Winter. Walter de la Mare ............ 192 
 
 Winter's Turning. Amy Lowell ........... 205 
 
 Woman, A. Scudder Middkton ........ . . 97 
 
 Index of Authors 
 
STAR-POINTS 
 
PANDORA'S SONG 
 
 Of wounds and sore defeat 
 
 I made my battle stay; 
 
 Winged sandals for my feet 
 
 I wove of my delay; 
 
 Of weariness and fear, 
 
 I made my shouting spear; 
 
 Of loss, and doubt, and dread, 
 
 And swift oncoming doom 
 
 I made a helmet for my head 
 
 And a floating plume. 
 
 From the shutting mist of death, 
 
 From the failure of the breath, 
 
 I made a battle-horn to blow 
 
 Across the vales of overthrow. 
 
 hearken, love, the battle-horn! 
 
 The triumph clear, the silver scorn! 
 
 hearken where the echoes bring, 
 
 Down the grey disastrous morn, 
 
 Laughter and rallying! 
 
 WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
STAR-POINTS 
 
 STARS 
 
 ALONE in the night 
 
 On a dark hill 
 With pines around me 
 
 Spicy and still, 
 
 And a heaven full of stars 
 
 Over my head, 
 White and topaz 
 
 And misty red; 
 
 Myriads with beating 
 
 Hearts of fire 
 That aeons 
 
 Cannot vex or tire; 
 
 Up the dome of heaven 
 
 Like a great hill, 
 I watch them marching 
 
 Stately and still, 
 3 
 
And I know that I 
 
 Am honored to be 
 Witness 
 
 Of so much majesty. 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 
 THE DAWN WIND 
 
 [THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY] 
 
 AT two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and 
 
 listen, 
 
 You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun. 
 And the trees in the shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight 
 
 glisten, 
 And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done. 
 
 So do the cows in the field. They graze for an hour and lie down, 
 Dozing and chewing the cud; or a bird in the ivy wakes, 
 Chirrups one note and is still, and the restless Wind strays on, 
 Fidgeting far down the road, till, softly, the darkness breaks. 
 
 Back comes the Wind full strength with a blow like an angel's 
 
 wing, 
 
 Gentle but waking the world, as he shouts: "The Sun! The Sun!" 
 And the light floods over the fields and the birds begin to sing, 
 And the Wind dies down in the grass. It is day and his work is 
 
 done. 
 
 4 
 
So when the world is asleep, and there seems no hope of her 
 
 waking 
 Out of some long, bad dream that makes her mutter and 
 
 moan, 
 
 Suddenly, all men arise to the noise of fetters breaking, 
 ind every one smiles at his neighbor and tells him his soul is his 
 own! 
 
 RUDYAKD KIPLING 
 
 THE GUERDON OF THE SUN 
 
 OF all the fonts from which man's heart has drawn 
 Some essence of the majesty of earth, 
 Some intimation of the human worth, 
 
 I reckon first the sunset and the dawn. 
 
 For those were fires whose splendor smote his clay 
 With witness of a light beyond the clod; 
 Enshrined, he made of radiance a god, 
 
 And found his benediction in the day. 
 
 And all his eager hands have found to do,- 
 And all his tireless hope and love unite, 
 In some wise take their symbol from the light, 
 
 Our very heaven based on heaven's blue. 
 
 5 
 
Tilth beyond tilth, he waits upon the sun, 
 
 The first to goad, the last to calm his breast, 
 With dawns that like a clarion break his rest, 
 
 And after-glows that crown his labor done. 
 
 GEORGE STEELING 
 
 I HAVE CARED FOR YOU, MOON 
 
 I HAVE cared for ydu, Moon, 
 Cold as you are, 
 Frozen on the sky 
 With your dangling star. 
 
 It is not your shape, 
 Nor your lure of light, 
 Holding the sun 
 On your breast all night: 
 
 It is not your voice, 
 I have never heard 
 Your glittering cry, 
 Your wandering word. 
 
 Yet you are romance 
 And you are song. 
 I have cared for you, Moon, 
 Long, long, 
 
Since I first paid toll 
 With a coin of dream 
 On the road you silver. 
 You peer and gleam 
 
 With a wistful look 
 On your haunted face, 
 As though Earth were 
 A wonderful place. 
 
 GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 
 
 A PRAYER FOR THE OLD COURAGE 
 
 STILL let us go the way of beauty; go 
 
 The way of loveliness; still let us know 
 
 Those paths that lead where Pan and Daphne run, 
 
 Where roses prosper in the summer sun. 
 
 The earth may rock with War. Still is there peace 
 In many a place to give the heart release 
 From this too-vibrant pain that drives men mad. 
 Let us go back to the old loves we had. 
 
 Let us go back, to keep alive the gleam, 
 To cherish the immortal, Godlike dream; 
 Not as poor cravens flying from the fight, 
 But as sad children seeking the clean light. 
 7 
 
Oh, doubly precious now is solitude; 
 Thrice dear Jron quiet star above the wood, 
 Since panic and the sundering shock of War 
 Have laid in ruins all we hungered for. 
 
 Brave soldiers of the spirit, guard ye well 
 Mountain and fort and massive citadel; 
 But keep ye white forever keep ye whole 
 The battlements of dream within the soul! 
 
 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 
 
 WHO WALKS WITH BEAUTY 
 
 WHO walks with Beauty has no need of fear; 
 
 The sun and moon and stars keep pace with him, 
 Invisible hands restore the ruined year, 
 
 And time, itself, grows beautifully dim. 
 One hill will keep the footprints of the moon, 
 
 That came and went a hushed and secret hour; 
 One star at dusk will yield the lasting boon: 
 
 Remembered Beauty's white, immortal flower. 
 
 Who takes of Beauty wine and daily bread, 
 Will know no lack when bitter years are lean; 
 
 The brimming cup is by, the feast is spread, 
 The sun and moon and stars his eyes have seen, 
 
 Are for his hunger and the thirst he slakes : 
 
 The wine of Beauty and the bread he breaks. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 8 
 
A BALLADE-CATALOGUE OF LOVELY THINGS 
 
 I WOULD make a list against the evil days 
 
 Of lovely things to hold in memory: 
 First I set down my lady's lovely face, 
 
 For earth has no such lovely thing as she; 
 
 And next I add, to bear her company, 
 The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings; 
 
 Then the wild-rose upon its little tree 
 So runs my catalogue of lovely things. 
 
 The enchanted dogwood, with its ivory trays, 
 
 The water-lily in its sanctuary 
 Of reeded pools, and dew-drenched lilac sprays, ' 
 
 For these, of ail fair flowers, the fairest be; 
 
 Next write I down the great name of the sea, 
 Lonely in greatness as the names of kings; 
 
 Then the young moon that hath us all in fee 
 So runs my catalogue of lovely things. 
 
 Imperial sunsets that in crimson blaze 
 
 Along the hills, and, fairer still to me, 
 The fireflies dancing in a netted maze 
 
 Woven of twilight and tranquillity; 
 
 Shakespeare and Virgil, their high poesy; 
 Then a great ship, splendid with snowy wings, 
 
 Voyaging on into eternity 
 So runs my catalogue of lovely things. 
 9 
 
ENVOI 
 
 Prince, not the gold bars of thy treasury, 
 Not all thy jewelled sceptres, crowns and rings, 
 
 Are worth the honeycomb of the wild bee 
 So runs my catalogue of lovely things. 
 
 RICHARD LE GALUENNE 
 
 POETRY 
 
 I AM the reality of things that seem; 
 
 The great transmuter, melting loss to gain, 
 
 Languor to love, and fining joy from pain. 
 
 I am the waking, who am called the dream; 
 
 I am the sun, all light reflects my gleam; 
 
 I am the altar-fire within the fane; 
 
 I am the force of the refreshing rain; 
 
 I am the sea to which flows every stream. 
 
 I am the utmost height there is to climb; 
 
 I am the truth, mirrored in fancy's glass; 
 
 I am stability, all else will pass; 
 
 I am eternity, encircling time; 
 
 Kill me, none may; conquer me, nothing can 
 
 I am God's soul, fused in the soul of man. 
 
 ELLA CROSBY HEATH 
 
 10 
 
THE ELFIN ARTIST 
 
 IN a glade of an elfin forest 
 When Sussex was Eden-new, 
 
 I came on an elvish painter 
 And watched as his picture grew. 
 
 A harebell nodded beside him. j 
 He dipt his brush in the dew. 
 
 And it might be the wild thyme round 
 That shone in that dark strange ring; 
 
 But his brushes were bees' antennae, 
 His knife was a wasp's blue sting; 
 
 And his gorgeous exquisite palette 
 Was a butterfly's fan-shaped whig. 
 
 And he mingled its powdery colours 
 And painted the lights that pass, 
 
 On a delicate cobweb canvas 
 That gleamed like a magic glass, 
 
 And bloomed like a banner of elf-land, 
 Between two stalks of grass; 
 
 Till it shone like an angel's feather 
 With sky-born opal and rose, 
 
 And gold from the foot of the rainbow, 
 And colours that no man knows; 
 11 
 
And I laughed in the sweet May weather, 
 Because of the themes he chose. 
 
 For he painted the things that matter, 
 
 The tints that we all pass by, 
 Like the little blue wreaths of incense 
 
 That the wild thyme breathes to the sky; 
 Or the first white bud of the hawthorn, 
 
 And the light in a blackbird's eye; 
 
 And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks 
 
 That carolling skylarks throw, 
 Dark dots on the slumbering splendours 
 
 That under the wild wings flow, 
 Wee shadows like violets trembling 
 
 On the unseen breasts of snow; 
 
 With petals too lovely for colour 
 
 That shake to the rapturous wings, 
 And grow as the bird draws near them, 
 
 And die as he mounts and sings; 
 Ah, only those exquisite brushes 
 
 Could paint these marvellous things. 
 
 ALFRED NOTES 
 
 12 
 
THE MUSIC OF A TREE 
 
 ONCE, walking home, I passed beneath a Tree, 
 It filled the air like dark stone statuary, 
 
 It was so quiet and still, 
 
 Its thick green leaves a hill 
 Of strange and faint earth-branching melody: 
 
 Over a wall it hung its leaf-starred wood. 
 And as I lonely there beneath it stood, 
 
 In that sky-hollow street 
 
 Where rang no human feet, 
 Sweet music flowed and filled me with its flood; 
 
 And all my weariness then fell away, 
 The houses were more lovely than by day; 
 
 The Moon and that old Tree 
 
 Sang there; and secretly, 
 With throbbing heart, tip-toe I stole away. 
 
 W. J. TURNER 
 
 A TREE AT DUSK 
 
 WITH secrets in their eyes the blue-winged Hours 
 Rustle through the meadow 
 Dropping shadow. 
 
 13 
 
Yawning among red flowers, 
 The Moon Child with her golden hoop 
 And a pink star drifting after, 
 Leans to me where I droop. 
 
 I hear her delicate, soft laughter, 
 
 And through my hair her tiny fingers creep. . . . 
 
 I shall sleep. 
 
 WINIFBED WELLES 
 
 LEAF-BURNING 
 
 THE flame of my life burns low 
 
 Under the cluttered days 
 
 Like a fire of leaves. 
 
 But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke 
 
 Goes up to God. 
 
 KABLE WILSON BAKER 
 
 THE PINES 
 
 IN lofty galleries of greenery 
 They rise and meet the azure of the sky, 
 A pillared nave whose arches frail and high 
 Breathe with an organ's solemn melody: 
 Now like the minor surging of the sea 
 Or low and faint as wings that startle by 
 
 14 
 
As sweet-tuned winds that quaveringly sigh 
 Adown dim aisles of cloistered pageantry. 
 
 While through the stretches of this lovely fane 
 The swaying censers shed a drowsy smell 
 
 Heavy with some rare fragrance from afar, 
 Upon the pavement falls the sunset stain, 
 The dusk creeps on ... softly a twilight bell . . . 
 And now, the altar-candle of a star! 
 
 THOMAS S. JONES, JB. 
 
 ASPIRATION 
 
 ABOVE the crestward-climbing pines, 
 Above the dewy slopes of lawn, 
 
 Above the copse's coil of vines, 
 I have gone up to meet the dawn. 
 
 I have grown weary of the night 
 That from day's gold mine eye debars, 
 
 Of seeing up the purple height 
 Troop the processional of stars. 
 
 I yearn to mark the shattering beam 
 Backward the gates of darkness throw; 
 
 I long to hear across my dream 
 The wakening trump of morning blow. 
 15 
 
Hark! 'tis the first bird-note! and mark, 
 Flushing the east, a crimson ray! 
 
 Soul, from the girdling wastes of dark 
 Go thou, too, up to meet the day! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 TRIUMPHALIS 
 
 SOUL, art thou sad again, 
 With the old sadness? 
 Thou shalt be glad again 
 With a new gladness, 
 When April sun and rain 
 Mount to the teeming brain 
 With the earth-madness. 
 
 When from the mould again, 
 Spurning disaster, 
 Spring shoots unfold again, 
 Follow thou faster 
 Out of the drear domain 
 Of dark, defeat, and pain, 
 Praising the Master. 
 
 Light for thy guide again, 
 Ample and splendid; 
 Love at thy side again, 
 All doubting ended. 
 16 
 
(Ah, by the dragon slain, 
 For nothing small or vain 
 Michael contended!) 
 
 Thou shalt take heart again, 
 No more despairing; 
 Play thy great part again, 
 Loving and caring. 
 Hark, how the gold refrain 
 Runs through the iron strain, 
 Splendidly daring! 
 
 Thou shalt grow strong again, 
 Confident, tender, 
 Battle with wrong again, 
 Be truth's defender, 
 Of the immortal train 
 Born to attempt, attain, 
 Never surrender! 
 
 BLISS CARMAN 
 
 LAST SONG IN AN OPERA 
 
 FROM the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind, 
 Yefgoldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves 
 (All things come unto him whose heart believes). 
 17 
 
The dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind, 
 
 Beats onward fast. 
 Till with clapped, sailing wings down at the last 
 
 To the loved cote she come. 
 Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home I 
 
 The silver river wanders and circles time out of mind, 
 
 Yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves 
 
 (All things come unto him whose heart believes). 
 So golden-feathered Love beats his high course, though blind, 
 
 Until that hour 
 When, downward stooping through the flaming shower, 
 
 Into the heart he come. 
 Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home I 
 
 ROBERT NICHOLS 
 
 MY APRIL 
 
 THERE is a day of April in my heart, 
 
 Flooded with fragrance of plowed fields and rain, 
 And laughter at the cross-roads where we part, 
 
 And laughter at the place we meet again. 
 
 The magic of my April has no name; 
 
 Not Spring, nor all the glory to come after, 
 My April is the Joy the earth became, 
 
 Hearing the sweet abandon of your laughter. 
 18 
 
The memory of laughter lingers still, 
 Like some bird's singing after he has flown, 
 
 Or echoes thrown from hill to answering hill, 
 That never die or leave the heart alone. 
 
 Death cannot still the echoes Love awakes, 
 So April and your laughter he forsakes. 
 
 B. PRESTON CLARK, JR. 
 
 WEN SPREENG EES COM' 
 
 OH! 'scusa, lady, 'scusa, pleass', 
 For dat I stop an' stare; 
 I no can halpa do like dees 
 Wen Spreeng ees een da air. 
 
 I s'pose you know how moocha joy 
 Ees feell da heart of leetla boy, 
 Wen beeg parade ees passa by, 
 Eef he can climb da pole so high; 
 Or find on window-seell a seat 
 Where he can see da whola street, 
 An' watch da soldiers marcha 'way 
 An' hear da sweeta music play. 
 Ah! lady, eef dees joy you know, 
 You would no frown upon me so. 
 
 19 
 
For, like da boy dat climb da pole, 
 From deep eensida me my soul 
 My hongry, starva soul ees rise 
 Onteell eet looka from my eyes 
 At all dat com' so sweet an' fair 
 Wen now da Spreeng ees een da air; 
 At greena grass, at buddin' trees 
 Dat wave deir branches een da breeze, 
 At leetla birds dat hop an' seeng 
 Baycause dey are so glad for Spreeng 
 An' you dat look so pure, so sweet, 
 O! lady, you are part of eet! 
 
 So, 'scusa, lady, 'scusa, pleass', 
 For dat I stop an' stare; 
 I no can halpa do like dees 
 Wen Spreeng ees een da air. 
 
 T. A. DALY 
 
 A SONG OF APRIL 
 
 THE censer of the eglantine was moved 
 By little lane winds, and the watching faces 
 Of garden flowerets, which of old she loved 
 Peep shyly outward from their silent places. 
 But when the sun arose the flowers grew bolder, 
 And she will be in white, I thought, and she 
 20 
 
Will have a cuckoo on her either shoulder, 
 And woodbine twines and fragrant wings of pea. 
 
 And I will meet her on the hills of South, 
 And I will lead her to a northern water, 
 My wild one, the sweet beautiful uncouth, 
 The eldest maiden of the Winter's daughter. 
 And down the rainbows of her noon shall slide 
 Lark music, and the little sunbeam people, 
 And nomad wings shall fill the river side, 
 And ground winds rocking in the lily's steeple. 
 
 FRANCIS LEDWIDGB 
 
 A BLACKBIRD SUDDENLY 
 
 HEAVEN is in my hand, and I 
 Touch a heart-beat of the sky, 
 Hearing a blackbird's cry. 
 
 Strange, beautiful, unquiet thing, 
 Lone flute of God, how can you sing 
 Winter to spring? 
 
 You have outdistanced every voice and word, 
 And given my spirit wings until it stirred 
 Like you a bird! 
 
 JOSEPH AUSLANDER 
 21 
 
LATE PLOWING 
 
 ^ 
 THIS year the rains have made the plowing late, 
 
 And now the edges of the field are green, 
 Birch and viburnum crowding close against 
 Low, grey stone walls, young leaves fresh washed and clean. 
 
 The apple trees are growing faintly pink, 
 
 Like some new morning dawning on a hill; 
 The sharp plow, leaving billows in its wake, 
 
 Sails over that dark sea whose waves are still. 
 
 Now who shall dream if not the man who plows? 
 
 So very near the secret of the earth, 
 He deals with mystery and plans in faith 
 
 The miracles of death and of rebirth. 
 
 The catbird in the hedges knows a song 
 
 More sweet than other birds the plowman hears. 
 
 The old, old earth, new turned, with a fine scent 
 Exhales the promise of her changeless years. 
 
 The slim, young alders lean against the wall, 
 
 All decked with fringes green and delicate; 
 The red-brown earth lies ready in the sun. 
 
 This year the rains have made the plowing late. 
 
 LOUISE DRISCOLL 
 
 22 
 
SOWING 
 
 IT was a perfect day 
 
 For sowing; just 
 
 As sweet and dry was the ground 
 
 As tobacco-dust. 
 
 I tasted deep the hour 
 Between the far 
 Owl's chuckling first soft cry 
 And the first star. 
 
 A long stretched hour it was; 
 Nothing undone 
 Remained; the early seeds 
 All safely sown. 
 
 And now, hark at the rain, 
 Windless and light, 
 Half a kiss, half a tear, 
 Saying good-night. 
 
 EDWARD THOMAS 
 
 MONOTONE 
 
 THE monotone of the rain is beautiful, 
 And the sudden rise and slow relapse 
 Of the long multitudinous rain. 
 23 
 
The sun on the hills is beautiful, 
 Or a captured sunset, sea-flung, 
 Bannered with fire and gold. 
 
 A face I know is beautiful 
 With fire and gold of sky and sea, 
 And the peace of long warm rain. 
 
 CARL SANDBURG 
 
 EASTER SONG 
 
 MY soul 's a belfry full of bells, 
 With warbling birds behind its bars! 
 I see the softly mirrored stars 
 
 That tremble in the glassy wells. 
 
 My soul 's a holy place enshrin'd, 
 My soul 's a bower all in leaf! 
 The little children weaned of grief 
 
 Go wafting songs a-down the wind. 
 
 My soul is full of Archangels, 
 And full of star-y-pointing flight! 
 I hear the flail of Fates that smite 
 
 The hoarded grain with secret spells. 
 24 
 
My soul is all a-brim with bliss, 
 My soul is full of Gods divine! 
 O Love, come bind these eyes of mine, 
 And lead me where thy pathway is! 
 
 STUART MERRILL 
 (Translated by Wilfred Thorl&y) 
 
 RESURRECTION 
 
 Lo! Mid the splendor of eternal spaces 
 Pierced by the smile of God, 
 I looked last night upon celestial faces, 
 The singing ethers trod. 
 
 World upon world in rhythmic measure wheeling, 
 Millions of blaming suns like censers swung, 
 When down the lanes of light a Voice came pealing, 
 Upon my ear its clarion message flung: 
 "To-day is Resurrection! Look not hence 
 To some far distant trumpet call to sound 
 That hour when, as the spirit's recompense, 
 Man's body shall be summoned from the ground. 
 O feeble souls bound close with superstition, 
 O blind and halt and deaf that will not hear, 
 There is no other miracle fruition 
 Than thrills the Cosmos now, from sphere to sphere. 
 
 "Earth at this hour is shaken with the passion 
 Of resurrection fire. 
 
 25 
 
Stupendous forces move and mold and fashion 
 Unto God's great desire. 
 The only death is death in man's perception; 
 The only grave is grave of blinded eyes. 
 Creation's marvel mocks at man's deception 
 It is man's mind that from its tomb must rise. 
 
 " Waken world, if you would glimpse the wonder 
 Of God's great Primal Plan. 
 Open ears, if you would hear the thunder 
 Hurled from the heights to man. 
 How long shall Christ's high message be rejected? 
 Two thousand years have passed since it was told. 
 Must One again be born and resurrected 
 Ere man shall grasp the secret, ages old? 
 
 "What, then, the miracle of Easter day? 
 What meant the riven tomb, the hidden Might 
 That conquered death and rolled the stone away 
 And brought the Master back to mortal sight? 
 This! That throughout the worlds, One Life, unbroken 
 Rushes and flames in an unending vow. 
 Death cannot be, and never has been spoken 
 God and immortal life are here and now I " 
 
 ANGELA MORGAN 
 
BEAUTY 
 
 "You bid me stay; I go 
 Whither no man may go. 
 
 I am the rose's soul, 
 The breast of the oriole. 
 
 I am the rainbow's arc, 
 
 The star on the breast of the dark. 
 
 Sever me, I am still 
 The wonder on the hill. 
 
 Part me, and I am yet 
 The heart of the violet. 
 
 With the first flush of morn 
 I am each day re-born. 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD 
 
 GIFTS 
 
 FOR these let me be thankful on this day; 
 Warm spreading sun and flowers that brightly bloom, 
 The breath of scented springtime in my room. 
 The open sky of blue above my way ~ 
 
 27 
 
Swift winds that sweep the clouds across the bay 
 And sounds that pulse the earth with sudden song: 
 Peepers, and whippoorwills and birds whose long 
 Sweet notes spill golden harmonies of May; 
 These but the symbols of a greater thing 
 The warm blood in my veins, the eager heart 
 That at each touch of Beauty feels the start 
 Of fine resurgence quickened as the spring. 
 Yea, above all, oh let me greatly prize 
 The Gift of Life, supreme, through Beauty's eyes! 
 
 BLANCHE SHOEMAKER WAGSTAFF 
 
 A CHANT OUT OF DOORS 
 
 GOD of grave nights, 
 God of brave mornings, 
 God of silent noon, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the rapids rage white and scornful, 
 I have passed safely, filled with wonder; 
 Where the sweet pools dream under willows, 
 I have been swimming, filled with life. 
 
 God of round hills, 
 God of green valleys, 
 God of clear springs, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
For where the moose feeds, I have eaten berries, 
 Where the moose drinks, I have drunk deep. 
 When the storm crashed through broken heavens - 
 And under clear skies I have known joy. 
 
 God of great trees, 
 God of wild grasses, 
 God of little flowers, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the deer crops and the beaver plunges, 
 Near the river I have pitched my tent; 
 Where the pines cast aromatic needles 
 On a still floor, I have known peace. 
 
 God of grave nights, 
 God of brave mornings, 
 God of silent noon, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 
 THE NATURALIST ON A JUNE SUNDAY 
 
 Mr old gardener leans on his hoe, 
 Tells me the way that green things grow; 
 "Goin' to church? Why no. 
 All nature 'a church enough for me!" 
 Says he. 
 
 29 
 
" Preachin' o' flower and choir o' bird, 
 An* the wind passin' the plate 
 Sweetest service that ever / heard, 
 That's straight! 
 Eternal Rest? 
 What for, friend? 
 Gimme a swarm o' bees to tend, 
 A honey-makin', world without end, 
 That's what I'd like the best! 
 (Scoop 'em right up an' find the queen, 
 They 'd not sting me the bees ain' mean!) 
 
 "Heaven's all right! 
 But still I guess I '11 kinder miss 
 The Lady Lunar moth at night 
 And the White Wanderer butterfly 
 Crawlin' out of its chrysalis! 
 I want my heaven human too, 
 'Twixt me an' you 
 Why I'd jus' love to see 
 A chipmunk hop up to the Lord 
 An' eat right out o' His dread Hand 
 Same as it does to me! 
 Eternity eternity 
 Don't it sound grand? 
 But say 
 
 What 's the matter -with today? 
 30 
 
Just step into the wood an' take a look! 
 
 Ain't that a page o' teachin' from the Holy Book? 
 
 'He that hath eyes to see 
 
 An' ears to hear' 
 
 That 's good enough for me! 
 
 I guess God 's pretty near, 
 
 He '11 understand, I know, 
 
 Why I ain't in no hurry to let June go!" 
 
 My old gardener turns to his hoe, 
 Helping the green things how to grow, 
 "The Misses can go to church for me! 
 Amen!" says he. 
 
 LEONORA SPEYEB 
 
 THE MOCKING FAIRY 
 
 "WON'T you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?" 
 Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden; 
 "Can't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?" 
 Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden; 
 But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still, 
 And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill, 
 And never from her window looked out Mrs. Gill 
 On the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden. 
 
 "What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?" 
 Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden; 
 31 
 
"Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?" 
 Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden; 
 But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill, 
 Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill, 
 And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. Gill 
 The Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden. 
 
 WALTER DE LA MABE 
 
 NATURE'S FRIEND 
 
 SAY what you like, 
 
 All things love me! 
 I pick no flowers 
 
 That wins the Bee. 
 
 The Summer's Moths 
 
 Think my hand one 
 To touch their wings 
 
 With Wind and Sun. 
 
 The garden Mouse 
 
 Comes near to play; 
 Indeed, he turns 
 
 His eyes away. 
 
 The Wren knows well 
 
 I rob no nest; 
 When I look in, 
 
 She still will rest. 
 32 
 
The hedge stops Cows, 
 
 Or they would come 
 After my voice 
 
 Bight to my home. 
 
 The Horse can teU, 
 
 Straight from my lip, 
 My hand could not 
 
 Hold any whip. 
 
 Say what you like, 
 
 All things love me! 
 Horse, Cow, and Mouse, 
 
 Bird, Moth and Bee. 
 
 WILLIAM H. DA VIES 
 
 MOONFLOWERS 
 
 THESE frail, white blooms have lit the summer night 
 Like ghosts of beauty that had gone too soon, 
 With something less than any glimmering light 
 
 That sways and faults and trembles in the moon. 
 I think the Earth grows half-regretful, now, 
 
 Of faces that were lovely of old time, 
 Lifts here again dim hands and hair and brow, 
 
 In loveliness more fragile than a rhyme. 
 33 
 
So that the listening night has somehow learned 
 A way of prescient waiting through the dark, 
 For half -forgotten loveliness returned, 
 
 Too frail and dim for eyes like ours to mark 
 More than a ghostly glimmer on the air, 
 That once was lighted brow and hands and hair. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 HERMIT THRUSH 
 
 HARK, from the wood's melodious flute 
 That first clear liquid note, 
 Long sustained 
 Of summer! 
 
 You mean so much to me, shy hermit 
 Of the woods, 
 O messenger of joy! 
 From out your speckled throat 
 All music surely has its birth 
 In that clear, crystal note 
 Which bursts upon the ear, 
 Clearly calling, "Joy! I'm here!" 
 Your first, full, rapturous note 
 Is like the colour in the crystal 
 When first the sun it catches, 
 With sparkling notes that follow 
 Dancing, in prismic flashes. 
 34 
 
First herald of the morning 
 In that long, liquid note of joy, 
 Buoyant, sportive, pealing, 
 The last to sing the closing note at vespers, 
 Plaintive, sweet, and full of depth 
 And feeling. 
 
 You fling your song out as a call, 
 You sing that in this life there J s passion, 
 Pain and suffering 
 But over all is joy! 
 Joy! 
 
 Joy! 
 There 's joy enough for afl! 
 
 MARIE TUDOR 
 
 A SUMMER DAY 
 WHAT a day of rapturous beauty! 
 With maddening sunlight all the land 7 s aglow 
 The glad sea-spray in joyous clamor breaks 
 Upon the cold and unresponsive rock, 
 Then upward leaps toward heaven's lustrous blue 
 In ecstasy of tumult and delight! 
 The call of summer is in air and earth, 
 All Nature throbs with passion and with power 
 The Soul of Man's enraptured with the hour! 
 
 SARAH METCALF PHIPPS 
 35 
 
ALOHA 
 
 I KNOW a little island 
 
 Set in the summer sea, 
 Wave-washed and green and mossy 
 
 As green can be. 
 
 Great joys are in the offing; 
 
 And always day and night, 
 Putting into the harbor, 
 
 Is some delight. 
 
 Around it sail great sorrows; 
 
 So far it is from care 
 That only fleets of laughter 
 
 May anchor there. 
 
 And only strong fair faces 
 
 Pass always to and fro; 
 As in a place enchanted 
 
 They come and go. 
 
 Once came a green sea-serpent, 
 
 The island people say, 
 And in their warmth of welcome 
 
 Basked for a day: 
 36 
 
Basked and with venom sweetened, 
 
 Fled from that holy ground, 
 Dyeing the seas with envy 
 
 For miles around: 
 
 With envy of the people 
 
 Who worship lovely things, 
 Such as in eld were worshiped 
 
 By queens and kings. 
 
 Stay, lovely little island, 
 
 Still in the summer sea, 
 Wave-washed and green and mossy 
 
 As green can be! 
 
 WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 THE BEST FRIEND 
 
 Now shall I walk 
 
 Or shall I ride? 
 "Ride," Pleasure said; 
 
 "Walk," Joy replied. 
 
 Now what shall I 
 
 Stay home or roam? 
 "Roam," Pleasure said; 
 
 And Joy "Stay home." 
 37 
 
Now shall I danee, 
 
 Or sit for dreams? 
 "Sit," answers Joy; 
 
 "Dance," Pleasure screams. 
 
 Which of ye two 
 
 Will kindest be? 
 Pleasure laughed sweet, 
 
 But Joy kissed me! 
 
 WILLIAM H. DAVIES 
 
 THE FALCONER OF GOD 
 
 1 FLUNG my soul to the air like a falcon flying. 
 I said, "Wait on, wait on, while I ride belowl 
 
 I shall start a heron soon 
 
 In the marsh beneath the moon 
 A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings, 
 Rising and cry'ng 
 
 Wordless, wonduus things; 
 The secret of the stars, of the world's heart-strings 
 
 The answer to their woe. 
 Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!" 
 
 My wild soul waited on as falcons hover. 
 I beat the reedy fens as I trampled past. 
 38 
 
I heard the mournful loon 
 In the marsh beneath the moon. 
 And then with feathery thunder the bird of my desire 
 
 Broke from the cover 
 Flashing silver fire. 
 High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire. 
 
 The pale clouds gazed aghast 
 As my falcon stoopt upon him, and gript and held him fast. 
 
 My soul dropt through the air with heavenly plunder? 
 Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew? 
 
 Nay! but a piteous freight, 
 
 A dark and heavy weight 
 
 Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled, 
 All of the wonder 
 
 Gone that ever filled 
 Its guise with glory. Oh, bird that I have killed, 
 
 How brilliantly you flew 
 Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you! 
 
 Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor, 
 And I ride the world below with a joyful mind. 
 / shall start a heron soon 
 In the marsh beneath the moon 
 A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges I 
 
 I beat forever 
 The fens and the sedges. 
 39 
 
The pledge is still the same for all disastrous pledges, 
 
 All hopes resigned! 
 My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENET 
 
 LINES FROM "THE ROAMER" 
 
 LOVE is the bread that feeds the multitudes; 
 
 Love is the healing of the hospitals; 
 
 Love is the light that breaks through prison doors; 
 
 Love knows not rich nor poor, nor good nor bad, 
 
 But only the beloved, in every heart 
 
 One and the same, the incorruptible 
 
 Spirit divine, whose tabernacle is life. 
 
 Love, more than hunger, feeds the soul's desire; 
 
 Love more the spirit than the body heals; 
 
 Love is a star unto the darkened mind; 
 
 And they who truly are Love's servants leal, 
 
 And follow him, undoubting, to the end, 
 
 Beyond the bounds of human righteousness, 
 
 Past Justice and past Mercy, find at last, 
 
 Past Charity, past Pardon, Love enthroned, 
 
 Lord of all hearts, incarnate in man's soul. 
 
 GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 
 
 40 
 
COMPLETION 
 
 MY heart has fed today. 
 
 My heart, like hind at play, 
 
 Has grazed in fields of love, and washed in streams 
 
 Of quick, imperishable dreams. 
 
 In moth-white beauty shimmering, 
 Lovely as birches in the moon glimmering, 
 From coigns of sleep my eyes 
 Saw dawn and love arise. 
 
 And like a bird at rest, 
 Steady in a swinging nest, 
 My heart at peace lay gloriously 
 While wings of ecstasy 
 Beat round me and above. 
 
 I am fulfilled of love. 
 
 EUNICE TIETJENS 
 
 TO ONE I LOVE 
 
 To one I love 
 
 I have been all things beautiful. 
 I am the stars, the light, the breath, 
 The music of the world set forth for him; 
 41 
 
And I am witchery, and even woe, 
 
 Woe of a quality akin to joy! 
 
 The thought of me is subtly intertwined 
 
 With twilight and the wheeling swallows cry, 
 
 With doorways dimly lit; and darkening fields; 
 
 The long road's ending, and the lantern's gleam; 
 
 With huddled roofs adream beneath the moon. 
 
 For I am that by which he is reborn. 
 
 The dearness of the heart by candle-light; 
 
 The mystery wherein two spirits blend; 
 
 I have the strange remoteness of the heavens 
 
 And yet the patient nearness of the grass. 
 
 AMORY HARE 
 
 MORNING SONG 
 
 THERE'S a mellower light just over the hill, 
 
 And somewhere a yellower daffodil, 
 
 And honey, somewhere, that's sweeter still. 
 
 And some were meant to stay like a stone, 
 Knowing the things they have always known, 
 Sinking down deeper into their own. 
 
 But some must follow the wind and me, 
 Who like to be starting and like to be free, 
 Never so glad as we're going to be! 
 
 KARLE WILSON BAKER 
 
 42 
 
THE VALLEY'S SINGING DAY 
 
 THE sound of the closing door was all. 
 You made no sound in the grass with your footfall, 
 As far as you went from the door, which was not far; 
 But had awakened under the morning star 
 The first song bird that awakened all the rest. 
 He could have slept but a moment more at best: 
 Already determined dawn began to lay 
 In place across a cloud the slender ray 
 For prying beneath and forcing the lids of sight, 
 And loosing the pent-up music of over night. 
 But dawn was not to begin their "pearly-pearly" 
 (By which they mean the rain is pearls so early 
 Before it changes to diamonds in the sun), 
 Neither was song that day to be self-begun. 
 You had begun it, and if there needed proof 
 I was asleep still under the dripping roof, 
 My window curtain hung over the sill to wet; 
 But I should awake to confirm your story yet; 
 I should be willing to say and help you to say 
 That once you had opened the valley's singing day. 
 
 ROBERT FROST 
 
 43 
 
AFTER TWO YEARS 
 
 SHE is all so slight 
 And tender and white 
 
 As a May morning. 
 She walks without hood 
 At dusk. It is good 
 
 To hear her sing. 
 
 It is God's will 
 
 That I shall love her still 
 
 As He loves Mary. 
 And night and day 
 I will go forth to pray 
 
 That she love me. 
 
 She is as gold 
 
 Lovely, and far more cold. 
 
 Do thou pray with me, 
 For if I win grace 
 To kiss twice her face 
 
 God has done well to me. 
 
 RICHARD ALDINGTON 
 
 44 
 
CLICK O' THE LATCH 
 
 THE silence holds for it, taut and true, 
 The young moon stays for it, wistful white; 
 Winds that whimpered the sunset through 
 Sigh for it, low and light, 
 
 Click o' the latch and he'll come home 
 A stir in the dusk at the little gate. 
 Hush, my heart, be still, my heart 
 Surely it's sweet to wait! 
 
 The tall skies lean for it, listening 
 Never a star but lends an ear 
 The passionate porch-flowers stoop and cling 
 Stilling their leaves to hear 
 
 Click o' the latch and him come home, 
 A step on the flags, a snatch of song, 
 Hurry my heart, be swift, my heart, 
 How did we wait so long! 
 
 NANCY BYRD TURNER 
 
 LOVE'S ISLAND 
 
 (FROM THE JAPANESE OF DOKU-HO) 
 AN island in an inland sea; 
 
 "Too small for me!" I sadly cried. 
 And then espied 
 45 
 
A lark that rose into the sky. 
 Whereat I changed my plaintive cry: 
 
 "If lark there be 
 
 Then field there is. 
 
 If field there be 
 
 Then man there is. 
 
 If man there be 
 
 Then Love there is. 
 Then large enough, indeed, for me 
 Thou little island in the sea!" 
 
 IAN OLIVER 
 
 EVEN-SONG 
 
 THE night and the day have met on the road, 
 
 Travelers faring afar; 
 Have met and kissed and gone on their way 
 
 Their kiss is the evening star. 
 
 The night and the day have met on the road, 
 
 Wayfarers passing by; 
 The day has blushed at the glance of the night, 
 
 Her blush is the evening sky. 
 
 The night ancl the day have met on the road, 
 
 Longing to linger there; 
 Have looked and sighed and said farewell, 
 
 Their sigh is the evening air. 
 
 46 
 
The night and the day have met on the road, 
 
 Tremulous, my Sweet; 
 And all the twilight is faint with the prayer 
 
 That thou and I should meet! 
 
 BENJAMIN R. C. Low 
 
 DUSK AT SEA 
 
 TONIGHT eternity alone is near: 
 
 The sea, the sunset, and the darkening blue; 
 Within their shelter is no space for fear, 
 
 Only the wonder that such things are true. 
 
 The thought of you is like the dusk at sea 
 
 Space and wide freedom and old shores left far, 
 The shelter of a lone immensity 
 Sealed by the sunset and the evening star. 
 
 THOMAS S. JONES, JB. 
 % 
 
 A SPRIG OF ROSEMARY 
 
 I CANNOT see your face. 
 When I think of you, 
 It is your hands which I see. 
 Your hands 
 Sewing, 
 
 Holding a book, 
 47 
 
Resting for a moment on the sill of a window. 
 My eyes keep always the sight of your hands, 
 But my heart holds the sound of your voice, 
 And the soft brightness which is your soul. 
 
 AMY LOWELL 
 
 HER WAY 
 
 You loved the hay in the meadow, 
 
 Flowers at noon, 
 The high cloud's long shadow, 
 
 Honey of June, 
 The flaming woodways tangled 
 
 With Fall on the hill, 
 The towering night star-spangled 
 
 And winter-still. 
 
 And you loved firelit faces, 
 
 The hearth, the home, 
 Your mind on golden traces, 
 
 London or Rome, 
 On quaintly-colored spaces 
 
 Where heavens glow 
 With his quaint saints* embraces, 
 
 Angelico. 
 
 In cloister and highway 
 (Gold of God's dust!) 
 
 48 
 
And many an elfin byway 
 
 You put your trust, 
 A crock and a table, 
 
 Love's end of day, 
 And light of a storied stable 
 
 Where kings must pray. 
 
 Somewhere there is a village 
 
 For you and me, 
 Hayfield, hearth and tillage, 
 Where can it be? 
 Prayers when birds awake, 
 
 Daily bread, 
 Toil for His sunlit sake 
 
 Who raised us dead. 
 
 With this in mind you moved 
 
 Through love and pain. 
 Hard though the long road proved, 
 
 You turned again 
 With a heart that knew its trust 
 
 Not ill-bestowed. 
 With this you light the dust 
 
 That clouds my road. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENET 
 
THE GIFT OF GOD 
 
 BLESSED with a joy that only she 
 
 Of all alive shall ever know, 
 
 She wears a proud humility 
 
 For what it was that willed it so, 
 
 That her degree should be so great 
 
 Among the favored of the Lord 
 
 That she may scarcely bear the weight 
 
 Of her bewildering reward. 
 
 As one apart, immune, alone, 
 Or featured for the shining ones, 
 And like to none that she has known 
 Of other women's other sons, 
 The firm fruition of her need, 
 He shines anointed; and he blurs 
 Her vision, till it seems indeed 
 A sacrilege to call him hers. 
 
 She fears a little for so much 
 Of what is best, and hardly dares 
 To think of him as one to touch 
 With aches, indignities, and cares; 
 She sees him rather at the goal, 
 Still shining; and her dream foretells 
 The proper shining of a soul 
 Where nothing ordinary dwells. 
 
 50 
 
Perchance a canvass of the town 
 Would find him far from flags and shouts, 
 And leave him only the renown 
 Of many smiles and many doubts; 
 Perchance the crude and common tongue 
 Would havoc strangely with his worth; 
 But she, with innocence unwrung, 
 Would read his name around the earth. 
 
 And others, knowing how this youth 
 Would shine, if love could make him great, 
 When caught and tortured for the truth 
 Would only writhe and hesitate; 
 While she, arranging for his days 
 What centuries could not fulfill, 
 Transmutes him with her faith and praise, 
 And has him shining where she will. 
 
 She crowns him with her gratefulness, 
 
 And says again that life is good; 
 
 And should the gift of God be less 
 
 In him than in her motherhood, 
 
 His fame, though vague, will not be small, 
 
 As upward through her dream he fares, 
 
 Half clouded with a crimson fall 
 
 Of roses thrown on marble stairs. 
 
 EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 
 
 51 
 
MOTHER-PRAYER 
 
 "LORD, make my loving a guard for them 
 
 Day and night, 
 Let never pathway be hard for them; 
 
 Keep all bright! 
 Let not harsh touch of a thorn for them 
 
 Wound their ease 
 All of the pain I have borne for them 
 
 Spare to these!" 
 
 So I would pray for them, 
 Kneeling to God 
 Night and day for them. 
 
 "Lord, let the pain life must bring to them 
 
 Make them strong, 
 Keep their hearts white though grief cling to them 
 
 All life long, 
 Let all the joys Thou dost keep from them 
 
 At Thy will 
 Give to them power to reap from them 
 
 Courage still!" 
 
 So I must ask for them. 
 
 Leaving to God 
 
 His own task for them. 
 
 MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 52 
 
"I SING NO MORE" 
 
 I SING no more the brook-song, the tree-song? 
 
 I sing no more the tune of the windy hills? 
 
 I have forgotten, perhaps, the storm-song, the sea-song? 
 
 How a red dawn dazzles, and how a blue noon thrills? 
 
 Ah, but my songs! A little gay echo sings them. 
 
 A little gay face comes laughing, stealing my flush of flame. 
 I have forgotten no tunes, but the thrush or the thunder brings 
 
 them 
 Perfect and undismayed, for the little gay lips to tame. 
 
 I go no more a-dancing and a-glittering? 
 
 I go no more in queer bright garments clad? 
 
 I have forgotten, perhaps, the dreams that the moon sets flittering, 
 
 Silver and gold and pearl-plumed; delicate, moody, sad? - 
 
 Ah, but my dance! A little gay shadow treads it, 
 
 Green and azure and copper, a little shape leaps, bright-haired. 
 I have forgotten no dream, but the star or the sunrise sheds it, 
 Utterly young and fearless, with, tremulous hot heart bared. 
 
 Why should I sing? And why should I dream and desire? 
 Not one night will wait for my dream; not one day for my song. 
 I am the speechless wood that laughs in the keen young fire. 
 little wayward fire! Burn gloriously! Burn long! 
 
 FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS 
 53 
 
QUANTITY AND QUALITY 
 
 THE poor have childher and to spare, 
 But with the quality they're rare, 
 Where money's scarce the childher 's many, 
 Where money's thick you'll scarce find any, 
 Some wanted here, too many there 
 It's quare. 
 
 Now, if the rich and poor could share* 
 There 'd soon be childher everywhere; 
 But God have pity on the mother 
 That gives her child up to another; 
 An' so you'll find a mansion bare, 
 A cabin rich in all that's fair 
 It's quare. 
 
 W. M. LETTS 
 
 THE CHILDHER 
 
 (AN IRISH MOTHER SPEAKS) 
 
 AH, sure, without the childher, now, I don't know what I'd do at 
 
 all, 
 
 'T would be the same old story, every day, an' nothing new at all! 
 'T is thrue, they are a throuble, an' I'm often almost wild with 
 
 them 
 But what about the times when I am just another child with them? 
 
 54 
 
When all their fun an' frolic makes the very rafters ring again, 
 An' I, with all my years, am led to join them when they sing 
 
 When Patsy (that's the eldest) he that has the roguish glance 
 
 with him 
 He fairly dhrags me in to show the girls how I can dance with 
 
 him? 
 When Mary (that's my second) plays the tunes of other days to 
 
 me 
 An' she not knowing half the things, poor child, the music says 
 
 to me? 
 
 When I can see around me every youthful face love-lit for me, 
 An' feel that all their merriment's intended, every bit for me? 
 Ah, then, in spite of all the work, the worry and bewildherment, 
 I'm thanking God He gave me this: to know what little childher 
 
 meant! 
 
 Ah, sure without the childher 't is myself might take it aisier; 
 But would I be much better off because I might be lazier? 
 My hand it might be whiter, an' I 'd have more rings to wear on it, 
 But would my heart be lighter if I had no mother-care on it? 
 An' tell me how I'd spend the day I'm thinkin' 't would be 
 
 weary, now, 
 
 If I could not be lookin' out for Patsy an' for Mary, now, 
 Or some one or another of the little lives so dear to me, 
 An' thinkin' are they safe an' sound? an' wishin' they were near 
 
 tome; 
 
 55 
 
An' kissin' them when they came in, an' layin' lovin' hold on 
 
 them, 
 An' askin' if they're wet, for fear they'd maybe have a cold on 
 
 them. 
 
 An' smilin' to see Michael draw each lovin' little one to him, 
 An' laughin' when the youngest one, the toddler, tries to run to 
 
 him. 
 'T is thrue, the world is filled with care, we suffer every day 
 
 from it, 
 But, ah, the little childher, sure, they lure our hearts away 
 
 from it! 
 
 The house that has the childher is the house that has the joy in it; 
 To me 't is only home that has a girleen or a boy in it; 
 An' every one that's added only makes the place the cheerier; 
 If childher are the gifts of God, the more He sends the merrier. 
 Sure, every little one I've had gave something to my bliss the 
 
 more, 
 
 An' every little baby face my lips were drawn to kiss the more, 
 An' though I know the throuble an' the thrial an' the care they 
 
 are, 
 An' though I know how often wild, how wayward an' how quare 
 
 they are, 
 An' though 't is many a night I've watched beside the little beds 
 
 of them, 
 An' held their little hands an' cooled the fevered little heads of 
 
 them; 
 
 56 
 
An* though I know the surly moods that fall upon the best of 
 
 them 
 
 Can one who is unkind outweigh the love of all the rest of them? 
 No, no, the throuble that I've had, through them I'll never rue 
 
 at all, 
 An' sure, without the childher, now, I don't know what I'd do 
 
 at all! 
 
 DENIS A. MCCARTHY 
 
 NIGHT MAGIC 
 (A LIB-AWAKE SONG) 
 
 THE apples falling 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 see at all 
 How frogs and crickets and such things 
 That make the noise, can be so small. 
 
 Then my own room looks larger, too 
 
 Corners so dark and far away 
 I wonder if things really do 
 Grow up at night and shrink by day? 
 57 
 
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. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 THE LOCOMOTIVE TO THE LITTLE BOY 
 
 BOY, whose little, confiding hand 
 Your father holds, why do you stand 
 Staring in wonderment at me, 
 Poor thing of iron that I be? 
 
 Your unsophisticated eyes 
 Are full of beautiful surprise; 
 And oh, how wonderful you are, 
 You little, golden morning-star! 
 
 Poor thing of iron that I be, 
 
 A mortal man imagined me; 
 
 But you you drop of morning dew 
 
 God and His heaven are globed in you. 
 
 BENJAMIN R. C. Low 
 
 58 
 
THE COBBLER IN WILLOW STREET 
 
 UNLESS you knew just where to look 
 You could n't find it out of a book, 
 Willow Street . . . close-walled, and still, 
 Short and shadowed in every nook 
 And hour as day goes up the hill. 
 
 The dark shapes slant to west at nine 
 And creep at one up to a line 
 Measuring eastern walls again, 
 And close the gloried morning vine 
 That they have touched enough to stain. 
 
 The cobbler's house is half the height 
 The pigeons measure in a flight ; 
 From bottom of the hill to top . . . 
 And where his one doorstep is white 
 The cobbler sings and keeps his shop. 
 
 Mornings, he makes a bluebird tune 
 For dreams and things that go too soon, 
 And in a song he 's half forgot 
 Of Willow Street, in afternoon, 
 He sings of people who are not . . . 
 
 Of people who no longer care 
 About the houses in the square 
 59 
 
Above the street and at its end, 
 
 Or do not see the willow bare 
 
 When rain drips from the boughs and bend. 
 
 He hums his quiet song about 
 
 The houses with their shutters out 
 
 Or folded in ... of men who talked 
 
 Of plans and faith and hope and doubt, 
 
 And those that whispered while they walked . . . 
 
 Where houses kneel around the church 
 The pigeons flutter from their perch 
 Down to the narrow spotless street 
 To strut and stand and flash and lurch, 
 Crowding about the cobbler's feet. 
 
 Some day the cobbler's sound will beat 
 When evening threnody is sweet 
 With old bells shaking sprays of chimes 
 A song of us and Willow Street, 
 
 Tapping a heel all out of time 
 
 GEOKGE O'NEIL 
 
 HOLD FAST YOUR DREAMS 
 
 HOLD fast your dreams! 
 Within your heart 
 Keep one, still, secret spot 
 Where dreams may go, 
 60 
 
And sheltered so, 
 
 May thrive and grow 
 
 Where doubt and fear are not. 
 
 O, keep a place apart, 
 
 Within your heart, 
 
 For little dreams to go! 
 
 Think still of lovely things that are not true. 
 
 Let wish and magic work at will in you. 
 
 Be sometimes blind to sorrow. Make believe! 
 
 Forget the calm that lies 
 
 In disillusioned eyes. 
 
 Though we all know that we must die, 
 
 Yet you and I 
 
 May walk like gods and be 
 
 Even now at home in immortality! 
 
 We see so many ugly things 
 
 Deceits and wrongs and quarrelings; 
 
 We know, alas! we know 
 
 How quickly fade 
 
 The color in the west, 
 
 The bloom upon the flower, 
 
 The bloom upon the breast 
 
 And youth's blind hour. 
 
 Yet, keep within your heart 
 
 A place apart 
 
 61 
 
Where little dreams may go, 
 
 May thrive and grow. 
 
 Hold fast hold fast your dreams! 
 
 LOUISE DBISCOLL 
 
 THE LONESOME WAVE 
 
 THERE is an island 
 
 In the middle of my heart, 
 
 And all day comes lapping on the shore 
 
 A long silver wave. 
 
 It is the lonesome wave; 
 
 I cannot see the other side of it. 
 
 It will never go away 
 
 Until it meets the glad gold wave 
 
 Of happiness! 
 
 Wandering over the monstrous rocks, 
 
 Looking into the caves, 
 
 I see my island dark, all cold, 
 
 Until the gold wave sweeps in 
 
 From a sea deep blue, 
 
 And flings itself on the beach. 
 
 Oh, it is joy, then! 
 
 No more whispers like sorrow, 
 
 No more silvery lonesome lapping of the long wave. 
 
 HILDA CONKLING 
 (Seven years old} 
 
ROMANY GOLD 
 
 THERE'S a crackle of brown on the leaf's crisp edge 
 And the goldenrod blooms have begun to feather. 
 We're two jolly vagabonds under a hedge 
 By the dusty road together. 
 
 Could an emperor boast such a house as ours, 
 The sky for a roof and for couch the clover? 
 Does he sleep as well under silken flowers 
 As we, when the day is over? 
 
 He sits at ease at his table fine 
 With the richest of meat and drink before him. 
 I eat my crust with your hand in mine, 
 And your eyes are cups of a stronger wine 
 Than any his steward can pour him. 
 
 What if the autumn days grow cold? 
 Under one cloak we can brave the weather. 
 A comrade's troth is the Romany gold, 
 And we're taking the road together. 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 THE LITTLE TAVERN * 
 
 I'LL keep a little tavern 
 
 Below the high hill's crest, 
 Wherein all gray-eyed people 
 
 May set them down and rest. 
 63 
 
There shall be plates a-plenty, 
 
 And mugs to melt the chill 
 Of all the gray-eyed people 
 
 Who happen up the hill. 
 
 There sound will sleep the traveler 
 
 And dream his journey's end, 
 But I will rouse at midnight 
 
 The falling fire to tend. 
 
 Aye, 't is a curious fancy 
 
 But all the good I know 
 Was taught me out of two gray eyes 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY 
 
 SACRED IDLENESS 
 
 WORK? Not to-day! Ah! no that were to do 
 The gracious face of heaven a surly wrong, 
 Bright day so manifestly made for song, 
 And sweep of freedom's wings into the blue. 
 Divinely idle, rather let us lie, 
 And watch the lordly unindustrious sky 
 Nor trail the smoke of little busy cares 
 Across its calm Work? Not to-day! not I! 
 64 
 
Work? Why, another year . . . one never knows 
 But this the flowering last of all our years; 
 Which of us can be sure of next year's rose? 
 And I, that have so loved them all my days, 
 Not yet have learned the names of half the flowers, 
 Nor half enough have listened to the birds. 
 
 Nay! while the marvel of the May is ours, 
 Earth's book of lovely hieroglyphic words 
 Let's read together, each green letter spell, 
 And each illuminated miracle, 
 Decking the mystic text with blue and gold 
 That Book of Beauty where all Truth is told. 
 
 Let's watch the dogwood, holding silver trays 
 Of blossom out across the woodland ways, 
 Whiter than breast of any mortal girl's; 
 And hark! yon bird flinging its song like pearls, 
 Sad as all lovely things fore-doomed to die 
 Work? Not to-day! Ah! no not you, not I. 
 
 RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 
 
 THE TREE-TOP ROAD 
 
 BEYOND the little window 
 
 Of my dull House of Care 
 One road is always beckoning 
 
 When days are gray and bare: 
 65 
 
And then I leave the dusty street 
 
 The struggle and the load 
 I pin my wings upon my feet 
 
 And take the Tree-top Road! 
 
 Life's sweetest joys are hidden 
 
 In unsubstantial things; 
 An April rain, a fragrance, 
 
 A vision of blue wings: 
 And what are memory and hope 
 
 But dreams? And yet the bread 
 On which these little lives of ours 
 
 Are fed and comforted! 
 
 Without imagination 
 
 The soul becomes a clod, 
 Missing the trail of beauty 
 
 Losing the way to God. 
 And I have built a templed-stair 
 
 Out of a lilac bloom 
 And climbed to heaven with purple pomp 
 
 And censers of perfume! 
 
 Philosophers and sages 
 
 Seeking to find out God 
 With puzzling chart and compass 
 
 And strange divining rod, 
 66 
 
I think He must come down to see 
 His orchards bloom in May, 
 
 souls of ours, put on your wings 
 And try the Tree-top Way! 
 
 1 have no feud with Labor, 
 But at the Gates of June 
 
 I fling away my dusty pack 
 
 And join in Youth's glad tune. 
 And just forgetting for awhile 
 
 That I am worn and gray 
 Go sailing off with Peter Pan 
 
 Along the Tree-top Way! 
 
 MAY RILEY SMITH 
 
 THE BEST ROAD OF ALL 
 
 I LIKE a road that leads away to prospects white and fair, 
 A road that is an ordered road, like a nun's evening prayer; 
 But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God knows where. 
 
 You come upon it suddenly you cannot seek it out; 
 It's like a secret still unheard and never noised about; 
 But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt. 
 
 It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver 
 It follows many a broken field by many a shining river; 
 It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever! 
 
 67 
 
You tramp along its dusty way, beneath its shadowy trees, 
 And hear beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees, 
 And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves' litanies. 
 
 And here's a hedge, and there's a cot; and then strange, 
 
 sudden turns; 
 
 A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns; 
 A bit of sky at eveningtime, the scent of hidden ferns. 
 
 A winding road, a loitering road, a finger-mark of God 
 Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod. 
 See! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the goldenrod! 
 
 I like a road that wanders straight; the King's highway is fair, 
 And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there; 
 But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God knows where. 
 
 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 
 
 THE ROAD'S END 
 
 SOMETIMES the road was a twisted riddle 
 Where one might stray for a crooked mile, 
 
 But 0, she danced to the pipes and fiddle 
 Most of the while, most of the while. 
 
 Sometimes the wind and the rain together 
 Blurred the hill that she needs must climb, 
 68 
 
But 0, she tripped it in primrose weather 
 Most of the time, most of the time. 
 
 Who may say that the journey tried her? 
 
 Never a Romany went as gay, 
 Seeing that true love walked beside her 
 
 All of the way, all of the way. 
 
 THEODOSIA GARRISON 
 
 THE AIR 
 
 THE air shone with light and rang with music 
 And carried memories of flowers to me, 
 Where I lay, resting a weary head and shoulders 
 Hard against the sod, under a tree. 
 
 The air moved gently, joyfully, over, under, 
 With delicate singing soothing my unrest, 
 While I lay there, too weary even to murmur, 
 Too spent to answer life, even with a jest. 
 
 The air was lovely. There I slept and wakened, 
 And still there was the miracle of the air; 
 Rested, I flung my arms apart in worship 
 To think of this glory moving everywhere. 
 
 MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 
THE CELL 
 
 WHEN from the hush of this cool wood 
 
 I go, Lord, to the noisy mart, 
 Give me among the multitude, 
 
 I pray, a lonely heart. 
 
 Yes, build in me a secret cell 
 Where quietness shall be a song: 
 
 In that green solitude I '11 dwell, 
 And praise Thee all day long. 
 
 GEORGE ROSTREVOB 
 
 [ SHE BECAME WHAT SHE BEHELD" 
 
 BEE in the lavender 
 Searching for provender, 
 If I were small 
 
 And greedy like thee, 
 How slender and tall 
 Would the lavender be. 
 
 High in the trees 
 
 I scramble and cling, 
 Softly the breeze 
 
 Sets me a-swing. 
 
 Deep in delight 
 I bury my nose, 
 70 
 
Holding on tight 
 With fingers and toes. 
 
 Honey and wind 
 
 And lavender blue 
 Here do I find 
 
 All the day through 
 Bee in the lavender 
 Searching for provender! 
 
 MARGARET CECILIA FURSE 
 
 TELL ALL THE WORLD 
 
 TELL all the world that summer's here again 
 
 With song and joy; tell them, that they may know 
 
 How, on the hillside, in the shining fields 
 New clumps of violets and daisies grow. 
 
 Tell all the world that summer's here again, 
 That white clouds voyage through a sky so still 
 
 With blue tranquillity, it seems to hang 
 One windless tapestry, from hill to hill. 
 
 Tell all the world that summer's here again: 
 
 Folk go about so solemnly and slow, 
 Walking each one his grooved and ordered way 
 
 I fear that, otherwise they will not know! 
 
 HARRY KEMP 
 71 
 
A B C'S IN GREEN 
 
 THE trees are God's great alphabet: 
 With them He writes in shining green 
 Across the world His thoughts serene. 
 
 He scribbles poems against the sky 
 With a gay, leafy lettering, 
 For us and for our bettering. 
 
 The wind pulls softly at His page, 
 And every star and bird 
 Repeats in dutiful delight His word, 
 And every blade of grass 
 Flutters to class. 
 
 Like a slow child that does not heed, 
 I stand at summer's knees, 
 And from the primer of the wood 
 I spell that life and love are good, 
 
 I learn to read. 
 
 LEONORA SPEYEB 
 
 WEEK-END 
 
 MORNING! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs 
 Are rippling on the air across the green. 
 
 The youngest birds are singing to the house. 
 Blood of the world! and is the country clean? 
 72 
 
Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. 
 
 Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. 
 Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out, 
 
 And fill the chambers with a new desire. 
 Life is no good, unless the morning brings 
 
 White happiness and quick delight of day. 
 These half-inanimate domestic things 
 Must all be useful, or must go away. 
 Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, 
 Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate. 
 
 HAROLD MONEO 
 
 THE TRYST 
 
 'LONG about dusk I'd see him go 
 
 Almost a-runnin' through the snow 
 
 Bound for the marsh, like a feller who's late 
 
 Meetin' some girl, you know, keepin' a "date." 
 
 "Jest like them dudes," thinks I, "to roam 
 
 With girls in the marsh, and their wives to home!" 
 
 So, one fine day, I on with my hood 
 And follered his tracks to the edge o' the wood 
 Where the marsh begins, to see who it was 
 Meetin' my neighbor's man, because 
 I liked Mis' Joyce, and she oughter know 
 O' the goin's-on out there in the snow! 
 73 
 
Well, what do you s'pose I saw? Instead er 
 
 A girl, there wa'n't nothin' but common salt meader, 
 
 And him on the bridge pacin' up and down 
 
 Watchin' the grasses float and drown 
 
 In the flood o' the tide, and the cakes of ice 
 
 Swim up westward. He looked so nice, 
 
 And pleased and content, it seemed like he 
 
 Was findin' himself rare company; 
 
 And never once did he turn his head 
 
 From the west, to look for a skirt instead. 
 
 I sneaked back home by the pasture lane, 
 And studied and puzzled and addled my brain 
 To guess why he hurried so, only to stand 
 And gape at the west with his hat in his hand. 
 
 v 
 
 Next mornin' says I to my neighbor: "Say, 
 Why does your man allus hurry that way 
 Past my house, the end of the day?" 
 Says she: "To look at the sunset, dear, 
 Out where there's nothing to interfere." 
 Says I: "Now ain't you eity folks queer! 
 What's in a sunset for to see?" 
 "Look for yourself, my dear," says she. 
 
 So late that day, I thought for to look 
 Out o' the winder near where I cook. 
 74 
 
The sky was a nice red birthday cake 
 Spattered with candles. 
 
 Mercy's sake! 
 
 I dropped the cutter; I dropped the dough, 
 
 I stood there gapin' outdoors as though 
 
 One o' them fairy tales was true, 
 
 And I was a princess with nothin' to do 
 
 But watch a girl sewin' with silver thread 
 
 On pink satin curtains to hang 'round my head. 
 
 I hurried across and opened the door; 
 
 Never seed nothin' so purty afore! 
 
 Then, under my eyes, things turned to a dome 
 
 O' melting gold, like a honey-comb. 
 
 Some bee must 'a' come from that fairy hive 
 
 And stung me, and made me feel all alive. . . . 
 
 Funny what tricks yer eyes will play 
 If any one happens to show 'em the way! 
 
 ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER 
 
 REVELATION 
 
 WALKING these long, late twilights of the Spring, 
 Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth, 
 
 And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing, 
 Less keen than these cool odours of the earth, 
 75 
 
I sometimes think we find the secret gate 
 That gives on gardens of enchanted light, 
 
 Restoring glories that we lost of late, 
 To quiet wisdom and more certain sight. 
 
 A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will, 
 Till we shall see revealments through the grass, 
 
 And stop, abashed, before a daffodil, 
 A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass, 
 
 Stand with bared head before the evening star, 
 
 And know these holy things for what they are. 
 
 DAVID MORTON 
 
 THRIFT 
 
 No beauty beauty overthrows, 
 But every joy its season knows, 
 And all enchanted hours prepare 
 Enchantment for to-morrow's wear. 
 
 Who in the just society 
 That walks with him this hour can see 
 But shadows of another bliss, 
 Loses both that delight and this. 
 
 Grieve not the parting day, for soon 
 
 The nightingales will sing the moon 
 
 76 
 
Climbing the track that now the sun 
 Leaves when the songs of day are done. 
 
 And grieve not when her beauty fails, 
 And silence keeps the nightingales, 
 For that eclipse again will bring 
 The sun with all his birds to sing. 
 
 JOHN DRINKWATER 
 
 COUNTERSIGN 
 
 OUT in the dark-night long 
 I heard the Pine Tree's song 
 Make secret harmonies 
 For frozen earth and skies 
 
 And in the first wan light 
 I watched a grey gull's flight 
 Toward morning and the sea: 
 These things did counsel me 
 
 To find for Doubt a wing: 
 To teach Despair to sing: 
 To make Faith's Countersign 
 A grey Gull and a Pine! 
 
 ARTHUR KETCHUM 
 77 
 
SEA-GULL SONG 
 
 MY thoughts are mighty sea-gulls, 
 
 Shining out to sea, 
 As white and strong as sea-gulls, 
 
 As avid of the sea. 
 They rest upon the green waves, 
 
 They mount up, one by one. 
 My thoughts are lordly sea-gulls, 
 
 Lovely in the sun. 
 
 My body stays in bondage 
 
 Upon the shore, I know; 
 But lazily float the sea-gulls 
 
 Like great flakes of snow. 
 Lazily float the sea-gulls, 
 
 Drifting in the blue, 
 My thoughts are bright as sea-gulls, 
 
 Their flight as true. 
 
 They scorn the towns, the shoreline; 
 
 Their home is in the sky; 
 They joy to breast the tempest, 
 
 My thoughts, more strong than I. 
 Mean household tasks may hold me 
 
 And four walls conquer me, 
 But my thoughts are sea-gulls 
 
 Lifting out to sea. 
 
 MABY CAROLYN DA VIES 
 78 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF BERKSHIRE BROOKS 
 
 To build the trout a crystal stair; 
 To comb the hillside's thick green hair; 
 To water jewel-weed and rushes; 
 To teach first notes to baby thrushes; 
 To flavor raspberry and apple 
 And make a whirling pool to dapple 
 With scattered gold of late October; 
 To urge wise laughter on the sober 
 And lend a dream to those who laugh; 
 To chant the beetle's epitaph; 
 To mirror the blue dragonfly, 
 Frail air-plane of a slender sky; 
 Over the stones to lull and leap 
 Herding the bubbles like white sheep; 
 The claims of worry to deny, 
 And whisper sorrow into sleep! 
 
 GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 
 
 ON THE VERANDAH 
 
 LARKSPUR; windy July; 
 Trees riding up from the southward, 
 Green waves frozen before they fell, 
 Shattered with grey rifts of light: 
 79 
 
Flickering in amber sunbeams, 
 Glinting with gold as the sunset passed, 
 We sat together and saw them change, 
 And in our hearts was peace. 
 
 In calm and opulent terraces 
 The sky unrolled ribbed cloud for us; 
 Marble-veined azure, peacefully walled. 
 Two and two went the grave white angels 
 Smiling and sometimes speaking to us: 
 The lower ones brooding in shadow, 
 The upper ones romping in sunlight 
 Where like white ladders the light ran up 
 From the cellars to upper balconies, 
 Where with wind-blown daisies frail gardens bloomed 
 in mid-air. 
 
 We watched them from the verandah, 
 Sitting together, you holding my hand; 
 The wind flapped the heavy bough-curtains, 
 And all our thoughts were at rest. 
 We were not troubled with anything, 
 We knew that this day was made for us, 
 We knew that new days would come in time, 
 The future and the past were now one. 
 
 Long we watched dark swallows hovering 
 Swift up the wind-waves of the sky, 
 80 
 
Fluttering, soaring, and calling, 
 
 Wheeling like well-ordered oarsmen. 
 
 They passed through the sunpool washing the trees, 
 
 Rippling with warm heat over the world, 
 
 Caressing and changing the final faint clouds, 
 
 Before they receded to rest. 
 
 Evening bells sounded hollow, forlorn, 
 
 Out of a valley wreathed in white mist; 
 
 It was the time you must quit my side. 
 
 You went without pain or regret. 
 
 Such a perfect understanding ruled over our hearts, 
 
 That, parting, I felt that you still held my hand; 
 
 For all of my life was known by you 
 
 In such serene comprehensive surrender, 
 
 That I slept every night with no false dreams to mar 
 
 my sleep. 
 
 JOHN GOULD FLETCHER 
 
 ONE HOUR 
 
 I 
 
 SNATCHED from the greedy hand of ruthless Time, 
 We saved one hour of golden afternoon. 
 Oh! Love, it seemed our hearts, as one, did chime 
 In subtle symphony; and so in tune 
 Our spirits were, that speech was hardly part 
 Of the deep language of the happy heart. 
 
 81 
 
n 
 
 The sunset lingered in the misty sky, 
 Till dim cloud shadows in the water grew, 
 And lilting reed-birds from the rushes, by 
 The gliding stream, across our vision flew, 
 With low, sweet cries, as though to thrill the ear 
 With the close thought that Nature was so near. 
 
 ra 
 
 We seemed in unison with bird and flower, 
 
 At one with all the soft and sensuous light; 
 
 I thought of Danse in her golden shower 
 
 And felt the God had claimed me as his right 
 
 The terrible, strong God whom men call Love, 
 
 Who rules "the Earth below, the Heavens above!" 
 
 rv 
 
 And yet, in that sweet hour, the Soul was King! 
 And held the heart in pure and potent sway, 
 And we can ever to that memory bring 
 The grateful knowledge that our perfect day, 
 With all its essence of a mortal union, 
 Was touched with high and Heavenly communion. 
 
 CORINNB ROOSEVELT ROBINSON 
 
 82 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 I HAVE a friend whose stillness rests me so 
 
 His heart must know 
 How closely we together, silent, grow. 
 
 I have a friend whose brilliancy inspires 
 
 And rarely tires 
 When we two warm our spirits at his fires. 
 
 I have a friend whose charity delights 
 
 In others' rights. 
 We two sit talking often late of nights. 
 
 I have a friend whose discipline I need; 
 
 We have agreed 
 That neither from this schooling shall be freed. 
 
 I have a friend whose calmness some mistake. 
 
 But we two make 
 Of suffering more than just its grief and ache. 
 
 I have so many friends each one fulfills 
 
 Just what God wills. 
 For He through them His best in me instills. 
 
 And so twice fortunate am I to find 
 
 Friends great and kind 
 Each one himself, yet part of God's own mind. 
 
 VLYN JOHNSON 
 
 83 
 
SAINTE JEANNE OF FRANCE 
 
 SAINTE JEANNE went harvesting in France, 
 But ah! what found she there? 
 The little streams were running red, 
 And the torn fields were bare; 
 And all about the ruined towers 
 Where once her king was crowned, 
 The hurtling plows of war and death 
 Had scored the desolate ground. 
 
 Sainte Jeanne turned to the hearts of men 
 
 That harvest might not fail; 
 
 Her sword was girt upon her thigh, 
 
 Her dress was silvern mail; 
 
 And all the war-worn ranks were glad 
 
 To feel her presence shine; 
 
 Her smile was like the mellow sun 
 
 Along that weary line. 
 
 She gave her silence to their lips, 
 Her visions to their eyes, 
 And the quick glory of her sword 
 She lent to their emprise; 
 The shadow of her gentle hand 
 Touched Belgium's burning cross, 
 And set the seal of power and praise 
 On agony and loss. 
 84 
 
Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, 
 
 And oh! what found she there? 
 
 The brave seed of her scattering 
 
 In fruitage everywhere; 
 
 And where her strong and tender heart 
 
 Was broken in the flame, 
 
 She found the very heart of France 
 
 Had flowered in her name. 
 
 MARIAN COUTHOUT SMITH 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN 
 
 GOD will not let my field lie fallow. 
 
 The ploughshare is sharp, the feet of his oxen are heavy; 
 
 They hurt. 
 
 But I cannot stay God from His ploughing, 
 
 I, the lord of the field. 
 
 While I stand waiting, 
 
 His shoulders loom upon me from the mist, 
 
 He has gone past me down the furrow, shouting a song. 
 
 (I had said, it shall rest for a season. 
 The larks had built in the grass. . . .) 
 
 He will not let my field lie fallow. 
 
 KARLE WILSON BAKER 
 
 85 
 
THANKSGIVING 
 
 THE roar of the world is in my ears. 
 
 Thank God for the roar of the world! 
 Thank God for the mighty tide of fears 
 
 Against me always hurled! 
 
 Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, 
 And the sting of His chastening rod! 
 
 Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, 
 And Oh, thank God for God! 
 
 JOYCE KILMER 
 
 THANKS FROM EARTH TO HEAVEN 
 
 GOD pours for me His draught divine, 
 Moonlight, which is the poet's wine, i 
 He has made this perfect night 
 For my wonder and delight. 
 
 What is it He would declare 
 In this beauty everywhere 
 What dearest thought of His is heard 
 In the moonlight's secret word? 
 
 To the human, the Supreme 
 Poet speaks in wind and stream, 
 
 86 
 
Tenderly He does express 
 His meaning in each loveliness. 
 
 Simply does He speak and clear, 
 As man to man, His message dear 
 Aye and well enough He knows 
 Who shall understand His rose! 
 
 Night is but His parable 
 Secretly where He would tell, 
 As to an intimate of His, 
 The mystery of all that is; 
 
 Nor humblest, nor most exquisite 
 Detail or phrase does He omit 
 From His great poem, confident 
 It shall be noted what He meant. 
 
 And cunningly doth still devise 
 New Aprils for His poet's eyes 
 For whose joy all things were wrought, 
 That without him were as nought. 
 
 Holy Poet, I have heard 
 Thy lost music, Thy least word; 
 Not Thy beauty's tiniest part 
 Has escaped this loving heart! 
 87 
 
While the great world goes its way 
 I watch in wonder all the day, 
 All the night my spirit sings 
 For the loveliness of things. 
 
 But for lonely men like me 
 It were wasted utterly 
 All this beauty, vainly spent, 
 Unavailing lavishment. 
 
 Little cricket, never fear, 
 There is one who waits to hear 
 Nor is there loveliness so shy 
 It shall escape a poet's eye. 
 
 For the world enough it were 
 To have a useful earth and bare, 
 But for poets it is made 
 All in loveliness arrayed. 
 
 For his eye the little moth 
 Wears her coat of colored cloth, 
 And to please his ear the deep 
 Ocean murmurs in her sleep. 
 
 Rustle gently in the breeze 
 
 For his delight the poplar trees, 
 
 And in the song within his head 
 
 The thanks from earth to heaven is said. 
 
 JOHN HALL WHEELOCK 
 
THE POET 
 
 SUN made the lily white, 
 
 The glory of the flowery earth; 
 
 Sun made the swan, which is 
 
 The lily of a life white-winged; 
 
 The eagle, whom he lures 
 
 Spell-bound to his great heights, 
 
 And the gold shimmer of the moon, 
 
 The lovers' loving comrade. 
 
 And then he dreamed a creature fuller 
 
 Of lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers, 
 
 And made the poet. He 
 
 Alone beholds Thee face to face, 
 
 O God; and he alone, 
 
 Reaching into Thy heart, reveals 
 
 To us Thy mysteries. 
 
 KOSTES PALAMAS 
 (Translated by Aristides E. Phoutrides) 
 
 "TELL ME, WHAT IS POETRY" 
 
 TELL me, what is poetry 
 Wind in the pines along the sea, 
 Wind in the frost-browned lanes of sedge, 
 Lying close to the sand's white edge; 
 
Song of the waves and the muttering roar 
 Of breakers lashing a wintry shore, 
 Tinkling sounds where waters slip 
 Through blue sea caves, drip by drip. 
 
 Tell me, what is poetry 
 The earth's unceasing melody; 
 Dawn song, night song, birds awhir, 
 Fields where the bee is worshiper; 
 Drowsy drone of the summer rain, 
 Chirruping calls from ripening grain, 
 Cicada, cricket, shrilling low; 
 Nature's music in ebb and flow. 
 
 Tell me, what is poetry 
 
 The heart's undying ecstasy, 
 
 Songs of our faith, our hopes, our tears, 
 
 Songs of the joys of passing years, 
 
 Laughter of children, glory of spring, 
 
 Tenderness for each blind dumb thing; 
 
 Praise when we bend 'neath the chastening rod; 
 
 Music that leads us up to God. 
 
 JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER 
 
 THE LISTENER 
 
 ONCE, ere the silver, sprinkled heavens were hung in Space, there 
 
 lived a Poet 
 
 Alone, unspeaking and unspoken to, amidst a universal muteness. 
 
 90 
 
One eternal moment his heart beat and he wished an Other, who 
 
 might listen to his voice. 
 
 He spake; and thus was born Vak, Being of perfect beauty. 
 And the Poet opened his eyes and beheld Vak, the Gracious One, 
 
 sweetly standing before the ocean of stillness, and he 
 
 blessed her; 
 And from his blessing-word were born three sons Truth, 
 
 Right, and Immortality. 
 And Vak smiled with her eyes and from her smile were born three 
 
 lovely daughters Dawn, Day, and Twilight. 
 The three sons sing in the heavens, in mid-space, and on earth, 
 And the three fair daughters light the lamp in the three same 
 
 spheres. 
 But Vak lives ever in the Poet's heart, listening to the voice of 
 
 his soul. 
 
 nf ANANDA ACHARYA 
 
 "ROSES ARE BEAUTY" 
 
 ROSES are beauty, but I never see 
 
 Those blood drops from the burning heart of June 
 Glowing like thought upon the living tree, 
 
 Without a pity that they die so soon, 
 Die into petals, like those roses old, 
 
 Those women, who were summer hi men's hearts 
 Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold, 
 
 Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts. 
 91 
 
myriad dust of beauty that lies thick 
 Under our feet that not a single grain 
 
 But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick 
 For one brief moon and died nor lived again; 
 But when the moon rose lay upon the grass 
 Pasture to living beauty, life that was. 
 
 1 never see the red rose crown the year, 
 
 Nor feel the young grass underneath my tread, 
 Without the thought "This living beauty here 
 
 Is earth's remembrance of a beauty dead. 
 Surely where all this glory is displayed 
 
 Love has been quick, like fire, to high ends; 
 Here, in this grass, an altar has been made 
 
 For some white joy, some sacrifice of friends; 
 Here, where I stand, some leap of human brains 
 
 Has touched immortal things and left its trace, 
 The earth is happy here, the gleam remains; 
 Beauty is here, the spirit of the place, 
 I touch the faith which nothing can destroy, 
 The earth, the living church of ancient joy." 
 
 JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 92 
 
THE HUMMINGBIRD 
 
 THE sunlight speaks, and its voice is a bird: 
 It glimmers half-guessed, half-seen, half-heard, 
 Above the flowerbed, over the lawn . . . 
 A flashing dip, and it is gone, 
 And all it lends to the eye is this 
 A sunbeam giving the air a kiss. 
 
 HARRY KEMP 
 
 '.'WHAT IF WE MADE OUR SENSES SO ASTUTE'! 
 
 WHAT if we made our senses so astute, 
 Our minds so quick, our hearing so acute, 
 That we could hear 
 The infinitesimal sound 
 That seeds must make in falling to the ground 
 At turning of the year? 
 What if we heard 
 The breathing of a bird, 
 The tapping of the black ant's little feet, 
 The brown snail tracing out a silver street? 
 Perhaps more kind, and so more swiftly wise, 
 We'd apprehend tears welling in the eyes 
 We love the most, and so could speak the word 
 93 
 
To dry, or send them falling through a smile, 
 In just a little while. 
 I think all tears that fell at happy times 
 Might make a little pattering sound of chimes. 
 
 AMORY HARE 
 
 THE COIN 
 
 INTO my heart's treasury 
 
 I slipped a coin 
 That time cannot take 
 
 Nor a thief purloin, 
 Oh better than the minting 
 
 Of a gold-crowned king 
 Is the safe-kept memory 
 
 Of a lovely thing. 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 
 'THE MIRROR OF ALL AGES ARE THE EYES" 
 
 THE mirror of all ages are the eyes 
 Of some remembering god, wherein are sealed 
 The beauties of the world, the April field, 
 Young faces, blowing hair, and autumn skies. 
 The mirrors of the world shall break, and yield 
 To life again what never really dies; 
 The forms and colours of earth's pageantries, 
 Unwithered and undimmod, shall be revealed. 
 94 
 
And in that moment silence shall unfold 
 Forgotten songs that she has held interred, 
 The ocean rising on the shores of gold, 
 Flecked with white laughter and love's lyric word; 
 All happy music that the world has heard; 
 All beauty that eternal eyes behold. 
 
 ROBERT HILLYEB 
 
 WINDOWS 
 
 I LOOKED through others' windows 
 On an enchanted earth, 
 But out of my own window 
 Solitude and dearth. 
 
 And yet there is a mystery 
 I cannot understand 
 That others through my window 
 See an enchanted land. 
 
 JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE 
 
 AFTERNOON 
 
 SOME one is coming to call. 
 
 Up the red brick path between daffodils dancing 
 I see white ruffles that blow: 
 A parasol, dipping against the sun. 
 It is some one stout, and warm in her new white gloves. 
 05 
 
My old green apron is smudged with the garden-mould. 
 My hands are the hands of a peasant-woman. My hair 
 Comes tumbling down into my eyes. 
 
 I wish I could lie down flat like a child 
 
 And hide in the grass, while she rings and rings, 
 
 And sticks her card under the door with a sigh, 
 
 And puffs away down the path. 
 
 I wish but the parasol bobs, 
 
 And she bobs like a mandarin's lady, 
 
 Smiling and bridling and beckoning. 
 
 If I were a daffodil, in an apron of green and gold 
 
 But there she stands on the path, 
 
 And her gloves are so new they squeak with newness and 
 
 stoutness, 
 And I know she will talk of the weather and stay an hour 
 
 If I were a daffodil 
 
 Or a little cool blinking bug 
 
 Down in the daffodil leaves 
 
 FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS 
 
 THE GREAT MAN 
 
 I CANNOT always feel his greatness. 
 Sometimes he walks beside me, step by step, 
 And paces slowly in the ways 
 The simple, wingless ways 
 
That my thought treads. He gossips with me then 
 
 And finds it good; 
 
 Not as an eagle might, his great wings folded, be content 
 
 To walk a little, knowing it his choice, 
 
 But as a simple man, 
 
 My friend. 
 
 And I forget. 
 
 Then suddenly a call floats down 
 
 From the clear airy spaces, 
 
 The great, keen lonely heights of being. 
 
 Then he who was my comrade hears the call 
 
 And rises from my side, and soars, 
 
 Deep-chanting to the heights. 
 
 Then I remember. 
 
 And my upward gaze goes with him, and I see 
 
 Far off against the sky 
 
 The glint of golden sunlight on his wings. 
 
 EUNICE TIETJENS 
 
 A WOMAN 
 
 SHE has an understanding with the years; 
 For always in her eyes there was light 
 As though she kept a secret none might guess 
 Some confidence that Time had made her heart. 
 
 97 
 
So calmly did she bear the weight of pain, 
 With such serenity accept the joy, 
 It seemed she had a mother love for life, 
 And all the days were children at her breast. 
 
 SCUDDER MlDDLETON 
 
 THE MOTHER IN THE HOUSE 
 
 FOE such as you, I do believe, 
 Spirits their softest carpets weave, 
 And spread them out with gracious hand 
 Wherever you walk, wherever you stand. 
 
 For such as you, of scent and dew 
 Spirits their rarest nectar brew, 
 And where you sit and where you sup 
 Pour beauty's elixir in your cup. 
 
 For all day long, like other folk, 
 You bear the burden, wear the yoke, 
 And yet when I look in your eyes at eve 
 You are lovelier than ever, I do believe. 
 
 HERMANN HAGEDORN 
 
IN THE HOSPITAL 
 
 BECAUSE on the branch that is tapping my pane 
 
 A sun-wakened leaf-bud, uncurled, 
 Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain; 
 
 I know there is Spring in the world. 
 
 Because through the sky-patch whose azure and white 
 
 My window frames all the day long 
 A yellow-bird dips in a billow of flight, 
 
 I know there is Song. 
 
 Because even here in this Mansion of Woe 
 Where creep the dull hours, leaden-shod, 
 Compassion and Tenderness aid me, I know 
 
 There is God. 
 
 ARTHUR GUITERMAN 
 
 HOPE'S SONG 
 
 SILENT is the dark 
 
 Before the sun-beams come, 
 Yet if it were not for the lark, 
 
 The dawn would be as dumb, 
 
 And thus my soul would be 
 As dark and still as night, 
 If 't were not for the minstrelsy 
 Of Hope that sings of Light. 
 
 FRANCIS CARLIN 
 99 
 
DE GLORY ROAD 
 
 DE Glory Road! de Glory Road! 
 
 I'm gwine ter drap mah load upon de Glory Road. 
 
 1 lay on mah bed untell one erclock, 
 
 An' de Lawd come callin' all His faithful floek. 
 
 An' He call "Whoo-ee!", an' He call "Whooee!" 
 
 An' I knowed dat de Sabior wuz ercallin' me. 
 
 An' He call "Whoo-ee!", an' He call "Whoo-ee!", 
 
 An' I cry, "Massa Jesus, is you callin' me?" 
 
 An' He call "Whoo-ee!", an' He call "Whoo-ee!", 
 
 An' I riz up f'um mah pallet, an' I cry, "Hyahs me!" 
 
 De Lawd sez, " Niggah, ain' I call yer thrice 
 Ter ride erlong behin' me up ter Paradise, 
 On de Glory Road, on de Glory Road?" 
 An' I clime up ter de saddle, an' I jined de load! 
 
 De hawse he wuz longer dan a thousan' mile'; 
 His tail went lashin', an' his hoofs wuz wil' ; 
 His mane wuz flamin', an' his eyes wuz moons, 
 An' his mouth kep' singin' Halleluyah tunes! 
 
 De Lawd sez, "Niggah, why 'n' cher look erroun'?" 
 An' dar we wuz flyin' over risin' groun'. 
 Powerful hills, an' mountains too, 
 An' de earth an' de people wuz drapt f'um view. 
 
 100 
 
An* I hyahd all 'roun' me how de sperits sang, 
 An' de Lawd sang louder dan de whole shebang! 
 
 De Lawd sez, "Niggah, why 'n' cher look ergin?" 
 An' dar wuz de Debbil, on de back uv Sin, 
 A-bangin' on de critter wid his whip an' goad, 
 An' boun' he gwine ter kotch us, on de Glory Road! 
 "0 Lawdy, it's de Debbil, comin' straight f'um Hell! 
 I kin tell him by his roarin', an' de brimstone smell!" 
 But de Lawd sez, "Niggah, he ain' kotch us yit!" 
 An' He lashed an' He hustled, an' He loosed de bit. 
 Den de Debbil crep' closuh, an' I hyahd him yell, 
 "I'm gwine ter kotch a niggah, fur ter roas' in Hell!" 
 An' I cried, "Lawd, sabe me!" An' de Lawd cry, "Sho!" 
 An' hyah it was Hebben, an' we shet de do'. 
 
 O Glory, Glory, how de angels sang! 
 O Glory, Glory, how de rafters rang! 
 An' Moses 'n' Aaron, an' Methusalum, 
 Dey shout an' dey holler, an' dey beat de drum. 
 King Solomon kissed me, an' his thousan' wives, 
 Jes' like dey'd knowed me, durin' all dey lives; 
 An' de Lawd sez, "Niggah, take a gran'-stan' seat. 
 But I 'specks youse hongry; have a bite ter eat?" 
 An' de ravens fed me, an' Elijah prayed, 
 An' de Sabed Ones gathered, while de organ played, 
 An' dey cry, "0 sinnah, come an' lose yuh load 
 On de Glory Road, on de Glory Road, 
 101 
 
An* come an' dwell in de Lawd's abode, 
 Glory, Glory, on de Glory Road!" 
 
 Sez de Lawd, "No, simian, you mus' trabbel back 
 Ter he'p po' niggahs up de Glory Track; 
 Ter he'p old mo'ners, an' de scoffin' coons, 
 By shoutin' loud Halleluyah tunes." 
 
 come, mah breddren, won' you drap yuh load, 
 An' ride ter Hebben up de Glory Road? 
 
 CLEMENT Woou 
 
 THE CONQUEROR 
 
 I HAVE no patience with the man who says, 
 
 "Another day is gone." 
 Give me the man who sings in thick of night, 
 
 "Soon will be dawn!" 
 
 I have no patience with the man who holds 
 
 Life as a beggar's tale, 
 Give me the man with iron will to climb 
 
 And courage not to fail. 
 
 He dies indeed who never sees the sun, 
 
 Nor hears the song of rain, 
 But his is immortality on earth, 
 
 Whose every loss is gain! 
 
 MORRIS ABEL BEER 
 
 102 
 
STAR SONG 
 
 THERE are twisted roots that grow 
 
 Even from a fragile white anemone. 
 
 But a star has no roots: to and fro 
 
 It floats in the light of the sky, like a water-lily, 
 
 And fades on the blue flood of day. 
 
 A star has no roots to hold it, 
 
 No living lonely entity to lose. 
 
 Floods of dim radiance fold it; 
 
 Night and day their silent aura transfuse, 
 
 But no change a star can bruise. 
 
 A star is adrift and free. 
 
 When day comes, it floats into space and complies; 
 
 Like a spirit quietly, 
 
 Like a spirit, amazed in a wider paradise 
 
 At mortal tears and sighs. 
 
 GLADYS CROMWELL 
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 THREE fir trees climbing against the sky, 
 A road that ran to the top of the world, 
 
 And a wind-drenched tumble of bending rye 
 To the flaming ramparts of morning hurled. 
 103 
 
 !.*> t 
 
The waters hurrying down to the sea 
 Met the wind and the world in flower, 
 
 And wind and waters made one in me, 
 Kept in my heart an eternal hour. 
 
 EDWAKD J. O'BRIEN 
 
 DOMINION 
 
 I WENT beneath the sunny sky 
 
 When all things bowed to June's desire, 
 The pansy with its steadfast eye, 
 
 The blue shells on the lupin spire, 
 
 The swelling fruit along the boughs, 
 The grass grown heady in the rain, 
 
 Dark roses fitted for the brows 
 Of queens great kings have sung hi vain; 
 
 My little cat with tiger bars, 
 Bright claws all hidden in content; 
 
 Swift birds that flashed like darkling stars 
 Across the cloudy continent; 
 
 The wiry-coated fellow curled 
 
 Stump-tailed upon the sunny flags; 
 
 The bees that sacked a coloured world 
 Of treasure for their honey-bags. 
 
 104 
 
And all these things seemed very glad, 
 The sun, the flowers, the birds on wing, 
 
 The jolly beasts, the furry-clad 
 Fat bees, the fruit, and everything. 
 
 But gladder than them all was I, 
 Who, being man, might gather up 
 
 The joy of all beneath the sky, 
 And add their treasure to my cup, 
 
 And travel every shining way, 
 
 And laugh with God in God's delight, 
 
 Create a world for every day, 
 And store a dream for every night. 
 
 JOHN DEINKWATEB 
 
 A PINCH OF SALT 
 
 WHEN a dream is born in you 
 
 With a sudden clamorous pain, 
 When you know the dream is true 
 
 And lovely, with no flaw nor strain, 
 O, then be careful, or with sudden clutch 
 You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. 
 
 Dreams are like a bird that mocks, 
 Flirting the feathers of his tail. 
 105 
 
When you seize at the salt-box 
 
 Over the hedge you'll see him sail. 
 Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff : 
 They watch you from the apple bough and laugh. 
 
 Poet, never chase the dream. 
 
 Laugh yourself and turn away. 
 Mask your hunger, let it seem 
 
 Small matter if he come or stay; 
 But when he nestles in your hand at last, 
 Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. 
 
 ROBERT GRAVES 
 
 AND TO SUCH AS PLAY ONLY THE BASS VIOL 
 
 COULD we but hear the music of the days, 
 As that unfinished symphony I heard last night, 
 And see life's laborers as those who played, 
 Each taking his own part religiously, 
 Knowing that if he fails in but one note 
 The others can not make the perfect thing 
 Which He the great Composer has designed! 
 
 I followed now this player and now that, 
 As each some clear-wrought melody led forth, 
 Speaking the theme for all the orchestra, 
 Which gave assent in changing harmonies; 
 106 
 
Or watched this group now regnant and now that, 
 
 As when one party rising, dominant, 
 
 Bears bravely forward some great truth, and then 
 
 Another catches it and takes it on 
 
 Till all break forth in final plebiscite. 
 
 But ever I came back to one who stood 
 
 Calm in the varying moods of sound which swept 
 
 Across the stage that was to me the State, 
 
 The World. His instrument could never lead; 
 
 Its range was narrow; and, when played alone, 
 
 It had no voice to stir or satisfy: 
 
 Only with others had its strings the power 
 
 To vibrate in immortal minstrelsy. 
 
 JOHN FINLET 
 
 EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI 
 
 FROM morn to midnight, all day through, 
 I laugh and play as others do, 
 I sin and chatter, just the same 
 As others with a different name. 
 
 And all year long upon the stage, 
 I dance and tumble and do rage 
 So vehemently, I scarcely see 
 The inner and eternal me. 
 107 
 
I have a temple I do not 
 Visit, a Heart I have forgot, 
 A self that I have never met, 
 A secret shrine and yet, and yet 
 
 This sanctuary of my soul 
 Unwitting I keep white and whole, 
 Unlatched and lit, if Thou should'st care 
 To enter or to tarry there. 
 
 With parted lips and outstretched hands 
 And listening ears Thy servant stands, 
 Call Thou early, call Thou late, 
 To Thy great service dedicate. 
 
 CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY 
 
 THE GIFTS OF PEACE 
 
 ALL day long the wind in the bending branches 
 Softly croons a chant for the silent sleepers, 
 Through the hours the birds in unceasing rapture 
 Echo the wind-song. 
 
 Tossing branches caught by the spars of sun-glow, 
 Framing bits of blue with their leafy meshes, 
 And upon the winds from the pine-tree's censer 
 
 Attars unloosened. 
 
 108 
 
Far away the valley lies in a day-dream, 
 
 Warm and golden, swept by the clouds' swift shadows, 
 
 While the grasses like distant ocean billows 
 
 Drift in the sunshine. 
 
 Here is peace and loveliness ever mingled: 
 Organ music of winds and birds and branches, 
 And a brooding Presence that makes each moment 
 A benediction. 
 
 THOMAS S. JONES, JB. 
 
 PEACE 
 
 PEACE flows into me 
 
 As the tide to the pool by the shore; 
 
 It is mine forevermore, 
 It will not ebb like the sea. 
 
 I am the pool of blue 
 
 That worships the vivid sky; 
 
 My hopes were heaven-high, 
 They are all fulfilled in you. 
 
 I am the pool of gold 
 When sunset burns and dies 
 You are my deepening skies; 
 
 Give me your stars to hold. 
 
 SABA TEASDALE 
 
 109 
 
STANZAS FROM "VARIATIONS" 
 
 You are as beautiful as white clouds 
 Flowing among bright stars at night: 
 You are as beautiful as pale clouds 
 Which the moon sets alight. 
 
 You are as lovely as golden stars 
 Which white clouds try to brush away: 
 You are as bright as golden stars 
 When they come out to play. 
 
 You are as glittering as those stairs 
 Of stone down which the blue brooks run: 
 You are as shining as sea-waves 
 All hastening to the sun. 
 
 CONRAD AIKEN 
 
 TWILIGHT CONTENT 
 
 Is it the wind in trees or waters falling? 
 Is it the canyon-shadows rushing down 
 The ridgy slopes that seem so to be calling 
 My heart in twilit tenderness to drown? 
 
 Is it the canyon wren's diminuendo 
 That slips down a soft scale of minor peace? 
 Is it the spell of night's lone wide crescendo 
 Of mountain rest upon me is it these? 
 
 110 
 
Or but some sense of you I cannot measure? 
 Some memory of a wind of love that blew 
 Out of your heart to mine? Some darkling pleasure 
 In the first shade of grief I shared with you? 
 
 I cannot tell. I only know how surely 
 In you and the world's beauty I rejoice. 
 The wren is still: gone to her nest demurely. 
 The night has come yet silence is your voice. 
 
 GALE YOUNG RICE 
 
 TO ONE WHO IS A VOICE 
 
 ONLY a voice the wind among the leaves 
 Shivered a wistful, haunting melody 
 
 Under the lilacs where great drops of dew 
 Mirrored the pale, star-dusty evening sky; 
 
 Was it the wind? Or was it only you, 
 Dear distant friend, calling me from afar 
 
 Through the long leagues of dusk, remote and blue? 
 
 Or was it just a star? 
 
 JAMES L. McLANE, JR. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 As a white candle 
 
 In a holy place, 
 So is the beauty 
 
 Of an aged face. 
 ill 
 
As the spent radiance 
 
 Of the winter sun, 
 So is a woman 
 
 With her travail done, 
 
 Her brood gone from her, 
 
 And her thoughts as still 
 As the waters 
 Under a ruined mill. 
 
 JOSEPH CAMPBELL 
 (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil) 
 
 OUT OF THE DEEP 
 
 AT the hour when the stars from the eastern spaces are peering, 
 I stood on the cliffs that look on the sea, and strode 
 
 Alone and laughing with pride in the squall's careering 
 To feel my blood leap up at the tempest's goad. 
 
 At the base of the cliffs there was thunder of waves defeated; 
 
 I measured the spaces of western sky whereon 
 A sunbeam flamed farewell as the sun retreated 
 
 And over the waters its waning glory shone. 
 
 I leant by a rocky wall smooth-hewn and salted 
 
 By the immemorial sprays of the endless tide, 
 Like a cross on the brink of a lonely pit, exalted 
 
 I clasped all space as I held my arms out wide. 
 
 112 
 
And my full heart beat with the heart of the world's wide bosom, 
 The sea's salt out of the sea my strong veins drew; 
 
 I felt my body within me grow quick and blossom 
 With seed of stars that the winnowing night let through. 
 
 I wanted to moan more loud than the ocean thunders, 
 
 To breathe out my being in air like the tempest wrack; 
 And, death o'er-leapt, feel the sacred ardour that sunders 
 The soul from self that again unto God goes back. 
 
 CHARLES GUERIN 
 (Translated by Wilfred Thorky) 
 
 THE JOURNEY 
 
 WHAT matter where the Apple grows? 
 True heroes never count the miles. 
 The journey leads to where it leads 
 Sargasso or the Western Isles. 
 
 No one place holds the dreams of all. 
 Earth wears a multi-colored robe, 
 And there are new Hesperides 
 In every corner of the globe. 
 
 Some find the fruit like Hercules 
 For such the moon and sun may stop; 
 Yet never doubt that Sisyphus 
 Achieved at last the mountain top. 
 
 SCUDDER MlDDLETON 
 113 
 
LIVE THY LIFE 
 
 LIVE thy life gallantly and undismayed: 
 Whatever harms may hide within the shade, 
 Be thou of fear, my spirit! more afraid. 
 
 In earthly pathways evil springeth rife; 
 
 But dread not thou, too much, or pain or strife 
 
 That plunge thee to the greater depths of life! 
 
 What though the storm-cloud holds the bolt that sears? 
 The eagle of the crag, that nothing fears, 
 Still, still is young after an hundred years! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 THE SUPERMAN 
 
 HE will come; 
 
 I know not when, or how; 
 
 But he will walk breast-high with God, stepping among the stars. 
 
 Clothed in light and crowned with glory he will stride down the 
 
 Milky Way, 
 Creating with a thought, building with a word. 
 
 A hundred million ages it may be until he comes; what does it 
 matter? 
 
 Consider the deliberate stars how eternity waits their fulfil 
 ments. 
 
 114 
 
A hundred million ages, and yet, sometimes, 
 
 Here and now, in these small, primeval days in this dull 
 gloaming of creation's dawn 
 
 Here and now, sometimes, there crackles out a tiny shimmer 
 ing spark, 
 
 Some hint in our blind, protoplasmic lives, 
 
 Of that far, infinite torch 
 
 Whose ray shall one day touch the utmost reaches of space 
 
 Where life is born. 
 
 One that has made brotherhood with the eagle and the 
 
 hawk; 
 
 One that has made voices speak across the emptiness; 
 One that has laid cheer and comfort to the tired heart 
 These and a thousand others are the prophecy: 
 These tell of the day 
 When the poor expedient of birth and the sorry trouble of 
 
 dying have been dismissed, 
 
 And all the sad adventures of the body are long forgot. 
 Walking as angels walk, but greater than the angels, 
 He that will come will know not space nor time, nor any 
 
 limitation, 
 But will step across the sky, infinite, supreme one with 
 
 God. 
 
 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE 
 
 115 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 To face only the sky and forget the land, 
 Oh, to become a rider of the winds! 
 
 What a joy to find a greater song amid the clouds! 
 
 At eve, 
 
 By a grass-made hut, 
 
 The winds pass on, 
 
 Saying something to the rice-plant leaves. 
 
 I am knocking at the door of Life, 
 Is nobody in? 
 
 The voice falls like a dream, 
 Across the light of forgetfulness. 
 
 Eternity rolled in love, 
 
 Bids the visible world to sing. 
 
 Is there anything new under the sun? 
 
 Certainly there is. 
 
 See how a bird flies, how flowers smile! 
 
 YOKE NOGUCHI 
 
 116 
 
A FLEMISH MADONNA 
 
 HERE is no golden-crowned, celestial queen 
 Such as Angelico would fitly paint, 
 With pink-white cheek and haloed smile serene, 
 Enringed by many a cherub, many a saint. 
 This is a peasant woman worn by toil, 
 Her cheeks are hollow as with child-bed's trace; 
 A poor, plain creature of the common soil, 
 Yet wearing godhead on her earnest face. 
 Well have you wrought, good painter, that could show 
 So pure a spirit in so rude a shrine. 
 The dullest soul that looks on this will know 
 That motherhood has loveliness divine. 
 What greater power than this has brush or pen: 
 To bring the thought of God to simple men? 
 
 CHARLES WHARTON STORK 
 
 BROTHERHOOD 
 
 IF you want to find your brothers, find yourself . . . 
 You are not a person; you are a race . 
 
 What we see of you is a ray of light emanating from the hidden 
 
 skies within you . . . 
 In those skies humanity dwells . . . 
 Enter them; find your brothers . . . 
 
 117 
 
You shall find infinite love: 
 
 You shall be all you see: 
 
 Communion with the grass and the sea-waves shall be no harder 
 
 than with human beings . . . 
 St. Francis knew this: preaching to the birds. 
 
 Not alone in division of food and comfort, 
 
 Not alone in bare Justice (long needed, the unescapable duty of 
 
 our age) 
 Not in these only shall Brotherhood come . . . 
 
 No, not until you go the ancient way; 
 
 Way of Buddha, Jesus and Isaiah, 
 
 The long long journey farther than sun from earth, 
 
 (So near, such heavens away) to your own Soul, 
 
 Shall dawn benign Brotherhood. 
 
 JAMES OPPENHEIM 
 
 WHEN PETER JACKSON PREACHED 
 IN THE OLD CHURCH 
 
 To be sung to the tune of the old Negro Spiritual, 
 " Every time I feel the spirit moving in my heart I 'II pray" 
 
 PETER JACKSON was a-preaching 
 And the house was still as snow. 
 He whispered of repentance 
 And the lights were dim and low 
 And were almost out 
 When he gave the first shout: 
 
 118 
 
" Arise, arise, 
 
 Cry out your eyes." 
 
 And we mourned all our terrible sins away. 
 
 Clean, clean away. 
 
 Then we marched around, around, 
 
 And sang with a wonderful sound: 
 
 "Every time I feel the spirit moving in my 
 
 heart I '11 pray. 
 Every time I feel the spirit moving in my 
 
 heart I'll pray." 
 And we fell by the altar 
 And fell by the aisle, 
 And found our Savior 
 In just a little while, 
 
 We all found Jesus at the break of the day, 
 We all found Jesus at the break of the day. 
 Blessed Jesus, 
 
 Blessed Jesus. 
 
 VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 "AS WHEN SAINT FRANCIS WALKED THE WAYS 
 OF EARTH" 
 
 As when Saint Francis walked the ways of earth 
 And preached the simple beauty of God's word, 
 
 Angel of Love to man and flower and bird 
 Alike, so to the long, self-fostered dearth 
 
 119 
 
Within my spirit, from your soul to mine, 
 
 As the cool greenness in the heart of rain 
 Quenches the thirst of meadows parched with pain, 
 
 Came on strong wings of faith a breath divine. 
 Pilgrim of Beauty, I who sought alone 
 
 In the chill hearts of stars, and found not grace, 
 Knew at your word that I could still atone 
 
 Beheld through crumbling mists of right and wrong, 
 Lifted before the Silence of His face, 
 
 The Grail of Beauty and the Wine of Song. 
 
 JAMES L. McLANE, JR. 
 
 THE BIRDS 
 
 WITHIN mankind's duration, so they say, 
 
 Krephren and Ninus lived but yesterday. 
 
 Asia had no name till man was old 
 
 And long had learned the use of iron and gold; 
 
 And ons had passed, when the first corn was planted, 
 
 Since first the use of syllables was granted. 
 
 Men were on earth while climates slowly swung, 
 Fanning wide zones to heat and cold, and long 
 Subsidence turned great continents to sea, 
 And seas dried up, dried up interminably, 
 Age after age; enormous seas were dried 
 Amid wastes of land. And the last monsters died. 
 120 
 
Earth wore another face. since that prime 
 Man with how many works has sprinkled time! 
 Hammering, hewing, digging tunnels, roads; 
 Building ships, temples, multiform abodes. 
 How, for his body's appetites, his toils 
 Have conquered all earth's products, all her soils; 
 And in what thousand thousand shapes of art 
 He has tried to find a language for his heart! 
 
 Never at rest, never content or tired: 
 
 Insatiate wanderer, marvellously fired, 
 
 Most grandly piling and piling into the air 
 
 Stones that will topple or arch he knows not where. 
 
 And yet did I, this spring, think it more strange, 
 
 More grand, more full of awe, than all that change, 
 
 And lovely and sweet and touching unto tears, 
 
 That through man's chronicled and unchronicled years, 
 
 And even into that unguessable beyond 
 
 The water-hen has nested by a pond, 
 
 Weaving dry flags into a beaten floor, 
 
 The one sure product of her only lore. 
 
 Low on a ledge above the shadowed water 
 
 Then, when she heard no men, as nature taught her, 
 
 Plashing around with busy scarlet bill 
 
 She built that nest, her nest, and builds it still. 
 
 121 
 
O let your strong imagination turn 
 
 The great wheel backward, until Troy unburn, 
 
 And then unbuild, and seven Troys below 
 
 Rise out of death, and dwindle, and outflow, 
 
 Till all have passed, and none has yet been there: 
 
 Back, ever back. Our birds still crossed the air; 
 
 Beyond our myriad changing generations 
 
 Still built, unchanged, their known inhabitations. 
 
 A million years before Atlantis was 
 
 Our lark sprang from some hollow in the grass, 
 
 Some old soft hoof-print in a tussock's shade; 
 
 And the wood-pigeon's smooth snow-white eggs were 
 
 laid, 
 
 High amid green pine's sunset-coloured shafts, 
 And rooks their villages of twiggy rafts 
 Set on the tops of elms, where elms grew then, 
 And still the thumbling tit and perky wren 
 Popped through the tiny doors of cosy balls 
 And the blackbird lined with moss his high-built walls; 
 A round mud cottage held the thrush's young, 
 And straws from the untidy sparrow's hung. 
 And, skimming forktailed in the evening air, 
 When man first was were not the martens there? 
 Did not those birds some human shelter crave, 
 And stow beneath the cornice of his cave 
 Their dry tight cups of clay? And from each door 
 Peeped on a morning wiseheads three or four. 
 122 
 
Yes, daw and owl, curlew and crested hern, 
 Kingfisher, mallard, water-rail and tern, 
 Chaffinch and greenfinch, wagtail, stonechat, ruff, 
 Pied warbler, robin, fly-catcher and chough, 
 Missel-thrush, magpie, sparrow-hawk and jay, 
 Built, those far ages gone, in this year's way. 
 And the first man who walked the cliffs of Rome, 
 As I this year, looked down and saw the same 
 Blotches of rusty red on ledge and cleft 
 With grey-green spots on them, while right and left 
 A dizzying tangle of gulls were floating and flying, 
 Wheeling and crossing and darting, crying and crying, 
 Circling and crying, over and over and over, 
 Crying with swoop and hover and fall and recover. 
 And below on a rock against the grey sea fretted, 
 Pipe-necked and stationary and silhouetted, 
 Cormorants stood in a wise, black, equal row 
 Above the nests and long blue eggs we know. 
 
 O delicate chain over all the ages stretched, 
 O dumb tradition from what far darkness fetched: 
 Each little architect with its one design 
 Perpetual, fixed and right in stuff and line, 
 Each little ministrant who knows one thing, 
 One learned rite to celebrate the spring. 
 Whatever alters else on sea and shore, 
 These are unchanging: man must still explore. 
 
 J. C. SQUIRE 
 
 123 
 
TO THE MODERN MAN 
 
 FROM mysteries of the Past 
 
 The Future is prophesied. 
 The Actual comes and goes 
 
 Like shadows on a tide. 
 
 Realities come and go 
 
 Like shadows on a pool, 
 The leaves are for the wise man, 
 
 The shadows for the fool. 
 
 Out of the moment Now 
 
 Rises the god To-Be, 
 The light upon his brow 
 
 Is from eternity. 
 
 Leave dreaming to the fool 
 
 And take things as they are; 
 All things are in yourself, 
 
 Who stand upon a star 
 
 And look upon the stars, 
 
 And yearn with deepening breath 
 All things are in yourself 
 
 Love and Life and Death. 
 
 JOHN HALL WHEELOCK 
 
 124 
 
NEIGHBORS 
 
 LET me have faith, is what I pray, 
 
 And let my faith be strong! 
 But who am I, is what I say, 
 
 To think my neighbor wrong? 
 
 And though my neighbor may deny 
 
 True faith could be so slight, 
 May call me wrong, yet who am I 
 
 To think my neighbor right? 
 
 We may discover by and by 
 
 Making our wisdom double, 
 That he is right and so am I 
 
 And save a lot of trouble. 
 
 WITTER BYNNER 
 
 MAN-MAKING 
 
 WE all are blind until we see 
 
 That in the human plan 
 Nothing is worth the making if 
 
 It does not make the man. 
 
 Why build these cities glorious 
 
 If man unbuilded goes? 
 In vain we build the world, unless 
 
 The builder also grows. 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM 
 
 125 
 
A MAN 
 (FOB MY FATHER) 
 
 I LISTENED to them talking, talking, 
 
 That tableful of keen and clever folk, 
 
 Sputtering . . . followed by a pale and balking 
 
 Sort of flash whenever some one spoke; 
 
 Like musty fireworks or a pointless joke, 
 
 Followed by a pointless, musty laughter. Then 
 
 Without a pause, the sputtering once again . . . 
 
 The air was thick with epigrams and smoke; 
 
 And underneath it all 
 
 It seemed that furtive things began to crawl, 
 
 Hissing and striking in the dark, 
 
 Aiming at no particular mark, 
 
 And careless whom they hurt. 
 
 The petty jealousies, the smiling hates 
 
 Shot forth their venom as they passed the plates, 
 
 And hissed and struck again, aroused, alert; 
 
 Using their feeble smartness as a screen 
 
 To shield their poisonous stabbing, to divert 
 
 From what was cowardly and black and mean. 
 
 Then I thought of you, 
 Your gentle soul, 
 Your large and quiet kindness; 
 Ready to caution and console, 
 126 
 
And, with an almost blindness 
 
 To what was mean and low. 
 
 Baseness you never knew; 
 
 You could not think that falsehood was untrue, 
 
 Nor that deceit would ever dare betray you. 
 
 You even trusted treachery; and so, 
 
 Guileless, what guile or evil could dismay you? 
 
 You were for counsels rather than commands. 
 
 Your sweetness was your strength, your strength a sweetness 
 
 That drew all men, and made reluctant hands 
 
 Rest long upon your shoulder. 
 
 Firm, but never proud, 
 
 You walked your sixty years as through a crowd 
 
 Of friends who loved to feel your warmth, and who 
 
 Knowing that warmth, knew you. 
 
 Even the casual beholder 
 
 Could see your fresh and generous completeness, 
 
 Like dawn in a deep forest, growing and shining through. 
 
 Such faith has soothed and armed you. It has smiled 
 
 Frankly and unashamed at Death; and, like a child, 
 
 Swayed half by joy and half by reticence, 
 
 Walking beside its nurse, you walk with Life; 
 
 Protected by your smile and an immense 
 
 Security and simple confidence. 
 
 Hearing the talkers talk, I thought of you . . . 
 And it was like a great wind blowing 
 127 
 
Over confused and poisonous places. 
 
 It was like sterile spaces 
 
 Crowded with birds and grasses, soaked clear through 
 
 With sunlight, quiet and vast and clean. 
 
 And it was forests growing, 
 
 And it was black things turning green. 
 
 And it was laughter on a thousand faces . . . 
 
 It was, like victory rising from defeat, 
 
 The world made well again and strong and sweet. 
 
 Louis UNTERMEYER 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY FRIEND JOYCE KILMER 
 POET AND SOLDIER 
 
 I HEAR a thousand chimes, 
 I hear ten thousand chimes, 
 I hear a million chimes 
 In Heaven. 
 I see a thousand bells, 
 I see ten thousand bells, 
 I see a million bells 
 In Heaven. 
 
 Listen, friends and companions. 
 Through the deep heart, 
 Sweetly they toll. 
 128 
 
I hear the chimes 
 Of tomorrow ring, 
 The azure bells 
 Of eternal love . . . 
 I see the chimes 
 Of tomorrow swing: 
 On unseen ropes 
 They gleam above. 
 
 Rejoice, friends and companions. 
 Through the deep heart 
 Sweetly they toll. 
 
 They shake the sky, 
 They blaze and sing. 
 They fill the air 
 Like larks a-wing, 
 Like storm-clouds 
 Turned to blue-bell flowers. 
 Like Spring gone mad, 
 Like stars in showers. 
 
 Join the song, 
 Friends and companions. 
 Through the deep heart 
 Sweetly they toll. 
 
 129 
 
And some are near, 
 And touch my hand, 
 Small whispering blooms 
 From Beulah Land. 
 Giants afar 
 Still touch the sky, 
 Still give their giant 
 Battle-cry. 
 
 Join hands, friends and companions. 
 Through the deep heart 
 Sweetly they toll. 
 
 And every bell 
 
 Is voice and breath 
 
 Of a spirit 
 
 Who has conquered death, 
 
 In this great war 
 
 Has given all, 
 
 Like Kilmer 
 
 Heard the hero-call. 
 
 Join hands, 
 
 Poets, 
 
 Friends, 
 
 Companions. 
 
 Through the deep heart 
 
 Sweetly they toll! 
 
 VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 130 
 
AFTER GRIEVING 
 
 WHEN I was young I was so sad! 
 
 I was so sad! I did not know 
 Why any living thing was glad 
 When one must some day sorrow so. 
 But now when grief has come to me 
 My heart is like a bird set free. 
 
 I always knew that it would come; 
 
 I always felt it waiting there; 
 Its shadow kept my glad voice dumb 
 And crushed my gay soul with despair. 
 But now that I have lived with grief 
 I feel an exquisite relief. 
 
 Athletes who know their proven strength, 
 Ships that have shamed the hurricane: 
 These are my brothers, and at length 
 I shall come back to joy again. 
 However hard my life may be 
 I know it shall not conquer me. 
 
 ALINE KILMER 
 
 TO THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 DEAR little house, dear shabby street, 
 Dear books and beds and food to eat ! 
 How feeble words are to express 
 The facets of your tenderness. 
 131 
 
How white the sun comes through the pane! 
 In tinkling music drips the rain! 
 How burning bright the furnace glows! 
 What paths to shovel when it snows! 
 
 dearly loved Long Island trains! 
 O well remembered joys and pains. 
 How near the housetops Beauty leans 
 Along that little street in Queens! 
 
 Let these poor rhymes abide for proof 
 Joy dwells beneath a humble roof; 
 Heaven is not built of country seats 
 But little queer suburban streets! 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 
 
 THE SACRAMENT OF FIRE 
 
 KNEEL always when you light a fire! 
 Kneel reverently, and thankful be 
 For God's unfailing charity, 
 And on the ascending flame inspire 
 A little prayer, that shall upbear 
 The incense of your thankfulness 
 For this sweet grace 
 Of warmth and light! 
 132 
 
For here again is sacrifice 
 For your delight. 
 
 Within the wood, 
 
 That lived a joyous life 
 
 Through sunny days and rainy days 
 
 And winter storms and strife; 
 
 Within the peat, 
 
 That drank the sweet, 
 
 The moorland sweet 
 
 Of bracken, whin, and sweet bell-heather, 
 
 And knew the joy of gold gorse feather 
 
 Flaming like Love in wintriest weather, 
 
 While snug below, in sun and snow, 
 
 It heard the beat of the padding feet 
 
 Of foal and dam, and ewe and lamb, 
 
 And the stamp of old bell-wether; 
 
 Within the coal, 
 
 Where forests lie entombed, 
 
 Oak, elm, and chestnut, beech, and red pine bole; 
 
 God shrined His sunshine, and enwombed 
 
 For you these stores of light and heat, 
 
 Your life-joys to complete. 
 
 These all have died that you might live; 
 
 Yours now the high prerogative 
 
 To loose their long captivities, 
 
 133 
 
And through these new activities 
 
 A wider life to give. 
 
 Kneel always when you light a fire! 
 
 Kneel reverently, 
 
 And grateful be 
 
 For God's unfailing charity! 
 
 JOHN OXENHAM 
 
 SONNET 
 
 LET me be glad, let me be glad; arise 
 My heart, and praise the Giver of good things. 
 His angel came, with healing on his wings, 
 He came and laid his hand upon my eyes, 
 And there was benediction in the skies, 
 And wondrous pharmacies in mountain springs, 
 And psalms of praise in all their murmurings, 
 And in the mountains help. Therefore arise 
 My heart, and praise the Lord of all delight; 
 The Lord of all delight who gave thee this, 
 The Lord who taught thee what His worship is; 
 And, when the magic hour has passed away, 
 Through the long watches of the silent night 
 Thou shalt remember what has been to-day. 
 
 SIR CECIL ARTHUR SPRING-RICE 
 
 134 
 
A BIRTHNIGHT CANDLE 
 
 A CANDLE, waiter! Thank you. No, 't is not 
 
 To light a cigarette. I wish its flame 
 
 For better use. A little nearer, please, 
 
 For if the guests should see, they'd wonder well, 
 
 But you do know that I have touched no wine 
 
 This hallowed night, this night the lad was born. 
 
 The brilliant banquet-hall of myriad lamps 
 Will not deny me this one little blaze 
 From all its dazzling wealth to celebrate 
 His natal festival. 
 
 Do you perchance, 
 
 Not have this custom, gargon, in old France, 
 Of lighting candles on a birthday cake, 
 And quenching then each flame with some fond wish? 
 Well, I have said that whereso'er this night 
 O'ertook me exiled from his happy face, 
 I 'd blow a candle out with such desire 
 As could have speech but in a lambent flame 
 Piercing the mystery of space about. 
 The night has found me guest at this high feast, 
 Companioned of famed men, but with my thought 
 Ever of him and her who gave him birth. 
 .135 
 
And here's the candle! For some holy rite 
 
 'T was doubtless fashioned, and by hands that moved 
 
 In rhythm with some sweet song, molding the wax 
 
 Distilled by bees that roamed through flowered fields 
 
 In drowsy summer afternoons, to store 
 
 The precious fires from out the skies, and then 
 
 To give them perfume of the fragrant earth. 
 
 There! It has gone, and never light since God 
 Divided day from dark has borne a prayer 
 More ardent than this wish for him whose name 
 I, bearing, vow anew to keep from stain. 
 
 Put back the candle in its golden cup. 
 No, thank you, waiter; no liqueur for me. 
 But just a little coffee. Yes, two lumps. 
 (The smoke is getting in my eyes.) 
 
 That's all. 
 
 JOHN FINLET 
 
 THE HOME-LAND 
 
 IT'S a certain voice, it's the sound 
 Of a bell in a distant tower, 
 It's sunlight on the ground 
 Through trees or after a shower, 
 136 
 
It's a certain roof under a certain sky, 
 
 The fragrance of the path of a certain street, 
 
 A steeple with a farm kneeling nearby, 
 
 The feeling of the grass under the feet, 
 
 The flash of a look, the faltering of a hand, 
 
 A something from the past too quick to understand, 
 
 It's what one feels and cannot say 
 
 Even when one sings, 
 
 Though that's the nearest way 
 
 It's all those things. 
 
 It's what one tastes and sees, 
 
 It's what one breathes and hears, 
 
 It's a smoke, it's melodies, 
 
 Bright leaves, a wind that veers, 
 
 The common sights and sounds, 
 
 Dogs barking, people greeting, 
 
 A mug of ale that pounds and pounds 
 
 A table at some meeting, 
 
 It 's what one feels and cannot say 
 
 Even when one sings, 
 
 Though that's the nearest way 
 
 It's all those things. 
 
 It's the body's very best, 
 It's the heart-beat in the side 
 For children at the breast, 
 It's remembering those who died, 
 137 
 
It's the ardor of the way, 
 
 It's the savor of the song, 
 
 It's the dream, aching to stay, 
 
 And the passion, to belong, 
 
 The sower's will to reap, 
 
 The lover's will to keep, 
 
 It's what one feels and cannot say 
 
 Even when one sings, 
 
 Though that 's the nearest way 
 
 It's all those things. 
 
 WITTER BYNNEB 
 (From the French of Smile Cammaerts) 
 
 NOSTALGIA 
 
 GIVE me my old coat again 
 That I have worn through many days of rain, 
 Whose hue is varied, ripened by the sun 
 To subtle patterns; give me one 
 Of my old books to read by firelight half asleep, 
 Whose effaced memories leave gaps of deep 
 Conjecture over thoughts that lie in rest 
 Beneath their placid linen. Let the blest 
 White hands of silence touch me, and the white 
 Cool hands of rivers soothing through the night 
 Into the hands of tranced sleepers hands 
 Reminiscent, binding me with scented bands. 
 138 
 
The wake of clouds shall touch me whose pale ships 
 
 Pass suavely over; let the whispering lips 
 
 Of twilight tell me of dead loves and legend glories, 
 
 And let these flames unscroll their golden stories 
 
 And fold them with the pinch of dusty fingers. 
 
 Ah, in this darkness many a sunset lingers, 
 
 And many a dream within this dozing, 
 
 Things slow revealed and dimly closing. 
 
 Give me my old town again 
 
 That I have watched through ghostly scarvesiof rain, 
 
 Through fringes of pale lights, and let me see 
 
 Her streets that wound into my brain so stealthily 
 
 That I hear yet the chant of them that roars 
 
 Along their blinded spectral corridors. 
 
 Give my old joy and wonder back again, 
 
 The adolescent loveliness of pain; 
 
 But let me touch them now, and know and bless 
 
 With this new love and dawning tenderness. 
 
 IBIS TREE 
 
 ALMS 
 
 I MET Poor Sorrow on the way 
 As I came down the years; 
 
 I gave him everything I had 
 
 And looked at him through tears. 
 139 
 
" But Sorrow, give me here again 
 
 Some little sign to show; 
 For I have given all I own; 
 
 Yet have I far to go." 
 
 Then Sorrow charmed my eyes for me 
 
 And hallowed them thus far: 
 " Look deep enough in every dark, 
 
 And you shall see the star." 
 
 JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODT 
 
 LYRICAL EPIGRAMS 
 
 MY little old dog: 
 A heart-beat 
 At my feet. 
 
 SPRING 
 
 A Winter wind, 
 Primroses, 
 And the new furrow. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 The silence of midnight, 
 
 A dying fire, 
 
 And the best unsaid. . . . 
 
 EDITH WHARTON 
 
 140 
 
DRIFTWOOD 
 
 LIFE gave me these 
 
 The beauty that can only branch in trees 
 
 Who are content, knowing the roots' securities 
 
 The strength to stand up straight and bear the wings 
 
 Of a brave ship on her adventurings 
 
 The bitterness of being broken, being tossed 
 
 And driven on the waters and the winds and lost 
 
 In desolation, mist and stinging foam, 
 
 And being beaten back at last to home. 
 
 Now Love has kindled me 
 Strange that my beauty of a dear, green tree 
 Should vanish into smoke and memory, 
 Strange that the strength, magnificently mine, 
 Should fall before the flame without a sign 
 But oh most strange that bitterness should be 
 Drawn up in color after color out of me! 
 
 WINIFRED WELLES 
 
 CANDLE-LIGHTING SONG 
 
 I HAVE three candles in my room 
 Slender and long and white, 
 Their tips are buds of fire bloom 
 That blossom every night. 
 141 
 
And one I light for memory, 
 All steady as a star; 
 And one burns clear for days to be, 
 And one for days that are. 
 
 I have three candles in my room 
 Slender and tall and fair; 
 And every one a fire bloom, 
 And every one a prayer. 
 
 ARTHUR KETCHUM 
 
 TO BROWNING, THE MUSIC MASTER 
 
 OH, I once was a lad 
 
 Of a single thought, 
 
 Melody-mad, 
 
 With ears for nought 
 
 But the miracles Bach and Beethoven wrought, 
 
 When suddenly you, 
 
 Out of the blue, 
 
 With your formal old master Galuppi, dropped, 
 
 And grim-eyed Hugues 
 
 Of the mountainous fugues, 
 
 And the rampired walls of the marvelous Abt, 
 
 To build me, from Music's far-off strand, 
 
 A way to a humaner, dearer shore 
 
 A bridge to poetry-land. 
 
 142 
 
Then to my soul I swore: 
 'If poets may win such store 
 Of music's own highland air, 
 Yet abide in the common round, 
 Transmuting man's dusty ground 
 To gems for the world to wear 
 Theirs too is a priceless art, 
 Is a thing that I fain would share 
 A thing that is near to my heart!" 
 
 Thus were a young soul's ears unstopped 
 
 By Galuppi and Hugues and the marvelous Abt, 
 
 Who bridged a way for ignorant feet 
 
 And parted wide for wondering eyes 
 
 The port of a second paradise; 
 
 Showing how right it is, and meet 
 
 That a Schubert's voice may never repeat, 
 
 With the self-same thought and the self-same beat, 
 
 Measures a Milton's lips have dropped; 
 
 That music waxes where poesy wanes, 
 
 And, with thirsty lips to poesy's veins, 
 
 Grows by her want, by her wasting, gains. 
 
 For music, the protean, is this, and this: 
 The rainbow's shimmer of love's first bliss, 
 A despairing gesture, a dream-like whim, 
 The down on the plumes of the Cherubim, 
 143 
 
The body of Ariel, lissom and fresh 
 
 Too subtle for poesy's golden mesh 
 
 An exquisite, evanescent shape 
 
 That "breaks through language" to escape 
 
 To the bourne of that country, brighter, vaster, 
 
 Where now you are singing, dear Music Master. 
 
 ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLEB 
 
 MOONLIGHT IN THE BIRCH WOOD 
 
 ALONG the path where lights and shadows stream 
 The birches in their silver armour gleam 
 Each tree as on parade, so straight and tall; 
 The moon with magic fire is prodigal, 
 And strangely unfamiliar all things grow. 
 
 Most spirit-like the wood is, with that shade 
 Of sadness such as ever doth pervade 
 All loveliest things; while a soft purple haze 
 Lends mystery to little hidden ways 
 Portalled with laurel leaves that gleam like snow. 
 
 So deep it is, the stillness of the wood, 
 The soul in perfect peace may dream or brood 
 On all the fancies that could once beguile 
 And slip again, beneath the moon's pale smile, 
 Into some faerie world of long ago. 
 
 ANTOINETTE DECOUBSEY PATTEBSON 
 
 144 
 
"THE FAIRIES HAVE NEVER A PENNY 
 TO SPEND" 
 
 THE Fairies have never a penny to spend, 
 
 They have n't a thing put by, 
 
 But theirs is the dower of bird and of flower 
 
 And theirs are the earth and the sky. 
 
 And though you should live in a palace of gold 
 
 Or sleep in a dried-up ditch, 
 
 You could never be poor as the fairies are, 
 
 And never as rich. 
 
 Since ever and ever the world began 
 
 They have danced like a ribbon of flame, 
 
 They have sung their song through the centuries long 
 
 And yet it is never the same. 
 
 And though you be foolish or though you be wise, 
 
 With hair of silver or gold, 
 
 You could never be young as the fairies are, 
 
 And never as old. 
 
 ROSE FYLEMAN 
 
 THE LOST PLAYMATE 
 
 ALL in the pleasant afternoon 
 I saw a pretty baby moon, 
 And oh, I loved her silver shine! 
 She was a little friend of mine. 
 
 145 
 
Through rainy days and sunny weather 
 I thought we two should play together; 
 But, then, alas! I did not know 
 How fast a little moon can grow. 
 
 ,* 
 And now when I go out to play 
 
 I cannot find the moon all day; 
 But she has grown so big and bright, 
 They let her keep awake at night! 
 
 Though I may not sit up to see, 
 In bed she comes and shines at me; 
 But oh! I miss the little moon 
 Who played there in the afternoon. 
 
 ABBIE FARWELL BROWN 
 
 ALONE 
 
 WHITE daisies are down in the meadow, 
 And queer little beetles and things, 
 
 And sometimes nice rabbits and field-mice 
 And black-birds with red on their wings. 
 
 I want to explore all alone, 
 
 With nobody spying around, 
 All alone, all alone, all alone! 
 
 It has such a wonderful sound. 
 146 
 
Just I on the dusty town road, 
 With my bank money safe in my purse. 
 
 Do you think I shall ever grow up? 
 Or shall I just always have nurse? 
 
 JOHN CHIPMAN FARRAR 
 
 THERE WAS A MOON, THERE WAS A STAR 
 
 THERE was a moon, there was a star, 
 
 There was a path, a wood, 
 A silent voice, a speechless word, 
 
 Well heard and understood. 
 
 SARAH N. CLEGHOBN 
 
 ALDEBARAN AT DUSK 
 
 THOU art the star for which all evening waits 
 
 O star of peace, come tenderly and soon! 
 
 Nor heed the drowsy and enchanted moon, 
 Who dreams in silver at the eastern gates 
 Ere yet she brim with light the blue estates 
 
 Abandoned by the eagles of the noon. 
 
 But shine thou swiftly on the darkling dune 
 And woodlands where the twilight hesitates. 
 
 Above that wide and ruby lake to-West 
 Wherein the sunset waits reluctantly, 
 Stir silently the purple wings of Night. 
 147 
 
She stands afar, upholding to her breast, 
 As mighty murmurs reach her from the sea, 
 Thy lone and everlasting rose of light. 
 
 GEORGE STEELING 
 
 A ROADSIDE SINGER 
 
 SOME who love song may only heed the lark; 
 
 They do not hark 
 The plaint of any less compelling flight 
 
 Within their sight, 
 Yet weary ones, plodding along their way 
 
 Through the tired day, 
 Hear the near notes, and pause the while 
 
 To list, and smile. 
 
 Some singers cannot soar to sunlit heights; 
 
 More lowly flights 
 Are theirs, along the by-ways bringing 
 
 Joy by their singing. 
 Thus may my song not seek the distant sky 
 
 So far and high, 
 But rather keep the hedges quiet side 
 
 And there abide. 
 
 When tired mothers and children pass along, 
 Hearing my song, 
 148 
 
May I, rejoicing, keep my humble flight, 
 
 Not beyond sight, 
 But by the quiet roadside gladly dwelling, 
 
 My story telling 
 In happy song and trilling roundelay 
 
 To cheer the way. 
 
 So may I make the skies seem nearer, bluer; 
 
 Hearts lighter, truer, 
 And all the pathway sweeter and less long, 
 
 Just for my song. 
 
 FREDERIC A. WHITING 
 
 THE LITTLE ROADS 
 
 THE great roads are all grown over 
 
 That seemed so firm and white. 
 The deep black forests have covered them. 
 
 How should I walk aright? 
 How should I thread these tangled mazes, 
 
 Or grope to that far off light? 
 I stumble round the thickets, and they turn me 
 
 Back to the thickets and the night. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word, 
 (0, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!) 
 
 There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins, 
 The old lost April-coloured lane, 
 149 
 
That leads me from myself; for at a whisper, 
 Where the strong limbs thrust in vain, 
 
 At a breath, if my heart help another heart, 
 The path shines out for me again! 
 
 A thin thread, a rambling lane for lovers 
 
 To the light of the world's one May, 
 Where the white dropping flakes may wet our faces 
 
 As we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray: 
 O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads, 
 
 Or down upon our knees and pray 
 That Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes, 
 
 And lead us by a wandering way. 
 
 ALFRED NOTES 
 
 INVOCATION 
 
 COMRADE of solitude, Spirit of Joy, 
 Making the dreamer a light-hearted boy; 
 Come to me often, dwell with me long, 
 Charm me with visions, cheer me with song! 
 
 Romp where the green-flowing meadows upfling 
 Billows a-flower with the foam of the spring! 
 Flit in the breath of the scent-laden air, 
 Blend with the manifold melody there! 
 150 
 
Fill the sweet hush of the midsummer glade, 
 Pave all the ocean with turquoise and jade, 
 Breast the gray mountain close at my side, 
 Spread out the world for me wondrous and wide! 
 
 Deepen the splendor of leaves red and gold, 
 Pour all the treasure my bosom can hold! 
 Comfort me wistfully, tinge the soft west, 
 Show me that death's but a sinking to rest! 
 
 Spur me with winter, spare not the chill, 
 Sing in the blood though all else may be still. 
 Swathe in moon-magic the dream-world of snow! 
 Laugh o'er the logs while I bask in their glow! 
 
 Comrade of solitude, Spirit of Joy, 
 Make of me ever a glad-hearted boy! 
 Dwell in me, thrill in me all my life long, 
 Be thou the music and words of my song! 
 
 CHARLES WHARTON STORK 
 
 THE LITTLE SHEPHERD'S SONG 
 (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) 
 
 THE leaves, the little birds, and I, 
 The fleece clouds and the sweet, sweet sky, 
 The pages singing as they ride 
 Down there, down there where the river is wide 
 151 
 
Heigh-ho, what a day! What a lovely day! 
 Even too lovely to hop and play 
 With my sheep, 
 
 Or sleep 
 In the sun I 
 
 And so I lie in the deep, deep grass 
 And watch the pages as they pass, 
 And sing to them as they to me 
 Till they turn the bend by the poplar tree. 
 And then then, I sing right on 
 To the leaves and the lambs and myself alone! 
 For I think there must be 
 Inside of me 
 A bird! 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 CHOPIN PRELUDE 
 
 HUSH! Did you hear 
 The cry of a flute? 
 
 The fall of a fairy tear 
 On a fairy lute? 
 
 Hush! Did you mark 
 Like a leaping spray 
 
 The flash of a silver lark 
 In the silver day? 
 152 
 
Hush! Did you find 
 
 In the wood's deep dream 
 The magic of all the wind 
 
 By a magic stream? 
 
 Hush! Did you hear 
 
 The cry of a flute! 
 The fall of a fairy tear 
 
 On a fairy lute? 
 
 HON. ELEANOUR NORTON 
 
 "TELL ME YOUR DREAM" 
 
 How as a child I used to tease, 
 
 "Tell me your dream I will tell mine, too!" 
 They told me whatever they thought would please, 
 
 And I waited to see the omen come true. 
 
 My childhood fancy I still pursue, 
 Though in other wise, and on each I call 
 
 "Tell me your dream!" . . . But your dream is you, 
 We are our dreams and the Dream is all. 
 
 Do not deride me, do not deny, 
 
 And point me not to the things you have done, 
 But tell me your dream! Have you held thereby 
 
 The clue that was with your destiny spun, 
 153 
 
Walked with it ever, through shadow and sun? 
 Does the vision remain? no ill shall befall; 
 
 Lost? there is nothing worth while to be won! 
 We are our dreams and the Dream is all. 
 
 Oh, why to memorial places repair, 
 
 Where the lamps in the shrines perpetually burn? 
 Your hero, your saint, or your sage is not there: 
 
 Born of his dream, his deeds can but earn 
 
 That unto a dream in the end they return! 
 For this, is the trophy, the wreath, on the wall; 
 
 And for this is your worship, that well ye may learn 
 We are our dreams and the Dream is all. 
 
 Fathers of Men, ye will leave your heirs poor, 
 And the treasures ye heap shall be mean and small, 
 
 If nothing ye leave of the dreams that endure. . . . 
 We are our dreams and the Dream is aD. 
 
 EDITH M. THOMAS 
 
 IDYL 
 
 I KNOW a forest, stilly-deep, 
 
 As old as Age, as young as Youth, - 
 
 (Hush, God and it are fast asleep!) 
 154 
 
There crystal rivers tell the truth 
 To asking trees, 
 
 And birds make musical bouquets, 
 Where shadows go their patterned ways. 
 
 From fingers of the breeze . . . 
 
 We'll hide us in the green-voiced dell 
 And waken God, and be made well 
 
 (Oh, never tell, Oh, never tell . . .) 
 
 AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL 
 
 THE GREAT DIVIDE 
 
 WHEN I drift out on the Silver Sea, 
 
 O may it be 
 
 A blue night 
 
 With a white moon 
 
 And a sprinkling of stars in the cedar tree; 
 
 And the silence of God, 
 
 And the low call 
 
 Of a lone bird, 
 
 When I drift out on the Silver Sea. 
 
 LEW SAEETT 
 
 155 
 
THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE 
 
 THE trees are in their autumn beauty, 
 
 The woodland paths are dry, 
 
 Under the October twilight the water 
 
 Mirrors a still sky; 
 
 Upon the brimming water among the stones 
 
 Are nine and fifty swans. 
 
 The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me 
 
 Since I first made my count; 
 
 I saw, before I had well finished, 
 
 All suddenly mount 
 
 And scatter wheeling in great broken rings 
 
 Upon their clamorous wings. 
 
 I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, 
 
 And now my heart is sore. 
 
 All 's changed since I, hearing at twilight, 
 
 The first time on this shore, 
 
 The bell-beat of their wings above my head, 
 
 Trod with a lighter tread. 
 
 Unwearied still, lover by lover, 
 They paddle in the cold, 
 Companionable streams or climb the air; 
 Their hearts have not grown old; 
 156 
 
Passion or conquest, wander where they will, 
 Attend upon them still. 
 
 And now they drift on the still water 
 
 Mysterious, beautiful; 
 
 Among what rushes will they build, 
 
 By what lake's edge or pool 
 
 Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day 
 
 To find they have flown away? 
 
 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
 THE SUN-WORSHIPERS 
 
 THE trail is high whereon we ride, with all the world below to see, 
 The cleft of canyon, sweep of range and winter-white of lonely 
 
 peak; 
 Lean foothold on the mountain-side, and on, beyond, The 
 
 Mystery, 
 
 The unattained, the hidden land we may not find, but ever 
 seek. 
 
 Content were vain. Our discontent, divine, forever urges on 
 Through stress and danger, scorned or shared, though jour 
 ney's end be never won: 
 Say you our days are vainly spent whose eyes have looked upon. 
 
 the dawn 
 From high Chilao's morning crest, and bathed our faces in the 
 
 Sun? 
 
 157 
 
We worship not what men have made: no thing so small is our 
 
 desire. 
 The little words of men that die, the little thoughts of men that 
 
 dream, 
 Shall perish in their utterance: and build for these an altar 
 
 fire? 
 Our creed is written in the sky, our song in the eternal stream. 
 
 We journey on from star to star, nor shall we find a dwelling- 
 place, 
 
 Nor yet implore surcease from toil: to be and to adore, is all: 
 Beholding dimly from afar the glory of the Hidden Face, 
 Our worship ever our reward, the quest our golden coronal. 
 
 HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 
 
 TRAVEL 
 
 THE railroad track is miles away, 
 And the day is loud with voices speaking, 
 
 Yet there is n't a train goes by all day 
 But I hear its whistle shrieking. 
 
 All night there is n't a train goes by, 
 
 Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, 
 But I see its cinders red on the sky, 
 
 And hear its engine steaming. 
 158 
 
My heart is warm with the friends I make, 
 And better friends I'll not be knowing, 
 
 Yet there is n't a train I would n't take, 
 No matter where it 's going. 
 
 EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAT 
 
 JOHNNY APPLESEED 
 
 WHEN the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples 
 Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River, 
 I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander 
 From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing. 
 
 I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards, 
 Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted, 
 Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing, 
 Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke. 
 
 For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones 
 That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards 
 
 around here, 
 
 When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches, 
 And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river. 
 
 Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me: 
 My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side, 
 There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him 
 Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard. 
 
 159 
 
Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people 
 For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards 
 All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here, 
 Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois. 
 
 Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me: 
 I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here 
 For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter. 
 And few will know who planted, and none will understand. 
 
 I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber 
 Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley. 
 And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard. 
 How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me? 
 
 Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship, 
 Labor and laughter and gain in the late October. 
 Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy. 
 Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows! 
 
 Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen! 
 Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple. 
 Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising. 
 You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet. 
 
 No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter: 
 The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails, 
 Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever. 
 Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil. 
 
 160 
 
And after that is the fight : the foe curled up at the root, 
 The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms 
 Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty: 
 You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue! 
 
 And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen. 
 So many things love an apple as well as ourselves. 
 A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it: 
 Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen. 
 
 EDGAR LEE MASTERS 
 
 THE OULD APPLE WOMAN 
 
 WITH her basket of apples comes Nora McHugh, 
 
 Wid her candies an' cakes an' wan thing an' another, 
 But the best thing she brings to commind her to you 
 
 Is the smile in her eyes that no throuble can smother. 
 An' the wit that's at home on the tip of her tongue 
 
 Has a freshness unknown to her candy and cake; 
 Though her wares had been stale since ould Nora was young, 
 
 There is little complaint you'd be carin' to make. 
 Well I mind, on a day, I complained of a worm 
 
 That I found in an apple, near bitten in two, 
 "But suppose ye had bit it, an' where 'd be the harm? 
 
 For, shure, this is n't Friday," said Nora McHugh. 
 
 O Nora McHugh, you've the blarneyin' twist in you, 
 Where is the anger could drame o' resistin' you? 
 Faix, we'll be sp'ilin' you, 
 161 
 
Blind to the guile in you, 
 While there 's a smile in you, 
 Nora McHugh. 
 
 It was Mistress De Vere, that's so proud of her name, 
 
 Fell to boastin' wan day of her kin in the peerage 
 Though there 's some o' thim same, years ago whin they came 
 
 To this glorious land, was contint wid the steerage 
 An' she bragged of her ancistry, Norman an' Dane, 
 
 An' the like furrin ancients that's thought to be swell. 
 "Now, I hope," said ould Nora, "ye '11 not think me vain, 
 
 Fur it's little I care fur ancistry mesel'; 
 But wid all o' your pedigree, ma'am, I believe 
 
 'T is mesel' can go back a bit further than you, 
 Fur in me you perceive a descindant of Eve, 
 
 The first apple woman," said Nora McHugh. 
 
 O Nora McHugh, sich owdacious frivolity! 
 How can you dare to be jokin' the quality? 
 Still, we'll be sp'ilin' you, 
 Blind to the guile in you, 
 While there 's a smile in you, 
 Nora McHugh. 
 
 THOMAS AUGUSTINE DALY 
 
 162 
 
MISS LOO 
 
 WHEN thin-strewn memory I look through, 
 I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, 
 Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, 
 Her nose, her hair, her muffled words, 
 And how she would open her green eyes, 
 As if in some immense surprise, 
 Whenever as we sat at tea 
 She made some small remark to me. 
 
 'T is always drowsy summer when 
 
 From out the past she comes again; 
 
 The westering sunshine in a pool 
 
 Floats in her parlour still and cool; 
 
 While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, 
 
 As into piercing song it breaks; 
 
 Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar 
 
 Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar. 
 
 And I am sitting, dull and shy, 
 
 And she with gaze of vacancy, 
 
 And large hands folded on the tray, 
 Musing the afternoon away; 
 Her satin bosom heaving slow 
 With sighs that softly ebb and flow. 
 And her plain face in such dismay, 
 It seems unkind to look her way: 
 
 163 
 
Until all cheerful back will come 
 Her gentle gleaming spirit home: 
 And one would think that poor Miss Loo 
 Asked nothing else, if she had you. 
 
 WALTEB DE LA MAKB 
 
 "MY LIPS WOULD SING" 
 
 MY lips would sing a song for you, a soulful little song for you, 
 A plaintive little song for you, upon a summer's day; 
 But for the veiy life of me, the merry, merry life of me, 
 The laughter-loving life of me, I cannot but be gay. 
 
 For oh, the sun is shining, Dear, and who could be repining, 
 
 Dear, 
 
 And who would be unhappy, Dear, when all the world is young? 
 So I will hum a melody, a mirthful little melody, 
 A joyous little melody that never yet was sung. 
 
 And you shall hear of Fairyland, of Kings and Queens of Fairy 
 land, 
 
 Of men and maids of Fairyland, and Love shall be the theme, 
 
 And straight before your brimming eyes, a golden glint of Para 
 dise 
 
 Shall steal, My Dear, to still your sighs, and give you back your 
 dream. 
 
 164 
 
And you will taste of happiness, a tiny bit of happiness, 
 A wistful bit of happiness, upon a summer's day; 
 And just a little smile from you, a sunny little smile from you, 
 A trembly little smile from you shall be a poet's pay! 
 
 EDMUND LEAMY 
 
 MY LIFE IS A BOWL 
 
 MY life is a bowl which is mine to brim 
 
 With loveliness old and new, 
 So I fill its clay from stem to rim 
 
 With you, Dear Heart, with you! 
 
 My life is a pool so small it can hold 
 
 But a star and a patch of blue, 
 But the blue and the little lamp of gold 
 
 Are you, Dear Heart, are you! 
 
 My life is a homing bird that flies, 
 Through the starry dusk and dew, 
 
 Home to the heaven of your true eyes, 
 Home, Dear Heart, to you! 
 
 MAY RILEY SMITH 
 
 THE HOMING HEART 
 
 EACH day, dear love, my road leads far 
 From where you, home-contented, are. 
 My mood is kin to that unrest 
 Which sends the wild bird from its nest. 
 165 
 
But tho' I have a roaming heart, 
 God gave me too a homing heart, 
 How swift at dusk my paths run to 
 The lights of home, the arms of you! 
 
 DANIEL HENDERSON 
 
 THE STIRRUP-CUP 
 
 YOUR eyes and a thousand stars 
 
 Leap from the night to aid me; 
 I scale the impossible bars, 
 
 I laugh at a world that dismayed me. 
 
 Your voice and the thundering skies 
 
 Tremble and cease to appall me 
 Coward no longer, I rise 
 
 Spurred for what battles may call me. 
 
 Your eyes and my purpose grows strong; 
 
 Your lips and high passions complete me ... 
 For your love, it is armor and Song 
 
 And where is the thing to defeat me! 
 
 Louis UNTERMEYER 
 
 OBLIGATION 
 
 HOLD your apron wide 
 That I may pour gifts into it, 
 So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them 
 From falling to the ground. 
 166 
 
I would pour them upon you 
 And cover you, 
 For greatly do I feel this need 
 Of giving you something, 
 Even these poor things. 
 
 Dearest of my Heart! 
 
 AMY LOWELL 
 
 RANK 
 
 LOVE is no advocate of caste 
 No pompous prime, no royal drone, 
 
 Whose heart is fettered to a past, 
 Whose soul is not his own. 
 
 Love is a freeman, bent on bliss, 
 Who scatters incense where he goes 
 
 And bids the peasant sunbeams kiss 
 Alike the weed and rose. 
 
 RALPH M. THOMPSON 
 
 ANGELINE 
 
 THAT Angeline 
 
 Should have been overlooked, 
 Among the hurrying throng 
 Of doctors and nurses, 
 167 
 
Of patients and orderlies, 
 
 Is not strange. 
 
 So dark she is, 
 
 So meek, 
 
 So occupied with mop and suds, 
 
 So zealous that the ever-passing feet 
 
 Have spotless floors 
 
 To tread upon. 
 
 Her Gift 
 
 Might have gone unnoticed 
 
 But for the Boys. 
 
 The very mention of it 
 
 Embarrassed her. 
 
 She stood, 
 
 Twirling her apron, 
 
 Her head bowed, 
 
 Smiling 
 
 With teeth agleam, 
 
 Her great, soft, upturned eyes 
 
 Heavy with tears. 
 
 "Ho, it's alii thing 
 
 I'ze doin', 
 
 Fo' dem as done so much, 
 
 A mighty lil thing. 
 
 'Gaze dey's jes' me an' lil Sue, 
 
 Mah sistah's chile, 
 
 168 
 
Mah po' sistah, wat died wid de flu. 
 
 So I sez to mase'f: 
 
 ? Looka hyah, Angeline, 
 
 Is yo' all gwine set back 
 
 Doin' nuffin' fo' de Boys 
 
 Jes' 'caze yo' cain't tek 'em 
 
 Out ridin' in limmyzines, 
 
 Lakde rich folks?' 
 
 "An' mase'f answer back: 
 
 ' 'Corse yo' ain't! 
 
 Wat about dat passel o' pullets, 
 
 Yo' all done got? 
 
 Dey's layin' fit to kill, ain't dey? 
 
 De good Lawd mek yo' steward 
 
 O' dem pullets, 
 
 An' dem aigs too.' 
 
 Dat po' sick chile 
 
 In room sebenty-fo' say dis mawnin': 
 
 'Angeline, dem aigs so fresh, 
 
 Yo' kin mos' hyah de hens cacklin'T 
 
 "A Sunday ah done mek 
 Chicken fry f o' de boy in sebenty-seben. 
 Eat! 
 
 Lan' sakes! eat lak a harves' han'. 
 It's mighty lil 
 Wat's dat 'widow's mite'? 
 169 
 
No, sah, 
 You'ze 'staken. 
 Fze a maiden lady!" 
 
 So mellow was Angeline's laugh, 
 
 So full of good-will, 
 
 It must have quickened the heart 
 
 Of every "po' sick chile" 
 
 Along the dim corridor. 
 
 I looked back, 
 
 At the turning. 
 
 Again her industrious mop 
 
 Was plying, 
 
 Mop and suds, 
 
 Busily plying. 
 
 HARRY LEE 
 
 A SONG 
 
 FOR Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth, 
 
 There is no measure upon earth. 
 Nay, they wither, root and stem, 
 
 If an end be set for them. 
 
 Overbrim and overflow, 
 
 If your own heart you would know; 
 For the spirit born to bless 
 
 Lives but in its own excess. 
 
 LAURENCE BINYON 
 
 170 
 
MERCHANTMEN 
 
 ALL honour be to merchantmen, 
 
 And ships of all degree 
 In warlike dangers manifold 
 
 Who sail and keep the sea, 
 In peril of unlitten coast 
 
 And death-besprinkled foam, 
 Who daily dare a hundred deaths 
 
 To bring their cargoes home. 
 
 A liner out of Liverpool a tanker from the Clyde 
 A hard-run tramp from anywhere a tug from Merseyside - 
 A cattle-boat from Birkenhead a coaler from the Tyne 
 All honour be to merchantmen while any star shall shine! 
 
 All honour be to merchantmen, 
 
 And ships both great and small, 
 The swift and strong to run their race, 
 
 And smite their foes withal; 
 The little ships that sink or swim, 
 
 And pay the pirates' toll, 
 Unarmoured save by valiant hearts 
 
 And strong in nought but soul. 
 
 All honour be to merchantmen 
 So long as tides shall run, 
 171 
 
Who gave the seas their glorious dead 
 
 From rise to set of sun, 
 All honour be to merchantmen, 
 
 While England's name shall stand, 
 Who sailed and fought, and dared and died, 
 
 And served and saved their land. 
 
 A sailing ship from Liverpool a tanker from the Clyde 
 A schooner from the West countrie a tug from Merseyside 
 A fishing smack from Grimsby town a coaler from the Tyne 
 All honour be to merchantmen while sun and moon do shine! 
 
 C. Fox SMITH 
 
 THREE SWORDS 
 
 THREE blades from out the smithy fire 
 He drew, and forged with starry blows. 
 
 Beyond his door the skies of God 
 Bloomed like an unplucked rose. 
 
 "Three swords," he said, "I make for you, 
 little Knight of Love and Youth! 
 
 One blade is Knowledge, one is Faith,. 
 And one is Hope, forsooth!" 
 
 I was so young; and life, a rose 
 That bloomed beyond the smithy door 
 
 "Give me the first," I cried, and rode 
 Out like a knight to war! 
 172 
 
Another year I came again 
 
 His forge was like a rose agleam. 
 "Give me the second sword," I said, 
 
 "That I may fight and dream." 
 
 The second sword lay in my hand, 
 I rode once more, as knights must do, 
 
 But all my casque was wet with tears, 
 And my heart's blood trickled through. 
 
 Then came I back along the road, 
 
 Thrice-ridden, till I saw his fire 
 Glow redly through the bitter dusk 
 
 Like a flower of desire. 
 
 "The third!" I gasped. "Give me the third, 
 The last sword, that I fight and die!" 
 
 Then turned again, and lo, I saw 
 A dust of roses through the sky! 
 
 DANA BURNET 
 
 HOPE 
 
 WHEN I was a little boy, 
 I followed hope and slighted joy. 
 Now my wit has larger scope, 
 I clutch at joy and heed not hope. 
 173 
 
At least that doctrine I profess, 
 For there I know lies happiness; 
 But hope, for all the shifts I try, 
 Will be my sovereign till I die. 
 
 GAMALIEL BRADFORD 
 
 THE FLOWER FACTORY 
 
 LISABETTA, Marianina, Fiametta, Teresina, 
 They are winding stems of roses, one by one, one by one, 
 Little children who have never learned to play; 
 Teresina softly crying that her fingers ache to-day; 
 Tiny Fiametta nodding when the twilight slips in, gray. 
 High above the clattering street, ambulance and fire-gong 
 
 beat, 
 They sit, curling crimson petals, one by one, one by one. 
 
 Lisabetta, Marianina, Fiametta, Teresina, 
 
 They have never seen a rosebush nor a dewdrop in the sun. 
 
 They will dream of the vendetta, Teresina, Fiametta, 
 
 Of a Black Hand and a face behind a grating; 
 
 They will dream of cotton petals, endless, crimson, suffocating, 
 
 Never of a wild-rose thicket nor the singing of a cricket, 
 
 But the ambulance will bellow through the wanness of their 
 
 dreams, 
 And their tired lids will flutter with the street's hysteric screams. 
 
 174 
 
Lisabetta, Marianina, Fiametta, Teresina, 
 
 They are winding stems of roses, one by one, one by one. 
 
 Let them have a long, long playtime, Lord of Toil, when 
 
 toil is done, 
 
 Fill their baby hands with roses, joyous roses of the sun! 
 
 FLORENCE WILKINSON EVANS 
 
 AFTER 
 
 AFTER the darkness, dawning 
 
 And stir of the rested wing. 
 Fresh fragrance from the meadow, 
 
 Fresh hope in everything! 
 
 After the winter, springtime 
 And dreams that flowerlike throng; 
 
 After the tempest, silence; 
 After the silence, song! 
 
 After the heat of anger, 
 
 Love that all life enwraps; 
 After the stress of battle, 
 
 The trumpet sounding "taps"; 
 
 After despair and doubting, 
 
 A faith without alloy; 
 God here and over yonder, 
 
 The end of all things Joy! 
 
 FLORENCE EARLE COATES 
 
 175 
 
THE HEART'S QUESTION 
 
 Is it such a little thing 
 
 To find a wind-flower 
 Twinkling in the wild-wood 
 
 Hour after hour, 
 Dancing to the wind's pipe 
 
 With a happy nod? 
 Is it such a little thing? 
 
 I think it is God. 
 
 Is it such a little thing 
 
 To find the young moon 
 Flitting thro the tree boughs 
 
 In her silver shoon, 
 Seeking for the wind-flower 
 
 There along the sod? 
 Is it such a little thing? 
 
 I think it is God. 
 
 Is it such a little thing 
 
 To find in your face 
 Something of the wind-flower 
 
 And young moon's grace? 
 Something of the wild-wood, 
 
 Ever faery-trod? 
 Is it such a little thing? 
 
 I think it is God. 
 
 CALE YOUNG RICE 
 
 176 
 
THE THINGS THAT GROW 
 
 IT was nothing but a little neglected garden, 
 Laurel-screened, and hushed in a hot stillness; 
 An old pear-tree, and flowers mingled with weeds. 
 Yet as I came to it all unawares, it seemed 
 Charged with mystery; and I stopped, intruding, 
 Fearful of hurting that so absorbed stillness. 
 For I was tingling with the wind's salty splendor, 
 And still my senses moved with the keel's buoyance 
 Out on the water, where strong light was shivered 
 Into a dance dazzling as drops of flame. 
 The rocking radiance and the winged sail's lifting 
 And the noise of the rush of the water left behind 
 Sang to my body of movement, victory, joy. 
 But here the light was asleep, and green, green 
 In a veined leaf it glowed among the shadows. 
 A hollyhock rose to the sun and bathed its flowers 
 Luminously clustered in the unmoving air; 
 A butterfly lazily winked its gorgeous wings; 
 Marigolds burned intently amid the grass; 
 The ripening pears hung each with a rounded shadow: 
 All beyond was drowned in the indolent blueness, 
 And at my feet, like a word of an unknown tongue, 
 Was the midnight-dark bloom of the delicate pansy. 
 Suddenly these things awed my heart, as if here 
 In perishing blossom and springing shoot were a power 
 Greater than shipwrecking winds and all wild waters. 
 
 LAURENCE BINYON 
 
 177 
 
THE OLD HOUSE 
 
 O KINDLY house, where time my soul endows 
 With courage, hope, and patience manifold, 
 How shall my debt of love to thee be told, 
 
 Since first I heard the sweet-voiced robins rouse 
 
 The morn among thy ancient apple-boughs? 
 Here was I nourished on the truths of old, 
 Here taught against new times to make me bold, 
 
 Memory and hope the door-posts, O dear house! 
 
 Heaven's blessing rested on thy dark-gray roof, 
 And clasped thy children, age to lapsing age, 
 Birth and the grave thy tale till time's release; 
 
 Poverty did not hold from thee aloof; 
 Of lowly good thou wast the hermitage; 
 Now falls the evening light. God give thee peace! 
 
 GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 
 
 ON GROWING OLD 
 
 BE with me Beauty for the fire is dying, 
 My dog and I are old, too old for roving, 
 Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying 
 Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. 
 178 
 
I take the book and gather to the fire, 
 Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute, 
 The clock ticks to my heart; a withered wire 
 Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. 
 
 I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander 
 
 Your cornland, nor your hill-land nor your valleys 
 
 Ever again, nor share the battle yonder 
 
 Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. 
 
 Only stay quiet while my mind remembers 
 The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers. 
 
 Beauty, have pity, for the strong have power, 
 The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace, 
 Summer of man its sunlight and its flower, 
 Spring time of man all April in a face. 
 
 Only as in the jostling in the Strand, 
 Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud 
 The beggar with the saucer in his hand 
 Asks only a penny from the passing crowd, 
 
 So, from this glittering world with all its fashion, 
 Its fire and play of men, its stir, its march, 
 Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion, 
 Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch. 
 
 Give me but these, and though the darkness close 
 .Even the night will blossom as the rose. 
 
 JOHN MASEFIELD 
 179 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER 
 
 I SAW him sitting in his door 
 
 Trembling as old men do; 
 His house was old, his barn was old, 
 
 And yet his eyes seemed new. 
 
 His eyes had seen three times my years 
 
 And kept a twinkle still 
 Though they had looked at birth and death 
 
 And three graves on a hill. 
 
 "I will sit down with you," I said, 
 
 "And you will make me wise; 
 Tell me how you have kept the joy 
 
 Still burning hi your eyes." 
 
 Then like an old-time orator 
 
 Impressively he rose; 
 "I make the most of all that comes 
 
 And the least of all that goes" 
 
 The jingling rhythm of his words 
 
 Echoed as old songs do, 
 Yet this had kept his eyes alight 
 
 Till he was ninety-two. 
 
 SARA TEASDALE 
 180 
 
THE BACKSLIDER 
 
 "No, Mis' Talbot, I'm not going to church. 
 I never thought I 'd be a backslider, 
 But I've come to it at last. The new preacher 
 Has upset all my ideas of religion, 
 For he don't believe the Bible is true, 
 Leastwise only in parts. To his thinking, 
 Adam and Jonah never were alive: 
 They are just story-book folks. I heard that 
 And did n't flinch, for Adam don't mean much 
 To a Methodist who can't believe 
 In John Calvin and predestination. 
 Besides, Adam always seemed to me weakly 
 In his mind. I 'm not a voting female 
 Champing for women to do everything, 
 But I do think Eve was an improvement on Adam. 
 
 "Now about old Jonah: 
 I always took him with a 'grain of salt.' 
 He must have been shiftless and careless; 
 I never could abide a lazy man. 
 I think we ought to raise our own gourd vines 
 To keep the sun from giving us sunstroke, 
 And not lay too much on the Lord's shoulders. 
 I stood the preacher's talk until he killed Job; 
 Then I rose right up in meeting and said: 
 
 'No, you cannot take Job away from me. 
 
 181 
 
He was a perfect and an upright man, 
 And he has been my good friend all my life.' 
 
 "I can see him just as plain as can be 
 Bearing the scourges of the Almighty 
 With fortitude, and I know how he felt 
 When God spoke to him out of the whirlwind. 
 Job has been the friend of so many folks 
 I wonder even the new minister 
 Dares to say a word against him, and tell 
 This generation that he never lived. 
 He is more alive than some men I know 
 Breathing on earth today. 
 
 "So now you see 
 
 Why I 'm not going to church any more. 
 I'll sit here under the Sweet Locust tree 
 While you're gone, and read a chapter or two, - 
 Perhaps the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, 
 That tells of the morning stars singing 
 Together with the Sons of God for joy, 
 And of the 'understanding of the heart/ 
 For all the people who ever did any good 
 In this world understood things with the heart, 
 And the world won't be much different 
 In that. I fancy the new minister 
 Has n't found his heart yet. After he's lived 
 And suffered, he'll take Job out of his grave 
 
 182 
 
And find he is alive, and a friend, 
 And say with him in humbleness of mind : 
 'I have uttered that I understood not/ 
 And find in the end Job's peace and Job's blessings." 
 
 JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER 
 
 THE HILL-BORN 
 
 You who are born of the hills, 
 
 Hill-bred, lover of hills, 
 
 Though the world may not treat you aright, 
 
 Though your soul be aweary with ills: 
 
 This will you know above other men, 
 
 In the hills you will find your peace again. 
 
 You who were nursed on the heights, 
 
 Hill-bred, lover of skies, 
 
 Though your love and your hope and your heart, 
 
 Though your trust be hurt till it dies: 
 
 This will you know above other men, 
 
 In the hills you will find your faith again. 
 
 You who are brave from the winds, 
 
 Hill-bred, lover of winds, 
 
 Though the God whom you know seems dim, 
 
 Seems lost in a mist that blinds: 
 
 This will you know above other men, 
 
 In the hills you will find your God again. 
 
 MAXWELL STEUTHERS BURT 
 183 
 
A HILLSIDE FARMER 
 
 DAWN and the mist across the silent lane; 
 Each day its little round of petty tasks. 
 "Are you not very lonely?" someone asks, 
 "Here where the old folks stay, and no one new 
 Comes in to start a farm? You should go, too; 
 Valleys grow better grain." 
 
 This may seem still and lonely, but for me 
 Hill-tops are wider than the open land. 
 Maybe you never could quite understand 
 How dear it is to me this loneliness. 
 You think the hills are narrowing, I guess; 
 But, oh, how far we see! 
 
 JOHN CHIPMAN FAERAR 
 
 REFUGE 
 
 WHEN stars ride in on the wings of dusk, 
 
 Out on the silent plain, 
 After the fevered fret of day, 
 
 I find my strength again. 
 
 Under the million friendly eyes 
 
 That smile in the lonely night, 
 Close to the rolling prairie's heart, 
 
 I find my heart for the fight. 
 184 
 
Out where the cool long winds blow free, 
 
 I fling myself on the sod; 
 And there in the tranquil solitude 
 
 I find my soul, and God. 
 
 LEWSAKETT 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 THE wind was a crowd, 
 Wet birds were the skies, 
 
 I marched laughing aloud 
 With the storm in my eyes. 
 
 Part beast and part bird, 
 
 A waif of the plain, 
 My laughter was heard 
 
 With the voice of the rain. 
 
 I thought I remembered 
 
 A night long ago 
 When our hoofs beat the sod 
 
 And we rushed to and fro, 
 
 Our flanks steaming hot, 
 Rain-driven and warm! 
 
 I had almost forgot 
 Till I ran with the storm. 
 
 185 
 
I thought I remembered 
 
 Black roads to a star, 
 When the wind in our pinions 
 
 Beat us up and afar. 
 
 How shrill were our cries, 
 As we flew from the plain! 
 
 Oh, that road to the skies, 
 Beaten up by the rain! 
 
 The flails of the storm 
 
 Beat my soul from its mesh. 
 It paled like a mist, 
 
 Driven out of the flesh. 
 
 It flew through the night 
 To my mother's warm hand, 
 
 But I I was abroad 
 With the wind and the sand. 
 
 "[Inhuman and strange, 
 
 'Twixt the rain and the stone, 
 I must flutter and range 
 
 Through the dark all alone! 
 
 The darkness, 
 The wetness, 
 The sleekness, 
 The fatness 
 
 186 
 
Of shapes in the tempest 
 Submerged, with no name, 
 As with laughter and shout 
 And a clapping of hands 
 I danced in and out 
 Or clove in the sands. 
 As straight as the lightning 
 I struck and I came 
 The storm was the thunder, 
 And I was the flame. 
 
 It was thus that I ran 
 
 To the House on the Hill, 
 When the voice of love 
 
 Bade the tempest be stilL 
 
 Then I gathered me back 
 
 From the rain and the sand 
 To the soul held so close 
 
 In my mother's warm hand. 
 
 ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH 
 
 WIND-IN-THE-HAIR AND RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 
 
 WIND-IN-THE-HAIR and Rahi-in-the-face 
 
 Are friends worth the having, and yours at command; 
 For many's the hour and many's the place 
 
 We've frolicked together on ocean or land. 
 
 187 
 
They'll brighten the darks of your gloomiest mood! 
 
 They'll strengthen your heart with their boisterous play, 
 They '11 buffet your anger until it 's subdued, 
 
 They'll sport with your sorrow and whisk it away. 
 
 Don't clutch in your curls with that grasp of despair! 
 
 A tear on the cheek is a drop out of place! 
 "I'll rumple your tresses!" roars Wind-in-the-hair. 
 
 "Let me do your crying!" trills Rain-in-the-face. 
 
 No seven-league boots like a pair of old shoes, 
 No wish-cloak that equals a rain-beaded coat, 
 
 To take you away from the Realm of the Blues, 
 To give you the will that grips Care by the throat! 
 
 How petty our griefs under God's open sky! 
 
 How often but ghosts of a conjuring brain! 
 How quickly they dwindle, how lightly they fly, 
 
 When winnowed and washed by the wind and the rain! 
 
 Then, on with your shabbiest, hardiest wear! 
 
 (The kind that the women-folk term "a disgrace!") 
 And swing down the highway with Wind-in-the-hair, 
 
 Or splash through the puddles with Rain-in-the-face! 
 
 ARTHUR GUITERMAN 
 
 188 
 
THE PUDDLE 
 
 I CURSED the puddle when I found 
 
 Unseeing I had walked therein, 
 
 Forgetting the uneven ground, 
 
 Because my eyes 
 
 Were on the skies, 
 
 To glean their glory and to win 
 
 The sunset's trembling ecstasies. 
 
 And then I marked the puddle's face, 
 
 When still and quiet grown again, 
 
 Was but concerned, as I, to trace 
 
 The wonder spread 
 
 Above its head, 
 
 And mark and mirror and contain 
 
 The gold and purple, rose and red. 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 Now, like a rough buffet in my face, 
 
 The first breeze of Autumn, 
 
 Burlily swaggering through the blistered streets, 
 
 Lashes my summer-drugged spirit. 
 
 From the chill far hills it comes, 
 Brusquely jostling down the fruit in the orchards, 
 189 
 
Clawing the gay-colored leaves from the trees, 
 
 Until their thin corpses litter the ground, 
 
 And crying to the spirits of men: 
 
 "Ho, away with you! 
 
 Skulk to your dim houses, 
 
 Cower from your frosty master! 
 
 I and my brother, Winter, proscribe you! 
 
 We will chill with our icy touch 
 
 The gay glow of your hearts, 
 
 We will strip bare the foliage of your souls." 
 
 Ah, breeze of Autumn, 
 
 You are no conqueror to me, 
 
 But brother of my spirit. 
 
 Your rough handshake bugles up my laggard self. 
 
 Though you bluster with your chill blast 
 
 I will roar you back from my loved ways. 
 
 Your tempest heartens my soul 
 
 For the keen struggle remaining, 
 
 And the glad, hard road. 
 
 CLEMENT WOOD 
 
 SEASONS 
 
 THE night leans dumb above the frozen fields. 
 High overhead, bare treetops interlacing, 
 Write on the sky, their ancient secrets tracing. 
 190 
 
Where are the seasons gone? Old autumn leaves 
 Fly on the wind, and now in wild December 
 Soar like the birds who love and spring remember. 
 
 White stars drop petals from their deathless bloom 
 Down on the ice-black pools. The moonlight, kneeling, 
 With silvery hands the wounded earth is healing. 
 
 O blessed spell that brings the May once more! 
 3Varm Beauty on the world her web is flinging, 
 ,\nd Memory turns and beckons to me singing. 
 
 GRETCHEN 0. WAREEN 
 
 FAITH 
 
 IF on this night of still, white cold, 
 I can remember May, 
 New green of tree and underbrush, 
 A hillside orchard's mounting flush, 
 The scent of earth and noon's blue hush, 
 A robin's jaunty way; 
 
 If on this night of bitter frost, 
 I know such things can be, 
 That lovely May is true ah, well, 
 I shall believe the tales men tell, 
 Wonders of bliss and asphodel, 
 
 And immortality. 
 
 HORTENSE FLEXNEB 
 191 
 
IMMORTALITY 
 
 BATTLES nor songs can from oblivion save, 
 But Fame upon a white deed loves to build; 
 
 From out that cup of water Sidney gave, 
 Not one drop has been spilled. 
 
 LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 
 
 WINTER 
 
 GREEN Mistletoe! 
 
 Oh, I remember now 
 
 A dell of snow, 
 
 Frost on the bough; 
 
 None there but I: 
 
 Snow, snow, and a wintry sky. 
 
 None there but I, 
 
 And footprints one by one, 
 
 Zigzaggedly, 
 
 Where I had run; 
 
 Where shrill and powdery 
 
 A robin sat in the tree. 
 
 And he whistled sweet; 
 And I in the crusted snow 
 192 
 
With snow-clubbed feet 
 Jigged to and fro, 
 Till, from the day, 
 The rose-light ebbed away. 
 
 And the robin flew 
 Into the air, the air, 
 The white mist through; 
 And small and rare 
 The night-frost fell 
 In the calm and misty dell. 
 
 And the dusk gathered low, 
 And the silver moon and stars 
 On the frozen snow 
 Drew taper bars, 
 Kindled winking fires 
 In the hooded briers. 
 
 And the sprawling Bear 
 Growled deep in the sky; 
 And Orion's hair 
 Streamed sparkling by: 
 But the North sighed low, 
 "Snow, snow, more snow!" 
 
 WALTER DE LA MARE 
 
 193 
 
THE ONSET 
 
 ALWAYS the same when on a fated night 
 At last the gathered snow lets down as white 
 As maybe in dark woods and with a song 
 It shall not make again all winter long 
 Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground, 
 I almost stumble looking up and round, 
 As one who overtaken by the end 
 Gives up his errand and lets death descend 
 Upon him where he is, with nothing done 
 To evil, no important triumph won 
 More than if life had never been begun. 
 
 Yet att the precedent is on my side: 
 I know that winter death has never tried 
 The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap 
 In long storms an undrifted four feet deep 
 As measured against maple, birch, and oak; 
 It cannot check the Peeper's silver croak; 
 And I shall see the snow all go down hill 
 In water of a slender April rill 
 That flashes tail through last year's withered brake 
 And dead weeds like a disappearing snake. 
 Nothing will be left white but here a birch 
 And there a clump of houses with a church. 
 
 ROBERT FROST 
 194 
 
SNOW DUST 
 
 THE way a crow 
 
 Shook down on me 
 The dust of snow 
 
 From a hemlock tree 
 
 Has given my heart 
 
 A change of mood 
 And saved some part 
 
 Of a day I had rued. 
 
 ROBEBT FROST 
 
 BELL OF DAWN 
 
 FAINT music of a bell which dawn brings to my ear, made my 
 heart young again here at the break of day. 
 
 Faint bell-like music which through dewy dawn I hear ring 
 ing so far, so near, changed all I hope and fear. 
 
 What, shall I after this, survive my dear-bought bliss, music 
 by which my soul's far youth recovered is? 
 
 Chiming so far away, so lonely and withdrawn, little sing 
 ing air in the fresh heart of dawn, 
 
 You flee, return and ring: seeking like love to stray, you 
 tremble in my heart here at the break of day. 
 
 195 
 
Ah, can life ever be of such serenity, so peaceful, mild and 
 fair as is this little air? 
 
 So simple yet so sweet as, over meadows borne, this little 
 tune that thrills all the fresh heart of morn? 
 
 PAUL FORT 
 (Translated by Ludwig Lewisohri) 
 
 THE BIRD AT DAWN 
 
 WHAT I saw was just one eye 
 In the dawn as I was going: 
 A bird can carry all the sky 
 In that little button glowing. 
 
 Never in my life I went 
 So deep into the firmament. 
 
 He was standing on a tree, 
 
 All in blossom overflowing; 
 
 And he purposely looked hard at me, 
 
 At first, as if to question merrily: 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 But next some far more serious thing to say; 
 
 I could not answer, could not look away. 
 
 Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye: 
 Little mirror of all sky! 
 And then the after-song another tree 
 Held, and sent radiating back on me. 
 
 196 
 
If no man had invented human word, 
 
 And a bird-song had been 
 
 The only way to utter what we mean, 
 
 What would we men have heard, 
 
 What understood, what seen, 
 
 Between the trills and pauses, in between 
 
 The singing and the silence of a bird? 
 
 HAROLD MONRO 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 
 
 SOFTLY I come into the dance of the spheres, 
 Into the choir of lights, 
 
 New from my nest in God's heart. 
 Night, the chosen of nights, 
 Longing and dream of the years, 
 Blessed thou art. 
 
 Golden the fruit hangs on the hyaline tree; 
 Golden the glistening tide 
 
 Sweeps through the heavens; the cars 
 Of the great mooned planets glide 
 Golden; and yet to me 
 Bow down the stars; 
 
 Casting their crowns, bright with seonian reigns, 
 Under the flight of my feet 
 
 Eager for Bethlehem, 
 Thither with music-beat 
 197 
 
Blent f innumerous strains 
 Marshaling them. 
 
 Sweetly their chant soars through unsearchable space, 
 Quivering vespers that thrill 
 
 Into the deep nocturne- 
 Symphony I fulfill; 
 I, who, like Mary's face, 
 Wonder and yearn, 
 
 Cherish, adore, keeping the watch above 
 
 The Word made flesh to-night; 
 Wonderful Word, impearled 
 
 In childhood holy-white; 
 Word that is Godhood, Love, 
 
 Light of the World. 
 
 KATHARINE LEE BATES 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS CAROL OF THE BEES 
 (FOUNDED ON AN OLD ENGLISH SUPERSTITION) 
 
 'T is Christmas Eve in an Old World garden, 
 
 An English garden of long ago, 
 And down in the dusk of the privet hedges 
 
 The beehives stand in a goodly row. 
 Still is each trim little conical dwelling, 
 
 Still are the delicate wings below; 
 Hardly the wind dares venture a whisper 
 
 Over the beds where the flowers grow. 
 198 
 
 
Still, still, garden and field and hill, 
 Waiting the radiant Christmas morn, 
 Waiting the heav'rily morn. 
 
 Midnight strikes from the ivied tower, 
 
 Hark, what a clamor the tolling brings! 
 Bells in the distance joyfully answer; 
 
 Earth, rejoicing an anthem sings. 
 Down where the honey-bees cling and cluster, 
 
 Buzzing, humming, a carol rings 
 "Christ is born!" so the golden chorus; 
 
 "Praise Him! ye that have voice and wings!',' 
 
 Sing, sing, ye that have voice and wing. 
 Sing, for the Sun of the World is born, 
 Sing for the Christ is born! 
 
 NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH 
 
 THE BIRTH 
 
 THERE is a legend that the love of God 
 So quickened under Mary's heart it wrought 
 Her very maidenhood to holier stuff . . . 
 However that may be, the birth befell 
 Upon a night when all the Syrian stars 
 Swayed tremulous before one lordlier orb 
 That rose in gradual splendor, 
 Paused, 
 
 199 
 
Flooding the firmament with mystic light, 
 
 And dropped upon the breathing hills 
 
 A sudden music 
 
 Like a distillation from its gleams; 
 
 A rain of spirit and a dew of song! 
 
 DON MARQUIS 
 
 CRADLE-SONG 
 
 MADONNA, MADONNINA, 
 Sat by the grey road-side, 
 Saint Joseph her beside, 
 And Our Lord at her breast; 
 Oh they were fain to rest, 
 Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
 All by the grey road-side. 
 
 She said, Madonna Mary, 
 
 "I am hungry, Joseph, and weary, 
 
 All in the desert wide." 
 
 Then bent a tall palm-tree 
 
 Its branches low to her knee; 
 
 "Behold," the palm-tree said, 
 
 "My fruit that shall be your bread. 1 ? 
 
 So were they satisfied, 
 
 Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
 
 All by the grey road-side. 
 
 200 
 
From Herod they were fled 
 Over the desert wide, 
 Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
 In Egypt to abide: 
 Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
 In Egypt to abide. 
 
 The blessed Queen of Heaven 
 Her own dear Son hath given 
 For my son's sake; his sleep 
 Is safe and sweet and deep. 
 
 Lully . . . Lulley . . . 
 So may you sleep alway, 
 My baby, my dear son: 
 Amen, Amen, Amen. 
 
 My baby, my dear son. 
 
 ADELAIDE CEAPSET 
 
 HIS MOTHER IN HER HOOD OF BLUE 
 
 WHEN Jesus was a little thing, 
 His mother, in her hood of blue, 
 Called to Him through the dusk of spring: 
 "Jesus, my Jesus, where are you?" 
 201 
 
Caught in a gust of whirling bloom, 
 She stood a moment at the door, 
 Then lit the candle in the room, 
 In its pink earthen bowl of yore. 
 
 The little Jesus saw it all; 
 The blur of yellow in the street; 
 The fair trees by the tumbling wall; 
 The shadowy other lads, whose feet 
 
 Struck a quick noise from out the grass; 
 He saw, dim in the half-lit air, 
 As one sees folk within a glass, 
 His mother with her candle there. 
 
 Jesus! Jesus! 
 
 When He a weary man became, 
 I think, as He went to and fro, 
 He heard her calling just the same 
 Across that dusk so long ago. 
 
 Jesus! 
 
 For men were tired that had been bold; 
 And strange indeed this should befall 
 One day so hot, one day so cold 
 But mothers never change at all. 
 
 Jesus! 
 
 LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 
 202 
 
GREEN CROSSES 
 
 AT the back of the pompous houses, 
 
 Above the beautiful river-way, 
 
 A row of squalid barrels 
 
 Blush at themselves in the morning light. 
 
 From one grotesquely leaning, 
 
 Dusty and scarred 
 
 Amid the dead, forgotten slag and ashes, 
 
 A fir-tree thrusts its live, protesting fingers 
 
 Grosses of green. 
 
 About it still cling a few silver cobwebs, 
 
 Rags of its brief splendor. 
 
 It was the Christmas Tree 
 
 That graced the cheerful drawing-room 
 
 A little while; 
 
 That blessed the comfortable house with its fragrance, 
 
 And with its symbols of love, 
 
 The small green crosses. 
 
 A pinched, pale child with hungry eyes, 
 Ragged and wolfish, but with wisps of glory 
 Still haloing her hair, 
 Comes with her bag of rubbish, 
 Her eyes brighten; 
 She sets down her heavy burden, 
 She forgets the cold as she picks at the little tree, 
 Plucks eagerly at the fragile cobwebs; 
 203 
 
They are so silvery few! 
 
 But they do not go into the heavy sack. 
 
 Her thin, blue fingers snap one of the green crosses; 
 
 She twists the tinsel thread about it, 
 
 And sticks it in her breast. 
 
 Then she shoulders her bundle of trash, 
 
 And stumbles away, smiling. 
 
 The green crosses, alive in the dust! 
 
 The Christmas Tree! 
 
 The evergreen tree whose roots are cut 
 
 On the dump it will die! 
 
 The Christmas Tree! 
 
 What if this ornament of brief holidays, 
 
 This plaything of a favored few, 
 
 This strong, slow-murdered creature of pure woods, 
 
 With its green crosses, 
 
 Were really growing! 
 
 If it were rooted in the hearts 
 
 Of Christendom! 
 
 How different a world would see this sunny morning! 
 
 No war; no hate; 
 
 No want nor selfishness; 
 
 No ragged children, starved for tinsel joys, 
 
 Furtively clutching at rejected beauty 
 
 On a forgotten cross, 
 
 The green cross of Love. 
 
 ABBIE FARWELL BROWN 
 
 204 
 
"EVEN THE LEAST OF THESE" 
 
 HEEDLESS of other toys from Christmas trees, 
 
 To the earth's round globe my young son turned his face, 
 
 When he discovered that he could with ease 
 
 The gaily tinted countries find and trace, 
 
 With joy his arms encircled lands and seas, 
 
 Both hemispheres were clasped in his embrace. 
 
 The world was sheltered upon Youth's warm breast, 
 In Youth's pure love the nations lay at rest. 
 
 ADA M. ROBEETS 
 
 WINTER'S TURNING 
 
 SNOW is still on the ground, 
 But there is a golden brightness in the air. 
 Across the river, 
 Blue, 
 Blue, 
 
 Sweeping widely under the arches 
 Of many bridges, 
 Is a spire and a dome, 
 Clear as though ringed with ice-flakes, 
 Golden, and pink, and jocund. 
 On a near-by steeple, 
 205 
 
A golden weather-cock flashes smartly, 
 
 His open beak " Cock-a-doodle-dooing " 
 
 Straight at the ear of Heaven. 
 
 A tall apartment house, 
 
 Crocus-coloured, 
 
 Thrusts up from the street 
 
 Like a new-sprung flower. 
 
 Another street is edged and patterned 
 
 With the bloom of bricks, 
 
 Houses and houses of rose-red bricks, 
 
 Every window a-glitter. 
 
 The city is a parterre, 
 
 Blowing and glowing, 
 
 Alight with the wind, 
 
 Washed over with gold and mercury. 
 
 Let us throw up our hats, 
 
 For we are past the age of balls 
 
 And have none handy. 
 
 Let us take hold of hands, 
 
 And race along the sidewalks, 
 
 And dodge the traffic in crowded streets. 
 
 Let us whir with the golden spoke-wheels 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 For to-morrow Winter drops into the waste-basket, 
 
 And the calendar calls it March. 
 
 AMY LOWELL 
 
 206 
 
PROMISE 
 
 infant fact 
 Each year sends forth. 
 
 A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, 
 
 SARA COLERIDGE 
 
 THE winds of March blow down the frozen ways; 
 Snow melts; runnels meander through a maze 
 Of broken channels. 
 
 The sun is warm; the branches of the trees, 
 Though leafless, yet are quickened by degrees 
 With hidden life. 
 
 Behind the bark new buds await the hour 
 When, venturing forth, slowly they grow to flower 
 In strength and grace. 
 
 Spring is the herald of the summer-time, 
 As freighted argosies in former time 
 Foreshadowed wealth, 
 
 Bearing their burden from a southern land, 
 Spices from India, silks from Samarcand 
 To homeland port. 
 
 Perchance unseen our treasure-galleon lies 
 Beyond our sight, bearing a richer prize, 
 Immortal freight, 
 
 207 
 
Our spring's desired flower, small and furled, 
 Brought from the garden of another world 
 Whose God is Love. 
 
 NORREYS JEPHSON O'CoNoit 
 
 THE WAKEFUL DARK 
 
 THERE is a crowd upon the air to-night; 
 
 The leaves are out, 
 
 Clustered and gathered to the farthest tip 
 
 Of the dim branches' edge. 
 
 All in a day, the wet wind called 
 
 And they rushed forth, 
 
 Bearing the fragrance of the trees' deep heart 
 
 In their unfolding wings. 
 
 The dark is thickly plumed and tufted where 
 
 They wait, a misty, swinging crowd 
 
 Too glad for sleep. 
 
 Beside my window, restless too, I stand 
 
 Athirst like leaf and garden 
 
 For the day. 
 
 And when the moist wind, groping for more sweet, 
 
 Lilac or violet, or the new, slim buds, 
 
 Touches my face, 
 
 208 
 
I feel the petals of my heart 
 Tremble and open wide, 
 As if it too 
 Had bloomed upon the night. 
 
 HOETENSE FLEXNEB 
 
 AS WE GO ON 
 
 As we go on, grow older, grow more wise, 
 Grow friendlier with every friendly thing, 
 The honourable trees, grave dusk, the swing 
 Of upland meadows upward to the skies, 
 And even the old new fraudulent surprise 
 Of that quaint smiling paradox the spring, 
 How greatly beauty once again can bring 
 In smaller ways tears to our tenderer eyes. 
 
 We do not wait on mountains or on seas, 
 For there 's a little lake between the hills, 
 That rustles with the sedges and the bees; 
 And great adventure found in daffodils 
 Stirs April gardens, when the world again 
 Is quick with mice and moles, crickets and men. 
 
 MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT 
 
 209 
 
OUT OF THE DESERT 
 
 OUT of this little and this nothingness 
 
 I will build slowly what cannot be effaced, 
 
 There shall come sound of iron hammers ringing 
 
 And groining arches like fingers interlaced; 
 
 Each youth a king who walks the common kingdom, 
 
 Clad in the seamless robe, with lifted head; 
 
 Each girl a queen, love's roses in her bosom, 
 
 Walking beside him with an equal tread. 
 
 I will set song upon the lips of singers 
 
 Who slumber still uncalled from out the dust, 
 
 I will light fires upon unnumbered altars, 
 
 Love shall be honest, justice shall be just. 
 
 I have not cried alone within the desert, 
 
 Ye go not out to find a broken reed; 
 
 I have clasped Him who walks the pillared darkness, 
 
 I have not wrestled with Him feeble-kneed. 
 
 About my loins I gird a sword that flashes 
 
 With lightnings hidden in the marching cloud; 
 
 I break above your heads the awful tablets, 
 
 And fling the fragments to the wheeling crowd. 
 
 Out of such sowing shall come mighty reaping^ 
 
 Hearts are the fields, and songs the seed I sow: 
 
 Ye shall not know until the time of reaping 
 
 What hand upheld me, but I know, I know! 
 
 WILLARD WATTLES 
 
 210 
 
LIFE 
 
 THEY do not live who only know 
 The dull procession of Life's flow, 
 They have no faith who never 
 Risk all, and in one hour of youth 
 Reach the subliminal self where Truth 
 Floods light and crowns endeavour. 
 
 They do not die who find in death 
 The great adventure, the first breath 
 Whence came this life from God: 
 Who, taking wings, laugh down at earth, 
 Leap skywards, and with boyish mirth 
 Run where the angels trod. 
 
 CECIL ROBEKTS 
 
 EVERY ONE SANG 
 
 EVERY one suddenly burst out singing; 
 And I was filled with such delight 
 As prisoned birds must find in freedom, 
 Winging wildly across the white 
 Orchards and dark-green fields; 
 
 on on and out of sight. 
 
 Every one's voice was suddenly lifted; 
 And beauty came like the setting sun: 
 211 
 
My heart was shaken with tears; and horroi 
 Drifted away ... 0, but Every one 
 Was a bird; and the song was wordless; 
 the singing will never be done. 
 
 SIEGFRIED SASSOON 
 
 THE SINGERS IN A CLOUD 
 
 OVERHEAD at sunset all heard the choir. 
 Nothing could be seen except jewelled grey 
 Raining beauty earthward, flooding with desire 
 All things that listened there in the broken day; 
 Songs from freer breathers, their imprisoned fire 
 Out of cloudy fountains, flying and hurled, 
 Fell and warmed the world. 
 
 Sudden came a wind and birds were laid bare, 
 Only music warmed them round their brown breasts. 
 They had sent the splendours pouring through the air, 
 Love was their heat and home far above their nests. 
 Light went softly out and left their voices there. 
 Starward passed for ever all that great cry, 
 Burning, round the sky. 
 
 On the earth the battles war against light, 
 
 Heavy lies the harrow, bitter the field. 
 
 Beauty, like a river running through the night, 
 
 Streams past the stricken one whom it would have healed 
 
 212 
 
But the darkened faces turn away from sight. 
 Blind, bewildered nations sow, reap, and fall, 
 Shadows gather all. 
 
 Far above the birdsong bright shines the gold. 
 Through the starry orchards earth's paths are hung; 
 As she moves among them glowing fruits unfold, 
 Such that the heavens there reawaken young. 
 Overhead is beauty, healing for the old. 
 Overhead is morning, nothing but youth, 
 Only lovely youth. 
 
 RlDGELY TORRENCE 
 
 HEROES 
 
 FAIR is their fame who stand in earth's high places, 
 Rulers of men, strong-armed to break and bind. 
 
 Fairer the light which shines from comrade faces: 
 Those we have loved, and lost, and kept in mind. 
 
 These be our heroes, hearts unnamed in story, 
 Foot-firm that stood, and swerved not from the right; 
 
 Though in the world's eyes they attained no glory, 
 Girt to their goal they gained the wished-for height. 
 
 Now for reward no after-age shall sunder 
 These from their right to rest without a name. 
 
 Wide are the wings of heaven which fold them under, 
 Who to the Winds of God resign their fame. 
 
 213 
 
Blow, ye great Winds! Where'er man's spirit labours 
 Breathe on his lips breath from the life they spent! 
 
 Comrades to all their kind, dear friends and neighbors, 
 There, where the work goes well, they rest content. 
 
 They are the race, they are the race immortal, 
 Whose beams make broad the common light of day! 
 
 Though Time may dim, though Death hath barred their portal, 
 These we salute, which nameless passed away. 
 
 LAURENCE HOUSMAN 
 
 THE DIVINE STRATEGY 
 
 No soul can be forever banned, 
 
 Eternally bereft, 
 Whoever falls from God's right hand 
 
 Is caught into his left. 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 SHE is young and beautiful my country 
 Mother of many children. 
 She is free. 
 Years ago, 
 
 A slim girl running on sea sand, 
 She heard Niagara shouting the message of mountains, 
 214 
 
And the great lakes singing softly 
 
 Of prairies that swing in the wind. 
 
 How could she stay, keeping soft and white her rich and 
 
 powerful hands? 
 
 She rose and walked like the sun into the west: 
 Sowing, reaping, felling the forests, 
 Digging out coal and iron and gold from the hills. 
 Onward, outward 
 Past rivers like a sea, 
 
 And mountains that snowily, secretly, kiss the moon 
 Out to shining Arizona athirst in the sun 
 And Oregon shaggy with firs by her northern ocean, 
 Whom the silver Sierras link together forever* 
 
 And she gathered the children of many races into her arms, 
 And said, "Hate dies here be brothers." 
 She lifted the humble to the high place, 
 And the proud she rebuked with a laugh. 
 
 At ease in her strength she lay dreaming 
 When the heat of the day was done. 
 But suddenly far away 
 Out of the thick black night, out of the past, 
 Came the terrible booming of guns, 
 The tramp of armies, marching over fallen towers, 
 Over cottages collapsing into dust. 
 And through the iron clamor she heard agony calling - 
 215 
 
The bitter cries of children starved and driven, 
 
 Of young girls ravished, 
 
 Of boys ripped open on the trench-strung field; 
 
 And the dull groans of the old 
 
 Prodded from the flaming door. 
 
 Once more the incredible thing 
 
 The tyrant gorged and ruthless 
 
 Spitting red war in the face of the world! 
 
 Once more Freedom at bay threatened, defiant 
 
 Calling her chosen, 
 
 Lifting her rainbow-colored flags to the sun! 
 
 My country, 
 
 Beautiful and strong, 
 
 Startled, slowly arising, 
 
 Hearing at last the insult, 
 
 Feeling the crimson mist in her eyes, 
 
 My country stood up tall to the height of the world - 
 
 Straight and tall, 
 
 From the blue Caribbean at her feet 
 
 To her coronal of islands 
 
 Strung from the Arctic sea. 
 
 And she summoned her states, 
 
 And breathed in their ears the iron vow of war 
 
 War to the end, to the death, war to the life, 
 
 War of the free, for the free, till the world is freed. 
 
 216 
 
She gathered her armies, 
 
 Her millions of sons, 
 
 And loosed them like flakes of snow to the storm, 
 
 Bidding them cover and smother and put out forever 
 
 The abysmal abominable fires. 
 
 In massive drifts she hurled them, 
 
 Over land and sea and through blue trails of air 
 
 Crystal souls of youth, 
 
 That seized the sun in a flash 
 
 And flung it to whatever eye would see, 
 
 Spending, giving their light, lest it be put out in the wind. 
 
 She bade them move innumerably, mass on mass, 
 
 To smother and quench forever the infernal fires, 
 
 And nourish the new spring 
 
 The flower-fringed hope of the world. 
 
 O my country, , 
 
 Seeker of freedom, 
 
 How shall she pause in the ways of peace or war 
 
 On her long march toward the far-off invisible goal 
 
 The city of white towers, 
 
 The city of love, 
 
 Where the nations of the earth shall meet in joy together, 
 
 And the souls of men shall be free! 
 
 HARRIET MONROE 
 
 217 
 
IN SALUTATION TO THE ETERNAL PEACE 
 
 MEN say the world is full of fear and hate, 
 And all life's ripening harvest-fields await 
 The restless sickle of relentless fate. 
 
 But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, 
 When from the climbing terraces of corn 
 I wa,tch the golden orioles of Thy morn. 
 
 What care I for the world's desire and pride, 
 Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, 
 The homing pigeons of Thine eventide? 
 
 What care I for the world's loud weariness, 
 Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless 
 With delicate sheaves of mellow silences? 
 
 SAROJINI NAIDU 
 
 JOY TO YOU 
 
 JOT to you and gladness, 
 And that your soul may be 
 
 As far away from sadness 
 As the star was from the sea, 
 
 When the Sheep-Boy, the Sheep-Boy, 
 Heard Heaven's melody. 
 
 218 
 
Smiles to you and laughter, 
 
 And also that you may 
 Be merry the morning after 
 
 On good St. Stephen's Day, 
 When the Wren-Boy, the Wren-Boy, 
 
 Shall sing his roundelay. 
 
 Joy to you and gladness, 
 
 And that the mid-night bell 
 May ring away the sadness 
 
 From the stricken old year's knell, 
 When the Chimes-Boy, the Chimes-Boy, 
 
 Strikes "Welcome" and "Farewell." 
 
 FRANCIS CARLIN 
 
 COURAGE, ALL! 
 
 OLD gods, avaunt! The rosy East is waking, 
 
 And in the dawn your shapes of clay are shaking: 
 
 Ye broke men's hearts, and now your own are breaking. 
 
 Over all lands a winged hope is flying: 
 
 It goes without reproof, without replying: 
 
 It bears God's courage to the dulled and dying. 
 
 The rusted chain that bound the world is broken; 
 A new strange star pricks down the night for token; 
 And the Great Word is waiting to be spoken! 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM 
 219 
 
SONG OF THE NEW WORLD 
 
 I SING the song of a new Dawn waking, 
 A new wind shaking 
 
 The children of men. 
 I say the hearts that are nigh to breaking 
 
 Shall leap with gladness and live again. 
 Over the woe of the world appalling, 
 
 Wild and sweet as a bugle cry, 
 Sudden I hear a new voice calling 
 
 "Beauty is nigh!" 
 Beauty is nigh! Let the world believe it. 
 
 Love has covered the fields of dead. 
 Healing is here! Let the earth receive it, 
 
 Greeting the Dawn with lifted head. 
 I sing the song of the sin forgiven, 
 
 The deed forgotten, the wrong undone. 
 Lo, in the East, where the dark is riven, 
 
 Shines the rim of the rising sun. 
 Healing is here! brother, sing it! 
 
 Laugh, heart, that has grieved so long. 
 Love will gather your woe and fling it 
 
 Over the world in waves of song. 
 Hearken, mothers, and hear them coming 
 
 Heralds crying the day at hand. 
 Faint and far as the sound of drumming, 
 
 Hear their summons across the land. 
 
 220 
 
Look, fathers! Your eyes were holden 
 
 Armies throng where the dead have lain. 
 Fiery steeds and chariots golden 
 
 Gone is the dream of soldiers slain. 
 Sing, sing of a new world waking, 
 
 Sing of creation just begun. 
 Glad is the earth when morn is breaking 
 
 Man is facing the rising sun! 
 
 ANGELA MORGAN 
 
 THE COMING OF DAWN 
 
 MIDNIGHT the black, dead vast of night, 
 
 Rain dripping slow on the sod, 
 Fear of the future, darkness-born, 
 
 Doubt of myself and God. 
 
 A sudden flush on the face of night, 
 
 A veil from my soul withdrawn, 
 A bird-note thrilling the silence through. 
 
 And after that the dawn. 
 
 GRACE ATHERTON DENNEN 
 
 A NEW STAR 
 
 MY soul has brought forth a new star 
 
 of great lustre, peopled with a new 
 race of men. 
 
 221 
 
It swings in a new sky, upheld between 
 
 the visible poles of Truth and 
 
 Mercy. 
 The clouds pour rains of heavenly Pity, 
 
 the mornings beam with rays of 
 
 Charity, 
 The waters taste ambrosia-sweet and 
 
 murmur the song of Forgiveness, 
 The girdling forests are full of trees and 
 
 creepers bearing fruits called Right, 
 
 Faith, Knowledge, Peace and Wisdom. 
 The air is fragrant with the scent of 
 
 honey-flowers it is so sweet a 
 
 thing to breathe! 
 There J t is a wondrous joy to see the 
 
 hearts and thoughts of men, 
 And women are fair of soul as they are 
 
 fair of face. 
 There birds and beasts and fish and 
 
 worms are good and beautiful, 
 And live and work in mutual trust and 
 
 sweet humility. 
 And the bright gods sit in the blue 
 
 halls of light and rule the true- 
 
 souled denizens of my star at the 
 
 command of Love-born Harmony. 
 
 SRI ANANDA ACHARYA 
 
 222 
 
SEMI-CHORUSES AND CHORUS FROM "THE 
 DYNASTS" 
 
 "To Thee whose eye all Nature owns, 
 Who hurlest Dynasts from their thrones, 
 And liftest those of low estate 
 We sing, with Her men consecrate!" 
 
 "Yea, Great and Good, Thee, Thee we hail, 
 Who shak'st the strong, Who shield'st the frail, 
 Who hadst not shaped such souls as we 
 If tender mercy lacked in Thee!" 
 
 "Though times be when the mortal moan 
 Seems unascending to Thy throne, 
 Though seers do not as yet explain 
 Why Suffering sobs to Thee in vain;" 
 
 "We hold that Thy unscanted scope 
 Affords a food for final Hope, 
 That mild-eyed Prescience ponders nigh 
 Life's loom, to lull it by-and-by." 
 
 "Therefore we quire to highest height 
 The Wellwiller, the kindly Might 
 That balances the Vast for weal, 
 That purges as by wounds to heal." 
 
 223 
 
Chorus 
 
 But a stirring thrills the air 
 Like to sounds of joyance there 
 That the rages 
 Of the ages 
 Shall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that 
 
 were, 
 
 Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair! 
 
 THOMAS HARDY 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 ^CHARYA, SRI ANANDA, 90, 221. 
 
 AlKEN, CONRAD, 110. 
 
 ALDINGTON, RICHARD, 44. 
 
 AUSLANDER, JOSEPH, 21. 
 
 BAKER, KARLE WILSON, 14, 42, 85. 
 BATES, KATHARINE LEE. 197. 
 BEER, MORRIS ABEL, 102. 
 BENET, WILLIAM ROSE, 38, 48. 
 BINYON, LAURENCE, 170, 177. 
 BRADFORD, GAMALIEL, 173. 
 BRANCH, ANNA HEMPSTEAD, 185. 
 BROWN, ABBIE FARWELL, 145, 203. 
 BURNET, DANA, 172. 
 BURR, AMELIA JOSEPHINE, 57, 63. 
 BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS, 183, 
 
 209. 
 BYNNER, WITTER, 125, 136. 
 
 CAMPBELL, JOSEPH, 111. 
 CAMMAERTS, EMILE, 136. 
 CARLIN, FRANCIS, 99, 218. 
 CARMAN, BLISS, 16. 
 CLARK, B. PRESTON, JR., 18. 
 CLEGHORN, SARAH N., 147. 
 COATES, FLORENCE EARLE, 114, 175. 
 CONKLING, GRACE HAZARD, 6, 79. 
 CONKLING, HILDA, 62. 
 CRAPSEY, ADELAIDE, 200. 
 CROMWELL, GLADYS, 103. 
 
 DALY, THOMAS AUGUSTINE, 
 161. 
 
 DAVIES, MARY CAROLYN, 78. 
 DAVIES, WILLIAM H., 32, 37. 
 DAVIS, FANNIE STEARNS, 53, 95. 
 DE LA MARE, WALTER, 31, 163, 
 
 192. 
 
 DENNEN, GRACE ATEERTON, 221. 
 DRINKWATER, JOHN, 76, 104. 
 DRISCOLL, LOUISE, 22, 60. 
 
 EVANS, FLORENCE WILKINSON, 174. 
 
 FARRAR, JOHN CHIPMAN, 146, 184. 
 FINLEY, JOHN, 106, 135. 
 FLETCHER, JOHN GOULD, 79. 
 FLEXNER, HORTENSE, 191, 208. 
 FORT, PAUL, 195. 
 
 FOSTER, JEANNE ROBERT, 89, 181. 
 FROST, ROBERT, 43, 194, 195. 
 FURSE, MARGARET CECILIA, 70. 
 FYLEMAN, ROSE, 145. 
 
 GARRISON, THEODOSIA, 68. 
 GRAVES, ROBERT, 105. 
 GRIFFITH, WILLIAM, 36. 
 GUERIN, CHARLES, 112. 
 GUITERMAN, ARTHUR, 99, 187. 
 
 HAGEDORN, HERMANN, 98. 
 HALL, AMANDA BENJAMIN, 154. 
 HARDY, THOMAS, 223. 
 HARE, AMORY, 41, 93. 
 19, HEATH, ELLA CROSBY, 10. 
 HENDERSON, DANIEL, 165. 
 227 
 
HILLYER, ROBERT, 94. 
 HOUSMAN, LAURENCE, 213. 
 
 JOHNSON, VLTN, 83. 
 
 JONES, THOMAS S., JB., 14, 47, 108. 
 
 KEMP, HARRY, 71, 93. 
 KETCHUM, ARTHUR, 77, 141. 
 KILMER, ALINE, 131. 
 KILMER, JOYCE, 86. 
 KIPLING, RUDYARD, 4. 
 KNIBBS, HENRY HERBERT, 157. 
 
 LEAMY, EDMUND, 164. 
 LEDWIDOE, FRANCIS, 20. 
 LEE, HARRY, 167. 
 LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD, 9, 64. 
 LETTS, W. M., 54. 
 LEWISOHN, LUDWIG, 195. 
 LINDSAY, \ACHEL, 118, 128. 
 Low, BENJAMIN R. C., 46, 58. 
 LOWELL, AMY, 47, 166, 205. 
 
 MCCARTHY, DENIS A., 54. 
 
 MACCATHMHAOIL, SEO8AMH, 111. 
 
 MCLANE, JAMES L., JR., Ill, 119. 
 MARKHAM, EDWIN, 125, 214, 219. 
 MARQUIS, DON, 199. 
 MASEFIELD, JOHN, 91, 178. 
 MASTERS, EDGAR LEE, 159. 
 MERRILL, STUART, 24. 
 
 MlDDLETON, SCUDDER, 97, 113. 
 
 MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT, 63, 
 
 158. 
 
 MONRO, HAROLD, 72, 196. 
 MONROE, HARRIET, 214. 
 MOODY, WILLIAM VAUGHN, 2. 
 MORGAN, ANGELA, 25, 220. 
 MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER, 131. 
 MORTON, DAVID, 8, 33, 75. 
 
 NAIDU, SAROJINI, 218. 
 NICHOLS, ROBERT, 17. 
 NOGUCHI, YONE, 116. 
 NORTON, HON. ELEANOUB, 152. 
 NOYES, ALFRED, 11, 149. 
 
 O'BRIEN, EDWARD J., 103. 
 
 O'CONOR, NORREYS JEPHSON, 207. 
 
 OLIVER, IAN, 45. 
 O'NEIL, GEORGE, 69. 
 OPPENHEIM, JAMES, 117. 
 OXENHAM, JOHN, 132. 
 
 PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW, 114. 
 PALAMAS, KOSTES, 89. 
 PATTERSON, ANTOINETTE DE COUR- 
 
 SEY, 144. 
 PEABODY, JOSEPHINE PRESTON, 
 
 139. 
 
 PERCY, WILLIAM ALEXANDER, 151. 
 PHILLPOTTS, EDEN, 189. 
 PHIPPS, SARAH METCALF, 35. 
 PHOUTRIDES, ARISTIDES E., 89. 
 
 REESE, LIZETTE WOOBWORTH, 192, 
 
 201. 
 
 RICE, GALE YOUNG, 110, 176. 
 RlTTENHOUSE, JESSIE B., 95. 
 ROBERTS, ADA M., 205. 
 ROBERTS, CECIL, 211. 
 ROBINSON, CORINNE ROOSEVELT, 81. 
 ROBINSON, EDWIN ARLINGTON, 50. 
 ROSTREVOR, GEORGE, 70. 
 
 SANDBURG, CARL, 23. 
 SARETT, LEW, 155, 184. 
 SASSOON, SIEGFRIED, 211. 
 
 SCHAUFFLER, ROBERT HAVEN, 73, 
 
 142. 
 
 SCOLLABD, CLINTON, 15, 27. 
 
SMITH, C. Fox, 171. 
 SMITH, MARIAN COUTHOUT, 84. 
 SMITH, MAY RILEY, 65, 165. 
 SMITH, NORA ARCHIBALD, 198. 
 SORLEY, CHARLES HAMILTON, 107. 
 SPEYER, LEONORA, 29, 72. 
 SPRING-RICE, SIR CECIL ARTHUR, 
 
 134. 
 
 SQUIRE, J. C., 120. 
 STERLING, GEORGE, 5, 147. 
 STORK, CHARLES WHARTON, 117, 
 
 150. 
 
 % TEASDALE, SARA, 3, 94, 109, 180, 
 THOMAS, EDITH M., 153. 
 THOMAS, EDWARD, 23. 
 THOMPSON, RALPH M.. 167. 
 THORLEY, WILFRED, 24, 112. 
 TIETJENS, EUNICE, 41, 96. 
 
 TORRENCE, RlDGELY, 212. 
 
 TOWNE, CHARLES HANSON, 7, 67. 
 
 TREE, IRIS, 138. 
 TUDOR, MARIE, 34. 
 TURNER, NANCY BYRD, 45. 
 TURNER, W. J., 13. 
 
 UNTERMEYER, Louis, 126, 168. 
 
 WAGSTAFF, BLANCHE SHOEMAKBB, 
 
 27. 
 
 WARREN, GRETCHEN O., 190. 
 WATTLES, WILLARD, 210. 
 WELLES, WINIFRED, 13, 141. 
 WHARTON, EDITH, 140. 
 WHEELOCK, JOHN HALL, 86, 124. 
 WHITING, FREDERIC A., 148. 
 WIDDEMER, MARGARET, 52. 
 WILKINSON, MARGUERITE, 28, 69. 
 WOOD, CLEMENT, 100, 189. 
 
 WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD, 40, 
 
 178. 
 YEATS, WILLIAM BUTLER, 156. 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 3 U)29 
 
 1929 
 DEC 1 5 1930 
 
 -Si 
 
 
 
 F IS -34 
 
K53 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY