POETRY

EDITED BY

LOUIS UNTERMEYERA uthor of C/zallenge, T/ze New Adam

,Tbe New

Era in American Poetry ,etc .

NEW YORK

HARCOURT , BRACE AND COMPANY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For perm iss ion to rep rint most of the material in thisvolum e

, the editor wishes to thank not only the poetswhose cooperat ion has been of such assistance, but alsothe publishers, all of whom are holders of the copyright .

The indebtedness is alphabet ically acknowledged to :

RICHARD G. BADGER—for th e poem from Sun and Saddle

Leather by B adger C lark.BOBBS-M ERRILL COMPANY—for two poems from The Complete

Works of James Whitcomb R iley.

BRENTANo’

s—for th e poem from Chanteys and Ballads byHarry Kemp .

N ICHOLAS L. B ROWN—for the poem from B lood of Things byA lfred Kreymborg.

THE CENTURY COMPANY—for th e se l ections from M erchants

from Cathay by W i l l iam Rose B enét and War and Laughterby James Oppenh e im.

THE CENTURY M AGA Z INE—for “Lake Song by Jean StarrUnterm eyer.

DODD , M EAD COMPANY—for the poem from Lyrics of LocwlyLife and Lyrics of Love and Laughter by Pau l LaurenceDunbar.

GEORGE H . DORAN COMPANY—for the se lections from M oons ofGrandeur by W i l l iam Rose B enét, Vigils and Candles ThatB urn by A l ine Kilm er, Trees and Other Poems by JoyceKilm er.

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE COMPANY—for th e se lections from The

M an with the H oe and Lincoln and Other Poems by EdwinM arkham . Thanks also are due M r. Rudyard Kip l ing as

W e l l as A . P . Watt and Son for“T h e Return”

from The

Five Nations and “A n A stro loger’s Song”from Rewards

and Fairies by Rudyard Kip l ing.

E. P. DUTTON COMPANYE -for th e se lect ions from The Vale of111

A cknowledgm ents

Tempe by M ad ison Cawein, and the poem s from The Old

H untsman, Counter-A ttack and Picture Show by Siegfr iedSassoon .

FOUR SEAS COMPANY—for th e quotations from The Charnel Rose

and The H ouse of Dust by Conrad A iken, for th e poem fromWar and Love by R ichard A l d ington .

HARCOURT , BRACE COMPANY—for th e se l ections from A M is

cellany of American Poetry—1 92 0 ; Canz oni and Carmina byT. A . Daly, Smoke and Steel by Car l Sandburg, Challengeand The N ew Adam by Lou is Unterm eyer, Cross Currents

by M argaret Widdemer, N ets to Catch the Wind byE l inor Wyl ie, The Contemplative Quarry by Anna W ickham .

HARPER 85 B ROTH ERS—for th e se lection from Fables for the

Frivolous by Guy Wetmore Carr-y ] .HARR WAGNER PUBL ISH ING CO.

—for th e selections from The

Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin M iller.

HENRY HOLT COMPANY—for th e se lect ions from WildernessSongs by Grace Hazard Conk l ing,

Peacock P ie and TheListeners by Walter de la M are

,A B oy

’

s Will, North ofB oston, and lll ountain I nter‘val by Robert Frost, Ch icago

Poems and Cornhuskers by Car l Sandburg, Poems by EdwardThomas, These Tim es by Lou is Untermeyer, and Factories byM argaret Widdemer.

The se l ect ions from The Complete Poems of Thomas BaileyA ldrich , The Complete Works of B ret Harte, The Shoes

That Danced by A nna H empstead B ranch , B acoy and the

Goblin by Char les E . Carry ] , Grimm Tales M ade Gay byGuy Wetmore Carry ] , Poems 1 908

- 1 9 1 9 by John Dr inkwater,Riders of the Stars and Songs of the Trail by Harry H erbertKn ibbs

,Poems and Poetic Dramas by W i l l iam Vaughn

M oody,Lyrics of J oy by Frank D emp ster Sherman, Poems

by Edward Rowland Si l l , Sea Garden by “H . and th e

quotations from Some I magist Poets—1 9 1 6 and Some I magist

Poets—1 9 1 7 are used by perm ission of, and by spec ial arrangem ent with HOUGHTON M IFFLIN COMPANY, th e author ized publishers.

B . W. HU EBSCH—for th e se lections from Poems by W i lfredOwen, Amores and N ew Poems by D . H . Lawrence,The Ghetto and Sun-Up by Lo la R idge, Optimos by HoraceTraube l , Growing Pains and Dreams out of Darkness byJean Starr Untermeyer.

Acknowledgm ents V

ALFRED A . KNOPF—for th e se lections from A Canticle of P anby Witter Bynner, Collected Poems by W . H . Davies

,Fairies

and Fusiliers and Country Sentim ent by Robert Graves,Poems : First Series by J . C . Squire

,Colors of Life by M ax

Eastm an,A sphalt and Other Poems by Orrick Johns, M ush

rooms by A lfred Kreymborg, Songs for th e N ew Age, byJames Oppenh e im ,

Lustra by Ezra Pound , Profiles from China

by Eun ice Tietjens.

JOHN LANE COMPANY—for the se lections from Poems by G . K .

Ch esterton, Ballads and Songs by John Dav idson, The Collected Poems of Rupert B rooke, Admirals A ll by Henry Newbo lt

,Lyrics and D ramas by Stephen Ph i l l ip s, The H ope of

the World and Other Poems by W i l l iam Watson.

BROWN COMPANY—for th e se l ections from Poems and

Poems—Third Series by Em i ly D ickinson .

THE M ACM ILLAN COMPANY—for th e se l ect ions from The Congo

and Other Poems and The Ch inese N ightingale by V ach e lLind say

,Sword B lades and Poppy Seed and Pictures of the

Floating World by Amy Lowe l l , Spoon R icver A nthology byEdgar Lee M asters, The Quest by John G . Neihardt, The

M an Against the Sky by Edwin A r l ington Robinson,Love

Songs and Flame and Shadow by Sara Teasdal e , Fires and

B orderlands by W . W . G ibson, Poems by Ralph Hodgson,Good Friday and Other Poems and th e passage from “Dauber”in The Story of A Round-House by John M asefi eld.

THE M ANAS PRESS—for the se lections from Verse by A de laideCrapsey .

THOMAS B . MOSHER—for the se lect ions from A Quiet Road and

A Wayside Lute by Liz ette Woodworth R eese .

THE NEW REPUBLIC—for the poem by R idge l ey Torrence.

PAGAN PUBLISH ING COMPANY—for two poems from M inna and

M yself by M axwe l l B odenh eim .

THE POETRY BOOKSHOP (England )—for the excerpts fromStrange M eetings and Children of Love by Harol d M onro,The Farm er

’s B ride by Char lotte M ew and th e poems re

printed from the biennial antho logies, Georgian Poetry .

‘

G. P. PUTMAN’S SONS—for th e tit le-

poem from I n FlandersFields by John M cCrae .

A . M . ROBERTSON—for th e sonnet from The H ouse of Orchidsby George Ster l ing.

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS—for th e se lect ions from Poems by

A cknowledgm ents

H enry Cuyl er B unner , Poems by Eugene Fie l d , Poems byW i l l iam Ernest H en l ey

,Poems of Sidney Lanier, Th e

Children of th e N ight and The Town D own the River byEdwin A r l ington Robinson, and Poems by A lan Seeger.

FRANK SHAY—for th e quotation from Figs from Th istles byEdna St. V incent M i l lay .

SH ERMAN,FRENCH COMPANY—for th e two poem s from The

Human Fantasy and Love and Liberation, by John Hal lWh ee lock .

SMALL,M AYNARD COMPANY—for th e se l ect ions from B allads

of Lost Hafven by B l iss Carman, A long the Trail by R ichardHovey, Songs from Vagabondia and M ore Songs from Vaga

bondia by R ichard Hovey and B l i ss Carman.

F. A . STOKES COMPANY—for th e se l ec tions from War I s Kind

by Stephen Crane , Grenstone Poems by W itter Bynner, and

Poems by a Little Girl by H i l da Conkl ing.

STURGIS WALTON COMPANY—for th e poem from M ondayM orning by Jam es Opp enhe im .

THE YALE R EVI EW—for “T h e Onset by Robert Frost and Two

Songs for So l itud e” by Sara Teasdal e .

THE YALE UN IVERSITY PRESS—for se l ect ions from Young Ad

!venture by Steph en V incent B enét and The Burglar of the

Z odiac by W i l l iam Rose B enét.

A FOREWORD

Modern is, perhaps, the most m isleading adject ivein the dict ionary . There is no term in any languagethat is more fluctuant and elusive , that sh ifts its mean ingswith greater rap id ity, that turns its back so qu ickly uponthose ardent champ ions who defended it most stubbornly.

T he present m erges so swiftly into the past that today’s

defin it ion of modern ity may seem ,after the shortest of

inte rvals, an impertinent apology for som e safely en

shrined classic ism . Numberless crit ics have been hauntedby the knowledge that the outrageous heresy of to-day

is often the orthodox dogma of to morrow.

And yet, though one should not use hard and fastrules when m easur ing so flu id a th ing as t ime , one mustat least be arb itrary about the years when making an

anthology. A “modern”

comp i lat ion is no except ion .

Although it is d iffi cult to draw a l ine between periods of

l iterary act iv ity— and part icularly of poetry— the taskis made somewhat easier by the advent of Walt Wh itmanin Amer ica and the close of the Victorian Era in England . I t would have been p leasant to div ide the poetryof th is dual collect ion into groups and distinct tendenc ies .Unfortunately , such a schem e would give the reader aseries of imp ressions that would be contradictory and, in

the final effect, false . One should not attemp t to t icketcontemporary wr iters ( on Whom the Ch ief emphasis isplaced in th is volume ) with conclusive labels , Cspec iallysince so many of the writers are st ill develop ing. One

cannot give a true p icture of a period in the state of fluxVll

viii A Foreword

excep t by showing its fluid character. I t has been the

editor ’s aim to reflect th i s very flux and d iversity .

S ince the chronological ar rangement is,in sp ite of cer

tain d isadvantages,the only logical one

,an arb itrary

boundary has been fixed . Conce iv ing modern B r it ishpoetry to begin after the fert ile Tennyson-B rowningRossett i-Swinburne epoch , the year 1840 i s made to

act as d iv id ing- l ine ; any poet born before that date i sruthlessly excluded . In the case of Am ericani poetry ,the l ine has been moved back ten years . Thus , by including work of poets born in th is country as early as 1830 ,

a r icher background has been given the poetry of our

t im es ; and, although some of the interval poets l ike Aldrich and Lanier could scarcely be considered

“modern ,

it i s curious to see how wide and how comp letely the

c i rcle has swung since Walt Wh itman startled the worldwith L eaves of Grass T he fi rst part of th i s collect ionm ight well be called , Am erican Poet ry since

'

Whitman”

for the poet who has often been called the godfather of

the new generat ion ended one per iod and began another.

I t is a happy Ci rcum stance that th is volume shouldbegin with the poetry of Em i ly D ickinson ( born 1830 )whose work, p r inted for the fi rst t im e after her death,was unknown as late as 1890 and unnot iced unt i l severalyears later . For hers was a forerunner of the new Sp irit—free in exp ression , unhampered in Choice of subj ect,keen in psychology— to wh ich a countryful of writershas responded . NO longer confined to London , Bostonor New York as l iterary centers

,the impulse to create

is everywhere . There i s scarcely a state,barely a town

sh ip that has not p roduced its local laureate .

T he notes p receding the poem s are intended to supportand amp l ify th is geograph ical as wel l as b iograph icalrange . I t is instruct ive as well as interest ing to see what

A Foreword ix

effect, if any, cl imate and condit ions exert on the creator’sexp ression : how much the gaunt and qu iet h ills of NewHampsh i re man ifest them selves in the New Englandsol iloqu ies of Robert Frost or how the noisy energy of

the Middle West boom s and rattles through the h ighp itched syllables of Vachel Lindsay . T he notes , with the i rbrief crit ical aswell as bibl iograph ical data, have also beenprepared on the theory that poet and person have a defi

n ite relat ion to each other and the enjoym ent of the one

is enhanced by an acquaintance with the other .Wh ile emphasis has avowedly been p laced upon the con

tribution of l iv ing wr iters, p ract ically no stress has beenlaid upon the controversial subj ect of Form . Teachers noless than students are intent upon discover ing the kernelrather than analyzing the shell that covers it . I t is thematter wh ich concerns us, not the manner . Vers libre,

that bugaboo of many of our otherwise l iberal crit ics ,has p roduced an incalculable quant ity of tr iv ial and t i resom e exh ib it ions . But so

,the vers librists m ight rep ly ,

has the sonnet . Any form , in the hands of the genu ineartist

,not only just ifies but dignifi es itself. Free verse

( a m isnomer,by the bye , for free verse instead of be ing

free”obeys certain well-known though flexible laws

of rhythm , balance , return and cadence ) is capable of

many exqu isite and un ique effects impossible of ach ievement in a st rict , m etrical pattern . Nor i s free verse as

one-dimensional or as much of a p iece as is often charged .

I ts variety is as great as its exponents . I t can be as

vigorous as the unrhym ed “voluntaries”of Henley or

as del icately ch iselled as the frail but firm p rec ision of

H . D .

’

s imagiste l ines . We find it in various tones andtextures : rough-hewn and massive as in the i ron sol id ityof Carl Sandbu rg, brill iantly glazed and r iotously colorful as in the enamelled p ictu res of Amy Lowell , restrained

! A Foreword

and b ibl ical as In the sonorous strophes of James Oppenheim . But though vers libre has been the subj ect of

much curious debate , it i s only one feature of the surfaceresemblances as well as the wide differences of modernpoets on both sides of the Atlant ic . A sweep ing inclusiveness d ist ingu ishes the ir d issim ilar verse ; it embraces allthem es , irrespect ive of technique; it employs old formsand new departures with impart ial ity and equal skil l .There is th i s outstanding d ifference between latter-dayAmer ican and Brit ish poets. Broadly speaking, modernB r it ish verse i s smoother, more matu red and, molded bycenturies of l iterature, richer in associat ions and surerin art i stry . Am erican poetry , no longer im itat ive and

colonial,i s sharper , more v igorously experimental ; pro

vocat ive with youth and youth ’s occasional—and natural—crudit ies . Where the English p roduct i s formulated,p rec ise and ( in sp ite of a few fluctuat ions ) t rue to its

past , the American exp ress ion is far more varied and,

be ing the reflect ion of partly ind igenous , partly natural izedand largely unassim i lated ideas , temperaments and races ,i s character ist ically uncoOrdinated. English poetry maybe compared to a b road and luxuriat ing river W ith a ser iesof tributar ies contribut ing to the now th inning

,now

widening channel . Am erican poetry m ight be describedas a sudden rush of unconnected mountain torrents

,valley

stream s and city slu ices ; instead of one p lacidly mov ingbody , there are a dozen rush ing cur rents . I t i s as if

here , in the last fifteen years,submerged springs had

burst through stubborn ground .

For th i s reason , I have included in both sect ions, not

only the often quoted poem s by those poets who are

accepted everywhere as outstand ing figures , but examp lesof lesser known singers who are also representat ive of

their age . T he same spirit has impel led me to reprint a

A Foreword xi

liberal port ion of that spec ies wh ich stands m idway between l ight verse and authent ic poetry . T he EugeneFields , the J . W. Rileys, the Anthony Deanes may not

occupy the sam e h igh p lane as the M asefi elds and Frosts,but there is scarcely a person that will not be attractedto them and thus be drawn on to deeper notes and largerthem es. In the dialect verses of I rwin Russell

,Paul

Lau rence Dunbar and T . A . Daly there is dignity beneath the humor ; the i r very broken syllables reveal howAmerica has becom e a m elt ing-pot in a poet ic as well asan ethn ic sense .

With the real izat ion that th is gathering is not so much

a comp lete summary as an introduct ion to m odern poetry,it is hoped that the collect ion

,in sp ite of its obvious

l im itat ions, wil l move the young reader to a closer inspection of the poets here included . T he pu rpose of

such an anthology must always be to rouse and st imulatean interest rather than to sat isfy a cu riosity . Such , at

least, is the hope and aim of one editor .L . U .

January, 1 92 2 .

New York C ity.

CONTENTS

A FOREWORD

MODERN AMERICAN POETRY

PREFACEEMILY D ICKINSON ( 1830- 1886 )ChartlessIndian SummerSuspenseA Cemetery

.

BecloudedPedigree

THOMAS BAI LEY ALDRICH ( 1836 1 907 )Memory‘Enamored Arch i tect of Airy Rhym e

JOHN HAY ( 1838 1 905 )J im Bludso

BRET HARTE ( 1839 - 1 902 )“J im

’ )

P lain Language from Truthful JamesJOA ! U IN M I LLER ( 184 1 - 1 9 1 3 )From ByronColumbus

EDWARD ROWLAND S ILL ( 184 1 I 887 )Opportun ity

S IDNEY LAN IER ( 1842 - 1881 )Song of the Chattahoochee

CHARLES EDWARD CARRYL ( 1842 - 1 9 2 0 )Robinson Crusoe’s S tory

! ! lii

! iv ContentsPAGE

JAMES WH ITCOME RILEY ( 1849 - 1 9 1 6 )“When the Frost i s on the PunkinA Part ing Guest

EUGEN E FI ELD ( 1850 - 1895 )Little Boy B lueSeein

’ Th ingsEDWIN MARKHAM ( 1852

T he M an with the Hoe

P reparednessLincoln , T he Man of the Peop le

IRWIN RUSSELL ( 1853 - 1879 )De Fust Banjo

LI Z ETTE WOODWORTH REESE ( 1856TearsSp icewood

FRANK DEM PSTER SH ERMAN ( 1860- 1 9 1 7 )A t MidnightBacchus

LOU ISE IMOGEN GU INEY ( 186 1 - 1 9 2 0 )T he Wild Ride

BLI SS CARMAN ( 186 1A Vagabond SongHem and HawDai sies

R ICHARD BURTON ( 186 1B lack Sheep

RICHARD HOVEY ( 1864- 1 900 )At the CrossroadsUnman ifest Dest inyA S te in Song

MAD ISON CAWEIN ( 1865 1 9 14 )SnowDeserted

WILL IAM VAUGHN MOODY ( 1869 - 1 9 10 )'

On a Sold ier Fallen in the Ph il ipp ines

Contents

GEORGE STERLING ( 1869T he B lack Vultu re

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROB INSON ( 1869Min iver CheevyT he MasterAn Old S toryT he Dark H i llsRichard Cory

EDGAR LEE MASTERS ( 1869Pet it

,the Poet

Luc inda MatlockAnne Rutledge

STEPHEN CRANE ( I 87 1 - 1 900 )I Saw a M an

The Wayfare rT he B lades of Grass

T. A . DALY ( 187 1T he Song of the ThrushM ia CarlOtta

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ( 1872 - 1 906 )T he Tu rn ing of the Babies in the Bed

A Coquette ConqueredGUY WETMORE CARRYL ( 1873 - 1 904 )

T he Sycophant ic Fox and the Gull ible RavenHow Jack Found that B eans M ay Go Back

on a ChapH . H . KN I BBS ( 1874

T he Valley that God ForgotANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

T he Monk in the KitchenAMY LOWELL ( 1874

0

)Sol itai reMeet ing-House Hill .

Wind and S ilverA LadyA Decade

! V

xvi ContentsPAGE

R IDG ELY TORRENCE ( 1875T he B i rd and the Tree

ROBERT FROST ( 1875Mending WallT he Tuft of FlowersB lue-Butterfly Day

B i rchesThe Onset

CARL SANDBURG ( 1878GrassP rayers of S teelCool TombsFogFrom Sm oke and S teel

ADELA IDE CRA P SEY ( 1878 1 9 14 )Th ree CinquainsNovember NightTriadT he Warn ing

On See ing Weather-Beaten TreesGRACE HA Z ARD CONKLING ( 1878Frost on a Window

VACHEL LINDSAY ( 1879T he Eagle that is ForgottenT o a Golden Hai red Girl in a Lou ISiana

TownT he TravelerT he Congo

JOHN G . NEIH ARDT ( 1881Cry of the PeopleLet M e Live Out My Years

WITTER BYNN ER ( 1881Grass-TopsVoicesA Farm er Rem embers Lincoln

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xviii Contents

JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER ( 1886_PAGE

High TideAutumnLake Song

JOHN GOULD FLETCH ER ( 1886London N ightfallFrom’ “I rradiat ionsLincolnT he SkaterS

H . D .

”

( 1886( ) readHeat

Pear TreeWILLIAM ROSE BENET ( 1886Merchants from CathayHow to Catch Unicorns

JOHN HALL WH EELOCK ( 1886Sunday Even ing in the CommonLove and Liberat ion

JOYCE KI LMER ( 1886- 1 9 18)TreesMart in

ORRICK JOHNS ( 1887 l

T he Interp reterALAN S EEGER ( 1888- 1 9 1 6 )

“I Have a Rendezvous with DeathMARGARET WIDDEM ER

Factor iesT he Watcher

ALINE KI LMER ( 1888Exper ienceTh ings

ELINOR WYLI ET he Eagle and the MoleSea Lullaby

Contents

CONRAD AIKEN ( 1889MiraclesPortrait of a GirlMorn ing Song from Senlin

MA! WELL BODENHEIM ( 189 2Poet to his LoveOld Age

EDNA ST . VINCENT M ILLAY ( 189 2God ’s WorldRenascenceT he Pear Tree

STEPHEN VINCENT BENET ( 1898Portrait of a Boy

LEON I E ADAMS ( 1899Ap ril Mortal ityHom e—Com ing

H ILDA CONKLING 1 9 10

WaterHay CockI Keep Wondering

MODERN BRITISH POETRY

PREFACEAUSTIN DO BSON ( 1840- 1 9 2 1 )

In After DaysBefore Sedan

WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT ( 1840Laughter and Death

THOMAS HARDY ( 1840In Tim e of

“T he B reaking of Nat ions

T he Darkl ing ThrushANDREW LANG ( 1844Scythe Song

ROBERT BRIDGES I 844Winter N ightfall

xixPAGE

xx ContentsPAGE

ARTHUR O ’SHAUGHNESSY ( 1844- 1881 )Ode

ALICE M EYNELL ( 1848T he Shepherdess

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY ( 1849 - 1903 )Invietus

The B lackbirdMargarita: Sorori

ROBERT LOU IS STEVENSON ( 1850- 1894 )RomanceRequiem

FIONA MACLEOD (William Sharp ) ( 1855 1905 )The Valley of S ilence

OSCAR WI LDE ( 1856 - 1900 )Requiesc‘

at

JOHN DAVIDSON ( 1857- 1909 )Imaginat ion

WILLIAM WATSON ( 1858SongEstrangement

FRANCI S THOMPSON ( 1859 - 1 907 )DaisyT o a SnOwflake

A . E . HOUSMAN ( 1859Reveillé

When I Was One-and-TwentyT o an Athlete Dying Young

KATHARINE TYNAN H INKSON ( 186 1Sheep and Lambs

HENRY N EWBOLT ( 1862D rake ’s Drum

ARTHUR SYMONS ( 1865In the Wood of Finvara

T he Crying of Water

Contents xxiPAGE

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ( 1865 i

T he Lake Isle of Innisfree

The Song of the Old MotherAn Old SongWhen You Are Old .

RUDYARD KI PLING ( 1865Gunga DinT he ReturnAn Astrologer ’s SongRecessional

LIONEL JOHNSON ( 1867- 1 902 )Myst ic and Caval ier

ERNEST DOWSON ( 1867- 1 900 )T o One in Bedlam

“! E

”

(George William Russell) ( 1867Cont inu ity

.

T he Unknown God

STEPHEN PH ILLI PS ( 1868- 1 9 1 5)Fragment from “Herod”

A DreamLAURENCE B INYON ( 1869A SongThe UnseenFloWer

ANTHONY C . DEANE ( 1870The Ballad of the B illycock

WILLIAM H . DAVIES ( 1870Days T oo . ShortT he Moon

T he ExampleA Greet ing

0

.

J . M . SYNGE ( 187 1 - 1 909 )P reludeA Translat ion from Pet rarchBeg

- Innish

xx11 Contents

EVA GORE-BOOTH ( 187 1T he Waves of Breffny

MOIRA O ’NE ILLA B roken Song

RALPH HODGSON ( 187 1T he B i rdcatcherTim e , You Old G ip sy M an

AfterT he Mystery

JOHN MCCRAE ( 1872 1 9 18)In Flanders Fields

WALTER DE LA MARE ( 1873The ListenersO ld SusanS ilverNod

G . K. CH ESTERTON ( 1874LepantoT he Donkey

JOHN MASEF I ELD ( 1874A Consecrat ionSea-FeverRound ing the HOrn

WI LFRID WILSON GI BSON ( 1878The S toneS ight

EDWARD THOMAS ( 1878- 1 9 1 7 )I f I Should Ever By ChanceTall NettlesCock-Crow

SEUMAS O ’SU LLIVAN ( 1879Praise

CHARLOTTE M EW

Beside the Bed

Sea Love

PAGE

Contents

HAROLD MONRO ( 1879Every Th ingT he Night ingale Near the House

ALFRED NOYES ( 1880 l

T he Bafrel-OrganEp ilogue

PADRAIC COLUM ( 1881T he P lougher

JOSEPH CAMPBELL ( 1881T he Old .Woman

LASCELLES ABERCROMB I E ( 1881From “Vasht i”

JAMES STEPHENS ( 1882T he ShellWhat Tomas An Bu ile Said In a Pub

JOHN DRINKWATER ( 1882Rec iproc ityA Town Window

J . C . S ! U IRE ( 1883A House

ANNA WICKHAM ( 1883Envo iDom est ic EconomyThe S inger

JAMES ELROY FLECKER ( 1884- 1 9 1 5 )S tillness

D . H . LAWRENCE ( 1885P ianoForsaken and Forlorn

JOHN FREEMAN ( 1885S tone Trees

SHANE LESLI E ( 1885Fleet S treet

xxiv Contents

S IEGFRI ED SASSOON I 886PAGE

Dream ersT he Rear-GuardAftermath

RU PERT BROOKE ( 1887- 1 9 1 5 )SonnetT he Great LoverT he Sold ier

JOSEPH PLUNKETT ( 1887- 1 9 1 6 )I See His B lood Upon the Rose

F. W . HARVEYT he Bugler

T . P . CAMERON WI LSON ( 1889 - 1 9 18)Sportsmen in Paradise

W . J . TURNER ( 1889Romance

FRANCI S LEDWIDGE ( 189 1 - 1 9 1 7 )An Evening in England

IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD ( 189 1Lone Dog

RICHARD ALDINGTON 189 2

ImagesROBERT N ICHOLS 189 3

PJearer

WILFRED OWEN ( 1893 - 1 9 18)Apologia Pro Poemate M eo

Anthem for Doom ed YouthC . H . SORLEY ( 1895- 1 9 1 5)

Two SonnetsT o Germany

ROBERT GRAVES ( 1895I t

’

S a Queer Time

Neglectful EdwardI WonderWhat I t FeelsLike to beDrowned !

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PREFACE

TH E CIVIL WAR—AND AFTER

T he end of the Civ il War marked the end of a

l iterary epoch . T he New England group , contain ing ( ifPoe could be added ) all the great nam es of the ante

bellum per iod , began to disintegrate . The poets had

outsung them selves ; it was a t im e of surrender and swansongs. Unable to respond to the new forces of pol it icalnat ional ism and indust rial reconstruct ion , the B rahm ins( that famous group of intellectuals who dom inated litcrary Am erica) withdrew into the i r l ib raries. Poets l ikeLongfellow

,B ryant

,Taylor, turned the i r eyes away from

the nat ive scene , rhapsodized endlessly about Eu rope, or

left c reat ive wr it ing altogether and occup ied them selveswith translat ions. They had been borne into an era in

wh ich they had no part , wr ites Fred Lewis Pattee (AH istory of Am erican L iterature Since and theycontented them selves with re

'

échoings of the old music .

”

Suddenly the break cam e . Am er ica developed a na

tional consc iousness ; the West discovered itself, and the

East discovered the West . Grudgingly at first , the ar istocratic leaders made way for a new exp ression ; c rude ,jangl ing

,vigorously democratic . The old order was

changing with a vengeance . All the p receding writers—poets l ike Em erson ,

Thoreau,Lowell , Longfellow,

Holm es—were not only p roducts of the New Englandcolleges , bu t typ ically Boston gentlem en of the earlyRenaissance . T o them , the new men must have seemedl ike a regiment recruited from the ranks of vulgar ity .

3

4 Prefac e

Walt Wh itman , Mark Twain ,

‘

Bret Harte, John Hay,

Joaquin Miller, Joel Chandler Harr is , James Wh itcombRiley— these were m en who had graduated from the

farm , the front ier, the m ine , the p i lot-house, the p r inter’s

ShOp l For a wh i le , the movem ent seemed of l ittle con

sequence the impact of Wh itman and the Westernerswas averted . The poets of the transit ion , with a delib

c rate art , ignored the surge of a spontaneous nat ionalexp ression . They were even successful in hold ing it back .But it was gather ing force .

TH E POST-MORTEM PERIOD

T he n ineteenth century , up to its last quarter, hadbeen a per iod of new V istas and revolts : a per iod of pro

test and iconoclasm— the era of Shelley and Byron , theprophets of

“l iberty, equal ity and fratern ity . I t leftno imm ed iate he i rs . In England , its successors by default were the lesser Victorians . In America, the intensity and power of m en l ike Emerson and Wh itt ier gaveway to the pale romant ic ism and pol ite banter of the

t ransit ion or,what m ight even more fi ttingly be called ,

the“post-mortem

”

poets . For these Inter im lyr ists werefrankly the s ingers of react ion

,rem in iscently d igging

am ong the bones of a long- dead past . They burrowedand borrowed , half archaeologists, half art isans ; impellednot so much by the need of creat ing poetry as the desireto write it .

From 1866 to 1880 the United States was in a chaot icand frankly mater ial ist ic condit ion ; it was full of pol it icalscandals , panics , frauds . The moral fiberwas flabby ; thecountry was apathet ic, corrupt and contented . AS in all

such periods of nat ional unconcern,the art ists turned

from l ife altogether, preoccupying them selves with the

by-

products of art : with method and technique, with .

Prefac e 5

elaborate and art ific ial conceits, with facile ideas ratherthan fundam ental ideals. Bayard Taylor, Richard HenryS toddard , Paul Ham ilton Hayne, Thomas Bai ley Aldrich—all of these authors, in an effort to escape a real ity theycou ld not exp ress and did not even wish to understand ,fled to a more congen ial realm of fantasy . They tookthe easiest routes to a p rim and academ ic Arcadia, to a

Cloy ing and devital ized Orient or a m ildly sensuous and

treacle-dripp ing Greece . In thei r desperate preOccupa

t ion with lu res and legends overseas , they were not,except

for the acc ident of bi rth , Am er ican at all; all of them

owed much more to old England than to NewEngland .

WALT WH ITMANWh itman

, who was to influence futu re generat ions sop rofoundly in Europe as well as in Am erica, had alreadyappeared . T he th i rd edit ion of that stupendous volum e,

L eaves of Grass, had been p rinted in 1860 . Almost im

m ediately after, the publisher failed and the book passed

out of public not ice . But Wh itman ,broken in health

and cheated by his exploiters , l ived to see not only a

seventh edit ion of his great work published in 1881 , but

a complete collect ion p rinted in his seventy- th i rd year( 189 2 ) in wh ich the twelve poems of the experimentalfi rst edit ion had grown to nearly four hundred .

The influence of Wh itman can scarcely be overestimated . I t has touched every Shore of letters

,qu ick

ened every cu rrent of art . Wh itman has been acclaim edby a great and growing public , not only here but in England , Germany, I taly and France. He has been hailed asp rophet , as p ioneer , as rebel , as the fie ry human ist and,most frequently, as l iberator. In sp ite of the rhetor icalflou rish , he may well be called the Lincoln of our l iterature . The whole schem e of L eaves of Grass i s inclusive

6 P refac e

rather than exclus ive ; its form is elemental,dynam ic,

free .

Nor was it only in the relat ively m inor matter of form

that Wh itman becam e our great poetic emancipator. He

led the way toward a wider aspect of democracy ; he tookhis readers out of fusty

,lamp -lit l ibraries into the sharp

sunl ight and the buoyant air. He was, as Burroughswrote , pre

'

em inently the poet of v i sta; his work had the

power to open doors and windows , to let down barsrather than to put them up , to dissolve form s, to escapenar row boundar ies , to plant the reader on a h il l ratherthan in a corner.

”He could - do th i s because, first of all,

be bel ieved imp l ic itly in l ife— in its physical as well asits sp i r itual m anifestat ions ; he sought to grasp existenceas a whole

,not rej ect ing the th ings that , to other mmds,

had seem ed t r iv ial or tawdry . T he cosm ic and the com

monplace were synonymous to h im ; he declared he waspart of the most elem ental

, p r im it ive th ings and con

stantly ident ified h im self with them .

I t was th i s b readth , th is jub ilant acceptance that madeWh itman SO keen a lover of casual and ord inary th ings ;he was the fi rst of our poets to reveal the glory of the

commonp lace .

”He transmuted , by the intensity of his

emot ion , mater ial wh ich had been h itherto regarded as

too unpoet ic for poetry. His long poem“Song of M y

self” i s an excellent example . Here his barbar icyawp ,

” sounded over the roofs of the world ,” i s

softened,t im e and again , to exp ress a lyric ecstasy and

naif wonder.

I be l ieve a l eaf of grass is no l ess than the journey-work of thestars,

And th e p ism ire is equal ly perfect, and a grain of sand , and

the egg of th e wren,And the t ree-toad is a Ch ef-d’

oeuvre of th e h ighest,

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8 P refac e

P lacard “Rem and “To Let

”on the rocks of your snowy

Parnassus.

For know that a better, fresh er, busier sphere, a wider, untr ieddomain awaits, d emand s you.

TH E AWAKEN ING OF TH E WEST

By 1870 the publ ic had been surfe ited with sugaredconce its and fine-Spun del icacies. For almost twelve years,Wh itman had storm ed at the affectat ions of the periodbut comparat ively few had l istened . Yet an inst inct ived istaste for the p revai l ing superficialities had been growing

, and when the West began to exp ress itself in the

raw accents of Mark Twain and Bret Harte , the peop leturned to the newmen with enthusiasm and rel ief. MarkTwain , a prose Wh itman , revealed the romant ic M ississ ipp i and the vast M id-West ; B ret Harte, beginning a

newAm er ican fict ion in 1868, ushered in the wild humor

and wilder poetry of Cal ifornia. I t i s st i l l a quest ionwhether Bret Harte or John Hay first d iscovered the

l iterary importance of P ike County narrat ives . Twainwas pos it ive that Hay was the p ioneer ; documentaryev idence points to Harte. But it i s ind isputable that

Harte developed— and even overdeveloped— the pos

sibilities of his backgrounds,whereas Hay after a few

b ril l iant ballads, reverted to his early poet i c ideal s andturned to the product ion of studied , pol ished and undistinguished verse.

T o the loose swagger of the West , two other m en

added the i r d iverse contr ibut ions . Edward RowlandS ill , cut Short just as h is work was gaining headway andstrength , brough t to it a gentle radical ism

,a calm and

cultured honesty ; Joaquin M iller, rush ing to the other

ext rem e,theat r ical ized and exaggerated all he touched .

He shouted plat itudes at the top of his voice ; his l ines

Prefac e 9

boomed with the pomposity of a brass band ; floods , fires,hu rricanes, extravagantly blazing sunsets, Amazon ianwom en

,the thunder of a herd of buffaloes—all were un

m erc ifully p iled on . And yet, even in its most blatantfortissim os, Miller ’s poetry occasionally captu red the

lavish grandeu r of his su rroundings, the splendor of theS ierras, the su rge and Sp i r it of the Western world .

Now that the leadersh ip of letters had passed fromthe East , all parts of the country began to try thei rvoices . T he West cont inued to hold its tuneful su

premacy ; the tradit ion of Harte and Hay was followed( softened and sent im ental ized ) by Eugene Field and

Jam es Wh itcomb Riley . In the South , I rwin Russel lwas p ioneering in negro dialect ( 1875) and S idneyLan ier fash ioned h is intricate harmon ies A fewyears later ( in 1888) I rwin Russell b rought out his

faithfully rendered D ialect P oem s and the first phase of

the Am erican renascence had passed .

REACTION AND REVOLT IN THE ’

90 3

The react ion set in at the beginn ing of the last decadeof the n ineteenth century. T he passionate u rge had

spent itself, and in its place there remained noth ing butthat m inor form of art wh ich concerns itself less withc reat ion than with re-c reat ion . These re-creators wroteverse that was p rec ise , scholarly and patently reproduc

t ive of the ir p redecessors .“In 1890 , writes Percy H .

Boynton,

“the poetry- reading world was ch iefly consc ious

of the passing of its leading singers for the last halfcentury.

”T he poetry of th is per iod (whether it is the

hard , ch iseled verse of John B . Tabb or the ornatedel icacy of Richard Watson Gilder ) breathes a kind of

dy ing resignat ion . But those who regarded poetry ch ieflyas a not too energetic indoor-

exercise were not to rule

10 P refa

unchallenged . Restlessness was in the air and revoltopenly declared itself with the publ icat ion of Songs from

Vagabondia M ore Songs from Vagabondia

( 1896 ) and Last Songs from Vagabondia No

one cou ld have been more surp r ised at the tremendouspopular ity of these care- free celeb rat ions ( the first of

the three collect ions went th rough seven rap id ed it ions )than the young authors, Richard Hovey and B l iss Carman . In the very fi rst poem , Hovey voices their manifesto

Off with the fettersThat Chafe and restrain !Off with th e Chain !Here Art and Letters,M usic and W ineAnd Myrt le and Wanda,T h e W insom e witch es,B l ithe ly combine .

H ere is Go lconda,Here are th e Ind ies,H ere we are f reeFree as th e W lnd is,Free as the sea,

Free !

T he new insurgence trIumphed. I t was the heartiness ,the gypsy joll ity, the rush of h igh Sp irits that ca uered.

Readers of the Vagabondia books were capt ivated , thoughthey were swept along by the speed of th i s poetry rather

than by its ph ilosophy.T he enthusiast ic acceptance of these new apostles of

outdoor V igor was, however, not as much of an accidentas it seem ed . On one side

, the world of art , the publ icwas wear ied by barren ph i losoph iz ing set to t inkl ingmusic ; on the other , the world of act ion , it was facedby a stagger ing growth of material ism which it feared .

Prefac e I I

Hovey, Carman and thei r im itators offered a swift and

st i rring way out . But it was ne ither an effectual nora last ing escape . T he war with Spain ,

the industrialturmoi l

,the growth of soc ial consc iousness and new ideas

of responsib il ity m ade Am erica look for fresh valuations,more search ing songs. Hovey began to go deepe r intoh im self and his age ; in the Mid-West , Will iam VaughnMoody grappled with the p roblem s of his t im es only tohave his work cut short by death in 1 9 10 . But these twowere excep t ions ; in the main

,it was another interval

two decades of app raisal and expectancy, of pause and

p reparat ion .

INTERIM— I 890 I 9 I 2

Th is interval of about twenty years was notable forits effort to t reat the Sp i rit of the t im es with a cheerfu levasiveness, a humorous unconcern ; its most rep resentat ive craftsmen were , with fou r except ions , the writersof l ight verse . These fou r except ions were RichardHovey, B l iss Carman ,

William Vaughn -Moody and Edwin Markham . Both Hovey and Carman saw widerhorizons and tuned thei r instruments to a larger music .

Moody ’s power was st il l greater. In “An Ode in

Time of Hesitat ion ,

”he p rotested against tu rning the

“new-world v ictories into gain”

and painted Am er icaon a majest ic canvas . In “

The Quarry”he celebrated

America’s part in p revent ing the b reaking-up of Ch inaby the greedy emp i res of Europe ( an act accompl ishedby John Hay, poet and diplomat ) . In “On a Sold ierFallen in the Ph il ipp ines,

”a dirge wrenched from the

depths of his nature,Moody cried out against our own

grasp ing imperial ists . I t was the fulfilment of th is earl ierpoem wh ich found its fierce cl imax in the lengthy Ode,with l ines like :

1 2 Prefac e

Was it for th is our fath ers kept the law!Th is crown shal l crown th e ir struggle and the ir truth !A re we th e eagl e nation M i lton sawM ewmg its m igh ty youth !

O ye who leadTake heed !B l indness we may forgive, but baseness we wi l l sm ite.

Early in 1899 , the name of Edwin Markham flashedacross the land when out of San Francisco, rose the

sonorous challenge of The M an with the Hoe .

” Th ispoem , wh ich has been ecstat ically called “

the battle-cry

of the next thousand years” (Joaquin Miller declared itcontained “

The whole Yosem ite—the thunder, the m ight ,the caught up , with a p rophet ic v ib rancy , thepassion for social j ust ice that was wait ing to be intensifi ed in poetry . Markham summ ed up and sp i r itual izedthe unrest that was in the air ; in the figure of one man

with a hoe, he drew a p icture of m en in the m ines,m en

in the sweat- shop , men work ing without joy, withouthOpe . T o social consciousness he added social conscience .

In a ringing blank verse, Markham crystall ized the ex

pression of outrage, the heated ferm ent of the period . H iswas a v ision of a new order , austere in beauty but deriving its l ife-blood from the m il l ions struggling in the

depths .Insp iring as these examples were, they d id not generate

others of the ir kind ; the field lay fallow for more thana decade . T he lull was pronounced , the gathering stormremained inaud ible.

RENASCENCE—I gI 3

Suddenly the new”

poetry - burst upon us with unex

pected v igor and extraord inary variety. October, 1 9 1 2 ,

saw the fi rst issue of P oetry : A M agaz ine of Verse, a

Prefac e 1 3

monthly that was to introduce the work of h itherto un

known poets and to herald the various groups, schools andmovem ents T he m agazine cam e at the very moment

before the breaking of the storm . Flashes and rumblingshad al ready been t roubling the l iterary heavens ; a fewmonths later—the deluge ! By 1 9 1 7 , the

“new”

poetry was ranked as“Am erica’s fi rst nat ional art” ; its

success was sweep ing, its sales unp receden ted . Peoplewho never before had read verse, tu rned to it and foundthey could not only read but rel ish it . They discoveredthat for the enjoym ent of poetry it was not necessary tohave at the i r elbows a dict ionary of rare words and

classical refe rences ; they no longer were requ i red to be

acquainted with Lat in legendry and the m inor love-affai rsof the major Greek div in it ies. Life was the i r glossary,not l iteratu re . T he new p roduct Spoke to them in thei rown language . And it did more : it spoke to them of

what they scarcely ever had heard exp ressed ; it was not

only Closer to the i r so i l but nearer to the i r souls .

ROB INSON AND MASTERSOne reason why the new poet ry ach ieved SO sudden a

success was its freedom from the tradit ionally st i lted“poetic dict ion .

” Revolt ing strongly against the assump

t ion that poetry must have a vocabulary of its own,the

poets of the new era spoke in the oldest and most st i r ringtongue ; they used a language that was the language not

of the poetas ters but of the people . In the tones of ordinary speech they rediscovered the strength , the dignity,the div ine core of the commonplace .

E . A . Robinson had already been employing the sharpep ithet , the direct and clarifying utterance wh ich was tobecom e part of our p resent techn ique . As early as 189 7 ,

in The Children of the N ight, Rob inson ant ic ipated the

I 4 Prefac e

br ief characterizat ions and the etched outl ines of M as

ters’

s Spoon R iver An thology . His sympathet i c studiesof m en whose l ives were , from a worldly standpoint ,fai lu res were a Sharp react ion to the current h igh valnat ion on financial ach ievem ents

,ruthless efliciency and

success at any cost .

M asters’

s most famous book will rank as one of the

landmarks of Am er ican l iterature . In it , he has synthes ized the smal l towns of the Mid-West with a backgroundthat i s unm istakably local and impl icat ions that are universal . Th is amazing volum e

,in its curiosity and compre

hensiveness, i s a b road cross-sect ion of whole communit ies .Beneath its surface tales and dramas , its condensat ion of

grocery- store gossip , Spoon R iver Anthology is a greatpart of Am er ica in m icrocosm . T he Success of the

volum e was sensat ional . I t was actually one of the sea.

son ’s “best sellers” ; in a few months, it went into edi

t ion after edit ion . Peop le forgot M asters’

s revelat ion Ofthe sord id cheats and hypocr isies, in the ir interest at see

ing the i r ne ighbors so p it i lessly exposed . Yet had Mastersdwelt only on the drab d is illusion of the v i llage, had he( as he was constantly in danger of doing ) overemphasizedthe morb id ep isodes , he would have left only a Spectacularand poorly-balanced work . But the book ascends to

buoyant exaltat ion and ends on a p lane of v ictoriousideal ism . In its wide gamut

, Spoon R iver, ris ing fromits narrow origins , reaches ep ical p roport ions . Indigenousto its roots , it i s stark, unfl inch ing, unforgettable.

FROST AND SANDBU RG

T he same year that brought forth Spoon R iver An

thology saw the Am er ican edit ion of Frost ’s N orth ofB oston . I t was ev ident at once that the t rue poet of

NewEngland had arr ived . Unl ike his predecessors, Frost

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1 6 Prefac e

concrete facts are symbols of sp i r itual values ; through hisvery ret ic

’

ence one hears more than the voice of NewEngland .

Just so,the great Mid-West, that vast region of steel

m ills and Slaughter-houses , of cornfields and p rai r ies, of

c rowded cit ies and emp ty Skies , speaks th rough Carl Sandburg . In Sandbu rg, industr ial America has at last foundits voice ; Chicago P oem s Cornhuskers

Sm oke and Steel ( 1 9 2 0 ) v ib rate with the immense pu rr ingof dynamos

,the swish ing rhythm s of thresh ing arm s, the

gossip and laughter of const ruct ion gangs, the gigant ic

and t i reless energy of the modern mach ine . Franklyindebted to Wh itm an

,Sandburg’s poem s are less sweep ing

but more var ied ; mus ically his l ines mark a real ad

vance . He sounds the extrem es of the gamut : there are

few poem s in our language more v iolent than “T o a

Contemporary Bunkshooter,”few lyrics as hushed and

tender as “Cool Tombs .”

When Chicago P oems fi rst appeared , it was rece ivedwith a disfavor ranging from hes itant patronizat ion to

the scornful j eers of the academ ic ians . Sandburg wasaccused of verbal anarchy ; of a fai lure to d ist inguishp rose matter from poet i c mater ial ; of uncouthness

, vul

garity , of assaults on the English language and a scoreof other cr im es . In the face of those who st il l see onlya coarseness and d istorted verItism in Sandburg, it can

not be sai d too often that he i s b rutal only when deal ingwith brutal th ings ; that h is

“vulgarity” sp r ings froman imm ense lov.e

,of l ife , not from a m erely decorat ive

part of it ; that his b itterest invect ives are the result of

a healthy d isgu st of Sham s ; that , beh ind the force of his

p roj ect i le-

ph rases , there bu rns the greater flame of his

p ity ; that the strength of h is hatred is exceeded only bythe myst ic challenge of his love.

P refac e

TH E IMAGISTS AND AMY LOWELLSandbu rg established h im self as the m ost daring user

of Am erican words—rude words ranging from the racym etaphors of the soil to the slang of the street . But evenbefore th is , the possib il it ies of a new vocabulary werebeing tested . As early as 1865, Wh itm an was say ing,We must have newwords, new potent ial it ies of speech

—an American range of self- exp ression . T he

new t im es,the new people need a tongue according, yes,

and What is more , they will have such a tongue—willnot be sat isfied unt i l it i s evolved .

”

I t is cu r ious to th ink that one of the most effect iveagents to fulfil Wh itman ’s p rophecy and free modernpoetry from its mouldering dict ion was that l ittle bandof p reoccup ied Spec ial ists, the Imagists. Ezra Poundwas the first to gather the insu rgents into a defin itegroup . Du ring the winter of 1 9 1 3 , he collected a numberof poems illustrating the Imagist point of v iew and had

them p r inted in a volum e : D es I magistes Al ittle later, Pound withdrew from the clan . T he ratherqueerly m orted group began to disintegrate and Amy

Lowell , then in England , brought the best of the youngerm embers together in th ree yearly anthologies (Som e Ima

gist P oets ) wh ich appeared in 1 9 1 5, 1 9 1 6 and 1 9 1 7 .

There were, in Miss Lowell ’s new group ing, th ree Englishmen (D . H . Lawrence , Richard Aldington , F . S .

Flint ) , th ree Am ericans (H . D .,John Gould Fletcher,

Amy Lowell ) , and their creed , summed up in Six articlesof faith

, was as follows

1 . T o use the language of common speech , but to emp loyalways th e exact word

,not th e m ere ly d ecorative word .

2 . T o create new rhythm s—as th e expression of new mood s.

We do not insist upon“free -verse”

as th e on ly m ethod of

Prefac e

writing poetry. We do be l ieve th at the ind iv idual ity of

a poet may often b e better expressed in free verse than. in

conventional form s.

3 . T o al low abso lute freedom in th e cho ice of subject .4 . T o present an image (h ence th e nam e : We

are not a schoo l of painters, but W e be l ieve that poetry shou l drender part icu lars exact ly and not d eal in vague general ities,however magn ificent and sonorous.

5. T o produce poetry that is hard and c lear, never b lurredor indefinite .

6 . Final ly, most of us be l ieve that concentration is the veryessence of poetry.

I t does not seem possible that these Six obv ious andalmost p lat itudinous p r incip les, wh ich the Imagists SO

often neglected in the i r poetry , could have evoked the

storm of argum ent and fury that broke as soon: as the

m i l itant Amy Lowell began to champ ion them . Far

from be ing revolut ionary , these p rinciples were not new;

J they were not even thought so by the ir sponsors . The

Imagists them selves real ized they were m erely restat ingideals wh ich had fallen into desuetude, and declared ,“They are the essent ials of all great poetry, indeed of all

great l iterature .

” And yet many conse rvat ive crit ics , joinedby the one hundred per cent react ionar ies , rushed wildlyto combat these “

heresies” ! They forgot that, in tryingto p rotect the future from such lawlessness as

“usingthe exact word ,

”from allowing freedom in the c hoice

of subj ect ,”from the importance of

“concentrat ion ,”

they were actually attacking the h ighest trad it ions of

the ir enshr ined past .

T he controversy succeeded in doing even more thanthe work of the Imagists them selves . Miss Lowell wasleft to carry on the battle s ingle-handed ; to defend the

theor ies wh ich,in practice ,

‘

she was beginning to v iolatebri ll iantly . By all Odds , the most energet ic and unflagging

Prefac e 1 9

experimenter, Miss Lowel l’s versat il ity became amazing .

She has written Chaucer ian stanzas, polyphon ic p rose ,monologs in her nat ive New England dialect , i rregularvers libre, conservat ive couplets , echoes from the Japanese ,t ranslat ions from the Ch inese, even prim itve re-creat ionsof Indian folk- lore !The work of the Imagists was done . I ts m embersbegan to develop themselves by them selves . They hadhelped to swell the t ide of real ist ic and romant ic nat

uralism—a t ide of wh ich the i r contribut ion was merelyone wave, a h igh breaker that carr ied its impact farinshore.

(a PM

TH E N EW FOLK-POETRYIn a country that has not been mellowed by antiqu ity ,

that has not possessed songs for its peasantry or tradit ions for its singers, one cannot look for a wealth of folkstuff . In such

'

a country—the Un ited States,to be

Specific—what folk-poetry there is , has followed the pathof the p ioneer . A t first these homely songs were m erelyadaptat ions and local ized versions of English ballads andborder m instrelsy

,of wh ich the

“Lonesome Tunes” dis

covered in the Kentucky mountains by Howard B rockwayand Lo raine Wyman are excellent examples . But later ,a more defin itely nat ive Sp i r it found exp ression in the

various sect ions of these states .In the West today there is a rev ival of interest inbackwoods melod ies and folk- c reated verse . John A .

Lomax has publ ished two volum es of cowboy songsmost of them

“

anonymous—ful l of tang,wild fancy and

robust humor. Mary Aust in , Natal ie Curt is Bu rl in and

Lew Sarett are ch ief among those who have attemptedto bring the sp irit of Indian tunes and chants into our

poetry . The tradition of Harte and Hay is be ing

P refac e

carr ied on by such racy interpreters as Harry HerbertKnibbs, Badger Clark and Edwin Ford P iper. But , of

all contemporaries who app roximate the Sp i rit of folkpoetry , none has made more str iking or more indub itablyAme rican contr ibut ions than Vachel Lindsay of Springfield , Ill inois .

LINDSAY AND OPPENHE IM

Lindsay is essent ially a peop le’s poet . He does not

hesitate to express h im self in term s of the lowest com

mon denom inator ; his fingers are alternately on his pen

and the publ ic pulse . Liv ing near enough the South to

appreciate the negro,L indsay has been trem endously

influenced by the colorful suggest ions , the fantast i c superstitions , the rev ival ist ic gusto and, above all, by the

cur iously syncopated mus ic that characterize the blackman in America. In “

The Congo”the words rol l with

the solemn ity of an exhortat ion , dance with a grotesquefervor or snap , wink , crackle and leap with all the

humorous rhythm s of a p iece of ragt ime .

” Lindsaycatches the burly color and boisterous music of campm eet ings, m instrel shows , rev ival j ub ilees .And Lindsay does more . He carr ies his democrat icdeterm inat ions further than any of his compatriots . Hisdream is of the great communal Art ; he preaches thegospel that all v illages should be centers of beauty , all itsc it izens, art i sts . A t heart a m issIonary even more thana m instrel , Lindsay often loses h im self in his ownevangel ism ; worse, he frequently cheapens h im self and

caricatures his own gift by pandering to the vaudev i lleinst inct that insists on putt ing a noisy “

punch” into

everyth ing, regardless of taste, art istry or a sense of pro

port ion . He i s most imp ress ive when he i s least frenzied ,when he i s purely fantastic or when a greater theme and

Preface 2 1

a finer restraint (as in The Eagle That Is Forgottenun ite to create a p reach ing that does not cease to be

poetry .

Someth ing of the same blend of p rophet and poet is

found in the work of Jam es Oppenhe im . Oppenheim isa throwback to the anc ient Hebrew singers ; the music of

the Psalm s rolls through his l ines, the fi re of I saiahkindles his

“ sp i r it . Th is poetry , with its obvious re

m inders of Wh itman ,is biblical in its inflect ion , Ori

ental in its heat . I t runs through forgotten centu riesand br ings bu r ied Asia to busy Am erica; it carr ies tothe Western world the color of the East . In books l ikeWar and Laughter and Songs for the N ew Age, the

race of god-breakers and god-makers speaks with a new

voice ; here , with analyt ic intens ity, the Old iconoclasmand st i ll older worsh ip are again un ited .

SUMMARY—TH E N EW SP IRITMost of the poets rep resented in these pages have found

a fresh and v igorous material in a world of honest and

often harsh real ity. They respond to the Sp i r it of the i rt im es ; not only have thei r v iews changed

,the i r v is ion

has been widened to include th ings unknown to the poet

of yesterday . They have learned to dist ingu ish realbeauty from m ere p rett iness ; to wr ing lovel iness out of

squalor ; to find wonder in neglected places .And with the use of the material of everyday l ife ,

there has come a further simpl ificat ion : the use of the

language of everyday speech . T he st ilted and m outh

filling phrases have been pract ically discarded in favorof words that are part of our dai ly vocabulary. I t wouldbe hard at p resent to find a rep resentat ive poet employingsuch awkward and outworn contract ions as

’

twixt,’

mongst, ope’

; such ev idences of poor padding as adown,

2 2 P reface

did go, doth sm ile; such dull rubber- stamps ( cliche’

s is

the French term ) as heavenly blue, roseate glow, golden

hope, girlish grace, gentle breez e, etc . The peradven

tures, forsooths and mayhaps have d isappeared . And , asthe Speech of the modern poet has grown less elaborate,so have the patterns that embody it . Not necessar ily d iscarding rhym e , regular rhythm or any of the musicalassets of the older poets , the form s have grown more

flexible ; the intr icate versification has given way to

simp ler d ict ion , di rect v ision and l ines that reflect and

suggest the tones of animated or exalted speech . T he

result of th is has been a great gain both in s incerity and

intensity ; it has enabled the poet of today to put greateremphas is on his emot ion rather than on the Cloak that

covers it .

One could go into m inute part iculars concerning the

growth of an Am er ican sp i r it in our l iterature and pointout how many of the latter-day poets have responded tonat ive forces larger than the ir backgrounds . Such a

course would be endless and unprofitab le . I t is pert inent ,however, to observe that , young as th i s nat ion is , it i salready being supp l ied with the stuff of legends

,ballads

and even ep ics . T he modern Singer has turned to celebrate his own folk-tales . I t i s part icularly interest ing toobserve how the figure of Lincoln has been t reated bythe best of our l iv ing poets . I have, accordingly , includedSI ! poem s by six writers, each d iffering in mann-er,technique and point of V iew .

T o those who st il l comp lain that th is modern poetrylacks the Clear

,Simp le beauty found in the r ipe l iterature

of the past , it may be answered that th i s is a complex ,unripe and exper im ental age . I t i s only when we understand our

“new” Amer ican writ ing to be part of a

l iterature of protest—protest against ugl iness, mach ine

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Em ily D ick inson

Em i ly D ickinson, whose work is one of the most originalcontributions to recent poetry, was born in Amh erst, M assa

chusetts, D ecember I O,1 830 . Sh e was a physical as we l l as a

sp iritual h erm it, actual ly spending most of h er l ife withoutsett ing foot beyond h er doorstep . Sh e wrote h er short

,intro

spective verses without though t of pub l icat ion, and it was not

unti l 1 890 , four years after h er d eath , that th e first vo lum e

of h er posthumous poetry app eared with an introduction byThomas Wentworth H igginson .

“Sh e habitual ly concealed h er m ind , l ike h er person, from

all but a very few friend s, wr ites H igginson, and it waswith great difficu lty that sh e was p ersuaded to print, during h erl ifetime

,three or four poem s.

”Y et sh e wrote almost fi ve hun

dred of th ese d irect and spontaneous i l lum inations, sendingmany of th em in l etters to fr iend s, or (wr itten on Ch ance S l ipsof paper and de l ivered without furth er comment ) to h er S isterSue . Slowly th e. pecu l iar, B lake- l ike qual ity of h er though t

won a widen ing Circ le of readers ; Poems ( 1 890 ) was fo l lowedby Poems—Second Series ( 1 892 ) and Poems—Third Series

th e contents be ing col l ected and ed ited by her twofr iend s

,ThomasWentworth H igginson and M abe l Loom is Todd .

Several years later, a furth er generous volum e was assemb ledby h er n iece

,M artha D ickinson B ianch i , entit l ed Th e Single

H ound

T h e Sharp qual ity of h er work,with its coo l preci sion and

Clear imagery, makes h er akin,at l east in techn ique , to th e

later Imagists. ( See Preface . ) B ut a passionate and almost

mystical warm th brings h er Closer to th e great ones of h er

tim e.

“An ep igrammatic Walt Wh itman

,som e one has cal led

h er,a Character ization wh ich , wh i le enthusiastic to th e point of

exaggeration , expresses th e d irection if not th e execution of her

art . Techn ical ly, Em i ly D ickinson’

s work is str ikingly uneven ;many of h er poem s are no more than rough sketch es, awkward lyfi l led in ; even som e of h er finest l ines are marred by th e in

trusion of mere ly tr iv ial conceits or forced “thought

-rhymes.

”

2 5

2 6 Em ily D ick inson

B ut th e best of h er work is incomparab l e in its strange cadenceand qu iet intensity. H er verses are l ike a box of m any j ewe l s,spark l ing with an unexpected br i l l iancy.Em i ly D ickinson d ied

,in the same p lace sh e was born, at

Amh erst,M ay 1 5, 1 886.

CHARTLESS

I never saw a moor,

I never saw the sea ;

Yet now I know how the heather looks ,And what a wave must be .

I never spoke with God,

Nor v is ited in Heaven ;Yet certain am I of the Spot

As if the chart were given .

INDIAN SUMMER

These are the days when b i rds come back ,A ve ry few

,a b i rd or two,

T o take a backward look .

These are the days when Skies put on

T he old,Old soph istr ies of June ,

A blue and gold m istake .

Oh , fraud that can not cheat the bee ,Almost thy p lausib il ityInduces my bel ief,

Till ranks of seeds the i r witness bear ,And softly th rough the altered air

Hurr ies a t im i d leaf !

Em ily D ick inson

Oh , sacram ent of Summer days,Oh , last commun ion in the haze ,Perm it a ch i ld to join ,

T hy sacred emblem s to partake,T hy consecrated b read to break,Taste th ine immortal wine !

SUSPENSE

Elysium is as far as to

T he very nearest room ,

I f in that room a fr iend awaitFel ic ity or doom .

What fort itu de the soul contains,That it can so endureT he accent of a com ing foot ,The open ing of a door .

A CEMETERY

Th is qu iet Dust was Gentlem en and Ladies,And Lads and Girls ;

Was laughter and ab il ity and sigh ing,And frocks and curls.

Th is pass ive p lace a Summ er ’s n imble mansion ,Where B loom and Bees

Fulfilled the i r O riental Circu it ,Then ceased like these.

BECLOUDED

T he sky i s low, the clouds are m ean ,A travell ing flake of snow

2 8 Em ily D ick inson

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all dayHow som e one treated him ;

Nature , l ike us, is somet imes caughtW ithout her d iadem .

PEDIGREE

The ped igree of honeyDoes not concern the bee ;A clover

,any t im e

,to him

I S aristocracy .

Th omas Bailey A ldrich

Thomas B ai ley A l dr ich was born in 1 836 at Portsmouth,New

Hamp sh ire, wh ere h e spent most of th e S ixteen years wh ich h ehas recorded in that d e l igh tfu l memoir

,The Story of a Bad

Boy From 1 855 to 1 866 h e h e l d various journal isticpositions, assoc iat ing h im se lf with th e l ead ing metropo l itanliterati. A few years late r he becam e editor of th e famous

A tlantic M onthly, ho l d ing that position from 1 881 to 1 890 .

A l d r ich ’s work fal ls into two Sharp ly- d ivi d ed Classes. Th e

first half is fu l l of over load ed ph rase-making, ferv id extrava

gances. T he reader sinks beneath c loud s of damask,azure,

emeral d , pear l and go l d ; h e is d rowned in a sea of musk,aloes

,

t iger- l i l ie s, sp ice, soft music,

orch ids, attar-breath ing dusk s.

T oo often, A l d r ich dwe lt in a l iterary Oriental ism ; h is Clothof Gold was suffused with “van i l la-flavored adj ectives and

patchou l i - scented partic ip les”( to quote Ho lm es ) , labor ing hard

to create an exotic atmosphere by a wear isome profusion of

lotus b lossom s, sandalwood,sp ikenard , b lown roses, d iaphanous

gauzes, etc .

T h e second phase of A l drich ’s art is more human in appeal

as it is sure r in artistry . “In the l ittl e stee l engrav ings that

Th omas Bailey Aldrich 2 9

are th e best expressions of h is p ecu l iar tal ent, writes Percy H .

B oynton, “th ere is a fi ne simp l ic ity ; but it is th e simp l ic ity of

an accomp l ish ed wom an of th e wor l d rath er than of a v i l lagemaid .” A lthough A ldr ich b itter ly resented th e ch arge that h e

was a maker of t iny p erfections, a carver of Ch erry- stones,those poem s of h is wh ich h ave th e best ch ance of p ermanence

are th e Short lyrics and a few of th e sonnets, exqu isite in design.

Th e best of A l dr ich ’

s d iffuse poetry has been co l l ected in an

inc lusive Househo l d Ed it ion, pub l i sh ed by Hough ton, M ifllin

and Company. H e d ied in 1 907 .

MEMORY

My m ind lets go a thousand th ings,

Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,And yet recalls the very hour’Twas noon by yonder village tower ,And on the last blue noon in M ay

T he wind cam e briskly up th is way,Crisp ing the b rook beside the road ;Then

, pausing here, set down its loadOf p ine-scents

,and shook l istlessly

Two petals from that wild- rose tree.

ENAMORED ARCH ITECT OF AIRY RHYME

Enamored arch itect of ai ry rhym e ,

Bu ild as thou wilt,heed not what each man says .

Good souls , but innocent of dream ers’ ways,Will com e

,and marvel why thou wastest t ime ;

O thers, beholding how thy tu rrets cl imb’Twixt the i rs and heaven , will hate thee all thy days ;But most beware of those who come to p raise .

O Wondersm ith , O worker in sublime

30 Thomas Bailey A ldrich

And heaven- sent dream s , let art be all in all;

Bu i ld as thou wilt, unspoi led by p raise or blame ,

Bu i ld as thou wilt, and as thy l ight i s given ;Then , if at last the airy structure fall ,D issolve , and vanish— take thyself no shame .

T heyflfail, and they alone

, who have not striven .

J ohn H ay

John Hay was born at Salem,I nd iana, in 1 838, graduated

from B rown Un iversity in 1 858 and was adm itted to th e I l l ino isbar a few years later. H e became pr ivate secretary to Lin

co ln, then major and assistant adjutant-general under GeneralG i lmore, th en secretary of th e Legat ion at Par is, chargé

d’

affaires at V ienna and secretary of legat ion at M ad r id .

H is few v iv id Pike County Ballads came more as a h appyacc i de nt than as a de l iberate creative e ffort. Wh en Hay re

turned from Spain in 1 870 ,bringing with h im h is Castilian

Days, he had v isions of becom ing an orthodox lyr ic poet.

But h e found everyone read ing B ret Harte’s short stor ies and

th e new exp ression of th e rude West. (See Preface . ) He specu

lated upon th e possib i l ity of do ing someth ing sim i lar, translatingth e Characters into poetry . T h e resu lt was the S ix racy bal ladsin a ve in utter ly d ifferent from everyth ing Hay wrote be fore or

after.Hay was in po l itics all the later part of h is l ife, ranking as

one of th e most br i l l iant Secretar ies of State th e country hasever had. He d ied in 1 905.

J IM BLUDSO ,

OF TH E PRAIRI E BELLE

Wall,no ! I can ’

t tell whar he l ives,Becase he don ’

t l ive, you see ;

Leastways , he’

s got out of the hab itOf l iv in ’ l ike you and m e .

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3 2 J ohn H ay

Thar was runnin'

and cussin’

,but Jim yelled out ,

Over all the infe rnal roar ,“I ’ll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot’s ashore .

Through the hot,black breath of the burnin ’ boat

Jim Bludso’

s voice was heard ,And they all had t rust in his cussedness,And knowed he would keep his word .

And, sure’s you ’re born , they all got off

Afore the smokestacks fell ,'And Bludso’

s ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of the P rairie Belle .

He warn ’

t no saint,

but at j edgement

I ’d run my Chance with J im ,

’Longside of som e p ious gentlem enThat wouldn ’

t Shook hands with him .

He seen his duty , a dead- su re th ing,

And went for it thar and then ;And Chr ist ain ’

t a goin ’

to be too hardOn a man that d ied for men .

Bret Harte

(Francis) B ret Harte was born A ugust 2 5, 1 839 , at A lbany,New York . H is Ch i l dhood was sp ent in var ious Cities of th e

East. Late in 1 853 , h is widowed mother went to Cal iforniawith a party of re latives, and two month s later, wh en he wasfifteen,

B ret Harte and h is si ster fo l lowed .

Harte’s fame cam e sudd en ly . Late in th e S ixt ies, he had

wr itten a bur le sque in rhym e of'

two Western gamb lers tryingto fleece a gu i l e l ess Ch inaman who Claimed to know noth ingabout card s but who , it turned out

, was scarce ly as innocentas h e appeared . Harte , in th e m id st of wr it ing ser ious poetry,h ad put the verses asid e as too crud e and tr ifl ing for pub l ication. Some t ime later, just as The Overland M onthly was

Bret Harte 33

going to press, it was discovered that the form was one page

short. Hav ing noth ing e l se on hand , Harte h ad th ese rhymes

set up . Instead of passing unnoticed , th e poem was quotedeverywh ere ; it swep t th e West and capt ivated th e East. Whenh is vo lum e The Luck of Roaring Camp fo l lowed , Harte hecam e not on ly a national but an international figure.

In 1 872 Harte , encouraged by h is succe ss,returned to his

native East ; in 1 878 h e went to Germany as consu l . Two yearslater h e was transferred to Scot land and, after five years th ere,went to London, where h e remained th e rest of h is l ife .

Harte’s later period remains myster iously Sh rouded . H e never

came back to Am erica, not even for a v isit ; h e separated h imse lf from all the most intim ate assoc iations of h is ear ly l ife.

He died, sudden ly, at Camber l ey, England , M ay 6 , 1 902 .

JIM

Say there ! P r apsSom e on you ChapsMight know Jim Wild !Well , —no offenseThar ain ’

t no senseIn gitt in ’ r iled !

Jim was my chum

Up on the Bar :

That ’s why I com e

Down from up yar,

Lookin ’

for Jim .

Thank ye , sir ! You

Ain ’

t of that crew,

B lest if you are !

Money ! Not much

That ain ’

t my kind ;I ain ’

t no such .

Rum ! I don ’

t m ind,

Seein’

it’

s you .

34 Bret Harte

T he h you say !

Dead !That l ittle cuss !

Well,thar—Good-bye.

No more , sir— I

Eh !

Wel l , th i s yer Jim ,

D i d you know him !Jes

’ ’bout your Size ;Sam e kind of eyes ;Well , that i s strangeWhy, it

’

s two yearS ince he came here,

S ick,for a change .

Well , here’s to us

Eh !

What makes you star’

,

You over thar !Can ’

t a m an drop’

S glass in yer Shop

But you must r’

ar !

I t wouldn ’

t takeD d much to break

You and your bar.

Dead !Poor— l ittle—J imWhy , thar was m e,

Jones , and Bob Lee,Harry and Ben ,

No-account m en

Then. to take him !

Bre t Harte 35

What ’s that you say !

Why, dern it —Sho !No ! Yes ! By Joe !

Sold !Sold ! Why, you l imb ,You ornery ,Derned , old,

Long- legged Jim .

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

(Table M ountain, 1 870 )

Wh ich I W ish to remarkAnd my language is p lain ,

That for ways that are darkAnd f or tr icks that are vain ,

The heathen Ch inee is pecul iar ,Wh ich the sam e I would r ise explain .

Ah Sin was his nam e ;

And I shall not deny,

In regard to the same ,

What that nam e m ight imply ;But his sm ile, it was pensive and ch ildl ike

,

AS I frequent remarked to B i ll Nye .

I t was August the th i rd ,And qu ite soft was the skies ;Wh ich it m ight be inferredThat Ah Sin was l ikewise ;

Yet he played it that day upon WilliamAnd me in a way I desp ise.

Bre t Harte

Wh ich we had a small gam e ,

And Ah S in took a handI t was Euchre . T he sam e

He d id not unde rstand ;But he sm i led as he sat by the table

,

With a sm i le that was ch ildl ike and bland .

Yet the cards they were stockedIn away that I grieve ,And my feel ings were shockedA t the state of Nye ’s sleeve ,Wh ich was stu ffed ful l of aces and bowers

,

And the sam e with intent to dece ive;

But the hands that were p layedBy that heathen Ch inee ,And the points that he made ,Were qu ite fr ightfu l to see ,

Till at last he put down a r ight bowerWh ich the sam e Nye had dealt unto

Then I looked up at Nye ,

And he gazed upon m e ;

And he rose with a s igh ,And said ,

“Can th is be !

We are ru ined by Ch inese Cheap labor,And he went for that heathen Ch inee.

In the scene that ensuedI d id not take a hand ,

But the floor it was strewedLike the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah S in had been h id ing,In the game he d id not understand .

”

Bre t Harte 37

In his sleeves , wh ich were long,H e had twenty- fou r packs ,Wh ich was com Ing It strong,Yet I state but the facts ;

‘And we found on his nai ls, wh ich were taper ,What i s frequent in tapers , —that ’

s wax .

Wh ich is why I remark ,And my language is p lain ,

That forways that are darkAnd for tricks that are vain

,

T he heathen Ch inee is pecul iar ,Wh ich the same I am free to maintain .

Joaqu in Miller

C inc innatus (Heine ) M i l l er, or,to give h im the name h e

adopted , Joaqu in M i l ler, was born in 1 84 1 of imm igrantparents. A s h e h im se lf wr ites

,

“M y crad l e was a coveredwagon, pointed west. I was born in a covered wagon,

I am

to ld , at or about th e time it crossed th e l ine d ivid ing I nd ianafrom Oh io.

”

A t fifteen we fi nd M i l ler l iv ing with th e I ndians as one of

th em ; in 1 859 ( at the age of eigh teen ) h e attends a m issionschoo l “

co l l ege in Eugene, Oregon ; between 1 860 and 1 865

h e is express-m essenger, ed itor of a pac ifi st newspaper that issuppressed for opposing th e Civ i l War, lawyer and

,occasion

al ly, a poet . He ho l d s a m inor judgesh ip from 1 866 to 1 870 .

H is first book (Specim ens ) app ears in 1 868,h is second

(Joaquin ci al., from wh ich h e took h is nam e ) in 1 869 . No

response—not even from “the bard s of San Franc isco B ay

”to

whom h e has dedicated th e latter volume . He is Chagrined ,d iscouraged , angry. H e sh akes th e dust of Am erica from his

feet ; goes to London ; pub l ish es a vo lum e (Pacific Poems ) at

h is own expense and—overn igh t—becom es a sensation !H is dramatic success in England is easi ly exp lained . He

brought to the calm air of l iterary London, a breath of the

38 J oaqu in M iller

great wind s of the p lain . T h e more he exaggerated his

crash ing effects, the better th e Engl ish pub l ic l i ked it. Wh enh e entered V ictor ian par lors in h is ve lvet jacket, h ip -boots and

flowing hair, ch i l dhood v isions of th e“wi l d and woo l ly West

erner” were real ized and th e very bombast of h is work wasglorified as “

typ ical ly Am er ican.

”

From 1 872 to 1 886,M i l l er trave led about th e Continent.

In 1 887\ h e returned to Cal iforn ia

,dwe l l ing on th e H e igh ts,

he lp ing to found an exper im ental Greek academy for asp ir ingwr iters. He d ied th ere , after a d eterm ined ly p icturesque l ife,in sight of the Go l den Gate, in 1 9 1 3 .

FROM BYRON”

In m en whom m en condemn as i llI find so much of goodness st i ll

,

In m en Whom m en p ronounce d iv ineI find SO much of sin and blotI do not dare to d raw a l ineBetween the two, where God has not .

COLUMBUS 1

Beh ind him lay the gray Azores,Beh ind the Gates of Hercules ;Before h im not the ghost of shores ,Before him only Shoreless seas .

T he good m ate said : “Now must we pray,

For 10 ! the very . stars are gone .

Brave Adm i ral , speak , what shall I say! ”

“Why, say‘Sai l on ! sai l on ! and

1 Perm ission to repr int th is poem was granted by th e HarrWagner Pub l ish ing Co. ,

San Franc isco, Cal ifornia, pub l ish ers of

Joaquin M i l ler’s Comp l ete Poetical Works.

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40 E dward R owland S ill

Edward Rowland Si l l was born at W ind sor,Connecticut

,in

1 84 1 . In 1 86 1 h e was graduated from Yal e and Short ly th ereafter h is poor h eal th comp e l l ed h im West . A fter var ious um

successfu l exper im ents, h e d rifted into teach ing, first in th e h ighschoo l s in Oh io

,later in th e Engl ish department of the Uni

versity of Cal iforn ia.

The H erm itage, h is first vo lume, was pub l ish ed in 1 867 , a

later ed ition ( inc lud ing later poem s) appear ing in 1 889 . H is

two posthumous books are Poems ( 1 887 ) and H erm ione and

Other PoemsSi l l d ied , after br inging someth ing of the Eastern cu lture to

th e West, in 1 887 .

OPPORTUNITY

Th i s I beheld , or dream ed it in a dreamThere sp read a cloud of dust along a plain ;And underneath the cloud , or in it

,raged

A furious battle,and m en yelled

,and swords

Shocked upon swords and Sh ields . A prince’s banner

Wavered , then staggered backward , hemmed by foes .A c raven hung along the battle’s edge,And thought , Had I a sword of keener steelThat blue blade that the king ’s son bears ,— but th isB lunt th ing— l

”he snap t and flung it from his hand ,

And lower ing crept away and left the field .

Then cam e the k ing’s son , wounded , sore bestead ,And weaponless, and saw the b roken sword ,Hilt-bu r ied in the dry and t rodden sand ,And ran and snatched it , and with battle- shoutLifted afresh he hewed his enemy down ,And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Sidn ey Lanier

Sidney Lanier was born at M acon,Georgia, February 3 , 1 842 .

His was a fam i ly of music ians (Lanier h imse lf was a sk i lfu l

Sidney Lan ier 4 1

performer on various instrum ents) , and it is not surprising that

h is verse emphasizes—even overstresse s—the influence of musicon poetry. H e attended Ogl ethorp e Co l l ege , graduating at th e

age of e ighteen and,a year later, vo lunteered as a

private in th e Confederate army. A fter several month s’im

prisonment (he h ad been captured wh i l e act ing as signal officeron a blockade- runner ) , Lan ier was re l eased in February, 1 865.

A fter studying and abandoning th e practise of law,h e b e

cam e a flute-

p layer in th e Peabody Symphony Orch estra in 1 873

in B altimore , wh ere he h ad free access to th e m usic and l iterature h e craved . H ere h e wrote all of h is be st poetry. In 1 879 ,

h e was m ade lecturer on Engl ish in Johns Hopkins Un iversity,and it was for h is courses th ere th at h e wrote h is Ch ief prosework, a bri l l iant if not conc lusive study, The Science of EnglishVerse . B esides h is poetry, h e wrote several books for boys,th e two most popu lar be ing Th e B oy

’

s Froissart ( 1 878) and

The B oy’

s King A rthur

Lanier ranks h igh among our m inor poets. Such a v igorous bal lad as

“T h e Song of th e Chattahooch ee ,” lyrics l ike

“Th e St irrup Cup

”and parts of th e symphonic “Hymns of th e

M arsh es”are sure of a p lace in Am erican l iterature .

Lan ier d ied , a v ictim of tubercu losis in th e mountains of

North Caro l ina,Sep tember 7 , 1 881 .

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 1

Out of the h ills of Habersham ,

Down the valleys of Hal l,

I hu rry amain to reach the plain ,

Run the rap id and leap the fall,

Sp l it at the rock and together again ,

Accept my bed, or narrow or wide ,And flee from folly on every sideWith a lover ’s pain to attain the plainFar from the h ills of Habersham ,

Far from the valleys of Hall .1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Copyrigh t, 1 884 , 1 89 1 , 1 9 1 6 ,

by M ary D . Lanier ; publ ish ed by Ch ar le s Scribner’s Sons. By

permission of th e pub l ishers.

42 S idney Lanier

All down the h i lls of Habersham,

All th rough the val leys of Hall ,The rushes cr ied Ab ide

, abide,

T he willfu l waterweeds held m e thrall,

T he lav ing lau rel turned my t ide ,T he ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,T he dewbe rry d ipped for to work delay,And the l ittle reeds sighed Abide, abide,

Here in the hills of Habersham ,

H ere in the valleys of Hall.

High o’

er the h i lls of Habersham ,

Ve i l ing the valleys of Hall,T he h ickory told m e manifoldFai r tales of shade, the pop lar tallWrought m e her shadowy self to hold ,T he chestnut , the oak

,the walnut

,the p ine,

Overleaning, with fl icker ing m ean ing and Sign ,Said , Pass not, so cold, these manifold

D eep shades of the hills of H abersham ,

These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the h i lls of Habersham ,

And oft in the valleys of Hal l ,T he wh ite quartz shone, and the smooth b rook- stoneDid bar m e of passage with fr iendly brawl ,And many a lum inous j ewel lone—Crystals Clear or acloud with m ist,Ruby, garnet and am ethystMade lu res with the l ights of st ream ing stoneIn the clefts of the h i lls of Habersham ,

In the beds of the valleys of Hall .

Sidney Lanier 43

But oh , not the h i lls of Habersham,

And oh,not the valleys of Hall

Avail : I am fain for to wate r the p lain .

Downward the voices of Duty callDownward , to toi l and be m ixed with the main ,T he dry fields bu rn ,

and the m i lls are to tu rn ,And a myriad flowers mortally yearn ,

And the lordly main from beyond the plainCalls o

’

er the h ills of Habersham ,

Calls through the valleys of Hall .

Charles E dward Carryl

Char les Edward Carry] , fath er of th e gifted Guy Wet

more Carryl ( see page was born in New York City,D ecember 30 , 1 842 . H e was an offi cer and d irector in var iousrai lroad s but found l eisure to wr ite two of th e few worthyrival s of the immortal A lice in Wonderland. These two

,Davy

and the Goblin and Th e Adm iral’

s Caravan

contain many l ive ly and diverting bal lads as we l l as insp irednonsense verses in th e m anner of h is famous mode l .C . E . Carry ] l ived th e greater part of h is l ife in N ew York

but,on retir ing from business, removed to B oston and l ived there

unti l h is death , wh ich occurred in th e summ er of 1 92 0 .

ROB INSON CRUSOE ’S STORY

The n ight was th ick and hazyWhen the

“P iccadilly Daisy”

Carr ied down the crew and captain in the sea;

And I th ink the water drowned ’

em

For they never , never found ’

em

And I know they didn ’

t come ashore with me .

44 Charles E dward Carryl

Oh !’

twas very sad and lonelyWhen I found myself the on ly

Populat ion on th is cult ivated Shore ;But I

’

ve m ade a l ittle tavernIn a rocky l ittle cavern ,

And I sit and watch for people at the

I spent no t im e in lookingFor a girl to do my cooking

,

As I ’

m qu ite a clever hand at m aking stewsBut I had that fellow Fri day ,Just to keep the tavern t idy ,

And to put a Sunday pol ish on my shoes .

I have a l ittle gardenThat I ’

m cu lt ivat ing lard in,

AS the th ings I eat are rather tough and

For I l ive on toasted l izards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,And I ’

m really very fond Of beetle-

pie .

The clothes I had were furry ,And it m ade m e fret and wor ry

When I found the moths were eat ing off the hair ;And I had to scrape and sand ’

em

And I boi led ’

em and I tanned ’

em,

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I som et imes seek d iversionIn a fam i ly excursion

W ith the few dom est ic animal s youAnd we take along a car rotAs refreshm ent for the parrot

And a l ittle can of jungleberry tea.

Charles E dward Carryl 45

Then we gather as we t ravel,

B its of moss and dirty gravel ,And we ch ip off l ittle spec im ens of stone ;

And we carry hom e as prizesFunny bugs, of handy Sizes

,

Just to give the day a sc ient ific tone .

I f the roads are wet and muddyWe remain at hom e and study

,

For the Goat is very clever at a sum ,

And the Dog, instead of fight ing,S tudies ornam ental wr it ing,

Wh ile the Cat is taking lessons on the drum .

We ret i re at eleven ,

And we r ise again at seven ;And I wish to call attention

,as I close

,

T o the fact that all the scholarsAre correct about thei r collars,

And part icular in tu rn ing out the i r toes.

Jam es Wh itcom b Riley

James Wh itcomb Ri l ey, who was possib ly th e most wide lyread native poet of h is day, was born October 7 , 1 849 , in

Greenfie ld , Ind iana, a smal l town twenty m i l es from Indianapolis, where h e sp ent h is later years. Contrary to th e popu larbe l ief, R i l ey was not, as m any have gathered from h is buco l icd ialect poem s

,a struggl ing Ch i l d of th e soi l ; h is fath er was a

lawyer in com fortab le Circum stances and R i l ey was not on lygiven a good education but was prepared for th e law. However

,h is temp eram ent was rest less ; it made h im try sign -

painting, Circus advertising, journal ism .

I n 1 882 , when h e was on th e staff of the I ndianapol is Journal,h e began th e series of d ialect poem s wh ich h e c laim ed were bya rude and un l ettered farm er, one

“B enj . F . Johnson, of Boone,

46 Jam es Wh itcom b Riley

th e Hoosier poet”—p rinting long extracts from “B oone’s”

un

grammatical and bad ly- spe lt l etters to prove h is fi nd. A collec

t ion of th ese rustic verses appeared , in 1 883 , as The Ole‘

Swimmin’H ole ; and R i l ey leaped into widespread popu larity.

Oth er co l lections fo l lowed rap id ly : Afterwhiles Old

Fash ioned Roses Rhymes of Childhood A ll m et

an instant response ; R i ley end eared h im se lf, by h is home lyid iom and h is ingenu ity, to a countryful of readers

,ado lescent

and adu l t.That work of h is wh ich may endure , wi l l surv1ve because of

th e personal flavor that R i l ey often poured into it. Such poems

as“When th e Frost is on th e Punkin,” and “T h e Raggedy

M an”are a part of Amer ican fo lk l iterature ; “L itt le Orphant

Ann ie is read wh erever th ere is a schoo lhouse or, for that

matter, a nursery .R i l ey d ied in h is little house in Lockerbie Street, Indianapo lis,Ju ly 2 2 , 1 9 1 6 .

WHEN THE FROST I S ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punk in and the fodder’s in theShock ,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’

turkey- cock ,And the clackin

’

of the guineys, and the cluckin’

of the

hens,And the rooster’

s hallylooyer as he t ip toe s on the fence ;O ,

it’

s then the t im e a fel ler i s a-feelin’

at his best ,With the risin

’ sun to greet him from a night of peacefulrest ,

As he leaves the house , bareheaded , and goes out to feedthe stock

,

When the frost i s on the punk in and the fodder’s in theShock .

1 From th e B iograph ical Ed it ion of the Complete Works ofJames Whitcomb R iley. Copyr ight, 1 9 1 3 . U sed by spec ial perm ission of th e publ ishers, T h e Bobbs-M erril l Company.

https://www.forgottenbooks.com/join

48 Jam es Wh itcom b Riley

I ’d want to’

commodate ’

em—all the whole-indurin’

flock

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in theShock.

A PARTING GUEST 1

What del ightful hosts are theyLife and Love !L ingeringly I turn away ,Th i s late hour, yet glad enoughThey have not withheld from me

Thei r h igh hosp ital ity .

So, with face lit with del ightAnd all grat itude , I stayYet to p ress their hands and say,

Thanks—So fine a t ime ! Good night .

1From the B iograph ical Edition of the Complete Works of

James Whitcomb R iley . Copyr ight, 1 9 1 3 . Used by spec ial perm ission of the pub l ishers, T h e Bobbs-M erril l Company.

E ug ene F ie ld

A lthough born (September 3 , 1 850 ) in St. Louis, M issouri ,Eugene Fie l d be longs to th e l iterature of the far West. Co lorado and th e Rocky M ountain region c laimed him as th eir ownand Fie l d never repud iated the al legiance ; h e even cal led most

of h is poetry “Western V erse .

”

Fie l d ’s area of educat ion embraced New England , M issouri ,

and what European terr itory he cou l d cover in six month s.

A t twenty-three he became a reporter on th e St. Lou is EveningJournal, th e rest of h is l ife being given to journal i sm .

Though Fie l d may be overrated in som e quarters, th ereis l ittl e doubt that certain of h is ch i l d lyrics, h is home ly ph ilosoph ic bal lad s ( in th e ve in wh ich Harte and R i l ey popu

lariz ed ) and his bril l iant bur lesques wi l l occupy a niche in

E ug ene F ie ld 49

American l etters. Readers of all tastes wi l l fi nd much to de

l igh t them in the comp lete one -vo lum e edition of h is versewh ich was issued in 1 9 1 0 .

Fie l d d ied in Ch icago, I l l inois, November 4 , 1 895.

LITTLE BOY BLUE 1

The l ittle toy dog is covered with dust ,But sturdy and staunch he stands ;

T he l ittle toy soldier is red with rust ,And his musket moulds in his hands .Time was when the l ittle toy dogwas new,

And the sold ier was passing fai r ;And that was the t im e when our Little Boy B lueKissed them and put them there .

Now don ’

t you go t i ll I come,he said ,

“And don ’

t you m ake any noise !”

So, toddl ing off to his trundle bed,He dream t of the p retty toys ;And , as he was d ream ing, an angel songAwakened our Little Boy B lue

Oh ! the years are many , the years are long,But the l ittle toy friends are true !

Ay, faithful to Little Boy B lue they stand ,Each in the sam e old p lace ,Await ing the touch of a l ittle hand ,T he sm i le of a l ittle face ;

And they wonder , aswait ing the long years throughIn the dust of that l ittle chai r ,What has becom e of our Little Boy Blue ,S ince he kissed them and put them there .

1Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by

perm ission of Char les Scribner’s Sons,ho l ders of the copyright.

Eugene Field

SEEIN’ THINGS 1

I ain ’

t afraid uv snakes or toads , or bugs or wo rms or

m ice,

An ’

th ings ’

at girls are skeered uv I th ink are awful n ice !I

’

m p retty b rave I guess ; an’

yet I hate to go to bed,

For when I ’

m tucked up warm an’ snug an

’ when myp rayers are said ,

Mother tells m e“Happy Dream s an

’

takes away the

l ight,An’ leavesme lyin ’

all alone an’

seein’

th ings at night !

Somet imes they’

re in the corner, som et imes they’

re by thedoor ,

Som et im es they ’

re all a- standin ’ in the m iddle uv the

floor ;Som et im es they are a—sitt inwalkin ’ round

So softly and so creepy- l ike they never make a sound !Som et im es they are as black as ink , an

’

other t im esthey ’

re wh iteBut color ain ’

t no difference when you see th ings at night !

down,somet im es they’

re

Once , when I l icked a fel ler ’

at had just moved on our

street,An ’

father sent me up to bed without a b ite to eat ,

I woke up in the dark an’

saw th ings stand in ’ in a row,

A - lookin ’

at m e cross- eyed an ’

p’int in ’

at m e—so .’

Oh , my ! I wuz so skeered ’

at tim e I never slep’

a m iteI t

’

s almost alluz when I ’

m bad I see th ings at night !

1Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by

perm ission of Char l es Scr ibner’s Sons, ho l d ers of th e copyrigh t

E ugene Fie ld 51

Lucky th ing I ain ’

t a gi rl or I ’d be skeered to death !Be in ’

I’

m a boy, I duck my head an’

hold my breath .

An’ I am , Oh so sorry I ’

m a naughty boy, an’

then

I p rom ise to be better an ’ I say my p rayers again !Gran ’

ma tells m e that’s the only way to make it right

When a feller has been wicked an’ sees th ings at n ight !

An’

SO when other naughty boys wou ld coax m e into sin ,

I try to skwush the Tempter’

s voice ’

at u rges m e with in ;An ’ when they ’

s pie for supper , or cakes ’

at’

s big an ’ nice,I want to—but I do not pass my p late f

’

r them th ingstwice !

No, ruther let S tarvat ion wipe m e Slowly out o’

SightThen I should keep a- l iv in ’

on an’

seein’

th ings at

night !

E dwin Markham

Edwin M arkham was born in Oregon City, Oregon,Apri l 2 3 ,

1 852 , th e youngest son of p ioneer parents. H is fath er d iedbefore th e boy reach ed h is fifth year and in 1 857 h e was takenby h is moth er to a wi l d val l ey in th e Suisun H i l l s in centralCal iforn ia. Here h e grew to young m anhood ; farm ing,broncho-rid ing, laboring on a catt l e ranch , educating h im se l f inthe pr im itive country schoo l s and supp lem enting h is studieswith whatever books h e cou l d procure .

I n 1 899 , a new force surged th rough h im ; a sense of outrageat th e inequal ity of human struggle voiced itse lf in th e swe eping and sonorous poem ,

“T h e M an with th e Hoe .

”

(SeePreface . ) Insp ired by M i l l et’

s painting, M arkham made th e

bowed , broken French peasant a symbo l of th e poverty- strickentoi ler in all land s—h is was a protest not against labor but thedrudgery, the sou l -d estroying exp loitat ion of labor.T h e success of th e poem upon its app earance in the San

Franc isco Examiner (January 1 5, 1 89 9 ) was instantaneous and

un iversal . T he l ines app eared in every part of th e globe ; itwas quoted and cop ied in every walk of l ife , in th e l iterary

52 E dwin Markham

wor l d,th e l e isure wor l d , the labor wor l d . I t was incorporated

in M arkham ’s first vo lume The M an with the H oe, and Other

PoemsT h e sam e passion that fired M arkham to Champ ion the great

common workers equ ipp ed h im to wr ite fi ttingly of the GreatCommoner in Lincoln, and Other PoemsM arkh am cam e East in 1 90 1 , making h is home on Staten

I sland , New York .

THE MAN WITH THE HOE 1

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leansUpon his hoe and gazes on the ground ,T he emp t iness of ages in his face,And on his back the burden of the world .

Who made him dead to rapture and despair,A th ing that gr ieves not and that neve r hopes,S tol i d and stunned , a b rother to the ox !

Who loosened and let down th is b rutal jaw!

Whose was the hand that slanted back th is b row !Whose breath blew out the l ight with in th is brain !

Is th is the Th ing the Lord God made and gaveT o have dom in ion over sea and land ;T o t race the stars and search the heavens for power ;T o feel the passion of Etern ity !I S th i s the dream He dream ed who shaped the sunsAnd marked the ir ways upon the ancient deep !Down all the caverns of Hell to the i r last gulfThere is no Shape more terrib le than th is

1Rev ised version, 1 92 0 . Copyr ight by Edwin M arkham .

E dwin Markham 53

More tongued with censure of the world ’s bl ind greedMore filled with signs and portents for the soulMore packt with danger to the un iverse .

What gulfs between him and the seraph im !Slave of the wheel of labor, what to himAre Plato and the swing of Ple iades !What the long reaches of the peaks of song,T he r ift of dawn

,the redden ing of the rose !

Through th is dread shape the suffer ing ages look ;Tim e

’

s t ragedy is in that ach ing stoop ;Th rough th is dread Shape human ity betrayed ,Plundered , p rofaned , and disinher ited ,Cries p rotest to the Judges of the World ,A p rotest that is also p rophecy .

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,

I S th i s the handiwork you give to God,

Th is monstrous th ing distorted and soul -quenched !Howwill you eve r straighten up th is Shape

Touch it again with immortal ity ;Give back the upward looking and the l ight ;Rebu ild in it the music and the dream ;

Make r ight the imm emorial infam ies,

Perfidious wrongs, imm edicable woes !

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,

How will the Futu re reckon with th is man !

How answer his b rute quest ion in that hou rWhen wh i rlwinds of rebell ion Shake all Shores !Howwill it be with kingdom s and with kingsWith those who Shaped him to the th ing he isWhen th is dumb Terror shall r ise to judge the world ,After the Silence of the centur ies !

54 Edwin Markham

PREPAREDNESS

For all you r days p repare ,And m eet them eve r al ikeWhen you are the anv il , bearWhen you are the hamm er , strike.

LINCOLN , THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE 1

When the Norn Mother saw the Wh i rlwind HourGreatening and darkening as it hu rr ied on

,

She left the Heaven of H eroes and cam e downT o make a m an to m eet the mortal need .

She took the t ried clay of the common roadClay warm ye t with the gen ial heat of earth ,Dasht th rough it all a strain of p rophecy ;Tempered the heap with th r i ll of human tears ;Then m ixt a laughter with the serious Stuff.In to the shape She breathed a flame to l ightThat tende r , t ragic , eve r- changing face ;And laid on him a sense of mysti c powers,Mov ing— all husht— beh ind the mortal vai l .Here was a man to hold against the world ,A man to match the mountains and the sea.

T he color of the ground was in him , the red earth ;

T he smack and tang of elem ental th ingsT he rect itude and pat ience of the cl iff ;T he good-Wi l l of the rain that loves all leaves ;T he fr iendly welcome of the wayside well ;T he courage of the b i rd that dares the sea;

1See pages 78, 84, 1 39 , 1 42 , 1 72 .

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56 Edwin Markham

As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,‘Goes down with a great shout upon the h i lls,And leaves a lonesom e place against the sky.

I rwin Russe ll

I rwin Russe l l was born, June 3 , at Port G ibson,M is

sissipp i, wh ere h e stud ied law and was adm itted to the bar.

His rest l ess nature and wayward d isposition d rove h im fromone p lace to another, from a not too rugged health to an utterbreakdown .

A lthough Russe l l d id not take h is poetry ser iously and though

th e bu l k of it is smal l,its influence has been large . Thomas

Ne l son Page and Joe l Chand ler Harr is have acknowledgedth e ir ind ebtedness to h im ; th e creator of Unc le Remus writing,“I rwin Russe l l was among th e fi rst—if not th e very fi rst—of

South ern wr iters to apprec iate th e l iterary possib i l ities of the

negro Character .” He entered th e ir l ife, apprec iated th e ir freshturns of though t, saw th ings with that pecu l iar mixture of

reverence and unconsc ious humor that is so integral a part of

negro songs and sp ir itual s.

“D e Fust B anjo”( from Russe l l ’s operetta Christmas

N igh t in the Quarters, possi b ly his best known work ) is a

faith fu l rend er ing of th e m ind of th e Old- fash ioned,

simp l eand sententious ch i l d of the p lantation . I n th is poem th e Old

story of Noah is to l d , with d e l igh tfu l add it ions, from the co lorful angle of th e darky, local in its sett ing, d iverting in its

modern detai l s and reveal ing in its quaint p sycho logy.Russe l l d ied , in an obscure boarding house in NewOrleans,D ecember 2 3 , 1 879 .

DE FUST BANJO

Go’way , fiddle ! folks is t i red o

’

hearin ’

you a-squawkin’

.

Keep silence fur yo’ betters ! don ’

t you heah de banjotalk in ’

I rwin Russell 57

About de ’

possum’s tail she ’s gwine to lecter—ladies,

l isten !About de ha’

r whut isn ’

t dar, an’ why de ha

’

r is m issin ’

Dar ’s gwine to be a’

oberflow, said Noah , lookin’

solemnFur Noah tuk de Herald , an

’

he read de r ibbercolumn

An ’

so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin ’

t imber-patches,An

’ ’lowed he’

s gwine to bu ild a boat to beat de steamah

Natchez .

Ol’ Noah kep

’

a-nail in ’

an’

a- ch ipp in’

an’

a- sawin ’

;

An’

all de wicked ne ighbors kep’

a-laughin’

an’

a-

pshawin’

;

But Noah didn ’

t m in’ ’

em ,knowin ’ whut wuz gwine to

happen :

An ’

forty days an’

forty n ights de rain it kep’

a-drappin’

.

Now,Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort 0

’

beas’

es

Ob all de shows a- trabbelin’

,it beat ’

em all to p ieces !He had a Morgan colt an ’

sebral head 0’

Jarsey cattleAn

’

druv’

em’board de Ark as soon

’

s he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! I t com e SO awful hebby,De ribber riz imm ej itly, an

’ busted troo de lebbee ;De people all wuz drownded out—’

cep’ Noah an

’

de

c ritters,An ’

m en he’

d h i red to wuk de boat—an’

one to m ix de

bitters.

De Ark she kep’

a-sailin’

an’

a-sailin’

an’

a- sailin’

;

De l ion got his dander up , an’ l ike to bruk de pal in

’

;

58 I rwin Russe ll

De sarp ints h i ssed ; de painters yelled ; tel’

, whut widall do fussin

’

,

You c’

u’

dn’

t hardly heah de mate a-bossin ’

roun ’

an’

cussin’

.

Now Ham , do only nigger whut wuz runnin’

on de

packet ,Got lonesom e in de barber-Shop , an

’

C’

u’

dn’

t stan ’

de

racket ;An ’

so, fur to amuse he-se’

f,he steamed some wood an

’

bent it ,An ’ soon he had a banjo made—dc fust dat wuz invented .

He wet de ledder, stretched it on ; made bridge an’

screws an ’

aprin ;

An’ fitted in a p roper neck—

’

twu z berry long an’

tap

rin’

;

He tuk some tin , an’

twisted him a th imble fur to ringit

An ’

den de m ighty quest ion riz : howwuz he gwine to

string it !

De’

possum had as fine a tai l as d is dat I ’

S a-Singin ’

;

De ha’

r’s so long an’

th ick an ’ strong, —des fi t fur banjostringin

’

;

Dat nigger Shaved ’

em off as Short as washday- dinnergraces :

An ’ sorted ob’

em by de Size—f’

om l ittle E ’s to basses .

He strung her, tuned her, struck a j ig,—’

twas “N ebber

m in’

de wedder,She soun ’ l ike forty-lebben bands a-

playin’

all togedder

I rwin Russell 59

Some went to patt in’

; some to danc in ’

: Noah called defiggers ;

An’

Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happ iest ob

niggers !

Now,sence dat t ime—it

’

s m ighty strange—dere’s not deslightes

’

showin ’

Ob any ha’

r at all upon the’

possum’s tail a-

growin’

An’

curi ’s,too

, dat n igger ’s ways— his people nebber

los’ ’

em

Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar ’s de banjo an’

de’

possum !

L izette Woodworth R e ese

L izette Woodworth Reese was born January 9 , 1 856, at B altimore, M aryland

,where Sh e h as l ived ever since . A fter an

education obtained ch iefly in private schoo l s,sh e taugh t Engl ish

in th e Western H igh Schoo l at B al timore.

A Handful of Lavender A Quiet Road ( 1 896 ) and

A Wayside Lute ( 1 909 ) embody an arti stry wh ich ,in sp ite of

its old-fash ioned contours, is as true as it is tender. A host

of th e younger lyric ists owe m uch of the ir techn ique to h er

adm irab le mode l s, and few mod ern sonneteers have equaledthe blended mussc and symbo l ism of

“Tears.

”

TEARS

When I Consider Life and its few yearsA wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun ;

A call to battle , and the battle doneEre the last echo dies with in our ears ;“A rose choked in the grass ; an hou r of fears ;The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat ;T he burst of music down an unl isten ing street,I wonder at the idleness of tears.

60 L iz e tte Woodworth R e ese

Ye old, old dead , and ye of yesternight,

Ch ieftains,and bards , and keepers of the sheep ,

By every cup of sorrow that you had,

Loose m e from tears , and make m e see arightHow each hath back what once he stayed to weepHom er his Sight , Dav id his l ittle lad !

SP ICEWOOD

T he Sp icewood burns along the gray , spent sky,

In moist unchimneyed p laces, in a wind ,That wh ips it all before

,and all beh ind ,

Into one th ick , rude flam e , now low, now h igh .

I t is the fi rst,the hom el iest th ing of all

A t s ight of it , that lad that by it fares ,Wh istles afresh his fool ish

,town-caught ai rs

A th ing so honey- colored and so tall !

I t is as though the young Year,ere he pass,

T o the wh ite r iot of the cherry tree ,Would fain accustom us , or here , or there,T o his new sudden ways with bough and grass,So starts with what is humble , p lain to see,

And all fam i l iar as a cup , a chair.

Frank D empster Sh erman

Frank D emp ster Sh erman was born at Peekski l l , New York ,M ay 6 , 1 860 . He entered Co lumbia University in 1 879 , wh ere,after graduat ion and a subsequent instructorsh ip , h e was madead junct profe ssor in 1 89 1 and Professor of Graph ics in 1 904 .

H e h e l d th e latter position unti l h is d eath , wh ich occurredSeptember 1 9 , 1 9 1 6 .

Sherman never wear ied of the l itt le lyr ic ; even th e titles

Frank D empster Sh erman 6 1

of h is vo lumes are instance s of h is fondness for th e briefm e lody

,th e sudd en snatch of song : M adrigals and Catches

Lyrics for a Lute Little-Folk LyricsLyrics of J oy A sump tuous, co l lected edition of h is

poem s was publ ish ed , with an Introduction by C l inton Sco l lard ,in 1 9 1 7.

AT MIDNIGHT

See, yonder, the belfry towerThat gleam s in the moon

’s pale l ight0 1 is it a ghostly flowerThat dream s in the silent n ight !

I l isten and hear the ch im e

Go quavering over the town ,

And out of th is flower of Time

Twelve petals are wafted down .

BACCHUS

Listen to the tawny th ief,

H id beneath the waxen leaf,Growl ing at his fai ry host

,

B idding her with angry boastFill his cup with wine dist illedFrom the dew the dawn has sp illedS tored away in golden casksIs the p rec ious d raught he asks.

Who, —who makes th is m im ic dinIn th is m im ic m eadow inn

,

S ings in such a drowsy note,

Wears a golden-belted coat ;

62 Frank D empster Sh erman

Lo Iters in the dainty roomOf th is tavern of perfume ;

Dares to l inger at the cup

Till the yellow sun is up !

Bacchus ’

tis, come back againT o the busy haunts of m en ;

Garlanded and gai ly dressed ,Bands of gold about his breast ;Straying from his parad ise,Hav ing p in ions angel-wise,’Tis the honey-bee,who goesRevel ing with in a rose !

Lou ise I m og en Gu iney

Louise Imogen Gu iney was born'

at Boston, M assachusetts,in

1 86 1 . A lthough She attend ed E lmhurst A cademy in Provi dence,most of h er studying was with pr ivate tutors. In 1 90 1 She wentto England , wh ere sh e l ived unti l h er death .

Trad itional in form and fee l ing, M iss Guiney’s work has a

di stinctly personal v igor ; even h er ear l iest co l l ect ion, The WhiteSail and Other Poems - is not without ind ivi dual ity.H er two most Character istic volumes are A Roadside Harp

( 1 893 ) and Patrins

M iss Guiney d ied at Ch irping-Camden, England, November

THE WILD RIDE

I hear in my heart, I hear in its om inous pulses,

All day , on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and

neighing.

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64 Bliss Carman

of th e Revo lutionary War. Carman was educated at the Uni

versity of New B runswick ( 1 879 at Ed inburgh ( 1 882 -

3 )and Harvard ( 1 886 H e took up his residence in th e

United States about 1 889 and, with th e exception of short so

journs in th e M ar itime Prov inces, has l ived there ever since.

In 1 893 , Carman issued h is first book, Low Tide on Grand

P ré .

’ A B ook of Lyrics. I t was immed iate ly successfu l,running

quickly into a second ed ition. A v iv id buoyancy, new to

Am erican l iterature , m ad e h is worsh ip of Nature frankly paganas contrasted to th e moral i z ing tr ibutes of most of h is predecessors. Th is freshness and irresponsib l e wh im sy mad e Carmanth e natural co l laborator for R ichard Hovey, and wh en the irfirst jo int Songs from Vagabondia appeared in 1 894, Carman’

s

fam e was estab l ish ed . ( See Preface . )A lthough th e th ree Vagabondia co l lections contain Carman

’s

be st known poem s,several of h is oth er vo lum es (h e h as pub

lished almost twenty of th em ) v ibrate with th e sam e glowingpu l se . An almost physical rad iance r ises from Ballads of LostHaven From the B ook of Myths ( 1 902 ) and Songs ofthe Sea Children

A VAGABOND SONG

There is someth ing in the autumn that i s native to my

bloodTouch of manner

,h int of mood ;

And my heart i s l ike a rhym e,

W ith the yellow and the purp le and the crImson keep ingt ime .

T he scarlet of the maples can shake me l ike a cry‘

O f bugles going by°

And my lonely Sp irit th ri llsT o see the frosty asters l ike a smoke upon the h i lls .

There is som eth ing in October sets the gypsy blood ast ir ;We must rise and fol low her,

When from every h i l l of flam e

She calls and cal ls each vagabond by name .

B liss Carman

HEM AND HAW

Hem and Hawwere the sons of Sin ,

Created to shally and Sh i rk ;H em lay

’round and Haw looked onWh i le God did all the work .

Hem was a fogy, and Hawwas a pr ig,For both had the dull , dull m ind ;Andwhenever they found a th ing to do,They yamm ered and went it blind .

Hem was the father of bigots and bores ;AS the sands of the sea were they .And Hawwas the father of all the tribeWho crit ic ize to—day .

But God was an art ist from the first,

And knewwhat he was about ;Wh i le over his Shoulde r sneered these two,And adv ised him to rub it out .

They p rophesied ru in ere man was made ;“Such folly must su rely fail !”

‘

And when he was done , Do you th ink,my Lord ,

He’

s better without a tail ! ”

And st ill in the honest working world ,With posture and h int and sm i rk

,

These sons of the devil are standing byWh ile man does all the work .

They balk endeavor and baffle reform,

In the sacred nam e of law;And over the quaver ing vo ice of Hem

I s the dron ing voice of Haw.

66 Bliss Carman

DAIS IES

Over the shoulders and slopes of the duneI saw the wh ite dais ies go down to the sea,

A host in the sunsh ine,an army in June ,

T he people God sends us to set our hearts free .

T he bobol inks rall ied them up from the dell ,T he orioles wh i stled them out of the wood ;And all of the ir Singing was, Earth , it i s wel l !

”

And all of their dancing was, Life, thou art good !”

R ichard Burton

R ichard (Eugene ) Burton was born at Hartford,Connecticut,

M arch 1 4, 1 86 1 . He has taugh t Engl ish at var ious co l legesand un iversit ies since 1 888, and has been h ead of the Engl ishdepartment of the University of M innesota since 1 906 .

H is first book Dumb in June is, in many ways, h is best.I t contains a buoyant lyr ic ism , a more consc ious use of the straindeve loped in Carman and Hovey’

s Songs from Vagabondia.

T h e succeed ing Lyrics of Brotherhood ( 1 899 ) has a wid erv ision if a more l im ited music ; seve ral of the poems in th isco l lection reflect the hungers, dreams and unsung me lodiesof the dumb and defeated multitudes.

BLACK SHEEP

From the ir folded mates they wander far,The ir ways seem harsh and wild ;

T hey follow the beck of a balefu l star,Their paths are dream -beguiled .

Richard Burton 67

Yet haply they sought but a wider range,Some loft ier mountain- slope,And little recked of the country strangeBeyond the gates of hope .

And haply a bell with a lur ing callSummoned the i r feet to tread

hI idst the cruel rocks , where“

the deep p itfallAnd the lu rking snare are Sp read .

Maybe, in Sp ite of the i r tameless daysOf outcast l iberty,They ’re sick at heart for the homely waysWhere the i r gathered b rothers be .

And oft at n ight , when the plains fall darkAnd the h ills loom large and dim ,

For the Shepherd’s voice they mutely hark,

And thei r souls go out to him .

Meanwh ile,B lack sheep ! B lack Sheep !

” we cry ,Safe in the inner fold ;And maybe they hear

,and wonder why,

And marvel,out in the cold .

Richard Hovey

R ichard Hovey was born in 1 864 at Normal , I l l inois, and

graduated from Dartmouth in 1 885. A fter l eav ing co l lege, h ebecam e

,in rap id succession ,

a th eo logian, an actor, a journal ist,a lecturer

,a professor of Engl ish l iterature at B arnard , a poet

and a dramat ist.H is exuberant v iri l ity found its out let in the ser ies of poems

publ ished in co l laboration with B l iss Carman—th e th ree vo lumes

of Songs from Vagabondia ( 1 894, 1 896, Here he let

68 Richard Hovey

h im se lf go comp lete ly ; noth ing remained sober or static . His

l ines fl ing th em se lves across th e page ; shout with a wi l dirre sponsibi l ity ; l eap , laugh , carouse and carry off th e readerin a gal e of h igh sp ir its.

“A t th e Crossroad s” is a v iv id examp l e of th is gipsy- l ikesp irit wh ich cou l d ( as in “Unman ifest Destiny, written on th e

outbreak of th e Spanish -Amer ican War) sound d eeper notes

with equaI strength . T he famous Stein Song is but an inter ludein th e m id st of a far finer and even more rousing poem that,

with its flavor of Wh itman, begins :

I said in my h eart, “I am sick of four wal ls and a ce i l ing.

I have need of th e sky.

I h ave business with th e grass.

I wi l l up and get m e away where the hawk is whee l ing,Lone and h igh,A nd th e s low c louds go by.I wi l l get m e away to th e waters that glassT h e Clouds as th ey pass.

A lthough the varied lyrics in Songs from Vagabondia are th e

best known examp les of Hovey, a representat ive co l l ection of

his r iper work m ay b e found in A long the TrailHovey died , during h is th irty- sixth year

,in 1 900 .

AT THE CROSSROADS

You to the left and I to the right ,For the ways of m en mu st severAnd it well may be for a day and a night,And it well may be forever.

But whether we m eet or whether we part(For our ways are past our knowing ) ,A p ledge from the heart to its fel low heartOn the ways we all are going !Here’s luck !For we knownot where we are going .

Richard Hovey 69

Whether we win orwhether we loseWith the hands that l ife is deal ing,I t is not we nor the ways we choose

But the fall of the cards that ’s seal ing.

There ’s a fate in love and a fate in fight ,And the best of us all go underAndwhether we ’

re wrong or whether we’reWe win ,

somet imes, to our wonder .Here’s luck !That we may not yet go under !

With a steady swing and an Open browWe have tramped the ways together ,But we

’re clasp ing hands at the crossroads nowIn the Fiend ’

s own n ight for weather ;And whether we bleed or whether we sm ileIn the leagues that lie before us

T he ways of l ife are many a m ileAnd the dark of Fate is o’

er us.

Here ’s luck !And a cheer for the dark before us !

You to the left and I to the right ,For the ways of m en must sever ,And it well may be for a day and a n ightAnd it well may be forever !But whether we l ive or whether we die(For the end is past our knowing ) ,Here’s two frank hearts and the Open Sky,

Be a fai r or an ill wind blowing !H ere

’

s luck !

In the teeth of allwinds blowing .

R ichard Hovey

UNMANIFEST DESTINY

T o what new fates , my count ry , farAnd unforeseen of foe or friend ,Beneath what unexpected starCompelled to what unchosen end,

Across the sea that knows no beach ,T he Adm i ral of Nat ions guides

T hy blind obed ient keels to reachT he harbor where thy future rides !

T he guns that spoke-

at LexingtonKnew not that Godwas planning then

T he trumpet word of JeffersonT o bugle forth the rights of men .

T o them that wept and cursed Bull Run ,What was it but despair and shame !

Who saw beh ind the cloud the sun !

Who knew that Godwas in the flame !

Had not defeat upon defeat ,Disaster on d isaster com e,

T he slave’s emancipated feetHad never marched beh ind the drum .

There is a Hand that bends our deedsT o m ight ier issues than we p lanned ;Each son that tr iumphs , each that bleeds,My country , serves I t

’

s dark command .

I do not know beneath what Sky

Nor on what seas shal l be thy fate ;I only know it Shal l be h igh ,I only know it Shall be great .

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72 Richard Hovey

And l ife - sl ips its tetherWhen the boys get together,With a ste in on the table in the fellowsh ip

of sp ring .

Madison Cawe in

M ad ison (Ju l ius) Cawe in was born in Louisvil le, Kentucky,in 1 865, and spent most of h is l ife in th e state of his birth . He

wrote an enormous quantity of verse , publ ish ing more than

twenty vo lumes of p leasant, sometim es exuberant but se l domd istingu ish ed poetry . Lyrics and I dyls ( 1 890 ) and Vale ofTempe ( 1 905 ) contain h is most Characteristic stanzas

, packedwith an adj ectival love of Nature that led certain of h is

adm irers to cal l h im ( and, one must adm it,the al l iteration

was tempting) “th e Keats of Kentucky.”

Cawe in d ied in Kentucky in 1 9 14 .

SNOW

T he moon , l ike a round dev iceOn a shadowy Sh ield of war,Hangs wh ite in a heaven of ice

With a sol itary star.

The wind has sunk to a Sigh ,And the waters are stem with frost ;And gray, in the eastern sky,T he last snow-cloud is lost .

Wh ite fields , that are winter-starved ,B lack woods

,that are winter- fraught ,

Cold , harsh , as a face death - carved ,W ith the i ron of some black thought .

Madison Cawe in 73

DESERTED

T he old house leans upon a treeLike som e old man upon a staff

T he n ight wind in its anc ient porchSounds l ike a hollow laugh .

The heaven is wrapped in fly ing cloudsAS grandeu r cloaks itse lf in gray

T he starl ight fl itt ing in and out ,

Glints l ike a lanthorn ray .

T he dark is ful l of wh ispers . NowA fox—hound howl s : and through the night,Like som e old ghost from out its grave,T he moon com es m isty wh ite .

William Vaughn Moody

W i l l iam Vaughn M oody was born at Spencer, Indiana, Ju ly1,1 869, and was educated at Harvard . A fter graduation , h e

spent th e remain ing e ighteen years of h is l ife in trave l and intensive study—h e taugh t, for e igh t years, at th e Un iversity of

Ch icago—h is death com ing at th e very h e ight of h is creativepower.The M asque of Judgment, h is first work, was publ ish ed in

1 900 . A r ich er and more representat ive co l l ection appeared theyear fo l lowing ; in Poems ( 1 90 1 ) M oody effected that m ingl ingof chal lenging lyric ism and sp iritual ph i losophy wh ich becom es

m ore and more insi stent. (See Preface . ) Th roughout h is

career, particu lar ly in such l ine s as the hot ly expostu l'

ating“On a So l d ier Fal len in th e Ph i l ipp ines” M oody successfu l lyach ieve s th e rare union of poet and preach er. A comp leteedit ion of The Poems and Poetic D ramas of William Vaughn

M oody was publ ish ed in in two volum es.

74 William Vaughn Moody

In th e summ er of 1 909 M oody was stricken with th e i l lnessfrom wh ich h e never recovered . He d ied in October, 1 9 1 0 .

ON A SOLD IER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES

S treets of the roaring town,

Hush for him ; hush , be st i ll !H e com es

, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will .Hush ! Let him have his state.

Give him his sold ier’s crown,

T he grists of t rade can waitThe i‘r grind ing at the m i ll .

But he cannot wait for his honor , now the trumpet hasbeen blown .

Wreathe pride now “

for his gran ite brow,lay love on

his breast of stone .

Toll ! Le t the great bells tollTill the clash ing air is dim ,

D id we wrong th is parted soul !We will make it up to him .

Toll ! Let him never guessWhat work we sent him to.

Laurel , laurel , yes.

He did what we bade him do .

P raIse, and never a wh ispered h int but the fight hefought was good ;

Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country ’

s own heart ’s-blood .

A flag for a sold ier’s b ier

Who d ies that his land may l ive ;0 banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor m isgive !

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76 E dwin Arling ton R ob inson

Edwin A r l ington Robinson was born D ecember 2 2 , 1 869 , in

th e v i l lage of H ead Tid e , M aine . Wh en he was sti l l a ch i l d ,the Robinson fam i ly moved to th e nearby town of Gard iner,wh ich figures prom inent ly in Robinson’

s poetry as Ti lburyTown .

” In 1 89 1 h e entered Harvard Co l lege . A l itt l e col

l ection of verse was pr ivate ly pr inted in 1 896 and the fo l lowing year marked th e appearance of h is first representat ive work ,The Children of the N ightSom ewhat later

,h e was struggl ing in various capac it ies

to m ake a l iv ing in New York, five years passing before th e

pub l ication of Captain Craig. In 1 9 1 0 , h e pub l ish ed a ser iesof short poem s

,The Town D own the R iver. The M an Against

the Sky, Robinson’s fu l lest and most penetrating work, appeared

in 1 9 1 6 . (See Preface . )In all of these books th ere is manifest that search ing for

truth ; the constant question ing, that takes th e p lace of mereacceptance . A s th e work of a nat ive portrait painter, noth ing,with th e exception of som e of Frost’

s p ictures, has been pro

duced that is at once so keen and so kind ly ; in th e half- cyn ical ,h alf-mystical etch ings l ike “M in iver Cheevy,” and

“R ichard

Cory ”- l ines wh ere Robinson’

s irony is inextr icably m ixed withtenderness—h is art is at its h e igh t. H is sp lend id “

Th e M aster,”one of th e finest evocat ions of L inco ln , is, at the same t ime , a

b itter/ commentary on th e comm erc ial ism of the t im es and th e

shopman’s test of age and worth .

”

A lthough h e is Often accused of ho l d ing a negative attitudetoward l ife, Rob inson’

s ph i losophy is e ssential ly positive ; a

dogged if never dogmat ic d esire for a deeper faith , a greaterlight is his. I t is a ph i losophy expressed in Captain Craig

Take on yourse lfBut your sincer ity, and you take on

Good prom ise for all Cl imbing ; fly for truthAnd h e l l shal l have no storm to crush your fl ight,No laughte r to vex down your loyal ty .

A one-vo lume ed ition of Robinson’s Collected Poems appeared

in 1 92 1 , reveal ing h is v igorous inte l lect and chaste economyof speech , h is de l icate intuition and dramatic character izations.

E dwin Arling ton R ob inson 77

MINIVER CHEEVY 1

Miniver Cheevy, ch i ld of scorn ,

Grew lean wh ile he assai led the seasons ;He wept that he was ever born ,

And he had reasons .

Min iver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were p rancing ;T he v ision of awarrior boldWould set him danc ing .

Min iver sighed for what was not ,And dream ed , and rested from his labors ;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot ,And P riam ’

s neighbors .

Miniver mou rned the ripe renownThat made so many a nam e so fragrant ;

He mou rned Romance , nowon the town ,

And Art, a vagrant .

Min iver loved the Medic i,

Albe it he had never seen one ;

He would have sinned incessantlyCould he have been one .

Miniver cu rsed the commonplaceAnd eyed a khaki su it with loath ing ;

He m issed the m ediazval graceOf i ron cloth ing.

1Reprinted by perm ission of the publ ish ers, Char les Scribner’s

Sons, from The Tam down the River by E . A . Rob inson.

78 E dwin Arling ton R ob inson

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,But sore annoyed was he without it ;M in iver thought

,and thought , and thought,

And thought about it .

M in iver Cheevy, born too late,Scratched his head and kept on th ink ing ;M in iver coughed , and cal led it fate,And kept on drinking.

THE MASTER 1

(Lincoln as seen, presumably, by one of his contemporaries,shortly after the Civil War)

A flying word from here and thereHad sown the nam e at wh ich we sneered ,But soon the nam e was everywhere ,T o be rev iled and then revered :A presence to be loved and feared ,We cannot h ide it, or denyThat we, the gentlemen who jeered ,M ay be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were per ilousAnd hearts of men were sore begu iled ;And hav ing made his note of us ,He pondered and was reconciled .

Was ever master yet so m i ldAS he , and so untamable !We doub ted

,even when he sm i led ,

Not knowing what he knew so well .! See pages 54 , 84 , 1 39 , 1 42 , 1 72 .

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ishe rs, Char les Scr ibner’s

Sons,from The Town down the River by E . A . Rob inson.

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80 E dwin Arling ton R ob inson

T he love, the grandeur, and the fame

Are bounded by the world alone ;T he calm ,

the smoulder ing, and the flame

O f awful pat ience we re his ownWith him they are forever flownP ast all our fond self-shadowings ,Wherewith we cumber the UnknownAS with inept Icarian wings .

Forwe were not as other men

’Twas ours to soar and his to see .

But we are com ing down again ,And we shall com e down p leasantly ;Nor shal l we longer disagreeOn what it i s to be subl im e ,

But flourish in our perigeeAnd have one Titan at a t ime.

AN OLD STORY 1

Strange that I d id not know himThat fr iend of m ine !

I did not even Show him thenOne fr iendly sign ;

But cursed him for the ways he hadT o m ake m e see

My envy of the p rai se he hadFor p rai s ing m e .

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ishers, Char les Scribner’.s

Sons,from The Children of the Night.

Edwin Arlington R ob inson 81

I would have r id the earth of him

Once , in my p ride !I never knew the worth of him

Unt i l he died .

THE DARK H ILLS

Dark h i lls at even Ing In the west ,Where sunset hovers like a soundOf golden horns that sang to restOld bones of warr iors under ground

,

Far now from all the bannered waysWhere flash the legions of the sun

,

You fade— as if the last of daysWere fading, and all wars were done.

RICHARD CORY 1

Whenever Richard Cory went down town ,We people on the pavement looked at him

He was a gentleman from sole to crown ,

Clean favored , and imperially Sl im .

And he was always qu ietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked ;But st ill he fluttered pulses when he said ,

“Good-morning ,” and he glittered whenwalked .

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,And adm i rably schooled in every grace

In fine, we thought that he was everyth ingT o make us wish that we were in his place .

1Reprinted by p erm ission of th e pub l ishers, Char les Scribner’

s

Sons, from The Children of the Night.

82 E dwin Arling ton R ob inson

So on we worked,and waited for the l ight ,

And wen t without the m eat, and cursed the

b read ;And Richard Cory , one calm summer night,Went home and put a bullet through his head .

E dgar L e e Masters

Edgar Lee M asters was born at Garnett,Kansas, August 2 3 ,

1 869 , of old Puritan and p ioneering stock . Wh en h e was sti l la boy , th e fam i ly moved to I l l ino is

, where, after desu ltoryschoo l ing, he stud ied law in his - fath er’s office at Lewiston .

For a year h e practised with h is fath er and th en went to

Ch icago, wh ere h e became a successfu l and prom inent attorney.B efore go ing to Ch icago, M asters had composed a great quan

tity of verse in trad itional form s on sti l l more trad itionalth em es ; by th e tim e h e was twenty- four h e h ad wr itten aboutfour hundred poems

,reveal ing th e resu lt of wide read ing and

betraying the influence of Poe, Keats, Sh e l l ey and Swinburne .

H is work, prev ious to th e pub l ication of Spoon R iver A nthology,

was d er ivative and und ist ingu ish ed .

Taking as h is mode l The Greek A nthology, wh ich h is fr iendW i l l iam M ar ion Reedy had pressed upon h im ,

in 1 9 1 4 M astersevo lved Spoon R iver A nthology, that astonish ing assemb lage of

over two hundred se lf- inscr ibed ep itaph s, in wh ich th e deadof a m idd le Western town are supposed to h ave wr itten the

truth about th em se lves. Through th ese frank reve lations,many of them interre lated

,th e v i l lage I S recreated for us ;

it l ives again, unvarn ished and typ ical , with all its intrigues,hypocri sies, feud s, martyrdom s and occasional exaltat ions. T he

monotony of existence in a drab townsh ip , th e defeat of ideal s,th e struggle toward h igh er goal s—all is synth esized in these

crowd ed pages. A ll mood s and all m anner of voices are h eardhere—even M asters

’

s, who exp lains th e reason for h is med ium

and th e se lection of h is form through “Petit,th e Poet.”

Starved Rock Domesday B ook ( 1 92 0 ) and The Open

Sea ( 1 92 1 ) are , l ike allM asters’

s later books, queer ly assemb ledm ixtures of good , bad and der ivat ive verse . A nd yet, for all

of th is poet’s borrowings, in sp ite of h is cyn icism and d isi l lusion,

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84 E dgar L e e Masters

And then I found Dav is .We were mar ried and l ived together for seventy years ,Enj oyIng, working , raising the twelve ch i ldren ,Eight of whom we lostEre I had reached the age of sixty .

I spun , I ,\

wove , I kept the house , I nursed the s ick ,I made the garden , and for hol idayRambled ove r the fields where sang the larks ,And by Spoon River gathering many a shel l ,And many a flower and m edic inal weedShout ing to the wooded h i lls, s inging to the green valleys.At ninety- s ix I had l ived enough , that is all,And passed to a sweet repose .

What i s th is I hear of sorrow and weariness,Anger , discontent and droop ing hopes !Degenerate sons and daughters,Life i s too st rong for youI t takes l ife to love Life .

ANNE RUTLEDGE 1° 1

Out of me unworthy and unknownT he v ib rat ions of deathless music ;“With mal ice toward none , with charity for all.

Out of m e the forgiveness of m i ll ions toward m ill ions ,And the beneficent face of a nat ionSh in ing with just ice and t ruthI am Anne Rutledge who Sleep beneath these weeds,Beloved in l ife of Abraham Lincoln ,Wedded to him , not through union ,

11 86 6 Pages 54 , 78, 1 39 , 1 42 . 1 721R epr inted by perm ission of th e pub l ish ers, T he M acm il lan

Company, from Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters.

Edgar L ee Masters 85

Bu t through separation .

B loom forever, O Republ ic,From the dust of my bosom !

Steph en Crane

Stephen Crane , whose l iterary career was one of th e most

m eteoric in Am er ican l etters, was born at Newark, New Jersey,November 1

,1 87 1 . After taking a part ial course at Lafayette

Co l lege, h e entered journal ism at sixteen and,unti l th e t im e of

h is death , was a reporter and wr iter of newspaper sketch es .

Wh en h e died , at th e age of th irty,h e h ad produced ten

printed vo lum es (one of wh ich,The R ed B adge of Courage, is

a Classic among descriptive nove l s) , two more announced forpubl icat ion and two others wh ich were appearing serial ly.A t var ious p eriod s in Crane’

s br ief career,h e exp erim ented

in verse , seeking to fi nd new effects in unrhym ed l ines for

h is acuteness of v ision. T he resu l ts were embod ied in

two vo lum es of unusual poetry, The B lack R iders ( 1 895) and

War I s Kind l ines that antic ipated th e Imagists and

th e ep igrammatic free verse that fo l lowed fifteen years later.I t is more than probab l e that h is feverish energy of pro

duction aggravated th e i l lne ss that caused Crane’

s death . H e

reach ed h is refuge in the B lack Forest on ly to die at the

journey’s end

,June 5, 1 900 .

I SAW A MAN

I saw a man pursu ing the hor izon ;Round and round they sped .

I was distu rbed at th is ;I accosted the man .

I t is fut ile ,” I said ,

You can never”

You lie, he cr ied

,

And ran on .

S teph en Crane

THE WAYFARER

The wayfarer ,Perce iv ing the pathway to truth ,Was struck with aston ishment .

I t was th ickly grown with weeds .Ha,

”he said ,

I see that no one has passed hereIn a long t ime.

”

Later he saw that each weedWas a singular knife.

“Well ,”he mumbled at last ,

Doubtless there are Other roads.

THE BLADES OF GRASS

In Heaven ,Som e l ittle blades of grassS tood before God.

What did you do !”

Then all save one of the l ittle bladesBegan eagerly to relateT he m er its of their l ives .Th i s one stayed a smal l way beh ind ,Asham ed .

Presently, God said ,“And what d id you do !

”

T he l ittle blade answered,Oh, my Lord ,

Memory is b itter to me,

For,if I d id good deeds,

I know not of them .

”

Then God, in all his splendor,Arose from his th rone .

“Oh , best l ittle blade of grass !” he Said .

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88 T . A . Daly

Ah ! the thrush I left beh ind me in the fields aboutAthlone !

Where, upon the wh itethorn swayin’

,

He was m instrel of the Mayin ’

,

In my days of love an’ laughter that the years have laid

at rest ;

Here again his notes were ringin ’

!

But I ’d lost the heart for Singin ’

Ah ! the song I could not answer was the one I knewthe best.

M IA CARLOTTA

G iuseppe, da barber, ees greata for mash ,He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache ,Good clo’

es an’ good styla an’

playnta good cash .

W ’

enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street,Da pe0pla dey talka,

“how nobby ! how neat !

How softa da handa,how smalla da feet. ”

He raisa hees hat an’

he Shaka hees curls ,An ’ sm i la weeth teetha so sh iny l ike pearls ;O ! many da heart of da seelly young girls

He gottaYes, playnta he gotta

But notta

Carlotta !

Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye ,

An ’ l ika da steam engine puffa an’ sigh ,

For catcha Carlottaw’

en she ees go by .

T . A . Daly 89

Carlotta She walka weeth nose in da amAn

’ look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare,As ecf she no see dere ees som

’

body dere .

Giuseppe, da barber , he gotta da cash,

He gotta da clo’

es an’

da b igga mustache ,He gotta da seelly young gi rls for da

“mash ,

Bu t notta

You bat my l ife , nottaCarlotta.

I gotta !

Paul Laurenc e Dunbar

Pau l Laurence Dunbar was born in 1 872 at Dayton,Oh io,

the son of negro slaves. H e was, before and after h e beganto wr ite h is interpretative ve rse, an e levator-boy . H e triednewspaper work unsuccessfu l ly and

,in 1 899 , was given a

m inor position in th e Library of Congress at Wash ington , D . C.

Dunbar’s first co l l ect ion,Lyrics of Lowly Life contains

many of h is most characteristic poem s. In an introduction,in

wh ich mention was made of the octoroon Dumas and the greatRussian poet Pushkin, who was a mu latto, W i l l iam Dean

Howe l ls wrote, “So far as I can remember

,Pau l Dunbar was

the on ly man of pure African blood and of American c iv i l izationto fee l th e negro l ife aesth etical ly and express it lyrical ly.H is bri l l iant and unique ach ievem ent was to have studied theAmer ican negro obj ective ly, and to h ave repre sented h im as h e

found h im .

” Lyrics of the H earthside ( 1 899 ) and Lyrics ofLove and Laughter ( 1 90 3 ) are two oth er vo lumes fu l l of fol kstuff .

Dunbar d ied in the city of h is birth , Dayton,Oh io, February

90 Paul Laurenc e Dunbar

THE TURNING OF THE BAB IES IN THE BED 1

Woman ’s Sho’

a cur’

ous cr itter,an

’

dey ain ’

t no doubtin’

dat .

She ’s a m ess 0 ’

funny capahs f’

om huh Slippahs to huh

hat .

Ef yo’

t ries to un’

erstan’

huh an’

yo’

fai ls, des’

up an’

say :“D

’

ain ’

t a bit 0’

use to try to un’

erstan’

a woman ’s way.

I don ’

m ean to be comp lain in’

, but l’

s jes’

a- sett in ’ downSom e 0

’

my own obserwations, w’

en I cas’

my eye eroun’

.

Ef yo’

ax m e fu’

.

to p rove it , I ken do it m ighty fine,

Fu ’

dey ain ’

t no bettah’

z ample den d is ve’

y wife 0’

m ine.

In de ve’

y hea’

t o’

m idnight, w’

en I ’s sleepin’ good an

’

sounflI kin hyeah a so

’

t o’

rustlin’

an’ som ebody movin roun ’

.

An’ I say,“Lize

,whut yo

’

But she frown an’

shek huh haid ,Hesh yo

’

mouf, I’s only tu ’nin ’

of de chillun in de bed.

Don’

yo’ know a Ch ile gits restless , layin

’

all de nightone way !

An ’

yo’

got to k ind 0 range him sev’

al t imes befo’

de

day!

So do l ittle necks won ’

t worry , an’

de l ittle backs won ’

t

b reak ;Don

’

yo’

t’ink ’cause ch il lum’s chillun dey haint got no

pain an’

ache .

”

1 From Lyrics of Love and Laughter. Copyr ight, 1 903, byDodd

,M ead Company.

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95. Paul Laurenc e Dunbar

Whut’

s dat un’

neaf yo’ coat !

Looks des lak a l ittle Shoat .

’Tain ’

t no possum ! Bless de Lamb !Yes, it is, you rascal , Sam !

G in it to me ; whut you say !

Ain ’

t you sma’

t now! Oh, go

’way !Possum do look m ighty n ice ;But you ax too b ig a price.

Tel l me, i s you talk in ’

true,Dat’s de gal ’s whut ma’ies you !Come back

, Sam ; nowwhah’

s you gwine !Co’se you knows dat possum

’s m ine !

Guy Wetm ore Carryl

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Char les Edward Carryl ( seepage was born in New York C ity

,M arch 4 , 1 873 . He

graduated from Co lumb ia Un iversity in 1 895, was ed itor of

M unsey’

s M agaz ine, 1 895- 6 , and

, dur ing th e time h e l ivedabroad ( from 1 897 to was the fore ign representativeof var ious Amer ican pub l ications.

Inh er iting a remarkab le technical gift from h is father, youngCarryl soon surpassed h im as we l l as all oth er r ivals in th e

fi e l d of br i l l iant ly rhymed , bri l l iant ly turned bur lesques. A l

though h e wrote several ser ious poem s ( th e best of wh ich havebeen co l lected in th e posthumous ly pub l ished The Garden ofYears, Carryl

’s most character istic work is to b e found

in h is perversions of th e parab les of fEsop , Fables for the Frivolous the topsy- turvy interpretat ions of old nurseryrhym es, M other Goose for Grownups ( 1 900 ) and h is fantasticvariations on th e fairy tal es in Grimm Tales M ade Gay ( 1 90 3 )—all of them with a surpr i sing ( and punning) M oral attached .Th is extraord inary versifi er d ied

,before reach ing th e h e igh t

of h is power, at th e age of th irty- one, in the summ er of 1 904.

Guy Wetm ore Carryl 93

THE SYCOPHANTIC FO ! AND THEGULLIBLE RAVEN

A raven sat upon a tree,And not a word he Spoke , for

H is beak contained a p iece of B rie,Or

,m aybe

,it was Roquefort .

We’ll make it any kind you p lease

A t all events it was a cheese .

Beneath the tree’

s umbrageous l imbA hungry fox sat sm il ing ;

He saw the raven watch ing him ,

And Spoke in words beguil ing“J

’

adm ire, said he,

“ton beau plumage,

”

(T he wh ich was Simply persiflage. )

Two th ings there are, no doub t you know,

T o wh ich a fox is usedA rooster that is bound to crow,

A crow that’

s bound to roost ;And wh ichsoeve r he esp iesHe tells the most unblush ing l ies.

Sweet fowl , he said,I understand

You ’re more than m erely natty,I hear you Sing to beat the bandAnd Adel ina Patt i .P ray render with you r l iqu id tongueA bit from ‘

GOtterdiimmerung.

’

Th is subtle speech was aim ed to pleaseT he c row

, and it succeeded ;He thought no bird in all the treesCould Sing as well as he did .

94 Guy Wetm ore Carryl

In flattery comp letely doused ,He gave the “Jewel Song”

from Faust .

But grav itat ion ’s law,of course ,

As Isaac Newton showed it,Exerted on the cheese its force,And elsewhere soon bestowed it .

In fact,there i s no need to tell

What happened when to earth it

I blush to add that when the b irdTook in the s ituat ion

He said one br ief, emphat Ic word ,Unfit for publ icat ion .

T he fox was greatly startled , butHe only s ighed and answered “

T ut .

The M oral is : A fox is boundT o be a sham eless sinner.

And also : When the cheese comes roundYou know it

’

s after d inner.

But (what is only known to few)T he fox is after d inner , too.

HOW JACK FOUND THAT BEANS MAY GOBACK ON A CHAP

Withou t the sl ightest basisFor hypochondr iasis,A widow had forebodings wh ich a cloud around

flung,And with exp ression cynicalFor half the day a cl in icalThermomete r She held beneath her tongue .

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96 Guy Wetm ore Carryl

But Jack , no panic showing,Just watched his beanstalk growing,And twined with tender fingers the tendr ils

pole .

At all her words funerealHe sm iled a sm i le ethereal ,Or s ighed an absent-m inded Bless my soul !

”

That hollow-hearted creatureWould never change a featu reNo tear bedimm ed his eye , however touch ing was

talk.

She never fussed or flurried him ,

T he only th ing that worr ied himWas when no bean -

pods grewupon the stalk !

But then he wabbled looselyH is head

,and wept p rofusely ,

And , taking out his handkerch ief to mop awaytears

Exclaimed : I t hasn ’

t got any !”

He found th is b low to botanyWas sadder than were all his mother

’s fears .

The M oral is that gardeners p ineWhene’

er no pods adorn the Vine .

Of all sad words experience gleansT he saddest are : “

I t m ight have beans .( I d id not make th is up myself’Twas in a book upon my Shelf.I t

’

s witty , but I don ’

t denyI t

’

s rather Wh itt ier than I ! )

H. H . Knib bs

Harry Herbert Knibbs was born at N iagara Fal l s, October 2 4 ,1 874 . A fter a desu ltory schoo l ing, h e attended Harvard forth ree years wh en h e was th irty- four. "

Somebody said I tookhonors in Engl ish ,” says Knibbs, “

but I never saw th em . H e

wrote h is first book,Lost Farm Camp, a nove l , as a c lass

exerc ise . In 1 9 1 1 , Knibbs sett led in Los Ange les, Cal iforn ia,wh ere h e has l ived ever since.

In R iders of the Stars ( 1 9 1 6 ) and Songs of the TrailKnibbs carr ies on the tradition of B ret Harte and th e P ikeCounty Bal lad s. H igh -hearted verse th is is, with more th an

an occasional flash of poetry. T o th e typ ical W estern b reez i

ness, Kn ibbs add s a wider wh imsical ity,a rough - shod but

n imble imaginat ion.

THE VALLEY THAT GOD FORGOT

Out in the desert spaces, edged by a hazy blue,Dav ison sought the faces of the long- lost friends

knew:

They were there,in the distance dream ing

The i r dream s that were worn and old ;

They were there, to his frenzied seem ing,S t ill burrowing down for gold .

Dav ison ’s face was leather ; his mouth was a swollenblot ,

His m ind was a float ing feather, in The Valley ThatGod Forgot ;

Wild as a dog gone loco,Or sullen or m eek , by turns ,He mumbled a “Poco ! Poco !”

Andwh ispered of pools and ferns .Gold ! Why his, for the finding ! But water was never

found ,Save in deep caverns winding m iles through the under

ground :

98 H . H . Kn ib bs

Cool,far

,shadowy places

Edged by the m i r rored trees ,When—Dav ison saw the faces !And fear let loose his knees .

There was Shorty who owed him money,and Bill ing

who bossed the crowd ;And Steve whom the boys called Sunny , and Coll ins

wh o talked so loud :M iguel with the handsome daughter ,And the rustler , Ed M cCray ;

Five—and they begged for water,And offered him gold

,in pay . .

Gold ! I t was never cheaper. And Dav ison shook hishead '

The price of a drink is steeper out here than in town ,he said .

He laughed as they mouthed and mutteredThrough l ips that were cracked and dried ;T he pulse in his ear-drum fluttered“I

’

m through with the game !”he cried .

“I

’

m through !” And he knelt and fumbled the cap of

his dry canteenThen , ri sing, he swayed and stumbled into a black

rav ineHis ghostly comrades followed

,

For Dav ison ’s end was near,

And a Shallow grave they hollowed ,When up from it , cool and clear

Bubbled the water—h idden a p ick- stroke beneath the

sand ;Dav i son , - phantom -ridden , Scooped with a shak ing

hand

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Anna Hempstead Branch

Quiet as a nun ’s face .

Lo—I wi ll have thee in th is p lace !Tranquil well of deep del ight ,All th ings that sh ine th rough thee appear

As stones through water, sweetly clear.

Thou clar ity,That with angel ic charityRevealest beauty where thou art

,

Spread thyself l ike a clean pool .Then all the th ings that in thee are,

Shal l seem more sp iritual and fair,Reflect ion from serener airSunken Shapes of many a starIn the h igh heavens set afar.

Ye stol id , homely,v isible th ings ,

Above you all brood glorious wingsOf your deep ent it ies

,set h igh ,

Like slow moons in a h idden sky.But you , the ir l ikenesses , are spentUpon another element .

Truly ye are but seem ingsThe shadowy cast-off gleam ingsOf bright sol id it ies . Ye seemSoft as water, vague as dream ;Image

,cast in a Sh ift ing stream .

What are ye !

I know not .

Brazen pan and iron pot,

Anna Hempstead Branch 1 0 1

Yellow brick and gray flag-stone

That my feet have trod uponYe seem to m e

Vessels of br ight mystery.For ye do bear a Shape, and so

Though ye were made by man , I knowAn inner Sp i r it also made ,And ye his breath ings have Obeyed .

Shape, the strong and awful Sp i rit,Laid his ancient hand on you .

He waste chaos doth inher it ;He can alter and subdue .

Verily, he doth l ift upMatter, l ike a sacred cup .

Into deep substance he reached , and 10Where ye were not , ye were ; and so

Out of useless noth ing, ye

Groaned and laughed and came to be.

And I use you ,as I can ,

Wonderful uses, made for man,Iron pot and brazen pan .

What are ye !I know not

Nor what I really doWhen I move and govern you .

There is no small work unto God.

He required of us greatness ;

102 Anna Hemp stead Branch

Of his least creatureA h igh angel ic natu re

,

S tature superb and bright comp leteness .He sets to us no hum ble duty .

Each act that he would have us doI s haloed round with strangest beauty ;Terr ific deeds and cosm ic tasksOf his plainest ch i ld he asks .When I pol ish the b razen panI hear a c reature laugh afar

In the gardens of a star,And from his burn ing p resence run

Flam ing wheels of many a sun .

Whoever makes. a th ing more b right,He is an angel of all l ight .

When I cleanse th is earthen floorMy sp i r it leaps to see

Bright garm ents t rai l ing over it ,A Cleanness made by m e .

Purger of all m en ’s thoughts and ways,W ith labor do I sound T hy p raise,My work is done for Thee .

Whoever makes a th ing more br ight,He is an angel of all l ight .

Therefore let m e sp read ab roadT he beaut iful Cleanness of my God.

One t ime in the cool of dawnAngels cam e and worked with me .

T he air was soft with many a wing .

They laughed am id my sol itudeAnd cast bright looks on everyth ing.

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1 04 Amy Lowe ll

vance but a total ly new ind iv idual ity. Th ese two volumes

contained many d i stinctive poem s written in th e usual - forms,

a score of p ictor ial p ieces i l lustrating M iss Lowe l l ’s identifi cation with the Imagists ( see Preface ) and the first appearancein Engl ish of

“po lyphon ic prose .

”

I t was because of such experim ents in form and techniquethat M iss Lowe l l first attracted attention and is sti l l bestknown. B ut, beneath h er preoccupat ion with theor ies and nov

clty of utterance , one can observe and app rec iate th e d esignerof arabesque s, th e poet of the external wor l d

,th e dynam ic

artifi cer who (vide such poem s as“A Lady,” “

V intage”and

th e ep ical “B ronze Horses”

) revivifi es h istory with a creativeexc itement.

Can Grande’

s Castle l ike th e later Legendsreveal s M iss Lowe l l as the gifted narrator

,th e te l ler of

b izarre and br i l l iant stor ie s. T he fever ish agitat ion is l essp rom inent in h er qu ieter and more personal Pictures of the

Floating World a no l ess d ist inctive vo lume .

B esides M iss Lowe l l ’s original poetry, sh e has made manystud ies in Japanese and Ch inese poetry, reflecting, even in h er

own work, th e ir Or iental co lors and contours. Sh e has al sowr itten two vo lum es of cr itical essays : Six French Poets ( 1 9 1 5)and Tendencies in M odern American Poetry both of

them invaluab le aid s to th e student of contemporary l iterature.

SOLITAIRE 1

When night dr ifts along the st reets of the City ,And Sifts down between the uneven roofs,My m ind begins to peek and peer .I t p lays at ball in odd, blue Ch inese gardens ,And Shakes wrought dice- cups in Pagan temp lesAm id the broken flutings of wh ite p i l lar s .I t dances with purp le and yellow c rocuses in its hair,And its feet sh ine as they flu tter over drenched grasses .

1Repr inted by perm ission of th e pub l ish ers, th e M acm i l lan

Company, from Pictures of the Floating World by Amy Lowe l l .

Amy Lowell 105

How l ight and laugh ing my m ind is,When all good folks have put out thei r bedroom candles ,And the c ity is st ill .

MEETING-HOUSE H ILL

I must be mad, or very t i red ,When the cu rve of a blue bay beyond a rail road trackI s shrill and sweet to m e l ike the sudden spr inging of

a tune ,

And the Sight of a wh ite church above th in trees in a

c ity squareAmazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon .

Clear,ret icent

,superbly final

,

With the p illars of its port ico refined to a caut iouselegance

,

I t dom inates the weak trees,And the shot of its Sp i reI S cool and cand id

,

Rising into an unresist ing Sky .

S trange m eet ing-housePausing a mom ent upon a squal id h ill-top .

I watch the sp i re sweep ing the sky,

I am dizzy with the movem ent of the Sky ;

I m ight be watch ing a mastWith its royals set fullS train ing before a two- reef breeze .

I m ight be sight ing a tea- cl ipper ,Tacking into the blue bay,Just back from CantonWith her hold fu ll of green and blue porcelainAnd a Ch inese cool ie lean ing over the railGazing at the wh ite sp i reWith dull , sea-spent eyes.

106 Amy Lowe ll

WIND AND SILVER

Greatly Sh in ing,T he Autumn moon floats in the th in Sky ;

And the fi sh-

ponds Shake their backs and flash the irdragon scales

As She passes over them .

A LADY 1

You are beaut iful and faded,Like an old opera tuneP layed upon a harpsichord ;Or l ike the sun- flooded Si lksOf an e ighteenth - century boudoir.

In your eyesSmou lde r the fal len roses of outl ived m inutes,And the perfum e of your soulIs vague and suffusingW ith the pungence of sealed sp ice-jars.

You r half- tones del ight m e,

And I grow mad with gazingA t your blent colors .

My V igor i s a new-m inted penny,Wh ich I cast at your feet .Gather

’

it up from the dustThat its Sparkle may amuse you.

1Reprinted by perm ission of the pub l ish ers, th e M acm i l lan

Company, from Sword B lades and Poppy Seed by Amy Lowe l l .

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108 R idg e ly Torrenc e

T he Sky is l ike a heavy l idOut here beyond the door ton ight .

What ’s that ! A mutter down the street .What’s that ! T he sound of yells and feet .For what you didn

’

t do or d idYou ’l l pay the score tonight .

No use to reek with reddened sweat ,NO use to wh imper and to sweat .

They’ve got the rope ; they’ve got the guns,

They’ve got the courage and the guns ;An ’

that’s the reason why tonight

N0 use to ask them any more .

They’ll fire the answer through the doorYou ’

re out to die tonight.

There where the lonely cross-road l ies,There is no p lace to make repl ies ;But Si lence

,inch by inch , is there ,

And the right l imb for a lynch i s there ;And a lean daw waits for both your eyes,Blackb ird .

Perhaps you’ll meet again som e place.

Look “

for the mask upon the face ;

That ’s the way you’ll know them there

A wh ite mask to h ide the face .

And you can halt and Show them there

T he th ings that they are deaf to now,

And they can tell you what they m eant

T o wash the blood with blood . But howI f you are innocent !

Ridge ‘ly Torrence 109

B lackb ird singer, blackb ird mute,

They choked the seed you m ight have found .

Out of a thorny field you goFor you it may be better soAnd leave the sowers of the groundT o eat the harvest of the fruit,B lackbird .

Rob ert Frost

A lthough known as th e Ch ief interpreter of the new NewEngland , Robert (Lee ) Frost was born in San Franc isco, Cal ifornia, M arch 2 6 , 1 875. A t th e age of ten h e cam e East to the

towns and h i l l s where, for e igh t generations, h is forefath ershad l ived . A fter graduating from th e h igh schoo l at Lawrence ,Massachusetts, in 1 892 , Frost entered Dartmouth Co l l ege, wh ereh e remained only

f

a few month s. T h e routine of study was toomuch for h im and, determ ined to keep h is m ind free for creativework, h e decid ed to earn h is l iving and became a bobbin boy inone of the m i l l s at Lawrence . H e h ad already begun to wr itepoetry ; a few of h is verse s had app eared in The I ndependent.

But the strange , so i l -flavored qual ity wh ich even th en distinguished h is l ines was not re l ished by th e ed itors, and for twentyyears Frost continued to write h is h igh ly Character istic work inSp ite of the discouraging apathy .

A fter another unsuccessfu l attempt to ach ieve cu lture via

col lege (Harvard Frost engaged in industry. For aboutthree years h e taugh t school

,m ade Shoes, edited a weekly

paper, and in 1 900 became a farm er at D erry, New Hamp sh ire .

During th e next eleven years Frost labored to wrest a l ivingfrom th e stubborn rocky h i l l s wi th scant success. Lone l inessClaim ed h im for its own ; th e ground refused to give h im a

l iv ing ; th e l iterary wor l d continued to remain ob l ivious of h is

existence. Frost sough t a change of environment and,after a

few years’teach ing at Derry and P lymouth

,N ew Ham psh ire,

so l d h is farm and, with h is wife and four ch i ldren

,sai led for

England in September, 1 9 1 2 .

A fewmonth s later, A B oy’

s Will h is first col lection,

1 10 R ob ert Frost

was pub l ished and Frost was recogn ized at once as one of th e

few auth ent ic voices of modern poetry. In the spring of the

same year, N orth of B oston one of the most intense lyAmer ican books ever pr inted , was pub l ish ed in England . ( SeePreface . ) Th is is, as h e h as cal led it

,a

“book of peop le .

”

And it is more than th at—it is a book of background s as l iv ingand dramat ic as th e peop le th ey overshadow. Frost vivifi e s a

stone wal l , an empty cottage, an app l e- tree,a mountain

,a for

gotten wood - p i le l eft

T o warm th e frozen swamp as best it coul dWith the S low,

smoke less burning of decay.

North of B oston,l ike its successor, contains much of th e finest

poetry of our t im e. R ich in its actu

'

al ities,r ich er in its spir itual

values,every l ine moves with th e doub le force of observat ion

and imp l ication . T he poet’

s co lors and Characters are C loseto th e ir so i l ; th ey remain rooted in real ism . But Frost isnever a photograph ic real ist. “Th ere are,

”h e once said

,

“two

typ es of real ist—th e one who offers a good deal of d irt withh is potato to Show that it is a real one ; and the one who is

satisfied with th e potato brushed c l ean. I’m inclined

\to b e the

second kind . T o me, the th ing that art does for l ife isto str ip it to form .

Sound s, th e de l icate accents of speech , fi nd the ir most sympath etic recorder h ere . Frost’

s l ines d isc lose the subt le shades of

emph asis and exp ression in word s, in th e rhythm s and tones

that cal l to l ife a who le scene by p resent ing on ly a significantd etai l . “

I f I must b e c lassified as a poet,”Frost once said ,

with th e susp ic ion of a twinkl e, “I m igh t b e cal led a Synecdo

ch ist ; for I prefer th e synecdoch e in poetry—that figure of

speech in wh ich we use a part for the who le .

In M arch , 1 9 1 5, Frost came back to Am er ica—to a h i l l outsideof Franconia

,New Hamp sh ire, to b e prec ise . N orth of B oston

had been pub l ish ed in the Un ited States and its author, whohad l eft th e country an unknown wr iter, returned to fi nd h im se lffamous. M ountain I nterval, contain ing som e of Frost’

s most

beaut ifu l poem s“An Old M an

’s W inter N igh t,”

T h e H i l l appeared in 1 9 1 6 . T h e i d iom is the same

as in th e ear l ier vo lum es, but th e note s are more var ied , th econv ict ions are stronger. Th e e ssent ial th ings are unchanged .The first poem in Frost’

s fi rst book sums it up :

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1 1 2 R ob ert Frost

One on a Side . I t com es “

to l ittle more

He 18 all p ine and I am app le-orchard .

My app le t rees will never get acrossAnd eat the cones unde r his p ines , I tell him .

He only says,“Good fences make good ne ighbors .

Sp r ing IS the m i sch ief in'

m e,and I wonder

I f I could put a not ion in his headWhy do they make good ne ighbors ! I sn ’

t it

Where there are cows ! But here there are nocows.Before I bu i lt a wal l I ’d ask to knowWhat I was wall ing in or wall ing out ,

And to,whom I was l ike to give offence .

Som eth ing there is that doesn ’

t love a wallThat wants it down !” I could say

“Elves” to him ,

But it’

s not elves exactly,and I ’d rather

He said it for h imself. I see him there ,B r inging a stone grasped fi rm ly by the topIn each hand

,l ike an old- stone savage armed .

He moves in darkness as it seem s to m e,

Not of woods only and the Shade of trees .He will not go beh ind his father

’s saying,

And he l ikes having thought of it so wellHe says again ,

“Good fences m ake good neighbors .

THE TUFT OF FLOWERS

I went to tu rn the grass once after oneWho mowed it in the dew before the sun .

T he dew was gone that m ade his blade so keenBefore I cam e to V iew the levelled scene .

I looked for him beh ind an isle of t rees ;I l istened for h is Whetstone on the b reeze.

R ob ert Frost

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown ,

And I must be,as he had been ,

—alone ,“As all must be , I said with in my heart,Whethe r they work together or apart .

”

But as I said it , swift there passed m e byOn noiseless wing a bewildered bu tterfly,

Seeking with m emor ies grown dim over n ightSom e rest ing flower of yesterday ’

s del ight

And once I marked his fl ight ’

go round and round ,As where som e flower lay withering on the ground .

And then he flew as far as eye could see ,

And then on tremu lous wing cam e back to m e .

I thought of quest ions that have no reply,And would have turned to toss the grass to dry ;

But he turned ' first , and led my eye to lookAt a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook ,

A leap ing “

tongue of bloom the scythe had sparedBeside a reedy brook the scythe had bared .

I left my place to know them by the i r name ,

Finding them butterfly-weed when I cam e.

T he mower in the dew had loved them thus,By leav ing them to flou r ish

,not for us

,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him ,

But from Sheer morn ing gladness at the br im .

T he butterfly and I had lit upon ,Nevertheless

,a m essage from the dawn

,

1 Rob ert Frost

That made m e hear the wakening b i rds around,

And hear his long scythe wh isper ing to the ground ,

And feel a Sp i rit k indred to my own ;So that henceforth I worked no more alone ;

Bugglad with h im , I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade ;

And dream ing, as it were,held b rotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach .

“M en work togethe r, I tol d him from the heart ,Whether they work together or apart .

”

BLUE-BUTTERFLY DAY

I t i s blue-butterfly day here in sp r ing,And with these sky- flakes down in flu rry on flurry ,There i s more unm ixed color on the wingThan flowers will Show for days unless they hurry .

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing ;And now from hav ing ridden out desire,They lie closed over in the wind and cl ingWhere wheels have freshly Sl iced the Apri l m ire .

BIRCHES

When I see b irches bend to left and rightAcross the l ine ‘

of straighter darker trees ,I l ike to th ink som e boy ’s been swinging them .

But swinging doesn ’

t bend them down to stay .

I ce- storm s do that . Often you must have seenLoaded with ice a sunny winter morn ing

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1 1 6 R ob ert Frost

So was I once myself a swinger of b i rches ;And so I d ream of going back to be.

I t’

s when I ’

m weary of considerat ions ,And l ife i s too much l ike a pathless woodWhere your face burns and t ickles with the cobwebsBroken ac ross it, and one eye is weep ingFrom a twig’s hav ing lashed across it open .

I ’d l ike to get away from earth awh i leAnd then com e back to it and begin over.

M ay no fate wilfully m isunderstand m e

And half grant what I wish and snatch m e awayNot to return . Earth ’s the right p lace for love ‘

I don ’

t know where it ’

s l ikely to go better.

I ’d l ike to go by cl im bing a b i rch tree,And cl imb black b ranches up a snow-wh ite trunkToward heaven

, t ill the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set m e down again .

That would be good both going and com ing back .

One could do worse than be a swin'

ger of b irches .

THE ONSET

Always the same when on a fated n ightAt last the gathered snow lets down as wh iteAS may be in dark woods and with a songI t shall not make again all winter longOf h i ssing on the yet uncovered ground ,I almost stumble looking up and round ,AS one who, overtaken by the end,

Gives up his e rrand and lets death descendUpon him where he i s , with noth ing doneT o ev i l , no important trIumph wonMore than if l ife had never been begun .

Rob ert Fros t

Yet all the p recedent is on my SideI know that winter-death has never triedT he earth but it has failed ; the snow m ay heap

In long storm s an undrifted fou r feet deepAs m easu red against map le, birch and oak ;

I t cannot check the Peeper’s Si lve r c roak ;

And I shall see the snow all go down h illIn water of a Slender Ap ril ri llThat flashes tai l through last year ’s withered brakeAnd dead weeds l ike a disappear ing snake .

Noth ing will be left wh ite but here a bi rchAnd there a clump of houses wi th a chu rch .

Carl Sandburg

Car l (August ) Sandburg was born of Swedish stock at

Gal esburg, I l l ino is, January 6 , 1 878. H is schoo l ing was haphazard ; at th irteen he went to work on a m i lk wagon . Duringth e next six years h e was

,in rap id succession , porter in a barber

shop , scene - sh ifter in a Ch eap th eatre, truck-hand l er in a brickyard

,turner apprentice in a pottery, d ish -wash er in Denver

and Omaha hote l s,harvest hand in Kansas wh eat fie ld s. Th ese

tasks equ ipped h im ,as no amount of learn ing cou l d h ave done ,

to b e the laureate of industrial Am erica.

In 1 904 , Sandburg publ ished th e proverbial “sl ender sh eaf

a t iny pamph let of twenty- two poem s,uneven in qual ity but

Strange ly l ike th e work of th e m ature Sandburg in fee l ing.

I t was twe lve years later before th e poet becam e known to

the pub l ic . T h e v igor wh ich lay at the h eart of Am er ican to i lfound its out let at last.Chicago Poems ( 1 9 1 6 ) is fu l l of ferm ent ; it seeth es with a

d irect poetry surcharged with trem endous energy . Here is an

almost animal exu ltation that is al so an exal tat ion. Sandburg’

s

speech is simp le and powerfu l ; h e uses slang as free ly (andbeautifu l ly ) as h is predecessors used th e now archaic tongue

of th eir tim es. (See Preface . ) Immed iate ly th e cries of pro

test were h eard : Sandburg was coarse and brutal ; h is work

1 18 Carl Sandburg

ugly and d istorted ; h is language unrefined , unfit for poetry.

H is detractors forgot that Sandburg was on ly brutal whend eal ing with brutal ity ; that, beneath h is toughness, h e was one

of th e tenderest of l iv ing poets.

Cornhuskers ( 1 9 1 8) is anoth er step forward ; it is fu l ly as

sweep ing as its forerunner and far more sensit ive . T h e gainin power and restraint is ev ident in th e very first poem , a

magnificent panoram ic v ision of th e prair ie . Here is someth ingof th e surge of a Norse saga ; Cornhuskers is keen with a rudefervor, a vast sympathy for all that is sp l end id and terr ib l e inNature; But th e raw v io lence is restrained to th e point of

mystic ism . There are, in th is vo lume, dozens of those de l icateperceptions of beauty that must aston ish those who th ink thatSandburg can write on ly a b ig

-fi sted, roughneck sort of poetry.Coo l Tombs

,

”one of the most po ignant lyr ics of our t ime ,

moves with a new music ; “Grass” wh ispers as quietly as th e

ear l ier “Fog

”sto le in on steal thy, cat- l ike feet.

Smoke and Steel ( 1 92 0 ) wh ich won a pr ize awarded to the

most d istinctive poetry of th e year,is the sub l imat ion Of its

predecessors. In th is r ipest of h is co l lections, Sandburg has

fused mood , accent and image in a fresh intensity. I t is a fi t

setting for th e t it le poem ; it is, in sp ite of certain over-mysticalaccents, an ep ic of industr ial ism . Smoke - be lch ing Ch imneys are

h ere, quarr ies and great bou l ders of iron- r ibbed rock ; h ere are

t itanic V I SIOns : th e dreams of men and mach inery. A nd si lenceis h ere—th e si lence of sl eep ing tenements and sun- soaked cornfi elds. Slabs of the Sunburnt West, an amp l ification of th isstrain, appeared in 1 92 2 .

What makes all th is work so v ital is Sandburg’s own sp irit

a never- sated joy in existence, a continual ly fresh de l igh t in the

var iety and wonder of l ife .

GRASS

P i le the bodies h igh at Austerl itz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let m e workI am the grass ; I cover all.

And p ile them h igh at GettysburgAnd p i le them h igh at Ypres and Verdun .

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1 2 0 Carl Sandburg

Pocahontas’ body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red hawin November or a pawpaw in M ay, d id She wonder !does she rem ember ! in the dust , in the cooltombs !

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries ,cheer ing a hero or throwing confett i and blowing tinhorns tell m e if the lovers are losers tellm e if any get more than the lovers in the

dust in the cool tombs;

T he fog com eson l ittle cat feet .

I t Sits lookingover harbor and cityon s ilent haunchesand then moves on .

FROM SMOKE AND STEEL

Smoke of the fields in Sp r ing IS one,

Smoke of the leaves in autumn another .Smoke of a steel-m i ll roof or a battlesh ip funnel ,They all go up in a l ine with the smokestack ,Or they twist in the Slow twist of the

I f the north wind comes they run to the south .

I f the west wind comes they run to the east .By th i s Signall smokesknow each other.

Carl Sandburg 1 2 1

Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn ,

Smoke of the fin ished steel , ch illed and blue ,By the oath of work they swear : “I know you .

Hunted and hissed from the centerDeep down long ago when God m ade us over,Deep down are the Cinders we cam e fromYou and I and our heads of smoke .

Some of the smokes God dropped on the jobCross on the sky and count our yearsAnd sing in the secrets of our numbers ;S ing the i r dawns and sing the i r even ings,S ing an old log-fi re song :

You may put the damper up ,

You may put the damper down,

T he smoke goes up the ch imney just the same.

Smoke of a c ity sunset skyl ine,

Smoke of a country dust hor izonThey cross on the sky and count our years .

A bar of steel—it is onlySmoke at the heart of it

,smoke and the blood of a man .

A runner of fi re ran in it , ran ou t,ran som ewhere else,

And left smoke and the blood of a man

And the fin ished steel , ch illed and blue .

So fi re runs in, runs out , runs somewhere else again

,

And the bar of steel is a gun , a wheel , a nail, a shovel,

A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky ;

And always dark in the heart and th rough it ,Smoke and the blood of a man .

1 2 2

i

l Sandburg

P ittsburg, Youngstown , Gary—they make their steelwith men .

In the blood of m en and the ink of ch imneysT he smoke nights write the ir oathsSmoke into steel and blood into steel ;Homestead , B raddock, Birm ingham , they make their steel

with m en .

Smoke and blood is the m ix of steel

T he b irdmen droneI n the blue ; it i s steela motor Sings and zooms.

S teel barb -wire around The Works .S teel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of

The Works .Steel ore-boats b r ing the loads clawed from the earth by

steel,l ifted and lugged by arm s of steel

,sung

on its way by the clanking clam - shells .The runners now,

the handlers now, are steel ; they digand clutch and haul ; they hoist theirautomat ic knuckles from job to job ; they aresteel making steel .

Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces ; the pour i st imed , the billets wriggle ; the cl inkers are

dumped :Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land ; d iv ing steel

in the sea, cl imb ing steel in the Sky.

Ade laide CrapseyA de laide Crapsey was born, September 9 , 1 878, at Rochester,

NewYork, where she spent her ch i l dhood . She entered Vassar

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Ade laide Crapsey

TH E WARNING

Just now,

Out of the strangeS t i ll dusk as strange

,as st il l

A wh ite moth flew. Why am I grownSo cold

ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES

Is I t as p lainly in our l iv ing Shown ,By slant and twist , wh ich Way the wind hath blown !

Grac e Hazard Conk ling

Grace Hazard Conk l ing was born in 1 878 in NewYork City.After graduating from Sm ith Co l lege in 1 899 , sh e stud ied musicat th e Un iversity of H e ide lberg ( 1 90 2 -

3 ) and Par is ( 1 90 3Since 1 9 1 4 sh e h as been a teach er of Engl ish at Sm ith Co l lege,where sh e has done much to create an alert interest in poetry.M rs. Conkling

’s Afternoons of April ( 1 9 1 5) and Wilderness

Songs ( 1 92 0 ) are fu l l of a graciousness that se l dom growsCloying. There is fragrant wh im sical ity, a Ch i l d - l ike freshnessin poem s l ike “T h e Who le Duty of B erksh ire B rooks,” and“Frost on a W indow, Wh ich

'rem ind one of the manner of

her daughter, H i l da, ( see page

FROST ON A WINDOW

Th is forest looks the wayNight ingales sound .

Tall larches l ilt and swayAbove the gl ittering groundT he wild wh ite cherry sp rayScatters rad iance round .

Grac e Hazard Conk ling 1 2 5

The chuckle of the n ight ingaleI s l ike th is elfin wood .

Even as his gleam ing trills assai lT he Sp i r it

’s sol itude,These leaves of l ight , these branches frai lAre music’s very mood .

T he song of these fantast ic trees,T he plum es of frost they wear

,

Are for the poet’

s wh im who seesThrough a decept ive air,

And has an ear for m elodiesWhen never a sound is there.

Vach el L indsay

(Nicho las) Vache l Lindsay was born in th e house wh ere h esti l l l ives in Spr ingfie ld , I l l inois, November 1 0

,1 879 . H is home

is next door to th e Executive m ansion of th e State of I l l inois ;from the window wh ere Lindsay does most of h is writing, h esaw many Governors com e and go, inc luding th e martyredJohn P . A ltge ld , whom h e has ce lebrated in one of h is finestpoems. He graduated from th e Springfie l d H igh Schoo l

,at

tended H iram Co l lege ( 1 897 studied at the A rt Instituteat Ch icago ( 1 900-

3 ) and at th e NewYork Schoo l of A rt

A fter two years of lectur ing and sett l em ent work, h e took th e

first of h is long tramps, walking th rough Florida, Georgia and

th e Caro l inas, preach ing “

th e gospe l of beauty ,” and formulat

ing his unique p lans for a communal art . ( See Preface . )Like a true rev ival ist, h e attempted to wake in the peop le h e

met a response to beauty ; l ike Tommy Tucker , h e sang, rec itedand chanted for his supper, d istributing a l ittle pamph l et en

tit led “Rhymes to be Traded for B read .

”But th e great audiences

he was endeavoring to reach d id not h ear h im, even though

his co l lection General B ooth Enters I nto H eaven ( 1 9 1 3 ) struckmany a loud and racy note .

Lind say broadened his effects, deve loped the chant and,the

1 2 6 Vach el L indsay

fo l lowing year, pub l ish ed h is The Congo and Other Poemsan infectious b lend of L ind say’

s three R’

s : Rhyme ,

Re l igion and Ragtim e . In the tit le-

poem and, in a lesser degree ,th e three companion chants

,L indsay struck h is most powerfu l

—and most popu lar—ve in . Th ese gave peop le (particu lar lywhen intoned aloud ) that pr im itive joy in syncopated soundwh ich is at th e very base of song. The Chinese N ightingale

( 1 9 1 7 ) begins with One of th e most wh im sical p ieces L indsayhas ever dev ised . And if the subsequent Th e Golden Whalesof California ( 1 92 0 ) is less d istinct ive, it is pr incipal ly b ecause th e author has wr itten too much and too speed i ly to b e

se lf- critical . I t is h is pecu l iar appraisal of love liness, the

ro l l icking h igh sp irits joined to a stubborn evange l ism ,that

m akes L ind say so representative a product of h is env ironment.

B eside s h is or iginal poetry, Lindsay has embod ied h is ex

periences and med itat ions on the road in two prose vo lumes,

A Handy Guide for B eggars ( 1 9 1 6 ) and Adventures WhilePreaching the Gospel of B eauty as we l l as a proph eticstudy of th e

“si lent drama

,

”The A rt of the M oving Picture

( 1 9 1 5)

THE EAGLE THAT IS FORGOTTEN 1

! John P. A ltgeld. B orn D ecember 30, I 8¢7 ,°

died M arch 1 2 , 1 902 ]

Sleep softly eagle forgotten under the

stone,Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its

own .

We have bu r ied him now, thought your foes , and insecret rejoiced .

They made a brave Show of the ir mourning, the ir hatred

unvoiced .

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ishers, T he

‘

M acm illan

Company from General William B ooth Enters into H eaven and

Other Poems by Vache l Lind say.

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1 2 8 Vach e l L indsay

I f a star Should come in the p lace of the moon .

You are the Sp r ing,I f a face should bloom instead of an apple-bough .

You are my love,I f you r heart i s as k indAs your young eyes now.

THE TRAVELLER

T he moon ’s a dev i l jesterWho makes h im self too free .

T he rascal is not alwaysWhere he appears to be .

Som et imes he i s in my heartSom et im es he i s in the sea ;

Then t ides are in my heart ,And t ides are in the sea.

O traveller,abid ing not

Where he p retends to be !

THE CONGO 1

(A Study of the N egro Race )

I . TH EIR BASIC SAVAGERY

Fat black bucks in a wine-bar rel room ,

Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable ,Sagged and reeled and pounded on the f alling

table,

1Repr inted by perm ission of th e pub l ish ers, T h e M acm i l lan

Company, from Th e Congo and Other Poems by Vache lLind say

,

Vach el Lindsay

Pounded on the table ,Beat an empty barrel with the handle of

a broom ,

Hard as they were able ,Boom ,

boom , BOOM,

With a silk umbrella and the handle of a

broom,

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM .

THEN I had rel igion , THEN I had a

v ision .

I could not turn from the i r revel in derision .

THEN I SAW THE CONGO,CREEP ING

THROUGH THE BLACK,CUTTING THROUGH TH E J UNGLE WITHA GOLDEN TRACK .

Then along that r iverbank'A thousand m ilesTattooed cann ibals danced in files ;Then I heard the boom of the blood-lustsong

And a th igh-bone beat ing on a tin-

pan

gong .

And “BLOOD screamed the wh istles andthe fi fes of the warr iors ,

BLOOD” sc reamed the Skull-faced , leanwitch-doctors

,

Whi rl ye the deadly voodoo rattle,Har ry the up lands,S teal all the cattle

,

Rattle- rattle,rattle- ratt le,

B ing !Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,

1 2 9

130 Vachel L indsay

A roaring, ep ic , rag-t ime tune Kiiiic Zaifsii‘i’o’

From the mouth of the CongoT o the Mountains of the Moon .

Death i s an E lephant,Torch-eyed and horrible,Foam-flanked and terrible.

BOOM, steal the pygm ies,BOOM, k il l the Arabs,BOOM ,

“ kill the wh ite men,

HOO, HOO, HOO.

Like the wind0

in the chimney.

Listen to the yel l of Leopold’s ghost

Burn ing in Hell for his hand-maimed host .

Hear how the demons chuckle and yell .Cutt ing his hands off, down in Hell .L isten to the creepy proclamat ion ,Blown through the lairs of the forestnat ion ,

Blown past the wh ite-ants’

h i ll of clay ,Blown past the marsh where the butter

fl ies p layBe carefu l What you do,Or Mumbo-Jumbo

, God of the Congo,

A” the 0 soundsvery golden .

And all of the other H eavy]accents

very zeavy .Gods of the Congo, L igh t

lfwlcem

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you , i153”wfiiiereii

i u

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you ,

M umbO-Jumbo will hoo-doo you .

I I . THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE H IGH SPIRITS

Wi ld crap -Shooters with a whoop and a call 1305t film”

an ig

Danced the j uba in their gambl ing-hall

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1 3 2 Vach e l L indsay

And the crowd in the court gave a whoopand a cal l

And danced the j uba from wall to wall .But the witch-men suddenly st i lled the

th rong With a g reat

With a stern cold glare , and a stern oldand

songMumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you .

Just then from the doorway, as fat as

ShOtCS, With overwhe lm

Came the cake-walk p r inces in their long éfiidas

fizgg’

f’

ce

hndred coats, Pome

Shoes with a patent leather Sh ine ,And tal l Si lk hats that were red as wine .

And they p ranced with the ir butterflypartners there , With gmwing

Coal-black maidens with pearls in the ir jfijiglyan

iarkedhair

,dance-rhy thm .

Knee- sk irts trimm ed with the j essam ineSweet ,

And bel ls on the ir ankles and l ittle blackfeet .

And the coup les railed at the chant and

the frownOf the witch-men lean

,and laughed them

down .

(O rare was the revel and well worthwh i le

That made those glowering witch-men

m i le . )

T he cake-walk royalty then beganT o walk for a cake that was tall as a manTo the tune of “

Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM ,

”

Vach el L indsay 1 33

While the witch-men laughed with a

With a touch 05111 18t alI

‘

, n egro dialect,f

andAnd sang W lth the scalawags prancmgas rapidly as

there 1 poss ib le towardthe end.

Walk W lth care,walk W lth care ,

Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,

And all of the otherGods of the Congo,Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you .

Beware,beware , walk with care ,

Boomlay, boom lay, boomlay, boom .

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay , boom ,

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,

BOOM .

Oh,rare was the revel , and well worth S low philo

soph ic calm .

Wh lle

That made those glowering witch-men

sm ile .

I I I . T H E HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

H eavy bass .A good old negro In the slum s of the townWi th a literal

P reached at a sister for her velvet gown .im z

'

tation Ofcamp-mee t ingHowled at a brothe r for his low-down racke t, and

ways ,trance .

H is p rowl ing, guzzling, sneak—th ief days .Beat on the B ible t ill he wore it out

,

Start ing the jubilee rev ival shout .

And some had v is ions , as they stood on

chai rs ,And sang of Jacob , and the golden stai rs ,And they all repented , a thousand strong,From the i r stupor and savagery and sin

and wrong

1 34. Vach e l L indsay

And slammed their hymn books t il l theyshook the room

W ith “Glory,glory, glory ,

And Boom,boom , BOOM .

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPINGgia

ht

gt ilcifin.

THROUGH THE BLACK,

CUTT ING THROUGH THE J UNGLE WITHA GOLDEN TRACK .

And the gray sky opened l ike a new-rentVei l

And showed the apostles with their coatsof mai l .

In bright wh ite steel they were seatedround

And their fire-eyes watched where the

Congo wound .

And the twelve apostles, from their throneson h igh ,

Th ril led all the forest with their heavenlySang to the

cry .

ti me of Hark,Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle ;

o 11

Never again W lll he hoo-doo you ,voices .

”

Never again wil l he hoo-doo you .

Then along that river-bank, a thousand gm!” gt ‘Bwingeliberation

m i les, and j oy .

T he v ine- snared trees fel l down in files .P ioneer angels cleared the wayFor a Congo paradise , for babes at p lay,For sacred cap itals, for temp les clean .

Gone were the skull- faced W itch-m en lean .

There, where the wild ghost-gods had I n“

a ratherh igh k ey—aswalled delicate ly as

A m i ll ion boats of the angels sailed possible .

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136 J ohn G . N eihardt

Neihardt m eanwh ile had been go ing d eeper into fo lk- lore,th e resu lts of wh ich appeared in Th e Song of Hugh Glass

( 1 9 1 5) and The Song of Three Friends T h e latter,in 1 92 0 , d iv id ed the annual pr ize offered by th e Poetry Society,halv ing th e honors with G ladys Cromwe l l ’s Poems. Th ese twobooks of Neihardt

’s are detai led long poem s

, part of a proj ectedep ic series ce lebrating th e winning of the West by the pioneers.

CRY OF THE PEOPLE 1

Tremble before thy chattels ,Lords of the scheme of th ings !Fighters of all earth

’s battles ,Ours is the m ight of kings !Guided by seers and sages ,T he world ’s heart- beat for a drum ,

Snapp ing the chains of ages,

Out of the night we come !

Lend us no car that p it ies !O ffer no almoner’s hand !Alm s for the builders of cit ies !When will you understand !Down W ith your p r ide of b i rthAnd your golden gods of trade !A man i s worth to his mother, Earth,Al l that a man has made !

We are the workers and makers .We are no longer dumb !Tremble , O Sh i rkers and Takers !Sweep ing the earth—we come !

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ishers, T h e M acmil lan

Company, from The Quest by John G. Neihardt.

John G . N e ihardt 1 37

Ranked in the world-wide dawn,

March ing into the day !

The night is gone and the sword is drawnAnd the scabbard is thrown away !

LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS 1

Let m e l ive out my years in heat of blood !Let m e die drunken with the dream er ’s wine !Let m e not see th is soul -house bu ilt of mud

Go topp l ing to the dust— a vacant shrine .

Le t m e go qu ickly , l ike a candle l ightSnuffed ou t just at the heyday of its glow.

Give m e h igh noon-4- and let it then be night !Thus would I go .

And grant that when I face the grisly Th ing,My song may t rumpet down the gray Perhaps .Let m e be as a tune- swept fi ddlestringThat feels the Master Melody—and snaps !

Witter Bynner

Witter Bynner was born at B rooklyn,New York , August 1 0

,

1 881 . He was graduated from Harvard in 1 902 and h as beenassistant editor of various periodical s as we l l as adv iser topubl ish ers. Recent ly, h e h as spent much of h is tim e lecturingon poetry and trave l l ing in th e Orient .

Young Harvard th e first of Bynner’s vo lumes, was,

as th e name imp l ies, a ce lebration of h is A lma M ater. The N ewWorld ( 1 9 1 5) is a much r ip er and far more ambitious e ffort.

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e publ ishers, T he Macmi l lan

Company, from The Quest by J01111 G. Neihardt.

1 38 Witter Eynac

In th is extended poem ,Bynner sough t

—almost too determ ined ly- to translate th e ideal s of d emocracy into verse . Ne ith er of

these vo lumes d isp lays its author’s gifts at the ir best, for

Bynner is, first of all, a lyr ic poet. Grenstone Poems ( 1 9 1 7 )and A Canticle of Pan ( 1 92 0 ) reveal a more natural singingvoice . Bynner harmon izes in m any keys ; transposing, modulating and sh ifting from one tonal ity to another.Under th e p seudonym “

Emanue l M organ,” Bynner was co

author with A rthur Dav ison Ficke (wr iting under th e name of“Anne Knish”

) of Spectra Spectra was a ser iousb ur lesque of some of the extreme man ifestations of modernpoetic tendenc ies—a remarkab le hoax that d ece ived many of

the rad ical propagand ists as we l l as most of the conservativeCl

'

lt S.

GRASS -TOPS

What b ird are you in the grass- tops !Your poise i s enough of an answer

,

With your wing- t ips l ike up- curv ing fingers

Of the slow-mov ing hands of a dancer'And what i s so nameless as beauty,Wh ich poets , who give it a name,

Are only unnam ing forever !Content

,though it go, that it came.

VO ICES

O , there were l ights and laughterAnd the mot ions to and fro

Of peop le as they enterAnd people as they go

And there were many voicesVying at the feast

,

But mostly I rememberYours—who spoke the least.

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140 Witter Bynner

Wh i le I was serv in ’

at the Hosp italHe

’

d com e in and say,‘

You look nice in here,’

P raise us up , you know.

And he ’

d bend over and talk to the boysAnd he’

d talk so good to ’

em— so closeThat ’s why I call him a farmer.

I don ’

t mean that everyth ing about him wasn ’

t all right ,you understand ,

I t’

s just—well , I was a farmer

And he was my ne ighbor, anybody’s neighbor.

I guess even you young folks would’

a’ l iked him .

J am es Opp enh e im

James Oppenh e im was born at St . Pau l , M innesota, M ay 2 4,

1 882 . Two years later h is fam i ly moved to N ew York City,wh ere h e has l ived ever since . After a pub l ic schoo l education, h e took spec ial courses at Co lumbia Un iversity ( 1 90 1 -

3 )and engaged in sett l ement work, acting in the capac ity of

assi stant h ead worker of th e Hud son Gu i l d Settlement, and

super intendent of th e H ebrew Technical Schoo l f or G ir ls( 1 904.-7 )Oppenh e im ’

s in it ial venture as a poet, M onday M orning and

Other Poems was a tentat ive co l l ect ion ; half im itative ,half experimental . In sp ite of its sp iritual ind ebtedness to

Wh itman,most of th e verses are in formal m eters and regu lar

( though ragged ) rhyme .

In Songs for the N ew Age ( 1 9 1 4 ) and War and Laughter( 1 9 1 6 ) the notes are much fu l ler ; we l isten to a speech that,

echo ing th e Wh itmanic sonor ity,deve lop s a music that is

strange ly B ib l ical and yet local . ( See Preface . ) Th is vo lume ,

l ike all of Oppenhe im ’s subsequent work ( The B ook of Self,

1 9 1 7, The M ystic Warrior, 1 92 1 ) is analysi s in term s of poetry,a slow search ing that attempts to d iagnose the twisting sou lof man and th e twi sted t imes h e l ives in . T he old I saiahnote , with a new introspect ion,

r ises out of such poem s as“T h e

Slave,” “Tasting th e Earth”; the music and imagery of the

Jam es Opp enh e im 1 4 1

Psalms are heard in “T he Flocks” and“T he Runner in th e

Skies.

”

The Solitary ( 1 9 1 9 ) is anoth er stride forward . I ts majorsection, a long symbo l ic poem cal led “T h e Sea,

” breath es th e

same note that was th e burden of th e ear l ier books—“We are

flesh on th e way’

to godhood”—with greater strength and sti l lgreater control .

THE SLAVE

They set the slave free , striking off his chainsThen he was as much of a slave as ever .

He was st ill chained to serv il ity,

He was st ill m anacled to indolence and sloth ,He was st ill bound by fear and superst ition ,

By ignorance, susp ic ion , and savageryHis slavery was not in the chains

,

But in h imself.

They can only set free m en freeAnd there i s no need of thatFree m en set them selves free .

THE RUNNER IN THE SKIES

Who is the runner in the skies ,With her blowing scarf of stars ,And our Earth and sun hovering l ike bees aboutblossom ing heart !

Her feet are on the winds, where space is deep ,Her eyes are nebulous and veiled ;She hurries through the n ight to a far lover

Jam es Opp enh e im

THE LINCOLN CHILD

Clearing in the forest ,In the wild Kentucky forest ,And the stars, wintry stars , strewn above !O Night that i s the starriestS ince Earth began to rol lFor a SoulI s born out of Love !Mother love, father love, love of eternal God

Stars have pushed as ide to let him throughThrough heaven ’s sun - sown deepsOne Sparkling ray of God

S trikes the clod(And Wh i le an angel-host through wood and clearingsweeps ! )

Born In the wildT he Ch ildNaked , ruddy, new,

Wakes with the p iteous human cry and at mother

heart sleep s .

T o the mother wild berries and honey,T o the father awe without end,

T o the ch ild a swaddl ing of flannel

And a dawn rolls sharp and sunnyAnd the sk ies of winter bendT o see the first sweet word pennedIn the godl iest human annal .

See pages 54, 78, 84, 1 39, 1 72

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144 Jam es Opp enh e im

When a black cloud blotted out the sunAnd m en stopped in the streets to sob ,

T o th ink Old Abe was dead .

Dead , and the day ’s work st i l l undoneDead , and war

’s ruining heart athrob,

And earth with fields of carnage freshly spread .Mill ions died fight ing ;But in th is man we mournedThose m ill ions, and one other

And the S tates today unit ing,North and South ,East andWest ,Speak with a people

’s mouthA rhapsody of restT o him our beloved best

,

Our b ig,gaunt , hom ely brother

Our huge Atlant i c coast- storm in a shawl ,Our cyclone in a sm i le— our Pres ident

,

Who knew and loved us all

With love more eloquentThan his own words—with Love that in real deeds was

Spent .

Oh , to pour love through deedsT o be as Lincoln was !That all the land m ight fi ll its dai ly needsGlor ified by a human Cause !Then we re Amer ica a vast World -TorchFlam ing a faith ac ross the dy ing Earth ,P roclaim ing from the Atlant ic ’

s rocky porch,That a NewWorld was struggl ing at the b i rth !0 l iv ing God, O Thou who l iv ing art,

J am es Opp enhe im 145

And real , and near , draw,as at that babe’s birth ,

Into our souls and sanct ify our EarthLet down thy strength that we endureMighty and pu reAs mothers and fathers of our own Lincoln-ch ild .

O Ch i ld,flesh of our flesh , bone of our bone,

Soul torn from out our Soul !M ay you be great , and pure, and beaut ifulA Soul to search th is worldT o be a father

,brother , com rade , son,

A toiler powerful ;A man Whose toi l i s doneOne with God ’s Law aboveWork wrought through Love !

Lola Ridg e

Lo la R idge was born in Dubl in, I re land , leaving th ere ininfancy and spending h er ch i ldhood in Sydney

,A ustral ia.

A fter l iv ing some years in New Z ealand , sh e returned to A us

tralia to study art . I n 1 907 , sh e came to th e Un ited States,earning h er l iv ing as organ izer, as advertisement wr iter, as

i l lustrator, artist’

s mode l , factory-worker, etc. In 1 9 1 8, The

New R epublic publ ish ed h er long poem The Ghetto and M issR idge, unti l then total ly unknown, became th e

“d iscovery”of th e year.H er vo lume The Ghetto and Other Poems ( 1 9 1 8) contains

one poem that is br i l l iant, several th at are powerfu l and none

that is m ediocre . T h e t it le-

poem is its p innac l e ; in it M issR idge touch es strange h e igh ts. I t is essent ial ly a poem of th e

c ity,of its sodden brutal ities, its sudden beauties.

Sun-Up ( 1 9 2 0 ) is l ess integrated , more frankly experimental .But th e same v ibrancy and restrained power that d istingu ishedh er preced ing book are manifest here .

146 Lola R idg e

PASSAGES FROM THE GHETTO

O ld Sodos no longer makes saddles .He has forgotten howTime Sp ins l ike a crazy d ial in his brain ,And night by n ightI see the love-gesture of his arm

In its green-greasy coat-SleeveC i rcl ing the Book

,

And the candles gleam ing starklyOn the blotched-paper wh iteness of his face,L ike a m iswr itten p salmNight by n ightI hear his l ifted praise,Like a broken wh innyingBefore the Lord ’

s Shut gate .

Lights go out

And the stark trunks of the factoriesMelt into the drawn darkness,Sheath ing l ike a seam less garment .And mothers take home their bab ies,Waxen and del icately curled ,Like l ittle potted flowers closed under stars.

L ights go out

And colors rush together,Fusing and float ing away.

Pale worn gold l ike the settings of old j ewel sMauve, exquisite, tremulous, and lum inous purples,And burning Sp ires in aureoles of l ightL ike sh immering auras .

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A lfred Kreym b org

OLD MANUSCRIPT

T he skyis that beaut iful old parchmentIn wh ich the sunand the moon

keep the i r d iary .

T o read it all,

one must be a l inguistmore learned than FatherW isdomand a v is ionarymore clairvoyant than Mother Dream .

But to feel it,

one must be an apostleone who i s more than int imatein havmg been , always,the only confidant

l ike the earthor the sea.

DAWNS

I have come

from prideall the way up to humi l ityth i s day- to-night .

T he h i l lwas more terriblethan ever before .

Th is is the top ;

there i s the tall , sl im tree .

I t isn ’

t bent ; it doesn’

t lean ;

d lfred Kreym b org 149

I t is only looking back .

At dawn ,under that tree,still another m e of m inewas bur ied .

Wait ing for me to come again ,humorously sol ic itousof what I bring next,it looks down .

Badg er Clark

B adger C lark was born at A lbia, I owa, in 1 883 . He movedto Dakota Territory at th e age of three month s and now l ivesin th e B lack H i l l s of South Dakota.

C lark is one of th e few m en who have l ived to see th eirwork become part of fo l k- lore, m any of h is songs havingbeen adapted and paraphrased by th e cowboys who have madethem the ir own .

Sun and Saddle Leather ( 1 9 1 5) and Grass-Grown Trails( 1 9 1 7 ) are the expre ssion of a native S inger ; happy, Spontaneous and se l dom “l iterary .” Th ere is wind in th ese songs ;

the sme l l of camp- smoke and the co lors of prairie sunsets r ise

from them . Free, for th e most part, from affectations,C lark

ach ieves an unusual ease in h is use of the local vernacu lar.

THE GLORY TRAIL

’Way h igh up the M ogollons,

Among the mountain tops ,A lion cleaned a yearlin

’

s bonesAnd l icked his thankful chops,

1From Sun and Saddle Leather by B adger C lark . Copy ,

righ t, 1 9 1 5. R ichard G. B adger, Pub l ish er.

150 B adg er Clark

When on the p icture who should ride,A - trippin

’ down a Slope,But High-Ch in Bob , with sinful p rideAnd mav’

rick-hungry rope .

0h, glory he to m e, says he“And fam e

’

s unfadin’

flowers !All m eddlin

’

hands are far away;I ride my good top

-hawse today

And I’

m top-rope of the Laz y J

H i! kitty cat, you’

re ours !”

That l ion l icked his paw so brownAnd dream ed soft dream s of vealAnd then the circlin

’ loop sung downAnd roped him

’

round his m eal .He yowled quick fury to the worldTill all the h i lls yel led back ;

T he top-hawse gave a snort and wh irled

And Bob caught up the slack .

0h, glory be to m e , laughs he.

“We'

ve hit the glory trail.

N o human man as I have read

Darst loop a ragin’

lion’

s head,

N or ever hawse could drag one dead

Un til we’

ve told the tale.

”

’Way h igh up the M ogollons

That top-hawse done his best ,

Th rough whippin’ brush and rattl in ’ stones,

From canyon -floor to crest .

But ever when Bob turned and hopedA l imp remains to find ,

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152 Badg er Clark

0 h, glory be to m e ! cries he,“And to my noble noose !

0 h, stranger tell my pards belowI took a rampin

’

dream in tow,

fi nd if I never lay him low,

I’

ll never turn him loose !”

Harry Kemp

Harry (H ibbard ) Kemp , known as“the tramp -

poet,” was

born at Youngstown,Oh io

,December 1 5, 1 883 . H e came East

at th e age of twe lve, l eft schoo l to enter a factory, but re

turned to h igh schoo l to study Engl ish .

A globe-trotter by nature , h e W ent to sea before finish ing h ish igh schoo l course . He sh ipped first to Austral ia

,then to

Ch ina,from Ch ina to Cal ifo rn ia, from Cal iforn ia to th e Uni

versity of Kansas. A fter a few month s in London in 1 909 (h ecrossed the A t lant ic as a stowaway ) h e returned to New YorkC ity

, wh ere h e h as l ived ever S ince , found ing h is own th eaterin wh ich h e is actor, stage

-manager, p laywrigh t and chorus.

His first co l lection of poem s,The Cry of Youth l ike

the subsequent vo lume,The Passing God is fu l l of

every kind of poetry except th e kind one m igh t imagine Kempwou l d write . I nstead of crude and bo isterous verse , h ere is

a prec ise and almost over - po l ish ed poetry. Chanteys and Bal

lads ( 1 92 0 ) is r iper and more representative . T h e notes are

more var ied , the sense of personal ity is more pronounced .

STREET LAMPS

Softly they take the ir be ing, one by one,

From the lamp - l ighter’s hand , after the sunHas dropped to dusk l ike l ittle flowers bloomSet in long rows am id the growing gloom .

Who he who l ights them is,I do not know,

Except that, every eve , with footfall slow

Harry Kemp 1 53

And regular , he passes by my roomAnd sets his gusty flowers of l ight a-bloom .

A PHANTASY OF HEAVEN

Perhaps he p lays with cherubs now,

Those l ittle,golden boys of God,

Bending, with them,som e Si lver bough ,

T he wh i le a seraph , head a-nod,

Slumbers on guard ; how they will runAnd Shout

,if he should wake too soon,

As fru it more golden than the sun

And riper than the full-grown m oon ,

Conglobed in clusters,we ighs them down ,

Like Atlas heaped with starry signs ;And

,if they ’re tripped , heel over crown ,

By h idden coils of m ighty v ines,

Perhaps the seraph , swift to pounce,Will hale them , vexed , to God—and He

Will only laugh,remembering

,once

He was a boy in Gal ilee !

M ax Eastman

M ax Eastman was born at Canandaigua, New York, January 4 , 1 883 . B oth h is fath er and mother had been Congregationalist preach ers, so it was natural that the son shou l dturn from scho lasticism to a d efinite ly social expression. East

m an had received h is A .B . at W i l l iam s in 1 905 ; from 1 907

to 1 9 1 1 h e had been A ssoc iate in Ph i losophy at Co lumbia University. B ut in the latter part of 1 9 1 1 , h e devoted all h is

1 54 M ax Eastman

t ime to wr i ting, studying th e vast prob l ems of econom ic in

equal ity and voic ing th e protests of th e dumb m i l l ions in a

style that was all the firm er for be ing ph i losoph ic. In 1 9 1 3 ,

h e becam e ed itor of The M asses wh ich,in 1 9 1 7 , became The

Liberator.

H is Child of the Amaz ons ( 1 9 1 3 ) and Colors of Life ( 1 9 1 8)reveal th e qu iet lover of beauty as we l l as th e fiery hater of

injustice.

AT THE AQUARIUM

Serene the si lver fishes gl ide ,S tern - l ipped , and pale , and wonder- eyed !As , through the aged deeps of ocean ,They gl ide with wan and wavy mot ion .

They have no pathway where they go,They flow l ike water to and fro,

They watch with never -winking eyes,They watch with star ing

,col d su rprise,

T he level peop le in the air,

T he peop le peer ing, peering there

Who wander also to and fro,

And know not why or where they go,Yet have a wonde r in the i r eyes ,Som et im es a pale and cold surpri se.

E unic e Tie tjens

Eun ice Tietj ens (née Hammond ) was born in Ch icago , I l l inois

,Ju ly 2 9 , 1 884 . Sh e m arr ied Pau l Tietj ens, th e composer,

in 1 904 . Dur ing 1 9 1 4 and 1 9 1 6 sh e was A ssoc iate Ed itor of

Poetry ; A M agaz ine of Verse and went to France as war cor

respondent of th e Ch icago Daily N ews ( 1 9 1 7‘

H er secondm arriage ( to C loyd Head , the wr iter ) occurred in February ,1 92 0 .

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1 56 E unic e Tie tjens

I S not for stones .But I shall go down from th is ai ry space , th is swift wh ite

pea‘

ce,th is st inging exu ltat ion ;

And t im e will close about m e,and my soul Stll‘ to the

rhythm of the daily round .

Yet, hav ing known , l ife will not press so close,And always I shal l feel t im e ravel th in about m e.

For once I ;stoodIn the wh ite windy p resence of eternity .

Sara Teasdale

Sara T easdale was born August 8, 1 884, at St. Lours,M is

sour i, and educated th ere . After leaving schoo l , she trave ledin Europe and the Near East. In 1 9 1 4, sh e marr ied Ernst B .

Fi lsinger, who h as wr itten several books on fore ign trade,and

moved to New York C ity in 1 9 1 6 .

H er first book was a sl ight vo lume, Sonnets to Duse

giv ing l itt l e prom ise of th e r ich lyr ic ism wh ich was to fo l low.

H elen of Troy and Other Poems ( 1 9 1 1 ) contains the fi rst h intsof that d e l icate craftsmansh ip and auth ent ic love l iness wh ichth is poet has brought to such a h igh p itch .

R ivers to the Sea ( 1 9 1 5) emphasizes th is poet’s singing in

tensity as we l l as her epigrammatio skill. But a greater re

straint is h ere . T h e new co l lection contains at l east a dozenunforgettab le snatch es, lyrics in wh ich th e word s seem to fal linto p lace without art or e ffort. Se l dom emp loying m etaphoror str iking imagery, almost bare of ornam ent

,th ese poem s

h ave th e Sh eer m agic of tr iumphant song. Th e irs is an art

lessness that is more than an art. _

Love Songs ( 1 9 1 7 ) is a co l lect ion of M iss Teasdale’s prev i

ous m e lod ies for the viola d’

amore togeth er with several newtunes. Flame and Shadow ( 1 92 0 ) is, however, by far th e be stof her books. H ere th e beauty is fu l l er and deeper ; an almost

myst ic rad iance p lays from th ese starry verses. Techn ical ly,al so, th is vo lum e marks M iss Teasdal e’

s greatest advance .

Th e word s are chosen with a keener sense of the ir actual aswe l l as th e ir musical values ; th e rhythm s are much moresubt le and var ied ; the l ine moves with a greater naturalness.

Sara Teasdale 157

SPRING NIGHT

T he park is filled with n ight and fog,

T he ve ils are drawn about the world,

T he drowsy l ights along the paths

Are dim and pearled .

Gold and gleam ing the empty streets,Gold and gleam ing the m isty lake

T he m i rrored lights l ike sunken swords ,Glimm er and shake .

Oh , is it not enough to beHere with th is beauty over m e !

My throat Should ache with p raise , and IShould kneel in joy beneath the Sky.

O beauty, are you not enough !Why am I cry ing after loveWith youth

,a singing voice , and eyes

T o take earth ’s wonder with surp rise !Why have I put off my p ride,Why am I unsatisfi ed,

I,for whom the pensive n ight

B inds her cloudy hai r with l ight,I,for whom all beauty burns

Like incense in a m ill ion urns !O beauty , are you not enough !Why am I crying after love !

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e publ ish ers, T h e M acm i l lan

Company, from Rivers to the Sea by Sara Teasdale.

1 58 Sara Teasdale

NIGHT SONG AT AMALFI

I asked the heaven of starsWhat I Should give my love

I t answered m e with Si lence,S ilence above .

I asked the darkened sea

Down where the fishermen goI t answered me with Si lence,S ilence below.

Oh , I could give—

him weep ing,Or I could give him song

But how can I give silenceMy whole l ife long !

WATER LILIES 2

I f you have forgotten water- l i l ies float ingOn a dark lake among mountains in the afternoonshade,

I f you have forgotten their wet , Sleepy fragrance,Then you can return and not be afraid .

But if you remember,then turn away forever

T o the plains and the prairies where pools are far

apart,

There you will not come at dusk on closing water l i l ies ,And the Shadow of mountains will not fall on your

heart .

1Reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ishers, T h e M acm i l lan

Company, from Love Songs by Sara Teasdal e .

2Repr inted by perm ission of th e pub l i sh ers, T he M acm i l lan

Company, from Flame and Shadow by Sara Teasdale.

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1 60 E zra P ound

sylvania and went abroad , seek ing fresh material to com

plete a thesis on Lope de V ega, in 1 908.

I t was in Venice that Pound ’s first book , A Lume Spento

was pr inted . T h e fo l lowing year Pound went to London and the ch ief poem s of the l itt l e vo lume were incorporatedin Persona: a smal l co l lection containing some of

Pound ’s finest work.

A lthough the young Amer ican was a total stranger to th e

Engl ish l iterary wor l d , h is book mad e a d efinite impression on

critics of all shad es. Edward Thomas,the Engl ish poet and

one of th e most carefu l appraisers, wrote “the beauty of it is

the beauty of passion, sincer ity and intensity, not of beautifu l

word s and suggestions. T h e though t dom inates th e word sand is greater than th ey are .

Exultations ( 1 909 ) was pr inted in the autumn of the same

year that saw the appearance of Personae. T oo often in h is

later work, Pound seem s to b e more th e archaeo logist than

the artist, d igging with l itt l e energy and less enthusiasm .

Canz oni ( 1 9 1 1 ) and R ipostes ( 1 9 1 2 ) both contain much that

is sharp and l iv ing ; th ey al so contain th e germ s of desiccationand d ecay. Pound began to scatter h is talents ; to start , move

m ents wh ich h e qu ickly d iscarded for new ones ; to spendh im se lf in poetic propaganda for th e Imagists and oth ers ( seePreface ) ; to give more and more time to trans lat ion.

Too spec ial to ach ieve permanence , too inte l lectual to becom e

popu lar, Pound’s contr ibution to h is age shou l d not b e und er

estimated . He was a p ioneer in th e new forms ; unde r h isl eadersh ip , th e Im agists became not on ly a group but a protest ;h e h e lped to m ake many of the path s wh ich a score of un

consc iously influenced poets tread to-day with more ease but far

l ess grace.

A VIRGINAL

No,no ! Go from m e . I have left her lately .

I will not spoi l my sheath with lesser b rightness ,For my surrounding air has a new l ightness ;Sl ight are her arm s , yet they have bound me straitly

E zra Pound 1 6 1

And left me cloaked as with a gauze of aether ;As with sweet leaves ; as with a sub tle clearness.

Oh , I have p icked up magic in her nearnessT o sheathe m e half in half the th ings that sheathe her.

No,no ! Go from me . I st i ll have the flavou r ,

Soft as sp ring wind that’s com e from birchen bowers.

Green come the Shoots, aye Ap r il in the branches,AS winter’s wound with her sleight hand she staunches,Hath of the trees a l ikeness of the savou rAs wh ite thei r bark, so wh ite th is lady

’s hours .

BALLAD FOR GLOOM

For God, our God is a gallant foeThat playeth beh ind the veil .

I have loved my God as a ch ild at heartThat seeketh deep bosom s for rest ,I have loved my God as a maid to manBut 10 , th is th ing is best

T o love you r God as a gallant foe that plays beh ind theve il ;

T o meet you r God as the night winds meet beyondArcturus’

pale .

I have played with God for a woman,

I have staked with my God for truth,

I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed

H is d ice be not of ruth .

For I am made as a naked blade,

But hear ye th is th ing in sooth

1 62 Ezra P ound

Who loseth to God as man to man

Shal l win at the turn of the game .

I have drawn my blade where the l ightnings meet

But the end ing is the sam e

Who loseth to God as the sword blades loseShall win at the end of the game .

For God, our God i s a gallant foe that p layeth beh indthe ve i l .

Whom God de igns not to overthrowhath need of triplemai l .

IN A STATION OF THE METROI

T he appar it ion of these faces in the crowd ;Petals on awet

,black bough .

Lou is Unterm ey er

Louis Unterm eyer was born October 1,1 885, in New York

C ity, wh ere h e has l ived , except for br ief sojourns in M aine

and New Jersey, ever since . H is educat ion was sketchy ; h iscontinued fai lure to comprehend algebra and geometry kepth im from enter ing co l lege .

Untermeyer’s first vo lum e was The Younger Quirea twenty- four-page bur lesque of an antho logy ( The YoungerChoir) . I t was issued anonymous ly and on ly one hundredcop ies were pr inted . Later in th e sam e year, he pub l ish ed a

sequence of“

some seventy lyr ics ent it l ed First Love

With the exception of about e igh t of th ese songs, th e vo lume

is devo id of character and, in sp ite of a certain technicalfac i l ity, who l ly und ist ingu ish ed .I t was with Challenge ( 1 9 1 4 ) that the author first spoke

in h is own i d iom . Poems l ike “Summons

,

” “Land scapes”and

“Cal iban in th e Coal M ines”

show “a fresh and lyr ical con

cern not on ly wi th a mechanist ic soc iety but with the mod

ern wor l d .” “His v ision”( thus the Boston Transcript) “is a

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1 64 Lou is Unterm ey er

SUMMONS

T he eager night and the impetuous winds ,T he h ints and wh ispers of a thousand lures ,And all . the swift persuasion of the Sp ring,Su rged from the stars and stones , and swep t m e on

T he sm el l of honeysuckle,keen and clear,

S tartled and Shook m e,with the sudden thr ill

Of some well -known but half- forgotten voice .

A Slender stream becam e a naked Sp rite ,Flashed around cu r ious bends, and winked at me

Beyond the tu rns , alert and-

m i sch ievous .A saffron moon

,dangling among the t rees ,

Seem ed l ike a toy balloon caught in the boughs,

Flung there in sport by som e too m i rthful b reeze

And as it hung there , v iv id and unreal ,T he ’whole world ’s lethargy was brushed away ;T he night kep t tugging at my torp id moodAnd tore it into sh reds . A warm air blewMy wint ry slothfulness beyond the stars ;And over all ind ifference there streamedA myriad urges in one rush ing wave

Touched with the lav i sh m iracles of earth,

I felt the b rave persistence of the grass ;T he far desire of r ivu lets ; the keen ,

Unconquerable fervor of the th rush ;T he endless labors of the pat ien t worm ;

T he l ichen ’s strength ; the p rowess of the ant ;

The constancy of flowers ; the bl ind bel iefOf ivy cl imb ing slowly toward the sun ;The eternal st ruggles and eternal deathsAnd yet the grop ing faith of every root !

Lou is Unterm ey er 1 65

Out of old graves arose the cry of l ife ;Out of the dy ing came the deathless call .And, th rill ing with a new sweet restlessness

,

The th ing that was my boyhood woke in m e

Dear , fool ish fragments made m e strong again ;Val iant adventu res, dream s of those to come,

And all the vague,heroic hopes of youth ,

With fresh abandon , l ike a fearless laugh ,Leaped up to face the heaven ’s unconcern .

And then—ve il upon veil was torn asideStars

,l ike a host of m erry girls and boys ,

Danced gaily’round m e

, p lucking at my hand ;The n ight

,scorn ing its stubborn m ystery

,

Leaned down and p ressed new cou rage in my heart ;T he herm it- thrush , throbbing with m ore than Song,Sang with a happy challenge to the Skies .Love and the faces of a world of ch ildrenSwept l ike a conquering army through my blood .

And Beauty, r ising out of all its form s,

Beauty,the passion of the un iverse,

Flam ed with its joy, a th ing too great for tears,And

,l ike a wine, pou red itself out for m e

To drink of, to be warmed with,and to go

Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight ;T o m eet with confidence the cyn ic years ;Battl ing in wars that never can be won ,

Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat .

ON THE B IRTH OF A CH ILD

Lo—to the battle-ground of Life,Ch ild , you have com e

,l ike a conquering

Out of a struggle— into strife ;Out of a darkness— into doubt .

1 66 L ou is Unterm ey er

G i rt with the fragile armor of Youth,

Ch ild , you must r ide into endless wars,

With the sword of protest, the b uckler of truth ,And a banner of love to sweep the stars.

About you the world ’s despai r will surge ;Into defeat you must p lunge and grope

Be to the falter ing, an urge ;Be to the hopeless years , a hope !

Be to the darkened world , a flame ;

Be to its unconcern a blow !For out of its pain and tumult you came

,

And into its tumult and“

pain you go.

PRAYER

God, though th i s l ife i s but a wraith,

Although we know not what we use,

Although we grope with l ittle faith ,G ive me the heart to fight

—and lose .

Ever insurgent let m e be,

Make m e more dar ing than devout ;From sleek contentm ent keep me free,And fi ll m e with a buoyant doubt.

Open my eyes to v is ions gi rtWith beau ty

,and with wonder lit

But let m e always see the d irt,

And all that Spawn and die in it .

Open my ears to music ; letM e th rill with Sp r ing

’s first flutes and drum sBut never let m e dare forgetThe bitter ballads of the slum s .

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1 68 J ean Starr Unterm ey er

HIGH TIDE

I edged back against the night .

T he sea growled assault on the wave-b itten Shore.

And the b reakers ,Like young and impat ient hounds ,Sprang with rough joy on the sh r inking sand .Sp rang— but were drawn back SlowlyWith a long , relentless pull ,Wh imper ing, into the dark .

Then I saw who held them capt ive ;And I saw how they were boundWith a b road and quiver ing leash of l ight

,

Held by the moon,

As, calm and unsm i l ing,She walked the deep fields of the Sky.

AUTUMN

(To My M other)

How memory cuts away the years,And how clean the p ictu re comesOf autumn days

,brisk and busy ;

Charged with keen sunsh ine .

And you , st i r red with act iv ity,T he Sp irit of those energet ic days .

There was our back-yard ,So plain and stripped of green ,With even the weeds careful ly pulled awayFrom the crooked red b ricks that made the walk,And the earth on e ither side so black .

J ean S tarr Unterm ey er 16 9

Autumn and dead leaves bu rn ing in the Sharp air.

And winter com forts com ing in l ike a pageant .

I shall not forget themGreat jars laden with the raw green of p ickles,S tanding in a solemn row across the back of the porch ,Exhal ing the pungent dill ;And in the very center of the yard ,You , tending the great catsup kettle of gleam ing copper ,Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and downLike jolly monks in a drunken danceAnd there were bland banks of cabbages that came by

the wagon- load,

Soon to be cut into del icate r ibbonsOnly to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers .Such feathery wh iteness— to com e to kraut !And after , there were grapes that hid the i r b rightness

under a grey dust ,Then gushed thrill ing , pu rp le blood over the fi re ;

And enam elled c rab -apples that tr icked with the i r fragrance

But were bitter to taste .

And there were Sp icy plum s and i ll- Shaped qu inces ,And long string beans float ing in pans of clear waterLike sl im

, green'

fi shes.

And there was fi sh itselfSalted , Silver herring from the city .

And you moved among these myster ies,Absorbed and sm il ing and sure ;S t i r r ing, tast ing , m easu ring

,

With the p rec ision of a ritual .I l ike to th ink of you in you r years of powerYou

,now so shaken and so powerles

High priestess of you r home .

1 7O J ean S tarr Unterm ey er

LAKE SONG

The lapp ing of lake waterI s l ike the weep ing of wom en ,T he weep ing of ancient womenWho grieved without rebell ion .

T he lake falls over the shoreLike tears on their curven bosom s.Here is langu id , luxu r ious wai l ing ;T he wai l ing of kings’ daughters .

So do we ever cry ,

A soft , unmut inous crying,When we know ourselves each a princessLocked fast with in her tower.

T he lapp ing of lake waterI S l ike the weep ing of women

,

T he fert i le tears of wom enThat water the dreams o f m en.

J ohn Gou ld Fle tch er

John Gou l d Fletch er was born at L ittle Rock , A rkansas,January 3 , 1 886 . He was educated at Ph i l l ips A cad emy(Andover, M assachusetts) and Harvard ( 1 90 3-7 ) and

,after

spend ing several years in M assachusetts, moved to England ,where, except for br ief v isits to th e United States

,h e has l ived

ever since.

I n 1 9 1 3 , Fletche r pub l ished five tiny books of poems wh ichh e has referred to as

“h is l iterary wi l d oats,

” five smal l collections of exper imental and faint ly interesting verse . Two yearslater, Fletch er appeared as a d ec ided ly l ess conservat ive and

far more arresting poet with I rradiations—Sand and Spray

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172 J ohn Gould F le tch er

FROM IRRADIATIONS

T he trees,l ike great jade elephants,

Chained , stamp and shake ’neath the gadflies of the breeze ;The trees lunge and p lunge , unruly elephantsT he clouds are the ir c r im son howdah-canop ies ;The sunl ight gl ints l ike the golden robe of a Shah .

Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees .

LINCOLN

L ike a gaunt , scraggly p ineWh ich l ifts its head above the mournful sandh i lls ;And pat iently , th rough dul l years of b itter Si lence,Untended and uncared for, begins to grow .

Ungainly,labour ing, huge ,

The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its

branches ;Yet in the heat of m idsumm er days , when thunder-clouds

ring the horizon ,A nat ion of m en Shall rest beneath its Shade .

And it shal l protect them all,

Hold everyone safe there, watch ing aloof in Silence ;Unt il at last one mad stray bolt from the zen ithShal l str ike it in an instant down to earth .

See pages 54. 78, 84. 1 39. 1 42 .

J ohn Gould Fle tch er 1 73

There was a darkness in th is man ; an imm ense and hol

low darkness,Of wh ich we may not speak , nor Share with him

,nor

ente r ;A darkness through wh ich strong roots stretched down

wards into the earthTowards old th ings ;Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and

spoke with God,

Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not

what , and found thei r goal at last ;Towards the m en who waited , only waited patientlywhen all seem ed lost

,

Many b itter winters of defeat ;Down to the gran ite of pat ienceThese roots swep t , knotted fibrous roots, p rying, p iercing,seeking,

And drew from the l iv ing rock and the l iving watersabout it

The red sap to carry upwards to the sun .

Not p roud , but humble ,Only to serve and pass on , to endure to the end throughservice ;

For the ax is laid at the root of the trees,and all that

bring not forth good fru itShall be cut d own on the day to come and cast into the

fire .

There is Silence abroad in the land today,

And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence ;

1 74 J ohn Gou ld Fletch er

And, because we are st i ll at last, those b ronze l ips slowlyOpen ,

Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of l ight .

Slowly a pat ient , fi rm -syllabled voice cuts th rough the

endless si lenceLike labouring oxen that d rag a p low through the chaos

of rude clay-fi eldsI went forward as the l ight goes forward in earlyspring,

But there were also many th ings wh ich I left beh ind .

“Tombs that were quiet ;5

One, of a mother,whose brief l ight went out In the

darkness,One, of a loved one

,the snow on whose grave i s long

fall ing,

One, only of a ch ild , but it was m ine .

“Have you forgot your graves ! Go,quest ion them in

anguish ,Listen long to their unst i r red l ips . From your hostages

to Silence,Learn there i s no l ife without death

,no dawn without

sun- sett ing,No v ictory but to Him who has given all.

The Glamour of cannon d ies down , the furnace-mouthof the battle i s Si lent .

T he m idwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takeson afresh its b right colours .

But he whom we mocked and obeyed not,he whom we

scorned and m istrusted ,He has descended , l ike a god, to his rest.

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1 76 J ohn Gou ld Fle tch er

And the grinding cl ick of the ir skates as they imp ingeupon the su rface,

Is l ike the b rush ing together of th in wing-t ips of silver.

"

H. D .

H i l da Doo l itt le was born Septemb er 1 0,1 886, at B eth lehem,

Pennsylvania. When sh e was sti l l a ch i l d , h er fath er became

D irector of th e Flower Observatory and the fam i ly moved to

a suburb in th e outskirts of Ph i lade lph ia. H i l da Doo l ittle at

tended a pr ivate schoo l in We st Ph i lade lph ia ; entered B rynM awr Co l l ege in 1 904 , and

'went abroad,for what was in

tended to b e a short sojourn,in

,

1 9 1 1 . After a v isit to I talyand France, sh e cam e to London

,join ing Ez ra Pound and

he lp ing to organize th e Imagists. Her work ( signed “H .

began to appear in a few magaz ines and its unusual qual itywas recogn ized at once . Sh e m arr ied one of th e most talentedof the Engl ish m embers of th is group (R ichard A l d ington ) in1 9 1 3 and remained in London .

Her first vo lum e, Sea Garden, appeared in 1 9 1 6 ; h er second ,Hymen, an amp l ificat ion of h er gift, was pub l ish ed in 1 92 1 .

“H . D .

” is, by all odds,th e most important of her group .

She is th e on ly one who has steadfast ly he l d to th e letter as

we l l as to the sp irit of its credo. Sh e is, in fact, th e on ly trueImagist. Her poem s, captur ing the fi rm d e l icacy of th e Greekmode l s, are l ike a set of Tanagra figur ines. Here

,at first

glance , th e effect is ch i l l ing—beauty seem s h e l d in a frozengesture. B ut it is in th is very fixat ion of l ight, co lor and emo

t ion that sh e ach ieves intensity .Observe th e t iny poem entit l ed “H eat.

” Here,in th e fewest

possib le word s, is someth ing beyond th e description of h eat

h ere is th e effect of it. I n the se l ines one fee l s the very weightand so l id ity of a m idsumm er afternoon.

OREAD

Wh i rl up , sea

Wh i rl your pointed p ines .

H D .

”

Splash your great p inesOn our rocks .Hurl you r green over usCover us with your pools of fi r .

HEAT

O wind,rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat ,rend it to tatters .

Fru it cannot dropthrough th is th ick air

fru it cannot fall into heatthat p resses up and bluntsthe points of pearsand rounds the grapes .

Cut through the heat

plough through it,

turn ing it on e ither Sideof your path .

PEAR TREE

Silver dustl ifted from the earth ,h igher than my arm s reach ,you have m ounted .

O Silver,

h igher than my arm s reachyou front us with great m ass ;

1 78 H D .

”

no flower ever Openedso staunch a wh ite leaf,no flower ever parted Si lverfrom such rare silver ;

O wh ite pear,your flower- tufts,th ick on the branch ,b ring summ er and ripe fru itsin the ir purple hearts.

William R ose B ene’

t

Wil liam Rose B enét was born at Fort Ham i lton, New YorkHarbor, February 2

,1 886 . He was educated at A lbany Acad

emy and graduated from Yale in 1 907 . After various experi

ences as free - lance wr iter, pub l ish er’s reader, second l ieutenant, etc.,

B enét becam e the A ssoc iate Ed itor of the NewYork Post’

s Literary R eview in 1 92 0 .

T h e outstand ing feature of B enét’s verse is its extraord inary

wh imsical ity ; an or iental imagination r iots th rough h is pages.

L ike the tit le -

poem of h is first vo lum e,M erchants from Cathay

all of B enet’s vo lumes v ibrate with a v igorous music ;

th ey are fu l l of th e sonorous stuff that one ro l ls out crossingwintry fie l d s or tramp ing a road alone .

But B ené t’s charm is not confined to the l ift and swing of

ro l l icking choruses. H is The Falconer of God The

Great White Wall ( 1 9 1 6 ) and The B urglar of the Z odiac

( 1 9 1 8) contain d ecorat ions as bo l d as th ey are br i l l iant ; th eyring with a strange and sp icy music evoked from seem inglycasual words.

M oons of Grandeur ( 1 92 0 ) represents the fu l l est d eve lopment

of B ené t’s unusual gifts ; a comb ination of Eastern phantasy and

Western v igor.

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William R ose B ene’

t

H ere’

s a catch and a carol to the great,

grand Chan,

The King of all the Kings across the

sea!

“H ere

’

s a catch and a carol to the great,

grand Chan ;

For we won through the deserts to his

sunset barbican

And the m ountains of his palace no

T itan’

s reach may span

Where he wields his seignorie !

Red-as-blood Skins of Panthers,so bright

against the sunOn the wal ls of the halls where his

p i llared state is setThey daze with a blaze no man may look

upon .

And with condu its of beverage thosefloors run wet.

His wives st iff with r iches, they sit be

fore him there .

Bird and beast at his feast make songand clapp ing cheer.

And jugglers and enchanters , all walkingon the air,

Make fall ecl ipse and thunder—makemoons and suns appear !

Once the Chan , by his enem ies sore

p rest , and sorely spent ,Lay, so they say, in a th icket "neath a

tree

We gape to

H ear th em end,

And are inTerror,

William R ose Bene’

t 181

Where the howl of an owl vexed his foesfrom the i r intent

Then that fowl for a holy bi rd of rev

erence m ade he !“A catch and a carol to the great, grand

Chan !

Pastmasters of disasters, our desert cara

van

Won through all peril to his sunset bar

bican ,

Where he wields his seignorie !

And crowns he gave us l We end wherewe began

A catch and a carol to the great, grand

Chan ,

The King of all the Kings across the

sea

Those mad, ant ic Merchants ! The i rstripéd beasts d id beat

T he market- square suddenlywith hoovesof beaten gold !

T he ground yawned gap ing and flam edbeneath our feet !

They plunged to P its Abysmal withthei r wealth untold !

And som e say the Chan h im self in angerdealt the stroke

For shar ing of his secrets with silly, common folk

But Holy , Blessed Mary, p reserve us as

you may

Lest once’

more those mad Merchantscome chant ing from Cathay !

182 William R ose B enet

HOW TO CATCH UNICORNS

I ts cloven hoofp r int on the sandW i l l lead you—where !Into a phantasmagoric landBeware !

There all the b r ight stream s run up-h i ll .

The b i rds on every tree are st ill .But from stocks and stones , clear voices comeThat Should be dumb .

I f you have taken along a net,

A noose , a prod ,You ’l l be wait ing in the forest yetN id—nod

In a V i rgin ’s lap the beast Slept sound ,They say but II th ink ( Is anyone around ! )That

’

s j ust a lie !

I f you have’

taken a musketoonT o fl inders ’

twill flash ’neath the wizard moon.

So I should take browned batter-cake ,Hot-buttered inside

,l ike foam to flake .

And I should take an easy heartAnd a wh im sical face

,

And a t ied-up lunch of sandwich and tart ,

And Spread a cloth in the open chase .

And then I should pretend to snoreAnd I ’d hear a snort and I ’d hear a roar

,

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184 J ohn Hall Wh e e lock

One breathless mom ent now the city ’s moaningFades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim ;

There i s no sound aroun d the whole world ’s rim ,

Save in the d istance a smal l band i s d roningSome desolate old hymn .

Van Wyck , how often have we been togetherWhen th is same mom ent made all myster ies clear ;T he infinite stars that brood above us here

,

And the gray city in the soft June weather,So tawdry and so dear !

LOVE AND LIBERATION

L ift your arm s to the starsAnd give an immortal shout ;Not all the ve i ls of darknessCan put your beauty out !

You are arm ed with love,with love

Nor all the powers of FateCan touch you with a spear,Nor all the hands of hate .

What of good and ev i l ,Hel l and Heaven aboveTramp le them with love !R ide over them with love !

J oy c e Kilm er

(A lfred ) Joyce Ki lmer was born at New B runswick , NewJersey

,D ecember 6 , 1 886 . H e was graduated from Rutgers

Co l lege in 1 904 and rece ived his A .B . from Co lumbia in 1 906 .

J oy c e Kilm er 185

In 1 9 1 7 Ki lmer joined th e Offi cers’Reserve Training Corps,

but he soon resigned from th is. In less th an three weeks afterAmerica entered the wor l d war, ‘ be en l isted as a private in

the Seventh Regiment, National Guard,N ew York .

On Ju ly 2 8, 1 9 1 8, th e five- day batt l e for th e mastery of the

he ights beyond th e r iver Ourcq was begun. Two days later,Sergeant Kilmer was ki l led in action.

Death came before th e poet h ad deve loped or even m a

tured h is gifts. His first vo lume, Summer of Love is

who l ly im itative ; it is fu l l of reflections of a dozen oth ersources

,

“a broken bund le of m irrors.

” Trees and Other Poems( 1 9 1 4 ) contains the tit le-

poem by wh ich Kilm er is best knownand, though var ious influences are h ere , a refre sh ing candorl igh ts up the l ines. M ain Street and Other Poems ( 1 9 1 7 ) isless der ivative ; th e simp l ic ity is less se lf-conscious, the ecstasymore spontaneous.

TREES

I th ink that I Shal l never seeA poem lovely as a tree .

A tree whose hungry mouth is p restAgainst the sweet earth ’

s flowing breast ;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And l ifts her leafy arm s to p ray ;

A tree that may in summer wearA nest of rob ins in her hai r ;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain ;Who int imately l ives with rain .

Poem s are made by fools l ike m e,

But only God can make a t ree .

1From Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer . Copy

right, 1 9 14 , by George H . Doran Company, Publ ishers.

186 J oy c e Kilm er

MARTIN 1

When I am t ired of earnest men,

Intense and keen and sharp and clever,Pursu ing fam e with brush or pen

Or count ing metal d iscs forever,

xT hen from the halls of ShadowlandBeyond the trackless purple sea

Old Mart in ’s ghost com es back to standBeside my desk and talk to m e.

S t i l l on his del icate pale faceA quizzical th in sm ile is Showing,His checks are wrinkled l ike fine lace

,

His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.He wears a br ill iant-hued c ravat

,

A su it to m atch his soft gray hair,A rakish st ick, a knowing hat ,A manner bl ithe and debonair.

How good,that he who always knew

That be ing lovely was a duty,

Should have gold halls to wander throughAnd shou ld h im self inhabit beauty.

How l ike his old unselfish wayT o leave those halls of sp lend id m irthAnd com fort those condemned to stayUpon the bleak and sombre earth .

Some peop le ask : What cruel chanceMade Mart in ’s l ife so sad a story !Mart in !

’

Why , he exhaled romanceAnd wore an overcoat of glory .

1From Trees and Other Poems by Joyce K i lmer .

right, 1 9 1 4, by George H . Doran Company, Pub l ishers.

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188 Orrick J ohns

And the other l iv ing th ings that She spoke for to usHave noth ing more to tel l her Since it happened thus .

She never is around for anyone to touch,

But of ecstasy and longing she too knew much

And always when anyone has t ime to call his own ,

She will come and be bes ide him as quiet as a stone.

A lan Se eg er

A lan Seeger was born in N ew York,June 2 2 , 1 888. When

he was sti l l a baby, h is parents moved to Staten I s land , wh ereh e remained through boyhood . Later

,th ere were several other

m igrations, inc lud ing a sojourn in M exico,wh ere Seeger spent

the most impressionab le years of h is youth . In 1 906 , he enteredHarvard .

1 9 14 came, and th e European war had not entered its th irdweek wh en, along with some forty of h is fe l low-countrymen,

Seeger en l isted in th e Fore ign Legion of France . He was inaction almost cont inual ly, serv ing on var ious fronts. On th e

fourth of Ju ly, 1 9 1 6 , ord ered to take th e v i l lage of B e l loy-enSanterre, Seeger advanced in th e first rush with h is squad wh ichwas p ractical ly wiped out by h i dd en m ach ine-

gun fi re . Seegerfe l l , mortal ly wounded , and d ied th e next morn ing.

Seeger’s l iterary prom ise was far greater than his poeticaccomp l ishment . W ith th e except ion of h is one famous poem ,

th ere is l itt le of importance, though much of charm ,in h is

co l lected Poems (pub l ished , with an Introduction by Wi l l iamA rch er, in

I HAVE A RENDEZ VOUS WITH DEATH

I have a rendezvous with DeathAt som e disputed barr icade ,When Sp r ing com es back with rustl ing Shade

1From Poems by A lan Seeger. Copyr ight, 1 9 1 6 , by Char les

Scr ibner’s Sons. By p erm ission of th e pub l ish ers.

A lan Se eger 189

And apple-blossom s fill the air

I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Sp ring brings back blue days and fai r .I t may be he shall take my handAnd lead m e into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my b reathI t m ay b e I Shall pass him st ill .I have a rendezvous with DeathOn som e scar red Slope of battered h ill

,

When Sp ring com es round again th is yearAnd the fi rst m eadow-flowers appear .

God knows ’

twere better to be deepP illowed in Silk and scented down ,

Where love throbs out in bl issfu l Sleep ,

Pulse n igh to pulse, and breath to b reath ,Where hushed awaken ings are dearBut I

’

ve a rendezvou s with DeathA t m idn ight In som e flam ing town

,

When Sp ring tr ips north again th is year,And I to my p ledged wo rd am true ,I Shal l not fai l that rendezvous.

Margare t Widdem er

M argaret Widdemer was born at Doyl estown,Pennsylvania,

and began writing in h er ch i ldhood . A fter graduating fromDrexe l Institute L ibrary Schoo l in 1 909, She contr ibuted to various magazines.

M iss Widdemer’s poetic work h as two d istinct phases. I n

the one mood , sh e is th e protesting poet, the champ ion of th e

down-trodden, th e lyricist on fi re with angry passion. In th e

other,

sh e is th e writer of we l l -made, po l ite and popu lar

sentim ental verse . Her finest poem s are in Factories with OtherLyrics although several of her best songs are in The

1 90 Margare t Widdem er

Old Road to Paradise wh ich d iv id ed , with Sandburg’s

Cornhuskers, th e Co lumbia Poetry Pr ize in 1 9 1 8. A newvo lume,

Cross Currents, appeared in 1 92 1 .

M iss Widdem er is al so the author of two books of shortstor ies, four nove l s and several books for gir ls.

FACTORIES

I have shut my l ittle s ister in from l ife and l ight

(For a rose , for a r ibbon , for a wreath across my hair) ,I have made her restless feet st i l l unt i l the night ,Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring

air ;

I who ranged the m eadowlands , free from sun to sun ,Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings

fly,

I have bound my sister t i l l her playing t ime was doneOh , my l ittle Sister, was it I ! Was it I !

I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood(For a robe, for a feather, for a tr inket

’s restless spark ) ,Shut from love t il l dusk Shal l fall

,how shall She know

good,

How shall she go scatheless through the sun-lit dark !I who cou ld be innocent , I who cou ld be gay,I who could have love and m i rth before the l ight went

by.

I have put my Sister in her mat ing- t ime awayS ister , my young sister, was it I ! Was it I !

I have robbed my sister of the l ips against her breast ,(For a coin , for the weav ing of my ch ild ren

’s laceand lawn ) ,

Feet that pace beside the loom,hands that cannot rest

How can She know motherhood,whose strength is

gone !

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1 92 A line Kilm er

poetic warmth . Here is a domesticated flame,a quiet but none

the l ess co lorfu l h earth -fi re . By its l igh t, h er wor l d is revealedwith a quaint ly ind iv idual ized grace . Her poems about h erch i l dren are particu lar ly we l l character ized . Vigils ( 1 92 1 ) isa more amb it ious and even more or iginal offering. T he n imb led exter ity of

“Un l earning,” th e banter of “Perversity” and th e

c lean fervor of “Th ings” d isp lay M rs. K i lmer as a d istinctpoetic personal ity.

E ! PERIENCE

Deborah danced , when she was two,As buttercups and daffod ils do ;Sp i r ited , frai l , naively bold ,Her hair a ruflled crest of gold .

And whenever she spoke her voice went SingingLike water up from a fountain sp ringing .

But now her step IS qu iet and slow ;She walks the way p r imroses go ;Her hair i s yellow instead of gilt

,

Her voice i s losing its lovely l ilt ;And in place of her wild , del ightful waysA quaint precision rules her days

For Deborah now is three, and, oh ,

She knows so much that she did not know.

THINGS

Somet imes when I am at tea with you ,

I catch my breathA t a thought that is old as the world is oldAnd more bitter than death .

Aline Kilm er 193

I t is that the spoon that you just laid downAnd the cup that you hold

M ay be here sh in ing and insolentWhen you are st ill and cold .

You r careless note that I laid awayM ay leap to my eyes l ike flam e

,

When the world has almost forgotten your voiceOr the sound of you r name.

T he golden Virgin da Vinc i d rewM ay sm ile on over my head ,And daffodils nod in the Silve r vaseWhen you are dead .

So let moth and dust corrup t and th ievesB reak through and I Shall be glad ,Because of the hatred I hear to th ingsInstead of the love I had.

For l ife seem s only a shuddering breath ,A smothered , desperate cry ;

And th ings have a terr ible permanenceWhen people die .

E linor Wy lie

E l inor Wyl ie was born in Somervi l l e, New Jersey, but sh e

is, She protests, comp lete ly a Pennsylvanian by parentage . She

wrote from her infancy unti l h er m aturity and th en,for th e pro

verb ial seven years,d id not wr ite a word .

N ets to Catch the Wind ( 1 92 1 ) is one of the most br i l l iantfirst vo lumes recent ly issued in America. M rs . Wyl ie ’

s bri lliance

,it must b e added , is one wh ich always sparkles but se l dom

burns. T oo often She ach ieves a frigid ecstasy ; emotion is

never absent from h er l ines but frequent ly it reflects a passionfrozen at its source . For the most part , Sh e exh ibits a dramatic

1 94

keenne ss,a remarkab l e prec ision of word and gesture .

E linor Wy l ie

A poem

l ike “T h e Eagle and the M o le” is notab le not on ly for its

incisive symbo l ism but for its fi rm out l ines and bright c larityof speech .

THE EAGLE AND THE MOLE

Avoid the reek ing herd,

Shun the polluted flock,Live l ike that stoi c b ird ,The eagle of the rock.

T he huddled warm th of crowdsBegets and fosters hate ;He keeps, above the clouds,His cl iff inv iolate .

When flocks are folded warm ,

And herds to shelter run ,

He sai ls above the storm,

He stares into the sun .

I f in the eagle ’s trackYour sinews cannot leap ,Avoid the lathered pack,Turn from the steam ing sheep .

I f you would keep your soulFrom spotted sight or sound

,

L ive l ike the velvet mole ;Go burrow underground .

And there hold intercourseWith roots of t rees and stones,W ith rivers at the ir source

,

And d isembodied bones.

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1 96 Conrad A ik en

1 9 1 2 , trave l led extensive ly for th ree years,and S ince th en, h e

has d evoted all h is time to l iterature , l iv ing at South Yai'mouth ,

M assachusetts.

T he most outstand ing feature of A iken’s creative work is its

adaptations of oth er mode l s transmuted by A iken’

s own music.

H is first vo lume , Earth Triumphant and Other Tales in Verse

is th e Keats trad ition crossed and paraph rased byM asefi eld. Turns and M ovies ( 1 9 1 6 ) is a comp lete change ;

in more than half of th is book,A iken begins to speak with h is

true vo ice. Here h e is th e natural music ian, p laying with new

rhythm s,haunting cadences, muted ph i losophy.

Nocturne of R emembered Spring The Charnel Rose

( 1 9 1 8) and The H ouse of Dust ( 1 92 0 ) are packed with a t iredbut often beautifu l music. Primar i ly

,a lyr ic poet, A i ken

frequent ly condenses an emotion in a few l ines ; som e of h is

best moments are th ese“lap ses” into tune . T h e music of th e

M orn ing Song from “Senlin”

( in The Charnel Rose ) is r ichwith subt leties of rhythm . B ut it is much more than a lyr icalmovem ent. B eneath th e flow and flexib i l ity of th ese l ines, thereis a de l igh tfu l wh im sical ity

,an extraord inary summon ing of

the immensities that loom beh ind th e casual moments of everyday .

Punch, the Immortal Liar in many ways A iken’s most

appeal ing work, contains th is poet’s sharpest characterizations as

we l l as h is most beautifu l symphon ic effects.

MIRACLES

Twil ight i s spacious, near th ings in it seem far,

And distant th ings seem near.

Now in the green west hangs a yellow star.

And now across old waters you may hearT he profound gloom of bell s among st ill trees,Like a roll ing of huge boulders beneath seas.

S ilent as thought In evening contemp lat ionWeaves the bat under the gathering stars .S ilent as dew, we seek new incarnat ion ,Meditate neW

'

avatars .

Conrad A ik en ‘

1 97

In a clear dusk like th isMary cl imbed up the h il l to seek her son

,

T o lower him down from the c ross , and kissThe mauve wounds, every one.

M en with wingsIn the dusk walked softly after her.

She did not see them,but may have felt

T he winnowed air around her st i r ;She did not see them ,

but may have knownWhy her son

’s body was l ight as a l ittle stone.

She may have guessed that other hands were thereMov ing the watchful air.

Now, unless persuaded by search ing musicWh ich suddenly opens the portals of the m ind ,We guess no angels,And are contented to be bl ind .

Let us blow Silver horns in the twi l ight ,And l ift ourhearts to the yellow star in the green ,T o find perhaps, if, wh i le the -dew is r ising,Clear th ings may not be seen .

PORTRAIT OF A GIRL

Th is is the shape of the leaf, and th is of the flower ,And th is the pale bole of the t reeWh ich watches its bough in a pool of unwavering waterIn a land we never shall see.

T he th rush on the bough is silent , the dew falls softly,In the even ing is hardly a sound .

And the three beaut iful p ilgr ims who com e here togetherTouch l ightly the dust of the ground .

1 98 Conrad A ik en

Touch it with feet that trouble the dust but as wings do,

Come shyly together, are st ill ,Like dancers

,who wait, in a pause of the music, for music

The exquis ite s ilence to fill

Th is i s the thought of the fi rst,and th is of the second ,

And th i s the grave thought of the th i rd“Linger we thus for a moment

, palely expectant,And Silénce will end, and the bird“S ing the pure phrase, Sweet phrase, clear phrase in the

twil ightT o fil l the blue bell of the world ;And we , who on music so leafl ike have drifted together,Leafl ike apart shall be wh irled“Into what but the beauty of s i lence , s ilence forever !

Th is i s the Shape of the tree,And the flower and the leaf, and the three pale beaut iful

p ilgr im sTh i s is what you are to m e.

MORNING SONG FROM SENLIN

I t i s morn ing, Senlin says, and in the morn ingWhen the l ight d rips through the shutters l ike the

I arise,I face the sunr ise

,1

And do the th ings my fathers learned to do.

Stars in the pu rp le dusk above the rooftopsPale In a saffron m ist and seem to die ,

And I myself on a swiftly t i lt ing planetStand before a glass and tie my tie .

Vine- leaves tap my window,

Dew- drops Sing to the garden stones,

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2 00 Conrad A ik en

T he earth revolves with me, yet makes no mot ion ,

T he stars pale S i lently in a coral sky .

In a wh i stl ing void I stand before my m i rror ,Unconcerned , and tie my tie.

There are horses ne igh ing on far-off h il lsToss ing the ir long wh ite manes,And mountains flash in the rose-wh ite dusk ,Thei r shoulders black with rains .I t i s morning

,I stand by the m i r ror

And surpri se my soul once more ;T he blue air rushes above my ce i l ing,There are suns beneath my floor.

I t is morning,Senlin says , I ascend from darkness

And depart on the winds of space for I know not where ;My watch i s wound , a key i s in my pocket ,And the sky is darkened as I descend the stai r .There are Shadows across the windows , clouds -in heaven ,And a god among the stars ; and I will goTh ink ing of him as I m ight th ink of daybreakAnd humm ing a tune I know.

Vine- leaves tap at the window,

Dew-d rop s Sing to the garden stones ,T he rob in ch irps in the ch inaberry treeRepeat ing th ree clear tones.

Maxwe ll B odenh e im

M axwe l l Bod enh e im was born at Natch ez , M ississippi, M ay

2 6 , 1 892 . H is educat ion , with the exception of grammar schoo ltraining, was ach ieved under th e gui dance of th e U . 8. A rmy, inwh ich B odenh e im served a fu l l en l istm ent of th ree y ears, b eginn ing in 1 9 10 . In 1 9 1 8, h is first vo lume appeared and even

Maxwe ll B odenh e im 2 0 1

those who were puzz led or repe l led by Bodenh e im’

s comp lexid iom were forced to recognize its intense ind iv idual ity.M inna and M yself ( 1 9 1 8) and Advice ( 1 92 0 ) reveal , first

of all, th is poet’

s extreme sensitiv ity to words. Word s, under

h is h and s, h ave unexpected growth s ; p lac id nouns and soberadj ectives bear fantastic fru it. Sometimes he packs h is meta

phors so c lose that th ey become inextricab ly m ixed . Som etimes

h e Sp ins h is fantasies so th in that the cord of coh erence snaps

and the poem frays into unpatterned rave l l ings. But,at h is

best,in th e realm of th e wh imsical -grotesque, B odenhe im walks

with a l igh t and n imb l e footstep .

POET TO H IS LOVE

An old si lver church in a forestI S my love for you .

The trees around itAre words that I have stolen from your heart .An old silver bell , the last sm ile you gave,Hangs at the top of my chu rch .

I t rings only when you com e through the forestAnd stand beside it .

And then,it has no need for r inging

,

For your voice takes its p lace .

OLD AGE

In me i s a l ittle painted squareBordered by old shops with gaudy awnings .And before the shops sit smoking, open-bloused old men,

Drinking sunl ight .

The old men are my thoughts ;And I com e to them each even ing, in a creak ing cart,And qu ietly unload suppl ies.

We fill sl im p ipes and chat;

2 0 2 Maxwe ll Bodenh e im

And inhale scents from pale flowers in the center of thesquare .

S t rong m en,t inkling wom en , and squeal ing ch ildren

S t rol l past us, or into the shops .They greet the shopkeepers and touch the i r hats or fore

heads to m e .

Som e evening I Shal l not return to my people .

E dna St. Vinc ent Millay

Edna St. V incent M i l lay, possib ly th e most gifted of the

younger lyr ic ists, was born February 2 2 , 1 892 , at Rockland ,M aine. Afte r a ch i l dhood spent almost ent ire ly in NewEngland , she attend ed Vassar Co l lege, from wh ich she was

graduated in 1 9 1 7. Since that time Sh e has l ived in NewYorkCity and abroad .A lthough th e bu l k of her poetry is not large , th e qual ity of

it approach es and som et imes attains greatness. Her first longpoem,

“Renascence ,

” was wr itten wh en M iss M i l lay was scarce lyn ineteen ; it remains today one of th e most remarkable poem s

of th is generation ,B eginning l i ke a ch i l d ’

s aim less verse, itproceeds, with a calm luc id ity, to an amaz ing c l imax . I t is as

if a ch i l d h ad,in th e m id st of its ingenuousness, uttered some

terrific truth . T h e cumu lative power of th is poem is surpassedon ly by its beauty .Renascence, M iss M illay

’

s first vo lume, was pub l ished in

1 9 1 7 . I t is fu l l of th e sam e passion as its t it le poem ; h ere I s

a hunger for beauty so intense that no d e l igh t is great enough

to give th e sou l p eace . Such poem s as“God ’

s Wor l d” and th e

unnamed sonnets v ibrate with th is rapture .

Figs from Thistles ( 1 92 0 ) is a far more soph isticated book let.Sharp and cynical ly br i l l iant, M iss M illay’

s craftsmansh ip no

l ess than h er intu ition saves th ese poem s from m ere c leverness.

Second April ( 1 92 1 ) is an intens ification of her lyr ical giftt inctured with an increasing sadne ss. H er po ignant poeticp lay, A ria da Capo, first performed by th e Prov incetown P layersin New York, was pub l ish ed in The M onthly Chapbook (England ) ; th e issue of Ju ly

,1 92 0 , be ing d evoted to it.

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Edna St. Vinc ent Millay

And I could touch them with my hand ,Almost

,I thought , from where I stand .

And all at once th ings seemed so smallMy breath cam e short

,and scarce at all.

But , su re, the sky is b ig, I said ;M i les and m iles above my head ;So here upon my back I

’ll lieAnd look my fil l into the sky .

And so I looked , and, after all,

T he sky was not so very tall .T he Sky, I said , must somewhere stop ,And— sure enough —I see the top !

The Sky, I thought , - i s not so grand ;I ’

most could touch it with my hand !And

,reach ing up my hand to try,

I scream ed to feel it touch the sky .

I screamed , and—lo l— Infinity

Cam e down and settled over me ;

And, press ing of the Undefined

T he definit ion on my m ind ,Held up before my eyes a glassThrough wh ich my Shrinking sight did passUnt i l it seem ed I must beholdImm ensity made manifol d ;Wh ispered to m e a word whose soundDeafened the air for worlds around ,And brought unmuffled to my earsT he goss ip ing of friendly spheres,T he creak ing of the tented sky ,T he t ick ing of Eternity .

I saw and heard , and knew at lastThe How andWhy of all th ings, past ,

”

E dna St. V incent Millay 2 05

And p resent , and forevermore .

The un iverse , cleft to the core,Lay open to my p robing sense

That,Sick

’

ning, I would fain p luck thenceBut could not ,—nay ! But needs must suckA t the great wound , and could not p luckMy l ips away t ill I had drawnAll venom out .—Ah, fearful pawn !For my omn isc ience I paid tollIn infin ite remorse of soul .All Sin was of my Sinn ing, allAton ing m ine , and m ine the gallOf all regret . Mine was the weightOf every b rooded wrong, the hateThat stood beh ind each envious th rust,Mine every greed

,m ine every lust .

And all the wh ile for every gr ief,

Each suffer ing, I craved rel iefWith indiv idual desire ,Craved all in vain ! And felt fierce fi re

About a thousand peop le crawl ;Perished with each ,— then mou rned for all !A man was starving in Cap ri ;He moved his eyes and looked at m e ;

I felt his gaze,I heard his moan

,

And knew his hunger as my own .

I saw at sea a great fog-bankBetween two sh ip s that struck and sank ;A thousand scream s the heavens smote ;

And every scream tore through my throat ;No hurt I d id not feel , no deathThat was not m ine ; m ine each last breathThat , c ry ing, m et an answering cry

From the compassion that was I .

2 06 E dna St. Vinc ent M illay

All suffering m ine , and m ine its rod ;

Mine, p ity like the p ity of God.

Ah,awful we ight ! Infin ity

P ressed down upon the finite M e !

My anguished Sp irit , l ike a b i rd ,Beat ingagainst my l ip s I heard ;Yet lay the we ight so close aboutThere was no room for it without .

And so beneath the we ight lay IAnd suffered death , but could not die.

Deep in the earth I rested now;Cool is its hand upon the b rowAnd soft its breast beneath the headOf one who i s so gladly dead .

And all at once,and over all,

T he p itying rain began to fall .I lay and heard each patter ing hoofUpon my lowly , thatchéd roof,

And seemed to love the sound far more

Than eve r I had done before.

For rain it hath a fr iendly soundT o one who’s six feet unde rground ;And scarce the friendly voice or faceA grave i s such a quiet p lace .

T he rain , I said , i s k ind to come

And speak to me in my new home.

I would I were al ive againT o kiss the fingers of the rain ,T o d rink into my eyes the sh ineO f every slant ing Si lver l ine

,

T o catch the freshened , fragrant b reezeFrom drenched and dripp ing apple- trees.

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2 08 E dna St. Vinc ent Millay

I only know there came to m e

A fragrance such as never cl ingsT o aught save happy l iv ing th ings ;A sound as of som e joyous elfS inging sweet songs to p lease h im self,And

,through and over everyth ing,

A sense of glad awakening .

T he grass, a tip- toe at my ear

,

Wh ispering to m e I could hear ;I felt the rain ’s cool huger- t ipsBrushed tenderly across my l ips,Laid gently on my sealéd s ight ,And all at once the h eavy nightFell from my eyes and I could see,

A drenched and dr ipp ing apple- tree,

'

A last long l ine of Si lver rain ,A sky grown clear and blue again .

And as I looked a quickening gustOf wind blew up to me and thrustInto my face a m iracleOf orchard -breath , and with the smell

,

I know not how such th ings can be !I breathed my soul back into m e .

Ah ! Up then from the ground sprang IAnd hai led the earth with such a cry

As is not heard save from a man

Who . has been dead and l ives again .

About the t rees my arm s I wound ;Like one gone mad I hugged the ground ;I raised my quiver ing arm s on h igh ;I laughed and laughed into the sky

,

Till at my th roat a strangl ing sobCaught fiercely , and a great heart- throb

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sent instant tears into my eyes ;O God, I cr ied , no dark disgu iseCan e

’

er hereafter h ide from m e

T hy radiant ident ity !Thou canst not move across the grassBut my qu ick eyes wi ll see Thee pass ,Nor Speak, however silently,But my hushed voice will answer Thee.

I know the path that tells T hy wayThrough the cool eve of every day ;God

,I can push the grass apart

‘And lay my finger on T hy heart !

The world stands out on e ither SideNo wider than the heart is wide ;Above the world is stretched the sky

,

No h igher than the soul is h igh .

T he heart can push the sea and landFarther away on e ither hand ;The soul can spl it the Sky in two ,

And let the face of God sh ine th rough .

But East andWest wil l p inch the heartThat cannot keep them pushed apart ;And he whose soul is flat— the Sky

Wi ll cave in on him by and by .

THE PEAR TREE

In th is squal id,dirty dooryard

,

Where the ch ickens sc ratch and run,

Wh ite , incredible , the pear treeS tands apart and takes the sun ,

2 09

2 10 E dna S t. Vinc ent M illay

Mindful of the eyes upon it ,Vain of its new hol iness ,L ike the waste-man ’s l ittle daughterIn her first communion dress .

Steph en Vinc ent B enét

Stephen V incent B enét, the younger broth er of Wi l l iam Rose

B enét,was born at B eth l eh em , Pennsylvan ia, in Ju ly, 1 898.

H e was educated in var ious parts _of the country, graduatingfrom Yale in 1 9 1 9 .

A t seventeen h e pub l i shed a smal l book containing six

dramatic portraits, Five M en and Pompey a remarkab leset of mono logues wh ich , in sp ite of d istinct traces of B rowning,was l itt le short of astound ing, com ing from a schoo lboy. In

Benét’

s next vo lume, Young Adventure one h ears some

th ing more than the speech of an infant prod igy ; th e precoc iousfac i l ity has deve loped into an ind iv idual v igor.H eavens and Earth th e most representative collec

t ion, has a greater imaginative sweep . H is nove l , The B e

ginning of Wisdom , appeared in 1 92 1 . L ike h is broth er, the

younger B enét is at h is best in the decorat ive ly , grotesque ; hisfancy exu lts in running th e scales between the whimsical lyb izarre and the l ight ly d iabo l ic.

PORTRAIT OF A BOY

After the wh ipp ing, he crawled into bed ;Accept ing the harsh fact W ith no great weep ing.

How funny uncle ’s hat had looked str iped red !

He chuckled s ilently. T he moon came , sweep ingA black frayed rag of tattered cloud beforeIn scorn ing ; very pure and pale she seemed ,Flood ing his bed with rad iance . On the floorFat motes danced . He sobbed ; closed his - eyesdreamed .

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2 1 2 L e’

onie Adam s

Heart, heart , dost thou not b reak to knoTh i s angu ish thou wilt bear alone !We sang of it an age ago,

And traced it d im ly upon stone .

W ith all the drift ing race of men

Thou also art begot to mournThat she is crucified again ,T he lonely Beauty yet unborn .

And if thou dream est to have wonSom e touch of her in permanence,

’Tis the old cheat ing of the sun ,T he intr icate lovely p lay of sense.

Be bitter st i ll,rem ember how

Four petals , when a l ittle breathO f wind m ade st ir the pear- tree bough,Blew del icately down to death .

HOME -COMING

When I stepped homeward to my h i l lDusk went before with quiet tread ;

T he bare laced branches of the treesWere as a m ist about its head .

Upon its leaf- b rown breast, the rocksLike great gray Sheep lay s ilent—wise ;Between the b irch trees’ gleam ing arm s,T he faint stars ‘

trembled in the skies .

The wh ite brook m et m e half-way up

And laughed as one that knew m e well ,T o whose more clear than crystal voiceT he frost had joined a crystal spell .

Leonie Adam s 2 1 3

T he skies lay l ike pale-watered deep .

Dusk ran before m e to its strandAnd cloudily leaned forth to touch

The moon’s slow wonder with her hand .

Hilda Conk ling

H i lda Conk l ing, most gifted of recent infant prodigies, wasborn at Catski l l-on-Hudson, N ew York, October 8, 1 9 1 0 . Th e

daughter of Grace Hazard Conkl ing ( see page sh e came

to Northampton , M assachusetts,with h er mother wh en Sh e was

three years old and has l ived th ere ever since .

H i lda began to write poem s—or rath er,to talk th em—at th e

age of four. Since that time , sh e has created one hundred andfifty l itt le verses, many of th em astonish ing in exactness of

phrase and beauty of v ision .

Poems by a Little Girl pub l ish ed wh en H i l da was a

l itt le '

more than nine years old, is a d etai led proof of th isunaffected original ity ; “Water,” “

Hay-Cock,” and ‘

a dozen othersare start l ing in th e ir prec ision and a power of paint ing th e

fam i l iar in unsuspected colors. Sh e h ears a Ch ickadee talkingT he way smooth br ight p ebb le sDrop into water.

Th e rooster’s comb is “gay as a parad e h e has “

pear ltrinkets on h is feet

”and

Th e short feath ers smooth along h is backA re th e dark co lor of wet rocks

,

Or the ripp l ed green of Sh ip sWh en I look at th e ir S ides through water.

Everyth ing is extraordinari ly v iv id and fancifu l to the keensenses of th is ch i ld .

WATER

T he world turns softlyNot to sp ill its lakes and rivers .The water is held in its arm s

And the Sky is held in the water .

2 14 Hilda Conk ling

What i s water,That pours si lver,And can hold the Sky

!

HAY-COCK

Th is i s another kind of sweetnessShaped l ike a bee-h ive °

Th i s i s the h ive the bees have left,I t is from th i s clover-heapThey took away the honeyFor the other h ive !

I KEEP WONDERING

I saw a mountain ,And he was l ike Wotan look ing at h im self in the water.

I sawa cockatoo,

And he was l ike sunset clouds.Even leaves and l ittle stonesAre d ifferent to my eyes som et im es .I keep wondering through and th rough my heartWhere all the beaut iful th ings in the worldCom e from .

And wh ile I wonderThey go on be ing beaut iful .

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PREFACE

TH E END OF VI CTORIAN ISM

The age commonly called Victorian came to an end inEngland about 1885. I t was an age d ist ingu ished bymany t rue ideal ists and many false ideals . I t was, insp ite of its notable art ists

,on an ent i rely different level

from the epoch wh ich had p receded it . I ts poetry was,in the main , not un iversal but paroch ial ; its romant ic ismwas gilt and t insel ; its real ism was as cheap as its showyglass pendants, red p lush , parlor chromos and antimacas

sars . T he period was fu ll of a pessim ist ic resignat ion( the note popularized by Fitzgerald

’s Omar Khayyam )and a kind of negat ion wh ich , refus ing to see any glamou rin the actual world , turned to the Middle Ages , to KingArthur

,to the legend of Troy—to the suave surround

ings of a dream -world instead of the hard contours of

actual exper ience .

The poets of a generat ion before th is t ime were fi redwith such ideas as freedom , a deep and burn ing awe of

nature,an insat iable hunger for truth in all its form s

and man ifestat ions . T he characterist ic but by no m eansthe best poets of the Victorian Era, says M ax P lowman,

“wrote under the dom inance of churchl iness , of‘

Sweetnessand l ight ,

’

and a thousand lesser theor ies that have not

Truth but com fort for thei r end.

T he revolt against th is and the tawdriness of the per iodhad al ready begun ; the best of Victor ian ism can be foundnot in m en who were typ ically Victorian ,

but in p ioneerslike Browning and writers l ike Swinburne, Rossetti ,

2 1 7

2 18 Prefac e

William Morr i s , who were comp letely out of sympathywi th the i r t im e .

I t was Oscar Wilde who led the men of the nowfamous ’ninet ies toward an aesthet ic freedom ,

to champ iona beauty whose existence was its “

own excuse for be ing .

”

Wildefs was, in the most outspoken manner, the fi rst use

of ae sthet ic ism as a slogan ; the battle—cry of the group wasactually the now outworn but then revolut ionary Art

for Art ’s sake”! And , so s ick were peop le of the

shoddy ornam ents and drab ugl iness of the immediatepast , that the slogan won . At least , temporar ily .

TH E RISE AND DECLINE OF TH E fESTH ET IC PH ILOSOPHYThe Yellow B ook , the organ of a group of young

writers and art ists , appeared ( 1894 rep resent ing a

reasoned and intellectual react ion , mainly suggested and

influenced by the French . T he group of contributorswasa pecul iarly m ixed one with only one th ing in common .

And that was a consc ious effort to repudiate the sugaryairs and p r im romant ics of the Victor ian Era.

Almost the fi rst act of the“new”

m en was to rouseand out rage the ir imm ediate p redecessors . Th i s end-of

the- century des i re to Shock , wh ich was so strong and

natural an impulse, st i ll has a p lace of its own— espec iallyas an ant idote, a harsh correct ive . Mid-Victor ian pro

priety and self- sat isfact ion crumbled under the swift andenerget ic audac it ies of the sensat ional young authorsand art ists . T he old walls

—

fel l ; the publ ic , once so apa

thet ic to belles lettres, was more than attent ive to everyphase of l iterary experim entat ion . The last decade of

the nineteenth century was so tolerant of novelty in art

and ideas, that it wou ld seem ,says Holbrook

‘

Jackson inhis penetrat ive summary

, The E ighteen -N ineties, as

though the decl in ing century wished to make amends for

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2 2 0 P reface

lar and str ident , his noisy moments are redeemed not onlyby his del icate lyrics but by his pass ionate enthusiasm for

nob il ity in whatever cause it was joined .

TH E CELTIC REVIVAL AND J . M . SYNGE

In 1889 , William Butler Yeats publ ished his Wander

ings'

of Oisin ; in the sam e year Douglas Hyde, the

scholar and folk-lorist, brought out his B ook of Gaelic

Stories.

T he rev ival of Gael ic and the renascence of Irish l iterature may be said to date from the publ icat ion of those twobooks . T he fundamental idea of both m en and the ir followers was the same . I t was to create a l iterature wh ichwould express the nat ional consc iousness of I relandthrough a purely nat ional art . Th i s community of fel

lowship and aim s is to be found in the var ied but all iedwork ofWillam Butler Yeats ,

“A . E . (George W . Russell ) , Moi ra O ’

Neill,Lionel Johnson , Katharine Tynan ,

Padraic Colum and others. They began to reflect the

strange background of d reams, pol it ics , suffering and heroism that i s immortally I r ish . T he first fervor gone , a

short period of dullness set in . After reanimat ing the old

myths , surcharging the legendary heroes with a new significance, it seem ed for a wh i le that the movem ent wouldlose itself in a l iterary myst icism . But an increas ingconcern with the peasant, the m igratory laborer, the

tramp , fol lowed an interest that was som eth ing of a re

act ion against the influence of Yeats and his myst i c otherworldl iness . And

,in 1 904 , the Celt ic Rev ival reached its

height with John Mill ington Synge, who was not onlythe greatest dramat ist of the Iri sh Theatre , but ( to quotesuch contrary crit ics as George Moore and HaroldWill iam s )

“one of the greatest dramat ists who have

written in Engl ish .

”Synge

’

s poetry , b rusque and all too

P refac 2 2 1

small in quantity, was a m inor occupation with him and

yet the qual ity and power of it is unm istakable . I ts

content is never great but the raw v igor in it was to

serve as a bold banner— a sort of brilliant Jolly Roger— for the younger m en of the following period . I t is

not only th is dramat ist ’s brief verses and his intenselymusical p rose but his Sharp p refaces that have exerc isedso strong an influence .

Synge’

s poet ic power i s unquest ionably greatest in hissuperb plays . In The Well of the Saints, The P layboyof the Western World and R iders of the Sea there are

more poignance , beauty of form and r ichness of languagethan in any p iece of dramat ic wr it ing Since Elizabethantimes.But although Synge

’

s poetry was not his major con

cern ,numbering only twenty-fou r original p ieces and

eighteen translat ions, it had a surp rising effect upon hisfollowers . I t marked a point of departure , a react ionagainst both the too-

pol ished and over- rhetorical verse of

his immediate p redecessors and the dehuman ized mystic ismof many of his associates . In that m emorable p reface to

his P oems he wrote what was a slogan,a man ifesto and

at the sam e t ime a classic credo for all that we call the“new”

poetry .

“I have often thought , it begins,

that

at the side of poetic d ict ion , wh ich everyone condemns,

modern verse contains a great deal of poet ic material ,using ‘

poet ic’ in the same spec ial sense . T he poetry of

exaltation will be always the h ighest ; but when m en losethei r poetic feel ing for ord inary life and cannot wr itepoetry of ordinary th ings

,the i r exalted poetry is l ikely to

lose its strength of exaltat ion in the way that m en cease

to bu ild beaut iful churches when they have lost happ inessin bu ild ing Shops. Even if we grant that exaltedpoetry can be kept successfully by itself, the strong th ings

P refac e

of l ife are needed in poetry also, to Show that what i sexalted or tender is not made by feeble blood .

”

RUDYARD KIPLING

New tendencies are contagious . But they also d isclosethem selves simultaneously in places and peop le wherethere has been no point of contact . Wh i le Synge waspubl ishing his p roofs of the keen poetry in everyday l ife ,Kipl ing was i l lum inat ing, in a totally d ifferent manner,the wealth of poet ic m ater ial in th ings h itherto regardedas too commonp lace for poetry . Before l iterary Englandhad quite recovered from its su rfe it of Victor ian p r iggishness and pre-Raphael ite del icacy , Kip l ing cam e along withh igh Sp i r its and a great t ide of l ife , sweep ing all beforeh im . An obscure Anglo- Ind ian j ournal ist, the publ icat ionof his Barrack -room Ballads in 189 2 b rought him

‘

Suddennot ice . By 1895 he was internat ionally famous . Brushing over the pal l id attemp ts to rev ive a pall id past, herode t riumphantly on a wave of buoyant and somet imesbrutal joy in the present . Kip l ing glor ied in the materialworld ; he did more—he glor ified it . He p ierced the

coarse exteriors of seem ingly p rosai c th ings—th ings l ikemach inery

,br idge- bu i ld ing

,cockney sold iers, slang, steam ,

the dirty by-

p roducts of science (witness“M ’

AndrewsHym n”

and“T he Bel l Buoy”

)—and uncovered the irhidden glamour.

“Romance is gone,”Sighed most of his

contemporaries ,

and all unseen

Romance brought up th e n ine - fi fteen .

That sentence ( from his poem T he King ) containsthe key to the manner in wh ich the author of The Five

Nations helped to rejuvenate Engl ish verse.

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2 2 4 Prefac e

t ion that the strong th ings of l ife are needed in poetryalso and it may almost be said that before versecan be human again it must be b rutal .M asefi eld b rought back to poetry that m ixture of

beauty and b rutal ity wh ich i s its most human and en

du r ing qual ity. He b rought back that r ich and almostvulgar v iv idness wh ich i s the very l ife-blood of Chaucer,of Shakespeare , of Burns

,of Villon , of He ine—and of

all those who were not only great art ists but greathumanists . AS a purely descr ipt ive poet , he can take hisp lace with the masters of sea and landscape . As an imaginative real ist , he showed those who were stumbl ing fromone wild eccentr ic ity to another to thr ill them

,that they

them selves were wilder, stranger, far more th rill ing thananyth ing in the world—or out of it . Few th ings in con

temporary poetry are as powerful as the regenerat ion of

Saul Kane ( in The Everlasting M ercy ) or the story of

Dauber, the tale of a tragic sea-voyage and a dream ingyouth who wanted to be a painter. T he v igorous descript ion of rounding Cape Horn in the latter poem i s superblydone

,a masterp iece in itself. M asefield

’

s later volumesare quieter in tone , more measu red in technique ; therei s an almost rel igious ring to many of his Shakespeareansonnets . But the swinging surge i s there , a pass ionatestrength that leaps through all his work from Salt Water

Ballads ( 1 902 ) to Reynard the Fox

TH E WAR AND TH E GE'ORGIANSThere i s no Sharp stat ist ical l ine of demarcat ion be

tween M asefi eld and the younger m en . Although sev

eral of them owe much to him ,most of the younger poets

speak in accents of their own . W. W . Gibson had

al ready re inforced the“return to actual ity by turn ing

from his fi rst preoccupat ion with Sh in ing knights, fault

Preface 2 2 5

less queens, ladies in distress and all the paraphernal ia of

hackneyed m ediaaval romances,to write about ferrym en ,

berry-p ickers, stone-cutters,farmers , pr inters, c i rcus-m en ,

carpenters—dramat iz ing ( though som et im es theatricalizing ) the p r im it ive emot ions of uncultured and ordinarypeople in Livelihood, Daily B read and Fires. Th is intensity had been asking new quest ions . I t found itsanswers in the war ; rep ressed emot ional ism discovered a

new outlet.

The war caught up the youth of the country in a greatgust of national fervor . But after the first flush of falseromant ic ism passed , the consequent disillusion m ade itselfheard . The fierce war-poem s of S iegfr ied Sassoon , Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves are the very Opposite of

the j ingo jou rnal ist ic ve rse that attemp ted to paint the

world’

s greatest tragedy in b right and cheerful colors .But th is intensity was not confined to the martial or

the ant i-m il itarist poets . I t man ifests itself even in the

less real ist ic poem s Of the romant ic Rupert B rooke (whoowes less to his immediate p redecessors than he does tothe passionately intellectual John Donne ) , in the darkintrospect ions of D . H . Lawrence and the b rooding nob ility of Charlotte M ew. And , though the younger of thesepoets (John Freeman , W . J . Turner and others ) are

echoing tradit ional Engl ish landscape poetry with greatpersistence and l ittle variety, magic has not disappearedfrom the world of the contemporary Englishman .

Magic l ives in the moon-soaked wonder and nurseryrhyme wh im sical ity of Walter de la Mare

,in the l imp id

and unpertu rbed lovel iness of Ralph Hodgson , in the naif

and del icate lyr ics of W . H . Davies, in the soil-flavoredfantasies of James S tephens. Any one of these fou r Singers would be an exqu isite ornament to his decade .

All of the poets ment ioned in th is sect ion (with the

2 2 6 Prefac e

exception of Charlotte M ew and Wi lfred Owen , whoseverse was posthumously publ ished ) have form ed them

selves ln a loose group cal led“T he Georgians,

”and an

anthology of their best work has appeared every two yearssince 1 9 1 3 . M asefi eld, Lascelles Abercromb ie and JohnDrinkwater are also l isted among the Georgian poets .When the ir fi rst collect ion appeared in March

,1 9 1 3 ,

Henry Newbolt,cr it ic as wel l as poet , wrote : These

younger poets have no temp tat ion to be false. They are

not for making som eth ing ‘

p retty,’ som eth ing up to the

standard of p rofess ional patterns . They write as

grown m en walk, each with his own unconsciou s str ideand gesture. In short

, they exp ress them selves andseem to steer without an effort between the dangers of

innovat ion and rem in iscence .

”

T he secret of th is success is not an exclusive discoveryof the modern poets . I t i s the ir inheritance , derived fromthose p redecessors who,

“from Wordsworth and Cole

ridge onward , have worked for the assim i lation of verseto the manner and accent of natu ral Speech .

” In itsadaptab il ity no less than in its v igor, modern Engl ishpoetry is true to its period—and its past .

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2 2 8 Austin Dobson

But yet, now l iv ing, fain were IThat som e one then Should testify

,

Saying—“He held his pen in t rust

T o Art,not serv ing Sham e or lust .

W i l l none -Then let my memory dieIn after days !

BEFORE SEDAN

The dead hand clasped a letter.

Spec ial Correspondence.

Here in th is leafy p laceQuiet he l ies,Cold with his s ightless faceTurned to the sk ies ;

’Tis but another dead ;All you can say i s said .

Carry his body hence ,Kings must have slaves ;K ings cl im b to em inenceOver men

’s graves :So th is man ’

s eye is dim ;

Throw the earth over him .

What was the wh ite you touched ,The re

,at his Side !

Paper his hand had clutchedTight ere he d ied ;Message or wish , may be ;Smooth the folds out and see.

Austin Dobson 2 2 9

Hardly the worst of usHere could have sm iled !Only the tremu lousWords of a ch ild ;Prattle, that has for stopsJust a few ruddy drop s .

Look . She is sad to m i ss,Morn ing and night

,

His—her dead father ’s—kiss ;Tries to be bright,Good to m amma

,and sweet .

That is all.“Marguer ite.

”

Ah,if beside the deadSlumbered the pain !

Ah , if the hearts that bledSlept with the slain !

I f the grief died — but no.

Death wil l not have it so.

Wilfred S cawen Blunt

Wi lfred Scawen B lunt was born at Crabbet Park,Crawl ey,

Sussex,in 1 840 . He was educated at St. M ary’

s Co l lege, Oscott,and was a m ember of th e d ip lomatic service from 1 850 to 1 870 .

He spent many years in th e East, h is observations m aking h imstrongly sympathetic to l esser national ities and all th e downtrodden. He favored th e cause of th e Egyptians ; h is voice wasalways l ifted for justice to I re land .

A s a poet, he is best known by h is The Love Sonnets ofProteus ( 1 881 ) and The New Pilgrimage B oth

vo lumes reveal a deep , ph i losoph ical nature expressing itse lfin term s of h igh ser iousne ss.

H is remarkable My D iaries appeared wh en B lunt was an

octogenarian, in 1 92 1 .

2 30 Wilfred Scawen Blunt

LAUGHTER AND DEATH

There i s no laughter in the natu ral worldOf beast or fi sh or b ird , though no sad doubtOf thei r futu rity to them unfu rledHas dared tocheck the m i rth - compell ing shout .T he l ion roars his solemn thunder out

To the sleep ing woods . T he eagle scream s her cry .

Even the lark must strain a ser ious throatT o hurl his blest defiance at the sky.

Fear,anger, jealousy, have found a voice.

Love ’s pain or rap ture the brute bosom s swell .Nature has symbols for her nobler joys,Her nobler sorrows . Who has dared foretellThat only man

, by som e sad mockery,Should learn to laugh who learns that he must die !

Th omas Hardy

T homas Hardy was born in 1 840 , and has for years beenfamous on both sid es of the A t lantic as a writer of intense and

sombre nove l s. H is Tess of the D’

Urbervilles and Jude the

Obscure are possib ly h is best known,al though h is Wessex Tales

and Life’

s L ittle I ronies are no less imposing.

I t was not unti l he was almost sixty, in 1 898 to b e precise,that Hardy abandoned prose and chal lenged attention as a

poet. The Dynasts, a drama of the Napo leonic Wars,is in

th ree parts, n'

in‘

eteen acts and one hundred and th irty scenes,

a massive and most amaz ing contribution to contemporary art .

H is Co l l ected Poem s were pub l ish ed by T he M acmil lanCompany in 1 9 1 9 and reveal anoth er and nob le phase of one

of the greatest l iving wr iters of Engl ish .

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23 2 Thomas Hardy

T he ancient pulse of germ and b irthWas shrunken hard and dry ,And every Sp i r it upon earth

Seemed fervourless as I .

A t once a’

voice burst forth amongT he bleak twigs ove rhead

I n a full-hearted evensongOf joy unlim ited ;An aged th rush , frai l , gaunt and small ,In blast-beruffled p lum e

,

Has chosen thus to fl ing his soulUpon the growing gloom .

So l ittle cause for caroll ingsO f such ecstat ic soundWas written on terrestr ial th ingsAfar or nigh around

,

That I could th ink the re t rembled throughHis happy good-night air

Some blessed hope , whe reof he knewAnd I was unaware .

AndrewLangAndrew Lang, cr itic and e ssayist, was born in 1 844 and

educated at B all io l Co l lege, Oxford . B e sides h is many we l lknown translat ions of Homer , Th eocr itus and th e Greek Anthology, h e h as pub l ish ed num erous biograph ical works.

A s a poet, h is ch ie f c laim rests on h is d e l icate l ight verse .

B allads and Lyrics of Old France Ballades in B lue

China and Rhymes 21 la M ode ( 1 884 ) d isc lose Lang

as a lesser Aust in Dobson.

Andrew Lang 2 33

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers,weary and b rown and bl ithe,

What is the word , m eth inks, ye know,

Endless over-word that the ScytheS ings to the blades of the grass below!Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,Som eth ing, st ill , they say as they pass ;What is the word that , over and over

,

S ings the Scythe to the flowers and grass !

H ush, ah, hush, the Scythes are say ing,H ush , and heed not, and fall asleep;

H ush they say to the grasses sway ing ;H ush they Sing to the clover deep !

H ush—’

tis the lullaby Tim e is singingH ush and heed not for all things pass ;

H ush, ah, hush ! and the Scythes are swingingOver the clover , over the grass !

R ob ert Bridges

Robert ( Seymour ) B ridges was born in 1 844 and educatedat Eton and Corpus Chri sti Col l ege , Oxford . A fter trave ling extensive ly, h e stud ied m ed ic ine in London and practicedunti l 1 882 . M ost of h is poem s, l ike h is occasional p lays, are

c lassical in tone as we l l as treatment . H e was appointedpoet laureate in 1 9 1 3 , fo l lowing A lfred A ust in . H is commandof th e secre ts of rhythm , esp ec ial ly exemp l ified in Shorter Poems

th rough a subtle versifi cation give his l ines a fi rm de l icacy and beauty of pattern .

2 34 R ob ert Bridges

WINTER N IGHTFALL

T he day begins to droop ,I ts course is done

But noth ing tells the p laceOf the sett ing sun.

T he hazy darkness deepens,And up the lane

You may hear, but cannot see,

The hom ing wain .

An engine pants and humsIn the farm hard by :

I ts lowering smoke is lostIn the lowering sky .

T he soaking branches drip,And all n ight through

T he d ropp ing will not ceaseIn the avenue .

A tall man there in the houseMust keep his chair :

He knows he will never againBreathe the spring air

His heart i s worn with work ;He i s giddy and s ick

I f he rise to go as far

AS the nearest rick

He th inks of his morn of l ife ,His hale

,strong years ;

And b raves as he may the nightOf darkness and tears .

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2 36 Arthur O’

Shaughnessy

We , in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth

,

Built Nineveh with our s igh ing,And Babel itself with our m i rth ;And o

’

erthrew them with p rophesyingT o the old of the newworld ’s worth ;

For each age i s a d ream that is dying,

Or one that is com ing to bi rth .

A lic e Meynell

A lice (Ch ristina Thomp son ) M eyne l l was born in 1 848,

was educated pr ivate ly by h er father and spent a great partof her ear ly l ife in I taly . Sh e marr ied W i lfred M eyne l l , th efriend and ed itor of Franc is Thomp son .

H er work, wh ich is h igh in conception and fi ne in execu

t ion,is d istingu ish ed by its pensive, re l igious note. H er first

four vo lum es appeared , in a condensed form ,in Collected

Poems Since th en,h er most representative work is A

Father of Women and Other Poems

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks— the lady of my del ightA Shepherdess of sheep .

Her flocks are thoughts . She keeps themShe guards them from the steep ;

She feeds them on the fragrant height,

And folds them in for sleep .

She roam s maternal h ills and br ightDark valleys safe and deep .

Into that tender b reast at n ight ,The chastest stars may peep .

She walks— the lady of my del ightA Shepherdess of sheep .

Alice Meyne ll 2 37

She holds her l ittle thoughts in sight ,Though gay they run and leap .

She is so c i rcum spect and right ;She has her sou l to keep .

She walks— the lady of my del ightA Shepherdess of sheep .

William E rnest Henley

Wi l l iam Ernest Hen ley was born in 1 849 and was educatedat the Grammar Schoo l of G loucester. Frdm ch i l dhood h e wasafflicted with a tubercu lous disease wh ich final ly necessitatedthe amputation of a foot. H is H ospital Verses, those viv idprecursors of current free verse , were a record of the t im e

wh en h e was at th e infi rmary at Ed inburgh ; th ey are Sharpwith the sights, sensations, even th e actual sm e l l s of th e sickroom . In sp ite (or, m ore probab ly, because ) of h is continuedpoor h ealth , Hen ley never ceased to worsh ip strength and

energy ; courage and a tr iumphant be l i ef in a harsh wor l dsh ine out of the ath l etic London Voluntaries ( 1 892 ) and th e

l igh test and most musical lyr ics in Hawthorn and Lavender

A fter a br i l l iant and var ied career ( see Preface ) , devotedmostly to journal ism ,

Hen l ey d ied in 1 90 3 .

INV ICTUS

Out of the n ight that covers m e ,

B lack as the P it from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul .

In the fell clutch of c i rcum stanceI have not winced nor cr ied aloud .

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed .

William E rnest Henley

Beyond th is p lace of wrath and tearsLoom s but the Horror of the shade,And yet the m enace of the yearsF inds

, and Shall find, me unafraid .

I t matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll ,I am the master of my fate

I am the captain of my soul .

THE BLACKB IRD

The n ight ingale has a lyre of gold,

T he lark ’s i s a clar ion call,

And the blackbird plays but a boxwoodBut I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of l ife,And we in the mad, spring weather,We two have l istened t i ll he sangOur hearts and l ips together.

MARGARITAE SORORI

A late lark twitters from the qu iet sk ies ;And from the west ,Where the sun , his day

’s work ended ,Lingers as in content

,

There falls on the old,grey city

An influence lum inous and serene ,A sh in ing peace.

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2 40 R ob ert Lou is S tevenson

ROMANCE

I will make you brooches and toys for your del ightOf b ird - song at morn ing and star- sh ine at night .I wil l m ake a palace fi t for you and me

,

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my k itchen , and you shall keep your room ,

Where wh ite flows the river and b right blows the broom ,

And~

you shal l wash you r l inen and keep your body wh iteIn rainfall at morn ing and dewfal l at night .

And th i s shall be for music when no one else i s near,T he fine song for singing , the rare song to hear !That only I rem ember, that only you adm i re ,Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

REQUIEM

Under the wide and starry skyD ig the grave and let me lie :

Glad d id I l ive and gladly die ,And I laid m e down with a will .

T h is he the verse you’grave for m e

H ere he lies where he long’

d to be;

H om e is the sailor, home from the sea,

A nd the hunter hom e from the hill.

F iona Mac leod

(William Sharp )

W i l l iam Sharp was born at Garth land P lace, Scot land , in1 855. H e wrote several volumes of biography

"

and critic ism ,

publ ish ed a book of p lays great ly influenced by M aeter l inck(Vistas ) and was ed itor of

“T he Canterbury Poets” series.

Fiona Mac leod 2 4 1

His fem inine alter ego, Fiona M ac leod , was a far d ifferentpersonal ity. Sharp actual ly be l ieved h im se lf possessed of an

other sp irit ; under the spe l l of th is oth er se lf, h e wrote sev

eral vo lum es of Ce ltic tale s, beautifu l tragic romances and

no l itt le unusual poetry. Of the prose stories wr itten by FionaM ac leod , th e most barbar ic and v ivid are those co l lected inThe Sin-Eater and Other Tales ; th e longer P harais, A Ro

mance of the I sles, is scarce ly l ess un ique .

In ten years,

1 882 - 1 89 1 , W i l l iam Sharp pub l ished fourvo lumes of rath er undistingu ish ed verse . In 1 896 From the

H ills of Dream app eared over th e signature of Fiona M ac leod ;The H our of B eauty, a rather more d istinctive co l lection, fol

lowed short ly. B oth poetry and prose were always the resu ltof two sharp ly d ifferentiated mood s constant ly fluctuating ;th e emotional mood was that of Fiona M ac l eod , th e intellec

tual and, it must b e adm itted,the more arresting mood was that

of W i l l iam Sharp .

He d ied in 1 905.

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE

In the secret Valley of S ilenceNo breath doth fall ;

No wind sti rs in the b ranches ;No bi rd doth callAS on a wh ite wallA breathless l izard is st i ll ,

So silence l ies on the val leyB reathlessly st ill .

In the dusk-grown heart of the valleyAn altar rises wh ite

No rapt p r iest bends in aweBefore its Silent l ight :But somet im es a fl ightO f breathless words of prayerWh ite-wing

’

d enclose the altar,Eddies of p rayer.

242 Oscar Wilde

Oscar W i l d e was born at Dubl in,I re land , in 1 856, and even

as an und ergraduate at Oxford h e was m arked for a bri l l iantcareer. When h e was a tr ifle over 2 1 years of age, h e wonthe Newd igate Pr ize with h is poem Ravenna.

G iv ing h imse lf almost entire ly to prose, h e speed i ly became

known as a wr iter of bri l l iant ep igrammat ic e ssays and evenmore bri l l iant paradoxical p lays such as A n I deal H usband

and. The I mportance of B eing Earnest. H is aphori sms and

fl ippancies were quoted everywh ere ; h is fame as a wit wason ly surpassed by h is notoriety as an aesthete . (See Preface . )Most of his poem s in prose ( such as The Happy Prince, The

B irthday of the I nfanta and The Fish erman and H is Soul)are more imaginative and r ich ly co lored than h is verse : butin one long poem , The Ballad of Reading Gaol he

sounded h is deepest, simp lest and most endur ing note . Pr isonwas, in many ways, a regenerat ion for W i l de . I t not on lyproduced The Ballad of R eading Gaol but made possib l e h ismost poignant p iece of wr iting, D e Profundis, on ly a smal lpart of wh ich has been p ub l ish ed .

W i l de’

s soc iety p lays, flash ing and cyn ical , were the forerunners of B ernard Shaw’

s audac ious and far more searchingironies.

Wi l de d ied at Par is, November 30 , 1 900 .

REQU IESCAT

Tread l ightly , She i s nearUnder the snow

,

Speak gently, she can hear

T he daisies grow .

All her bright golden hairTarn ished with rust ,

She that was young and fairFallen to dust .

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2 44 J ohn Davidson

That m in ister of m in isters,

Imaginat ion , gathers upThe undiscovered Universe

,

Like j ewels in a jasper cup .

I ts flame can m ingle north and south ;I ts accent with the thunder str ive ;

T he ruddy sentence of its mouthCan make the ancient dead al ive .

The,

mart of power , the fount of wi llT he form and mould of every star,

The sou rce and bound of good and i ll ,T he key of all the th ings that are

,

Imaginat ion , new and strangeIn every age, can turn the year ;

Can sh ift the poles and l ightly changeT he mood of m en

,the world ’s career.

William Watson

Wi l l iam Watson was born at B ur ley- in-Wharfedal e, Yorksh ire, August 2 , 1 858. H e ach ieved his first wid e success

through h is long and e loquent poem s on Word sworth , She l ley,and Tennyson—poem s that attempted , and som etime s suc

ce ssfully, to comb ine th e manners of th ese masters. The H ope

of the World ( 1 897 ) contains som e of h is most character ist icverse .

I t was und erstood th at h e wou l d b e appo inted poet laureateupon the death of A lfred Aust in . But som e of h is “rad ical”and sem i-po l itical poems are supposed to have d isp l eased th e

powers at Court,and the honor went to Rob ert

‘

B ridges. H is

best work , wh ich has both d ign ity and imagination ,m ay b e

found in Selected Poems, pub l ish ed in 1 903 by John Lane Co.

William Watson 2 45

SONG 1

Apr il , Ap ril ,Laugh thy girl ish laughter ;Then

,the mom ent after ,

Weep thy girl ish tears ,April , that m ine earsLike a lover greetest,I f I tell thee , sweetest,All my hopes and fears .Ap ril , Ap ril ,Laugh thy golden laughter,But , the mom ent after

,

Weep thy golden tears !

ESTRANGEMENT 1

So, without, breach , we fall apart ,Tacitly sunder—neither you nor IConsc ious of one intell igible Why,And both

,from severance, winn ing equal smart .

So, with resigned and acqu iescent heart,

Whene’

er you r nam e on som e chance lip may lie ,

I seem to see an al ien shade pass by ,A Sp ir it wherein I have no lot or part .

Thus may a capt ive, in some fortress grim ,

From casual speech betwixt his warders, learnThat June on her tr iumphal p rogress goesThrough arched and bannered woodlands ; wh ile for himShe is a legend empt ied of concern ,

And idle is the rum ou r of the rose .

1 From The H ope of the World by W i l l iam Watson. Copyright, 1 89 7 , by John Lane Company. R eprinted by perm issionof the publ ishers.

2 46 Franc is Th ompson

Born in 1 859 at Preston,Franc is (Joseph ) Thompson was

educated at Owen’s Co l lege , M anch ester. Later h e tr ied all

manner of strange ways of earning a l iv ing. He was, at

various times,assistant in a boot- shop , med ical stud ent, col

l ector for a book se l ler and hom e le ss vagabond ; th ere wasa period in h is l ife wh en h e so l d matche s on th e streets of

London. He was d iscovered in terrib le poverty by th e ed itorof a magazine towh ich h e had sent som e verses th e year before .

A lmost immed iate ly th ereafter h e becam e famous. His ex

al ted mysticism is seen at its purest in “A Fal l en Yew”and

“The Hound of H eaven .

”Coventry Patmore , th e d istin

guished poet of an ear l ier per iod , says of th e latter poem ,

wh ich is unfortunate ly too long to quote, “I t is one of the

very few great odes of wh ich our language can boast.”Thompson d ied , after a fragi le and spasmodic life, in St.

John’s Wood in November, 1 907.

DAISY

Where the th istle l ifts a purple crownSix

-

foot out of the turf,And the harebel l shakes on the windy h i llO breath of the d istant surf

T he h ills look over on the South ,And southward dream s the sea;

And with the sea-breeze hand in handCame innocence and she .

Where ’

m id the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs ;

Two ch i ldren d id we stray and talkWise, idle, ch i ld ish th ings .

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Franc is Th ompson

She looked a l ittle wistfully,

Then went her sunsh ine wayT he sea’s eye had a m ist on it

,

And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremember ing way,She went and left in m e

The pang of all the part ings gone ,And part ings yet to be.

She left m e marvel l ing why my soulWas sad that shewas glad ;

At all the sadness in the sweet ,The sweetness in the sad.

S ti ll , st i ll I seemed to see her, st il lLook up with soft rep l ies ,

‘And take the berries with her hand,

And the love with her lovely eyes.

Noth ing begins, and noth ing ends ,That is not pai d with moan

For we are born in other ’s pain ,And per ish in our own .

TO A SNOWFLAKE

What heart could have thought youPast our dev isal(O fil igree petal ! )Fash ioned so purely,Fragilely, su rely ,From what ParadisalImagineless m etal ,T oo costly for cost !Who hammered you , wrought you ,

Franc is Th ompson 2 49

From argent ine vapou r“God was my Shaper .Passing surm isal ,H e hamm ered

,He wrought m e

,

From curled Si lve r vapou r ,T o lust of his m indThou couldst not have thought me !

So purely , so palely,Tin i ly, su rely

,

Mighti ly, frailly,Insculped and embossed ,With H is hamm er of wind

,

And H is graver of frost .

”

A . E . Housman

A . E. Housman was born M arch 2 6, 1 859 , and, after a c lassical education, he was, for ten years

,a H igh er D iv ision

C lerk in H . M . Patent Oflice . Later in l ife, h e became a

teacher.Housman has pub l ished on ly one volume of original verse ,

but that vo lume, A Shropshire Lad is known wh erevermodern Engl ish poetry is read . Underneath h is iron ies, th ereis a rustic humor that has m any subtle variations. From a

me lodic standpoint, A Shropshire Lad is a co l l ection of ex

quisite, h aunting and almost perfect songs.

Housman has been a professor of Latin since 1 892 and,

besides his immortal set of lyr ics, h as ed ited Juvenal and

the books of M ani l ius.

REVEILLE

Wake : the Silver dusk retu rn ingUp the beach of darkness b rim s

,

And the sh ip of sun rise bu rn ingS trands upon the eastern rims.

2 50 A . E . Housman

Wake : the vaulted shadow shatters,Trampled to the floor it spanned ,And the tent of night in tattersS traws the Sky-

pav i l ioned land .

Up , lad, up ,’

tis late for ly ingHear the drum s of morn ing p lay ;Hark , the empty h ighways crying

“Who’l l beyond the h i lls away ! ”

Towns and countries woo together,Forelands beacon

,belfr ies call ;

Never lad that t rod on leatherLived to feast his heart with all.

Up , lad : thews that lie and cumberSunl it pallets never th r ive ;Morns abed and dayl ight slumberWere not meant for man’

al ive .

Clay l ies st i ll , but blood’s a rover ;

Breath ’s a ware that will not keep .

Up , lad : when the journey’s over

There ’l l be t im e enough to sleep .

WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY

When I was one-and- twentyI heard a wise man say,

Give crowns and pounds and gu ineasBut not your heart away ;G ive pearls away and rub iesBut keep your fancy free .

”

But I was one-and- twenty,

No use to talk to me.

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2 52 A . E . Housman

So set, before its echoes fade

,

Th e fleet foot on the s ill of Shade,

And hold to the low l intel upT he sti ll-defended challenge-cup .

And round that early- laurelled headWill flock to gaze the strengthless dead ,And find unwithered on its curlsT he garland b riefer than a girl ’s .

Katharine Tynan H inkson

Kathar ine Tynan was born at Dub l in in 1 86 1, and edu

cated at th e Convent of St. Cath er ine at Drogh eda. Sh e mar

r ied Henry H inkson ,a lawyer and author

,in 1 893 . H er

poetry is large ly actuated by re l igious th emes, and much of

h er verse is devot ional and yet d ist inct ive . In New Poems( 1 9 1 1 ) sh e is at h er best ; gracefu l , med itative and with occa

sioual notes of deep pathos.

SHEEP AND LAMBS

All in the Apri l morning,

Ap r il ai rs were abroad ;T he sheep with their l ittle lambsPaSS

’

d m e by on the road .

T he Sheep with the i r l ittle lambsPass

’

d m e by on the road ;All in an Apri l eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.

T he lambs we re weary , and cryingWith a weak human cry ;I thought on the Lamb of God

Going m eekly to die .

Katharine Tynan Hinkson 2 53

Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastu res are sweet :

Rest for ‘

the l ittle bodies,Rest for the l ittle feet .

Rest for the Lamb of God

Up on the h ill- top green ;Only a cross of shame

Two stark crosses between .

All in the Ap r il even ing,Ap r il ai rs were abroad ;I saw the sheep with thei r lambs

,

And thought on the Lamb of God.

Henry N ewbolt

Henry Newbo l t was born at B i l ston,Stafford sh ire , in 1 862 .

His ear ly work was frankly im itative of Tennyson ; he evenattempted to add to th e A rthurian l egend s with a dram a in

blank verse entitl ed M ordred I t was not unt i l h ewrote h is sea-bal lad s that h e struck h is own note . W ith th e

publ ication of Admirals A ll ( 1 897 ) h is fam e was widespread .

T h e popularity of h is l ines was due not so much to the sub

ject-matter of Newbolt’s verse as to th e breez iness of h is

music,th e so l i d beat of rhythm ,

th e v igorous swing of his

stanzas.

DRAKE ’S DRUM

Drake he ’

s in his hammock an’

a thousand m ile away,(Capten ,

art tha sleepin’

there below! )Slung atween the round Shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

Al l’ dream in ’

arl the t ime 0’ P lymouth Hoe .

254. Henry N ewb olt

Yarnder lum es the island , yarnder lie the sh ips,Wi’ sailor lads a- danc in ’

heel-an ’- toe,

An ’

the shore- l ights flashin’

,an

’

the night-t ide dash in ’

He sees et arl so p lainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man , an’

ruled the Devon seas,(Capten , art tha sleep in

’

there

Rov in ’

tho’

his death fell,he went wi’ heart at ease,

An ’ dream in ’

arl the t im e 0’ P lymouth Hoe ,

Take my d rum to England,hang et by the shore,

S tr ike et when your powder’s runnin ’

low;If the Dons sight Devon ,

I ’ll qu it the port 0’ Heaven ,

An ’ drum them up the Channel as we drummedthem long ago

Drake he’

s In his hammock t il l the great Armadas Com e,

( Capten , art tha Sleepin’

there

S lung atween the round shot , listenin’

for the drum ,

An ’ dream in ’

arl the t im e 0’ Plymouth Hoe .

Call him on the deep sea, cal l him up the Sound,

Cal l him when ye sail to meet the foe ;

Where the old trade’s plyin’

an’

the oldl

flag’

s flyin’

,

They shall find him,ware an

’ wakin ’

,as they found

him long ago.

Arthur Sym ons

Born in Wal es in 1 865, A rthur Symons’ first few pub l ica

tions reveal ed an inte l lectual rath er than an emot ional passion. Those vo lume s were fu l l of th e artifice of the per iod,but Symons

’s techn ical sk i l l and frequent analysis often saved

th e poem s from comp lete decadence.

T h e best of h is poetry up to 1 90 2 was co l lected in twovo lum es

, Poems, pub l ish ed by John Lane Co. The Fool of theWorld appeared in 1 907.

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2 56 William B utler Yeats

B orn at Sandymount, Dub l in,in 1 865, the son of John B .

Yeats, th e I r ish arti st, th e greater part of W i l l iam B ut lerYeats’

ch i l dhood was spent in Sl igo . H ere h e became imbuedwith th e power and r ichness of native fo l k- lore ; he d rank inthe racy qual ity th rough th e quaint fairy stor ies and old

wive s’tales of th e I r ish peasantry. (Later h e pub l ish ed a

co l lection of th ese sam e stories. )I t Was in th e act iv ities of a

“Young I re land“

soc iety that

Yeats became id entified with th e new sp irit ; he d reamed of

a nat ional poetry that wou l d b e wr itten in Engl ish and yet

wou l d b e definite ly I r ish . In a few years h e becam e one of

th e l eaders in th e Ce l tic rev ival . H e worked incessant ly forthe cause , both as propagand ist and p laywr ight ; and

,though

h is myst ic ism at t imes seemed th e product of a cu lt rath erthan a Ce lt, h is symbo l ic dramas were acknowledged to b e

fu l l of a h aunting, oth er-wor l d sp iritual ity. ( See Preface . )The H our Glass h is second vo lum e of

“P lays for an

I r ish Th eatre ,” inc lude s h is best one- act dram as with the

exception of h is unforgettab l e The Land of H eart’

s D esire

The Wind Am ong the R eeds ( 1 899 ) contains sev

eral of h is m ost beaut ifu l and ch aracter istic poem s ; a laterco l lection, The Wild Swans at Coole d isp lays h is

recent, more co l loqu ial m anner.

THE LAKE ISLE OF INN ISFREE

I wil l ar ise and go now,and go to Innisfree ,

And a smal l cab in bu ild there , of clay and wattles made ;Nine bean rows will I have there , a h ive for the honey bee,And live alone In the bee- loud glade .

And I Shal l have som e peace the re , for peace comesd ropp ing slow ,

D ropp ing from the ve i ls of the morn ing to where the

c r icket sings ;There m idn ight ’

s all a gl imm er,and noon a purp le glow,

And evening ful l of the l innet ’s wings

William Bu tler Yeats

I will ar ise and go now,for always n ight and day

I hear lake water lapp ing with low sounds by the shore ;Wh ile I stand on the roadway , or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart

’

s core.

THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER

I rise in the dawn , and I kneel and blowTill the seed of the fi re fl icker and glow.

And then I must scrub , and bake , and sweep ,Till stars are beginn ing to bl ink and peep ;

But the young lie long and dream in thei r bedOf the match ing of ribbons

,the blue and the red,

And thei r day goes over in idleness ,And they sigh if the wind but l ift up a tress .Wh ile I must work , because I am old

And the seed of the fi re gets feeble and cold .

AN OLD SONG RESUNG

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did m eet ;

She passed the salley gardens with l ittle snow-wh ite feet .

She bid m e take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree ;But I

,be ing young and fool ish , with her would not agree .

In a field by the r iver my love and I d id standAnd on my lean ing shoulder she laid her snow-wh ite hand .

She bid m e take l ife easy , as the grass grows on the wei rs ;But I was young and fool ish , and now am full of tears .

2 58 William Butler Yeats

WHEN YOU ARE OLD'

When you are old and gray and full of sleep ,And nodding by the fi re

,take down th i s book ,

And Slowly read , and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once

,and of their shadows deep ;

Howmany loved your moments of glad grace,And loved you r beauty with love false or true ;But one man loved the p i lgrim soul in you ,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing barsMurmur, a l ittle sadly, how love fled

And paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face am id a crowd of stars.

Rudyard K ip l ing

Born at Bombay,Ind ia, December 30 , 1 865, (Joseph ) Rud

yard Kip l ing, th e author of a dozen contemporary c lassics,was educated in England . He returned , however, to Ind iaand took a position on the staff of “Th e Lahore Civ i l and

M i l itary Gazette,” wr it ing for th e Ind ian press unt i l about1 890 , when h e went to England , wh ere , with th e exception of

a short sojourn in Amer ica, h e has l ived ever since.

Soldiers Three ( 1 888) was th e first of six co l lections of

short stor ies brought out in“Wh ee ler’s Rai lway L ibrary.”

I t was fo l lowed by th e far more sensitive and search ingPlain Tales from the H ills, Under the D eodars and The

Phantom ’R ikshaw, wh ich contains two of th e b e st and most

conv inc ing ghost- stor ies in recent l iterature.

These tal es, however, d isp lay on ly one side of K ip l ing’s

'

extraord inary tal ents. A s a wr iter of ch i l dren’s stor ies, h e

has few l iv ing equal s. Wee Willie Winkie, wh ich containsthat stirring and hero ic fragment

“Drums of th e Fore and

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2 60 Rudyard Kip ling

I t was Din ! Din ! Din !You l imp ing lump 0

’ b r ick-dust,Gunga D in !

Hi ! slippy hitherao !Water

, get it ! P anee lao !1

You squidgy-nosed old i dol , Gunga D in !”

T he uniform ’

e woreWas noth in ’

much before ,An ’ rather less than ’

arf 0’

that be’

ind,

For a twisty p iece 0’

rag

An ’

a goatskin water-bagWas all the fi eld-equ ipm ent ’

e could find .

When the sweatin ’

troop- train lay

In a Sidin ’

th rough the day,

Where the ’

eat wouldmake your bloom in ’

eyebrows crawl ,We shouted “

Harry By !” 2

Till our throats were b r icky- dry,Then we wopped

’

im’cause ’

e couldn ’

t serve us all.

I t was Din ! Din ! D in !You

’

eathen , where the m isch ief ’

ave you been !You put som e juldee in it ,Or I ’l l marrow ‘1

you th i s m inute ,I f you don

’

t fill up my helmet,Gunga D in P )

’

E would dot an’ carry oneTill the longest day was doneAn ’ ’

e d idn ’

t seem to know the use 0’

fear.

1B r ing water swift ly.

2 Tommy A tkins’equ ivalent for “

O Brother !”1’Speed .

4

Hit you.

Rudyard Kip ling 2 6 1

I f we charged or broke or cut ,

You could bet you r bloom in ’

nut,

’

E’

(I be waitin ’ fifty paces r ight flank rear.

With ’is m ussick on’

is back ,’

E would Skip with our attack,An

’ watch us t ill the bugles made Ret i re .

An’

for all’is d i rty ’

ide ,’

E was wh ite , clear wh ite , insideWhen ’

e went to tend the wounded under fire !

I t was Din ! Din ! D in !”

With the bu llets kickin ’ dust- spots on the green .

When the cartr idges ran ou t ,

You could ’

ear the front-fi les shout“H i ! ammun it ion-mules an ’ Gunga Din !”

I shan ’

t forgit the n ightWhen I dropped be

’

ind the fightWith a bu llet where my belt-p late should a been .

I was chokin’

mad with th i rst ,An ’

the man that Sp ied m e firstWas our good old grinn in ’

, gruntin’ Gunga Din .

’

E l ifted up my’

ead,

An ’ ’

e p lugged m e where I bled,

An e guv m e’

arf-a-

p int o’ wate r— green

I t was crawlin ’

an’

it stunk ,But of all the drinks I ’

ve drunk ,I

’

m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din .

I t was “Din ! Din ! Din !’Ere ’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen ;’

E’

S chawin ’

up the ground an’

e’

s kickin’

all aroundFor Gawd ’s sake

, git the water, Gunga Din !”

1 Water- skin.

2 62 Rudyard Kip ling

’

E carr ied me awayT o where a dooli lay,

An ’

a bullet come an’ dr illed the beggar clean .

’

E put me safe ins ide,An ’ j ust before ’

e died“I ’

ope you l iked your dr ink , sez Gunga Din .

So I ’ll m eet’

im later on

In the p lace where’

e i s goneWhere it’

s always double dr ill and no canteen ;’E ’ll be squattin

’

on the coal sGiv in ’ dr ink to pore damned souls ,An ’ I ’l l get a swig in Hell from Gunga D in !

Din ! D in ! Din !You Laz arushian- leather Gunga D in !T ho

’

I’

ve belted you an’ flayed you ,

By the l iv in’ Gawd that made you ,

You ’

re a better man than I am , Gunga D in !

THE RETURN 1

Peace i s declared , and I returnT o

’

Ackneystadt, but not the sam e ;

Th ings ’

ave t ransp ired wh ich m ade m e learnT he size and meanin ’

of the gam e .

I d id no more than others d id ,I don ’

t know where the change began ;I started as an average kid

,

I finished as a thinkin’

man.

I f England was what England seems

An’

not the England of our dream s;

1 From The Five Nations by Rudyard Kip l ing. Copyr ightby Doub l eday, Page Co. and A . P. Watt Son .

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2 64 Rudyard Kip ling

An’

the pore dead that look so old

An ’ was so young an hou r ago,An’ legs t ied down before they ’re coldThese are the th ings wh ich make you know.

Also Tim e runnin’ into years

A thousand P laces left be ’

ind

An ’

m en from both two ’

em ispheres

Discussin’

th ings of every kind ;So much more near than I ’

ad known ,So m uch more great than I

’

ad guessedAn

’

m e, l ike all the rest,alone

But reachin’

out to all the rest !

So’

ath it com e to m e— not p r ide,Nor yet conceit , but on the

’

ole

( I f such a term may be appl ied ) ,T he makin ’s of a bloom in

’ soul .But now

,discharged , I fall away

T o do with l ittle th ings again .

Gawd ,’

oo knows all I cannot say,

Look afte r m e in T ham esfontein !

I f England was what England seems

A n’

not the England of our dreams,

B ut only putty, brass, an’

paint,’

Ow quick we’

d chuck’

er ! But she ain ’

t !

AN ASTROLOGER ’S SONG 1

T o the Heavens above usO look and behold

T he P lanets that love uS

All harnessed in gold !1From R ewards and Fairies by Rudyard Kip ling.

righ t by Doub leday, Page and Co. and A . P. Watt

R udyard Kip ling

What char iots, what horsesAgainst us Shall b ideWh ile the S tars in the i r coursesDo fight on our side !

All thoughts , all desi res,That are under the sun ,

Are one with the i r firesAs we also are one

All matter,all sp i r it ,

All fash ion,all frame,

Rece ive and inheritThe i r strength from the same.

(Oh , man that deniest

All power save th ine own ,

The i r power in the h ighestIs m ight ily shown .

Not less in the lowestThat power is made clear.

Oh , man ,if thou knowest ,

What treasu re is here ! )

Earth quakes in her throesAnd we wonder for why !

But the blind p lanet knowsWhen her ru ler is n igh ;

And, attuned since CreationT o perfect accord ,

She th rill s in her stationAnd yearns to her Lord .

T he waters have r isen ,The sp rings are unbound

T he floods break thei r p rison,And ravm around .

66 Rudyard Kip ling

No rampart withstands’

em,

The i r fury will last ,Till the S ign that commandsS inks low or swings past .

Through abysses unp rovenAnd gulfs beyond thought,

Our port ion is woven ,Our burden is brought .

Yet They that p repare it ,Whose Nature we share,

Make us who must bear itWel l able to bear.

Though terrors o’

ertake usWe

’l l not be afraid .No power can unmake us,Save that wh ich has made.

Nor yet beyond reasonOr hope shal l we fallAll th ings have thei r season ,

And Mercy crowns all !

Then , doubt not, ye fearful

T he Eternal is K ingUp ,

heart, and be cheerful ,And lust i ly s ingWhat chariots, what horsesAgainst us shall bide

While the Stars in their courses

D o fight on our side !

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2 68 L ionel J ohnson

B orn in 1 867 , Lione l (P igot ) Johnson rece ived a c lassicaleducation at Oxford

,and h is poetry is a faithfu l reflection of

h is stud ies in Greek and Latin l iteratures. Though h e al l iedh im se lf with th e mod ern I r ish poets, h is Ce ltic origin is a

l iterary myth ; Johnson, h av ing been converted to Catho l ic ismin 1 89 1 , became imbued with Catho l ic and

,later

, with I rishtrad itions. H is verse, wh i l e som etim es strained and overd ecorated , is chaste ly designed , r ich and, l ike that of th e

Caval ier poets of the seventeenth century,mystical ly d evo

tional. Poems ( 1 895) contains h is best work .Johnson d ied in 1 902 as a resu lt of a fal l .

MYSTIC AND CAVALIER

Go from m e : I am one of those who fall .What ! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all

,

In my sad company ! Before the end,

Go from me,dear my friend !

Yours are the v ictories of l ight : you r feetRest from good toi l , where rest i s b rave and sweetBut after warfare in a mourning gloom ,

I rest in clouds of doom .

Have you not read so, look ing in these eyes !Is it the common l ight of the pure sk iesLights up the ir shadowy depths ! Th e end i s set

Though the end be not yet .

When gracious music st irs, and all i s b r igh t,And beauty tr iumphs th rough a cou rtly n ight ;When I too joy, a man l ike other men

Yet , am I l ike them ,then !

L ione l Johnson 2 69

And in the battle , when the horsem en sweepAgainst a thousand deaths, and fall on SleepWho ever sought that sudden calm , if I

Sought not ! yet could not die !

Seek with th ine eyes to p ierce th is c rystal sphereCanst read a fate there

, p rosperous and clear !Only the m ists, only the weep ing clouds,

Dimness and ai ry shrouds .

Beneath , what angels are at work ! What powersP repare the secret of the fatal hou rs !See ! the m ists tremble, and the clouds are st i r red

When com es the call ing word !

The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball ,B reaking and clearing : and I look to fall .When the cold winds and ai rs of portent sweep ,

My sp i rit may have Sleep .

O rich and sounding voices of the air !

Interp reters and prophets of despai rP riests of a fearful sacram ent ! I come ,

T o make .with you m ine home.

E rnest Dowson

Ernest Dowson was born at B e lmont H i l l in Kent in 1 867 .

His great-unc le was A lfred Domett (B rowning’s

“War ingwho was at one time Prim e M inister of New Z ealand . Dowson, practical ly an inval id all h is l ife, h id h im se lf in m iserable surroundings ; for almost two years h e l ived in sordidsupper-houses known as

“cabm en

’s sh e l ters. He l iteral ly

drank h imse l f to death .

H is de l icate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape

from a real ity too b ig and brutal for h im. His passionate

2 70 E rnest Dowson

lyric, “I have been faithfu l to thee,Cynara ! in my fashion,

a tr iumph of d espair and d isi l lusion,is an outburst in wh ich

Dowson ep itom ized h im se lf One of the greatest‘

lyrical

poems of our t ime, wr ites A rthur Symons ; in it h e has for

once said everyth ing, and h e has said it to an intoxicatingand perhap s Immortal music.

”

Dowson d ied Obscure in 1 900 , one of the finest of modernm inor poets. H is l ife was th e tragedy of a weak naturebuffeted by a strong and merciless env ironment.

TO ONE IN BEDLAM

With del icate, mad hands, beh ind his sord id bars ,Surely he hath his posies, wh ich they tear and twine ;Those scentless wisp s of straw that

,m iserable, l ine

His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares .

Pedant and p it iful . O , howhis rapt gaze warsWith the ir stup id ity ! Know they what dream s d iv ineLift his long, laugh ing rever ies l ike enchanted wine,And make his m elancholy germane to the stars’ !

O lamentable brother ! if those p ity thee,Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes p rom ise m e ;

Half a fool ’s k ingdom , far from m en who sow and reap ,

All their days, vanity ! Better than mortal flowers ,T hy moon -kissed roses seem : better than love or sleep ,T he star-crowned sol itude of th ine obl iv ious hours !

!

A E

(George William Russell)

A t Lurgan, a t iny town in th e north of I re land,George

W i l l iam Russe l l was born in 1 867 . H e moved to Dub l in wh enhe was 1 0 years old and, as a young man

,h e lped to form

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2 72 A . E .

THE UNKNOWN GOD

Far up the dim twil ight flutteredMoth-wings of vapour and flame

T he l ights danced over the mountains,Star after star they cam e .

I

T he l ights grew th icker unheeded ,For Si lent and st il l were we ;Our hearts were drunk with a beautyOur eyes could ~ never see .

Steph en P h illips

Born in 1 868, Steph en Ph i l l ips is best known as the authorof H erod Paola and Francesca and Ulysses

a poet ic p laywr ight who succeeded in rev iv ing, for a

br ief interval,the b lank verse drama on th e modern stage .

Ph i l l ip s fai l ed to“restore”

poetic drama because h e was,first of all

, a lyr ic rath er than a dramatic poet. In sp ite of

certain moments of rh etor ical sp l endor, h is scenes are spec

tacular instead of emot ional ; h is insp iration is too often

d er ived from oth er mode l s. He d ied in 1 9 1 5.

FRAGMENT FROM HEROD

H erod speaks

I d ream ed last night of a dom e of beaten goldT o be a counter-glory to the Sun .

There shal l the eagle blindly dash h im self,“

The re the fi rst beam Shall str ike , and there the moonShall aim all n ight her argent archery ;

Steph en Ph illips 2 73

And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars ,T he haunt of dead and dream ing Solomon ;

Shall send a l ight upon the lost in Hell ,And flashings upon faces without hope .

And I will th ink in gold and dream in silver,Imagine in marble and conce ive in bronze ,Till it Shall dazzle p i lgrim nat ionsAnd stammer ing t ribes from undiscovered lands ,Allu re the l iv ing God out of the bl iss,And all the stream ing seraph im from heaven .

A DREAM

My dead love cam e to m e,and said

“God gives m e one hou r ’s rest ,

T o spend with thee on earth againHow shall we spend it best !

”

Why, as of old, I said ; and so

We quarrelled , as of old

But , when I turned to make my peace ,That one short hour was told .

Laurenc e Binyon

(Robert) Laurence B inyon was born at Lancaster,August 1 0

,

1 869 , a cousin of Steph en Ph i l l ips ; in Primavera ( 1 890 ) th e irearly poem s appeared togeth er. B inyon’

s subsequent vo lumes

showed l ittle d istinction unti l h e publ ish ed London Visions,

wh ich , in an en larged ed ition in 1 908, revealed a gift of characteriz ation and a turn of speech in surpr ising contrast to

h is prev ious academ ic Lyrical Poems

2 74; Laurenc e Binyon

A SONG

For Mercy,Courage, K indne ss , M irth,

There i s no measure upon earth .

Nay, they wither, root and stem ,

I f an end he set to them .

Overbrim and overflow,

I f your own heart you would know ;For the Sp irit born to blessL ives but in its own excess.

THE UNSEEN FLOWER

I th ink of a flower that no eye ever has seen ,That springs in a sol itary air.

I s it no one’s joy ! I t i s beaut iful as a queenWithou t a k ingdom ’s care .

We have built houses for Beauty, and costly shrines ,And a throne In all men ’s v iew :

But she was far on a h i l l where the morn ing sh inesAnd her steps were lost in the dew.

Anth ony C . D eane

Anthony C . D eane was born in 1 870 and was th e Seatonianp rizeman in 1 905 at C lare Co l lege, Cambr idge . He has beenV icar of A ll Saints, Ennismore Gardens, S ince 1 9 1 6 . His longlist of l ight verse and essays inc ludes many exce l lent parod ies, the most br i l l iant and delightfu l being found in his N ewRhymes for Old

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2 76 Anth ony C . D eane

And ( after several stanzas wh ich as yet are incomplete ,Describ ing all the fight in ep ic style )When the B illycock was going, she

’d a dozen prizestowing

(Or twenty, as above ) in s ingle file !

Ah , long in glowing English hearts the story will rem ain ,T he m emory of that h istoric day,And

,wh ile we ru le the ocean , we will p icture withemot ion

T he B illycock in Salamander Bay !

P .S.

— I’

ve lately not iced that the crit ics—who,I th ink,

I n p rais ing my p roduct ions are rem issQuite eas ily are captured , and profess them selves en

raptu red ,By patr iot ic d itt ies such as th i s,

For making wh ich you merely take some dauntless Englishm en

,

Guns , heroism ,slaughter, and a fleet

Ingredients you m ingle in a m etre with a j ingle,And there you have your masterp iece complete !

Why, then , with labour infinite , produce a book of verseT o langu ish on the

“All for Twopence” shelf !

T he bal lad bold and breezy com es part icularly easyI m ean to take to writ ing It myself !

William H . Davies

Accord ing to h is own biography, W i l l iam H enry Dav ies wasborn in a pub l ic-house cal l ed Church House at Newport, inth e County of M onmouth sh ire, Apr i l 2 0 ,

1 870 , of We l sh par

ents. H e was, unti l B ernard Shaw “discovered” him , a cat

William H. Davies 2 77

tleman, a berry-p icker, a panhand ler—in short, a vagabond .

A t th e age of th irty- four h e began to wr ite poetry. In a

preface to Dav ies’

second book, The Autobiography of a Super

Tramp Shaw describes how the manuscript came intoh is hands

“I n the year 1 90 5 I received by post a vo lume of poem s

by one W i l l iam H . Dav ies, whose address was T h e FarmHouse, Kensington ,

S. E . T h e author, as far as I cou l dguess, had walked into a printer’s or stationer’s Shop ; handedin h is manuscr ipt ; and ordered h is book as h e m ight haveordered a pair of boots. I t was m arked ‘

price, h al f a crown.

’

An accompanying letter asked m e very c iv i l ly if I required a

hal f-crown book of verses ; and if so, wou l d I p lease send th eauthor th e half crown : if not, wou l d I return th e book . Th iswas attractive ly S imp le and sensib le . I op ened th e book

,and

was more puzz led than ever ; for before I h ad read threel ines I perce ived that th e author was a real poet. H is workwas not in the l east strenuous or mod ern ; th ere was indeedno S ign of h is ever hav ing read anyth ing oth erwise than as a

ch i l d read s.

”

I t is more than l ike ly that D avie s first notoriety as a

tramp-

poet who had ridden the rai l s in th e United States and

had h ad h is righ t foot cut off by a train in Canada,obscured

h is m erits as a genu ine singer. Even h is ear ly The Soul’

s

D estroyer ( 1 907 ) reveal ed that simp l ic ity wh ich is as na'

i’

fas it is strange . T h e books that fo l lowed are more c lear lym e lodious, more l ike th e v isionary wond er of B lake, moreartistical ly art less and always lyr ical .T he best of th ese vo lumes have been condensed in The Col

lected Poems of W. H . Davies th e fo l lowing versesbe ing reprinted by perm ission of the pub l isher, A lfred A . Knopf.

3

DAYS TOO SHORT

When p rim roses are out in Sp r ing,And small , blue v iolets com e between ;When m er ry birds Sing on boughs green ,And rills, as soon as born , must sing ;

2 78 William H . Davies

When butterfl ies will make side-leaps,AS though escaped from Nature

’s handEre perfect quite ; and bees will standUpon the ir heads in fragrant deeps ;

When small clouds are so silvery wh iteEach seem s a broken rimméd moonWhen such th ings are, th is world too soon ,

For me, doth wear the vei l of Night .

THE ,MOON

T hy beauty haunts m e heart and soul ,Oh , thou fair Moon

,so close and bright ;

Thy beauty makes me l ike the ch i ldThat cries aloud to own thy l ight :

T he l ittle ch i ld that l ifts each arm

T o press thee to her bosom warm .

Though there are b irds that sing th is n ightW ith thy wh ite beam s across the i r th roats;

Let my deep si lence Speak for me

More than for them the i r sweetest notesWho worsh ips thee t i ll music fai ls ,I S greater than thy night ingales .

THE E ! AMPLE

Here ’s an example fromA Butterfly ;That on a rough , hard rockHappy can lie ;Friendless and all aloneOn th is unsweetened stone .

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2 80 J . M . Syng e

in W ick low, h e was already fasc inated by the strange id ioms

and th e rhythm ic sp eech he h eard th ere , a native utterancewh ich was h is greate st d e l igh t and wh ich was to b e r ichmater ial for h is greatest work .For som e time, Synge

’s career was uncertain. H e went to

Germany, half intend ing to become a professional musician.

Th ere h e stud ied th e theory of music, p erfecting h im se lf m ean

wh i le ln Gae l ic and H ebrew, winn ing pr izes in both of th ese

languages. Yeats found h im in France in 1 898 and adv isedhim to go to th e A ran I slands, to l ive th ere as if h e were one

of th e peop le .

“Express a l ife,” said Yeats, “that has never

found expression.

T h e resu l t of th is c lose contact was four of th e greatestpoetic prose d ramas not on ly of Synge

’s own generation, but of

several generat ions preced ing it. ( See Preface. )In R iders to the Sea The Well of the Saints

and The Playboy of the Western World ( 1 907 ) we have a

r ichness of imagery, a new language start l ing in its v igor, a

wi l dness and passion that contrast strange ly with the suavemystic ism and de l icate sp ir itual ity of his assoc iates in th e

I r ish Theatre .

Synge’s Poems and Translations a vo lume wh ich was

not issued unti l after h is d eath,contains not on ly h is few hard

and earthy verses, but also Synge’s prose-

poems and his fa

mous th eory of poetry.Synge d ied , just as h e was beginn ing to attain fame, at a

pr ivate hosp ital in Dub l in M arch 2 4, 1 909 .

PRELUDE

St i ll south I went and—West and south again ,Th rough Wicklow from the morning t il l the night,And far from cit ies and the s ights of m en ,

L ived with the sunsh ine and the moon ’s del ight .

I knew the stars,the flowers

,and the b irds ,

T he grey and wintry sides of many glens,And did but half remember human words,In converse with the mountains , moors and fens.

J . M . Synge 2 81

A TRANSLATION FROM PETRARCH

(H e is Jealous of the H eavens and the Earth )

What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arm saboII t her, and is hold ing that face away from m e, whereI was finding peace from great sadness .What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are

after taking her, and Shutt ing her in with greediness, theHeavens that do push thei r bolt against so many .

What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints thathave got her sweet company , that I am always seeking ;and what a grudge I am bearing against Death , that i sstanding in her two eyes

,and wil l not cal l m e with a

word .

BEG- INN ISH

B ring Kateen-beug and Maurya JudeT o dance in Beg- Innish ,

1

And when the lads ( they’re in Dunqu in )

Have sold thei r c rabs and fi sh ,

Wave fawny shawls and call them in ,

And call the l ittle girls who sp in ,

And seven weavers from Dunqu in ,

T o dance in Beg- Innish .

I ’ll play you j igs, and Mau rice Kean ,Where nets are laid to d ry ,I

’

ve silken strings would d raw a danceFrom girls are lam e or shy ;

1

(The accent is on the last syl labl e . )

2 82 J . M . Syng e

Four strings I ’

ve b rought from Spain and FranceT o make your long m en skip and p rance,Till stars look out to see the danceWhere nets are laid to dry .

We’l l have no priest or peeler in

T o dance in Beg- Innish ;

But we ’l l have drink from lVI’

riarty JimRowed round wh i le gannets fi sh

,

A keg with porter to the brim ,

That every lad may have his wh im ,

Till we Up sai ls with M’

riarty JimAnd sai l from Beg

- Innish .

Eva Gore -Booth

Eva Gore-B ooth,th e second daugh ter of Sir Henry Gore

B ooth and th e sister of Countess M arcievicz , was born in

Sl igo, I re land , in 1 87 1 . Sh e first appeared in “A . E .

’s”

an

thology, N ew Songs, in wh ich so many of the modern I ri shpoets first cam e forward .

Her in itial vo lume , Poems showed practical ly no

d istinction—not even th e customary prom ise .

”But The One

and the M any ( 1 904 ) and The Sorrowful Princess ( 1 907 ) re

vealed th e gift of the Ce ltic singer who is half mystic,half

m instre l . Pr imar i ly ph i losoph ic, h er verse often turns to

lyr ics as h aunting as the examp le h ere reprinted .

THE WAVES OF BREFFNY

T he grand road from the mountain goes sh in ing to the

sea,

And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,But the l ittle roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to m e

And the l ittle roads of Cloonagh go rambl ing throughmy heart .

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2 84 Moira O’

N e ill

Where did she dwell! Where one’st I had my

dwellin’

.

Who loved her best ! There ’s no one nowwill know .

Where is she gone ! O ch, why would I be tell in

’

!

Where she is gone there I can never go.

Ralph Hodgson

Th is exquisite poet was born in Northumber land in 1 87 1 .

One of th e most gracefu l o f the younger word -magic ians,Ralph Hodgson wi l l retain h is freshness as long as th ereare lovers of such rare songs as h is “

Eve,”

the length ier“T h e Song of Honor,” and that memorab le snatch of music,Time, You Old Gypsy M an.

Hodgson’s verses, fu l l of th e love of all natural th ings, a

love that goes out to

an id le rainbowNo less than labor ing seas,

were or iginal ly brought out in smal l pamph lets, and d istr ibutedby Flying Fame . A co l lected Poems appeared in Amer ica in

1 9 1 7 .

THE BIRDCATCHER

When flighting t im e i s on , I goW ith clap-net and decoy,A -fowling after goldfinches

And other b irds of joy ;

I lurk among the th ickets ofT he Heart where they are bred ,And catch the twitte ring beaut ies asThey fly into my Head .

Ralph Hodgson

TIME , YOU OLD GYPSY MAN

Tim e, you old gypsy man ,

Will you not stay,Put up you r caravanJust for one day !

All th ings I ’ll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for you r j ennetOf Si lver the best ,Goldsm iths Shall beat youA great golden r ing,Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls wil lFestoon you with may.

Tim e , you old gypsy,Why hasten away !

Last week in Babylon ,

Last night in Rom e,

Morn ing, and in the crushUnder Paul ’s dome ;

Under Pau l’s d ialYou t ighten your reinOnly a moment,And off once again ;Off to som e c ityNow bl ind in the womb ,Off to anotherEre that

’s in the tomb .

2 86 Ralph Hodgson

Time , you old gypsy man,Will you not stay

,

Put up your caravanJust for one day !

AFTER

How fared you when you mortal were !What d id you see on my peopled star !

”

Oh , wel l enough ,” I answered her

,

I t went for m e Where mortals are !

I saw blue flowers and the m erl in ’s fl ight,And the rime on the wintry t ree ;Blue doves I saw and summer l ightOn the wings of the cinnamon bee .

THE MYSTERY

He cam e and took m e by the handUp to a red rose tree,

He kept His meaning to H im selfBut gave a rose to m e .

I did not pray H im to lay bareT he mystery to me ,

Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,

And H is own face to see.

J ohn M cCrae

John M cCrae was born in Gue lph , Ontario, Canada, in

1 872 . He was graduated in arts in 1 894 and in medicine in

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2 88 Walter D e la Mare

A l though h e d id not begin to br ing out h is work in bookform unti l h e was over 30 , h e is

, as Haro l d W i l l iam s has

wr itten,

“th e S inger of a young and romantic wor l d

,a singer

even for ch i l dren, understand ing and p erce iv ing as a ch i l d .”D e la M are paints simp le scenes of m in iature love l iness ; h euse s th in- spun fragm ents of fairy- l ike de l icacy and ach ievesa grace that is rem arkab le in its un iversal ity.De la M are is an aston ish ing jo iner of word s ; in Peacock

P ie ( 1 9 1 3 ) h e surpr ises us again and again by transform ingwhat began as a ch i l d ’

s nonsense - rhym e into a sudden lythr i l l ing snatch of music . Th ese magical poems read l ikelyr ics of W i l l iam Shakespeare rendered by M oth er Goose .

Th e tr ick of reveal ing the ord inary in wh im sical co lors, of

catch ing th e commonp lace off‘

its guard , is the first of De la

M arc’s two magics .

Th is poet’

s second gift is h is sense of the supernatural , of

th e fantastic oth er-wor l d that l ies on the edges of our con

sciousness. The Listeners ( 1 9 1 2 ) is a book that, l ike all the

best of D e la M are, is fu l l of h al f-h eard wh ispers ; moon l igh tand mystery seem soaked in th e l ines and a coo l wind fromNowh ere b lows over th em . That most magical of modernverses

,

“T h e L isteners,” is an examp le . In th is poem th ereis an uncanny sp l endor. What we have here is th e effect, th e

th r i l l,th e overtone s of a ghost story rath er than th e nar

rative itse lf—th e half- to l d adventure of some new Ch i l deRo land h ero ical ly chal lenging a h eed l ess un iverse .

Some of h is ear l ier poem s and stor ies appeared or iginal lyunder th e pseudonym ,

Walter Ramal ; his‘

most remarkab l eprose, M emoirs of a M idget is an add ition to the per

manent l iterature of great nove l s.

THE LI STENERS

Is there anybody there ! ” said the Traveller,Knocking on the moonl it door ;

And his horse in the s ilence champed the grassesOf the forest ’s ferny floor.

And a b i rd flew up out of the turret ,Above the Traveller ’s head :

Walter D e la Mare 2 89

And he smote upon the door again a second t im e ;“I S there anybody there ! ”

he said .

But no one descended to the Traveller ;No head from the leaf- fringed sil lLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes,Where he stood perp lexed and st i ll .

But only a host of phantom l istenersThat dwelt in the lone house thenS tood l isten ing in the qu iet of the moonl ightT o that voice from the world of m en

S tood th ronging the faint moonbeam s on the dark stai r ,That goes down to the empty hall ,Hearken ing in an air st i r red and shakenBy the lonely Traveller ’s call .

And he felt in his heart the i r strangeness,The i r st illness answering his cry ,Whi le his horse '

m oved, cropp ing the dark tu rf,’Neath the starred and leafy sky ;

For he suddenly sm ote on the door, evenLouder

,and l ifted his head

Tell them I came , and no one answered ,That I kept my word ,

”he said .

Never the least st ir m ade the l isteners,

Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the st il l houseFrom the one man left awake :

Ay, they heard his foot upon the st i rrup ,And the sound of i ron on stone

,

And how the silence su rged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone .

OLD SUSAN

When Susan ’

s Work was done , She’d sit

With one fat guttering candle lit,

2 90 Walter D e la Mare

And window opened wide to winT he sweet night air to enter in ;There

,with a thumb to keep her p lace,

She’d read , with stern and wrinkled face.

Her m i l d eyes gl id ing very slowAcross the letters to and fro,

Wh i le wagged the gutter ing candle flame

In the W ind that through the window came.

And som et im es in the s ilence she

Would mumble a sentence audibly,O r shake her head as if to say,“You s illy - souls, to act th i s way !And never a sound from night I ’d hear,Unless som e far-off cock crowed clear ;Or her old shuffling thumb should turnAnother page ; and rapt and stern ,Through her great glasses bent on me

She ’d glance into real ity ;And shake her round old s ilvery head ,With—“You l—I thought you was in bed !

”

Only to t ilt her book again,

And rooted in Romance remain .

S ILVER

S lowly , s ilently, now the moonWalks the night in her s ilver shoon ;Th is way, and that , She peers, and seesS ilver fruit upon si lver trees ;One by one the easements catchHer beam s beneath the s ilvery thatch ;Couched in his kennel , l ike a log,

W ith paws of Si lver sleeps the dog;

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2 92 G . K . Ch esterton

T h e bri l l iant journal ist, nove l i st, essayist, pub l icist and

lyric ist, G i l bert Ke ith Ch esterton, was born at Campden H i l l ,Kensington, in 1 874 , and began h is l iterary l ife by revi ewingbooks on art for var ious magazines. He is best known as a

wri ter of flash ing, paradoxical e ssays on anyth ing and everyth ing, l ike Trem endous Trifles Varied Typesand All Things Considered B ut he is al so a stimu

lating cr itic ; a keen appraiser, as in h is vo lume H eretics

( 1 905) and h is analytical stud ies of Robert B rowning, Char lesD ickens and George B ernard Shaw; a wr iter of strange and

grotesque romances l ike The Napoleon of Notting H ill

The M an Who Was Thursday ( 1 908) and The Flying I nn

the author of several books of fantastic Short stories,ranging from th e wi l d ly wh im sical narratives in The Club ofQueer Trades ( 1 905 ) to that am azing sequence The I nnocence

of Father B rown ( 1 9 1 1 )—wh ich is a ser ie s of re l igious de

tective stor ies !B esides be ing th e creator of all of th ese, Ch esterton find s

t im e to b e a pro l ific if sometimes too acrobatic newspaperman,

a lay p reach er in d isgu ise (witness Orthodoxy What’sWrong with the World ! The B all and the Cross

a pamph l eteer, and a poet. H is first vo lume of verse,T he Wild Knight and Other Poems a co l lect ion of

quaint ly-flavored and affirm ative verses, was fo l lowed by TheBallad of th e White H orse

“Lepanto,”from the later Poems antic ipating th e

hanging, c langing verses of Vache l L ind say’s

“T he Congo,

”

is one of th e finest of modern ch ants. I t is interesting to see

how th e sy l lab l es beat as though on brass ; it is thr i l l ing to

fee l how,in one

’

s pu l ses, the arm ies sing, th e feet tramp , th ed rum s snar l , and the t ides of march ing crusaders rol l out of

l ines l ike“Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far

,

Don John of Austria is going to th e war ;Stiff flags strain ing in th e n ight-b lasts co l dI n th e gloom b lack-purp l e, in th e gl int old-

go l d ;Torch l igh t crim son on th e copper kettle - d rum s

,

Th en th e tuckets,th en the trumpets, th en th e cannon, and h e

com es.

Ch esterton ,th e p rose-

paradoxer, is a de l igh tfu l product of

a skeptical age . B ut it is Ch esterton th e poet who is morelike ly to out l ive it.

G . K . Ch es terton 2 93

LEPANTO 1

Wh ite founts fall ing in the Courts of the sun ,

And the Sold'

an of Byzant ium is sm il ing as they run ;

There i s laughter l ike the fountains in that face of all

m en feared ,I t st i rs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beardI t curls the blood- red crescent , the crescent of his l ips ;For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his sh ips.

They have dared the Wh ite republics up the capes of I taly,They have dashed the Adriat ic round the Lion of the Sea,

And the Pope has cast his arm s ab road for agony and loss ,And called the kings of Christendom for swords about

the Cross .T he cold queen of England is looking in the glass ;T he shadow of the Valois i s yawn ing at the Mass ;

From even ing isles fantast ical r ings faint the Span ish gun ,

And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laugh ing in the

SUI] .

Dim drum s throbbing, in the h ills half heard,

Where only on a nameless throne a crownless p r ince hasst i rred ,

Where, risen from a doub tfu l seat and half attainted stall ,The last kn ight of Europe takes weapons from the wall ,T he last and l ingering troubadou r to whom the bird hassung,

That once went Singing southward when all the worldwas young .

In that enormous Silence, t iny and unafraid,

Comes up along a winding road the no ise of the Crusade .

1 From Poems by G . K . Ch esterton . Copyrigh t by the JohnLane Co. and reprinted by perm ission of th e pub l ish ers.

2 94. G . K . Ch esterton

S trong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,

Don John of Austr ia i s going to the war,S t iff flags strain ing in the night-blasts coldIn the gloom black-purp le, in the gl int old-gold ,Torchl ight crim son on the copper kettle-drum s

,

Then the tuckets , then the trumpets , then the cannon ,and he com es .

Don John laugh ing in the brave beard curled ,Spurning of his st irrups l ike the th rones of all the world ,Hold ing his head up for a flag of all the free.

Love- l ight of Spainl—hurrah !Death- l ight of Afr ica !Don John of AustriaIs rid ing to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,(D on J ohn of Austria is going to the war. )He moves a m ighty turban on the t im eless houri ’s knees,His turban that i s woven of the sunsets and the seas .He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease ,And he strides among the tree- tops and i s taller than the

t rees ;And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent tob ring

B lack Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.

Giants and the Genn,

Mult iplex of wing and eye,

Whose strong obed ience b roke the skyWhen Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of themom ,

From the temp les where the yellow gods shut up the ireyes in scorn ;

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2 96 G . K . Ch esterton

Sudden and st il l—hurrah !Bolt from Iber ia !Don John of AustriaIs gone by Alcalar.

St Michael ’s on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the

north(D on J ohn of Austria is girt and going forth . )Where the grey seas gl itter and the sharp t ides sh iftAnd the sea- folk labour and the red sai ls l ift .

He shakes his lance of i ron and he clap s his wings of

stone ;T he noise i s gone through Normandy ; the n01se lS gone

alone ;T he North i s full of tangled th ings and texts and ach ing

eyes,

And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,And Christ ian killeth Christ ian in a narrow dusty room ,

And Christ ian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer faceof doom

,

And Chr ist ian hateth Mary that God k issed in Gal ilee,But Don John of Austr ia IS rid ing to the sea.

Don John cal l ing th rough the blast and the ecl ipseCrying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his l ips,Trumpet that sayeth ha !

Dom ino gloria.’

Don John of AustriaIs shout ing to the sh ip s .

T he Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,(D on J ohn of Austria is hidden in the smoke. )T he h idden room in man ’s house where God sits all theyear,

The sec ret window whence the world looks small andvery dear.

G . K . Ch es terton 2 97

He sees as in a m i rror on the m onstrous twil ight seaT he crescent of his cruel sh ips whose nam e i s mystery ;They fl ing great shadows foe-wards

,making Cross and

Castle dark,They vei l the p lumed l ions on the galleys of St . Mark ;And above the sh ips are palaces of brown ,

black-beardedch iefs,

And below the sh ip s are p r isons, where with multitudi

nous griefs,Christ ian capt ives sick and sunless , all a labou ring racerep ines

Like a race in sunken c it ies , l ike a nat ion in the m ines.They are lost l ike slaves that swat , and in the skies of

morn ing hungT he stai r-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny wasyoung .

They are countless , voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or

fleeing on

Before the h igh Kings’ horses in the gran ite of Babylon .

And many a one grows witless in his qu iet room in hellWhere a yellow face looks inward through the latt ice of

his cell, ! sign

And he finds his God forgotten , and he seeks no more a

(But Don J ohn of Austria has burst the battle- line ! )Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop ,Purpl ing all the ocean l ike a bloody p i rate

’s sloop ,Scarlet runn ing over on the silvers and the golds,B reaking of the hatches up and burst ing of the holds,Thronging of the thousands up that labour unde r seaWh ite ror bl iss and blind for sun and stunned for l iberty .

Vivat H ispania !

D om ino Gloria !

Don John of AustriaHas set his people free !

2 98 G . K . Ch esterton

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath(Don J ohn of Austria rides hom eward with a wreath . )And he sees across a weary land a straggl ing road inSpain ,

Up wh ich a lean and fool ish knight for ever rides in vain,

And he sm iles, but not as Sultans sm ile, and settles backthe blade .

(But D on J ohn of Austria rides hom e from the Crusade . )

THE DONKEY

When fi shes flew and forests walkedAnd figs grew upon thorn ,Som e moment when the moon was blood ,Then surely I was born ;

W ith monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears l ike errant wings ,T he dev i l ’s walk ing parodyOn all four-footed th ings .

T he tattered outlaw of the earth ,Of ancient crooked will ;Starve , scourge, der ide me : I am dumb

,

I keep my secret st i ll.

Fools ! For I also had my hour ;One far fierce “

hour and sweetThere was a shout about my ears,And palm s before my feet.

J ohn M asefi eld

John M asefi eld was born June I,1 874 , in Ledbury, Hert

fordsh ire. He Was th e son of a lawyer but, being of a rest

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300 J ohn M asefi eld

T he m en of the tatte red battal ion wh ich fights t il l it d ies,

Dazed with the dust of the battle, the d in and‘

the cries .T he m en with the broken heads and the blood runninginto their eyes .

Not the be-m edalled Commander, beloved of the throne,Rid ing cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown ,But the lads who carried the kopp ie and cannot be known .

Not the ruler for m e, but the ranker, the tramp of the

road ,T he slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with

the goad ,T he man with too we ighty a burden , too weary a load .

The sai lor,the stoker of steam ers

,the man with the clout,

T he chantyman bent at the hall iards putt ing a ti me to

the shout ,The drowsy man at the wheel and the t ired look-out .

O thers may sing of the wine and the wealth and the

m i rth,The portly presence of potentates goodly in girthMine be the d irt and the dross, the dust and scum of the

earth

The i rs be the music, the colour, the glory , the gold ;Mine be a handfu l of ashes , a mouthfu l of mould .

Of the maim ed , of the halt and the bl ind in the rain andthe cold

Of these shal l my songs be fash ioned , my tales be told .AMEN .

J ohn M asefi eld 30 1

SEA-FEVER

I must down to the seas again ,to the lonely sea and the

sky,

And all I ask is a tal l sh ip and a star to steer her by ,And the wheel’s kick and the wind ’

s song and the wh itesai l’s shaking,

And a grey m ist on the sea’s face and a grey dawnbreaking.

I must down to the seas again , for the call of the runn ingt ide

I s a wild cal l and a clear call that may not be den ied ;And all I ask is awindy day with the wh ite clouds flying,And the flung sp ray and the blown spum e, and the sea

gulls crying .

I m ust down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy l ife .

T o the gull ’s way and the whale ’s way where the wind’s

l ike a whetted kn ife ;And all I ask is a m erry yarn from a laugh ing fellowrover ,

And qu iet sleep and a sweet dream when the long t rick ’

s

over.

ROUNDING THE HORN

(From “Dauber

”

)

Then came the cry of Call all hands on deck !”

T he Dauber knew its m ean ing ; it was com e :

Cape Horn,that tramples beauty into wreck ,

And crumples steel and sm ites the strong m an dumb .

1 From The Story of a Round-House by John M asefie l d .

Copyr igh t, 1 9 1 3 , by T h e M acm i l lan Company. Reprinted byperm ission of th e pub l ishers.

30 2 J ohn M asefi eld

Down clattered flying k ites and staysai ls ; someSang out in qu ick , h igh calls : the fai r- leads ski rled

,

And from the south-west came the end of the world“Lay out !

”the Bosun yelled . The Daube r laid

Out on the yard , gripp ing the yard , and feel ingS ick at the m ighty space of air d isp layedBelow his feet , where m ewing b irds were wheel ing.

A giddy fear was on him ; he was reel ing .

He bit his lip half th rough , clutch ing the jack .

A cold sweat glued the sh i rt upon his back .

T he yard was shak ing , for ab race was loose .

He felt that he would fall ; he clutched,he bent ,

Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWh ile i d iot ic p rompt ings came and went .Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent ;He saw the water darken . Som eone yelled ,“Frap it ; don

’

t stay to furl ! Hold on !”He held .

Darkness came down—half darlm ess —in a wh irl ;T he sky went out

,the waters d isappeared .

He felt a shocking pressu re of blowing hurlT he sh ip upon her s ide . T he darkness spearedAt her with wind ; she staggered , she careered ;Then down she lay. T he Dauber felt her go,He saw her yard t i lt downwards. Then the snow

Wh irled all about— dense , mult itudinous , coldM ixed with the W ind ’s one dev i l ish thrust and shr iek ,Wh ich whiffled out m en ’s tears, defeated , took hold ,Flattening the flying d rift against the cheek .

T he yards buckled and bent , man could not speak.

T he sh ip lay on her b roadside ; the W ind’s sound

Had dev i l ish mal ice at hav ing got her downed .

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304. Wilfrid Wilson G ibson

( see Preface ) be ing im itative in manner and sentimental lyromantic in tone . W ith The Stonefolds ( 1 907 ) and DailyBread G ibson executed a comp l ete righ t-about-face and,

with dramatic brev ity, wrote a series of poems m irror ing th e

dream s, pursu its and fears of common human ity. Fires ( 1 9 1 2 )

m arks an advance in techn ique and power. And though in

Livelihood ( 1 9 1 7 ) G ibson seems to be th eatrical iz ing and

m ere ly exp loit ing h is working-

peop le, h is later lyrics fre

quent ly recapture the veracity.

THE STONE 1

And wil l you cut a stone for him ,

T o set above his head !And will you cut a stone for himA stone for him ! ”

she said .

Th ree days before,a sp l intered rock

Had struck her lover deadHad struck him in the quarry dead

,

Where , careless of the warn ing call ,He loitered , wh ile the shot was fired

A l ively str ipl ing, b rave and tal l ,And sure of all his heart desiredA flash , a shock ,‘A rumbl ing fallAnd

,broken ’neath the broken rock,

A l ifeless heap , with face of clay ;And st i l l as any stone he lay,With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to b reak the news to her ;And I could hear my own heart beat

1 From Fires by W i lfr i d W i l son Gibson. Copyr igh t, 1 9 1 2 ,

by T he M acm i l lan Co. Reprinted by permission of th e pub

lishers.

Wilfrid Wilson G ibson

With dread of what my l ips m ight say.

But som e poor fool had sped before ;And fl inging wide her father ’s door ,Had blurted out the news to her,

Had struck her lover dead for her,Had struck the girl ’s heart dead in her,Had struck l ife, l ifeless , at aword ,And dropped it at her feet :

Then hu rried on his witless way,Scarce knowing she had heard .

And when I cam e, she stood

,alone

A woman,tu rned to stone

And, though no word at all she said,

I knew that all was known .

Because her heart was dead ,She did not sigh nor moan

,

His mother weptShe could not weep .

Her lover sleptShe could not sleep .

Th ree days,three n ights,

She did not sti rThree days , three n ights,Were one to her,

Who never closed her eyesFrom sunset to sunrise ,From dawn to evenfallHer tearless

,star ing eyes

,

That see ing naught , saw all.

T he fou rth n ight when I came from work,I found her at my door .And will you cu t a stone for him !

”

305

Wilfrid Wilson G ibson

She sai d and spoke no moreBut followed m e

,as I went in ,

And sank upon a chair ;And fixed her grey eyes on my face,W ith st il l , unsee ing stare.

And , as she waited pat iently,I could not bear to feelThose st i ll , grey eyes that followed me,Those eyes that p lucked the heart from me,

Those eyes that sucked the breath from me

And curdled the warm blood in me,

Those eyes that cat m e to the bone,And p ierced my marrow like cold steel .

And so I rose , and sought a stone ;And cut it , smooth and square :And , as I worked , she sat and watched ,Beside me, in her chair.

N ight after night,by candlel ight,

I cut her lover’s name

N ight after night,so st il l and wh ite,

And l ike a ghost she came ;

And sat beside m e in her chair ;And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke ;And hardly st irred :She never spokeA single word :And not a sound or murmur b rokeThe quiet, save the mallet- stroke .

W ith st i l l eyes ever on my hands,W ith eyes that seemed to burn my h ands ,My wincing

,overwearied hands,

She watched , with bloodless lips apart,

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308 E dward Th omas

Edward Thomas, one of th e l itt le-known but most individualof modern Engl ish poets, was born in 1 878. For many yearsbefore h e turned to verse, Thomas had a large fo l lowing as

a critic and author of trave l -books, b iograph ies, pot-bo i lers.

I t needed som eth ing fore ign to stir and animate what wasnative in h im . So wh en Robert Frost, the New England poet,went abroad in 1 9 1 2 for two years and became an intimateof Thomas

’

s,th e Engl ish cr itic began to wr ite poetry. Lov

ing, l ike Frost, th e m inutia of existence, th e quaint and casualturn of ord inary l ife

,h e caught the magic of th e Engl ish

countryside in its unpoet ic ized quietude. I t is not d isi l lusion,it is rath er an absence of i l lusion . Poems ded icatedto Robert Frost, is fu l l of Thomas

’s fide l ity to l itt le th ings,

th ings as unglorifi ed as the unfreez ing of th e“rock - l ike mud,

”

a ch i l d ’s path , a l ist of quaint- sound ing v i l lages, b ird s’

nests

uncovered by th e autumn wind , dusty nett les. His l ines glowwith a d eep reverence for th e so i l .Thomas was ki l led at A rras, at an observatory outpost, on

Easter M onday,1 9 1 7 .

IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE

I f I should ever by chance grow richI ’ll buy Godham , Cockridden,

and Ch i lderditch ,Roses , Pyrgo, and Lapwater,And let them all to my elder daughter .T he rent I shal l ask of her W lll be onlyEach year’s first v iolets

,wh ite and lonely,

T he first p r im roses and orch isesShe must find them before I do,

that i s.But if she finds a blossom on furzeWi thout rent they shal l all for ever be hers,Codham , Cockridden , and Ch ilderditch ,Roses , Pyrgo, and Lapwater,I shal l give them all to my elder daughter.

Edward Thomas 309

TALL NETTLES

Tall nettles cover up , as they have doneThese many sp rings , the rusty harrow, the ploughLong worn out

,and the roller made of stone

Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

Th is corner of the farmyard I l ike mostAs well as any bloom upon a flowerI l ike the dust on the nettles

,never lost

Except to p rove the sweetness of a shower.

COCK-CROW

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by nightT o be cut down by the sharp axe of l ight,Out of the n ight, two cocks together crow

,

Cleaving the darkness with a s ilver blow:

And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand ,Heralds of splendou r, one at e ither hand

,

Each fac ing each as in a coat of arm sT he m ilkers lace thei r boots up at the farm s.

Seumas O’

Sullioan

James Starkey was born in Dub l in in 1 879 . Writing unde rth e pseudonym of Seumas O

’Sullivan

,he contributed a great

variety of prose and verse to various I rish papers. H is reputation as a poet began with h is appearance in New Songs,

edited by George Russe l l (“A . Later,h e publ ish ed Th e

Twilight People The Earth Lower and Poems

3 10 Seumas O’

Sullivan

PRAISE

Dear, they are praising your beauty,T he grass and the sky :

The sky in a Silence of wonder,T he grass in a s igh .

I too would s ing for your praising,Dearest , had ISpeech as the wh ispering grass,‘Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the prais ingBeauty so h igh .

Sweet, you are praised in a s ilence,

Sung in a sigh .

Charlotte Mew

One of the most amaz ing figures in modern poetry is Charlotte M ew. She has pub l ish ed on ly one book

, yet that one

smal l col lection contains some of the finest poetry of our t imes.

In 1 9 1 6, The Farmer’

s B ride, a paper-covered pamph let,appeared in England . I t contained just seventeen poems

,the

pruned fru it of many years. Saturday Market ( 1 92 1 ) is the

Amer ican ed ition of th is vo lume with e leven poem s added .Had M iss M ew printed noth ing but the or iginal book let, itwou l d have been suffic ient to rank h er among the most dis

tinctive and intense of l iv ing poets. H ers is the d isti l lation,th e essence of emotion

,rather than the stirr ing up of pas

sions. Her most m emorab le work is in dramatic proj ectionsand poignant mono logues (unfortunate ly too long to quote )l ike “T he Change l ing,” with its fantast ic pathos, and that

powerfu l med itation,

“M ade le ine in Church .

” But lyr ics as

swift as“Sea Love”

or as slowly hymn- l ike as’ “B eside the

B ed,”

are equal ly sure of thei r p lace in Engl ish literature.

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3 1 2 Charlotte M ew

H eer ’s the same l ittle fishes that sputter and swim ,

W i’ the moon ’s old gl im on the grey, wet sand ;An

’

him no more to m e nor m e to him

Than the wind goin ’

over my hand .

Harold Monro

Haro l d M onro, who d escr ibes h imse lf as

“author, pub l isher,

ed itor and book- se l ler,” was born in B russe l s in 1 879 . M onrofounded T h e Poetry B ookshop in London in 1 9 1 2 and h is

quarter ly Poetry and Drama ( d iscontinued during th e warand revived in 1 9 1 9 as The Chapbook, a month ly ) was, in a

sense, th e organ of th e younger men .

M onro’s poetry is impe l led by a pecu l iar mystic ism , x

a mys

ticism that dep icts th e'

p lay between th e wor l d s of real ity and

fantasy. H is Strange M eetings ( 1 9 1 7 ) and Children of Love

( 1 9 1 5) present, with an or iginal ity rare among M onro’s con

temporaries, th e re lation of man not on ly to th e earth h e rosefrom , but to th e inan imate th ings h e moves among. Eventhe most wh im sical of th is poet’

s concepts have an emotionalintensity beneath the ir ski lfu l rhythms.

EVERY TH ING

S ince man has been art iculate,Mechanical

,imp rov idently wise ,

( Servant of Fate ) ,He has not understood the l ittle cr iesAnd foreign conversat ions of the smal lDel ightful creatures that have followedNot far beh ind ;Has fai led to hear the sympathetic c all

Of Crockery and Cutlery, those k indReposeful Teraph im

Harold Monro 3 1 3

Of his dom est ic happ iness ; the S toolHe sat on ,

or the Door he entered th roughHe has not thanked them ,

overbearing fool !What is be com ing to !

But you should l isten to the talk of these .

Honest they are , and pat ient they have kept ;Served him withou t his Thank you or his PleaseI often heardT he gentle Bed, a sigh between each word

,

Murmu ring, before I slep t .

The Candle, as I blew it, cr ied aloud ,

Then bowed,

And in a smoky argument

Into the darkness went .

The Kettle pu ffed a ten tacle of b reath“Pooh ! I have boiled his wate r

,I don ’

t knowWhy ; and he always says I boi l too slow.

He never calls m e‘Sukie

,dear ,

’

and oh,

I wonder why I squander my desi reS itt ing subm issive on his kitchen fire .

Now the old Copper Basin suddenlyRattled and tumbled from the shelf,Bump ing and cry ing : I can fall by m yself ;Withou t a woman

’s handT o patron ize and coax and flatter me,

I understandThe lean and poise of gravitable land .

I t gave a raucous and tumultuous shout ,

Twisted itself convulsively about ,Rested upon the floor

,and, wh i le I stare,

I t stares and grins at m e .

3 14 Harold Monro

T he old impetuous Gas above my headBegins irasc ibly to flare and fret

,

Wheezing into its ep i lept ic jet,Rem inding m e I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak ; an Empty-Cupboard doorSwings open ; now a wild P lank of the floorB reaks from Its JoISt , and leaps beh ind my foot.Down from the ch imney , half a pound of SootTumbles and l ies

,and shakes itself again .

The Putty cracks against the window-

pane .

A p iece of Paper in the basket shovesAnother p iece , and toward the bottom moves.My independent Penc il , wh i le I write ,Breaks at the point : the rum inat ing ClockS t i rs all its body and begins to rock

,

Warn ing the wait ing presence of the Night ,S t rikes the dead hour , and tumbles to the plainTicking of ordinary work again .

You do well to rem ind me,and I p raise

You r strangely ind iv idual fore ign ways .You call m e from myself to recogn izeCompanionsh ip in your unselfi sh eyes .I want your dear acquaintances, althoughI pass you ar rogantly over

,throw

Your lovely sounds,and squander them along

l\ly busy days . I’l l do you no more wrong.

Purr for m e , Sukie, l ike a faithful cat .

You ,my well t rampled Boots , and you ,

my Hat,

Remain my fr iends : I feel , though I don’

t speak ,You r touch grow kindl ier from week to week .

I t well becom es our mutual happ inessT o go toward the sam e end more or less .

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3 1 6 A lfred N oy es

write a kind of poetry that is not only sal eab l e but popu larwith m any c lasses of peop l e .

His first book, The Loom of Years was pub l ishedwh en h e was on ly 2 2 years old

,and Poems ( 1 904 ) intensified

the prom ise of h is first pub l ication. Unfortunate ly,Noyes has

not d eve loped h is gifts a s deep ly as h is adm irers have hoped .H is poetry, extrem e ly straigh tforward and rhythm ical , h as

often d egenerated into cheap sentimental it ies ; it has fre

quent ly attempted to express profund ities far beyond Noyes’s

power.What is most appeal ing about h is best verse is its ease and

heartiness ; th is singer’s gift l ie s in the almost personal bondestab l i shed between th e poet and h is pub l ic . Peop le have such

a good t im e read ing 11 18 vivac ious l ines because Noyes hadsuch a good tim e wr iting th em . Noyes’

s own re l ish fi l led and

quickened gl ees and catch es l ike Forty Singing Seamenth e lusty choruses in Tales of the M ermaid Tavernand the genu ine ly insp ired nonsense of the ear l ier Forest ofWild Thyme

His e ight vo lumes were assemb l ed in 1 9 1 3 and pub l ish ed intwo books of Collected Poems (Freder ick A . Stokes Company ) .

THE BARREL-ORGAN

There ’s a barrel -organ caroll ing across a golden streetIn the City as the sun s inks low;And the music ’s not immortal ; but the world has made

it“ sweet

And fulfilled it with the sunset glow ;And it pulses through the p leasures of the City and the

painThat surround the singing organ l ike a large eternall ight ;

And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and night .

A lfred N oy es 3 1 7

And now it’

s march ing onward through the realm s of

old romance,

And troll ing ou t a fond fam il iar tune,

And now it’

s roar ing cannon down to fight the King of

France,And now it

’

s p rattl ing softly to the moon .

And all around the organ there’s a sea without a shoreOf human joys and wonders and regrets ;

T o remember and to recompense the music evermoreFor what the cold mach inery forgets

Yes ; as the music changes,

Like a p rismatic glass,I t takes the l ight and rangesTh rough all the m oods that pass ;Dissects the common carn ivalOf passions and regrets,

And gives the world a glimpse of all

T he colours it forgets.

And there La Traviata sighsAnother sadder song ;And there ! I Trovatore cr iesA tale of deepe r wrong ;And bolder kn ights to battle go

With sword and sh ield and lance,Than ever here on earth belowHave wh i rled into—a dance !

Go down to Kew in l ilac- t im e , in l ilac- t im e, in l ilac- t ime ;

Go down to Kew in l ilac- t ime ( it isn’

t far fromLondon ! )

And you shal l wander hand in hand with love in sum

m er ’s wonderland ;Go down to Kew in l ilac- t ime ( it isn

’

t far fromLondon

3 18 A lfred N oy es

T he cherry- trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and

sweet perfume,

The cherry- trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near

to London ! )And there they say, when dawn is h igh and all the

world ’s a blaze of skyThe cuckoo

,though he’

s very shy, will s ing a song forLondon .

The night ingale is rather rare and yet they say you’l l

hear him there

At Kew, at Kew in lilac-t ime (and oh , so near to

London ! )T he l innet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long

hallooAnd golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogleLondon .

For Noah hardly knew a b ird of any k ind that isn’

t heardA t Kew,

at Kew in l ilac-t ime (and oh, so near to

London ! )And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut

sp i res are out

You ’ll hear the rest, without a doubt, all chorusing

for London

Com e down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in

tim e;

Com e down to Kew in lilac-tim e ( it isn’

t far

L ondon ! )And you shall wander hand in hand with love in sum

m er’

s wonderland;

Com e down to Kew in lilac- tim e ( it isn’

t far

London ! )

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3 2 0 A lfred N oy es

There’s a labourer that listens to the voices of the deadIn the City as the sun sinks low;And his hand begins to t remble and his face i s rather redAs he sees a loafer watch ing him and—there he turns his

headAnd stares into the sunset where his April love i s fled,For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is ledThrough the land where the dead dream s go

There’s a barrel-organ caroll ing across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks low;Though the music ’s only Verdi there ’s a world to make it

sweetJust as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven

m eet

Mellows all the sooty C ity ! Hark , a hundred thousandfeet

Are march ing on to glory through the popp ies and the

vvheat

In the land where the dead dream s go .

So it’

s Jerem iah , Jerem iah ,What have you to say

When you m eet the garland girlsTripp ing on thei r way !All around my gala hatI wear a wreath of roses(A long and lonely year it i sI

’

ve waited for the M ay ! )I f any one should ask you ,

The reason Why I wear it isMy own love , my true love is com ing

home today .

A lfred N oy es 3 2 1

And it’

s buy a bunch of v iolets for the lady( I t

’

s lilac- tim e in London ; it’

s lilac- tim e in London ! )Buy a bunch of v iolets for the lady ‘

Wh ile the sky bu rns blue above

On the othe r side the street you ’ll find it shady( I t

’

s lilac- tim e in L ondon ; it’

s lilac- tim e in L ondon ! )But buy a bunch of v iolets for the lady,And tell her she

’s you r own true love .

There ’s a barrel -organ caroll ing across a golden streetIn the City as the

,

sun sinks glittering and slow;And the music’s not imm ortal ; but the world has made

it sweetAnd enriched it with the harmon ies that make a song

completeIn the deeper heavens of music where the night and morn

ing m eet,

As it dies into the sunset glow ;And it pulses th rough the pleasures of the C ity and the

painThat surround the s inging organ l ike a large eternall ight,

And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and n ight .

And there,as the music changes,

T he song runs round again ;Once more it turns and rangesThrough all its joy and painDissects the common carnivalOf passions and regrets ;And the wheel ing world remembers allT he wheel ing song forgets .

3 2 2 A lfred N oy es

Com e down to Kew in lilac- tim e, in lilac- tim e, in lilac

tim e;

Come down to Kew in lilac-time ( it isn’

t far fromLondon ! )

And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in sum‘xm er

'

s wonderland,

Com e down to Kew in lilac-time ( it isn’

t far fromLondon ! )

EPILOGUE

(From The Flower of Old Japan

Carol , every v iolet hasHeaven for a look ing-glass !

Every l ittle valley l iesUnder many- clouded sk ies ;Every l ittle cottage standsG irt about with boundless lands.

Every l ittle gl immering pondClaim s the m ighty shores beyondShores no seaman ever hai led ,Seas no sh ip has ever sailed .

All the shores when day is doneFade into the sett ing sun ,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech .

Beauty is a fading flower,

Truth i s but a ‘wizard ’s tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it roll s.

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3 2 4. Padraic Colum

Earth savage, earth broken , the bru tes , the dawn manthere in the sunset ,

And the P lough that is twin to the Sword , that i s founderof cit ies !

B rute- tamer, p lough -maker, earth-b reaker ! Can ’st hear !

There are ages between us .I s it p raying you are as you stand there alone in the

sunset !

Su rely our sky-born gods can be naught to you , earth

ch i ld and earth master !Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan , or

Dana!

Yet , why give thought to the gods ! Has Pan led yourbrutes where they stumble !

Has Dana numbed pain of the ch i ld-bed, orWotan puthands to your p lough !

What matter your fool ish rep ly ! O ,man, standing

lone and bowed earthward ,Your task is a day near its close. G ive thanks to the

night-giv ing God.

”

S lowly the darkness fall s, the broken lands blend withthe savage ;

T he brute- tam er stands by the brutes, a head ’s breadthonly above them .

A head ’s breadth ! Ay, but therein i s hel l’s depth , and

the height up to heaven ,And the th rones of the gods and their halls, the ir chariots,

purples , and splendors .

J oseph Campb ell 32 5

(Seosamh M acCathmhaoil)

Joseph Campbe l l was born in B e lfast in 1 881 , and is not

on ly a poet but an artist ; he m ade all th e i l lustrations for TheRushlight a vo lum e of h is own poem s. Wr iting underthe Gae l ic form of h is nam e

,h e has pub l ish ed half a dozen

books of verse , th e most striking of wh ich is The M ountainy

Singer, first pub l ished in Dubl in in 1 909 .

THE OLD WOMAN

As a wh ite candleIn a holy p lace,

So is the beautyOf an aged face .

As the spent radianceOf the winter sun ,

So is a womanWith her travail done .

Her b rood gone from her,

And her thoughts as st illAs the watersUnder a ru ined m ill .

Lasc e lles Ab ercrom b ie

Lasce l les Abercrombie was born in 1 881 and educated at

V ictoria University, M anchester. Like M asefi eld, h e gainedh is reputation rap id ly. Total ly unknown unti l 1 909 , upon th e

publ ication of I nterludes and Poems, h e was recognized as

one of th e greatest metaphysical poets of h is period . Emblems

of Love th e r ipest co l lection of h is blank verse dia

lognes, justified th e enthusiasm of h is adm irers.

32 6 Lasc e lles Ab ercrom b ie

M any of Abercrombie s poems,th e best of wh ich are too

long to quote, are found ed on scr iptural themes, but it is th e

unde rcurrent rath er than the surface of h is verse wh ich moveswith a strong re l igious conv iction . Abercrombie’

s images are

daring and bri l l iant ; h is l ines, sometimes too c lose ly packed ,glowwith an intensity that is warm ly sp iritual and fervent lyhuman.

FROM VASHTI

What th ing shall be held up to woman’s beauty !

Where are the bounds of it ! Yea, what i s allThe world

,but an awning scaffolded am id

The waste per ilous Etern ity , to lodgeTh is Heaven-wander’

d princess , woman’s beauty !

T he East and West kneel down to thee, the NorthAnd South ; and all for thee their shoulders bearT he load of fourfold space . As yellow mornRuns on the sl ippery waves of the spread sea,T hy feet are on the griefs and joys of men

That sheen to be thy causey. Out of tearsIndeed , and bl itheness , murder and lust and love,Whatever has been passionate in clay ,T hy flesh was tempered . Behol d in thy bodyT he yearnings of all m en measured and told ,Insat iate endless agonies of desireGiven thy flesh

,the meaning of thy shape !

What beauty is there, but thou makest it !How is earth good to look on

,woods and fields

,

The season ’s garden , and the courageous hills ,All th is green raft of earth moored in the seas !T he manner of the sun to ride the air,

T he stars God has imagined for the night !What ’s th is beh ind them , that we cannot near,

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32 8 J am es S teph ens

S ince t ime beganOf any human qual ity or st irSave what the dreary winds and waves incur.

And in the hush of waters was the soundOf pebbles rol l ing round ,For eve r roll ing with a hollow sound .

And bubbl ing sea-weeds as the waters go,Swish to and fro

The i r long, cold tentacles of sl imy grey.There was no day,

Nor ever cam e a nightSett ing the stars al ightT o wonder at the m oonWas twil ight only and the fr ightened croon ,Sm itten to wh impers , of the dreary windAnd waves that jou rneyed bl indAnd then I loosed my ear. O

,it was sweet

T o hear a cart go jolt ing down the street .

WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB

I saw God. Do you doubt it !Do you dare to doubt it !I saw the Alm ighty M an . His handWas rest ing on a mountain

, and

He looked upon the Worl d and all aboutI saw him p lainer than you see m e now,

You mustn ’

t doubt it .

He was not sat isfied ;H i s look was all d issat isfied .

H is beard swung on a wind far out of s ightBeh ind the world ’s curve , and there was l ight

Jam es Steph ens 3 2 9

Most fearfu l from H is forehead , and H e sighed ,“That star went always wrong, and from the startI was dissat isfied .

”

He l ifted up H is handI say He heaved a dreadful handOver the sp inn ing Earth . Then I said

,S tay,

You must not str ike it , God ; I’

m in the way ;And I will never move from where I stand .

”

He said ,“Dear ch i ld , I feared that you were dead ,

And stayed H is hand .

J ohn Drinkwater

Primari ly a poetic dramatist, John Drinkwater, born in

1 882 , is best known as th e author of A braham Lincoln—A Play( 1 9 1 9 ) founded on Lord Charnwood’

s m aster ly and analyt icalbiography. H e has pub l ish ed several vo lum es of poem s

,most

of them meditative in mood .

T h e best of h is verses h ave been co l lected in Poems,1 908

1 9 , and th e two h ere repr inted are used by sp ec ial arrangement with Houghton M ifllin Company, th e author ized pub

lishers.

RECIPROCITY

I do not th ink that skies and m eadows are

Moral , or that the fixture of a starCom es of a qu iet sp i r it , or that treesHave wisdom in thei r windless silences .Yet these are th ings invested in my moodWith constancy

,and peace , and fort itude ;

That in my troubled season I can cry

Upon the wide composure of the sky ,And envy fields

,and wish that I m ight be

As l ittle daunted as a star or tree .

330 J ohn Drinkwater

A TOWN WINDOW

Beyond my window in the nightI s but a drab inglorious street ,

Yet there t he frost and clean starl ightAs overWarwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey d rift of the townT he crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick sp r ing in flame and gold .

And when the tramway down the h illAc ross the cobbles moans and r ings

,

There is about my window- sil lT he tumult of a thousand wings .

J . C . Squ ire

Jack Col l ings Squ ire was born A pr i l 2 , 1 883 , at P lymouth ,of Devon ian ance stry. He was educated at B lundell

’s and

Cambr idge Un iversity, and became known fi rst as a remarkab ly adroit parod ist. His I maginary Speeches ( 1 9 1 2 ) and

Tricks of the Trade ( 1 9 1 7 ) are amusing parod ies and, what

is more, exce l lent cr itic ism . He edi ted The New Statesman

for a wh ile and founded The London M ercury ( 11 month ly of

wh ich h e is ed itor ) in November, 1 9 1 9 . Und er th e pseudonym“So lomon Eagle”

h e wrote a page of l iterary cr itic ism everyweek for six years, m any of these papers being co l lected inh is vo lume, B ooks in GeneralH is or iginal poetry is inte l lectual but simp le , sometimes

metaphysical and always interesting techn ical ly in its var iab lerhythm s. A co l lection of h is best verse up to 1 9 1 9 was publish ed und er th e t it le, Poems : First Series. Anoth er vo lume ,Poems : Second Series appeared during Squire’

s v isit to America in the fal l of 1 92 1 .

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332 J . C . Squ ire

Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniacM ay howl the ir m enaces , and hai l descend

Yet it will bear with them ,serenely

,steadfastly

,

Not even scornfully, and wait the end.

And all a universe of nam eless m essengersFrom unknown distances may wh isper fear,And it will im itate immortal permanence ,And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.

I t stood there yesterday ; it will tomorrow, too,

When there i s none to watch , no al ien eyesT o watch its ugl iness assum e a majestyFrom thi s great sol itude of evening skies .

So lone,so very small , with worlds and worlds around ,

Wh i le l ife remains to it p repared to outface

Whatever awful unconj ectured myster iesM ay h ide and wait for it in t ime and space .

Anna Wickham

Anna Wickham was born in Wimb l edon, Surrey, in 1 883 .

She went to A ustral ia at six,returned wh en sh e was twenty

one, stud ied for Opera in Par is with De Reszke and sudden ly,after a few years of marriage , became a poet. In a burst of

creative energy sh e wrote n ine hundred poem s in four years.

H er two first books were repub l ished in Amer ica in one

vo lume, The Contemplative Quarry T h e most casualread ing of Anna W ickham’

s work reveal s the strength of h er

candor. The poem s cou l d scarce ly b e put in the category of“charm ing” verse ; they are astr ingent and sometimes harsh ;gnar l ed frequent ly by the ir own changes of mood . Her l inesp resent th e p icture of woman struggl ing between dreams and

domestic ity ; th ey are acute ly sensitive, restl ess, analytical.The very tone of h er poetry reflects the disturbed music and

the nervous intensity of h er age.

Anna Wickham 333

ENVOI

God, thou great symmetry ,Who put a bit ing lust in m e

From whence my sorrows sp ring,For all the frittered daysThat I have spent in shapeless ways,Give me one perfect th ing .

DOMESTIC ECONOMY

I will have few cooking-pots,They shall be b right ;They shall reflect to blindingGod ’s straight l ight .

I will have four garm ents,

They shall be clean ;My serv ice shal l be good ,Though my diet be m ean .

Then I shal l have excess to give to the poorAnd right to counsel beggars at my door .

THE S INGER

I f I had peace to sit and sing,

Then I could make a lovely th ing ;But I am stung with goads and wh ips,So I bu ild songs l ike i ron sh ips.

Let it be som eth ing for my song,I f it is somet im es swift and strong.

334 Jam es E lroy Fleck er

Anoth er poet whose ear ly death was a b low to Engl ishl iterature , James E lroy Flecker, was born in London, Novemb er 5, 1 884 . Possib ly due to h is low v ital ity

,Flecker at first

found l itt l e to interest h im but a c lassical reaction againstreal i sm in verse

,a de l ight in verbal craftsmansh ip , and a

passion for techn ical p erfect ion.

T h e advent of the war began to make Flecker’s verse morep ersonal and romantic . Th e tubercu losis th at final ly ki l l edh im at Davos P latz , Switzer land , January 3 , 1 9 1 5, forced h imfrom an O lymp ian d isinterest to a deep concern with l ife and

d eath .

H is two co lorfu l vo lum es are The Golden Journey to

Samarkand ( 1 9 1 3 ) and The Old Ships

STILLNESS

When the words rustle no more,And the last work ’s done,When the bolt l ies deep in the door,And Fi re , our Sun,Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the

When from the clock’s last ch ime to the next ch ime

S ilence beats his drum ,

And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time

Wheel ing and wh ispering com e,

She with the mould of form and he with the loom of

rhyme

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,

I am empt ied of all my d ream s :I only hear Earth tu rn ing, only seeEther’s long bankless st ream s,And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand

on me.

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336 D . H . Lawrenc e

FORSAKEN AND .FORLORN

The house i s s ilent , it i s late at night, I am alone.

From the balconyI can hear the I sar moan

,

Can see the wh iteRift of the r iver eer i ly, between the p ines , under

of stone .

Som e fi refl ies drift through the m iddle air

Tinily .

I wonder whereEnds th is darkness that annih i lates m e !

J ohn Fre eman

John Freeman, born in 1 885, has pub l ished several volumes

of p l easant ly d escr ipt ive verse. T h e two most d ist inctive are

Stone Trees ( 1 9 1 6 ) and M emories of Childhood

STONE TREES

Last night a sword - l ight in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark .

In that sharp l ight the fields d id lieNaked and stone- l ike ; each tree stoodLike a t ranced woman , bound and stark.

Far off the woodW ith darkness ridged the riven dark .

And cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to the i r burrows sl id ,And rooks were st il l in rigid boughs,

J ohn Freeman 337

And all th ings else were sti ll or hid.

From all the woodCam e but the owl ’s hoot , ghostly , clear .

In that cold trance the earth was heldI t seem ed an age, or t ime was nought .

Sure never from that stone- l ike fieldSp rang golden corn

,nor from those ch ill

Grey gran ite trees was music wrought .

In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone st ill .

I t seem ed an age, or t im e was noneSlowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd sh ivered , and the trees of stone

Bent and sighed in the gusty wind ,‘And rain swept as b i rds flocking sweep .

Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind .

From all the wood came no brave bi rd ,No song broke through the close- fall

’

n n ight,

Nor any sound from cowering herdOnly a dog’s long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale l ight .

And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.

Shane Leslie

Shane Lesl ie, the on ly surviving son of Sir John Le sl ie, wasborn at Swan Park , M onaghan, I re land , in 1 885 and was edu

cated at Eton and the Un iversity of Paris. He worked for a

t im e among th e I rish poor and was deep ly interested in the

Ce ltic rev ival .

338 Shane L eslie

Le sl ie has been editor of The Dublin Review s ince 1 9 1 6 .

H e is th e author of several vo lumes on I r ish po l itical mattersas we l l as The End of a Chapter and Verses in Peace and

War.

FLEET STREET

I never see the newsboys runAm id the wh i rl ing street ,W ith swift unt iring feet ,

T o cry the latest venture done ,But I expect one day to hear

Them cry the crack of doomAnd ris ings from the tomb ,W ith great Archangel M ichael near ;And see them running from the FleetAs m essengers of God,

W ith Heaven ’s t id ings shodAbout the ir brave unwearied feet.

S iegfried Sassoon

Siegfried (Loraine ) Sassoon, th e poet whom M asefi eld hai ledas

“one of England ’

s most br i l l iant r ising stars,” was bornSeptember 8, 1 886 . He was educated at M ar lborough and

C lare Co l lege, Cambri dge, and was a captain in the RoyalWe l sh Fusi l iers. H e fough t th ree t imes in France, once in

Pal estine, winning th e M i l itary Cross for br inging in ‘woundedon th e batt lefie l d .

His poetry d ivi des itse lf sharp ly in two mood s—the lyr icand th e ironic . H is ear ly l i lting poem s were without signifi

cance or ind ividual ity. B ut with The Old Huntsman ( 1 9 1 7 )Sassoon found his own id iom , and became one of the l ead ingyounge r poets upon the appearance of th is stri king vo lume .

T h e first poem , a long mono logue ev ident ly insp ired by M ase

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340 S iegfried Sassoon

Dream ing of th ings they d id with ball s and bats ,And mocked by hopeless longing to regainBank-hol idays

, and p ictu re shows , and spats,And going to the oflice in the t rain .

THE REAR—GUARD

Groping along the tunnel , step by step ,

He winked his prying torch with patch ing glareFrom side to side

,and sn iffed the unwholesom e air.

Tins, boxes , bottles , shapes too vague to know,

A m i r ror smashed,the mattress from a bed ;

And he , explor ing fifty feet belowT he rosy gloom of battle overhead .

Tripp ing, he grabbed the wal l ; saw som eone lie

Humped at his feet,half-h idden by a rug,

And stooped to give the sleeper’s arm a tug.

“I

’

m looking - for headquarters .” No rep ly .

God blast your neck !” (For days he’

d had no sleep . )Get up and gu ide m e through th is st inking place .

”

Savage, he kicked a soft,unanswer ing heap ,

And flashed his beam across the l iv i d faceTerr ibly glar ing up , whose eyes yet woreAgony dying hard ten days before ;And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound .

Alone he staggered on unt i l he foundDawn ’s ghost that filtered down a shafted stai rT o the dazed , m uttering creatu res undergroundWho hear the boom of shells in muflled sound .

A t last , with sweat of horror in his hai r ,He cl imbed th rough darkness to the twil ight air

,

Unloading hell beh ind him step by step .

S iegfried Sassoon 34 1

AFTERMATH

Have you forgotten ye t!

For the world ’

s events have rumbled on since those gaggeddays ,

Like traflic checked awh ile at the cross ing of c ity waysAnd

(the haunted gap in you r m ind has filled withthoughts that flow

Like clouds in the lit heavens of l ife ; and you’ re a man

reprieved to go,Taking you r peaceful share

‘

of Time, with joy to spare .

B ut the past is just the sam e,—and War

’

s a bloody

gam e

Have you forgotten yet ! .

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you ll

never forget .

Do you rem ember the dark months you held the sector atMam etz ,

T he n ights you watched and wired and dug and p iledsandbags on parapets !

Do you remember the rats ; and the stenchOf corpses rott ing in front of the front- l ine t rench

,

And dawn com ing,dirty-wh ite , and ch ill with a hopeless

rain !Do you ever st0p and ask , Is it all going to happen

again ! ”

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack ,And the anger

, the bl ind compass ion that se ized and shookyou then

As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of you rm en !

Do you rem ember the stretcher-cases lu rch ing back

342 Siegfried Sassoo

With dying eyes and loll ing heads, those ashen-greyMasks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay !

Have you forgotten yet !

Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you’

ll

never forget.

Rup ert Brook e

Possib ly th e most . famous of the Georgians, Rupert(Chawner) B rooke , was born at Rugby in August, 1 887 , h is

fath er be ing assistant master at th e schoo l . A s a youth ,B rooke was keen ly interested in all form s of ath letics, p laying cr icket, footbal l , tenn is, and swimm ing as we l l as most

professional s. He was six feet tal l,h is fine ly mo l ded h ead

topped with a crown of loose hair of l ive ly brown ; a go l denyoung A po l lo,” sai d Edward Thomas. Anoth er fr iend of h is

wrote , “T o look at, h e was part of th e youth of the wor l d .

”

A t th e very outbreak of the war, B rooke en l isted, firedwith an id eal i sm that conquered h is irony . A fter see ing service in B e lgium , h e spent the fo l lowing winter in a

train ing- camp in Dorsetsh ire and sai l ed with the B r itishM ed iterranean Exped itionary Force in February, 1 9 1 5, to takepart in th e unfortunate Dardane l l es Campaign.

B rooke never reach ed his destination. He d ied of b loodpo ison at Skyros, A pr i l 2 3 , 1 9 1 5. H is ear ly death was one

of England ’s great l iterary losses.

B rooke’s sonnet-sequence, 1 9 1 4 ( from wh ich “Th e So l d ier

is taken ) , wh ich , with proph etic irony, appeared a few weeksbefore h is d eath , contains the accents of immortal ity. And

T h e Old V icarage, Grantch ester” (unfortunate ly too longto repr int in th is vo lume ) , is fu l ly as characterist ic of the

l ighter and more p layfu l si de of B rooke’s temperament. Both

th ese phases are comb ined in“T he Great Lover,” of wh ich

Lasce l l es Abercromb ie has wr itten, “I t is l ife h e loves, and

not in any abstract sense, but all th e infin ite l itt l e fam i l iardetai ls of life , remembered and catalogued with de l ightfu lzest.”

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344 Rup ert Brook e

S teals down , I would cheat drowsy Death so far,

My night shall be rem embered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all m en ’s days .Shal l I not crown them with immortal p raiseWhom I have loved , who have given m e, dared with me

High secrets , and in darkness knelt to see

T he inenarrable godhead of del ight !Love i s a flam e ;

—we have beaconed the world ’s n ight .

A city — and we have built it,'

these and I .An emperor —we have taught the world to die .

So,for their sakes I loved , ere I go hence ,

And the h igh cause of Love’s m agnificence,

And to keep loyalt ies young , I’ll write those names

Golden for ever,eagles

,crying flames

,

And set them as a banner, that m en may know,

T o dare the generat ions , burn , and blowOut on the wind of Tim e , sh in ing and stream ing.

These I have loved :

Wh ite p lates and cup s, clean-gleam ing,Ringed with blue l ines ; and feathery , faery dust ;Wet roofs , beneath the lamp- l ight ; the st rong crustOf fr iendly b read ; and many- tast ing food ;Rainbows ; and the blue b itter smoke of wood ;And radiant raindrops couch ing in cool flowers ;And flowers them selves, that sway th rough sunny hours ,Dream ing of moths that d rink them under the moon ;Then , the cool kindl iness of sheets , that soonSmooth away t rouble ; and the rough male kissOf blankets ; grainy wood ; l ive hai r that i sSh ining and free “

; blue-massing clouds ; the keenUnpass ioned beauty of a great mach ine ;T he benison of hot water ; furs to touch ;The good sm el l of old clothes ; and other such

Rup ert Brook e 345

The com fortable sm ell of friendly fingers,Hai r ’s fragrance

,and the musty reek that l ingers

About dead leaves and last year’s ferns.

Dear nam es,And thousand others th rong to m e ! Royal flam es ;Sweet water’s d impl ing laugh from tap or sp ring ;Holes in the ground ; and voices that do s ingVoices in laughter , too ; and body

’

s pain ,

Soon tu rned to peace ; and the deep -

pant ing t rain ;Firm sands ; the l ittle dull ing edge of foam

That browns and dwindles as the wave goes hom e ;

And washen stones, gay for an hou r ; the coldGraveness of i ron ; moist black earthen mould ;Sleep ; and h igh p laces ; footp rints in the dew;And oaks ; and brown horse- chestnuts, glossy-new;And new-

peeled st icks ; and sh in ing pools on grass ;All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.

Whatever passes not, in the great hou r,Nor all my passion,

all my p rayers , have powerT o hold them wi th m e through the gate of Death .

They’ll p lay deserter , tu rn with the traitor b reath,

B reak the h igh bond we m ade , and sell Love’s trustAnd sacram ented covenant to the dust .—Oh , never a doubt but , som ewhere , I shall wake ,And give what ’

s left of love again , and m akeNew friends, now strangers .

But the best I ’

ve known,

Stays here , and changes,breaks

,grows old

,is blown

About the winds of the world,and fades from brains

Of l iv ing men , and dies.

Noth ing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one las t gift I give : that after m en

346 R up ert Brook e

Shal l know, and late r lovers , far- removedP raise you ,

All these were lovely”

; say,“He loved .

THE SOLD IER 1

I f I should die, th ink only th i s of m e ;

That there’s som e corner of a fore ign fieldThat i s for ever England . There shall beI n that r ich earth a richer dust concealed ;A dust whom England bore

,shaped , made aware,

Gave,once , her flowe rs to love , her ways to roam ,

A body of England ’s,b reath ing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home .

And th ink,th is heart, all ev i l shed away,

A pulse in the eternal m ind , no lessG ives som ewhere back the thoughts by Englandgiven ;

Her sights and sounds ; dream s happy as her day ;

And laughter,learnt of friends ; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an Engl ish h eaven .

J oseph P lunk ett

Joseph P lunkett was born in I re land in 1 887 and d evotedh imse lf to the cause that has compe l l ed so many martyrs.

H e gave all h is hours and final ly h is l ife in an effort to es

tab lish the freedom of h is country. H e was one of th e l eaders of that group of National ists wh ich inc lud ed M acDonagh

and Pad raic Pearse .

A fter th e Easter Week upr ising in Dub l in in 1 9 1 6, P lunkettand h is compatr iots were arrested by th e B r itish Government

and executed .

1From Th e Collected Poems of Rupert B rooke . Copyrigh t,

1 9 1 5, by John Lane Company and repr inted by perm ission.

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348 F . W . Harvey

Crowns for the i r ach ing foreheads . O thers’

beat

Long nails and heavy hamm ers for the feet

Of the i r forgotten Lord . (Who dares to boastThat he is gu i ltless ! ) O the rs coined it : mostD id with it— simp ly noth ing . (Here againWho cries his innocence ! ) Yet doth remainMetal unmarred , to each m an more or less

,

VVhereof to fash ion perfect lovel iness .

For m e,I do but bear with in my hand

(For sake of H im our Lord , now long forsaken )A simp le bugle such as may awakenWith one h igh morn ing note a drowsing man

That wheresoe’

er with in my motherlandThat sound may com e

,

’

twill echo far and wideLike p ipes of battle cal l ing up a clan ,Trumpet ing m en through beauty to God ’s s ide .

T . P . Cam eron Wilson

Tony P . Cameron W i l son was born in South Devon in

1 889 and was educated at Exete r and Oxford . He wrote one

nove l besides several artic l es under th e pseudonym Tipaca, a

euphonic comb ination of th e first th ree init ial s of h is name .

When th e war broke out h e was a teach er in a schoo l atH indhead

,Surrey ; and, after m any month s of grue l l ing con

fl ict, he was given a captaincy. He was ki l led in action by a

mach ine-gun bu l l et M arch 2 3 , 1 9 1 8, at th e age of 2 9 .

SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE

They left the fury of the fight ,And they were very t i red .

T he gates of Heaven we re Open quite,Unguarded and unwired .

T . P . Cam eron Wilson 349

There was no sound of any gun ,

T he land was st ill and green ;Wide h i lls lay silent in the sun

,

B lue val leys slept between .

They saw far-off a l ittle woodS tand up against the sky .

Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood ;Som e lazy cows went byThere were som e rooks sailed overhead

,

And once a church-bell pealed .

God ! but it’

s England, som eone said,

“And there

’

s a cricket-field !”

W. J . Turner

W. J . Turner was born in 1 889 and,al though l ittl e known

unti l h is appearance in Georgian Poetry 1 9 1 6- I 7, h as wr it

ten no few de l icate poem s. The H unter ( 1 9 1 6 ) and The

Dark Wind ( 1 9 1 8) both contain many imaginative and musical

V CI’

SCS.

ROMANCE

When I was but th i rteen or

I went into a gold land ,Ch imborazo

,Cotopaxi

Took m e by the hand .

My father died , my brother too,They passed l ike fleeting dreams

,

I stood where PopocatapetlIn the sunl ight gleam s .

350 W . J . Turner

I dim ly heard the master ’s voiceAnd boys far-off at p lay,Ch imborazo, CotopaxiHad stolen m e away .

I walked in a great golden dreamT o and fro from schoolSh in ing P0pocatapetlT he dusty streets d id rule .

I walked hom e with a gold dark boyAnd never a word I ’d say,

Ch im borazo,Cotopaxi

Had taken my speech away.

I gazed entranced upon his faceFairer than any flowerO sh in ing PopocatapetlI t was thy magic hour

T he houses, people, traffi c seemedTh in fading dream s by day ;Ch imborazo, Cotopaxi ,They had stolen my soul away !

Franc is L edwidg e

Franc is Ledwidge was born in Slane, County M eath , I re land ,in 1 89 1 . H is br ief l ife was fi tful and romantic. He was, at

var ious times, a miner, a grocer’s c lerk,a farmer, a scavenger,

an exper im enter in hypnotism , and,at the end, a so l d ier. He

served as a lance-corporal on th e Flanders front and waski l l ed in Ju ly

,1 9 1 7 , at the age of 2 6 years.

Ledwidge’s poetry is r ich in nature imagery ; h is l ines are

fu l l of co lor, in the manner of Keats, and unafl ectedly me lodions.

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352 I rene Ru th erford M cL eod

Not for m e the fi reside,the wel l-filled p late ,

But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and

hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my s ide ,Some have run a short wh ile, but none of them wouldb ide .

O m ine i s st i l l the lone trai l , the hard trai l , the best,Wide wind , and W i ld stars, and hunger of the quest !

Richard A ld ing ton

R ichard A l dington was born in England in 1 892 , and edu

cated at Dover Co l lege and London Un iversity. His first poems

were pub l ish ed in England in 1 909 ; I mages Old and New ap

peared in 1 9 1 5.

A l d ington and “H . D .

”(H i l da Doo l itt le , h is Amer ican wife )

are conced ed to b e two of th e foremost Imagist poets ; th e irsensitlve , fi rm and c l ean- cut l ines put to shame the ir scores of

im itators. A l d ington’s War and Love is somewhat

more regu lar in pattern, more humanized in its warmth .

IMAGES

Like a gondola of green scented fruitsDrift ing along the dank canals of Venice

,

You , O exqu i site one,

Have entered into my desolate city .

T he blue smoke leapsLike swirl ing clouds of b irds vanish ing.So my love leaps forth toward you ,

Vanishes and is renewed .

Richard A lding ton

111

A rose-yellow m oon in a pale sky

When the sunset is faint verm i l ionIn the m ist among the tree-boughsArt thou to me, my beloved .

IV

A young beech t ree on the edge of the forestS tands st ill in the even ing,Yet shudders through all its leaves in the l ight airAnd seem s to fear the starsSo are you st ill and so tremble .

VT he red deer are h igh on the mountain,

They are beyond the last p ine trees .‘And my desi res have run with them .

VI

The flower wh ich the wind has shakenIs soon filled again with rain ;So does my heart fil l slowly with tears,O Foam -Driver , Wind-of- the-Vineyards,Unt i l you return .

Rob ert N ich ols

Robert N icho l s was born on th e I sl e of Wight in 1 893. His

first vo lume, I nvocations was pub l ished wh i le h e wasat th e front, N icho l s having joined th e army wh i le h e was sti l lan undergraduate at Tr inity Co l l ege, Oxford . After servingone year as second l ieutenant in th e Royal Fie l d A rt i l lery, h ewas incapac itated by she l l shock, v isiting Am erica in 1 9 1 8

- 1 9

as a lecturer. H is Ardours and Endurances ( 1 9 1 7 ) is th e most

representative work of th is poet, although The Flower of Flame( 1 92 0 ) shows an advance in power.

354 R ob ert N ich ols

NEARER

Nearer and ever nearerMy body, t i red but tense,Hovers ’

twixt vague p leasureAnd tremulous confidence .

Arm s to have and to use them

And a soul to be madeWorthy

,if not worthy ;

I f afraid , unafraid .

T o endure for a l ittle ,T o endure and have doneM en I love about m e

,

Over m e the sun !

And should at last suddenlyFly the speed ing death ,T he four great quarters of heavenRece ive th i s l ittle breath .

Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen’s biography is p itifu l ly br ief. He was born

at Oswestry on the 1 8th of M arch,1 893 , was educated at th e

B irkenh ead Inst itute, matr icu lated at London Un iversity in

1 9 1 0 , obtained a pr ivate tutorsh ip in 1 9 1 3 near Bord eaux and

remained th ere for two years. In 1 9 1 5, in sp ite of d e l icateh ealth , h e joined the A rt ist’s R ifles, served in France from 1 9 1 6

to June 1 9 1 7 , wh en h e was inval id ed home . Fourteen month s

later, he returned to th e Western Front, was awarded the

M i l itary Cross for gal lantry in October and was ki l led—withtragic irony—a week before th e arm istice , on November 4 , 1 9 1 8,

wh i le trying to get h is m en across the Sombre Canal .

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356 Wilfred Owen

And witnessed exultat ionFaces that used to curse me , scowl for scowl ,Sh ine and l ift up with passion of oblat ion

,

Seraph ic for an hour, though they were foul .

I have‘

made fellowsh ip sUntold of happy lovers in old song.

For love i s not the bind ing of fair l ipsWith the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose r ibbon sl ips ,But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes arestrong ;

Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips ;Knit in the weld ing of the rifle- thong .

I have perce ived much beautyIn the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight ;Heard music in the s ilentness of duty ;Found peace where shell-storm s spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you shareWith them in hel l the sorrowful dark of hell

,

Whose world is but the t rembl ing of a flare,

And heaven but as the h ighway for a shell ,

You shall not hear their m irth :

You shall not come to th ink them wel l contentBy any j est of m ine . These men are worthYour tears : You are not worth their merriment.

Wilfred Owen 357

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle !Only the monstrous anger of the guns .Only the stuttering rifles’ rap id rattle

Can patter out the i r hasty orisons .No mockeries for them ; no p rayers nor bells ,Nor any voice of mourning save the choi rs,The shrill , dem ented choi rs of wail ing shells ;And bugles call ing for them from sad sh i res .

What candles may be held to speed them all!

Not in the hands of boys , but in the i r eyesShall sh ine the holy gl imm ers of good-byes.

T he pallor of girls’ brows shall be thei r pall ;

The i r flowers the tenderness of pat ient m inds,And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds .

Charles Ham ilton Sorley

Char les Ham i l ton Sor ley, who prom ised greater th ings than

any of the younger poets, was born at Old A berdeen in M ay,

1 895. He studied at M arl borough Co l l ege and Un iversityCo l lege, Oxford . H e was fin ish ing h is studies abroad and wason a wal king-tour along th e banks of the M ose l l e wh en th e

war came . Sor ley returned hom e to rece ive an immed iate com

m ission in th e 7th B attal ion of th e Suffo l k Regiment. In Au

gust, 1 9 1 5, at the age of 2 0 ,h e was m ade a captain. On Octo

b er 1 3 , 1 9 1 5, h e was ki l led in act ion near Hu l luch .

Sor ley l eft but one book, M arlborough and Oth er Poems. T h e

verse contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude .

Restraint, to lerance , and a dignity unusual for a boy of 2 0,

d istinguish h is poetry.

358 Charles Ham ilton Sorley

TWO SONNETS

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you .

Poets have wh itened at your h igh renown .

We stand among the many m i ll ions whoDo hourly wait to pass your pathway down .

You , so fam i l iar , once were strange : we tr iedT o l ive as of your presence unaware .

But now in every road on every sideWe see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I th ink it l ike that signpost in my landHoary and tall , wh ich pointed m e to go

Upward , into the h i lls,on the right hand ,

Where the m ists swim and the winds shriek andA hom eless land and friendless, but a landI d id not know and that I wished to know.

Such , such i s death : no triumph : no defeatOnly an empty pail , a slate rubbed clean

,

A m erciful putt ing away of what has been .

And th i s we know : Death i s not L ife effete,

L ife crushed , the broken pail . We who have seenSo marvellous th ings know well the end not yet .

Victor and vanquished are a-one in deathCoward and brave : friend , foe . Ghosts do not say,“Come

,what was your record when you d rew breath !

”

But a b ig blot has hid each yesterday

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360 R ob ert Graves

An unconquerab le gayety rises from h is Fairies and Fusiliers

a surpr ising and heal ing humor that is warm ly indiv idual . In Country Sentiment ( 1 9 1 9 ) Graves turns to a freshand more ser ious simp l ic ity. A buoyant fancy ripp les beneaththe most archaic of h is bal lads and a quaintly original turn of

mind saves them from their own echoes.

IT ’S A QUEER TIME

I t’

s hard to know if you ’

re al ive or deadWhen steel and fi re go roaring through your head .

One moment you ’ll be crouch ing at your gunTraversing, mowing heaps down half in fun :T he next , you choke and clutch at your right breastNo tim e to th ink— leave all—and off you go

T o Treasure Island where the Sp ice winds blow,

T o lovely groves of mango, quince, and l ime

Breathe no good-bye , but ho, for the Red West !I t

’

s a queer t im e.

You’

re charging madly at them yell ing Fag !”

When somehow someth ing gives and your feet drag.

You fal l and strike your head ; yet feel no painAnd find you

’

re d igging tunnels through the hayIn the B ig Barn ,

’cause it’

s a rainy day.

Oh, springy hay, and lovely beam s to cl imb !You ’

re back in the old sai lor suit again .

I t’

s a queer t ime.

Or you ’ll be doz ing safe in your dug-outA great roar— the trench shakes and falls aboutYou ’

re struggl ing , gasp ing,struggling

, then hallo !

Elsie comes tripp ing gaily down the trench ,

Rob ert Graves 36 1

Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stenchGett ing her p inafore all over grime .

Funny ! because she died ten years ago !

I t’

s a queer t im e .

T he trouble is,th ings happen much too qu ick ;

Up jump the Boches , rifles thump and cl ick,

You stagger, and the whole scene fades awayEven good Christians don ’

t l ike passing straightFrom Tipperary or thei r Hymn of HateT o Allelu iah-chanting, and the ch ime

Of golden harps and I’

m not well todayI t

’

s a queer t im e .

NEGLECTFUL EDWARD

Nancy

Edward , back from the Indian Sea,“What have you brought for Nancy !

”

EdwardA rope of pearls and a gold earring

,

And a bird of the East that will not s ing.

A carven tooth, a box with a key

Nancy

God be praised you are back , says she ,

Have you noth ing more for your Nancy !”

EdwardLong as I sailed the Indian SeaI . gathered all for your fancyToys and silk and jewels I bring,And a bi rd of the East that will not singWhat more can you want, dear gi rl , from me !

”

362 R ob ert Graves

Nancy

God be praised you are back , said she,

Have you noth ing better for Nancy !”

EdwardSafe and home from the I ndian Sea

,

And noth ing to take your fancy ! ”

‘

Nancy

You can keep your pearls and your gold earring,And your b ird of the East that wil l not s ing,But , Ned, have you nothing

‘

more for me

Than heathenish gew-

gaw toys ! ”says she,

“Have you noth ing better for Nancy !”

I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TOBE DROWNED !

Look at my knees ,That i sland ris ing from the steamy seas !T he candle’s a tall l ightsh ip my two handsAre boats and barges anchored to the sands

,

With m ighty cl iffs all round ;They’

re full of wine and riches from far lands .I wonder what it feels like to be drowned !

I can make caves ,By l ift ing up the island and huge wavesAnd storm s , and then with head and ears well underBlow bubbles with a monstrous roar l ike thunder,A bu ll-of-Bashan sound .

T he seas run h igh and the boats spl it asunderI wonder what it feels like to be drowned!

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Lou is Golding

Only for the soi l wh i ch staresClean into God’s face, he cares.

In the stark m ight of his deedThere is more than art or creed ;

In his wrist more strength i s hidThan the monstrous Pyram id ;

S tauncher than stern EverestBe the muscles of his breast ;

Not the Atlant ic sweeps a floodPotent as the p loughman

’s blood .

He,his horse , his ploughshare, these

Are the only verit ies.

Dawn to dusk , with God he stands,

T he Earth poised on his broad hands.

THE S INGER ‘OF H IGH STATE

On h i lls too harsh for fi rs to cl imb ,Where eagle dare not hatch her brood ,On the sheer peak of Sol itude ,With anv i l s of black granite crude

He beats auster it ies of rhyme .

Such godl ike stuff his sp irit drinks,He made great odes of tempest there.

T he steel -winged eagle , if he dareT o cleave these tracts of frozen air,Hearing such music, swoops and sinks .

Lou is Golding

Stark tumults, wh ich no tense night awes,Of godly love and t itan hate

Down crags of song reverberate .

Held by the S inger of H igh State,Battal ions of the m idnight pause .

On h i lls upl ift from Space and Time,

On the sheer peak of Sol itude ,With s tars to give his fu rnace food ,On anv ils of black gran ite crude

He beats austerit ies of rhyme.

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I ndex

! E, 2 70

-2 72

A bercrombie, Lasce l les, 32 5- 32 7A dam s

,Leon ie, 2 1 1 -2 1 3

A iken,Conrad , 1 95

-2 00

A ld ington ,R ichard , 1 7 , 3 52 -

353A l drich , Thomas B ai ley, 5, 2 830

B enét, Steph en V incent, 2 1 0

2 1 1

B enét,Wi l l iam Rose, 1 79

- 1 83B inyon

,Laurence , 2 73 - 2 74

B lunt, W i lfred Scawen, 2 2 92 30

B odenh eim ,M axwe l l

,2 00 -2 02

B ooth , Eva Gore, 2 82 -2 83B ranch , Anna Hempstead , 99

1 03B ridges, Robert, 2 33

-2 34B rooke

,Rupert, 2 2 5, 342 -

346

B urton,R ichard , 6 6-67

Bynner, W itter, 1 37 - 1 40

Campbe l l , Joseph , 32 5Carman

,B l iss

,1 0

, 63- 66

Carryl, Char le s E . , 43-

45Carryl, Guy Wetmore

, 92-

9 6

Cawe in,M ad ison

, 72-

73Ch esterton ,

G. K. ,2 92

- 2 98

C lark, B adger, 1 49 - 1 52

Co lum,Padraic

, 32 3-

32 4Conkl ing, Grace Hazard , 1 2 4

1 2 5Conkl ing, H i lda, 2 1 3 -2 14Crane , Steph en, 85-86Crap sey, A de laide, 1 2 3

- 1 2 4

Daly, T. A ., 87-89

Dav idson, John, 2 43-2 44

Eastman,M ax, 1 53

- 1 54

Gibson, W. W ., 2 2 4 , 303-

307Go ld ing, Louis, 363 -365Graves, Robert, 2 2 5, 359 -363Guiney

,Louise Imogen, 62

-63

Imagists, the, 1 7- 1 9, 1 76

Davies, W. H ., 2 2 5, 2 76-2 79

Deane,Anthony C ., 2 74

-2 76

D e la M are, Wal ter, 2 2 5, 2 872 9 1

D ickinson,Em i ly

, 2 5-2 8

Dobson, Austin, 2 2 7-2 2 9

Dowson,Ernest, 2 69 -2 70

Drinkwater, John, 32 9 -330Dunbar, Pau l Laurence, 89-92

Fie l d , Eugene , 9 , 48-51Fl ecker, James E lroy, 334Fl etcher

,John Gou ld , 1 7 , 1 70

1 76

Freeman ,John, 336-337

Frost,Robert, 1 4

- 1 6 , 1 09- 1 1 7

H . D .,1 7 , 1 76

- 1 78

Hardy, Thomas,2 30

-2 32

Harte, B ret, 8, 32 -

37Harvey

,F. W .

, 347-

348

Hay. John. 9. 30-

32

H en ley, W i l l iam Ernest, 2 1 9 ,

H inkson ,Kathar ine Tynan,

2 52-2 53

Hodgson, Ralph , 2 2 5, 2 84-2 86

Housman, A . E ., 2 49- 2 52

Hovey, R ichard , 1 0 , 67-72

370 I ndex

Johns, Orr ick, 1 87- 1 88 O

’shaughnessy , A rthur, 2 35

Johnson,L ione l

,2 68-2 69 2 36

O’Sullivan, Seumas, 309

-

3 1 0

Kemp, Harry, 1 52- 1 53

Owen, W llff ed, 2 2 5,

Ki lm er,A l ine, 1 9 1 - 1 93

Kilm er, Joyce , 1 84- 1 87

P h I ll s, Steph en, 2 72

-2 73

Kip l ing, Rudyard , 2 2 2 -2 2 3,P lunkett , Joseph , 346 -

347

2 58-2 67

Pound , Ezra, 1 7, 1 59- 1 62

Knibbs, H . H.,2 0

, 97-

99Kreymborg, A lfred , 1 47 - 1 49

Lang, Andrew,2 32

- 2 33Lanier

,Sidney

, 9 , 40-

43Lawrence , D . H . , 2 2 5, 335

-

336

Ledwidge , Franc is, 350 -

351

Lesl ie ,’ Shane , 337 -

338

L inco ln,2 2 , 52 , 78, 84, 1 39 , 1 42 ,

1 72

L ind say,Vach e l , 2 0 - 2 1

,1 2 5

1 35Lowe l l , Amy, 1 7

- 1 9 , 1 0 3- 1 07

M ac l eod , Fiona, 2 40 - 2 4 1

M arkham,Edwin,

1 2 , 51-

56

M asefi eld, John, 2 2 3- 2 2 4 , 2 98

30 3M asters

,Edgar Lee , 1 4 , 82

-85M cCrae

,John

,2 87

M cLeod,I rene R ., 351

-

3 52

M ew,Char lotte , 2 2 5, 3 1 0

-

3 1 2

M eyne l l,A l ice , 2 36

- 2 37M i l lay’

,Edna St. V incent

,2 02

2 1 0

M i l ler, Joaqu in, 8-

9 , 37-

39M onro

,Haro l d

, 3 1 2-

3 1 5M oody

,W i l l iam Vaughn,

1 1,

Ne ihardt,John G . ,

1 36- 1 37

Newbo l t, Henry,2 2 6 , 2 53

- 2 54N icho ls

,Robert, 3 53 -

354Noyes

,A lfred , 3 1 5-

32 3

O’Neill, M oira, 2 83

- 2 84Oppenh eim ,

James, 2 1 , 1 40 Untermeyer,J ean Starr , 1 67

1 45 1 7 0

Reese, L izette Woodworth , 5960

R idge , Lo la,1 45

- 1 47R i l ey

,Jam es Wh itcomb, 4 , 45

48

Robinson,E . A .

,1 3

- 1 4 , 76-82

Russe l l,George W i l l iam , 2 70

2 72

Russe l l,I rwin, 9 , 56

-

59

Sandburg,Car l

,1 6 - 1 7 , 1 1 7

- 1 2 2

Sassoon,Siegfr ied , 2 2 5, 3 38

342

Seeger, A lan , 1 88- 1 89Sharp . W i l l iam ( see FionaM ac leod )

Sherman,Frank D empster, 60

0 2

Si l l , Edward Rowland , 8, 40Sor l ey, Char le s H .

, 357-

359Squire

, J . C ., 3 30

-

332

Stephens, Jam es, 2 2 5, 32 7-

32 9Stevenson

,Robert Louis, 2 39

2 40

Ster l ing, George , 75Symons

,A rthur , 2 54

- 2 55Synge , J . M .

, 2 2 0-2 2 1 , 2 79

- 2 82

Teasdal e, Sara,1 56

- 1 59Thomas, Edward , 308-

30 9

Thompson ,Franc is, 2 46 - 2 49

Tietj ens, Eunice . 1 54- 1 56

Torrence, R idge ly, 1 0 7- 1 09

Turner,W . J .

, 349-

350

Tynan,Kathar ine, 2 52 - 2 53

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