Part 2

As in former years in my annual summary in the _Boston Transcript_, I have examined the contents of the leading American magazines. To the seven magazines which I examined last year,--namely, _Harper’s_, _Scribner’s_, _The Century_, _The Forum_, _Lippincott’s_, _The Smart Set_, and _The Bellman_,--I have added this year three monthlies, _The Trend_, _The International_, and _The Masses_; and one quarterly, _The Yale Review_. _The Bellman_ still maintains its high poetic distinction, by virtue of which it prints more good poetry than any other American weekly, and most American monthlies. As last year, I have winnowed from other magazines distinctive poems for classification and notice:--one each from _The Metropolitan_, _The Craftsman_, _The Poetry Journal_, the _Southern Woman’s Magazine_, _Puck_, and _The Infantry Journal_; and two each from _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, _The Nation_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, and the _Outlook_; while from three newspapers I have selected fourteen poems:--eleven from the _Boston Evening Transcript_, two from the _Boston News Bureau_, and one from the _New York Evening Sun_. In quoting from the _Boston Transcript_, I wish to testify to the ready recognition and encouragement this daily paper has offered to poets and poetry. It is one of the paper’s finest traditions.

The poems published during the year in the eleven representative magazines I have submitted to an impartial critical test, choosing from the total number what I consider the “distinctive” poems of the year. From the distinctive pieces are selected fifty-two poems, to which are added thirty from other magazines and from newspapers not represented in the list of eleven, making a total of eighty-two, which are intended to represent what I call an “Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914.”

Quoting from what I have written in previous years, to emphasize the methods which guided my selections, the reader will see how impartial are the tests by which the distinctive and best poems are chosen: “I have not allowed any special sympathy with the subject to influence my choice. I have taken the poet’s point of view, and accepted his value of the theme he dealt with. The question was: How vital and compelling did he make it? The first test was the sense of pleasure the poem communicated; then to discover the secret or the meaning of the pleasure felt; and in doing so to realize how much richer one became in a knowledge of the purpose of life by reason of the poem’s message.”

In one hundred and forty-seven numbers of these eleven magazines I find there were published during 1914 a total of 647 poems, of which 157 were poems of distinction. The total number of poems printed in each magazine, and the number of the distinctive poems are: _Century_, total 71, 19 of distinction; _Harper’s_, total 39, 10 of distinction; _Scribner’s_, total 49, 18 of distinction; _Forum_, total 33, 13 of distinction; _Lippincott’s_, total 56, 8 of distinction; _The Smart Set_ (excluding November and December), total 148, 18 of distinction; _The Bellman_ (until November 7th), total 42, 23 of distinction; _The Yale Review_, total 19, 10 of distinction; _The Trend_ (April, and June to November), total 51, 16 of distinction; _The Masses_ (excluding December), total 53, 13 of distinction; _The International_ (excluding November and December), total 86, 9 of distinction.

Following the text of the poems making the anthology in this volume, I have given the titles and authors of all the poems classified as distinctive, published in the magazines of the year; in addition I give a list of all the poems and their authors in the one hundred and forty-seven numbers of the magazines examined, as a record which readers and students of poetry will find useful.

I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness and thanks to the editors of _Scribner’s Magazine_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Forum_, _The Century Magazine_, _The Outlook_, _Lippincott’s Magazine_, _The Bellman_, _The Smart Set_, _The Yale Review_, _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, _The Poetry Journal_, _The International_, _The Masses_, _The Metropolitan_, _Harper’s Weekly_, _The Craftsman_, _The Nation_, _The Southern Woman’s Magazine_, _Puck_, _The Infantry Journal_, _The Boston News Bureau_, _The New York Evening Sun_, and the _Boston Evening Transcript_, and to the publishers of these magazines and newspapers, for kind permission to reprint in this volume the poems making up the “Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1914.” To the authors of these poems I am equally indebted and grateful for their willingness to have me reprint their work in this form. Since their appearance in the magazines and before the close of the year when the contents of this volume was made up, twenty-eight poems herein included have appeared in volumes of original poetry by their authors. For the use of “Yankee Doodle” and “The Firemen’s Ball” by Vachel Lindsay, included in his volume “The Congo, and Other Poems”; of “Fight,” “France,” and “Six Sonnets (August, 1914)” by Percy MacKaye, included in his volume “The Present Hour”; and for “Romance” by Conrad Aiken, included in his volume “Earth Triumphant,” I have also to thank The Macmillan Company, under whose imprint these volumes appear. Similar acknowledgment is due to the George H. Doran Company for permission to reprint “The Twelve-Forty-Five” by Joyce Kilmer, included in his volume, “Trees and Other Poems”; and to print “In the Roman Forum” and “A Lynmouth Widow” by Amelia Josephine Burr, included in her volume “In Deep Places.” I am grateful to Charles Scribner’s Sons for two poems by Olive Tilford Dargan, “Old Fairingdown” and “Path Flower,” included in her volume “Path Flower”; and for two poems by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, “From a Motor in May,” and “If You Should Cease to Love Me,” included in her volume “One Woman to Another.” I am indebted to Mr. Mitchell Kennerley for kind permission to reprint Sonnets XXIX, XXX, and XXXVII from “Sonnets of a Portrait-Painter”; and to Mr. A. M. Robertson for two poems by George Sterling, “Ballad of Two Seas” and “The Hunting of Dian,” included in his volume “Beyond the Breakers, and Other Poems.” Finally, The Century Company have been kind enough to permit me to republish “Landscapes” and “Summons” by Louis Untermeyer, from his volume entitled “Challenge”; and “Patterns,” “A Handful of Dust,” and “We Dead” by James Oppenheim, from his volume entitled “Songs for a New Age.” If I have omitted any acknowledgments, it is quite unintentional, and I trust that any such omission will be regarded leniently. I wish it to be understood that the privilege extended to me so courteously, by the authors, magazine editors and publishers, and book publishers, to print the poems in this volume, does not in any sense restrict the authors in their rights to print the poems in volumes of their own or in any other place. I wish to thank the _Boston Transcript_ for the privilege of reprinting material in this book which originally appeared in the columns of that paper.

A new feature this year is the series of critical summaries of new volumes of verse, which are significant, and which have been appraised in accordance with the same principles as the poems in the “Anthology of Magazine Verse.” It is believed that by adding this feature, the book will more nearly approximate to being an actual Year-Book of American Poetry, and it is in this belief that a subtitle has been added to this volume. I believe that not only libraries, but private individuals will welcome the selected lists of the best volumes for library purchase, graded according to the requirements of a large or a small purse. A list is also subjoined of the best books _about_ poetry, and if there seems to be a demand for this innovation, it is planned next year to include in the book critical summaries of these volumes, as well as of the volumes of original verse.

I shall be grateful for suggestions as to improvements of this year-book in future years, and as to valuable extensions of its scope. To all friends who have assisted this volume by their personal efforts, and to the readers of past years who have made this annual publication possible by promoting it through their interest in poetry, I tender my grateful thanks. They are too many to name here, but my gratitude for their efforts is none the less sincere.

W. S. B.

Cambridge, Massachusetts.

November, 1914.

LANDSCAPES

(FOR CLEMENT R. WOOD)

The rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of grass appear Vivid and startling--everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere. The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The golden-rod with all its million fires; (A million torches swinging in the wind) A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field-- How bountifully were they all revealed! How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive-- So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!

And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose ... Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive And keep the very dirt that died, alive.

And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm and drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, And flying in the wind--her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rushing spirits running over ... What made a sober tree seem such a rover-- Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below. What lit the heart of every golden-glow-- Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame?... Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth.

And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise. Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where the green Silence laughed or stood enthralled, Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled. The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills-- The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea....

A stirring landscape and a generous earth! Freshening courage and benevolent mirth-- And then the city, like a hideous sore.... _Good God, and what is all this beauty for?_

_Century._ _Louis Untermeyer._

PHI BETA KAPPA POEM

_Harvard, 1914_

Sir, friends, and scholars, we are here to serve A high occasion. Our New England wears All her unrivalled beauty as of old; And June, with scent of bayberry and rose And song of orioles--as she only comes By Massachusetts Bay--is here once more, Companioning our fête of fellowship.

The open trails, South, West, and North, lead back From populous cities or from lonely plains, Ranch, pulpit, office, factory, desk, or mill, To this fair tribunal of ambitious youth, The shadowy town beside the placid Charles, Where Harvard waits us through the passing years, Conserving and administering still Her savor for the gladdening of the race.

Yearly, of all the sons she has sent forth, And men her admiration would adopt, She summons whom she will back to her side As if to ask, “How fares my cause of truth In the great world beyond these studious walls?” Here, from their store of life experience, They must make answer as grace is given them, And their plain creed, in verity, declare. Among the many, there is sometimes called One who, like Arnold’s scholar gipsy poor, Is but a seeker on the dusky way, “Still waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.”

He must bethink him first of other days, And that old scholar of the seraphic smile, As we recall him in this very place With all the sweetest culture of his age, His gentle courtesy and friendliness, A chivalry of soul now strangely rare, And that ironic wit which made him, too, The unflinching critic and most dreaded foe Of all things mean, unlovely, and untrue. What Mr. Norton said, with that slow smile, Has put the fear of God in many a heart, Even while his hand encouraged eager youth. From such enheartening who would not dare to speak-- Seeing no truth can be too small to serve, And no word worthless that is born of love? Within the noisy workshop of the world, Where still the strife is upward out of gloom, Men doubt the value of high teaching--cry, “What use is learning? Man must have his will! The élan of life alone is paramount! Away with old traditions! We are free!” So Folly mocks at truth in Freedom’s name. Pale Anarchy leads on, with furious shriek, Her envious horde of reckless malcontents And mad destroyers of the Commonwealth, While Privilege with indifference grows corrupt, Till the Republic stands in jeopardy From following false idols and ideals, Though sane men cry for honesty once more, Order and duty and self-sacrifice.

Our world and all it holds of good for us Our fathers and unselfish mothers made, With noble passion and enduring toil, Strenuous, frugal, reverent, and elate, Caring above all else to guard and save The ampler life of the intelligence And the fine honor of a scrupulous code-- Ideals of manhood touched with the divine.

For this they founded these great schools we serve, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Dartmouth, Yale, Amherst and Williams, trusting to our hands The heritage of all they held most high, Possessions of the spirit and the mind, Investments in the provinces of joy.

Vast provinces are these! And fortunate they Who at their will may go adventuring there, Exploring all the boundaries of Truth, Learning the roads that run through Beauty’s realm, Sighting the pinnacles where good meets God, Encompassed by the eternal unknown sea!

Even for a little to o’erlook those lands, The kingdoms of Religion, Science, Art, Is to be made forever happier With blameless memories that shall bring content And inspiration for all after days. And fortunate they whom destiny allows To rest within those provinces and serve The dominion of ideals all their lives. For whoso will, putting dull greed aside, And holding fond allegiance to the best, May dwell there and find fortitude and joy.

In the free fellowship of kindred minds, One band of scholar gypsies I have known, Whose purpose all unworldly was to find An answer to the riddle of the Earth-- A key that should unlock the book of life And secrets of its sorceries reveal. This, they discovered, had long since been found And laid aside forgotten and unused. Our dark young poet who from Dartmouth came Was told the secret by his gypsy bride, Who had it from a master over seas, And he it was first hinted to the band The magic of that universal lore, Before the great Mysteriarch summoned him. It was the doctrine of the threefold life, The beginning of the end of all their doubt.

In that Victorian age it has become So much the fashion now to half despise, Within the shadow of Cathedral walls They had been schooled and heard the mellow chimes For Lenten litanies and daily prayers, With a mild, eloquent, beloved voice Exhorting to all virtue and that peace Surpassing understanding--casting there That “last enchantment of the Middle Age,” The spell of Oxford and her ritual.

So duteous youth was trained, until there grew Restive outreaching in men’s thought to find Some certitude beyond the dusk of faith. They cried on mysticism to be gone, Mazed in the shadowy princedom of the soul.

Then as old creeds fell round them into dust, They reached through science to belief in law, Made reason paramount in man, and guessed At reigning mind within the universe. Piecing the fragments of a fair design With reverent patience and courageous skill, They saw the world from chaos step by step, Under far-seeing guidance and restraint, Emerge to order and to symmetry, As logical and sure as music’s own.

With Spencer, Darwin, Tyndall, and the rest, Our band saw roads of knowledge open wide Through the uncharted province of the truth, As on they fared through that unfolding world. Yet there they found no rest-house for the heart, No wells sufficient for the spirit’s thirst, No shade nor glory for the senses starved.... Turning--they fled by moonlit trails to seek The magic principality of Art, Where loveliness, not learning, rules supreme. They stood intoxicated with delight before The poised unanxious splendor of the Greek; They mused upon the Gothic minsters gray, Where mystic spirit took on mighty form, Until their prayers to lovely churches turned-- (Like a remembrance of the Middle Age They rose where Ralph or Bertram dreamed in stone); Entranced they trod a painters’ paradise, Where color wasted by the Scituate shore Between the changing marshes and the sea; They heard the golden voice of poesie Lulling the senses with its last caress In Tennysonian accents pure and fine; And all their laurels were for Beauty’s brow, Though toiling Reason went ungarlanded.

Then poisonous weeds of artifice sprang up, Defiling Nature at her sacred source; And there the questing World-soul could not stay, Onward must journey with the changing time, To come to this uncouth rebellious age, Where not an ancient creed nor courtesy Is underided, and each demagogue Cries some new nostrum for the cure of ills. To-day the unreasoning iconoclast Would scoff at science and abolish art, To let untutored impulse rule the world. Let learning perish, and the race return To that first anarchy from which we came, When spirit moved upon the deep and laid The primal chaos under cosmic law.

And even now, in all our wilful might, The satiated being cannot bide, But to that austere country turns again, The little province of the saints of God, Where lofty peaks rise upward to the stars From the gray twilight of Gethsemane, And spirit dares to climb with wounded feet Where justice, peace, and loving-kindness are.

What says the lore of human power we hold Through all these striving and tumultuous days? “Why not accept each several bloom of good, Without discarding good already gained, As one might weed a garden overgrown-- Save the new shoots, yet not destroy the old? Only the fool would root up his whole patch Of fragrant flowers, to plant the newer seed.”

Ah, softly, brothers! Have we not the key, Whose first fine luminous use Plotinus gave, Teaching that ecstasy must lead the man? Three things, we see, men in this life require, (As they are needed in the universe:) First of all spirit, energy, or love, The soul and mainspring of created things; Next wisdom, knowledge, culture, discipline, To guide impetuous spirit to its goal; And lastly strength, the sound apt instrument, Adjusted and controlled to lawful needs.

The next world-teacher must be one whose word Shall reaffirm the primacy of soul, Hold scholarship in her high guiding place, And recognize the body’s equal right To culture such as it has never known, In power and beauty serving soul and mind.

Inheritors of this divine ideal, With courage to be fine as well as strong, Shall know what common manhood may become, Regain the gladness of his sons of morn, The radiance of immortality. Out of heroic wanderings of the past, And all the wayward gropings of our time, Unswerved by doubt, unconquered by despair, The messengers of such a hope must go; As one who hears far off before the dawn, On some lone trail among the darkling hills, The hermit thrushes in the paling dusk, And at the omen lifts his eyes to see Above him, with its silent shafts of light, The sunrise kindling all the peaks with fire.

_The Forum_ _Bliss Carman_

THE DESERTED PASTURE

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have, The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the earthly springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And then October passes In gorgeous livery, In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugles blast again, I watch the battalions come To pitch their tents therein.

_Atlantic Monthly_ _Bliss Carman_

TO A PHŒBE-BIRD

Under the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech.

You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest.

And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid,

And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings.

Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phœbe, with your lack of noise, What eloquence you teach!

_The Bellman_ _Witter Bynner_

FROM A MOTOR IN MAY