Chapter 4

I know the sorrows of the last abyss: I walked the cold black pools without a star; I lay on rock of unseen flint and spar; I heard the execrable serpent hiss; I dreamed of sun, fruit-tree, and virgin's kiss; I woke alone with midnight near and far, And everlasting hunger, keen to mar; But I arose, and my reward is this: I am no more one more amid the throng: Though name be naught, and lips forever weak, I seem to know at last of mighty song; And with no blush, no tremor on the cheek, I do claim consort with the great and strong Who suffered ill and had the gift to speak.

A Girl's Songs. [Mary Carolyn Davies]

Borrower

I sing of sorrow, I sing of weeping. I have no sorrow.

I only borrow From some tomorrow Where it lies sleeping, Enough of sorrow To sing of weeping.

Vintage

Heartbreak that is too new Can not be used to make Beauty that will startle; That takes an old heartbreak.

Old heartbreaks are old wine. Too new to pour is mine.

The Kiss

Your kiss lies on my face Like the first snow Upon a summer place.

Bewildered by that wonder, The grasses tremble under The thing they do not know. I tremble even so.

Free

Over and over I tell the sky: I am free -- I!

Over and over I tell the sea: -- I am free!

Over and over I tell my lover I am free, free! Over and over.

But when the night comes black and cold, I who am young, with fear grow old; And I know, when the world is clear of sound, I am bound -- bound.

The Enchanted Sheepfold. [Josephine Preston Peabody]

The hills far-off were blue, blue, The hills at hand were brown; And all the herd-bells called to me As I came by the down.

The briars turned to roses, roses; Ever we stayed to pull A white little rose, and a red little rose, And a lock of silver wool.

Nobody heeded, -- none, none; And when True Love came by, They thought him naught but the shepherd-boy. Nobody knew but I!

The trees were feathered like birds, birds; Birds were in every tree. Yet nobody heeded, nobody heard, Nobody knew, save me.

And he is fairer than all -- all. How could a heart go wrong? For his eyes I knew, and his knew mine, Like an old, old song.

Where Love is. [Amelia Josephine Burr]

By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill's crest, I would build me a house as a swallow builds its nest; I would curtain it with roses, and the wind should breathe to me The sweetness of the roses and the saltness of the sea.

Where the Tuscan olives whiten in the hot blue day, I would hide me from the heat in a little hut of gray, While the singing of the husbandman should scale my lattice green From the golden rows of barley that the poppies blaze between.

Narrow is the street, Dear, and dingy are the walls Wherein I wait your coming as the twilight falls. All day with dreams I gild the grime till at your step I start -- Ah Love, my country in your arms -- my home upon your heart!

Interlude. [Scudder Middleton]

I am not old, but old enough To know that you are very young. It might be said I am the leaf, And you the blossom newly sprung.

So I shall grow a while with you, And hear the bee and watch the cloud, Before the dragon on the branch, The caterpillar, weaves a shroud.

The Lover envies an Old Man. [Shaemas O Sheel]

I envy the feeble old man Dozing there in the sun. When all you can do is done And life is a shattered plan, What is there better than Dozing in the sun?

I could grow very still Like an old stone on a hill And content me with the one Thing that is ever kind, The tender sun. I could grow deaf and blind And never hear her voice, Nor think I could rejoice With her in any place; And I could forget her face, And love only the sun. Because when we are tired, Very very tired, And cannot again be fired By any hope, The sun is so comforting! A little bird under the wing Of its mother, is not so warm. Give me only the scope Of an old chair Out in the air, Let me rest there, Moving not, Loving not, Only dozing my days till my days be done, Under the sun.

"If you should tire of loving me". [Margaret Widdemer]

If you should tire of loving me Some one of our far days, Oh, never start to hide your heart Or cover thought with praise.

For every word you would not say Be sure my heart has heard, So go from me all silently Without a kiss or word;

For God must give you happiness, And Oh, it may befall In listening long to Heaven-song I may not care at all!

The Flower of Mending. [Vachel Lindsay]

When Dragon-fly would fix his wings, When Snail would patch his house, When moths have marred the overcoat Of tender Mister Mouse,

The pretty creatures go with haste To the sunlit blue-grass hills Where the Flower of Mending yields the wax And webs to help their ills.

The hour the coats are waxed and webbed They fall into a dream, And when they wake the ragged robes Are joined without a seam.

My heart is but a dragon-fly, My heart is but a mouse, My heart is but a haughty snail In a little stony house.

Your hand was honey-comb to heal, Your voice a web to bind. You were a Mending Flower to me To cure my heart and mind.

Venus Transiens. [Amy Lowell]

Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli's vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady, Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver?

For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at your feet.

The Dream of Aengus Og. [Eleanor Rogers Cox]

When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking, And white on the hearth was last night's flame, Thither to me 'twixt sleeping and waking, Singing out of the mists she came.

And grey as the mists on the spectre meadows Were the eyes that on my eyes she laid, And her hair's red splendor through the shadows Like to the marsh-fire gleamed and played.

And she sang of the wondrous far-off places That a man may only see in dreams, The death-still, odorous, starlit spaces Where Time is lost and no life gleams.

And there till the day had its crest uplifted, She stood with her still face bent on me, Then forth with the Dawn departing drifted Light as a foam-fleck on the sea.

And now my heart is the heart of a swallow That here no solace of rest may find, Forevermore I follow and follow Her white feet glancing down the wind.

And forevermore in my ears are ringing -- (Oh, red lips yet shall I kiss you dumb!) Twain sole words of that May morn's singing, Calling to me "Hither"! and "Come"!

From flower-bright fields to the wild lake-sedges Crying my steps when the Day has gone, Till dim and small down the Night's pale edges The stars have fluttered one by one.

And light as the thought of a love forgotten, The hours skim past, while before me flies That face of the Sun and Mist begotten, Its singing lips and death-cold eyes.

"I am in Love with High Far-Seeing Places". [Arthur Davison Ficke]

I am in love with high far-seeing places That look on plains half-sunlight and half-storm, -- In love with hours when from the circling faces Veils pass, and laughing fellowship glows warm. You who look on me with grave eyes where rapture And April love of living burn confessed, -- The Gods are good! The world lies free to capture! Life has no walls. O take me to your breast! Take me, -- be with me for a moment's span! -- I am in love with all unveiled faces. I seek the wonder at the heart of man; I would go up to the far-seeing places. While youth is ours, turn toward me for a space The marvel of your rapture-lighted face!

You. [Ruth Guthrie Harding]

Deep in the heart of me, Nothing but You! See through the art of me -- Deep in the heart of me Find the best part of me, Changeless and true. Deep in the heart of me, Nothing but You!

Choice. [Angela Morgan]

I'd rather have the thought of you To hold against my heart, My spirit to be taught of you With west winds blowing, Than all the warm caresses Of another love's bestowing, Or all the glories of the world In which you had no part.

I'd rather have the theme of you To thread my nights and days, I'd rather have the dream of you With faint stars glowing, I'd rather have the want of you, The rich, elusive taunt of you Forever and forever and forever unconfessed Than claim the alien comfort Of any other's breast.

O lover! O my lover, That this should come to me! I'd rather have the hope for you, Ah, Love, I'd rather grope for you Within the great abyss Than claim another's kiss -- Alone I'd rather go my way Throughout eternity.

Song. [Margaret Steele Anderson]

The bride, she wears a white, white rose -- the plucking it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath -- and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you, It laughs to wear my violets -- they are so sweet and blue!

And I, I have a wreath to wear -- ah, never rue nor thorn! I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn! For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget -- The fallen leaves of other crowns -- rose, laurel, violet!

Romance. [Scudder Middleton]

Why should we argue with the falling dust Or tremble in the traffic of the days? Our hearts are music-makers in the clouds, Our feet are running on the heavenly ways.

We'll go and find the honey of romance Within the hollow of the sacred tree. There is a spirit in the eastern sky, Calling along the dawn to you and me.

She'll lead us to the forest where she hides The yellow wine that keeps the angels young -- We are the chosen lovers of the earth For whom alone the golden comb was hung.

Good-Bye. [Norreys Jephson O'Conor]

Good-bye to tree and tower, To meadow, stream, and hill, Beneath the white clouds marshalled close At the wind's will.

Good-bye to the gay garden, With prim geraniums pied, And spreading yew trees, old, unchanging Tho' men have died.

Good-bye to the New Castle, With granite walls and grey, And rooms where faded greatness still Lingers to-day.

To every friend in Mallow, When I am gone afar, These words of ancient Celtic hope, "Peace after war."

I would return to Erin When all these wars are by, Live long among her hills before My last good-bye.

Beyond Rathkelly. [Francis Carlin]

As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill O'er Newtonstewart Town! As I went over the Far Hill With Marget's daughter Nellie, The night was up and the moon was out, And a star was falling down.

As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill Above the Bridge o' Moyle! As I went over the Far Hill, With Marget's daughter Nellie, I made a wish before the star Had fallen in the Foyle.

As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill With the hopes that I had then! As I went over the Far Hill, I wished for little Nellie, And if a star were falling now I'd wish for her again.

A Song of Two Wanderers. [Marguerite Wilkinson]

Dear, when I went with you To where the town ends, Simple things that Christ loved -- They were our friends; Tree shade and grass blade And meadows in flower; Sun-sparkle, dew-glisten, Star-glow and shower; Cool-flowing song at night Where the river bends, And the shingle croons a tune -- These were our friends.

Under us the brown earth Ancient and strong, The best bed for wanderers All the night long; Over us the blue sky Ancient and dear, The best roof to shelter all Glad wanderers here; And racing between them there Falls and ascends The chantey of the clean winds -- These were our friends.

By day on the broad road Or on the narrow trail, Angel wings shadowed us, Glimmering pale Through the red heat of noon; In the twilight of dawn Fairies broke fast with us; Prophets led us on, Heroes were kind to us Day after happy day; Many white Madonnas We met on our way -- ~Farmer and longshoreman, Fisherman and wife, Children and laborers Brave enough for Life, Simple folk that Christ loved -- They were our friends. . . .~

Dear, we must go again To where the town ends. . . .

In the Mushroom Meadows. [Thomas Walsh]

Sun on the dewy grasslands where late the frost hath shone, And lo, what elfin cities are these we come upon! What pigmy domes and thatches, what Arab caravan, What downy-roofed pagodas that have known no touch of man! Are these the oldtime meadows? Yes, the wildgrape scents the air; The breath of ripened orchards still is incense everywhere; Yet do these dawn-encampments bring the lurking memories Of Egypt and of Burma and the shores of China Seas.

The Path that leads to Nowhere. [Corinne Roosevelt Robinson]

There's a path that leads to Nowhere In a meadow that I know, Where an inland island rises And the stream is still and slow; There it wanders under willows And beneath the silver green Of the birches' silent shadows Where the early violets lean.

Other pathways lead to Somewhere, But the one I love so well Had no end and no beginning -- Just the beauty of the dell, Just the windflowers and the lilies Yellow striped as adder's tongue, Seem to satisfy my pathway As it winds their sweets among.

There I go to meet the Springtime, When the meadow is aglow, Marigolds amid the marshes, -- And the stream is still and slow. -- There I find my fair oasis, And with care-free feet I tread For the pathway leads to Nowhere, And the blue is overhead!

All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal, -- On the path that leads to Nowhere I have sometimes found my soul!

Days. [Karle Wilson Baker]

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind, They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things! I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

Ellis Park. [Helen Hoyt]

Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town; Carry you for country there To make the city ways more fair. I take your trees, And your breeze, Your greenness, Your cleanness, Some of your shade, some of your sky, Some of your calm as I go by; Your flowers to trim The pavements grim; Your space for room in the jostled street And grass for carpet to my feet. Your fountains take and sweet bird calls To sing me from my office walls. All that I can see I carry off with me. But you never miss my theft, So much treasure you have left. As I find you, fresh at morning, So I find you, home returning -- Nothing lacking from your grace. All your riches wait in place For me to borrow On the morrow.

Do you hear this praise of you, Little park that I pass through?

A Note from the Pipes. [Leonora Speyer]

Pan, blow your pipes and I will be Your fern, your pool, your dream, your tree!

I heard you play, caught your swift eye, "A pretty melody!" called I, "Hail, Pan!" And sought to pass you by.

Now blow your pipes and I will sing To your sure lips' accompanying!

Wild God, who lifted me from earth, Who taught me freedom, wisdom, mirth, Immortalized my body's worth, --

Blow, blow your pipes! And from afar I'll come -- I'll be your bird, your star, Your wood, your nymph, your kiss, your rhyme, And all your godlike summer-time!

Afternoon on a Hill. [Edna St. Vincent Millay]

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

Open Windows. [Sara Teasdale]

Out of the window a sea of green trees Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer; They beckon and call me, "Come out in the sun!" But I cannot answer.

I am alone with Weakness and Pain, Sick abed and June is going, I cannot keep her, she hurries by With the silver-green of her garments blowing.

Men and women pass in the street Glad of the shining sapphire weather, But we know more of it than they, Pain and I together.

They are the runners in the sun, Breathless and blinded by the race, But we are watchers in the shade Who speak with Wonder face to face.

Old Amaze. [Mahlon Leonard Fisher]

Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze At mountains, and at meadows deftly strewn With bits of the gay jewelry of June And of her splendid vesture; and, agaze, I stand where Spring her bright brocade of days Embroidered o'er, and listen to the flow Of sudden runlets -- the faint blasts they blow, Low, on their stony bugles, in still ways. For wonders are at one, confederate yet: Yea, where the wearied year came to a close, An odor reminiscent of the rose; And everywhere her seal has Summer set; And, as of old, in the horizon-sky, The sun can find a lovely place to die.

Voyage a l'Infini. [Walter Conrad Arensberg]

The swan existing Is like a song with an accompaniment Imaginary.

Across the grassy lake, Across the lake to the shadow of the willows, It is accompanied by an image, -- as by Debussy's "Reflets dans l'eau".

The swan that is Reflects Upon the solitary water -- breast to breast With the duplicity: "~The other one!~"

And breast to breast it is confused. O visionary wedding! O stateliness of the procession! It is accompanied by the image of itself Alone.

At night The lake is a wide silence, Without imagination.

After Sunset. [Grace Hazard Conkling]

I have an understanding with the hills At evening when the slanted radiance fills Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, And they are quiet and look down at me. Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes Out of the centuries that made them wise. They lend me hoarded memory and I learn Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern, And why a dream of forests must endure Though every tree be slain: and how the pure, Invisible beauty has a word so brief A flower can say it or a shaken leaf, But few may ever snare it in a song, Though for the quest a life is not too long. When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull The twilight close with gesture beautiful, And shadows are their garments, and the air Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer, -- Their arms are strong around me; and I know That somehow I shall follow when you go To the still land beyond the evening star, Where everlasting hills and valleys are: And silence may not hurt us any more, And terror shall be past, and grief, and war.

Morning Song of Senlin. [Conrad Aiken]

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more. While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand shore. I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: How small and white my face! -- The green earth tilts through a sphere of air And bathes in a flame of space. There are houses hanging above the stars And stars hung under a sea . . . And a sun far off in a shell of silence Dapples my walls for me . . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning Should I not pause in the light to remember God? Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, He is immense and lonely as a cloud. I will dedicate this moment before my mirror To him alone, for him I will comb my hair. Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence! I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones, Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. The walls are about me still as in the evening, I am the same, and the same name still I keep. The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, The stars pale silently in a coral sky. In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills Tossing their long white manes, And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains . . . It is morning. I stand by the mirror And surprise my soul once more; The blue air rushes above my ceiling, There are suns beneath my floor . . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, And a god among the stars; and I will go Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak And humming a tune I know . . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones.

Good Company. [Karle Wilson Baker]

To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine.

The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke -- ~Lord, who am I that they should stoop -- these holy folk of thine?~

"Feuerzauber". [Louis Untermeyer]

I never knew the earth had so much gold -- The fields run over with it, and this hill, Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.

Such golden fires, such yellow -- lo, how good This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God -- This fringe of wood, Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see Your face grow mystical, as on that night You turned to me, And all the trembling world -- and you -- were white.

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb; The fields absorb you, color you entire . . . And you become A goddess standing in a world of fire!

Birches. [Robert Frost]