Part 2

A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree!

_Poetry, A Magazine of Verse_ _Joyce Kilmer_

IN THE HOSPITAL

Because on the branch that is tapping my pane A sun-wakened leaf-bud, uncurled, Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain, I know there is Spring in the world.

Because through the sky-patch whose azure and white My window frames all the day long A yellow-bird dips for an instant of flight, I know there is Song.

Because even here in this Mansion of Woe Where creep the dull hours, leaden-shod, Compassion and Tenderness aid me, I know There is God.

_Scribner’s_ _Arthur Guiterman_

LOVE OF LIFE

Love you not the tall trees spreading wide their branches, Cooling with their green shade the sunny days of June? Love you not the little bird lost among the leaflets, Dreamily repeating a quaint, brief tune?

Is there not a joy in the waste windy places; Is there not a song by the long dusty way? Is there not a glory in the sudden hour of struggle? Is there not a peace in the long quiet day?

Love you not the meadows with the deep lush grasses; Love you not the cloud-flocks noiseless in their flight? Love you not the cool wind that stirs to meet the sunrise; Love you not the stillness of the warm summer night?

Have you never wept with a grief that slowly passes; Have you never laughed when a joy goes running by? Know you not the peace of rest that follows labor?-- You have not learnt to live then; how can you dare to die?

_Scribner’s_ _Tertius van Dyke_

GOD’S WILL

God meant me to be hungry, So I should seek to find Wisdom, and truth, and beauty, To satisfy my mind.

God meant me to be lonely, Lest I should wish to stay In some green earthly Eden Too long from heaven away.

God meant me to be weary, That I should yearn to rest This feeble, aching body Deep in the earth’s dark breast.

_Harper’s_ _Mildred Howells_

ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD

Lo--to the battle-ground of Life, Child, you have come, like a conquering shout, Out of a struggle--into strife; Out of a darkness--into doubt.

Girt with the fragile armor of Youth, Child, you must ride into endless wars, With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth, And a banner of love to sweep the stars....

About you the world’s despair will surge; Into defeat you must plunge and grope-- Be to the faltering, 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.

_The Independent_ _Louis Untermeyer_

TO A CHILD FALLING ASLEEP

Over the dim edge of sleep I lean, And in her eyes’ illimitable grey distances, Look down into the shadow-tinted space,-- The cloudy air of sleep,-- To see the rose-lit petal of a Child’s fair soul Seek dreamily the farther gloom, Where waking eyes may follow her no more.

One more last time her lids are lifted, And in her look I read a wistful fare-thee-well; Her spirit waves a twinkling white hand, Her bark is out upon the sea of dream,-- The calm, grey sea, full and immovably established, That drinks the river of my love, without o’erflowing, Nor ever gives my image back to me.

When o’er the sun-swept land Murmuring twilight spread her dusky tent, A Stranger passed before our friendly sun,-- Between the dark and dawn,-- A Stranger whom we love but never see. And as she came and cast her blue benignant shadow over all, She set a silver trumpet to her lips, And blew a note that thrilled in Children’s hearts; Because in little hearts the echo-fairies love to play, Roaming the scented meadows there, Where Love has been and sown the amaranthine flowers, Out of whose pristine cups are born the singing stars. And as the first free rainbow bubble sailed, Launched by the Stranger with the silver pipe, Upon the listening air; As first the hollow note Kissed the sweet lips and died of happiness, The little Child unfurled her sails.

I stood there on the very verge of sleep, And called to her, And Love’s own self had deigned to wait within my heart, (Because I kept it always fit for Childish guests) And would have given welcome had she stayed. But then I saw the eyelids close, And knew that Azrael who championed her soul, Had shut the gates lest I should see More than my life could bear.

Yet I had seen her go, And sight no more could hold of Beauty’s wine. I had seen the fair face flush, As the soft curtains of the tinted west, Are drawn before the temple of the Night, When the day-worn Sun has passed within; Had seen the little body, whitely gowned, Folded within its nest; Had caught the last light kiss Before the lips lay still; And I had looked into the cool grey deep, Where Sleep received the rose-leaf soul of her, And bore it out upon her gentle waters.

Into the night I passed, Where on the mellow bosom of the west, Floated the flame-lit shell of Hesperus; And as I stayed with hallowed breath, The soul of fire fell over the rim of night: And then I knew the soul of her I loved, Had heard the last clear call, The low Elysian chant of Hesperus, And loving me had borne the love I gave, Out and beyond and over all the ends of earth, And where the altar flame of Venus burned, Had laid the gift and breathed her Childhood’s prayer.

_The Poetry Journal_ _Robert Alden Sanborn_

A ROMAN DOLL

(IN A MUSEUM)

How an image of paint and wood Leaped to her life with a love’s control, Struck the chords of her motherhood, Passionate little mother-soul! Fair to her sight were the stolid eyes, Dear to her toil the robes empearled. She crooned it the ancient lullabies, She gathered it close from the outer world. They watched together, as Nero’s pyres Fed the haze of a hundred fires.

_Me in her fresh young arms she bore. See, I am small, Only a doll. But I keep her kiss forevermore._

Long and lonely the toy has lain. One by one into time’s abyss Years have dropped as the drops of rain. Yet the cycles have left us this! O red-lipped mother, O mother sweet, Today a sister has heard you call, Your heart is beating in her heart-beat. I saw her weep o’er the crumbling doll. She knew, she knew! You had lived and smiled! You had loved your dream, little Roman child!

_Me in her fresh young arms she bore. See, I am small, Only a doll. But I keep her kiss forevermore._

_The Poetry Journal_ _Agnes Lee_

SAPPHO

Midnight, and in the darkness not a sound; So, with hushed breathing, sleeps the autumn night. Only the white immortal stars shall know, Here in the house by the low-lintelled door, How for the last time I have lit the lamp. I think you are not wholly careless now, Walls, that have sheltered me so many an hour, Bed, that has brought me ecstasy and sleep, Floors, that have borne me when a gale of joy Lifted my soul and made me half a god. Farewell; across the threshold many feet Shall pass, but never Sappho’s feet again. Girls shall come in whom love has made aware Of all their swaying beauty--they shall sing, But never Sappho’s voice like golden fire Shall seek for heaven thro’ your echoing rafters; There shall be sparrows bringing back the spring Over the long blue meadows of the sea, And south wind playing on the reeds of rain, But never Sappho’s whisper in the night, Never her love-cry when the lover comes. Farewell, I close the door and make it fast.

* * * * *

The little street lies meek beneath the moon, Running, as rivers run, to meet the sea. I too go seaward and shall not return. Oh, garlands on the door-posts that I pass, Woven of asters and of autumn leaves, I make a prayer for you: Cypris, be kind, That every lover may be given love. I shall not hasten lest the paving-stones Should echo with my sandals and awake Those who are warm beneath the cloak of sleep; Lest they should rise and see me and should say: “Whither goes Sappho lonely in the night?” Whither goes Sappho? Whither all men go, But they go driven, straining back with fear, And Sappho goes as lightly as a leaf Blown from brown autumn forests to the sea.

* * * * *

Here on the rock Zeus lifted from the waves, I shall await the waking of the dawn, Lying beneath the weight of dark as one Lies breathless till the lover shall awake. And with the sun, the sea shall cover me; I shall be less than the dissolving foam, Murmuring and melting on the ebbing tide. I shall be less than spindrift, less than shells-- And yet I shall be greater than the gods; For destiny no more can bow my soul As rain bows down the watch-fires on the hills. Yea, if my soul escape, it shall aspire Toward the white heaven as flame that has its will. I go not bitterly, not dumb with grief, Not broken by the ache of love--I go As one grown tired lies down and hopes to sleep. Yet they shall say: “It was for Cercolas-- She died because she could not bear her love.” They shall remember how we used to walk Here on the cliff beneath the oleanders, In the long limpid twilight of the spring, Looking toward Khios where the amber sky Was pierced by the faint arrow of a star. How should they know the wind of a new beauty Sweeping my soul had winnowed it with song? I have been glad tho’ love should come or go, Happy as trees that find a wind to sway them, Happy again when it has left them rest. Others shall say: “Grave Dica wrought her death.” She would not lift her lips to take a kiss, Or ever lift her eyes to take a smile. She was a pool the winter paves with ice, That the wild hunter in the hills must leave With thirst unslaked in the brief southward sun. Ah, Dica, it is not for thee I go. And not for Phaon, tho’ his ship lifts sail Here in the windless harbor, for the south. Oh, darkling deities that guard the Nile, Watch over one whose gods are far away; Egypt, be kind to him--his eyes are deep. Yet they are wrong who say, it was for him. How should they know that Sappho lived and died Faithful to love, not faithful to the lover, Never transfused and lost in what she loved, Never so wholly loving nor at peace. I asked for something greater than I found, And every time that love has made me weep, I have rejoiced that love could be so strong; For I have stood apart and watched my soul Caught in the gust of passion, as a bird With baffled wings against the dusty whirlwind Struggles and frees itself to find the sky.

* * * * *

It is not for a single god, I go. I have grown weary of the winds of heaven. I will not be a reed to hold the sound Of whatsoever breath the gods may blow, Turning my torment into music for them. They gave me life--the gift was bountiful, I lived with the swift singing strength of fire, Seeking for beauty as a flame for fuel, Beauty in all things and in every hour. The gods have given life, I gave them song; The debt is paid and now I turn to go. The breath of dawn blows the stars out like lamps, There is a rim of silver on the sea. As one grown tired, who hopes to sleep, I go.

_Scribner’s_ _Sara Teasdale_

OF MOIRA UP THE GLEN

It’s little that I’d care for the glories of Ireland, Waiting for the shadows to gather in the glen, Come the time of darkness, sitting by the hearth-light, Whispering with bated breath for fear the little men Should catch us and spell us to serve them for a year’s time, Toiling and moiling within a faëry snare. I’m thinkin’ ’twould be fearsome in the gray misty strangeness.-- ’Tis hiding we’ll be in the clear free air!

The sunlight above us, and willow hedge for shelter, A tangle of soft things to rustle by the stream, Where Moira, my white dove, whose beauty is my sorrow, Would sit with me and travel on the long bright dream, Travel with the water from the mountain to the meadow, Down across the lowlands and gaily to the sea, Out beyond the breakers to the shimmer of a far line Poised and trembling within the heart of me.

What shall I murmur to coax the dream of beauty Out from the shadows to welcome in the dawn? How shall I sing it that she may know the glory, Know it and come by the first flush of morn? The moonlight is dark light, ’tis fear I’m after feelin’, The fairies should be in it and steal her heart away, A goblet for their feasting, they’d drain it and fill it With dreams of a far world beyond the light of day.

It’s God’s light I’m wanting, and Moira to see it, See it and tremble with the love of God, And seeing it she’d turn, and look within my own eyes, And wonder at the vision transforming a sod Into worshipful silence and thought that is living, Burning, and shaped by the warmth of its fire To a chalice of tears and of laughter for singing The lovely unfolding of dream-purged desire.

_Smart Set_ _Edward J. O’Brien_

MORNING GLORIES

Distant as a dream’s flight, Lay an eerie plain, Where the weary moonlight Swooned into a moan; Wailing after dead seed Came the ghost of rain. There was I, a wild weed, Growing all alone.

Like a doubted story, Came the thought of day; God and all His glory Lingered otherwhere, Busy with the spring thrill Many dreams away. Could a little weed’s will Fling so far a prayer?

Lo, the sudden wonder! (Is a prayer so fleet?) From the desert under, Morning glories grew; Twined me, bound me With caressing feet; Wove song ’round me-- Pink, white, blue!

As a fog is rifted By the eager breeze, Darkness broke and lifted, Tossing like a sea! Lo, the dawn was flowering Through the maple trees! Oh, and you were showering Kisses over me!

_Smart Set_ _John G. Neihardt_

LEST I LEARN

Lest I learn, with clearer sight, Such beauty cannot be-- Tie a bandage, pull it tight, Blind me, I would not see!

Lest I learn, with clearer will, Such wonder cannot be-- Oh, kiss me nearer, nearer still, And make a fool of me!

_Smart Set_ _Witter Bynner_

LATER

I went to the place where my youth took birth In the slow, round kiss of an amorous girl, When sonnets and lace were the measure of earth, When death was forgotten and life was a whirl.

I addled my brain with the memories flown Of Heatherby Kaiser and Muriel Moore; I thought of the women and men I had known,-- The glittering eyes and the bolt on the door--

The warm, gray walls and the odor of musk, The wine, the piano, the glistening feet, The eyes grown hazy like shadows at dusk, The minstreling music that rose from the street.

I thought of Elise with her soft, gold hair; And the buttonhook hung from the chandelier. The spirit of passionate youth had been there-- But somehow the dream of it wasn’t quite clear,

For the place had been altered; the walls were red, And the woodwork was stained with a desolate brown; And they told me a woman had lain in the bed For a year and a half with the curtains down.

_Smart Set_ _Willard Huntington Wright_

THE OLD MAID

I saw her in a Broadway car, The woman I might grow to be; I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me.

Her hair was dull and drew no light, And yet its color was as mine; Her eyes were strangely like my eyes, Tho’ love had never made them shine.

Her body was a thing grown thin, Hungry for love that never came; Her soul was frozen in the dark, Unwarmed forever by love’s flame.

I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me-- His eyes were magic to defy The woman I shall never be.

_The Forum_ _Sara Teasdale_

DEPARTURE

The twilight is starred, The dawn has arisen; Light breaks from the east And Song from her prison.

Faint odors and sounds The west-wind discloses Of laughter and birds, Of singing and roses.

It is time to be gone-- Day scatters the gloom; But here at my side, But still in the room,

Like the angel of life, Too kind to depart, You hang at my lips, You hang at my heart!

_The Forum_ _John Hall Wheelock_

AN ADIEU

Sorrow, quit me for a while! Wintry days are over; Hope again, with April smile, Violets sows and clover.

Pleasure follows in her path, Love itself flies after, And the brook a music hath Sweet as childhood’s laughter.

Not a bird upon the bough Can repress its rapture, Not a bud that blossoms now But doth beauty capture.

Sorrow, thou art Winter’s mate, Spring cannot regret thee; Yet, ah, yet--my friend of late-- I shall not forget thee!

_Harper’s_ _Florence Earle Coates_

HEART’S TIDE

I thought I had forgotten you, So far apart our lives were thrust! ’Twas only as the earth forgets The seed the sower left in trust.

’Twas only as the creeks forget The tides that left their hollows dry; Or as the home-bound ship forgets Streamers of seaweed drifting by.

My heart is earth that keeps untold The secret of the seeds that sleep. My thoughts are chalices of sand; Your memory floods them and I weep.

_Harper’s_ _Ethel M. Hewitt_

WAITING

I thought my heart would break Because the Spring was slow. I said, “How long young April sleeps Beneath the snow!”

But when at last she came, And buds broke in the dew, I dreamed of my lost love, And my heart broke, too!

_Harper’s_ _Charles Hanson Towne_

DESIDERIUM

Face in the tomb, that lies so still, May I draw near, And watch you sleep and love you, Without word or tear?

You smile, your eyelids flicker; Shall I tell How the world goes that lost you? Shall I tell?

Ah, love, lift not your eyelids; ’Tis the same Old story that we laughed at, Still the same.

We knew it, you and I, We knew it all: Still is the small the great, The great the small;

Still the cold lie quenches The flaming truth, And still embattled age Wars against youth.

Yet I believe still in the ever-living God That fills your grave with perfume, Writing your name in violets across the sod, Shielding your holy face from hail and snow; And, though the withered stay, the lovely go. No transitory wrong or wrath of things Shatters the faith--that each slow minute brings That meadow nearer to us where your feet Shall flutter near me like white butterflies-- That meadow where immortal lovers meet, Gazing forever in immortal eyes.

_Smart Set_ _Richard Le Gallienne_

HUMAN

Weighed down by grief, o’erborne by deep despair, She lifted up white arms to heaven and prayed That day for death; she made a mighty prayer Beside her dear one gently to be laid.

And standing thus, it flashed across her mind How she must make a seemly silhouette Against the sky, her figure sharply lined Upon the westering sunlight, black as jet.

_Smart Set_ _Richard Burton_

THE GHOST

One whom I loved and never can forget Returned to me in dream, and spoke with me, As audibly, as sweet familiarly As though warm fingers twined warm fingers yet. Her eyes were bright and with great wonder wet As in old days when some strange, swift decree Brought touch-close love or death; and sorrow-free She spoke as one long purged of all regret. I heard, oh, glad beyond all speech, I heard, Till to my lips the flaming query flashed: _How is it--over there?_ Then, quite undone, She trembled; in her deep eyes like a bird The gladness fluttered, and as one abashed She shook her head bewildered, and was gone.

_Scribner’s_ _Hermann Hagedorn_

A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY

I know a vale where I would go one day, When June comes back and all the world once more Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies, A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills, A cool, dim gateway to the mountains’ heart.

On either side the wooded slopes come down, Hemlock and beech and chestnut; here and there Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness-- That still perfection from the world withdrawn, As if the wood gods had arrested there Immortal beauty in her breathless flight.

Far overhead against the arching blue Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. The road winds in from the broad riverlands, Luring the happy traveler turn by turn, Up to the lofty mountains of the sky.

And where the road runs in the valley’s foot, Through the dark woods the mountain stream comes down, Singing and dancing all its youth away Among the boulders and the shallow runs, Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang, Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray.

There, light of heart and footfree, I would go Up to my home among the lasting hills, And in my cabin doorway sit me down, Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace.

And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn-- So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, It well might be, in wisdom and in joy, The seraphs singing at the birth of time The unworn ritual of eternal things.

_Smart Set_ _Bliss Carman_

PERUGIA

For the sake of a weathered gray city set high on a hill To the northward I go, Where Umbria’s valley lies mile upon emerald mile Outspread like a chart. The wind in her steep, narrow streets is eternally chill From the neighboring snow, But linger who will in the lure of a southerly smile, Here is my heart.

Wrought to a mutual blueness are mountains and sky, Intermingling they meet; Little gray breathings of olive arise from the plain Like sighs that are seen, For man and his Maker harmonious toil, and the sigh Of such labor is sweet, And the fruits of their patience are vistas of vineyards and grain In a glory of green.

No wind from the valley that passes the casement but flings Invisible flowers. The carol of birds is a gossamer tissue of gold On a background of bells. Sweetest of all, in the silence the nightingale sings Through the silver-pure hours, Till the stars disappear like a dream that may never be told, Which the dawning dispels.

Never so darkling the alley but opens at last On unlimited space; Each gate is the frame of a vision that stretches away To the rims of the sky. Never a scar that was left by the pitiless past But has taken a grace, Like the mark of a smile that was turned upon children at play In a summer gone by.

Many the tyrants, my city, who held thee in thrall. What remains of them now? Names whispered back from the dark through a portal ajar, They come not again. By men thou wert made and wert marred, but, outlasting them all, Is the soul that is thou-- A soul that shall speak to my soul till I, too, pass afar, And perchance even then.

_Century_ _Amelia Josephine Burr_

GHOSTS

They call you cold New England, But underneath your snow Is blood as red as roses That in your gardens blow.

The God that lights your forests With torch of cardinal flower, Forbids that ever the Puritan Escape his crimson hour.

The flame that skims brown furrows-- The scarlet tanager’s breast, Is sign to preacher and ploughman Of dreams that haunt their rest.

When witch and warlock perished By fagot, scaffold and tree, Their tortures slew their bodies But set their spirits free!