Chapter 3

“Who are you looking for?” I asked His eyes, like two bright pence, Sparkled at mine; and then he said: “A fence.”

“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en, When people were in bed; Before the judge could prosecute, The culprit fled.”

Well, Reuben only touched his hat And mumbled, “Thank you, Sir,” And asked me whereabouts to find A carpenter.

HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS

COUNTRY ROAD

I can’t forget a gaunt grey barn Like a face without an eye That kept recurring by field and tarn Under a Cape Cod sky.

I can’t forget a woman’s hand, Roughened and scarred by toil That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned By sun and wind and soil.

Beauty and hardship, bent and bound Under the selfsame yoke: Babies with bare knees plump and round And stooping women folk.

MARIE LOUISE HERSEY

WREATHS

Red wreaths Hang in my neighbor’s window, Green wreaths in my own. On this day I lost my husband. On this day you lost your boy. On this day Christ was born. Red wreaths, Green wreaths Hang in Our Windows Red for a bleeding heart, Green for grave grass. Mary, mother of Jesus, Look down and comfort us. You too knew passion; You too knew pain. Comfort us, Who are not brides of God, Nor bore God. On Christmas day Hang wreaths, Red for new pain. Green for spent passion.

CAROLYN HILLMAN

MEMPHIS

Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you, Rather I’d dream of Dixie and tie ships on the old bayou! Rather I’d dream of my packets and the lazy river days, Rather I’d dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze,

Rather I’d dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by, Rather I’d dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky, Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade, Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers’ fathers made!

Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me, But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea! Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain. Send me back my river, and I shall wake again!

GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN

SAINT COLUMBKILLE

Columbkille! Saint Columbkille! You naughty man, Saint Columbkille! Why did you Finnian’s Psalter take And secretly a copy make? You know ’twas such a naughty thing For one descended from a king To lock himself into a cell, ’Twas far from right,-you knew it well,— And copy Finnian’s Psalter through, Against his will as well you knew. And then to think a common bird Should feel such shame, that when he heard The breathing spy outside your door, And felt your sainthood was no more, Should through the crack attack the spy, And in a rage pluck out his eye, As if that saintly Irish crane Would hide from all your Saintship’s stain. I grieve to think that you did add Sin unto sin; it is too bad. For Finnian could not you persuade To yield the copy that you made, Until the King in his behalf Ruled-“To each cow belongs her calf”: And then you grew so mad you swore On Erin’s face you’d look no more. And crossed the sea the Picts to save, Because you so did misbehave To dear Saint Finnian: faith, ’twas ill For you to act so, Columbkille! A saint you were no doubt, no doubt! What pity ’twas you were found out! We know an angel (snob or fool?) To Kiaran showed a common rule, An axe, an auger, and a saw, And told that saint it was the law Of Heaven that Columbkille should be Far, far above such saints as he; For Columbkille contemned a crown, While he these homely tools laid down, To serve the Lord, and that the Lord To each would give his due reward. I wonder if that angel knew That Christ these tools had laid down too. O Columbkille! O Columbkille! A saint like you must have his will, But for myself I’d rather be The common sinner that you see Than make a crane ashamed of me, And angels talk such idiocy.

E. J. V. HUIGINN

MISS DOANE

Miss Doane was sixty, probably; She rented third floor room That opened on an airshaft full Of cooking smells and gloom.

She worked in philanthropic man’s Well-known department store; Cashiered in basement, hot and close, For forty years or more.

Each night when she came home she’d stand A moment in the hall, Before she went into her room With low and tender call.

And often I would hear her voice Repeat a childish prayer; Or read some old, old fairy tale Of Princess, grand and fair.

One night I went to visit her And spied, in little chair A great wax doll, in dainty dress, And curls of flaxen hair.

I praised the doll; its prettiness; Miss Doane said, “I’m alone. She comforts me. I wanted so A child to call my own.”

Each night I heard her softly sing A childish lullaby; But once, and just before she died, I heard her cry and cry!

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON

FALLEN FENCES

The woods grew dark; black shadows rocked And I could scarcely see My way along the old tote road, That long had seemed to me

To wind on aimlessly; but now Came full to life; the rain Would soon strike down; ahead I saw A clearing, and a lane

Between gray, fallen fences and Wide, grayer, grim stone walls; So grim and gray I shrank from thought Of weary, aching spalles.

On stony knoll great aspens swayed And swung in browsing teeth Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook And shivered underneath.

Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent And wrangled over roof Of weatherbeaten house, and barn Whose sag bespoke no hoof.

And ivy crawled up either end Of house, to chimney, where It lashed in futile anger at The wind wolves of the air.

I thought the house abandoned, and I ran to get inside, When suddenly the old front door was opened and flung wide

And she stood there, with hand on knob, As I went swiftly in, Then closed the door most softly on The storm and shrieking din.

A space I stood and looked at her, So young; ’twas passing strange That fifty years or more had gone And brought no new style’s change.

The sweetness, daintiness of her In starched and dotted gown Of creamy whiteness, over hoops, With ruffles winding down!

We had not much to say, and yet Of words I felt no lack; Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped A moment, then dropped back.

I felt her pride of race; her taste In silken rug and chair, And quaintly fashioned furniture Of patterns old and rare.

On window sill a rose bush stood; ’Twas bringing rose to bud; One full bloomed there but yesterday, Dropped petals, red as blood.

Quite soon, she asked to be excused For just a moment, and Went out, returning with a tray In either slender hand.

My glance could not but linger on Each thin and lovely cup; “This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed The while she raised it up.

And when the storm was done and I Arose, reluctantly To go, she too was loath to have Me go, it seemed to me.

When I reached old Joe Webber’s place, Upon the Corner Road, I went into the Upper Field Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed

Potatoes, culling them with hoe And practised, calloused hand, In rounded piles that brownly glowed Upon the fresh-turned land.

“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl With beauty’s smiling charm, That lives beyond that hemlock growth, On that old grown-up farm?”

Joe listened, while I told him where I’d been that afternoon, Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed, Before he spoke, a tune

“They cum ter thet old place ter live Some sixty years ago; Jest where they cum from, who they ware, Wy, no one got to know.

“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s Red racker an’ the gig; We never heard from him nor could We track the hoss or rig.

“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then He went ter see the Wife; He found her in thet settin’ room: She’d taken of her life.

“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence; Some say ’tis haunted,-but I ain’t no use fer foolishness, So all I say’s tut! tut!”

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON

CROSS-CURRENTS

They wrapped my soul in eiderdown; They placed me warm and snug In carved chair; set me with care Upon an old prayer rug.

They cased my feet in golden shoes That hurt at toe and heel; My restless feet, with youth all fleet, Nor asked how they might feel.

And now they wonder where I am, And search with shrill, cold cry; But I crouch low where tall reeds grow, And smile as they pass by!

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON

THE FAREWELL

What is more beautiful Than thought, soul-fed, That I may be the crimson of a rose When dead?

My soul, so light a joy And grief will be, That it will gently press the brown earth down On me.

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON

SONG

Let me be great, as stars are great, Singing of love, not of hate.

Love for sweet and simple things, Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings,

Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers, Thin coils of smoke and granite towers,

Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash High above a river’s crash,

Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter, Soft grey shadows trailing after

Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods And lose themselves in solitudes.

All these I’ll love, never hate, And loving them, I will be great.

OLIVER JENKINS

LOVE AUTUMNAL

My love will come in autumn-time When leaves go spinning to the ground And wistful stars in heaven chime With the leaves’ sound.

Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes And pause beneath low-hanging boughs, And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns We’ll make our vows.

Let others seek in spring for sighs When love flames forth from every seed; But love that blooms when nature dies Is love indeed!

OLIVER JENKINS

ECHOS

Traveling at dusk the noisy city street, I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries Of “Extra,” as with flying feet, They strove to gain this man or that-their prize. But one there was with neither shout nor stride, And, having bought from him, I stood nearby, Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why—

When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet The cripple with “On time to-night?” Then, as he handed out the sheet, The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right. My other reg’lars are a little late. They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come; You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!”

So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way For I had found a city’s heart that day.

RUTH LAMBERT JONES

WAR PICTURES

“German Retreat From Arras” “Official Films”-they came After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had ministered to fame.

After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had pigeon-toed away, We saw where bits of churches And bits of horses lay.

We saw bleak desolation; We saw no unscathed tree. We shivered in our comfort And murmured: “Can it be!”

But later, walking homeward, Repeating: “Is it true?” We brushed a khaki shoulder And asked no more. We knew!

RUTH LAMBERT JONES

AN OLD SONG

When I was but a young lad, And that is long ago, I thought that luck loved every man, And time his only foe, And love was like a hawthorn bush That blossomed every May, And had but to choose his flower, For that’s the young lad’s way.

Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer, It’s easy come and spent, And heavy is the going now Where once the light foot went. The hawthorn bush puts on its white, The throstle whistles clear, But Spring comes once for every man Just once in all the year.

ARTHUR KETCHUM

ROADSIDE REST

Such quiet sleep has come to them! The Springs and Autumns pass, Nor do they know if it be snow Or daisies in the grass.

All day the birches bend to hear The river’s undertone; Across the hush a fluting thrush Sings even-song alone.

But down their dream there drifts no sound, The winds may sob and stir: On the still breast of Peace they rest And they are glad of her.

They ask not any gift—they mind Nor any foot that fares, Unheededly life passes by— Such quiet sleep is theirs.

ARTHUR KETCHUM

OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP

Bed is the boon for me! It’s well to bake and sweep, But hear the word of old Lizette: It’s better than all to sleep.

Summer and flowers are gay, And morning light and dew; But aged eyelids love the dark Where never a light peeps through.

What!—open-eyed, my dears? Thinking your hearts will break. There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say, That’s worth the lying awake!

I learned it in my youth— Love I was dreaming of! I learned it from the needle-work That took the place of love.

I learned it from the years And what they brought about; From song, and from the hills of joy Where sorrow sought me out.

It’s good to dream and turn, And turn and dream, or fall To comfort with my pack of bones, And know of nothing at all!

Yes, never know at all! If prowlers mew or bark, Nor wonder if it’s three o’clock Or four o’clock of the dark.

When the longer shades have fallen And the last weariness Has brought the sweetest gift of life, The last forgetfulness.

If a sound as of old leaves Stir the last bed I keep, Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette— She’s turning in her sleep!”

AGNES LEE

MOTHERHOOD

Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently. Following the children joyously astir Under the cedrus and the olive tree, Pausing to let their laughter float to her. Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, She saw a little Christ in every face; When lo, another woman, gliding near, Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place. And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke: “I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

“I, too, have rocked my little one, O, He was fair! Yea, fairer than the fairest sun, And like its rays through amber spun His sun-bright hair. Still I can see it shine and shine.” “Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.”

“His ways were ever darling ways,”— And Mary smiled,— “So soft, so clinging! Glad relays Of love were all His precious days. My little child! My infinite star! My music fled!” “Even so was mine,” the woman said.

Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou, Of thine.” And she: “O, mine was rosy as a boug

Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, To bloom for me! His balmy fingers left a thrill Within my breast that warms me still.”

Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour, And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not, “Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?” “I am the mother of Iscariot.”

AGNES LEE

ESSEX

I

Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring, And wait, in supplication’s gentleness, The certain resurrection that shall bring A robe of verdure for their nakedness. Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell, Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coil Now promise, while the veins of nature swell, Eternal recompense to human toil. And when the sunset’s final shades depart The aspiration to completed birth Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start, We know how wanton and how little worth Are all the passions of our bleeding heart That vex the awful patience of the earth.

II

Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore, And thine the stars, revealing one by one, Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion, The tawny moon that waits below the skies,— Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was done. And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast To thy benign October, thine the trees Lusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest; And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified Thy name with Liberty Is divine decrees— The men who loved thy soil and fought and died.

III

Toward thine Eastern window when the morn Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars, I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars Where men have fought and wept and died forlorn. But here, across the early fields of corn, The living silence dwelleth, and the gray Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray Breathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn. Open thy lattice, for the gage is won For which this earth has journeyed though the dust Of shattered systems, cold about the sun; And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled, A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”— And falls like dew God’s pity on the world

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

THE SONG OF THE WAVE

This is the song of the wave! The mighty one! Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound: White as a live terror, as a drawn sword, This is the wave.

II

This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the Tempest Whose veins are swollen with life, In whose flanks abide the four winds. This is the wave.

III

This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the sea And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield, And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword. Then a wind blew out of the morning And the waters rustled And the wave was born!

IV

This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon And the white sea-birds like driven foam Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky And the face of the waters was barred with white, For the wave had many brothers, And the wave was strong!

V

This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunset And the west was lurid as Hell. The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead. Then the wind smote full as the breath of God, And the wave called to its brothers, “This is the crest of life!”

VI

This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall, Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass That has caught the soul of the moonlight. Caught and prisoned the moon-beams; Its edge is frittered to foam. This is the wave!

VII

This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls— Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morning It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand. This is the wave.

VIII

This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life. The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength In the lust of attainment. Aiming at things for Heaven too high, Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength. So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found: Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars, The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, Whose eye is filled with the Image of God, And the end is Death!

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

FRIMAIRE

Dearest, we are like two flowers Blooming in the garden, A purple aster flower and a red one Standing alone in a withered desolation.

The garden plants are shattered and seeded, One brittle leaf scrapes against another, Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals. Now only you and I nodding together.

Many were with us; they have all faded. Only we are purple and crimson, Only we in the dew-clear mornings, Smarten into color as the sun rises.

When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, And later when my cold roots tighten, I am anxious for morning, I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.

You or I—and I am a coward. Surely frost should take the crimson. Purple is a finer color, Very splendid in isolation.

So we nod above the broken Stems of flowers almost rotted. Many mornings there cannot be now For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!

AMY LOWELL

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only a whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon— I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday sen’night.” As I read it in the white morning sunlight. The letters squirmed like snakes. “Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. “No,” I told him. “See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer.” And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband, In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and the daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

AMY LOWELL

A BATHER