Part 5

I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White Way That gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the Bay When the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roar And the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore. Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands, The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands, And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to be And the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea. As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wine Is the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divine When from building on populous building thy power unfurled Leaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world. I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie; I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky; I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of Rome Swing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home; I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yell When the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell; I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hour Come over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible power When story on story lets out on the pavement below And thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow. Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in, For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin, And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys, Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys. I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirls And whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls; I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace; I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet place Of the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches there With the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair; Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skies The just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble rise To its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sun Is the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done. Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky, And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by, And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea, And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see, And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart, And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start, And the Rock drinks in its thousands from the moving flood in the street As the strong male tide goes out with the roar of a million feet. I know when the night comes down that a beautiful Siren awakes. I have seen the flash of her eyes and the light that her shadow makes On the rain-wet Avenue when the flutes of pleasure are heard And she dances her way to the wine cup and sings like a bird. Hand in hand go the sons of Youth and the daughters of Beauty divine, And the children of Hunger are there who have trodden the grapes of their wine, And the thousands pour and pour through the huge illumined Fair, And the booths of a hundred lands are bright and the Wonder-worker is there. The red star is out on the roof and the horses are off on the wall, And the girl and the dog are blown along and the flashing water fall, And the flush of thy far-flung revel goes up to the ribbons of sky, And forgotten Orion sinks down and the Pleiades die. I have trailed down the pleasant river; I have tramped where the iron “L’s” Go thundering down through the haunts of care; I have slummed through the hidden hells; I have jostled the mingling Bowery where the stream of the races rolls; I know the town where the yellow man goes by on his velvet soles; I have threaded the still, dark canyons where the clustered towers rise; Not a foot is heard of the thousands; they are ghosts on the midnight skies; I have seen o’er the glamour of waters thy piles upon shadowy piles Standing out on the canvas of night and twinkling for miles upon miles. As a grail is the gleam of thy towers and the glow of the Great White Way, And a thousand ships have sailed and sailed to the lure of the lights on the Bay, And the spell of thy song, O Enchantress, is sweet on the southern air, And the shepherd far out on the plains feels the sting of thy hair. Thou art young with the youth of them, strong with the strength of them, filled with the beauty of girls; Thy throat where the River gleams is beaded with lamps as with pearls; And the languor of night is around thee and the waters rise and fall, And over invisible bridges slow fireworms crawl, And the Ferries that glide o’er the bay, o’er the rivers that lave The feet of thy emerald towers, are lighted swans on the wave, As Merlin had walked o’er thy waters, or Prospero’s eye Were watching alternate old cities line out on the sky, One moment Jerusalem gleams and thy towers are holy and white, And lo, at the turn of a glass, old Babylon etched on the night With high summer gardens abloom and the wealth of the world in her hair; Then Carnival laughs in thy streets and Cairo is there Barbaric all over with brooches and fountains of fire Till the new day quenches the lamps and flares over Tyre.

_The Smart Set_ _Edwin Davies Schoonmaker_

WE DEAD

When from the brooding home, The silent, immemorial love-house, The belovèd body of the mother in her travail, Naked, the little one comes and wails at the world’s bleak weather, We say that on earth and to us a child has been born. But now we move with unhalting pace toward the dark evening, And toward the cold, lengthening shadow, And quick we avert our fearful eyes from the strange event, The burial and the bourne, That leaving home, the end--death.

Are these, then, birth and death? Does the cut of a cord bring life, and dust to dust expunge it? If so, what are we, then, we dead?

For, in the cities, And dark on the lonely farms, and waifs on the ocean, As a harrying of wind, as an eddying of dust, We dead, in our soft, shining bodies that are combed and are kissed, Are ghosts fleeing from the inescapable hell of ourselves.

We are even as beetles skating over the waters of our own darkness; Even as beetles, darting and restless, But the depths dark and void--

We have found no peace, no peace, though our engines are crafty. What avail wings to the flier in the skies While his dead soul, like an anchor, drags on the earth? And what avails lightning darting a man’s voice, linking the cities, While in the booth he is the same varnished clod, And his soul flies not after? And what avails it that the body of man has waxed mammoth, Limbed with the lightning and the stream, While his spirit remains a torment and a trifle, And, gaining the world, profits nothing?

Self-murdered, self-slain, the dead cumber the earth; And how did they die? A boy was born in the pouring radiance of creative magic; And with pulses of music he was born. Of himself he might have been shaping a song-wingèd poet; But he was afraid. He feared the gaunt garret of starvation and the lonely years in his soul’s desert, And he feared to be a jest and a fool before his friends. Now he clerks, the slave, And the magic is slimed with disastrous opiates of the night.

A girl was bathed with the lissome beauty of the seeker of love, The call of the animals one to another in the spring, The desire of the captive woman in her heart, as she ran and leaped on the hills; But the imprisoned beast’s cry terrified her as she looked out over the love-quiet of the modern world. Yet she desired to take this man-lure and release it into loveliness, Become a dancer, lulling with witchcraft of her young body the fevered world. But, no, her mother spied here a wickedness, Shamefully she submitted, making a smoldering inferno of the hidden nymph in her soul, And so died.

A woman was made body and heart for the beautiful love-life; But of the mother-miracle, How the cry of a troubled child whitens the red passions, She did not know. Fear of poverty corrupted her: she chose a fool that her heart hated, And now through him no release for her native passions, But only a spending of her loathsome fury on adornment and luxury. Ah, dead glory! and the heart sick with betrayal! There is no grace for the dead save to be born again: Engines shall not drag us from the grave, Nor wine nor meat revive us.

For our thirst is a thirst no liquor can reach nor slake, And our hunger a hunger by no bread filled. The waters we crave bubble up from the springs of life, And the bread we would break comes down from invisible hands.

We dead, awake! Kiss the beloved past good-by, Go leave the love-house of the betrayèd self, And through the dark of birth go and enter the soul the soul’s bleak weather. And I--I will not stay dead, though the dead cling to me; I will put away the kisses and the soft embraces and the walls that encompass me, And out of this womb I will surely move to the world of my spirit. I will lose my life to find it, as of old; Yea, I will turn from the life-lie I lived to the truth I was wrought for, And I will take the creator within, sower of the seed of the race, And make him a god, a shaper of civilization.

Now on my soul’s imperious surge, Taking the risk, as of death, and in deepening twilight, I ride on the darkening flood and go out on the waters Till over the tide comes music, till over the tide the breath Of the song of my far-off soul is wafted and blown, Murmuring commandments.

Storm and darkness! I am drowned in the torrent! I am moving forth irrevocably from the sheltering womb! I am naked and little! Oh, cold of the world, and light blinding, and space terrifying Now my cry goes up and the wailing of my helpless soul: Mother! my mother!

Lo, then, the mother eternal! In my opening soul the footfall of her fleeting tread, And the song of her voice piercing and sweet with love of me, And the enwinding of her arms and adoring of her breath, And the milk of her plenty! Oh, Life, of which I am part--Life, from the depths of the heavens, That ascended like a water-spring into David of Asia on the eastern hills in the night, That came like a noose of golden shadow on Joan in the orchard, That gathers all life--the binding of brothers into sheaves, That of old, kneelers in the dust Named, glorying, Allah, Jehovah, God.

_Century_ _James Oppenheim_

GOD AND THE FARMER

God sat down with the farmer When the noontide heat grew harsh. The One had builded a world that day, And the other had drained a marsh. They sat in the cooling shadow At the porch of the templed wood; And each looked forth on his handiwork, And saw that the work was good.

On God’s right hand two cherubs Bent waiting, winged with fire; On the farmer’s left his oxen bowed Deep bosoms marked with mire. Still clung around the plowshare The dark, mysterious mold, Where the furrow it turned had heaved the new O’er the chill and churlish old.

Jehovah’s face was seen not By ox or grazing kine; But the farmer’s eyes, were they dazed with sun, Or saw he that look divine? Was it the wind in passing That stroked that farmer’s hair? Or had God’s own hand of wind and flame Laid benediction there?

Through muffling miles he fancied Far calls of greeting blew, Where on sounding plains the lords of war Hurled down to rear anew. Glad hail from nation-builders Crossed faint those dreamland bounds, Like a brother’s cry from a distant hill. And God spake as the pine-tree sounds.

“There are seven downy meadows That never before were mown; There were seven fields of brush and rock Where now is nor bush nor stone. There are seven heifers grazing Where but one could graze before. O lords of marts--and of broken hearts-- What have you given me more?”

God rose up from the farmer When the cool of the evening neared; And the One went forth through the worlds He built, And the one through the fields he cleared. The stars outlasting labor Leaned down o’er the flowering soil; And all night long o’er His child there leaned A Toiler more old than toil.

_Yale Review_ _Frederick Erastus Pierce_

SONG

O shadows past the candle-gleam, so brief to pause in flight, Are shadows that can come no more Still moving unseen on the door Of Yesternight?

O roses on the crumbling wall, so soon to droop and die, Are any roses that are dead Still fragrant where their petals bled In Junes gone by?

O heart of mine, there is a face nor grief nor prayer can bring.... Think you in some far Shadow-land One keeps my roses in his hand, Remembering?

_Boston Transcript_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_

SURETY

We have each other’s deathless love, A love that flies on wings of light From star to star and sings above The night: We bid each other’s eyes reveal The face whose images we are; We find each other’s hand upon the wheel Piloting every star.

Shall we then watch with a less lonely breath Gradual, sudden, everlasting death?

Oh, lest a separating wind assail The jocund stars and all their ways be dearth, And love, undone of its immense avail, Go homeless even on earth, Let us be constant, though we travel far, With every mortal token of our trust, And not forget, piloting any star, How dear a thing is dust!

_Yale Review_ _Witter Bynner_

REMEMBRANCE: GREEK FOLK-SONG

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! Why do you lead me to the forest?_ Joy is where the temples are, lines of dancers swinging far, Drums and lyres and viols in the town (_It is dark in the forest_) And the flapping leaves will blind me and the clinging vines will bind me And the thorny rose-boughs tear my saffron gown-- _And I fear the forest._

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! There was one once who led me to the forest:_ Hand in hand we wandered mute, where was neither lyre nor flute, Little stars were bright against the dusk (_There was wind in the forest_) And the thicket of wild rose breathed across our lips locked close Dizzy perfumings of spikenard and musk.... _I am tired of the forest._

_Not unto the forest--not unto the forest, O my lover! Take me from the silence of the forest!_ I will love you by the light and the beat of drums at night And echoing of laughter in my ears, _But here in the forest_ I am still, remembering a forgotten, useless thing, And my eyelids are locked down for fear of tears-- _There is memory in the forest._

_The Craftsman_ _Margaret Widdemer_

THE TWO FLAMES

Behind my mask of life there lies a shrine Wherein two flames are burning. Day and night I tend these leaping treasures that are mine, These lambent loves, the red one and the white, While, priestess-like, I hang at either glow, For each is perfect. And to each I bring The oil of pure emotion, hottest so, And draw new strength from my own offering.

The first of these my loves burns as a star That lifts its keen, white glory into space With virgin fervor, lavishing afar Its vivid purity: and in the face Of changeful worlds it glows unaltered still. So burns my flame of friendship. In its sight All things are silvered with a new delight And beauty’s self strikes deeper, till the thrill Of mere existence vibrates like a string. Then life is grown so taut that it must sing, And all the little hills must clap their hands. The soul is free as never bird on wing To bathe in friendship like a sea of light: And ever as it mounts the sea expands In new infinities, and each new height Grows keener than the last, until the mind For very dizziness sweeps downward then To simpler things, the cadence of a voice, Or sweet, low laughter, idle as the wind, Or fleeting touch of hands that quick rejoice But ask no more and do not touch again. With this white flame there comes a strange new peace, A deep tranquillity unknown beside, Where all my life’s cross-currents shift and cease Like runways in the sand before the tide. And all that I have longed to be, the brave High dreams of youth that languished nigh forgot Seem half accomplished. Easy now to slave At tasks colossal, so my friend fail not. And I am filled with gentle wonderment That life can be so good and breath so sweet: While all my world grows suddenly complete. That I must love it with a new content. So speech grows overfull, and we are fain To drink of silence like a golden cup With wine of sweet companionship filled up That has no end, nor any thirst can drain. And so at last no wish is left to me Save thus to dream into eternity. This is my first white love.

The second flame Burns red and fierce as noon-time on the earth, A wild, full-blooded love that sprang to birth Naked and unafraid, yet scorning shame And clean as winds that sweep the desert’s breast. My flame of passion this, born of the sun And warm red earth, so æon-long ago, In languid, throbbing noons, when dust was pressed To amorous dust, and longing made it one. This is a good love too, and must be so, Though bloodless fathers crushed it and denied, And on a cross of virtue crucified This firm sweet flesh that colors with our soul. Aye! it is good, and beautiful, and clean, To feel within my veins the surge and flow Of young desire waking, that the whole Warm universe has felt: to call, and preen, And dance before my mate that he may know An answering surge, and leap, and make me his And glad with every fecund thing that is. God! It is good to feel the primal cry, The deep, mad longing for another life,-- My life and his, that shall be born of me,-- A little child of flame, that when we die We may cheat time, nor perish in the strife: But in this hour of vital ecstasy When life is molten, we may stamp thereon Our own glad image, and conceive, and live. And sweet it is, and languid, when the tide Has ebbed, for lack of more than I can give, To take his hand who breathes so close beside And lay it on my breast, and humble me To say: “Thou art my lord. Thy will my own.” So at the last this wish is mine, to be Struck at the high-tide into nothingness, To die, ere he can learn to love me less.

So these my loves are perfect, each alone Sufficient in itself and all complete, Yet one of two, like rival beacons shown, That call and call me, but that never meet. For yet they have not met, nor ever burned The white flame in the red, the red in white Till both were wed together there, and turned To some half-dreamed intensity of light.

For I have dreamed,--yes, in my priestess soul The longing grows for one great altar fire That shall leap up to heaven, a winged desire, Not two but one, a perfect, living whole. Is this a dream? Are all great lovers dreams? Can red and white be fused, or two be one? Yseult and Eloise, are they but themes Whereon men hang the yearnings they have spun? And must I cherish so till the end’s end My sweet loves sundered, lover here, or friend? Nay, I know not! I guard by day and night My leaping flames, the red one and the white.

_The Forum_ _Eloise Briton_

THE LOOK

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all.

Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest, Robin’s lost in play, But the kiss in Colin’s eyes Haunts me night and day.

_Harper’s Magazine_ _Sara Teasdale_

THE FLIRT

Beautiful boy, lend me your youth to play with; My heart is old. Lend me your fire to make my twilight gay with, To warm my cold; Prove that the power my look has not forsaken, That at my will My touch can quicken pulses and awaken Man’s passion still. The moment that I ask do not begrudge me. I shall not stay. I shall have gone, ere you have time to judge me, My empty way. I am not worth remembrance, little brother, Even to damn.

One kiss--O God! if I were only other Than what I am!

_Century_ _Amelia Josephine Burr_

YOUNG EDEN

Flushed from a fairy flagon My country love and I, Sat by a bush forgetting, Old conscience and his fretting, Just dreaming there and letting Trouble trundle by-- Like a dragon Dead on a wagon Drawn against the sky. _Fol de rol de raly O-- Trouble in the sky!_

She knew it was only a cloud I saw When I pointed out a dangling claw, But she let me say my say; For the day, red-ripe, was a pretty day And she thought my way was a city way. And O I liked her thinking--while each unhindered curl Glinted in the sunlight, hinted of its yellow-- That I who spoke to such a girl Was something of a fellow. _Fol de rol de raly O! Was she really thinking so?_

There’s the tree, I gaily told her, Apples, apples, at our feet! Come, before we’re one day older, We shall gather, we shall eat! Now’s the time for apple hunger! Not if we were one day younger, Younger, older, shyer, bolder, Would an apple taste so sweet! _Fol de rol de raly O! Apples at our feet!_

Bewildered, she was with me on the run Toward the tree that held its treasure to the sun; This, of all the trees of treasure, was the one Condemning leisure And inviting lovely pleasure-- She was with me, she was by me on the run, With a cheek that turned its treasure to the sun. _Fol de rol de raly O! Raly O, we gaily go, Fol--_

Why should she stop and never speak? Why should the color in her cheek Change, not glowing gay and meek? Deeper, redder than I knew She was mistress of, a hue, Though demurely, Richly, surely Rising in her cheek! _Fol de rol de raly O! The change in her cheek!_