Ue $0 2. Library of the Ohio State University Presented by Columbus Public Library Copyright 1926 Printed, June 1926, by THE PHILLIPS PRINTING CO., 257 Cleveland Avenue, Columbus, Ohio Privately Printed The Ohio State University Anthology of Verse Edited by Milton | Farber and Robert Cy Dickson Introduction by William L. Graves Sit Published at te _ 11 42 ‘ i ’ Ohio State University € _ Columbus, Ohio ne 1926 Pa ‘ ya Wr Si be ‘ ' .O ie ee te 7 : BF Pie Y aie) i .s rie ; TAM os eeeeeneeen gay RARALEAAL ’ Beet EARN To F.S.C. This Book Is A ffectionately Dedicated A109754 Acknowledgments The editors of this volume wish to make acknowledgment to the follow- ing publications, in which these poems have previously appeared: The Ohio State Lantern The Makio The Sansculotte The Campanile The Talisman The Candle The editors are indebted further- more to the publishers of the vol- umes included in the Yale Series of Younger Poets for permission to use certain of these poems, the copyright privileges of which are now held by them. Preface HIS anthology of verse has long been the subject a of conversation in various groups and societies interested in literary ventures about the univer- sity. It represents, on our part, the culmination of two years of thought and preparation. Between us we have observed the growth, the struggles, the subsequent failures of three literary publications which at inter- vals existed in the university; and now, near the con- clusion of our careers on this campus, we are moved to compile in this volume what we consider the best work of these student poets. The objections certain to arise may, of course, be anticipated, but to all criti- cism it might be well to point out that we have done what has seemed most feasible and proper with the meager amount of material at our disposal. Originally we hoped to include much of the verse written in the early days of the university. We have examined carefully the files reposing in the University Library, and have found little of genuine merit. The verse we discovered laid little claim to poetic tech- nique; it composed, for the most part, rather time- worn burlesques on various campus characters, cleverly turned rhymes to campus belles, occasional verse of unusual sentimentality: in short the unavoidable array of poetry which now clutters the pages of the college humorous magazines. The result was, of course, that we depended to a large extent on the verse written in later years. Not until a few years preceding the World War did we notice a marked increase in quality and a gradu- ally perceptible seriousness creeping into the verse of these publications. New life seemed to cry out; viril- ity and originality made themselves part of the verse structures; the poets whose work found its way into the magazines of those days seemed increasingly aware of the meaning of poetic form and of life itself, and undertook furthermore to interpret these phenomena in the light of their own personalities. This, of course, was consistent with the general renaissance of Amer- ican poetry. Our generation awakened from a long, seemingly incurable lethargy and with apparently new life permitted its creative impulses to take forms at once new and imaginative. In recent years much criticism has been aimed at the middie-western universities for what has been termed their philistine blindness. Much of the criti- cism has been justified, but we believe nevertheless that in every society, no matter how small, we will find in the dim corridors of time constant seekers after new and unusual truths and light, shadowy figures groping hopefully for something which even to them remains inexplicable. It is our desire |jto bring into the light these persons who have in the past lived in the univer- sity and written the poems contained in this volume. In conclusion we want to mention that we have ac- cepted the advice of those men whom we asked to aid us in our work and we are grateful for the time and effort expended by them in their hope for a representa- tive publication. We wish especially to thank Presi- dent George W. Rightmire, Professor Joseph V. Denney, and Professor William L. Graves for their aid and en- couragement. We want also to thank Mr. Thomas B. Sprague for his assistance in the routine duties neces- sary for the publication of this book. Contents INTRODUCTION—WILLIAM L. GRAVES______—- 11 ROBERT S. ADAMS— Cal ee wre ee See dt pon Pole Ik, SY IE Tee 17 Pilsote bbs Dealt Yeu. oo. 5204-5 2 ee es ee 18 KENNETH BURKE— REVO eer oe eee eee ey be se See |, Pam SESOne TanGn MING 22 2 8 oS Se 20 KENNETH COLVIN— SC Are Se ee ee eS 21 RVC Soca Cae NNO) Cpe eiren ee ee e ee e e 22 GMS UCT meters ee ees ee ee, ee ie Pe Ae 23 ES ORL CLO) rarer ers ee ee Ee 24 aS CLULe yao eee eee ek eS eee See Re es 25 MALCOLM COWLEY— BClOrem ClOS IN Cine some eae. Pe ee, Coe 27 1h Ce, NUCH CS ge 1 fg SEE Ss Ta ar eh «Aare pele Se Rae i, ers 28 RUTH FISHER— NGROTC Cree tas Sr ALE ee ka a Se 29 SCOTT WHITFORD FREED— De ATT Cy gece ee A Se ee 30 BENJAMIN GAMZUE— Sonnets of Those Who Dream___________________ 31 WHOTUSEODOKEN ge 22 sone. She ee 32 OuteotethezOldew orld 25-8 - es. ee 33 RETO T SC meter wert oe ae) Se eth i te oe Yee 34 NED GIESY— PEOMNL TTY MLO GIS Cte: toe hee see ne We 35 lial yee sce nee soe eee es ee 36 WILLIAM L. GRAVES— PamOUANG AT yee eee Be SA Eh Em f FRED HARROLD— ROnGeInOLe Dead LOVO.6. = ee 38 PEHOMROVAIED CAS ts es e2 She 8) yn oe ee 39 CARTER KISSELL— ESTO LO GV eee a eae ae een We 41 AVROM LANDY— aLOwan Catem ar Delle se i. ee Re ae 42 JACK LEWIS— nes DilletantesBlwiTs: 2 oes ok 43 RUSSELL LORD— VIED VAT ESS oie, aie ge, nn ee ee 44 JAMES LIGHT— PONG INCSSaeeeeinme e 45 ROBIN MORTON— Heard }in | Paphos 2.220222. eee 46 Night Scene—Baranoff Islands__________________ 47 Morning’ Scene 2.2202 ee ee 48 FLORENCE POWELL— Measuring, Gold i272 2 oe eee ee 51 Crocus-Call 222253 ee ee eee 52 LOCC YRUD A a te ee oa oe eee 53 Yellow rlulips 27 coos eee ee ees 54 BERNARD RAYMUND— Te *Moment.@ 222) 2525 eee 55 ALES Halls hes eo eet ee ee ee eee 56 Under: the: Bridge. 4. 0 8 ee eee 57 Nota wath: Blowers 2722) - ene ee 58 ue “Unareturning |<. 2 co hese ucall eee eee eee 59 Comforts ie a 5s ee eee, std 60 CIVTB ois oo eh oo eee 61 ba el Sp Sa (| A ne I ee ice me A PE el” 62 Interment: vs. es eet) = oe 63 DOROTHY E. REID— JOHAN NCS 9s eae oe 64 Will Wander: Wit 2222 oe ee 65 arr a ee a we ee 66 GiINNSO so og ce ee eee ee 67 Dispossessiony 2.22 re ee ee eee 68 Between “Aphorisms. 2-2... ts ee ee 69 Ladies Vass Pers 5 ea A ore Re ee eee 70 Death Lingersin the) Lilies: 2 = = 71 JULIET HOLLISTER ROGERS— ROEVOL Gt Se te) ee ee ee 72 HAROLD ROSS— WOTSDI Deere = ne ee eee ee ee ies The Passings Days: <=. <0 Fs ee eee 74 Violas ae ee eee 75 Renunciation’. 222224. Se. eee 76 ROYALL H. SNOW— , The Artist>and: the Wanton=-- 2 esse ee 77 DON STROTHER— AG Infinitumy Sos Joos ee eee 78 JOSEPHINE WATERS— Reflections’. =. -<:.- 4. . Se eee 79 Evenson? «2.242238. 520.3.-5 5 eee 80 WILLIAM H. WRIGHT— Shadows); ..22 222220 234) * ee eee ee 81 Forgetfulness: 2.2. eee 82 Minuet at. Antonio’s® 4.20. 22 eee 85 10 Introduction E are presented in this little volume with a col- lection of poems written by students of Ohio State University, verse gathered almost en- tirely from publications that go back not farther than five or ten years in time. The editors tell us frankly why from their point of view the search of campus periodicals of an earlier date yielded them little or no material; and their explanation in itself reveals at once the wide gulf existing between what we used to call college verse and what goes now by that name. Those of us who were students in what the ironic cartoonist of “LIFE” calls “The Gay Nineties,” or in that decade following denominated “Mauve” by Thomas Beer, must see at once, as we read this book, that we have before us verse written by college students, but not in any distinctive sense college verse. In our day there was a recognizable sort of poetry which definitely represented college and university life. You will find it in such anthologies as “With Pipe and Book,” and the successive issues of “Cap and Gown,” collections brought together from many campuses, but carrying much the same type of verse. Our poems were seldom serious, though that note was not wholly absent. We affected the French forms, and reported college romance in rondeaus and triolets written under the influence of Austin Dobson and H. C. Bunner. We attempted little lyrics of nature and of love in the graceful manner of Frank Dempster Sherman and Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Our classics we sometimes paraphrased into verse shaped, no doubt, by our reading of Tennyson, and Heine, and Hugo; and Horace was steady inspiration to generations of students given to exercising them- selves in English meters. It was a time when one might recognize with ease the poetry of the colleges, noting the themes and the styles. Of course what work we did was formed di- rectly upon the poets whom we were reading. Always this is true of young poets, save in the extremest in- stances. You might have found echoes everywhere in our verse, of Browning, and Swinburne, and Tenny- 1] son, and later of Kipling, or Henley, or even of Hous- man, whom a few of us found and worshiped. Walt Whitman meant to us little more than a name. No doubt we were sentimental, and imitative, and frivol- ous too often; but our verse gave us pleasure, and the writing of it was pure enjoyment. You will search in vain in it for signs of the tragedy of life, or for the psychological note which is so constantly present in contemporary poetry. When you have said that it was graceful, pleasingly sentimental, and occasionally thoughtful and observant, you have finished the story. Now, if you are a lover of verse, and a reader of it yourself, contrast with that somewhat naive and in- genious poetry of the Nineties, let us say, the examples of the work of college youth offered to you in this little book. Surely you must admit a tremendous ad- vance. Do not expect entire originality, for that is impossible in the writing of undergraduates. It is inevitable that the student of today should be influ- enced by his reading just as was the student of any former period. Let us grant that the book is full of echoes,—but what interesting echoes these are! Never of the old idols. There is no Tennysonian verse here, no rhythms suggestive of Kipling and Stevenson and Lang, no reminiscence of Christina Rossetti or of Mrs. Browning. These young writers are controlled, if at all, by the men and women of their own day; and as you read you will in all likelihood keep saying to yourself, “Edgar Lee Masters,” or “Edna Millay,” or “Amy Lowell.” You will find suggestions of Arthur Symons here, and of Edwin Arlington Robinson, and even of such extreme moderns as T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. Recognize and note the echoes, if you will,—and then forget them. Do not let yourself be too greatly dis- turbed by the occasional extravagances of emotion and of imagery, nor, if you be of another generation of readers, accuse these poets too promptly of over- sophistication, or of what may seem to you world- weariness, and a knowledge of life at moments a trifle startling. Instead, ask yourself how it comes that these young men and women have been able to see life with such wide-open eyes, to get so much farther below the surface of existence than youth once seemed to do, and above all to translate into such images of beauty the experiences which their few years has brought them. Of course this verse bears the marks of its day. Why should it not? And one of those marks is a certain indirection in the presentation and statement of emotion in sharp contrast with the frightful obvious- ness of the earlier poetry. All contemporary poetry de- mands more of the reader than did the verse of the nineteenth century. It declines to use either the con- ventional idea or the conventional phraseology. It conveys what it has to say as much by implication as by direct statement; and those to whom any implica- tion is confusing find it correspondingly difficult. An- other mark of the poetry of our own day is found in its fearless approach to life, its comparative lack of reti- cence, its willingness to use the material which exist- ence offers in the direct contacts with the world now so easily afforded. Our college poets have not failed to accept the suggestions offered them by such poets as Sandburg and Frost and the rest who refuse to be “literary”; and you will find little here of bookish verse. Instead of those conventional and insincere gen- eralizations about life with which so much poetry of former periods afflicted us, we are given vivid and highly personal experiences, the outcome of intimate and compelling contacts with nature and society. In- deed, it seems to me that this sincerity is one of the most encouraging of all signs in the work of these col- lege poets. It is surprising how little fumbling there is in all this verse, how perfect the mere technique has become in the work of a number of the young writers. There are love lyrics here which might have been done by such skilled poets as Sara Teasdale, and dramatiza- tions of life of which Conrad Aiken and Amy Lowell need not have been ashamed. If one observes a kind of sameness in style in many poems, one must remem- ber that all this work was done within a few years, and shows in both subjects and form the trend of the time. The wonder to me is that such excellence has been attained, that so much of freshness in theme and expression has been secured. These poets are seeing the world for themselves, and they are finding their own language to utter what they have seen. I perceive that my introduction is shaping itself into a kind of plea for consideration of what I take to be surprisingly good work on the part of our student writ- ers. I do not much mind if it seems to be just that, for I am anxious that many readers may be found for these verses, and that they shall have the friendly hearing through which their merits may best appear. I should not like those who see this book to lose the charm of it through a hasty resentment at what may suggest over-sophistication in the poets. I should be sorry if they were to miss the delicate and understand- ing interpretations of nature in some of these poems, the vivid and poignant little readings of life scattered here and there, the stimulating irony that crops out in the words of these youthful writers as they express their feelings about their fellowman. And I should especially regret to have the readers of these verses fail to appreciate the honesty of these young claimants upon life as they endeavor to voice whatever of joy, or disappointment, or ecstasy, or disillusionment their experience has brought them. Mere honesty in feel- ing and perception never made a poet, of course; but without that honesty, no true poetry was ever written. It is perhaps surprising to note how few of these poems are in free verse forms. One rather expects a preponderance of that influence in poetry written in the years immediately behind us. Most of the writ- ers have chosen to express themselves in rime and meter; and I suspect that the next anthology made will reveal an almost entire absence of the freer types of verse. WILLIAM L. GRAVES. Ohio State University, June, 1926. 14 The Ohio State University Anthology of Verse | IME re. o05- bees F574 9: 27 2 Call |] sszszzcresescsetaan eed en OME day I know that I shall go With laughter on my lips, Out to the sea where metrily Men steer old vagrant ships. Into the strife of a sailor’s life With a chesty song of mirth And a singing heart I’ll choose my part On the seven seas of earth. The sea I’ll love and the stars above Will hear my song at night, So soon I’ll shove to seek my love So old and strong and bright. I will not want new lovers, Nor sleep in a woman’s bed, For this mistress of sea rovers Is faithful to the dead. For all I ask is a sailor’s task, And the sea gull’s lonely cry, And an open door from a barren shore To the restless sea and sky. And the wide bays and the stormy days, And the sight of an ancient strand, And a long sleep where the billows sweep Far from the crowded land. Robert S. Adams. wor The Candle, December, 1924 17 All of This Beauty HO knows how a man may love you and pray for your godiy touch; Cold and dreaming I see you, I who have seen so much: You are the coldness of winter, the beauty of bright falling snow. How much your lovers have loved you, this I know. Who knows the silence of night-time, the coldness of winter stars, In clear and infinite beauty that nothing ever mars: Who knows the beauty of statues carved by a mas- ter’s hand, Whoever knows all of this beauty will see you and understand. —Robert S. Adams. The Candle, June, 1926 18 Revolt 66 BEHOLD me, I am impregnable. ‘TI am mighty, and give no quarter, “For I am filled with the might of justice. “Show me the bulwarks of tradition; “Show me them, that I may stick my fingers through them. “Show me the ponderous pyramids builded by the ages; “Show me them, that I may flick them away with boredom. “TJ will be free, I will bite in two the chains that bind me. “Quake before me, you shades of your forefathers, “For I am mighty, and give no quarter.” * * * * Bravo, my little man! Come over here And I shall ride you hobbyhorse upon my knee. Have you never noticed boys throwing stones at street lamps? —Kenneth Burke. The Sansculotte, January, 1917 Adam’s Song, and Mine ILLFUL hair and laughing eye, Beckoning me as you go by; Can’t you see the world as I? Virgin! Virgin! You are light and passion-free, Beckoning to me guiltlessly. Shame! The thoughts that wake in me! Virgin! Virgin! I shall run and play with you. We shall laugh and leap, we two; Till my love has wakened you. Virgin! —Kenneth Burke. The Sansculotte, April, 1917 20 Leaves HESE ghosts long gone come back. Again the leaves, Poor moving dead things in the streets and lawns, Whisper and whirl and somewhere music grieves... A sense of twilights rather than of dawns Dreams through a cool October interlude: Over old places where the sunlight broke Vagueness of shadow, haze and mist intrude; The leaves are slender ribbons of blue smoke. Patches of leaves a little while and then— The floating bitter smoke across the lanes, Sadness of things that come and go again All unremembered in the grey slant rains; Lately a song of sleep above the eaves.... Blue smoke ... the memory of burning leaves. —Kenneth Colvin. The Campanile, October, 1920 21 Violins at Night ENEATH the Wail of Tangled Vines The music of the violins Liquid in the blue hour begins, Heady as amber old-world wines. Exguisite, trembling music played When the night no more is long... Fragments of faint Venetian song, Drdla’s wistful Serenade. An hour of violins—above, The yellow, wilting stars and moon Hear but the last ironic tune Played for some jilted ghost of love. —Kenneth Colvin. The Campanile, December, 1920 22 The Guest HE phantom of an old kiss on your lips Returns and troubles you, a misty bore, Haunting your laughter when the last snow drips Sighing to water in the streets once more. Your mood is an old song of Mendelssohn, An overtone of spring along the night, Drowsy but yet alert to loves you’ve known And half aware of one who was delight. The smoky moon remembers the dark grace Of shadows running in the grass last year, Knowing you have forgotten that gay face, Its eyes turned silver by an unborn tear..... April comes back to you and in a jest Makes you for one disdainful hour, Love’s guest. —Kenneth K. Colvin. The Campanile, February, 1921 23 Boudoir HE mirrors know an oval face, A proud and piquant cameo That frowns before their crystal space At the live image which they show. The ember-tone of rouge, the hair Tangling quaint perfumes, her slim hand Flickering with diamonds she will wear— The mirrors coldly understand. An interval of ivory, Seconds of silken, last delays, Pause for a dainty subtlety, The lady’s prelude to life’s plays. —Kenneth Colvin. The Campanile, April, 1921 24 Pastilles I—THE GARDEN OF GRIEF CROSS these red-dark roses falls Evasive twilight, and the rain’s A watery shadow ... of the walls, Only a sense of walls remains. Some gray illusion haunts the flowers In long wet-velvet dusks, and they Fade to the color of the hours, To a fantastic, fragrant gray. Upon the broken flag-stone walks The rain that drips from each rose leaf In damp and scented whispers talks: Something of love and death .... and grief. 25 II—INLAND Like a pale, dreaming vagabond Over the lilac afternoon In frailest distance the day-moon Wanders and wanes somewhere beyond. Its disk is but the ghost of brass The sky an echo of blue-gray Behind two arrowy trees that sway And trace faint patterns on the grass. A dusty insect stirs and beats Its wings in a thin, drowsy whir Flicks from the lawns, a minute blur To the warm, shadowy, inland streets. —Kenneth K. Colvin. The Talisman, May, 1922 26 Before Closing AGGIE is fat, and Maggie is thirty And under the powder her face is dirty. Her hair is lank, and her eyes are blear, And her breath is heavy with cheese and beer. Her scanty wits are lost or muddled— The night has left her brains befuddled. The room is a haze, and the lights are a blur And she fancies her youth has come back to her. She dreams that suitors stand round her, attent— That she still is the rose of the tenement; And the drunken leer she gives the men Is the smile of a careless girl again. The smeared rouge and the drunken flush Seem the forgotten maiden blush. And the fat brutes in this feeding pen Seem gentlemen.— * * * * Maggie is fat, and Maggie is thirty, And under the powder her face is dirty; But her soul is the careless soul that was gone— Till she stumbles home with another dawn. —Malcolm Cowley. The Sansculotte, February, 1917 27 The Veteran HEN you were twenty, the war caught you up out of the stream of ordinary existence. You went out prepared to suffer and to die. Fighting was Life to you.. It was Reality. And when you swept up Missionary Ridge; Brave, laughing, mocking at the cannon, You were your own ideal. But when you came back home a cripple, the river of life had swept beyond you. And that is why you sit in a corner at the Commercial House; Idle, useless, living on a pension, Fighting forgotten battles for a glass of beer, Mumbling perpetual inanities. —Malcolm Cowley. The Sansculotte, April, 1917 28 Choice O more pretense tonight that I am gay: You do not ask; no other can compel. I need no longer hear those young wives tell, About their babies, things I’d like to say. My hands are tired with many tasks teday: I’ve cut out shapes of cloth fitted and pinned; I’ve hung clean clothes out in the whipping wind; I’ve tried to know that such good work is play; But I can do no more. Now I must wait, Read your last letter, almost hear your voice, Which tries in your rich words to compensate For all the trouble of my helpless choice. I’d choose again a torment just like this Rather than any other woman’s bliss. —Ruth Fisher. Rtas 20° The Candle, May, 1924 29 Fancy ERILY delicate clouds And a moon of mystery; Leaves that are lacy-like Against infinity. Here is a wooing couch On the humble grass; the dew Has perfumed the pavement piquantly; And only thoughs of you. —Scott Whitford Freed. The Campanile, February, 1921 30 Sonnets of Those Who Dream HE girlhood seems confined in this closed place Where railroad tracks incongruously wind A passage round the mountain slope behind The silent watchman’s shanty. Yet her face Turns often where the steel tracks interlace With horizontal pines. At times her mind Adventures far beyond, and tries to find A single outlet into luring space. Her fancy hears the madrigals that hide Ever beyond obstructing hills and seem To keep a rendezvous with clouds that glide Over their peaks. At night chimeras gleam And as they turn restraining walls aside This is her freedom—she has learned to dream. * * * * She is a vague soft vision in the dim, Rose-lighted salon where she moves alone. She is a stolen chapter from the grim Dust-covered volumes that the seers had known In ancient incantations. Smoke wisps grown To pearl ameboid genii float and skim Like astral sibyls to wise druids shown, And cloak her or reveal her at a whim. Shadows discourse with her of many things Forgotten ages used for their delight; Phantoms of incense fumes spread in wide rings To please the senses of a sybarite; A single elfin grotesque bows and sings And hails his lady Mistress of the Night. —Benjamin Gamzue. The Candle, May, 1924 31 Words Spoken 66¢NXOODBY” was your word, not mine— I looked, half doubting, at the fine Grey mist through which you passed; Transfixed, my eyes sought for your last Dim shadow through the darker night. For one vain moment my bared arms flashed white Against the dusk, and then—I knew my wounds, And fell, a quaking mass, half-blind with tears, And lay all night between despair and fears. Oh, you had told me all of this and more, And talked of transient things and parting time, And warned how brief a stay upon the shore Of pure delight Life grants. On those sublime And fleeting nights, I nodded at each word And acquiesced to things I scarcely heard, And losing myself, I whispered to the wind, “What does it matter if his words are right? He talks of morrows, when I have this night.’ Now you are gone, and I try to forget— But winds steal through the long tree archways yet And stirs the elms to whispers, and it seems They mock a soul that looked for truth in dreams. And I stand, remembering, and a tear falls, “Lovers,” you said, “Must part before love palls.” And Life had heard you—Life that only knows A man secure in his philosophies, A woman left to bear such wounds as these. —Benjamin Gamzue. The Candle, May, 1925 32 Out of the Old World I—JAHRZEIT—FOR THE DEAD GREY brick oven In the dim room, And shadows whispering Out of gloom. And old men moaning A chant of years, Remembering sorrow Without tears. A single soul breathes An unheard tone, And one weak candle Burns alone. II—HUCKSTER He wandered half the world around To find this place. He found the biting wind that cuts His furrowed face. And now grim women stop to price His salt and tea, And now he moves like a burdened beast, As patiently. * * * * I never knew why wanderers Must stop to rest, When all the joy that life can give Is in the quest. —Benjamin Gamzue. The Candle, June, 1925 33 Remorse (17th Century) AS it myself who said the things You’re weeping for? Could I have turned the dagger’s blade To wound you more? I was not made so coarse, I think As not to know That words like those that other said Could hurt you so. Then why do I chide myself, and feel Another’s blame? Alas, the unthinking stranger bore My form and name. —Benjamin Gamzue. The Candle, October, 1925 34 To Mary Louise Y darlingest darling is Mary Louise, Heigh ho! The moon’s in the sky! Oh, no, no, my sweetheart, it’s not made of cheese. Heigh ho! The moon’s in the sky! It’s the place where the fairies grow juicy strawberries, And all for my baby’s delight; So take a good nap, dear, and then it may hap, dear, you’ll wake to the wonderful sight Of fairies on rose leaves a-tickling the bees’ knees When after their honey they go, Or chasing the raindrops a-down from the treetops To make granny’s sunflowers grow. They slip down the moonbeams and climb up the sun- beams And dance on the clouds up so high. And isn’t it funny? They never need money! Heigh ho! The moon’s in the sky! —Ned Giesy. The Candle, June, 1926 35 Lullaby INK into slumber, my baby; It’s softer than Mother’s breast; And soon a child of the Morning Will frolic with you in your nest. Drift into dreams now, my baby; It’s time for the owls’ carouse; Your fairy is sifting sand; Your wren is within his house. Your mother is smoothing your cradle— The stars have abandoned theirs; You and I, Baby, my baby, Wander the winding stairs. —Ned Giesy. The Candle, June, 1926 36 A Quandary 7 N Arcadie three maids there be, As fair as ever man did see: But which one’s face Hath most of grace, I know not; I do love all three. II My flock I’ve fed, and followed Where Phyllis’ laughing eyes have led. And Daphne’s hair hath me in snare— And O, but Lydia’s lips be red! Alack, alack, would I were wed, So might this pain be banished! III Three maids there be in Arcadie, Fairer than ever I did see; Sure never wight was in such plight! Though I do truly love all three, Not any one of them loves me. —William L. Graves. The Makio, 1894, 37 Rondel of Dead Love OU’LL soon forget, ah, yes, just how you smiled, And how you lived when first our glances met. Though you are from my life and love exiled, You'll soon forget! (Why does my heart still lash, and fear, and fret?) In your bare heart I left it once enisled, And you forgot it—never did regret! And though we part (with years between us piled), Though you shall deign to think of me—ah, yet Our once true love, so high and undefiled You’ll soon forget! —Fred Harrold. The Lantern, October 25, 1916 The Royal Beast I RHYTHMS OF THE FLESH HAT alchemy In the salacious toss of your head, Seeping into my dream-haunted mind, Makes your round body, heavy and hard, A sinister tombstone to my living love! Chords ... rasping and unquenching. .. . Hiss from the audible reverberating over-tones Of your voice And make my being the clattering, ringing instrument Of your soul-gestures! wWoursnands(. 0... round, fat. . 4. < Flash With the audacity of passion! I am the quaking flame Of that inscrutable candle Of your soul. When will you drip the hot red drops Down your bosom From My consuming heart? 39 III AWAKENING OF PAIN Others have cast their crimson nets..... They have flung the same old wands..... Others have tripped the same love-step, And all Have but wrung squalid smiles From these lips . . . drooping, sickened. But a little gaze, with blue curtains in it, A streak of red upon the wall, A cushion inordinately awry. .... All these Were in an autumn-window gaze You once turned on my soul. That is why Your tawny hair still draws my fingers, Your pink hands numb my mind, Your electric step stings my heart. I was so safe .... so gloriously Sunk in painless peace .... before you came. Why did you come? —Fred Harrold. The Talisman, May, 1922 40) Apology URDY-GURDIES and cheap bands Make people laugh and talk And chirp incessantly. Before a symphony, Or some famed violin, One bends in silence. I am unpardonably quiet In your presence. Forgive me That you are not a hurdy-gurdy, So I can talk. —Carter Kissell. The Candle, June, 1923 4] How Can I Tell? OW can I tell why sirens leave me sad, And light fantastic winds set me astray, When every glimpse of you that I have had Has always left me trembling lest some day You prove unreal—my last illusion spent— And leave me here alone uselessly free To follow siren wails and disillusionment? When you have gone what shall become of me? —Avrom Landy. The Candle, May, 1924 42 The Dilletante Bluffs HEN I at last perforce must die Let music whisper phantasy, Or some one sing me mellow songs Of antique legendary wrongs And of the sorrows Cupid sends, When I at last perforce must die. When I am ready to depart, I want a cynic of rare art To humor me with epigram Or subtle pokes at human sham, The merry mocking comedy. I trust my last hours may turn so That I shall read Bocaccio, When I am ready to depart. —Jack Lewis. The Sansculotte, January, 1917 43 Late Winter GE on a sad, unlovely woman creeping, And she despairing, bitter, drab and gray Shaken to storms of chill, resentful weeping... . So Winter seemed today. But now, by all the stars returned to visit Valleys remote and virginal and fair, Appears a gracious lady and exquisite, Walking in white with jewels in her hair. —Russell Lord. The Candle, May, 1924 44 Loneliness (A Pre-Raphaelite Triptych) MET a Boy with a bow, my love, And a viol which had three strings. A melody in gray and gold! An ecstacy in gray and gold! For he played as Springtime sings. I met a Boy with a bow, my love, And his viol had broken strings A cry of pain—the cords had snapped, In a wooden heart my love was trapped, In a belly of wood it clings. I met a Boy with a bow, my love, And a viol which had one string. He played a vibrant monochord! A sad, sweet, tyrant monochord! Thy voice! My voice! in its reverberant ring. 18 The world, it seems to me, is the images playing on the woven curtains hanging round the walls of the chamber of my mind. You are the only thing that ever leaves the moving folds and comes to sit with me and watch. I am lonely, my love, and with you I am lonelier! The world is a tapestry that is moved by winds from dry eternity. —James Light. The Sansculotte, February, 1917 Heard in Paphos L®4vE me the heartbreak of this place, my own, The hush-of-death that needs uncomforted tears, Bringing emotions that have asked for years All the unanswered questions I have known. Leave me: here you are alien; I alone Have the true privilege. Not for your ears This silence—you, whose understandable fears May find their voice within a cry or moan. I warn you that I do not speak in vain: You that laugh confidently in your pride And beauty, and my burden of your wrong, May learn, if you steal entrance here again, A heart that tears have never satisfied, And eyes that know no weeping after long. —Robin Morton. The Candle, November, 1923 46 Night Scene—Baranoff Islands HE shackled wind blasphemes the sky And impotently sobs, Tearing its garments on the stars. The half-veil of the twilight mars The dignity of the wind and robs Me of all I try To fancy, peopling the night. Rain falls with little spurts. The light Becomes a drearier grey. I think of tears I saw one day That closed a summer; and the wind With feminine prescience that I sinned, Clings with importunate hands, and cries Unceasing to the eternal skies Where tranquil planets, solemnly, With astral tolerance wink at me. —Robin Morton. The Candle, November, 1923 47 D Morning Scene RAGONS above the grand piano writhe Their knotty tails in a crown of thorns against The yellow wall—the decorator smiled— And a samovar fills up the empty spaces Beneath a colored print of Aphrodite Done by a struggling friend from a photograph of her Whose fingers on the keyboard have disturbed The silence; beside the davenport are piled Newspapers, and cigarettes, and a holder, Given her by the man who left her just last June, Of ivory and amber and inscribed Je t’aime, neglected lies beside the cup Of coffee growing colder. All this I know. My feet on the pillow are superbly shod In light tan brogans that have cost me more Than the night before was worth. The breakfast table Thinly supports a brittle egg-shell and Some porcelain in disarray about Two thick pulps of grapefruit. All this I see. My father Russian told me saying, Erna When you are a woman you will do Just as you please—and by God, I did Just as I pleased—but always hate the Jew. Father Russian Mother did not get along. I hate the Jew. No matter who you are Sooner or Jater they will get you—Jewish They did for me. Christ-killers! My religion Has nothing to do with it—Russian, Russian . . 48 Her thick blond hair lies in straight-falling sheaves About her forehead, heightening the clay blue Of her unpupiled eyes, her strident voice Anticipates an interruption; beats Against the thin curtains and recoils In sudden silence belligerently. Discreet I smoke the morning cigarette. Her weight Upon the piano stool in pink kimona Thickly emphasizes her indignation— And all was lovely, everything was lovely; Nothing can be lovely any more. Gesture of revulsion drops the cigarette Hisses as it browns and blackens in the coffee. She who has known so many knows one more I am a party to this little addition. The Russian temperament displays itself With a nice suggestion of passion she sings The appropriate song soprano L’Heure Exquise. My brogans slide off timely to the floor. Their place is not here where the aftermath Of other times and preparations casts The shadow of memory in the morning light— The morning light that robs the furniture Of any mystery, leaving exposed The unconvincing background of the dragons— So real, so evident in the camplight— Transforms the apartment to the comfortable home Of a woman of dubious income comfortable In a deliberate way. The Jews intrude Again—her eyes are blue, her hair is blond— It would be more interesting for one to know If the rest were more important, but to me What are these prejudices worth? One laughs One thinks of other things that one must do. 49 The hat and gloves, the stick and overcoat, The feet move toward the door without reluctance, Performing there with a grave show of tact The formal ritual of separation. The telephone number is confirmed, courtesy Exchanged, the bell, the closing of the door. Beyond the purely selfish education There is the social advantage to declare She who has known so many knows one more. —Robin Morton. The Candle, December, 1924 Measuring Gold HEST of gold, a pirate’s treasure, Thrown upon the board to measure, Glinting in the lantern’s cold— Rusty, copper-red, old gold. Mouldy chest with smell of must. Iron bands now red with rust— Doubloons, bars from far Peru, Idols wrested from Manchu Pirate crew, a swarthy crowd, In the cabin, captain-cowed, Sashes red and profiles grim, Cutlass gleam from corners dim, Earrings swing as chinks the gold— Parrot cracks out, “God, it’s cold!” Sullen mutterings in the hold While the captain measures gold. —Florence Powell. The Candle, June, 1924 51 Crocus-Call LOVE the lilt of laughing rain That, tingling-fingered, taps my pane, When green-eyed elves with glances fleet, Go tripping by on lightsome feet. They trill the gay-striped crocus up, And fill with gold its tiny cup— Then, arms akimbo, chuckling sway In zestful chorus with the day! —Florence Powell. The Candle, May, 1925 To Cynthia T my ivyed window pane Spring buds tap in play; Past my casement window I Spied Cynthia stroll today. Lambent in the lilac dusk Lights take up the lay, Heart and mind and eager feet Moved by Cynthia’s sway. Chimes ring out their palette tones Lacquered on the air, Rose and gold and lavender, Feel them floating there! Scent of brown and growing earth, Damp and rain-washed air, Perfumed by the thoughts of blue Lilacs in your hair. —Florence Powell. The Candle, June, 1925 53 Yellow Tulips PRIL! give me yellow tulips, Slender-stemmed, with red-splashed tips, Flinging wide their treasure hold As they burst through rain-damp mold. This one here, and that one there, Tight-pursed buds and cups that flare, For my earth-brown bowl of clay— When my Pan comes home today! —Florence Powell. The Candle, June, 1926 54 The Moment POOL of quiet all about, Dim clouds and misty rain, Somehow love has sought me out, Bidden me take heart again; Set the torrent of my blood Ringing to a newer strain, Leaping into eager flood. Through the dim and quiet rain Love has called to me again. Love is very good! —Bernard Raymund. The Sansculotte, February, 1917 55 The Hills (Boston, May, 1916) SPINWALL is hung with green, Sun shines on Corey, Fisher’s pines have found new sheen, Mist is Lone Tree’s glory. But Parker’s sweating rooftops lie Huddled close beneath the sky. A hush hangs over Aspinwall, Corey sleeps in light, Fisher scarcely breathes at all, Silent Lone Tree’s height. But Parker? Little children play In Parker’s crooked streets all day. —Bernard Raymund. The Sansculotte, April, 1917 Under the Bridge HE bubbles swim into the dark, Whirling dizzily, faster and faster, Under the cool stone arch. —Hovering on the brink of whirlpools, Gliding over the swift brown water, As they swim into the dark The bubbles bear each a sun; Bear each a liquid crescent Orange, green, indigo; And the dark roof laughs With a thousand criss-cross twinklings of light. —Bernard Raymund. The Candle, December, 1923 Not With Flowers UPERB impertinence of youth That wears the scar of no defeat, On you adversity will set Its tooth and find the morsel sweet. The swagger of your rotund hip, The blithe assurance of your gait, Will never give you grace to give The slip to all that lies in wait. That smooth blank of your countenance Time will not soften into wit, Nor ease what lines will say you met Mischance, and made no best of it. And left at length upon the bough You will be withering, while decay Concealed beneath the colored rind Will gnaw its unobtrusive way. Worse ignominy still, your pride Will wed you to your duplicate; The witness of your basest fears, The wide, bright mirror of your hate. —Bernard Raymund. The Candle January, 1924 58 The Unreturning AWTHORNES blooming on a hill Where the wind is never still, Little companies of trees All alive with birds and bees: When your new-born petals rain Whirling whitely to your feet, Does it ever give you pain? Do you long to keep the sweet Blossoms still another night Hidden safely out of sight? Now though you may grieve their lack You will never have them back; You will never sing to them As they lie along the limb; Never feel the touch of new Bodies nestling close to you, But must mutely watch them die Where the meadow grass stands high. When your next year’s buds unclose Little trees upon the hill, Will they seem as sweet as those Lying there so white, so still? —Bernard Raymund. The Candle, April, 1924 n © Comfort USED to say, Give me a cow, One room with windows all around, An open fire, plenty of elbow-space; V’ll be content. But now income translucently conspires With innocence to put me here Immured in seventeen ghastly chambers Waited on by seven Asses in full livery. Cow of my dreams Accept my most sincere regrets. —Bernard Raymund. The Candle, May, 1924 60 Clytie PALS thread for her Tili the thread be broken; As you speak of her Let each word that’s spoken Lie upon the air, Frozen to its essence, Holding in its clear Tranquil iridescence Orbed images Of unearthly weaving, More than eye can guess, Past the heart’s believing. Stone by shining stone Thread for Tethy’s daughter, Speak in undertone Sweet as falling water; Like a flock of birds Come at Clytie’s calling Speak, and let your words Soft as snow be falling. —Bernard Raymund. The Candle, June, 1924 61 Yet Pity Not BIRD however small However weak of wing Until it fall As great a pain may bear As eagles of the air Nor cease to sing. Full many a speckled breast That haunts the friendly ground Suffers without rest, Stains each garden bed With tears of burning red From its deep wound; Yet pity not its plight: However weak with fear And short of flight, Too lone the bird, too proud To speak its pain aloud In any ear. Bernard Raymund. The Candle, December, 1924 62 Interment Y casement window used to overlook A garden full of oleander trees Where peacocks danced beneath the risen moon Gravely to the music of a fountain. Now By what alliterative alchemy Am I transported to this wilderness, Slave to a deal table, five chairs, a Wabash range, Prisoner of pigs, watched over by the sleepless eyes Of a pied cat that’s had too many kittens? Oh, fountained, peacocked, oleandered garden, Where have they sunk the moon? —Bernard Raymund. The Candle, June, 1925 63 Johannes ENEATH the shabby covers of the man Gleam from illumined pages many a tale Of treasure trove or winding caravan Whose richest palanquin reveals the pale Sweet face of Schirza burning through her veil. He is a manuscript that few may read, And fewer, reading him, may understand, Save one, who for his soul’s profoundest need Gained solace, when he turned with reverent hand The dog-eared leaves, and found a longed-for land. What gilden towers pierce the blue; what birds Warble from mystic intertwisted vines; What eyes look through the windows of his words; What lips have touched the chalices, whose wines Spill amaranthine purple on his lines! Cobwebs and dust, these are his portion here; A place in some dim corner, where the old Forgotten ghosts of spiders swing and peer With globish eyes at letters traced in mold. God! Who would dream the pages blaze with gold! —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, November, 1923 64 Will Wander- Wit E’S happy! Let him sort those round And glittering pebbles that he claims Are talismans a fairy found And cut with weird satanic names. “He is a fool,” they say, and pass, The sane ones who have never heard Huge awful footfalls on the grass, Or planets singing like a bird. And I pass, too, and look away From his half-muttered monotones; What if he really met the fay, And they are truly magic stones! —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, January, 1924 Marilla T hurts me when I look at her and see The film of utter drouth and grey despair, Dull eyes, grim lips, and slackly-gathered hair, Who in her youth was some bird-haunted tree, Slender and lithesome in the swaying wind; Now bent with storms and battered by the hail, She in her twisted boughs may never find The muted madness of a nightingale. ——Dorothy E. Reid. Lhe Candle, January, 1924 66 Glimpse NSIPID profiles on a plaque, And grinning marble cherubim, And lithographs, and bric-a-brac Stare baldly from the eyes of him. And no one ever looks behind The garish window-case to see A room whose dim expanse is lined With books and prints and tapestry. Or guesses how the flame that plays From brazen sconces one day grew (Before it sunk) to such a blaze It seared the china cockatoo. —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, April, 1924 67 Dispossession USED to take my fancies out And range them in a shining row Without the smallest kind of doubt If they were really mine, or no. But now I linger long at this, And finger that, and hesitate; For they are colored like a kiss, And they are brittle, like a plate; And they are fashioned like a vine, And they are twisted like a breeze. How may I claim the things for mine, When you look out from that, and these? —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, May, 1924 68 Between Aphorisms QME then, my dear—although I warn you now That consummation is an empty cup Stainless of liquor; if you take it up Your tongue will tangle in the why and how. But never mind, and come. The slender hand Is shifting nothingness in artful guise, And to our keen and philosophic eyes, A vision in a non-existent land. The little hand, the little slender knee, The little this and that, are shreds and patches Of immaterial energy—confess The what-is-really-you can surely see All we may know—take care, that ribbon catches! Let me—there!—all is nothing, more or less. —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, December, 1924 Ladies HEY have gone delicately down The avenues of yesterday, And every lovely trailing gown Has brushed the corridors of clay. Their slender hands were held in prayer Or flung aloft in lilting song, The noon and midnight of their hair Went sweeping silently along. They have gone down the empty years In glorious flame or quiet rain, And all our sorcery of tears Can never call them back again. —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, December, 1924 70 Death Lingers in the Lilies EATH lingers in the lilies, So long, so long he lingers, I count the minutes over And over on my fingers. I smooth my hair so neatly, And smooth my printed gown, And smooth a crumpled letter, And lay the letter down; I say a little prayer, I hum a little song. Oh, Death among the lilies, Why do you wait so long? —Dorothy E. Reid. The Candle, December, 1925 71 Revolt LIVE my life behind a wall Where green and yellow patterns fall Of sunlight filtering through the leaves Of softly stirring willow trees— And in the wall there is a gate, A little window with a grate, Through which my eyes look out to see The world’s procession passing me— And though I love the cool grey wall, The garden it surrounds, and all, I’ll slip the latch and run away And join a traveling show—some day. —Juliet Hollister Rogers. The Candle, June, 1924 Worship LOVE you for your cool, immortal grace, With heaven mirrored in your quiet face. Your form is chaste as marble, and you lull Me with the clear charm of the beautiful. The times I hear your full voice speak my name, My heart burns like a wind-blown candle-flame. —Harold Ross. The Candle, June, 1925 73 The Passing Days DRESS myself with greatest care, And see that I am fully fed; I fix my smile to have the air Of being calm and comforted; I feign the keenest interest In books, and talk, and folk I see To hide the sickness in my breast, And mask my mortal agony. This world of which I am a part Demands a play of fun and grace, And what is not within the heart Must seem to be upon the face. —Harold Ross. The Candle, June, 1925 74 Viola HAVE looked upon you many times, How many times I cannot tell, And when I look, the delicate chimes Of an old cathedral bell Weave a spell. Within your eyes are dancing mimes, Water-sprites within a well. ; Your voice’s haunting rhymes Hark back to hidden crimes And stir my heart. ... How many times, Who can tell? —Harold Ross. The Candle, October, 1925 75 Renunciation WILL scatter my loves like leaves upon the water to ease them of their pain, and gathering them back again, I will weave them so, one up, one down, and wear them like a crown across the sighing of the years. —Harold Ross. The Candle, December, 1925 The Artist and the Wanton HERE came a woman from the dark and gave Into my arms her rich, soft flow Of curving woman-flesh to be, but now, A tyrant passion’s unreluctant slave. But memory in scorn of wanton bliss Recalled a bathing child I’d painted, whose Untainted knowledge, dawn-soft flesh, and loose Flung curls, had made me beg one childish kiss. There’s something in innocence that’s not forgot, And man may suck the full-blown breasts of sin, Embrace the fevered limbs of sirens in A mad ecstatic revel, yet allot To her, the favored place in memory, Who offered but a glimpse of chastity. —Royall H. Snow. The Sansculotte, April 1917 17 Ad Infinitum ITH long, resistless roll, the deep blue sea Climbs up, and up, to heaven, and down to me.... And down to me its sullen, listless swells Bring sleek green weeds, and tinted ivory shells. . And ivory-tinted shells delight my eyes With lustrous shadings from the sea’s soft dyes... . The sea’s soft dyes that fade, and ebb and flow, From fathoms green to deep, dark indigo.... To deep, dark indigo, that stretch away, To melt in somber, circling mists of gray... . In somber, circling mists that bound my sea, And bind my still, vast universe to me... . —Don Strother. The Candle, October, 1925 78 Refiections HAVE been Helen of the golden hair, And swayed all Greece in slavery to my face; Dante once drew for me an angel fair, And sought through Heaven and Hell my hiding place. I have thrilled to the touch of Abelard, my heart, Too strong to break, hath lain cold in my breast As a child still-born. I have seen Lancelot start, Change color, blush like a girl, at my least behest. Ay, under my window I’ve heard Romeo sing, And Duncan hath lain dead under my knife; All things that beauty e’er had power to bring I have,—and all that love can make from life. What care I if my mirror mocks at me And silly men disdain,—they cannot see. —Josephine Waters. The Candle, June, 1923 79 Evensong ae has a way of standing still, Poised on the threshold of the day. While evening waits her captious will Time has a way. Some slender moments, breathless, stay The sun’s decline, below the hill Twilight waits and the stars delay. Soft, small trickles of silence spill Over the weary of heart, and stray Where, deep in the spirit bruised and ill, Time has a way. —Josephine Waters. The Candle, December, 1925 80 Shadows HE Day has tasted too many kisses, And sped too many lovers at the door. She has whispered a thousand thousand secrets And known resentments too well known before. The Day has sipped too many passions, And flung too many flagons on the floor, She has supped at thrice three hundred taverns And turned to laugh too lightly at the score. And now she has tossed a golden coin At the leering face of the sky, And welcomed her last grave lover With the still caress of a sigh. And the trembling stars are roses twined In the couch where they shall lie. And shadows lie upon the grass, and they Are silken robes that she has flung away. —William H. Wright. The Talisman, May, 1922 81 Forgetfulness I SAW but now a lonely swan Sail down this swirling stream. And through the dripping sunlight on and on It fled as from a dream And now is gone. Three suns have clambered o’er the moon Since deep our vow we swore; And then you too fled down the shattered June, Forsook this shadowed shore, Ah love, how soon. You did not keep the silent vow We swore; and now the glass Of this dead pool remembers clouds, and now Over the drowsing grass The shadows bow. And I have watched the bitter hours Creep through three endless days, But memory kneels still upon the flowers, And hidden in the ways Still sadness cowers. The echo of old whispers drones Still on the swollen streams, And still the breezes imitate old tones, And the old drifted dreams Still wash the stones. The swan knows some swift opiate, Some wider stream to try, Some deeper-shadowed pool where dreams abate Beneath the bank. But I Can only wait. And in the old proud, bitter place, My love, where you have gone, Your sons will run the old sardonic race; But I will linger on To dream your face. And thrice three hundred memories Will drift at last ashore, And thrice three hundred words that haunt the breeze Grow silent evermore Upon the trees. Another swan will drift below The sky of each new spring; And I will take the deepest dream I know And lay it on his wing And bid him go. 83 And thrice three hundred springs will stray Beside this slumbering stream. And I will watch across the trembling day Another comely dream Crumble away. And when the last sad, lovely dream Has vanished with the swan, A Triton, white and old and wan, will gleam, And dream of what is gone, Beside the stream. —William H. Wright. The Talisman, May, 1922 84 Minuet at Antonio’s BALLADE NTONIO’S is not a lovely place To fancy in a dream. It’s not too sweet To smell the stagnant rings of beer that trace The goblet’s edges; nor to watch the feet Of dancers, as the music’s bright deceit Scatters an arabesque of thoughts that throng The edge of death. But wherefore this conceit From nought but an old, old man worn out with song? Old men may fondle reveries of grace And beauty; but they vanish with the fleet, Sweet sophistries of youth, as a comely face Fades out again. Age is discreet retreat Behind sophistications of bread and meat. But stay! They play—what is it? Some swift gong Has summoned back a child of dreams to meet Nought but an old, old man worn out with song. Tonight they play another night; and base Rejoinders soften. From a silvered seat We watched—remember?—the deft moon unlace The shadows of our hearts; knew an embrace, Drank new twilights, heard silent tongues repeat The silence of our vows; and turned to meet A new sun flaming with the gold of strong, Grave passions. Ah, how swiftly dreams defeat The sorrows of old men worn out with song. ENVOI The music’s stopped. Here, waiter, we came to eat! Bring beers for two! Come, honey, nothing’s wrong. Give me the kiss you owe. You wouldn’t cheat A doddering old man worn out with song? —William H. Wright. The Talisman, May, 1922 i eine ‘ 7) ; ee rents sy | Date Due a THT LLL LL Mil 6 35 00602 10C7F2 TATE UNIVERSITY A ee The Ohio State University IMTOO 2435 00 9375 . ite VERSITY NTHOLOGY OF V ————————