Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more, — there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all, The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatched roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who's six feet underground; And scarce the friendly voice or face: A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top. How can I bear it; buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd And let the heavy rain, down-poured In one big torrent, set me free, Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and, through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and — crash! Before the wild wind's whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave Fell from the sky and struck my grave.

I know not how such things can be I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain's cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealed sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see, — A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, — I know not how such things can be! — I breathed my soul back into me. Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e'er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity! Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky, — No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That cannot keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat — the sky Will cave in on him by and by.



Souls. [Fannie Stearns Davis]



My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things, Scarlet and gold and blue; And at her shoulder sudden wings Like long flames flicker through.

And she is swallow-fleet, and free From mortal bonds and bars. She laughs, because Eternity Blossoms for her with stars!

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, My dull and foolish face, — Can ye not see my Soul flash down, A singing flame through space?

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate, Why may I not divine Your Souls, that must be passionate, Shining and swift, as mine!



Fiat Lux. [Lloyd Mifflin]



Then that dread angel near the awful throne, Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming tiers, Winged his dark way through those unpinioned spheres, And on the void's black beetling edge, alone, Stood with raised wings, and listened for the tone Of God's command to reach his eager ears, While Chaos wavered, for she felt her years Unsceptered now in that convulsive zone. Night trembled. And as one hath oft beheld A lamp within a vase light up its gloom, So God's voice lighted him, from heel to plume: "Let there be light!" It said, and Darkness, quelled, Shrunk noiseless backward in her monstrous womb Through vasts unwinnowed by the wings of eld!



The Dreamer. [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay]



"Why do you seek the sun, In your Bubble-Crown ascending? Your chariot will melt to mist, Your crown will have an ending." "Nay, sun is but a Bubble, Earth is a whiff of Foam — To my caves on the coast of Thule Each night I call them home. Thence Faiths blow forth to angels And Loves blow forth to men — They break and turn to nothing And I make them whole again: On the crested waves of chaos I ride them back reborn: New stars I bring at evening For those that burst at morn: My soul is the wind of Thule And evening is the sign, The sun is but a Bubble, A fragile child of mine."



A Caravan from China comes. [Richard Le Gallienne]

(After Hafiz)



A caravan from China comes; For miles it sweetens all the air With fragrant silks and dreaming gums, Attar and myrrh — A caravan from China comes.

O merchant, tell me what you bring, With music sweet of camel bells; How long have you been travelling With these sweet smells? O merchant, tell me what you bring.

A lovely lady is my freight, A lock escaped of her long hair, — That is this perfume delicate That fills the air — A lovely lady is my freight.

Her face is from another land, I think she is no mortal maid, — Her beauty, like some ghostly hand, Makes me afraid; Her face is from another land.

The little moon my cargo is, About her neck the Pleiades Clasp hands and sing; Hafiz, 't is this Perfumes the breeze — The little moon my cargo is.



As I came down from Lebanon. [Clinton Scollard]



As I came down from Lebanon, Came winding, wandering slowly down Through mountain passes bleak and brown, The cloudless day was well-nigh done. The city, like an opal set In emerald, showed each minaret Afire with radiant beams of sun, And glistened orange, fig, and lime, Where song-birds made melodious chime, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, Like lava in the dying glow, Through olive orchards far below I saw the murmuring river run; And 'neath the wall upon the sand Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, With precious spices they had won, Lay long and languidly in wait Till they might pass the guarded gate, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, I saw strange men from lands afar, In mosque and square and gay bazar, The Magi that the Moslem shun, And grave Effendi from Stamboul, Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; And, from the balconies o'errun With roses, gleamed the eyes of those Who dwell in still seraglios, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, The flaming flower of daytime died, And Night, arrayed as is a bride Of some great king, in garments spun Of purple and the finest gold, Outbloomed in glories manifold, Until the moon, above the dun And darkening desert, void of shade, Shone like a keen Damascus blade, As I came down from Lebanon.



The Only Way. [Louis V. Ledoux]



I

Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile: Of these your letters told; and I who read Saw loom on dim horizons Egypt's dead In march across the desert, mile on mile, A ghostly caravan in slow defile Between the sand and stars; and at their head From unmapped darkness into darkness fled The gods that Egypt feared a little while.

There black against the night I saw them loom With captive kings and armies in array Remembered only by their sculptured doom, And thought: What Egypt was are we to-day. Then rose obscure against the rearward gloom The march of Empires yet to pass away.

II

I looked in vision down the centuries And saw how Athens stood a sunlit while A sovereign city free from greed and guile, The half-embodied dream of Pericles. Then saw I one of smooth words, swift to please, At laggard virtue mock with shrug and smile; With Cleon's creed rang court and peristyle, Then sank the sun in far Sicilian seas.

From brows ignoble fell the violet crown. Again the warning sounds; the hosts engage: In Cleon's face we fling our battle gage, We win as foes of Cleon loud renown; But while we think to build the coming age The laurel on our brows is turning brown.

III

We top the poisonous blooms that choke the state, At flower and fruit our flashing strokes are made, The whetted scythe on stalk and stem is laid, But deeper must we strike to extirpate The rooted evil that within our gate Will sprout again and flourish, branch and blade; For only from within can ill be stayed While Adam's seed is unregenerate.

With zeal redoubled let our strength be strained To cut the rooted causes where they hold, Nor spend our sinews on the fungus mold When all the breeding marshes must be drained. Be this our aim; and let our youth be trained To honor virtue more than place and gold.

IV

A hundred cities sapped by slow decay, A hundred codes and systems proven vain Lie hearsed in sand upon the heaving plain, Memorial ruins mounded, still and gray; And we who plod the barren waste to-day Another code evolving, think to gain Surcease of man's inheritance of pain And mold a state immune from evil's sway.

Not laws; but virtue in the soul we need, The old Socratic justice in the heart, The golden rule become the people's creed When years of training have performed their part For thus alone in home and church and mart Can evil perish and the race be freed.



The Dust Dethroned. [George Sterling]



Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod! In crypts profaned the moon at midnight peers; The owl upon the Sphinx hoots in her ears, And scant and sear the desert grasses nod Where once the armies of Assyria trod, With younger sunlight splendid on the spears; The lichens cling the closer with the years, And seal the eyelids of the weary god.

Where high the tombs of royal Egypt heave, The vulture shadows with arrested wings The indecipherable boast of kings, As Arab children hear their mother's cry And leave in mockery their toy — they leave The skull of Pharaoh staring at the sky.



Kinchinjunga. [Cale Young Rice]

(Which is the next highest of mountains)



I

O white Priest of Eternity, around Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice To Brahma in whose breath all lives and dies; O Hierarch enrobed in timeless snows, First-born of Asia whose maternal throes Seem changed now to a million human woes, Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound One sigh of all the mystery in thee found.

II

For in this world too much is overclear, Immortal Ministrant to many lands, From whose ice-altars flow to fainting sands Rivers that each libation poured expands. Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire! Thy people fathom life and find it dire, Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire To live again, though in Illusion's sphere, Behold concealed as Grief is in a tear.

III

Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites, Though dark Thibet, that dread ascetic, falls In strange austerity, whose trance appalls, Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls. Continue still thy silence high and sure, That something beyond fleeting may endure — Something that shall forevermore allure Imagination on to mystic flights Wherein alone no wing of Evil lights.

IV

Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes Of lifted granite round with reachless snows. Stand for Eternity while pilgrim rows Of all the nations envy thy repose. Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled. Be that alone on earth which has not failed. Be that which never yet has yearned or ailed, But since primeval Power upreared thy heights Has stood above all deaths and all delights.

V

And though thy loftier Brother shall be King, High-priest art thou to Brahma unrevealed, While thy white sanctity forever sealed In icy silence leaves desire congealed. In ghostly ministrations to the sun, And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, Be holy still, till East to West has run, And till no sacrificial suffering On any shrine is left to tell life's sting.



Scum o' the Earth. [Robert Haven Schauffler]



I

At the gate of the West I stand, On the isle where the nations throng. We call them "scum o' the earth";

Stay, are we doing you wrong, Young fellow from Socrates' land? — You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong Fresh from the Master Praxiteles' hand? So you're of Spartan birth? Descended, perhaps, from one of the band — Deathless in story and song — Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pass? Ah, I forget the straits, alas! More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth, That have doomed you to march in our "immigrant class" Where you're nothing but "scum o' the earth".

II

You Pole with the child on your knee, What dower bring you to the land of the free? Hark! does she croon That sad little tune That Chopin once found on his Polish lea And mounted in gold for you and for me? Now a ragged young fiddler answers In wild Czech melody That Dvorak took whole from the dancers. And the heavy faces bloom In the wonderful Slavic way; The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom, Suddenly dawn like the day. While, watching these folk and their mystery, I forget that they're nothing worth; That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, And men of all Slavic nations Are "polacks" — and "scum o' the earth".

III

Genoese boy of the level brow, Lad of the lustrous, dreamy eyes A-stare at Manhattan's pinnacles now In the first sweet shock of a hushed surprise; Within your far-rapt seer's eyes I catch the glow of the wild surmise That played on the Santa Maria's prow In that still gray dawn, Four centuries gone, When a world from the wave began to rise. Oh, it's hard to foretell what high emprise Is the goal that gleams When Italy's dreams Spread wing and sweep into the skies. Caesar dreamed him a world ruled well; Dante dreamed Heaven out of Hell; Angelo brought us there to dwell; And you, are you of a different birth? — You're only a "dago", — and "scum o' the earth"!

IV

Stay, are we doing you wrong Calling you "scum o' the earth", Man of the sorrow-bowed head, Of the features tender yet strong, — Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery Mingled with patience and dread? Have not I known you in history, Sorrow-bowed head? Were you the poet-king, worth Treasures of Ophir unpriced? Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art Foretold how the rabble would mock That shepherd of spirits, erelong, Who should carry the lambs on his heart And tenderly feed his flock? Man — lift that sorrow-bowed head. Lo! 't is the face of the Christ!

The vision dies at its birth. You're merely a butt for our mirth. You're a "sheeny" — and therefore despised And rejected as "scum o' the earth".

V

Countrymen, bend and invoke Mercy for us blasphemers, For that we spat on these marvelous folk, Nations of darers and dreamers, Scions of singers and seers, Our peers, and more than our peers. "Rabble and refuse", we name them And "scum o' the earth", to shame them. Mercy for us of the few, young years, Of the culture so callow and crude, Of the hands so grasping and rude, The lips so ready for sneers At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers. Mercy for us who dare despise Men in whose loins our Homer lies; Mothers of men who shall bring to us The glory of Titian, the grandeur of Huss; Children in whose frail arms shall rest Prophets and singers and saints of the West.

Newcomers all from the eastern seas, Help us incarnate dreams like these. Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. Help us to father a nation, strong In the comradeship of an equal birth, In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth.



Da Boy from Rome. [Thomas Augustine Daly]



To-day ees com' from Eetaly A boy ees leeve een Rome, An' he ees stop an' speak weeth me — I weesh he stay at home.

He stop an' say "Hallo," to me. An' w'en he standin' dere I smal da smal of Eetaly Steell steeckin' een hees hair, Dat com' weeth heem across da sea, An' een da clo'es he wear.

Da peopla bomp heem een da street, Da noise ees scare heem, too; He ees so clumsy een da feet He don't know w'at to do, Dere ees so many theeng he meet Dat ees so strange, so new.

He sheever an' he ask eef here Eet ees so always cold. Den een hees eye ees com' a tear — He ees no vera old — An', oh, hees voice ees soun' so queer I have no heart for scold.

He look up een da sky so gray, But oh, hees eye ees be So far away, so far away, An' w'at he see I see. Da sky eet ees no gray to-day At home een Eetaly.

He see da glada peopla seet Where warma shine da sky — Oh, while he eesa look at eet He ees baygeen to cry. Eef I no growl an' swear a beet So, too, my frand, would I.

Oh, why he stop an' speak weeth me, Dees boy dat leeve een Rome, An' com' to-day from Eetaly? I weesh he stay at home.



The Fugitives. [Florence Wilkinson]



We are they that go, that go, Plunging before the hidden blow. We run the byways of the earth, For we are fugitive from birth, Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad That sow, that sow the sullen sod.

We cannot wait, we cannot stop For flushing field or quickened crop; The orange bow of dusky dawn Glimmers our smoking swath upon; Blindfolded still we hurry on.

How we do know the ways we run That are blindfolded from the sun? We stagger swiftly to the call, Our wide hands feeling for the wall.

Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven, By grace of day and leisure given, Pity us, fugitive and driven — The lithe whip curling on our track, The headlong haste that looks not back!



The Song of the Unsuccessful. [Richard Burton]



We are the toilers from whom God barred The gifts that are good to hold. We meant full well and we tried full hard, And our failures were manifold.

And we are the clan of those whose kin Were a millstone dragging them down. Yea, we had to sweat for our brother's sin, And lose the victor's crown.

The seeming-able, who all but scored, From their teeming tribe we come: What was there wrong with us, O Lord, That our lives were dark and dumb?

The men ten-talented, who still Strangely missed of the goal, Of them we are: it seems Thy will To harrow some in soul.

We are the sinners, too, whose lust Conquered the higher claims, We sat us prone in the common dust, And played at the devil's games.

We are the hard-luck folk, who strove Zealously, but in vain; We lost and lost, while our comrades throve, And still we lost again.

We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brain we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours.

A mighty army our full ranks make, We shake the graves as we go; The sudden stroke and the slow heartbreak, They both have brought us low.

And while we are laying life's sword aside, Spent and dishonored and sad, Our epitaph this, when once we have died: "The weak lie here, and the bad."

We wonder if this can be really the close, Life's fever cooled by death's trance; And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes, "God, give us another chance!"



They went forth to Battle, but they always fell. [Shaemas O Sheel]



They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields; Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well, And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, They were not weak, as one who vainly wields A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell How on the hard-fought field they always fell.

It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard.

They went forth to battle but they always fell; Their might was not the might of lifted spears; Over the battle-clamor came a spell Of troubling music, and they fought not well. Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; Their names are old sad stories in men's ears; Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell, Who went to battle forth and always fell.



The Eagle that is forgotten. [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay]

(John P. Altgeld)



Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. "We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day after day. Now you were ended. They praised you . . . and laid you away. The others, that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor, That should have remembered forever, . . . remember no more. Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call, The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons. The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. Sleep on, O brave-hearted, O wise man that kindled the flame — To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, To live in mankind, far, far more than to live in a name! —



A Memorial Tablet. [Florence Wilkinson]

Oh, Agathocles, fare thee well!



Naked and brave thou goest Without one glance behind! Hast thou no fear, Agathocles, Or backward grief of mind?

The dreamy dog beside thee Presses against thy knee; He, too, oh, sweet Agathocles, Is deaf and visioned like thee.

Thou art so lithe and lovely And yet thou art not ours. What Delphic saying compels thee Of kings or topless towers?

That little blowing mantle Thou losest from thine arm — No shoon nor staff, Agathocles, Nor sword, to fend from harm!

Thou hast the changed impersonal Awed brow of mystery — Yesterday thou wast burning, Mad boy, for Glaucoe.

Philis thy mother calls thee: Mine eyes with tears are dim, Turn once, look once, Agathocles — (The gods have blinded him.)

Come back, Agathocles, the night — Brings thee what place of rest? Wine-sweet are Glaucoe's kisses, Flower-soft her budding breast.

He seems to hearken, Glaucoe, He seems to listen and smile; (Nay, Philis, but a god-song He follows this many a mile.)

Come back, come back, Agathocles! (He scents the asphodel; Unearthly swift he runneth.) Agathocles, farewell!



To-Day. [Helen Gray Cone]



Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion, English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way, Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day!

Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in the ring hot-sanded, Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay, Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, bare-handed; Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day!



The Man with the Hoe. [Edwin Markham]

(Written after seeing Millet's world-famous painting)



Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this — More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed — More filled with signs and portents for the soul — More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — With those who shaped him to the thing he is — When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries?



Exordium. [George Cabot Lodge]



Speak! said my soul, be stern and adequate; The sunset falls from Heaven, the year is late, Love waits with fallen tresses at thy gate And mourns for perished days. Speak! in the rigor of thy fate and mine, Ere these scant, dying days, bright-lipped with wine, All one by one depart, resigned, divine, Through desert, autumn ways.

Speak! thou art lonely in thy chilly mind, With all this desperate solitude of wind, The solitude of tears that make thee blind, Of wild and causeless tears. Speak! thou hast need of me, heart, hand and head, Speak, if it be an echo of thy dread, A dirge of hope, of young illusions dead — Perchance God hears!



The Frozen Grail. [Elsa Barker]

(To Peary and his men, before the last expedition)



Why sing the legends of the Holy Grail, The dead crusaders of the Sepulchre, While these men live? Are the great bards all dumb? Here is a vision to shake the blood of Song, And make Fame's watchman tremble at his post.

What shall prevail against the spirit of man, When cold, the lean and snarling wolf of hunger, The threatening spear of ice-mailed Solitude, Silence, and space, and ghostly-footed Fear Prevail not? Dante, in his frozen hell Shivering, endured no bleakness like the void These men have warmed with their own flaming will, And peopled with their dreams. The wind from fierce Arcturus in their faces, at their backs The whip of the world's doubt, and in their souls Courage to die — if death shall be the price Of that cold cup that will assuage their thirst; They climb, and fall, and stagger toward the goal. They lay themselves the road whereby they travel, And sue God for a franchise. Does He watch Behind the lattice of the boreal lights? In that grail-chapel of their stern-vowed quest, Ninety of God's long paces toward the North, Will they behold the splendor of His face? To conquer the world must man renounce the world? These have renounced it. Had ye only faith Ye might move mountains, said the Nazarene. Why, these have faith to move the zones of man Out to the point where All and Nothing meet. They catch the bit of Death between their teeth, In one wild dash to trample the unknown And leap the gates of knowledge. They have dared Even to defy the sentinel that guards The doors of the forbidden — dared to hurl Their breathing bodies after the Ideal, That like the heavenly kingdom must be taken Only by violence. The star that leads The leader of this quest has held the world True to its orbit for a million years.

And shall he fail? They never fail who light Their lamp of faith at the unwavering flame Burnt for the altar service of the Race Since the beginning. He shall find the strange — The white immaculate Virgin of the North, Whose steady gaze no mortal ever dared, Whose icy hand no human ever grasped. In the dread silence and the solitude She waits and listens through the centuries For one indomitable, destined soul, Born to endure the glory of her eyes, And lift his warm lips to the frozen Grail.



The Unconquered Air. [Florence Earle Coates]



I

Others endure Man's rule: he therefore deems I shall endure it — I, the unconquered Air! Imagines this triumphant strength may bear His paltry sway! yea, ignorantly dreams, Because proud Rhea now his vassal seems, And Neptune him obeys in billowy lair, That he a more sublime assault may dare, Where blown by tempest wild the vulture screams!

Presumptuous, he mounts: I toss his bones Back from the height supernal he has braved: Ay, as his vessel nears my perilous zones, I blow the cockle-shell away like chaff And give him to the Sea he has enslaved. He founders in its depths; and then I laugh!

II

Impregnable I held myself, secure Against intrusion. Who can measure Man? How should I guess his mortal will outran Defeat so far that danger could allure For its own sake? — that he would all endure, All sacrifice, all suffer, rather than Forego the daring dreams Olympian That prophesy to him of victory sure?

Ah, tameless courage! — dominating power That, all attempting, in a deathless hour Made earth-born Titans godlike, in revolt! — Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings: Who fears nor Fate, nor Time, nor what Time brings, May drive Apollo's steeds, or wield the thunderbolt!



The Happiest Heart. [John Vance Cheney]



Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest.



To a New York Shop-Girl dressed for Sunday. [Anna Hempstead Branch]



To-day I saw the shop-girl go Down gay Broadway to meet her beau.

Conspicuous, splendid, conscious, sweet, She spread abroad and took the street.

And all that niceness would forbid, Superb, she smiled upon and did.

Let other girls, whose happier days Preserve the perfume of their ways,

Go modestly. The passing hour Adds splendor to their opening flower.

But from this child too swift a doom Must steal her prettiness and bloom,

Toil and weariness hide the grace That pleads a moment from her face.

So blame her not if for a day She flaunts her glories while she may.

She half perceives, half understands, Snatching her gifts with both her hands.

The little strut beneath the skirt That lags neglected in the dirt,

The indolent swagger down the street — Who can condemn such happy feet!

Innocent! vulgar — that's the truth! Yet with the darling wiles of youth!

The bright, self-conscious eyes that stare With such hauteur, beneath such hair! Perhaps the men will find me fair!

Charming and charmed, flippant, arrayed, Fluttered and foolish, proud, displayed, Infinite pathos of parade!

The bangles and the narrowed waist — The tinsled boa — forgive the taste! Oh, the starved nights she gave for that, And bartered bread to buy her hat!

She flows before the reproachful sage And begs her woman's heritage.

Dear child, with the defiant eyes, Insolent with the half surmise We do not quite admire, I know How foresight frowns on this vain show!

And judgment, wearily sad, may see No grace in such frivolity.

Yet which of us was ever bold To worship Beauty, hungry and cold!

Scorn famine down, proudly expressed Apostle to what things are best.

Let him who starves to buy the food For his soul's comfort find her good,

Nor chide the frills and furbelows That are the prettiest things she knows.

Poet and prophet in God's eyes Make no more perfect sacrifice.

Who knows before what inner shrine She eats with them the bread and wine?

Poor waif! One of the sacred few That madly sought the best they knew!

Dear — let me lean my cheek to-night Close, close to yours. Ah, that is right.

How warm and near! At last I see One beauty shines for thee and me.

So let us love and understand — Whose hearts are hidden in God's hand.

And we will cherish your brief Spring And all its fragile flowering.

God loves all prettiness, and on this Surely his angels lay their kiss.



A Faun in Wall Street. [John Myers O'Hara]



What shape so furtive steals along the dim Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June; This day of rest, when all the roses swoon In Attic vales where dryads wait for him? What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim That lured him here this golden afternoon; Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim?

Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies Are fanes men rear to other deities; Far to the east the haunted woodland lies, And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas, Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise.



The Mystic. [Witter Bynner]



By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine,

When, "Hark!" you said, — "Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The winged breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill — But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill.



The Cloud. [Josephine Preston Peabody]



The islands called me far away, The valleys called me home. The rivers with a silver voice Drew on my heart to come.

The paths reached tendrils to my hair From every vine and tree. There was no refuge anywhere Until I came to thee.

There is a northern cloud I know, Along a mountain crest; And as she folds her wings of mist, So I could make my rest.

There is no chain to bind her so Unto that purple height; And she will shine and wander, slow, Slow, with a cloud's delight.

Would she begone? She melts away, A heavenly joyous thing. Yet day will find the mountain white, White-folded with her wing.

As you may see, but half aware If it be late or soon, Soft breathing on the day-time air, The fair forgotten Moon.

And though love cannot bind me, Love, — Ah no! — yet I could stay Maybe, with wings forever spread, — Forever, and a day.



The Thought of her. [Richard Hovey]



My love for thee doth take me unaware, When most with lesser things my brain is wrought, As in some nimble interchange of thought The silence enters, and the talkers stare. Suddenly I am still and thou art there, A viewless visitant and unbesought, And all my thinking trembles into nought And all my being opens like a prayer. Thou art the lifted Chalice in my soul, And I a dim church at the thought of thee; Brief be the moment, but the mass is said, The benediction like an aureole Is on my spirit, and shuddering through me A rapture like the rapture of the dead.



Song. "If love were but a little thing —". [Florence Earle Coates]



If love were but a little thing — Strange love, which, more than all, is great — One might not such devotion bring, Early to serve and late.

If love were but a passing breath — Wild love — which, as God knows, is sweet — One might not make of life and death A pillow for love's feet.



The Rosary. [Robert Cameron Rogers]



The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, To still a heart in absence wrung; I tell each bead unto the end — and there A cross is hung.

Oh, memories that bless — and burn! Oh, barren gain — and bitter loss! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross.



Once. [Trumbull Stickney]



That day her eyes were deep as night. She had the motion of the rose, The bird that veers across the light, The waterfall that leaps and throws Its irised spindrift to the sun. She seemed a wind of music passing on.

Alone I saw her that one day Stand in the window of my life. Her sudden hand melted away Under my lips, and without strife I held her in my arms awhile And drew into my lips her living smile, —

Now many a day ago and year! Since when I dream and lie awake In summer nights to feel her near, And from the heavy darkness break Glitters, till all my spirit swims And her hand hovers on my shaking limbs.

If once again before I die I drank the laughter of her mouth And quenched my fever utterly, I say, and should it cost my youth, 'T were well! for I no more should wait Hammering midnight on the doors of fate.



Love knocks at the Door. [John Hall Wheelock]



In the pain, in the loneliness of love, To the heart of my sweet I fled. I knocked at the door of her living heart, "Let in — let in —" I said.

"What seek you here?" the voices cried, "You seeker among the dead" — "Herself I seek, herself I seek, Let in — let in!" I said.

They opened the door of her living heart, But the core thereof was dead. They opened the core of her living heart — A worm at the core there fed.

"Where is my sweet, where is my sweet?" "She is gone away, she is fled. Long years ago she fled away, She will never return," they said.



The Candle and the Flame. [George Sylvester Viereck]



Thy hands are like cool herbs that bring Balm to men's hearts, upon them laid; Thy lovely-petalled lips are made As any blossom of the spring. But in thine eyes there is a thing, O Love, that makes me half afraid.

For they are old, those eyes . . . They gleam Between the waking and the dream With antique wisdom, like a bright Lamp strangled by the temple's veil, That beckons to the acolyte Who prays with trembling lips and pale In the long watches of the night.

They are as old as Life. They were When proud Gomorrah reared its head A new-born city. They were there When in the places of the dead Men swathed the body of the Lord. They visioned Pa-wak raise the wall Of China. They saw Carthage fall And marked the grim Hun lead his horde.

There is no secret anywhere Nor any joy or shame that lies Not writ somehow in those child-eyes Of thine, O Love, in some strange wise. Thou art the lad Endymion, And that great queen with spice and myrrh From Araby, whom Solomon Delighted, and the lust of her.

The legions marching from the sea With Caesar's cohorts sang of thee, How thy fair head was more to him Than all the land of Italy. Yea, in the old days thou wast she Who lured Mark Antony from home To death and Egypt, seeing he Lost love when he lost Rome.

Thou saw'st old Tubal strike the lyre, Yea, first for thee the poet hurled Defiance at God's starry choir! Thou art the romance and the fire, Thou art the pageant and the strife, The clamour, mounting high and higher, From all the lovers in the world To all the lords of love and life.

. . . . .

Perhaps the passions of mankind Are but the torches mystical Lit by some spirit-hand to find The dwelling of the Master-Mind That knows the secret of it all, In the great darkness and the wind.

We are the Candle, Love the Flame, Each little life-light flickers out, Love bides, immortally the same: When of life's fever we shall tire He will desert us and the fire Rekindle new in prince or lout.

Twin-born of knowledge and of lust, He was before us, he shall be Indifferent still of thee and me, When shattered is life's golden cup, When thy young limbs are shrivelled up, And when my heart is turned to dust.

Nay, sweet, smile not to know at last That thou and I, or knave, or fool, Are but the involitient tool Of some world-purpose vague and vast. No bar to passion's fury set, With monstrous poppies spice the wine: For only drunk are we divine, And only mad shall we forget!



Stains. [Theodosia Garrison]



The three ghosts on the lonesome road Spake each to one another, "Whence came that stain about your mouth No lifted hand may cover?" "From eating of forbidden fruit, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the sunless road Spake each to one another, "Whence came that red burn on your foot No dust nor ash may cover?" "I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the windless road Spake each to one another, "Whence came that blood upon your hand No other hand may cover?" "From breaking of a woman's heart, Brother, my brother."

"Yet on the earth clean men we walked, Glutton and Thief and Lover; White flesh and fair it hid our stains That no man might discover." "Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother."



De Massa ob de Sheepfol'. [Sarah Pratt McLean Greene]



De massa ob de sheepfol' Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin — So he call to de hirelin' shephe'd: "Is my sheep — is dey all come in?"

Oh den, says de hirelin' shephe'd, "Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's — But de res', dey's all brung in. But de res', dey's all brung in."

Den de massa ob de sheepfol' Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin — So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', Callin' sof': "Come in! Come in!" Callin' sof': "Come in! Come in!"

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro de col' night rain an' win', An' up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf Whar de sleet fa' piercin' thin — De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' Dey all comes gadderin' in. De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in!



Black Sheep. [Richard Burton]



From their folded mates they wander far, Their ways seem harsh and wild; They follow the beck of a baleful star, Their paths are dream-beguiled.

Yet haply they sought but a wider range, Some loftier mountain-slope, And little recked of the country strange Beyond the gates of hope.

And haply a bell with a luring call Summoned their feet to tread Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall And the lurking snare are spread.

Maybe, in spite of their tameless days Of outcast liberty, They're sick at heart for the homely ways Where their gathered brothers be.

And oft at night, when the plains fall dark And the hills loom large and dim, For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, And their souls go out to him.

Meanwhile, "Black sheep! Black sheep!" we cry, Safe in the inner fold; And maybe they hear, and wonder why, And marvel, out in the cold.



Let me no more a Mendicant. [Arthur Colton]



Let me no more a mendicant Without the gate Of the world's kingly palace wait; Morning is spent, The sentinels change and challenge in the tower, Now slant the shadows eastward hour by hour.

Open the door, O Seneschal! Within I see them sit, The feasters, daring destiny with wit, Casting to win Or lose their utmost, and men hurry by At offices of confluent energy.

Let me not here a mendicant Without the gate Linger from dayspring till the night is late, And there are sent All homeless stars to loiter in the sky, And beggared midnight winds to wander by.



Lincoln, the Man of the People. [Edwin Markham]



When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road — Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face. Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things; The rectitude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; The friendly welcome of the wayside well; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind — To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.

Sprung from the West, The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve — To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of God. And evermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the judgment thunders split the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place — Held the long purpose like a growing tree — Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.



The Master. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]

(Lincoln)



A flying word from here and there Had sown the name at which we sneered, But soon the name was everywhere, To be reviled and then revered: A presence to be loved and feared, We cannot hide it, or deny That we, the gentlemen who jeered, May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled; And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled. Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.

He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait — The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.

We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through, But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do. And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed? It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.

The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung. Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among The mysteries that are untold, The face we see was never young, Nor could it ever have been old.

For he, to whom we have applied Our shopman's test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died, As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic — and Olympian.

The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own: With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept Icarian wings.

For we were not as other men: 'T was ours to soar and his to see. But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our perigee And have one Titan at a time.



On the Building of Springfield. [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay]



Let not our town be large — remembering That little Athens was the Muses' home; That Oxford rules the heart of London still, That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.

Record it for the grandson of your son — A city is not builded in a day: Our little town cannot complete her soul Till countless generations pass away.

Now let each child be joined as to a church To her perpetual hopes, each man ordained; Let every street be made a reverent aisle Where music grows, and beauty is unchained.

Let Science and Machinery and Trade Be slaves of her, and make her all in all — Building against our blatant restless time An unseen, skillful, mediaeval wall.

Let every citizen be rich toward God. Let Christ, the beggar, teach divinity — Let no man rule who holds his money dear. Let this, our city, be our luxury.

We should build parks that students from afar Would choose to starve in, rather than go home — Fair little squares, with Phidian ornament — Food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb.

Songs shall be sung by us in that good day — Songs we have written — blood within the rhyme Beating, as when old England still was glad, The purple, rich, Elizabethan time.

Say, is my prophecy too fair and far? I only know, unless her faith be high, The soul of this our Nineveh is doomed, Our little Babylon will surely die.

Some city on the breast of Illinois No wiser and no better at the start, By faith shall rise redeemed — by faith shall rise Bearing the western glory in her heart —

The genius of the Maple, Elm and Oak, The secret hidden in each grain of corn — The glory that the prairie angels sing At night when sons of Life and Love are born —

Born but to struggle, squalid and alone, Broken and wandering in their early years. When will they make our dusty streets their goal, Within our attics hide their sacred tears?

When will they start our vulgar blood athrill With living language — words that set us free? When will they make a path of beauty clear Between our riches and our liberty?

We must have many Lincoln-hearted men — A city is not builded in a day — And they must do their work, and come and go While countless generations pass away.



The Poet's Town. [John G. Neihardt]



I

'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze, A prosy little village, You drowse away the days.

And yet — a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living lyric story Makes music of your prose.

Here once, returning never, The feet of song have trod; And flashed — Oh, once forever! — The singing Flame of God.

II

These were his fields Elysian: With mystic eyes he saw The sowers planting vision, The reapers gleaning awe.

Serfs to a sordid duty, He saw them with his heart, Priests of the Ultimate Beauty, Feeding the flame of art.

The weird, untempled Makers Pulsed in the things he saw; The wheat through its virile acres Billowed the Song of Law.

The epic roll of the furrow Flung from the writing plow, The dactyl phrase of the green-rowed maize Measured the music of Now.

III

Sipper of ancient flagons, Often the lonesome boy Saw in the farmers' wagons The chariots hurled at Troy.

Trundling in dust and thunder They rumbled up and down, Laden with princely plunder, Loot of the tragic Town.

And once when the rich man's daughter Smiled on the boy at play, Sword-storms, giddy with slaughter, Swept back the ancient day!

War steeds shrieked in the quiet, Far and hoarse were the cries; And Oh, through the din and the riot, The music of Helen's eyes!

Stabbed with the olden Sorrow, He slunk away from the play, For the Past and the vast To-morrow Were wedded in his To-day.

IV

Rich with the dreamer's pillage, An idle and worthless lad, Least in a prosy village, And prince in Allahabad;

Lover of golden apples, Munching a daily crust; Haunter of dream-built chapels, Worshipping in the dust;

Dull to the worldly duty, Less to the town he grew, And more to the God of Beauty Than even the grocer knew!

V

Corn for the buyers, and cattle — But what could the dreamer sell? Echoes of cloudy battle? Music from heaven and hell?

Spices and bales of plunder Argosied over the sea? Tapestry woven of wonder, And myrrh from Araby?

None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, Looter of Samarcand! Gold is heavy and yellow, And value is weighed in the hand!

VI

And yet, when the years had humbled The Kings in the Realm of the Boy, Song-built bastions crumbled, Ash-heaps smothering Troy;

Thirsting for shattered flagons, Quaffing a brackish cup, With all of his chariots, wagons — He never could quite grow up.

The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, He never could comprehend: Why should the borrowers borrow? Why should the lenders lend?

Never an oak tree borrowed, But took for its needs — and gave. Never an oak tree sorrowed; Debt was the mark of the slave.

Grass in the priceless weather Sucked from the paps of the Earth, And the hills that were lean it fleshed with green — Oh, what is a lesson worth?

But still did the buyers barter And the sellers squint at the scales; And price was the stake of the martyr, And cost was the lock of the jails.

VII

Windflowers herald the Maytide, Rendering worth for worth; Ragweeds gladden the wayside, Biting the dugs of the Earth;

Violets, scattering glories, Feed from the dewy gem: But dreamers are fed by the living and dead — And what is the gift from them?

VIII

Never a stalk of the Summer Dreams of its mission and doom: Only to hasten the Comer — Martyrdom unto the Bloom.

Ever the Mighty Chooser Plucks when the fruit is ripe, Scorning the mass and letting it pass, Keen for the cryptic type.

Greece in her growing season Troubled the lands and seas, Plotted and fought and suffered and wrought — Building a Sophocles!

Only a faultless temple Stands for the vassal's groan; The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife Blend in a graven stone.

Ne'er do the stern gods cherish The hope of the million lives; Always the Fact shall perish And only the Truth survives.

Gardens of roses wither, Shaping the perfect rose: And the poet's song shall live for the long, Dumb, aching years of prose.

IX

King of a Realm of Magic, He was the fool of the town, Hiding the ache of the tragic Under the grin of the clown.

Worn with the vain endeavor To fit in the sordid plan; Doomed to be poet forever, He longed to be only a man;

To be freed from the god's enthralling, Back with the reeds of the stream; Deaf to the Vision calling, And dead to the lash of the Dream.

X

But still did the Mighty Makers Stir in the common sod; The corn through its awful acres Trembled and thrilled with God!

More than a man was the sower, Lured by a man's desire, For a triune Bride walked close at his side — Dew and Dust and Fire!

More than a man was the plowman, Shouting his gee and haw; For a something dim kept pace with him, And ever the poet saw;

Till the winds of the cosmic struggle Made of his flesh a flute, To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune Unto the million mute.

XI

Son of the Mother of mothers, The womb and the tomb of Life, With Fire and Air for brothers And a clinging Dream for a wife;

Ever the soul of the dreamer Strove with its mortal mesh, And the lean flame grew till it fretted through The last thin links of flesh.

Oh, rending the veil asunder, He fled to mingle again With the dred Orestean thunder, The Lear of the driven rain!

XII

Once in a cycle the comet Doubles its lonesome track. Enriched with the tears of a thousand years, Aeschylus wanders back.

Ever inweaving, returning, The near grows out of the far; And Homer shall sing once more in a swing Of the austere Polar Star.

Then what of the lonesome dreamer With the lean blue flame in his breast? And who was your clown for a day, O Town, The strange, unbidden guest?

XIII

~'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze; A prosy little village, You drowse away the days.

And yet — a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living, lyric story Makes music of your prose!~



The New Life. [Witter Bynner]



Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth, Told him that truth Had unappealably been said In the great masterpieces of the dead: — Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head In acquiescent honour, while his heart Held natal tidings, — that a new life is the part Of every man that's born, A new life never lived before, And a new expectant art; It is the variations of the morn That are forever, more and more, The single dawning of the single truth. So answers Dante to the heart of youth!



Martin. [Joyce Kilmer]



When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth.

Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, — Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress. Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success.



As in the Midst of Battle there is Room. [George Santayana]



As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind.



Ex Libris. [Arthur Upson]



In an old book at even as I read Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, I crossed a tale of how, in other age, At Arqua, with his books around him, sped The word to Petrarch; and with noble head Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage To Silence paid his willing seigniorage. And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!"

Thus timely from old comradeships would I To Silence also rise. Let there be night, Stillness, and only these staid watchers by, And no light shine save my low study light — Lest of his kind intent some human cry Interpret not the Messenger aright.



The Poet. [Mildred McNeal Sweeney]



Himself is least afraid When the singing lips in the dust With all mute lips are laid. For thither all men must. Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song Upon the faithful air And given it speed — is strong That last strange hour to dare, Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time That greater self shall pass, And wear its eager prime And lend the youth it has Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest And now — his word gone forth — May have his perfect rest Low in the tender earth, The wind across his breast.



When I have gone Weird Ways. [John G. Neihardt]



When I have finished with this episode, Left the hard, uphill road, And gone weird ways to seek another load, Oh, friends, regret me not, nor weep for me, Child of Infinity!

Nor dig a grave, nor rear for me a tomb To say with lying writ: "Here in the gloom He who loved bigness takes a narrow room, Content to pillow here his weary head, For he is dead."

But give my body to the funeral pyre, And bid the laughing fire, Eager and strong and swift, like my desire, Scatter my subtle essence into space, Free me of time and place.

And sweep the bitter ashes from the hearth, Fling back the dust I borrowed from the earth Into the chemic broil of death and birth, The vast alembic of the cryptic scheme, Warm with the master-dream.

And thus, O little house that sheltered me, Dissolve again in wind and rain, to be Part of the cosmic weird economy. And, Oh, how oft with new life shalt thou lift Out of the atom-drift!



Trumbull Stickney. [George Cabot Lodge]



I

In silence, solitude and stern surmise His faith was tried and proved commensurate With life and death. The stone-blind eyes of Fate Perpetually stared into his eyes, Yet to the hazard of the enterprise He brought his soul, expectant and elate, And challenged, like a champion at the Gate, Death's undissuadable austerities. And thus, full-armed in all that Truth reprieves From dissolution, he beheld the breath Of daybreak flush his thought's exalted ways, While, like Dodona's sad, prophetic leaves, Round him the scant, supreme, momentous days Trembled and murmured in the wind of Death.

II

There moved a Presence always by his side, With eyes of pleasure and passion and wild tears, And on her lips the murmur of many years, And in her hair the chaplets of a bride; And with him, hour by hour, came one beside, Scatheless of Time and Time's vicissitude, Whose lips, perforce of endless solitude, Were silent and whose eyes were blind and wide. But when he died came One who wore a wreath Of star-light, and with fingers calm and bland Smoothed from his brows the trace of mortal pain; And of the two who stood on either hand, "This one is Life," he said, "And this is Death, And I am Love and Lord over these twain!"



Sentence. [Witter Bynner]



Shall I say that what heaven gave Earth has taken? — Or that sleepers in the grave Reawaken?

One sole sentence can I know, Can I say: You, my comrade, had to go, I to stay.



Comrades. [George Edward Woodberry]



Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! — Where is he now, the dark boy slender Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding, Biding, biding — but he rides far!

O love that passes the love of woman! Who that hath felt it shall ever forget, When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set? Ever, forever, lover and rover — They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart!

They are dead, the American grasses under; There is no one now who presses my side; By the African chotts I am riding asunder, And with great joy ride I the last great ride. I am fey; I am fain of sudden dying; Thousands of miles there is no one near; And my heart — all the night it is crying, crying In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.

Hearts of my music — them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers — Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er.

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; And one, far faring o'er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.



Comrades. [Richard Hovey]



Comrades, pour the wine to-night For the parting is with dawn! Oh, the clink of cups together, With the daylight coming on! Greet the morn With a double horn, When strong men drink together!

Comrades, gird your swords to-night, For the battle is with dawn! Oh, the clash of shields together, With the triumph coming on! Greet the foe, And lay him low, When strong men fight together!

Comrades, watch the tides to-night, For the sailing is with dawn! Oh, to face the spray together, With the tempest coming on! Greet the sea With a shout of glee, When strong men roam together!

Comrades, give a cheer to-night, For the dying is with dawn! Oh, to meet the stars together, With the silence coming on! Greet the end As a friend a friend, When strong men die together!



Calverly's. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]



We go no more to Calverly's, For there the lights are few and low; And who are there to see by them, Or what they see, we do not know. Poor strangers of another tongue May now creep in from anywhere, And we, forgotten, be no more Than twilight on a ruin there.

We two, the remnant. All the rest Are cold and quiet. You nor I, Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid, May ring them back from where they lie. No fame delays oblivion For them, but something yet survives: A record written fair, could we But read the book of scattered lives.

There'll be a page for Leffingwell, And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf; And who knows what for Clavering, Who died because he couldn't laugh? Who knows or cares? No sign is here, No face, no voice, no memory; No Lingard with his eerie joy, No Clavering, no Calverly.

We cannot have them here with us To say where their light lives are gone, Or if they be of other stuff Than are the moons of Ilion. So, be their place of one estate With ashes, echoes, and old wars, — Or ever we be of the night, Or we be lost among the stars.



Uriel. [Percy MacKaye]

(In memory of William Vaughn Moody)



I

Uriel, you that in the ageless sun Sit in the awful silences of light, Singing of vision hid from human sight, — Prometheus, beautiful rebellious one! And you, Deucalion, For whose blind seed was brought the illuming spark, Are you not gathered, now his day is done, Beside the brink of that relentless dark — The dark where your dear singer's ghost is gone?

II

Imagined beings, who majestic blend Your forms with beauty! — questing, unconfined, The mind conceived you, though the quenched mind Goes down in dark where you in dawn ascend. Our songs can but suspend The ultimate silence: yet could song aspire The realms of mortal music to extend And wake a Sibyl's voice or Seraph's lyre — How should it tell the dearness of a friend?

III

The simplest is the inexpressible; The heart of music still evades the Muse, And arts of men the heart of man suffuse, And saddest things are made of silence still. In vain the senses thrill To give our sorrows glorious relief In pyre of verse and pageants volatile, And I, in vain, to speak for him my grief Whose spirit of fire invokes my waiting will.

IV

To him the best of friendship needs must be Uttered no more; yet was he so endowed That Poetry because of him is proud And he more noble for his poetry, Wherefore infallibly I obey the strong compulsion which this verse Lays on my lips with strange austerity — Now that his voice is silent — to rehearse For my own heart how he was dear to me.

V

Not by your gradual sands, elusive Time, We measure your gray sea, that never rests; The bleeding hour-glasses in our breasts Mete with quick pangs the ebbing of our prime, And drip, like sudden rime In March, that melts to runnels from a pane The south breathes on — oblivion of sublime Crystallizations, and the ruthless wane Of glittering stars, that scarce had range to climb.

VI

Darkling those constellations of his soul Glimmered, while racks of stellar lightning shot The white, creative meteors of thought Through that last night, where — clad in cloudy stole — Beside his ebbing shoal Of life-blood, stood Saint Paul, blazing a theme Of living drama from a fiery scroll Across his stretched vision as in dream — When Death, with blind dark, blotted out the whole.

VII

And yet not all: though darkly alien Those uncompleted worlds of work to be Are waned; still, touched by them, the memory Gives afterglow; and now that comes again The mellow season when Our eyes last met, his kindling currents run Quickening within me gladness and new ken Of life, that I have shared his prime with one Who wrought large-minded for the love of men.

VIII

But not alone to share that large estate Of work and interchange of communings — The little human paths to heavenly things Were also ours: the casual, intimate Vistas, which consecrate — With laughter and quick tears — the dusty noon Of days, and by moist beams irradiate Our plodding minds with courage, and attune The fellowship that bites its thumb at fate.

IX

Where art thou now, mine host Guffanti? — where The iridescence of thy motley troop! Ah, where the merry, animated group That snuggled elbows for an extra chair, When space was none to spare, To pour the votive Chianti for a toast To dramas dark and lyrics debonair, The while, to 'Bella Napoli', mine host Exhaled his Parmazan, Parnassan air!

X

Thy Parmazan, immortal laird of ease, Can never mold, thy caviare is blest, While still our glowing Uriel greets the rest Around thy royal board of memories, Where sit, the salt of these, He of the laughter of a Hundred Lights, Blithe Eldorado of high poesies, And he — of enigmatic gentle knights The kindly keen — who sings of 'Calverly's'.

XI

Because he never wore his sentient heart For crows and jays to peck, ofttimes to such He seemed a silent fellow, who o'ermuch Held from the general gossip-ground apart, Or tersely spoke, and tart: How should they guess what eagle tore, within, His quick of sympathy for humblest smart Of human wretchedness, or probed his spleen Of scorn against the hypocritic mart!

XII

Sometimes insufferable seemed to come That wrath of sympathy: One windy night We watched through squalid panes, forlornly white, — Amid immense machines' incessant hum — Frail figures, gaunt and dumb, Of overlabored girls and children, bowed Above their slavish toil: "O God! — A bomb, A bomb!" he cried, "and with one fiery cloud Expunge the horrible Caesars of this slum!"

XIII

Another night dreams on the Cornish hills: Trembling within the low moon's pallid fires, The tall corn-tassels lift their fragrant spires; From filmy spheres, a liquid starlight fills — Like dew of daffodils — The fragile dark, where multitudinous The rhythmic, intermittent silence thrills, Like song, the valleys. — "Hark!" he murmurs, "Thus May bards from crickets learn their canticles!"

XIV

Now Morning, not less lavish of her sweets, Leads us along the woodpaths — in whose hush The quivering alchemy of the pure thrush Cools from above the balsam-dripping heats — To find, in green retreats, 'Mid men of clay, the great, quick-hearted man Whose subtle art our human age secretes, Or him whose brush, tinct with cerulean, Blooms with soft castle-towers and cloud-capped fleets.

XV

Still to the sorcery of August skies In frilled crimson flaunt the hollyhocks, Where, lithely poised along the garden walks, His little maid enamoured blithe outvies The dipping butterflies In motion — ah, in grace how grown the while, Since he was wont to render to her eyes His knightly court, or touch with flitting smile Her father's heart by his true flatteries!

XVI

But summer's golden pastures boast no trail So splendid as our fretted snowshoes blaze Where, sharp across the amethystine ways, Iron Ascutney looms in azure mail, And, like a frozen grail, The frore sun sets, intolerably fair; Mute, in our homebound snow-tracks, we exhale The silvery cold, and soon — where bright logs flare — Talk the long indoor hours, till embers fail.

XVII

Ah, with the smoke what smouldering desires Waft to the starlight up the swirling flue! — Thoughts that may never, as the swallows do, Nest circling homeward to their native fires! Ardors the soul suspires The extinct stars drink with the dreamer's breath; The morning-song of Eden's early choirs Grows dim with Adam; close at the ear of death Relentless angels tune our earthly lyres!

XVIII

Let it be so: More sweet it is to be A listener of love's ephemeral song, And live with beauty though it be not long, And die enamoured of eternity, Though in the apogee Of time there sit no individual Godhead of life, than to reject the plea Of passionate beauty: loveliness is all, And love is more divine than memory.



Azrael. [Robert Gilbert Welsh]



The angels in high places Who minister to us, Reflect God's smile, — their faces Are luminous; Save one, whose face is hidden, (The Prophet saith), The unwelcome, the unbidden, Azrael, Angel of Death. And yet that veiled face, I know Is lit with pitying eyes, Like those faint stars, the first to glow Through cloudy winter skies. That they may never tire, Angels, by God's decree, Bear wings of snow and fire, — Passion and purity; Save one, all unavailing, (The Prophet saith), His wings are gray and trailing, Azrael, Angel of Death. And yet the souls that Azrael brings Across the dark and cold, Look up beneath those folded wings, And find them lined with gold.



The Flight. [Lloyd Mifflin]



Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. The angel raised his hand and looked and said, "Which world, of all yon starry myriad, Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude Became a harp whereon his voice and mood Made spheral music round his haloed head. I spake — for then I had not long been dead — "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood A moment on these orbs ere I decide . . . What is yon lower star that beauteous shines And with soft splendour now incarnadines Our wings? — THERE would I go and there abide." Then he as one who some child's thought divines: "That is the world where yesternight you died."



The Rival. [James Whitcomb Riley]



I so loved once, when Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place.

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love — kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again.

And lo! she answered not: and she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me.



A Rhyme of Death's Inn. [Lizette Woodworth Reese]



A rhyme of good Death's inn! My love came to that door; And she had need of many things, The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head, "And is there room?" said she; "There was no room in Bethlehem's inn For Christ who died for me."

But said the keeper of the inn, "His name is on the door." My love then straightway entered there: She hath come back no more.



The Outer Gate. [Nora May French]



Life said: "My house is thine with all its store: Behold I open shining ways to thee — Of every inner portal make thee free: O child, I may not bar the outer door. Go from me if thou wilt, to come no more; But all thy pain is mine, thy flesh of me; And must I hear thee, faint and woefully, Call on me from the darkness and implore?"

Nay, mother, for I follow at thy will. But oftentimes thy voice is sharp to hear, Thy trailing fragrance heavy on the breath; Always the outer hall is very still, And on my face a pleasant wind and clear Blows straitly from the narrow gate of Death.



The Ashes in the Sea. [George Sterling]

N. M. F.



Whither, with blue and pleading eyes, — Whither, with cheeks that held the light Of winter's dawn in cloudless skies, Evadne, was thy flight?

Such as a sister's was thy brow; Thy hair seemed fallen from the moon — Part of its radiance, as now, Of shifting tide and dune.

Did Autumn's grieving lure thee hence, Or silence ultimate beguile? Ever our things of consequence Awakened but thy smile.

Is it with thee that ocean takes A stranger sorrow to its tone? With thee the star of evening wakes More beautiful, more lone?

For wave and hill and sky betray A subtle tinge and touch of thee; Thy shadow lingers in the day, Thy voice in winds to be.

Beauty — hast thou discovered her By deeper seas no moons control? What stars have magic now to stir Thy swift and wilful soul?

Or may thy heart no more forget The grievous world that once was home, That here, where love awaits thee yet, Thou seemest yet to roam?

For most, far-wandering, I guess Thy witchery on the haunted mind, In valleys of thy loneliness, Made clean with ocean's wind.

And most thy presence here seems told, A waif of elemental deeps, When, at its vigils unconsoled, Some night of winter weeps.



We needs must be divided in the Tomb. [George Santayana]



We needs must be divided in the tomb, For I would die among the hills of Spain, And o'er the treeless, melancholy plain Await the coming of the final gloom. But thou — O pitiful! — wilt find scant room Among thy kindred by the northern main, And fade into the drifting mist again, The hemlocks' shadow, or the pines' perfume.

Let gallants lie beside their ladies' dust In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned; Let the sea part our ashes, if it must, The souls fled thence which love immortal burned, For they were wedded without bond of lust, And nothing of our heart to earth returned.



Departure. [Hermann Hagedorn]



My true love from her pillow rose And wandered down the summer lane. She left her house to the wind's carouse, And her chamber wide to the rain.

She did not stop to don her coat, She did not stop to smooth her bed — But out she went in glad content There where the bright path led.

She did not feel the beating storm, But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail, To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere — I have not found her trail.



Song. [Richard Le Gallienne]



She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! Sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful, waiting star.



The Invisible Bride. [Edwin Markham]



The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free — The one that touched my youth — The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive — The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery On roads unknown to men, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.



The Inverted Torch. [Edith M. Thomas]



Threading a darksome passage all alone, The taper's flame, by envious current blown, Crouched low, and eddied round, as in affright, So challenged by the vast and hostile night, Then down I held the taper; — swift and fain Up climbed the lovely flower of light again!

Thou Kindler of the spark of life divine, Be henceforth the Inverted Torch a sign That, though the flame beloved thou dost depress, Thou wilt not speed it into nothingness; But out of nether gloom wilt reinspire, And homeward lift the keen empyreal fire!



Night's Mardi Gras. [Edward J. Wheeler]



Night is the true democracy. When day Like some great monarch with his train has passed, In regal pomp and splendor to the last, The stars troop forth along the Milky Way, A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray, On heaven's broad boulevard in pageants vast, And things of earth, the hunted and outcast, Come from their haunts and hiding-places; yea, Even from the nooks and crannies of the mind Visions uncouth and vagrant fancies start, And specters of dead joy, that shun the light, And impotent regrets and terrors blind, Each one, in form grotesque, playing its part In the fantastic Mardi Gras of Night.



The Mystic. [Cale Young Rice]



There is a quest that calls me, In nights when I am lone, The need to ride where the ways divide The Known from the Unknown. I mount what thought is near me And soon I reach the place, The tenuous rim where the Seen grows dim And the Sightless hides its face.

I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the sea, I have ridden the moon and stars. I have set my feet in the stirrup seat Of a comet coursing Mars. And everywhere Thro' the earth and air My thought speeds, lightning-shod, It comes to a place where checking pace It cries, "Beyond lies God!"

It calls me out of the darkness, It calls me out of sleep, "Ride! ride! for you must, to the end of Dust!" It bids — and on I sweep To the wide outposts of Being, Where there is Gulf alone — And thro' a Vast that was never passed I listen for Life's tone.

I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the night, I have ridden the ghosts that flee From the vaults of death like a chilling breath Over eternity. And everywhere Is the world laid bare — Ether and star and clod — Until I wind to its brink and find But the cry, "Beyond lies God!"