Part 4

Another day, and then there came, Rough, bloody, ribald, hungry, lame, But yet themselves, to Levi’s door, Two remnants of the day before. They laughed at him and what he sought; They jeered him, and his painful acre; But Levi knew that they had fought, And left their manners to their Maker.

That night, for the grim widow’s ears, With hopes that hid themselves in fears, He told of arms, and featly deeds, Whereat one leaps the while he reads, And said he’d be no more a clown, While others drew the breath of battle. The mother looked him up and down, And laughed--a scant laugh with a rattle.

She told him what she found to tell, And Levi listened, and heard well Some admonitions of a voice That left him no cause to rejoice. He sought a friend, and found the stars, And prayed aloud that they should aid him; But they said not a word of wars, Or of a reason why God made him.

And who’s of this or that estate We do not wholly calculate, When baffling shades that shift and cling Are not without their glimmering; When even Levi, tired of faith, Beloved of none, forgot by many, Dismissed as an inferior wraith, Reborn may be as great as any.

_The Outlook_ _Edwin Arlington Robinson_

RICH MAN, POOR MAN--

Oh, joy that burns in Denver tavern! The lights, the drink, the ceaseless play! A kingdom, dull within a cavern, Across the boards he flings away.

Then night that falls on either mountain (Ah, bitter black it falls between); But he, like water to its fountain, Is come again where life runs clean.

So Death shall find him, delving, peering. Still silver rock, still golden sand. He weeps to hear the magpies’ jeering, But he is back in his own land.

_Lippincott’s_ _Francis Hill_

THE SIN EATER

I

Hark ye! Hush ye! Margot’s dead! Hush! Have done wi’ your brawling tune! Danced, she did, till the stars grew pale; Mother o’ God, an’ she’s gone at noon! Sh-h ... d’ye _hear_ me?--Margot’s _dead_! Sickened an’ drooped an’ died in an hour! (Bring me th’ milk an’ th’ meat an’ bread.) Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower. Come an’ look at her, how she lies, Little an’ lone, and like she’s scared.... (She lost her beads last Friday week, Tore her Book, an’ she never cared.)... Eh, my lass, but it’s winter, now-- You that ever was meant for June, Your laughing mouth an’ your dancing feet-- An’ now you’re done, like an ended tune. Where’s that woman? Ah, give it me quick, Food at her head an’ her poor, still feet.... There’s plenty, fool! D’ye think the wench Had _so_ many sins for himself to eat? Take up your cloak an’ hand me mine.... Are we fetchin’ him? Eh, for sure! An’ you’ll come with me for all your quakes, Clear to his cave across the moor! --Margot, dearie, don’t look so scared, It’s no long while till your peace begins! What if you tore your Book, poor lamb? I’m bringin’ you one will eat your sins!

II

It’s a blood-red sun that’s sinkin’.... Ohooo, but the marshland’s drear! Woman, for why will you be shrinkin’? I’m tellin’ you there’s nought to fear. What if the twilight’s gloomish An’ th’ shadows creep an’ crawl?-- Woman, woman, here’ll be th’ cave! Stand by me close till I call! “Sin Eater! Devil Cheater!” (Eh, it echoes hollowly!) “Margot’s dead at Willow Farm! Shroud your face and follow me!”

III

One o’ th’ clock ... two o’ th’ clock.... This night’s a week in span! Still he crouches by her side.... Devil ... ghost ... or man?...

IV

Woman, never cock’s crow sounded sweet before! Set the casement wide ajar, fasten back the door! Eh, but I be cold an’ stiff, waitin’ for th’ dawn; Fetch me flowers--jessamine--see, the food is gone.... Light enough to see her now.... Mary! How her face Shines on us like altar fires, now she’s sure o’ grace! Never mind your Book, my lamb, never mind your beads, There’s th’ Gleam before you now, follow where it leads.

V

Tearful peace and gentle grief Brood on Willow Farm: Margot, sleeping in her flowers, Smiles, secure from harm: In a cave across the moor, Dank and dark within, Moans the trafficker in souls, Freshly bowed with sin.

_Smart Set_ _Ruth Comfort Mitchell_

NIGHT-SENTRIES

Ever as sinks the day on sea or land, Called or uncalled, you take your kindred posts. At helm and lever, wheel and switch, you stand, On the world’s wastes and melancholy coasts. Strength to the patient hand! To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

Now roars the wrenching train along the dark; How many watchers guard the barren way In signal-towers, at stammering keys, to mark The word the whispering horizons say! To all that see and hark-- To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

On ruthless streets, on byways sad with sin-- Half-hated by the blinded ones you guard-- Guard well, lest crime unheeded enter in! The dark is cruel and the vigil hard, The hours of guilt begin. To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

Now storms the pulsing hull adown the sea: Gaze onward, anxious eyes, to mist or star! Where foams the heaving highway blank and free? Where wait the reef, the berg, the cape, the bar? Whatever menace be, To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

Now the surf-rumble rides the midnight wind, And grave patrols are on ocean edge. Now soars the rocket where the billows grind, Discerned too late, on sunken shoal or ledge. To all that seek and find, To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

On lonely headlands gleam the lamps that warn, Star-steady, or ablink like dragon-eyes. Govern your rays, or wake the giant horn Within the fog that welds the sea and skies! Far distant runs the morn: To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

Now glow the lesser lamps in rooms of pain, Where nurse and doctor watch the joyless breath, Drawn in a sigh, and sighing lost again. Who waits without the threshold, Life or Death? Reckon you loss or gain? To all, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

Honor to you that guard our welfare now! To you that constant in the past have stood! To all by whom the future shall avow Unconquerable fortitude and good! Upon the sleepless brow Of each, alert and faithful in the night, May there be Light!

_Harper’s_ _George Sterling_

THE SWORDLESS CHRIST

VICISTI, GALILEE

Aye, down the years, behold, he rides, The lowly Christ, upon an ass; But conquering? Ten shall heed the call, A thousand idly watch him pass:

They watch him pass, or lightly hold In mock lip-loyalty his name: A thousand--were they his to lead! But meek, without a sword, he came.

A myriad horsemen swept the field With Attila, the whirlwind Hun: A myriad cannon spake for him, The silent, dread Napoleon.

For these had ready spoil to give. Had reeking spoil for savage hands; Slaves, and fair wives, and pillage rare: The wealth of cities: teeming lands.

And if the world, once drunk with blood, Sated, has turned from arms to peace, Man hath not lost his ancient lusts; The weapons change; war doth not cease.

The mother in the stifling den, The brain-dulled child beside the loom, The hordes that swarm and toil and starve, We laugh, and tread them to their doom.

They shriek, and cry their prayers to Christ; And lift wan faces, hands that bleed: In vain they pray, for what is Christ? A leader--without men to lead.

Ah, piteous Christ, afar he rides: We see him, but the face is dim. We, that would leap at crash of drums, Are slow to rise and follow him.

_The Forum_ _Percy Adams Hutchison_

WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

What of the night And the eventual silences? Art thou not cold with the knowledge of decay And the uncompromising reaches of the earth? What of the night When the tune falters and the blood chills? When thou art one with the grass And the underbrush of the world, Wilt thou forget the names of flowers, The rhythm of song and the lips, still balmy with the breasts of women? When thou and the fog on the hilltop are as brother and sister, Wilt thou forget utterly the ways of men, The clash of swords and the sting of wine, The dim horizons and the grace of girls? When thou art alone eternally What of the night?

Where will God be When thou art swathed in silence; When the wreckage of dreams has crushed thee And the lust for springtimes dissolved thee? Wilt thou have visions only of the dawn And autumn sunsets? Will the memory of women’s faces haunt thy grave? Will the odor of blue flowers find thy dust? When thou art choking on the calm indifference of youth And the everlasting beauty of trees, Wilt thou dream only of the June, The love of women and the great democracy of men?

When thou hast fought and failed, And thy brow has withered laurelless, And thy name has been effaced by the insatiable winds, And thou hast gone out at the Western gate To join the laggards of the dead, Wilt thou crave only the withheld success, The transitory fame of twilight years? Will thy soul cry out only for the song, The red dawn and the glad triumph of love?

Wilt thou indeed forget the days of pain, The ineffectual prayers, The lies of time and the bitterness of defeat? Or, remembering these things, Wilt thou forget the hands of women and the rude love of men, And be glad of thy dark quietude?

When thou art part of the impending gloom, I deem that life will seem to thee In no such wise,-- But rather thou wilt dream it as a whole; Not as a song, nor yet a broken bell; But all that thou hast been--the great tears, The rain, the kisses and the flutes, The old sorrows and the hills at dawn, Much laughter and much grief and the stern fight. And thou shalt know how all of life is gain-- The gold of youth, the gray defeat of age-- How in the soul’s inharmony there lies The incoherent unity of things.

_The Forum_ _Willard Huntington Wright_

A THRENODY

IN MEMORY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF MESSINA BY EARTHQUAKE

Sicilian Muse! O thou who sittest dumb Amid the sodden fields and ways forlorn, Where once the herdsmen singing, watched their kine Breast-deep in fragrance, odorous eve and morn; Stranger to thee, yet led by love I come, A suppliant sable-stoled, to mix with thine My tears, and at thy shrine Kindle a funeral torch for Sicily: Give not the suppliant’s prayer the meed of blame! Scorn not the stranger’s proffered oil and wine! O thou from whom the heavenly madness came, When Orpheus hymning struck his golden lute, And stirred old memories in Persephone, While all the lonely shades in hell stood mute To watch the still-beloved Eurydice Borne lightly upward on the silver surge To Enna’s flowery verge;-- Spirit august! Child of Mnemosyne! With reverence and true humility I break before thy feet my careless flute, And wait upon my lips thy touch of flame: Begin, Sicilian Muse! Begin the dirge! O race unmindful of the Destinies! The dread Euminides Or Mœræ old, sent from Earth’s inmost core A tremor, warning blindly ye who, blind, See not the sleepless doom that evermore Has watched your tragic shore Since lost sea-rovers shaded first their eyes To spy the riches of your waving store, And grated up your sands with doubtful keel. The startled jungle growled above its young; The Arctic foxes snuffed the scentless wind; But ye who knew yourselves a fated race, That gods have loved and gods to hate exposed, Though black the death clouds over Ætna hung, Forgot the anguish in Pompeii’s face, Beneath her half-drawn winding sheet disclosed; Forgot white Lisbon’s doom, nor called to mind-- In pleasant Zancle taking noonday ease-- How, from its ashes by the western seas A stricken Phœnix rises, stone and steel. Fresh as her Poro flowers at early dawn, When over Hybla’s hills the yellow bees From aromatic blossoms shake the dew; Fair as the maiden ere by dark Fate drawn, She saw the wide earth yawn Before the thunderous horses, and the strong Arm of Aïdes crushed her gathered flowers; So fresh, so fair, amid her storied seas, She who remains through changes æon-long A greater Helen wooed with sword and song, Of mightier victors bride and battle prize, Lay lapped in peace, when swift from Hades driven, Upward the death-king came; the earth was riven, And through the darkness rang her children’s cries. Now Scylla unto fierce Charybdis calls, While on the water spreads a crimson stain; Now Galatea sobs in Ocean’s halls, And vengeful Polyphemus laughs again. The Nereids now in oozy caverns hide, Where sea-kings of the old Æolian shore Watch sunken argosies forevermore, And tell their tales of dread Poseidon’s hate; While dimly from the far, ensanguined tide Patient Odysseus furrowed once of yore, A glint of daylight through the darkness falls On swaying helmets, tumbled bronze and gold, On broidered vestments stiff and Tyrian dyed. There hide they; but the sea-kings keep their state, Telling of ancient dooms and deaths of old, Nor know they how beside the darkened strait And up the slopes of olive, vine and grain, The dryads wail a land left desolate. Wail thou, great Muse, the dear Sicilian land! Now greater grief is thine than when of old Young Adon in the Cyprian’s arms lay cold, And Daphnis’ years were told. Take thou the lyre from Time’s enfeebled hand; Hushed is the music of Empedocles, Of splendid Pindar, pure Simonides, Bion and Moschus and Theocritus, And those who unto us Nameless, yet live as human memories. Hushed is the last of all that laurelled band, Hushed, or on Charon’s strand Urging in vain petition dolorous, To pass where Pan, his boyish pipings done, Stands wistful, while the nymphs, by fear made bold, Cling with their long lithe arms about his knees. Wail thou, great Muse! or loose from Acheron Some worthy bearer of the singing bough Whose madness whirls me now On melting wings too near the southern sun. Yet why for aught on earth should grief be loud, Since all that is, is born to pass away? Hero and maiden to the urn are vowed, And beauty saves not when the debt falls due; Apollo with the darker gods has died, And Gæa at the last shall be as they. O Helen of the soul! O golden isle! By beauty doomed, by beauty sanctified, Thou too canst not abide, But like all else shalt last a little while-- A little longer than the falling spray-- Then pass as planet dust or gaseous cloud, To build new cosmos, gnawed by new decay. Earth’s senseless atoms ever clasp and whirl, Unclasp again to form in mazes new; And ever on the white cliff stands some girl With dead eyes gazing on the sailless blue. Earth’s roses die, but still the rose lives on, The song survives the swift Leucadian leap;-- A dream of immortality is ours. Where golden Daphnis in the morning shone, Fresh sprung from Helicon, New shepherds singing lead their careless sheep Above the graves of Athens, Carthage, Rome, Vandals and Moslems, and strange Northern Powers That filled their destined hours, And fed in turn the rich Sicilian loam, Building, like coral insects from the deep, Enchanted islands that till earth is gone, Swept back to chaos in the atom swirl, Shall be the seeker’s light, the spirit’s home. Though Ætna crumble and the dark seas rise Sowing the uplands with their sterile brine, Still shall the soul descry with wistful eyes Sicilian headlands bright with flower and fruit; Still shall she hear, though all earth’s lips be mute, Sicilian music in the morning skies. Yea, deep within the heart of man it lies, This visioned island bright with old romance, A race inheritance Of rest and joy and faith in things divine, That shall endure awhile through change and chance, And have the meaning of a childhood shrine, Remembered when the faith of childhood dies. Now fails the song, and down the lonely ways The last low echoes die upon the breeze. I lay my lyre upon the moveless knees Of her who by the hollow roadway stays, In anguish waiting for her children slain That shall not come again With springtime, leading the new lambs to graze. They come no more; but while o’er hill and plain The twilight darkens, and the evening rose Aloft on Ætna glows, Silent she sits amid the sodden leas, With eyes that level on the ocean haze Their unobserving stare, as seaward gaze The eyes of stolid caryatides.

_Scribner’s_ _Louis V. Ledoux_

NOVEMBER

Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones; The old will feel the weight of mossy stones; The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear. It is the tread of armies marching near, From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; It is a bugle dying down the gale; It is the sudden gushing of a tear. And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors; And romp of spirit children on the pave; It is the tender sighing of the brave Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars; It is such sound as death; and, after all, ’Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.

_The Bellman_ _Mahlon Leonard Fisher_

SALUTATION

Did you choose the journey, friend? No, nor I; But to make it cheerfully, Let us try. When the day is dark, I pray, Sing a song to cheer the way, For tomorrow we will be One day nearer to the sea.

Did you choose the journey, friend? No, nor I; But we know the end will come By and by. All today we bear the load Up the weary winding road, But tomorrow we may be At the Inn in company.

_The Independent_ _Ruth Sterry_

HERE LIES PIERROT

The moon’s ashine; by many a lane Walk wistful lovers to and fro; It must be like old days again; How they do love! _Here lies Pierrot._

She loved me once, did Columbine. It sets my dusty heart aglow Merely to lie and dream how fine Her semblance was,--_Here lies Pierrot!_

Her perfumed presence, silks and lace, Did madden men and wrought them woe; For me alone her witching grace. Where is she now? _Here lies Pierrot._

We two walked once beneath the moon-- Yellow it hung, and large and low-- And listened to the tender tune Of nightingales,--_Here lies Pierrot!_

Our foolish vows of passion shook The very stars, they trembled so. How it comes back, her soft, shy look, Now I am dead! _Here lies Pierrot!_

These other men and maids, who stroll Through moonlit poplar trees arow, Does each play the enchanted rôle We phantoms played? _Here lies Pierrot!_

O joy, that I remember yet Sweet follies of the long ago! Dear heaven, I would not quite forget! The moon’s ashine; _Here lies Pierrot!_

_Scribner’s_ _Richard Burton_

LIST OF “DISTINCTIVE POEMS,” THEIR AUTHORS, AND THE MAGAZINES IN WHICH THEY APPEARED

_Century_--

A Light Bearer. Marion Couthouy Smith.

Unmasked. Madison Cawein.

Robert Browning. Margaret Widdemer.

Will’s Counsellor. Charles Wharton Stork.

Song of the Open Land. Richard Burton.

Along the Road. Robert Browning Hamilton.

A Prayer. Louis Untermeyer.

Charms. William Rose Benét.

Deep Water Song. John Reed.

Not Yet. Katharine Lee Bates.

The Double Crowning. Amelia Josephine Burr.

Vermont. Sarah N. Cleghorn.

To a Scarlet Tanager. Grace Hazard Conkling.

To the Experimenters. Charles Badger Clark, Jr.

My Conscience. James Whitcomb Riley.

The Little People. Amelia Josephine Burr.

For a Blank Page. Austin Dobson.

A Message from Italy. Margaret Widdemer.

The Gentle Reader. Arthur Davison Ficke.

Submarine Mountains. Cale Young Rice.

The Last Faun. Helen Minturn Seymour.

Ritual. William Rose Benét.

Emergency. William Rose Benét.

The Mother. Timothy Cole.

Perugia. Amelia Josephine Burr.

To Elsa, with a volume of the “Arabian Nights.” Grace Hazard Conkling.

The Carpenter’s Son. Sara Teasdale.

Sarvachraddên. Leonard Bacon.

The Shoes of Happiness. Edwin Markham.

Twilight Mystery. Madison Cawein.

_Harper’s_--

Presage. Richard Le Gallienne.

The Festa. George Edward Woodberry.

Panthea. Richard Le Gallienne.

The Upland. Henry A. Beers.

In April. Margaret Lee Ashley.

Waiting. Charles Hanson Towne.

May is Building Her House. Richard Le Gallienne.

The Sea Hounds. Dora Sigerson Shorter.

The Marble House. Ellen M. H. Gates.

Loss. Jessie B. Rittenhouse.

An Adieu. Florence Earle Coates.

The Deep Places. Amelia Josephine Burr.

The Seer. Alan Sullivan.

This is Her Garden. Mildred Howells.

Folk-Song. Louis Untermeyer.

September Rain. Charles Hanson Towne.

Heart’s Tide. Ethel M. Hewitt.

The Wanderer. John Masefield.

Wind. Fannie Stearns Davis.

The Mother. Fannie Stearns Davis.

By the Curb. James Stephens.

God’s Will. Mildred Howells.

On a Bright Winter Day. W. D. Howells.

A Secret. Florence Earle Coates.

Ghosts. Fannie Stearns Davis.

Out of It All. Edith M. Thomas.

Words. Ernest Rhys.

The Telegram. Thomas Hardy.

A Winter Reverie. James Stephens.

_Scribner’s_

Return. Curtis Hidden Page.

Old Portraits Revisited. Sarah Cleghorn.

The Old Remain. Madison Cawein.

To Lie in the Lew. Margaret Vandegrift.

The Secret. John Hall Wheelock.

The Exile. Thomas Nelson Page.

At Ease on Lethe’s Wharf. Helen Coale Crew.

Discords. C. A. Price.

In the Hospital. Arthur Guiterman.

The Jail. Sarah Cleghorn.

Song for a Child. Stark Young.

Here Lies Pierrot. Richard Burton.

Himself He Cannot Save. M. A. De Wolfe Howe.

The River. Sara Teasdale.

Love of Life. Tertius van Dyke.

Daybreak in the Grand Canyon of Arizona. Henry van Dyke.

A Threnody. Louis V. Ledoux.

La Preciosa. Thomas Walsh.

The Song of Love. E. Sutton.

Sonnet. R. Henniker Heaton.

No Night There. William Hervey Woods.

In a Monastery Garden. Marjorie L. C. Pickthall.

In the Old Pasture. Harriet Prescott Spofford.

The Ghost. Hermann Hagedorn.

Gran’ Boule. Henry van Dyke.

A Likeness. Willa Sibert Cather.

Sappho. Sara Teasdale.

The Dead Forerunner. C. W.

The Grief. Theodosia Garrison.

The Enchantment. Laurence C. Hodgson.

_The Forum_--

What of the Night? Willard Huntington Wright.

The Italian Dead March. Shaemas OSheel.

The Girl Who Went to Ailey. Arthur Stringer.

Copper Mountain. Edwin D. Schoonmaker.

The Republic. Madison Cawein.

The Factory. Harry Kemp.

Earth’s Deities. Bliss Carman.

St. John and the Faun. George Edward Woodberry.

The Ring Fighters. Francis Hill.

Journey. Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The Swordless Christ. Percy Adams Hutchison.

Shipwreck. Hermann Hagedorn.

The City That Will Not Repent. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay.

The Old Maid. Sara Teasdale.

Evening on Brooklyn Bridge. Allan Updegraff.

Mother-Heart. Anna Spencer Twitchell.

Departure. John Hall Wheelock.

A Prayer for Beauty. Witter Bynner.

School. Percy Mackaye.

Off Viareggio. Chester Allyn Reed.

In the Maternity Ward. Florence Earle Coates.

The Kallyope Yell. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay.

Birth. Frances Gregg.

For Those Dear Dead. Elaine Goodale Eastman.

Crossroads. Louis V. Ledoux.

Thanksgiving for Our Task. Shaemas OSheel.

Point Bonita. Witter Bynner.

_Lippincott’s_--

The Common Road. Jane Belfield.

Quatrain. Charles Wharton Stork.

The True Prophet. Richard Kirk.

Of Melodies Unheard. Mahlon Leonard Fisher.

The Neighbor. Marguerite O. B. Wilkinson.

A New Friend, An Old Friend. Madison Cawein.

I Heard a Voice. Florence Earle Coates.

The Inn. Mary Eleanor Roberts.

Of an Artist. Charles Wharton Stork.

Rich Man, Poor Man--. Francis Hill.

The Cry of Man-Heart. J. B. E.

In Remembrance. Florence Earle Coates.

Troubadour Song. Frederick H. Martens.

Discontent. Frederick H. Martens.

Immutabilis. Mahlon Leonard Fisher.

Half the World Between Us. Mary Coles Carrington.

The Jew in America. Felix N. Gerson.

“Magnas Nugas.” Louise Ayres Garnett.