D LIBRARY OF CONGRESS aD0DDaSS3D3 Book Gopyiiglit]^^ CCEXRIGHT DEPOSm MODERN VERSE BRITISH AND AMERICAN EDITED BY ANITA P. FORBES, M.A. HARTFORD PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL r^j^^a, v-^^^^^^j^-'/f^ NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY A Copyright, 1921 BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY OErio'2t PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. ©r.!.A653039 FOREWORD '■: In looking over the anthologies of poetry on the shelves of any well-equipped public library, one thinks of the rats that followed the Pied Piper. There are war poems, love poems, sad poems, funny poems, old poems, new poems, child poems, col- lege poems, poems of the city, poems of the country — antholo- gies by tens and dozens. In the latest additions to these we take particular pride, for they represent the verse of our own age. IModern poetry is worth being proud of for at least two reasons. First, it appeals to many different types of people. Whether one is looking for poems that are heroic, fanciful, humorous, or thoughtful — poems on any subject from the steel industry to the immortality of the soul — poems of the loftiest imagination or the tenderest human interest — he will find his desires gratified. In no other period of English liter- ature has poetry been so varied, so like an elaborate prism which flashes new beauty to eaeh eye. For never before has it refracted the light of so many and such different person- alities. It has been said that every one can write at least one good poem ; and nowadays he can usually get it published. The name of our young poets is Legion. Moreover, many of our poets, even the best-known ones, have wide interests besides their poetry. They may be newpaper men, lawyers, college professors, army officers, social workers. The great emotional stimulus of the war drove vigorous, practical men and women of all ages and occupations to the discovery that poetry might be a solace and joy not only to the student or visionary, but to the average person. \ The technique of modern poetry is no less free, novel and vi FOREWORD richly varied than its viewpoint and ideas. Never before has the English language been molded into so many poetica) shapes, some old, some new, some fantastic, many beautiful. Standard forms like blank verse, the sonnet, the couplet, the ballad stanza; free verse or polyphonic prose, woven in as many patterns as there are poets; imitations and adaptations of French, Greek, Japanese verse-forms — we find them all,- and many others, in the constant stream that pours out of this poetic melting-pot. Whatever the form, the diction is usually simple and forceful, much like that of the best con- temporary speech. There is very little inverted order; there are few threadbare or over-extended metaphors. We also like modern verse for its conciseness. The average poem of to-day is short, and for that reason the thought or image which it contains is the more likely to arrest and grip our attention. Of course, no sensible person would claim that his own age had a monopoly of fine poetry any more than a monopoly of great men. Our contemporary poets themselves would be the last ones to urge that we read their verses instead of those by the older masters, for they appreciate more fully than we what is meant by poetic heritage. John Masefield's writing has been much influenced by his admiration for Chaucer. Amy Lowell, for years, was a devoted student of Keats. All they do ask is that we read their verses in addition to the old, world-famous ones, and value old and new alike at their true worth. In fact, many a person has found that — paradoxical as it sounds — the more vitally he is interested in contemporary literature, the more vitally he becomes interested in standard literature. For the present can never be fully interpreted save in the light of the past. Still, we owe a definite debt to our own generation. No literature can reach its highest level witliout enthusiastic and intelligent readers. If we believe that from the struggles, FOREWORD vii questionings, and aspirations of this age there are to emerge a few great poets who will guide us along the path of vision, we must prepare ourselves to understand and follow them. We must read contemporary verse with discrimination and yet with' appreciation ; we must talk about it freely and natu- rally; we must pass on what we like to our friends. I remember that one day I overheard two boys who were talking as they looked over my bookcases for something to read, ^akl one, " Rhymes of a Red Cross Ma7i? Sure! I'll show you a peach of a poem in that ! ' ' In that spirit, then, this book passes to other American school-boys and school-girls some modern poems which my own pupils have liked. For two years I have been reading con- temporary verse aloud to junior and senior classes — or getting them to read it — and finding out what poems were favorites with the majority. The collection is a very simple one ; it doesn't pretend to trace recent poetic development or to be all-inclusive. Even the Notes at the back of the book serve merely to point out trails which readers may follow for them- selves. Sooner or later, most people discover that the verse of their own age is a source of real literary pleasure. Why not make that discovery early? Formal acknowledgments to the publishers and authors who have permitted the use of the poems are made on the fol- lowing pages. Informal, but equally sincere thanks are due to others. Helen IMiller, H. P. H. S. 1919; Lester Klimm, H. P. H. S. 1920; and, in fact, all my upper-class pupils of the last two years have been my "collaborators" in a very real sense of the word ; and the most helpful advice and suggestions have been contributed by Miss Hazeltine, Miss Brann and Mr. Hitchcock, my fellow-teachers and friends. A. P. F. Hartford, Conn., October, 1920. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To the following publishers, authors, and individual holders of copyrights my thanks are due for their ready and generous cooperation in granting formal permission to reprint material : To The Atlantic Monthly for "The Ancient Beau- tiful Things," by Fannie Stearns Davis. To Messrs. Barse & Hopkins for "Funk" (from Rhymes of a Red Cross Man) by Robert Service. To Mr. B. II. Blackwell for "Dagonet, Arthur's Fool" (from Akleharan) by M. St. Clare Byrne, and "Rufus Prays" (from Oxford Poetry, 1916) by L. A. G. Strong. For this latter poem, additional acknowledg- ment is made to Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., the American publishers. To jMessrs. Bobbs-Merrill Company for the poem by James Whitcomb Riley. (Footnote in connection with poem.) To Brentano's for "The Shadow People" and "To a Distant One" from Complete Poems of Francis Led- widgc. To JMiss Abbie Farwell Brown for "Pirate Treas- ure" (from Heart of New England, published by Hough- ton Mifflin Company.) To The Century Company for the poepi by Cale Young Rice. (Footnote in connection with poem.) To Mr. a. J. Eardley Dawson for "Night in iMeso- potamia" (from Night Winds of Arahy, published by Grant Richards, Ltd.) ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To Messrs. Dodd, Mead and Company for ' ' My Sweet Brown Gal" (from Lyrics of Love and Laughter) by- Paul Laurence Dunbar, and "To a Poet — By Spring" (from Baubles) by Carolyn Wells. (Footnote in connec- tion with poem by Mr. Dunbar.) To Messrs. George H. Doran Company for poems by Amelia Josephine Burr, Walter Prichard Eaton, Aline Kilmer, Joyce Kilmer, Christopher Morley, Dora Siger- son. Cicely Fox 'Smith, Charles Hanson Towne. (Foot- notes in connection with poems.) To Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company for "A Creed" (from The Shoes of Happiness) by Edwin Markham; to these publishers and Mr. Rudyard Kip- ling (through Messrs A. P. Watt & Son) for "The Feet of The Young Men," "If," and "Recessional," from Rudyard Kipling's Verse; Inclusive Edition. To Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company for poems by Purges Johnson, Winifred i\I. Letts, Siegfried Sassoon, and Herbert Trench. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) Additional acknowledgment is made to Mr. Trench. To The Four Seas Company for "The Faun Sees Snow for the First Time" (from Images — Old and New) by Richard Aldington. To Messrs. Harcourt, Brace and Howe, Inc. for "Da Younga 'Merican" (from Canzoni) and "Een Napoli" (from Carmina) by T. A. Daly; and "Prayer" (from Challenge) by Louis Untermeyer. To Messrs. Harper & Brothers for poems b}^ Dana Burnet, Charles Buxton Going, Artlmr Guiterman, and Captain Cyril Morton Home. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) To INIessrs. Henry Holt and Company for "An Old Woman of the Roads" (from Wild Earth) by Padraic ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Colum; "The Ship of Rio" (from Peacock Pie) and "The Sunken Garden" (from Motley) by Walter de la Mare: "To the Thawino- Wind" (from A Boy's Will), "After Apple-Picking" (from Mountain Interval) andl "Birches" (from North of Boston), by Robert Frost; **Fog" (from Chicag'o Poems), "Prayers of Steel" and "Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn" (from Corn- huskers) by Carl Sandburg; "Haymaking" (from Poems) by Edward Thomas; "Ilighmount" (from These Times) by Louis Untermeyer; "The Factories" and "Gifts" (from Factories) and "Mary, Helper of Heartbreak" (from The Old Road to Paradise), by Margaret Widdemer. To Mr. Brian Hooker for "A Man-Child's Lullaby" (from Poems, published by Yale University Press). To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for selec- tions from the poems of Grace Hazard Conkling, John Drinkwater, John Gould Fletcher, and Josephine Pres- ton Peabody. These selections are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of their works. To Mr. B. W. Huebsch for "High-Tide" (from Grow- ing Pains) by Jean Starr Untermeyer, copyright 1918. To The Independent for ' ' Provincetown ' ' by Marie Louise Hersey. To Mr. Mitchell Kennerley for "God's World" (from Benascence and Other Poems) by Edna St. Vin- cent IMillay. To Mr. Alfred A. Knopf for "America" (from Mush- rooms) by Alfred Kreymborg; for "Psalm to jMy Be- loved" (from Body and Raiment) by Eunice Tiet.jens; and to him as the American publisher of "A Greeting" (from Poems) by W. H. Davies; "To Lucasta, On Going to the War — for the Fourth Time" (from Fairies and xii ACKNO'WLEDGMENTS Fusiliers) by Robert Graves; ''Sonnet" (from Poems- First Series) by J. C. Squire. Separate acknowledgment is made to IMr. Davies' English publisher, Mr. Elkin Mathews; additional acknowledgment is here made to Mr. Graves (through ]\Ir. James B. Pinker) and Mr. Squire (through Messrs A. P. Watt & Son). To Messrs. John Lane Company for "Song," "The Great Lover," "The Soldier" (from Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke) ; for "^^lay is Building Her House" (from The Lonely Dancer) by Richard Le Gallienne; to these publishers and to ]\Ir. Le Gallienne for "Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn" (from New Poems) ; to them and to Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer for "The Old Houses of Flanders"" (from On Heaven and Poems Written in Active Service). To Prof. John A. Lom.o:, editor of Coivhoy Songs (published by The Macmillan Company) from "The Cow-boy 's Dream. ' ' To Messrs. Erskine ]\Lvcdonald, Ltd. for ' ' The Dawn Patrol" (title poem) by Paul Bewsher. To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd. (London) for "The Penalty of Love" (from Poems of the Unknown Way) by Sidney Royse Lysaght, and "Continuity" (from Col- lected Poems) by A. E. To The Macmillan Company for poems by John Ken- drick Bangs, Mary Carolyn Davies, Fannie Stearns Davis, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Hermann Ilagedorn Ralph Hodgson, Vachel Lindsay, Amy Lowell, Percy MacKaye, John Masefield, Edgar Lee Masters, Harriet Monroe, Sara Teasdale, and W. B. Yeats. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) Special additional acknowl- edgment is made to Mr. IMasefield, and to JNIr. Yeats (through Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son). To Mr. Elkin Mathews for "The Dead to the Living" ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 3 (from The New World) by Laurence Binyon, and "A Greeting" (from Foliage) by W. II. Davies. To Messrs. David McKay Company for "In Service" (from Songs from Leinstcr) by Winifred M. Letts. To The Oxford University Press for "A Vignette" (from Collected Poems) by Robert Bridges. To Poetry, a Magazine of Verse for "Parting" by Alice Corbin Henderson, and "Ellis Park" by Helen Hoyt. To The Poetry Bookshop (London) for "People" (from Spring Morning) by Frances D. Cornford. To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for "The Devil" (from Poetical Works of William Henry Drummond) ; for "In Flanders Fields" (title poem) by John McCrae. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) To IMessrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "Courage" (from Moods, Songs and Doggerel) by John Galsworthy; "The Green Inn" (from Scribner's Magazine) by Theo- dosia Garrison; "To My Brother" (from Service and Sacrifice) by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; "Richard Cory" (from Children of the Night) by Edwin Arling- ton Robinson; "I Have a Rendezvous with Death" (from Poems) by Alan Seegar; "A Mile With Me" (from The Poems of Henry van Dyke). To Mr. Martin Secker for "The Old Ships" (from Collected Poems) by James Elroy Flecker. To Messrs. Sidgv^^ick and Jackson, Ltd. for "The Old Soldier" (from Flower of Youth) by Katherine Tynan. To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company for the poem by Bliss Carman and the poem by Bliss Carman and Richard Ilovey. Additional acknowledgment is made to Mr. Carman. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) To Messrs. Stewart and Kidd Company for "The V ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Little Golden Fountain" (title poem) by Mary Mac- Millan. To Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company for poems by Witter Bynner, Hilda Conkling, Theodore Maynard, Robert Nichols, and Alfred Noyes. (Footnotes in con- nection with poems.) To the Boston Evening Transcript for "The Small Town Celebrates" by Karle Wilson Baker, and "The Shepherd to the Poet" by Agnes Kendrick Gray. To the Yale University Press for "Good Company" (from Blue Smoke) by Karle Wilson Baker; for "The Horse-Thief" (from Burglars of the Zodiac) by Wil- liam Rose Benet. Additional acknowledgment is made to Mr. Benet. It gives me pleasure, also, to thank the following authors for letters containing not only personal per- mission, but, in many cases, interesting information and suggestions : Mrs. Baker, Mr. Bangs, Mr. Benet, Mr. Bridges, Miss Brown, Mr. Burnet, Mv. Bynner, Miss Byrne, Mr. Car- man, ]Mr. Colum, Mr. Daly, Miss Davies, Mr. Dawson, Mr. de la Mare, Mr. Drinkwater, Mr. Eaton, Mrs. Theo- dosia Garrison Faulks, Mrs. Sara Teasdale Filsinger, Mrs. Marie Louise Hersey Forbes, Mr. Frost, Mr. Gals- worthy, Mr. Gibson, Mrs. Fannie Stearns Davis Giflford, Mr. Going, IMiss Gray, Mr. Guiterman, Mr. Hagedorn, Mrs. Henderson, Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hinkson, Mrs. Carolyn Wells Houghton, Mr. Hooker, Miss Hoyt, Mr. Hueffer, Mr. Johnson, Mr. L,e Gallienne, IMiss Letts, Mr. Lindsay, Prof. Lomax, Miss Lowell, Mr. Lysaght, Mr. MacKaye, Miss MacMillan, Mr. Markham, ]\Irs. Joseph- ine Preston Peabody INIarks, Mr. Masefield, Mr. Masters, Mr. Maynard, Miss IMillay, Miss Monroe, j\Ir. Morley, Mr, Nichols, Mr. Noyes, Mr. Rice, Mrs. Robinson, Mr. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Robinson, Mr. Russell, Mr. 'Sandburg, Mr. Sassoon, Mrs. Margaret Widdemer Schauffler, Miss Smith, Mr. Squire, Mr. Strong, Mr. Towne, Mr. Trench, Mrs. Untermeyer, Mr. Untermeyer, Dr. van Dyke, Mr. Yeats. CONTENTS THE SEA Sea-Fever John Alasefield Wild We:athb3i Fannie titeams Davis High-Tide Jean Sto-rr Untermeyer Sailor Town C. Fox Smith . The Ship of Rio . . . . . . Walter de la Mare Old Anchor Chanty Herbert Trench Irradiations John Gould Fletcher v^ARGOES John Alasefield The Old Ships James Elroy Flecker Sing a Song o' Shipwreck . . .John Alasefield Pirate Treasure Abbie Far well Brown page ■6 4 5 5 7 7 11 12 12 14 16 THE CITY Fog Carl Sandburg ^Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn . . v Richard Le Gallienne Eew NapolI T. A. Daly . . City Roofs Charles Hanson Towne Broadway . Hermann Hagedorn The Peddler Hermann Hagedorn Roses in the Subway .... Dana Burnet The FACfioRiES Margaret Widdemer Prayers of Steel Carl Sandburg Ellis Park Helen Hoyt The Park Dana Burnet At Twilight ^ Harriet Monroe In Lady Street ^ John Drinkwater The Barrel-Organ Alfred Noyes THE COUNTRY The Green Inn Theodosia Garrison The Febtt of the Young Men 1897 '^ Rudyard Kipling . 21 21 22 23 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 34 '^- 43 44 CONTENTS To THE Thawing Wind . . . ^ Mister Hop-Toad To A Poet May is Building Her House . A Mountain Gateway .... Haymaking An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie A Greeting A Vagabond Song Three Pieces on the Smoke of AXTTUMK God's World . . . . After Apple-Picking . . . *V Brother Beasts Birches ....... r Highmount . . . . . A Vignette The World's Miser Good Company Irradiations Trees Night-Piece Y/- The Final Spurt . . . . r The Horse Thief Robert Frost James ^VIliteomb Riley Carolyn Wells Richard Le Gallienne Bliss Carman Edward Thomas Vachel Lindsay William H. Davies Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey Carl Sandburg Edna St. Vincent Millay Robert Frost Cale Young Rice Robert Frost Louis Untermeyer Robert Bridges Theodore Maynnrd Karle Wilson Baler John Gould Fletcher Joyce Kilmer Siegfried Sassoon John Masefield William Rose Benct V WAR The Return Wilfred Wilson Gibson . Dora Sigerson . Amy Loioell . Ford Madox Flueffer . Grace Hazard Conkliug . Katherine Tynan . Robert W. Service . Cyril Morton Home . W. M. Letts . . The Road of the Refugees . The Bombardment .... The Old Houses of Flanders . Rheims Cathedral — 1014 . The Old Soldier Funk The Devout Highland.fr . The Spires of Oxford \^ The Soldier "^ Rupert Brooke , I Have a Rendezvous With Death '^y Alan Seegar 95 CONTENTS XIX 'John McCrae Laurence Binyon Siegfried Sassoon Robert Nichols Robert Graves . Wilfred W. Gibson A. J. E. Dawson ^1n Flanders Fields ... The Dead to the Living Countkr-Attagk . . . . Noon To LrcASTv ON Going to the War — For the Fourth Time . Retreat Night in Mesopotamia Does It Matter? Siegfried Sassoon The Dawn Patrol Paul Bewsher, R. N. A D. S. C. An Open Boat Alfred Noyes Admiral Dugout C. Fox Smith "The Avenue of the Allies" . . Alfred Noycs Prayer of a Soldier in France . Joyce Kilmer The Small Town Cbxebrates . . Kaiie Wilson Baker Continuity A. E. . . . . page 9U 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 103 105 105 107 110 111 114 Baby Pantomime A Man-Child's Lullaby Justice Smells — (Junior) The Rag Dolly's Valentine The Anxious Farmer The Dew-Light .... The Shadow People Incorrigible Da Younga 'Merican Little Pan RuFus Prays .... An Old Woman of the Roads The Ancient Beautiful Things You, Four Walls, Wall Not in My Heart My Dog .... In Service My Sweet Brown Gal The Sunken Garden The Garden by Moonlight CHILDREN AND HOME "^ Percy MacKaye . Brian Hooker . . Aline Kilmer 5 Christopher Morley . Arthur Guiterman . B urges Johnson . Hilda Conkling . Francis Ledividge . Surges Johnson . T. A. Daly . . . . Witter Bynner . L. A. G. Strong . Padraic Colum . Fannie Stearns Davis Josephine Preston Peabody John Kendrick Bangs W. M. Letts . . . Paul Laurence Dunbar Walter de la Mare Amy Lowell 117 117 118 110 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 132 133 134 135 136 137 CONTENTS FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE To My Brother A Mile With Me . . . . ^ My Friend People ^SONG The Look ^ To A Distant One "Mary, Helper of Heartbreak" . Garden cf the Rose .... The Little Golden Fountain . . Songs of a Girl Psalm to My Beloved .... The Reflection > A Lynmouth Widow .... Parting The Penalty of Love .... PAGE Corinne Roosevelt Robinson . 14) Henry van Dyke .... 142 Walter Prichard Eaton . . 143 Frances D. Cornford 143 Rupert Brooke .... 144 ^ara Teasdale . . . . 145 Francis Ledwidge . . ■ 146 Margaret Widdemer . . . 147 Charles Buxton Going . . 148 Mary MacMillan .... 149 Mary Carolyn Davies . . 149 Eunice Tietjens . . . .150 Christopher Morley . . .151 Amelia Josephine Burr . . 152 Alice Corhin Henderson . .152 Sidney Royse Lysaght . .153 THOUGHT AND FANCY Barter Sara Teasdale Time, You Old Gypsy Man . . . Ralph Hodgson . . Sonnet J- ^'- ^"^'luire .... 'Provincotown Marie Louise Hersey America Alfred Kreymborg . . Recessional ^ Rudyard Kipling . . . ,jp y Rudyard Kipling Courage 3 John Galsworthy Prayer Louis Untermeyer A Creed .....■•• Edwin Markham The Great Lovee .... PRupert Brooke . . . Qjp,pg Margaret Widdemer Richard Cory Edwin Arlington Robinson A Farmer Remembers Lincoln , Witter Bynner . . . .^Sunset V Percy MacKaye . . . Silence Edgar Lee Masters The Cowboy's Dream .... John A. Lomax .... General William Booth Enters Into Heaven Vachel Lvndsay . . . The DEVII. William Henry Drummond 157 157 159 159 161 161 163 164 164 165 166 168 170 170 172 172 175 176 179 CONTENTS XXI The Host of the Air . . . . The Fiddler of Dooney The Faun Sees Snow fob the First Time Etiquette The Potatoes' Dance . . . . Dagonet, Arthur's Fool Forty Singing Seamen s When Shakespeare Laughed . Suggested by a Cover of a Volume of Keats' Poems The Shepherd to the Poet To Yourself Notes Supplementary Reading List . Index of First Lines . William B. Ymts William B. Yeats Richard Aldington Arthur Guiterman Vachel Lindsay M. St. Clare Byrne Alfred Noyes Christopher Morley Amy Lowell Agnes Kendrick Gray Witter Bynner pace . 185 . 187 . 188 . 189 . 190 . 192 . 194 . 199 . 199 . 201 . 201 . 205 . 288 , 293 THE SEA SEA-FEVER * I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying. And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life. To the gull 's way and the whale 's way where the wind 's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. — John Mase field * From t^aJt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by ^special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 3 MODERN VERSE WILD WEATHER * The sea was wild. The wind was proud. He shook my curtains like a shroud. He was a wet and worthy wind : His hair with wild sea-crystals twined: His cloak with wild sea-grasses green ; His slanted winus all gray and lean: And strange and swift, and fierce and free He cried, "Come out! and race with me!" I snatched my mantle wide and red. And far along the cliffs I fled. The cliff-grass bowed itself in fear. The gulls forgot what path to steer; Below the cliffs thv broad waves broke In trampled ranks like fighting folk ; The ships with grisly sea-wrack blind, Dead-drunken, cursed that chasing wind. My lips with salt were wild to taste. I leapt: I shouted and made haste: Along the cliffs, above the sea. With mad red mantle waving free. And hair that whipped the eyes of me. And there was no one else Init he. That great grim wind who called to me. Oh, we ran far! Oh, we ran free! — Fannie Stearns Davis * From f^'rack o' Daivn, l)y Fannie Stearns Davis. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE SEA ,L^ HIGH-TIDE I edged back against the night. The sea growled assault on the wave-bitten shore, And the breakers, Like young and impatient hounds, Sprang, with rough joy, on the shrinking sand, Sprang — but were drawn back slowly. With a long, relentless pull. Whimpering, into the dark. Then I saw who held them captive; And I saw how they were bound With a broad and quivering leash of light, Held by the moon, As, calm and unsmiling. She walked the deep fields of the sky. — Jean Starr Untcrmeyer SAILOR TOWN * Along the wharves in sailor town a singing whisper goes Of the wind atnono- the anchored ships, the wind that blows Off a broad brimming water, where the summer day has died Like a wounded whale a-sounding in the sunset tide. There's a big China liner, gleaming like a gull, And her lit ports flashing; there's the long gaunt hull * From Hfiilor Tonn, by C. Fox Smith, copyright 1919, George H. Doran Company, publishers. *<.„.A\ -^(2.J>^' 6 MODERN VERSE Of a Blue Funnel freighter with her derricks dark and still; And a tall barque loadingr at the lumber mill. And in the shops of sailor town is every kind of thingr That the sailormen buy there, or the ships' crews bring: Shackles for a sea-chest and pink cockatoos, Fifty-cent alarum clocks and dead men's shoes. You can hear the gulls crying, and the cheerful noise Of a concertina going, and a singer's voice — And the wind's song and the tide's song, crooning soft and low Rum old tunes in sailor town that seamen know. I dreamed a dream in sailor town, a foolish dream and vain, Of ships and men departed, of old days come again — And an old song in sailor town, an old song to sing When shipmate meets with shipmate in the evening. — Cicely Fox Smith. THE SHIP OF RIO There was a ship of Kio Sailed out into the blue. And nine and ninety monkeys Were all her jovial crew. From bos'un to tlie cabin boy, From quarter to caboose, There weren't a stitch of calico To breech *em — tight or loose ; From spar to deck, from deck to keel, From barnacle to shroud, THE SEA There weren't one pair of reach-me-downs To all that jabbering croMcl. But wasn't it a gladsome sight, When roared the deep-sea gales, To see them reef her fore and aft, A-swinging by their tails ! Oh, wasn 't it a gladsome sight, When glassy calm did come. To see them stiuatting tailor-wise Around a keg of rum ! Oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight, When in she sailed to land, To see them all a-scampering skip For nuts across the sand ! Walter de la Mare OLD ANCHOR CHANTY * First Voice With a long heavy heave, my very famous men. . . o (Chorus. Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice And why do j^ou, lad, look so pale? Is it for love, or lack of ale? First Voice All hands bear a hand that have a hand to len' — And there never was a better haul than you gave then. . . , (Chorus. Bring home!) * Taken by permisgion from Poems, irith Fables In Prose, by Herbert Trench, published by E. P. Button & Co., New York. c-a e 8 MODERN VERSE First Voice Heave hearty, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice Curl and scud, rack and squall — sea clouds you shall know them all. . . . First Voice For we 're bound for Valparaiso and round the Horn again From Monte Desolado to the parish of Big Ben ! . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave hearty, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice Bold through all or scuppers under, when shall we be back, I wonder? First Voice From the green and chancy water we shall all come back again To the Lizard and the ladies — but who can say for when? . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave and she's a-trip, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) THE SEA 9 Second Voice When your fair lass says farewell to you a fair wind 1 will sell to 3'ou. . . . First Voice You may sell your soul's salvation, but I'll bet you two- pound-tcn She's a-tripping on the ribs of the devil in his den. . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave and she's a-peak, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice You shall tread, for one eruzado. Fiddler's Green in El Dorado. ... First Voice Why, I've seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with doubloons And for 'baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and duca- toons! . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave and a-weigh, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice And drop her next in heat or cold, the flukes of England they shall hold! . . . 10 MODERN VERSE First Voice Ring and shank, stock and fluke, she's coming into ken — Give a long and heavy heave, she's a-coming into ken. . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave in sight, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice With her shells and tangle dripping she's a beauty we are shipping. . . . First Voice And she likes a bed in harbor like a decent citizen, But her fancy for a hammock on the deep sea comes again. . . . {Bring home!) First Voice Heave and she's a-wash, my very famous men. . . . {Bring home! heave and rally!) Second Voice never stop to write the news that we are ofif upon a cruise. . . . First Voice For the Gulf of Californy's got a roller now and then But it's better to be sailing than a-sucking of a pen. . . . {Bring home!) — Herbert Trench THE SEA 11 IRRADIATIONS III In the g^ray skirts of tho fog seamews skirl desolately, And flick like bits of paper propelled by a wind About the flabby sails of a departing ship Crawling slowly down the low reaches Of the river. About the keel there is a bubbling and gurgling Of grumpy water ; And as the prow noses out a way for itself, It seems to weav£L-a diH?am of bubbles and flashing foam, A dream of strange islands whereto it is bound : Pearl islands drenched with the dawn. The palms flash under the immense dark sky, Down which the sun dives to embrace the earth: Drums boom and conches bray, And with a crash of crimson cymbals Suddenly appears above the polished backs of slaves A king in a breastplate of gold Gigantic Amid tossed roses and swaying dancers That melt into pale undulations and muffled echoes ']\lid the bubbling of the muddy water, And the swirling of the seamews above the sullen river. — John Gould Fletcher 12 MODERN VERSE CARGOES Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Istlimus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting througli the channel in the mad March days With a cargo of Tyne coal. Road rails, pig lead, Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin traj^s. — John Masefield THE OLD SHIPS I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep For Famagusta and the hidden sun That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire ; * From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE SEA 13 And all those ships were certainly so old Who knows how oft with sc^uat and noisy gun, Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, The pirate Genoese Ilell-raked them till they rolled Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. But now through friendly seas they softly run. Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green, Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold. But I have seen, Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn, An image tumbled on a rose-swept bay, A drowsy ship of some yet older day ; And, wonder's breath indrawn. Thought I — who knows^ — who knows — but in that same (Fished np beyond yEa-a, patchetl up new — Stern painted brighter blue — ) That talkative, bald-headed seaman came (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) From Troy's doom-crimson shore. And with great lies about his wooden horse Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course. It was so old a ship — who knows, who knows? — And yet so beautiful, T watched in vain To see the mast burst open with a rose, And the whole deck put on its leaves again. — James Elroy Flecker 14 MODERN VERSE SING A SONG 0' SHIPWRECK* He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea, With ear-rings of brass and a jumper of dungaree, " 'N' many a queer lash-up have I seen," says he. ''But the toughest hooray o' the racket," he says, "I'll be sworn, 'N' the roughest traverse I worked since the day I was bom. Was a packet o' Sailor's Delight as I scoffed in the seas o' the Horn. "All day long in the calm she had rolled to the swell. Rolling through fifty degrees till she clattered her bell ; 'N' then came snow, 'n' a squall, 'n' a wind was colder 'n hell. "It blew like the Bull of Barney, a beast of a breeze, 'N' over the rail come the cold green lollopin' seas, 'N' she went ashore at the dawn on the Ramirez. "She was settlin' down by the stern when I got to the deck, Her waist was a smother o ' sea as was up to your neck, 'N' her masts were gone, 'n' her rails, 'n' she was a wreck. "We rigged up a tackle, a purchase, a sort of a shift. To hoist the boats off o' the deck-house and get them adrift, When her stern gives a sickenin ' settle, her bows give a lift, " 'N' comes a crash of green water as sets me afloat With freezing fingers clutching the keel of a boat — The bottom-up whaler — 'n' that was the juice of a note. * From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE SEA 15 "Well, I clambers acrost o' the keel 'n' I gets me secured, When I sees a face in the white o' the smother to looard, So I gives 'im a 'and, 'n' be shot if it wasn't the stooard ! ''So lie climbs np forrard o' me, 'n' 'thanky,' a' says, 'N' we sits 'n' shivers 'n' freeze to the bone wi' the sprays, 'N' I sings 'Abel Brown,' 'n' the stooard he prays. "Wi' never a dollop to sup nor a morsel to bite, The lips of us blue with the cold 'n ' the heads of us light, Adrift in a Cape Horn sea for a day 'n' a night. " 'N' then the stooard goes dotty 'n' puts a tune to his lip 'N' moans about Love like a dern old hen wi' the pip — (I sets no store upon stooards — they ain't no use on a ship). " 'N' 'mother,' the looney cackles, 'come 'n' put Willy to bed !' So I says 'Dry up, or I'll fetch you a crack o' the head'; 'The kettle's a-bilin',' he answers, ''n' I'll go butter the bread.' " 'N' he falls to singin' some slush about clinkin' a can, 'N' at last he dies, so he does, 'n' I tells you, Jan, I was glad when he did, for he weren't no fun for a man. "So he falls forrard, he does, 'n' he closes his eye, 'N' quiet he lays 'n' quiet I leaves him lie, 'N' I was alone with his corp, 'n' the cold green sea and the sky. " 'N' then I dithers, I guess, for the next as I knew Was the voice of a mate as was sayin' to one of the crew, ' Easy, my son, wi' the brandy, be shot if he ain't comin'-to !' " ^ohn Masefield 16 MODERN VERSE PIRATE TREASURE A lady loved a swaggering rover; The seven salt seas he voyaged over, Bragged of a hoard none could discover, Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. She bloomed in a mansion dull and stately, And as to Meeting she walked sedately, From the tail of her eye she liked him greatly. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. Rings in his ears and a red sash wore he. He sang her a song and he told her a story : " I '11 make ye Queen of the Ocean ! ' ' swore he. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. She crept from bed by her sleeping sister ; By the old gray mill he met and kissed her. Blue day dawned before they missed her. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. And while they prayed her out of ]\Teeting, Her wild little heart with bliss was beating, As seaward went the lugger fleeting. Hey ! Jolly Roger, O. Choose in haste and repent at leisure ; A buccaneer life is not all pleasure. He set her ashore with a little treasure. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. THE SEA 17 Off he sailed where waves were dashing, Knives were gleaming, cutlasses clashing, And a ship on jagged rocks went crashing. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. Over his bones the tides are sweeping; The only trace of the rover sleeping Is what he left in the lady 's keeping. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. Two hundred years is his name unspoken, The secret of his hoard unbroken ; But a black-browed race wears the pirate's token. Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. Sea-blue eyes that gleam and glisten, Lips that sing — and you like to listen — A swaggering song. It might be this one: "Hey! Jolly Roger, 0." — Abhic Farwell Brown THE CITY FOG The fog comes on little eat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. — Carl Sandburg BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN Out of the cleansing night of stars and tides, Building itself anew in the slow dawn. The long sea-city rises: night is gone, Day is not yet ; still merciful, she hides Her summoning brow, and still the night-car glides Empty of faces; the night-watchmen yawn , One to the other, and shiver and pass on, ^ Nor yet a soul over the great bridge rides. Frail as a gossamer, a thing of air, ''- A bow of shadow o'er the river flung, Its sleepy masts and lonely lapping flood ;^'' "Who, seeing thus the bridge a-slumber there,0- Would dream such softness, like a picture hung, -^ Is wrought of human thunder, iron and blood ? — Richard Le Oallienne 21 22 MODERN VERSE EEN NAPOLI Here een Noo Yorka, where am I Seence I am landa las' July, All gray an' ogly ees da sky, An' cold as eet can be. But steell so Ions.- J maka men', So long- ees worka to be done, I can forgat how shines da sun Een Napoli. But oh, w'en pass da boy dat sal Da violets, an' I can smal How sweet dey are, I can not tal Plow seeck my heart ees be. I no can work, how mooch I try, But only seet an' wondra why T could not justa leeve an' die Een Napoli. —T. A. Daly CITY ROOFS * (From the Metropolitan Tower.) Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover? Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover ; Wise people, simple people, children of despair- Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care. * From Today and Tomorrotr, hy Charles Hanson Towno, copyright III 10, George H. Doran Company, publishers. THE CITY 23 Roof-tops, roof-tops, what sin you're knowing, While above you in the sky the white clouds are blowing ; While beneath you, agony and dolor and grim strife Fight the olden battle, the olden war of Life. Roof-tops, roof-tops, cover up their shame — Wretched souls, prison souls too piteous to name ; Man himself hath built you all to hide away the stars — Roof-tops, roof-tops, you hide ten million scars. Roof-tops, roof-tops, well I know you cover Many solemn tragedies, and many a lonely lover ; But ah ! you hide the good that lives in the throbbing city — Patient wives, and tenderness, forgiveness, faith, and pity. Roof-tops, roof-tops, this is what I wonder: You are thick as poisonous plants, thick the people under ; Yet roofless, and homeless, and shelterless they roam. The driftwood of the town who have no roof-top, and no home! — Charles Hanson Towne BROADWAY * How like the stars are these white, nameless faces ! These far innumerable burning coals ! This pale procession out of stellar spaces, This Milky Way of souls ! * From Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 24 MODERN VERSE Each in its own bright nebula? enfurled, Each face, dear God, a world ! I fling my gaze out through the silent night — In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls, Has mortal yearning built for its delight. What chasms and what walls ? What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell? What Heaven and what Hell? — Hermann Hagedorn THE PEDDLER* I peddles pencils on Broadway. I know it ain't a great career. It's dull an' footless — so folks say — And yet I've done it twenty year, Held down my same old corner here An' never missed a day. I peddles, an' I watch the crowd. I knows 'em — all they say an' do — As if they shouted it out loud. I look 'em through an ' through an ' through ! By crabs ! they'd kill me if they knew — They are so fine an' proud. I knows 'em! Oh, it's in their eyes, It's in their walk, it's in their lips! They tries to bluff it — but I 'm wise ! An' they're just children when you strips * From Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE CITY 25 The smirk off ; an ' the clerks, the chips, Stands clean of all the lies. I've watched so long, I scarcely see The clo'es it's just the faces now. Somehow I knows their misery, An ' wonders — when ? An ' where ? An ' how ? Elbow an' shoulder — on they plow — An' yet somehow they speaks to me. I'm like the priest — an' all day long They tells me what they 've thought an ' done, An' some is flabby, some is strong. An' some of 'em was dead an' gone Before they ever saw the sun. . . . I know where some of 'em belong. I peddles pencils. Christ! An' they? They does the things that seems worth while. I watch 'em growin' old an' gray. An' queer about the eyes, an' smile To see 'em when they 've made their pile, A-totterin' up Broadway. — Hermann Hagedorn EOSES IN THE SUBWAY * A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car, * From Poems, by Dana Burnet. Copyright 1915, by Harper & Brotliers. 26 MODERN VERSE Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star. Roses, I swear it ! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses . . . like captured hostages From far and fairy lands! The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush. . . The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament — I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown — And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother . . . stooping down. — Dana Burnet THE FACTORIES I have shut my little sister in from life and light (For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair), I have made her restless feet still until the night, Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring air ; I who ranged in the meadowlands, free from sun to sun, Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly, I have bound my sister till her playing-time was done — Oh, my little sister, was it I ? Was it I ? THE CITY 27 I have robbed my sister of lier day of maidenhood (For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless spark), Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good, How shall she go scatheless through the sin-lit dark? I who eould be innocent, I who could be gay, I who could have love and mirth before the light went by, I have put my sister in her mating-time away — Sister, my young sister, was it I? Was it I? I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast, (For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn), Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest — How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn, I, against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie, Eound my path they cry to me, little souls unborn — God of Life! Creator! It was I! It was I! — Margaret Widdemer PRAYERS OF STEEL Lay me on an anvil, God, Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. Let me pry loose old walls. Let me lift and loosen old foundations. Lay me on an anvil, God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike. Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together. Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders. Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars. — Carl Sandburg 28 MODERN VERSE ELLIS PARK Little park that 1 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 ? — Helen Iloyt THE CITY 29 THE PARK * All day the children play along the walks, A robin sings high in a brave, green tree, The city lifts gray temples at its marge, But still it keeps the heart of Arcady. Still blows a flower in the waving grass. Lifting a face of beauty to the sun; Still bursts the bough in joyous burgeoning — - Still comes a lover when the day is done. Here the white moon, with magic in her train, Stoops from the starry lanes of paradise, And, with her ancient witchery of dreams. Lays some new hope upon a poet 's eyes. See, on that bench beneath the drooping bough. Did not yon grief -bowed figure lift its face? Look how the moonlight finds him through the leaves, Touching his brow with sudden crowns of grace ! O little park, little land of hope, Snatched from the world and held for God and me, Still through thy walks the wistful cities go, Searching the dream that yet might set them free ! — Dana Burnet * From Poems, by Dana Burnet. Copyright, 1915, by Harper & Brothers. 30 MODERN VERSE AT TWILIGHT* You are a painter — listen — I'll paint you a picture too! Of the long white lights that glisten Through Michigan Avenue ; With the red lights down the middle Where the street shines mirror-wet, While the rain-strung sky is a fiddle For the wind to feel and fret. Look! far in the east great spaces IVleet out on the level lake. Where the lit ships veil their faces And glide like ghosts at a wake; And up in the air, high over The rain-shot shimmer of light, The huge sky-scrapers hover And shake out their stars at the night. Oh, the city trails gold tassels From the skirts of her purple gown, And lifts up her commerce castles Like a jewel-studded crown. See, proudly she moves on, singing Up the storm-dimmed track of time — Road dark and dire. Where each little light Is a soul afire From You and I, by Harriet Monroe. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE CITY 31 Against the night ! Oh, grandly she marches, flinging Her gifts at our feet, and singing ! — Have I chalked out a sketch in my rhyme ? — Harriet Monroe IN LADY STREET All day long the traffic goes In Lady Street by dingy rows Of sloven houses, tattered shops — Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers — Tall trams on silver-shining rails. With grinding wheels and swaying tops, And lorries with their corded bales, And screeching cars. * ' Buy, buy ! ' ' the sellers Of rags and bones and sickening meat Cry all day long in Lady Street. And when the sunshine has its way In Lady Street, then all the grey Dull desolation grows in state More dull and grey and desolate, And the sun is a shamefast thing, A lord not comely-housed, a god Seeing what gods must blush to see, A song where it is ill to sing. And each gold ray despiteously Lies like a gold ironic rod. 32 MODERN VERSE Yet one grey man in Lady Street Looks for the sun. He never bent Life to his will, his traveling feet Have scaled no cloudy continent, Nor has the sickle-hand been strong. He lives in Lady Street; a bed, Four cobwebbed walls. But all day long A time is singing in his head Of youth in Gloucester lanes. He hears The wind among the barley-blades, The tapping of the woodpeckers On the smooth beeches, thistle-spades Slicing the sinewy roots ; he sees The hooded filberts in the copse Beyond the loaded orchard trees, The netted avenues of hops ; He smells the honeysuckle thrown Along the hedge. He lives alone, Alone — yet not alone, for sweet Are Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. Ay, Gloucester lanes. For down below The cobwebbed room this gray man plies A trade, a coloured trade. A show Of many-coloured merchandise Is in his shop. Brown filberts there. And apples red with Gloucester air, And cauliflowers he keeps, and round Smooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground, Fat cabbages and .yellow plums. And gaudy brave clirysanfhemums. And times a glossy pheasant lies THE CITY 33 Among his store, not Tyrian dyes More rich than are the neek-feathers; And times a prize of violets. Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinned, And times an unfamiliar wind Robbed of its woodland favour stirs Gay daflodils this grey man sets Among his treasure. All day long In Lady Street the traffic goes By dingy houses, desolate rows Of shops that stare like hopeless eyes. Day long the sellers cry their cries, The fortune-tellers tell no wrong Of lives that know not any right, And drift, that has not even the will To drift, toils through the day until The wage of sleep is won at night. But this grey man heeds not at all The hell of Lady Street. His stall Of many-coloured merchandise He makes a shining paradise. As all day long chrysanthemums He sells, and red and j^ellow plums And cauliflowers. In that one spot Of Lady Street the sun is not Ashamed to shine and send a rare Shower of colour through the air; The grey man says the sun is sweet On Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. ohn Drinkwater ^ ^ 34 MODERN VERSE THE BAEREL-ORGAN There s a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street ]ji the City as tlie sun shiks low ; And the music's not immortal ; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light ; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune. And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon, And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore Of human joys and wonders and regrets ; To remember and to recompense the music evermore For what the cold machinery forgets. . . . Yes ; as the music changes. Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets, And gives tlie world a glimpse of all The colours it forgets. And there La Traviata sighs Another sadder song ; * Reprinted with permission from Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes Copyright, 1913, Frederick A, Stokes Company. THE CITY 35 And there II Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrongs; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance. Than, ever here on earth below Have whirled into — a dance! — Go down I to 'Kewlin lilacttime, in lilac-time J in' lilac'-time'; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland ; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London !) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he 's very shy, will sing a song for London. The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London. For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn 't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London !) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for Londgfiu — 36 MODERN VERSE Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) And i/oit shall ivander hand in hand ivith love in summer's wonderland ; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, In the City as the snn sinks low ; And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat. And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet, Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, In the land where the dead dreams go. Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote II Trovatore did you dream Of the City when the sun sinks low, Of the organ and the monkey and the many-colored stream On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme And pulses with the sunset-glow? There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone In the City as the sun sinks low ; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own. There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone. And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known : They are crammed and jammed in busses and — they're each of them alone In the land where the dead dreams go. THE CITY 37 There 's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland In the City as the sun sinks low ; And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jeweled hand Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned, In the land where the dead dreams go. There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying out In the City as the sun sinks low; For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout, For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout. For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt. For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about In the land where the dead dreams go. There's a laborer that listens to the voices of the dead In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red As ho sees a loafer watching him and — there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led Through the land where the dead dreams go. There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears, In the City as the sun sinks low ; With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears, 3,tvA Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears. Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years. ()W 38 MODERN VERSE And her laug:h's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears For the land where the dead dreams go. There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street In the City as the snn sinks low ; Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City ! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go. So it 's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, What have you to say "When you meet the garland girls Tripping on their way? All around my gala hat I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is I've waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, The reason why I wear it is — My own love, my true love Is coming home to-day. And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) Buy a buncli of violets for the lady While the sky burns blue above : . On the other side of the street you'll find it shady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) THE CITY 39 But buy a bunch of violets for the lady And tell her she's your own true love. There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow ; And the music's not immortal ; but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, As it dies into the sunset-glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And there, as the music changes, The song runs round again. Once more it turns and ranges Through all its joy and pain, Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets ; And the wheeling world remembers all The wheeling song forgets. Once more La Traviata sighs Another sadder song : Once more II Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong ; Once more the knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance Till once, once more, the shattered foe Has whirled into — a dance! 40 MODERN VERSE Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) And yon shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) — Alfred Noyes THE COUNTRY THE GREEN INN I sicken of men's company, The crowded tavern's din, Where all day long with oath and song Sit they who entrance win, So come I out from noise and rout To rest in God's Green Inn. Here none may mock an empty purse Or ragged coat and poor, But Silence waits within the gates, And Peace beside the door; The weary guest is welcomest, The richest pays no score. The roof is high and arched and blue, The floor is spread with pine ; On my four walls the sunlight falls In golden flecks and fine ; And swift and fleet on noiseless feet The Four Winds bring me wine. Upon my board they set their store — Great drinks mixed cunningly, Wherein the scent of furze is blent With odor of the sea ; As from a cup I drink it up To thrill the veins of me. It's I will sit m God's Green Inn Unvexed by man or ghost. Yet ever fed and comforted, 43 44 MODERN VERSE Companioned by mine host, And watched at night by that white light High swung from coast to coast. Oh, you who in the House of Strife Quarrel and game and sin, Come out and see what cheer may be For starveling souls and thin, Who come at last from drought and fast To sit in God's Green Inn. — Theodosia Garrison THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN 1897 Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose — Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain ; Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again ! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly? THE COUNTRY 45 He must go — go — go aicay from here! On the other side the world he's overdue. 'Send your road is char before you when the old Spring- fret comes o'er you. And the Red Gods call for you! So for one the wet sail archingc through the rainbow round the bow. And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust ; And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow, And for one the mule-train couKhino; in the dust. Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning? Who is quick to read the noises of the night? Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning To the camps of proved desire and known delight ! Let him go — go, etc. Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end ; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smok}- Indian that we know — 46 MODERN VERSE To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go! They must go — go, etc. II Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short, Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride? Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port On a coast you've lost the chart of overside? It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her — Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know. He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! He must go — go, etc. Ill Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade — Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo ? Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through? It is there that I am going with \w\ camplior, net and boxes, To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know — To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! He must go — go, etc. ,. v THE COUNTRY 47 IV Do you know the world's white roof-tree — do you know that windy rift Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on frozen drift, While the head of heads is feeding out of range? It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie, With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. I have sworn an oatli, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poll, And the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! He must go — go, etc. Now the Four-way Lodge is opened — now the Smokes of Council rise — Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose — Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies: Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues! Who shall meet them at those altars — who shall light them to that shrine? Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal? Unto each the voice and vision : unto each his spoor and sign — Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath the Line — And to each a man that knows his naked soul ! White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover. Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train — Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover — Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover — 48 MODERN VERSE Where the rails run out in sand-drift . . . Quick! ah heave the camp-kit over, For the Red Gods make their medicine again ! And ive go — go — go away from here! 071 the other side the world iveWe overdue! 'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring- fret conies o'er you, And the Red Gods call for you! Rudyard Kipling TO THE THAWING WIND Come with rain, loud Southwester ! Bring the singer, bring the nester ; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white ; But whatever you do to-night, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ices go ; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall ; Swing the picture on the wall ; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor ; Turn the poet out of door. — Robert Frost THE COUNTRY 49 MISTER HOP-TOAD * Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! Glad to see you out ! Bin a month o' Sundays senee I seen you hereabout. Kind o' bin a-layin' in, from the frost and snow? Good to see you out ag'in, it's bin so long ago! Plows like sliein' cheese, and sod's loppin' over even; Loam's like gingerbread, and clods 's softer 'n deceivin' — Mister Hop-Toad, honest-true — Springtime — don't you love it? You old rusty rascal you, at the bottom of it ! Oh, oh, oh! I grabs up my old hoe ; But I sees you, And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! How-dee-do!" Make yourse'f more cumfo'bler — square round at your ease — Don't set saggin' slanchwise, with your nose below your knees. Swell that fat old throat o' yourn and lemme see you swaller; Straighten up and hi'st your head! — You don't owe a dollar! — Hain't no mor'gage on your land — ner no taxes, nuther; You don't haf to work no roads — even ef you'd ruther ! 'F I was you, and fixed like you, I railly wouldn't keer To swop f er life and hop right in the presidential cheer ! Oh, oh, oh ! I hauls back my old hoe; * From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 50 MODERN VERSE But I sees you, And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! How-dee-do ! ' ' Long about next Aprile, hoppin' down the furry, Won't you mind I ast you what 'peared to be the hurry? — Won't you mind I hooked my hoe and hauled you back and smiled? — W'y bless you. Mister Hop-Toad, I love you like a child! S'pose I'd want to 'flict you any more'n what j'ou air? — S'pose I think you got no rights 'eept the warts you wear? Hulk, sulk, and blink away, you old bloat-eyed rowdy ! — Hain 't you got a word to say ? — Won 't you tell me ' ' Howdy ' ' ? Oh, oh, oh! I swish round my old hoe ; But I sees you, And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! How-dee-do!" — James Whitcomh Riley TO A POET (by spring) Yes, Poet, I am coming down to earth, To spend the merry months of blossom-time ; But don 't break out in pagans of glad mirth (Expressed in hackneyed rhyme.) THE COUNTRY . 51 For once, dear Poet, won't you kindly skip Your ode of welcome ? It is such a bore ; I am no chicken, and I've made the trip Six thousand times or more. And as I flutter earthward every year, You must admit that it grows rather stale When I arrive, repeatedly to hear The same old annual "Hail"! Time was when I enjoyed the poet's praise, Will Shakspere's song, or Mr. Milton's hymn; Or even certain little twittering lays By ladies quaint and prim. Chaucer and Spenser filled me with delight, — And how I loved to hear Bob Herrick woo 1 Old Omar seemed to think I was all right, And Aristotle, too. But I am sated with this fame and glory, Oh, Poet, leave Parnassian heights unsealed ; This time let me be spared the same old story, And come for once unhailed ! — Carolyn Wells MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she budded its beams, 52 . MODERN VERSE And, spinning all day at her secret looms, "With arras of leaves each wind-sprayed wall She pictureth over, and peopleth it all With echoes and dreams, And singing of streams. May is building her house of petal and blade; Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made. With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, traveling green things strayed. Her windows the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing. The thresholds of the four winds are. May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea ! out of the winter 's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet. And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's. — Richard Le Gallienne THE COUNTRY 53 A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY * I know a vale where I would go one day, When June comes back and all the world once more Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies, A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills, A cool, dim gateway to the mountains' heart. On either side the wooded slopes come down. Hemlock and beech and chestnut ; here and there Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness — That still perfection from the world withdrawn. As if the wood gods had arrested there Immortal beauty in her breathless tlight. Far overhead against the arching blue Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. The road winds in from the broad riverlands, Luring the happy traveler turn by turn, Up to the lofty mountain of the sky. And where the road runs in the valley's foot, Through the dark woods the mountain stream comes down, Singing and dancing all its youth away Among the boulders and the shallow runs, Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang. Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. There, light of heart and footfree, I would go * From April Airs, by Bliss Carman. Copyrifiht, 1916, by Small, Maynard and Company. Inc. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Small, Maynard and Company, Inc. 54 MODERN VERSE Up to my home among tbe lasling hills, . And in my cabin doorway sit me down, Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace. And in that sweet seclusion I should hear. Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn — So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, It well might be, in wisdom and in joy, The seraphs singing at the birth of time The unworn ritual of eternal things. — Bliss Carman., HAYMAKING After night's thunder far away had rolled. The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled. Like the first gods before they made the world And misery, swimming the stormless sea In beauty and in divine gaiety. The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn With leaves — the holly's Autumn falls in June- And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat. The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd Of children pouring out of school aloud. And in the little thickets where a sleeper Forever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper And garden warbler sang unceasingly ; While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow THE COUNTRY ., 55 As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown Traveled the road. In the field sloping down, Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook. Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook Out in the sun ; and the long- wagon stood "Without its team ; it seemed it never would Move from the shadow of that single 3'ew. The team, as still, until their task was due, Beside the laborers enjoyed the shade That three squat oaks mid-field together made Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, But still. And all were silent. All was old. This morning time, with a great age untold. Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, Than, at the field's far edge, the farmer's home, A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. Under the heavens that know not what years be The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements Uttered even what they will in times far hence — All of us gone out of the reach of change — Immortal in a picture of an old grange. — Edward Thomas 56 MODERN VERSE AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY ON THE PRAIRIE * (in the beginning) The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an Indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois. (mid-morning) The sun is a smoldering fire, That creeps through the high gray plain. And leaves not a bush of cloud To blossom with flowers of rain. ( NOON ) The sun is a wounded deer. That treads pale grass in the skies, Shaking his golden horns, Flashing his baleful eyes. (sunset) The sun is an eagle old, There in the windless west. Atop of the spirit-cliffs He builds him a crimson nest. — Vachel Lindsay * From The Congo, by Vachel Lindsay. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THE COUNTRY 57 A GREETING Good morning, Life — and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend — His spending has no end. Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers. Hail to you women fair. That make a show so rare In cloth as white as milk — Be't calico or silk: Good morning, Life — and all Things glad and beautiful. — William H. Davies 58 MODERN VERSE A VAGABOND SONG * There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood — Touch of manner, hint of mood ; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. — Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey THREE PIECES ON THE SMOKE OF AUTUMN Smoke of autumn is on it all. The streamers loosen and travel. The red west is stopped with a gray haze. They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks. They make a long-tailed rider In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star. * From More Songs from Vagabondin, by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey. Copyright, 1896, by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey. THE COUNTRY 50 Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River. There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold. (A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I. W. W. man in Vladivostok.) I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glov/, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold. Better the blue silence and the gray west, The autumn mist on the river, And not any hate and not any love, And not anything at all of the keen and the deep; Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor. And the new corn shoveled in bushels And the pumpkins brought from the corn rows, Umber lights of the dark. Umber lanterns of the loam dark. Here a dog head dreams. Not any hate, not any love. Not anything but dreams. Brother of dusk and umber. — Carl Sandhurg 60 MODERN VERSE GOD'S WORLD O world, I cannot hold thee close enough ! Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! Thy mists that roll and rise ! Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough ! Long have I known a glory in it all. But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart, Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me, — let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. — Edna St. Vincent Millay AFTER APPLE-PICKING My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples : I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight THE COUNTRY 61 I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache. It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking : I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch. Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble. Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone. The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep. — Robert Frost 62 MODERN VERSE BROTHER BEASTS * Winter is here And there are no leaves On the naked trees, Save stars twinkling As the wind blows. Soft to the branches The little screech-owl Silently comes. Silently goes, With weird tremolos. I would go out And gather the stars The wind shakes down. Were they not scattered So far in the West. I would go ask The little screech-owl If he finds ease There in his nest After his quest. I would go learn If the small gray mouse Who sets up house In the frozen meadow Dreams of the stars. Or what he thinks * Taken from Wraiths and Realities, by Cale Young Rice, by permis- sion of tlie publishors, The Century Co. THE COUNTRY 63 There in the dark, When flake on flake Of white snow bars Him in with its spars. I would go out And learn these things That I may know What dream or desire Troubles my brothers In nest or hole. For even as I The owl and the mouse. Or blinded mole With unborn soul, May have some goal. — Cale Young Rice BIRCHES When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust — 64 ^ MODERN VERSE Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in "With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows — Some boy too far from town to learn baseball. Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood THE COUNTRY 65 Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. — Robert Frost HIGHMOUNT Hills, you have answered the craving That spurred me to come ; You have opened your deep blue bosom And taken me home. The sea had filled me with the stress Of its own restlessness ; My voice was in that angry roll Of passion beating upon the world. The ground beneath me shifted; I was swirled In an implacable flood that howled to see Its breakers rising in me, A torrent rushing through my soul. And tearing things free (c--/ 66 , MODERN VERSE I could not control. A monstrous impatience, a stubborn and vain Repetition of madness and longing, of question and pain, Driving me up to the brow of this hill — Calling and questioning still. And you — you smile In ordered calm ; You wrap yourself in cloudy contemplation while The winds go shouting their heroic psalm, The streams press lovingly about your feet And trees, like birds escaping from the heat. Sit in great flocks and fold their broad green wings. . . . A cow bell rings Like a sound blurred by sleep. Giving the silence a rhythm That makes it twice as deep. . , . Somewhere a farm-hand sings. . . . And here you stand Breasting the elemental sea, And put forth an invisible hand To comfort me. Rooted in quiet confidence, you rise Above the frantic and assailing years; Your silent faith is louder than the cries; The shattering fears Break and subside when they encounter you. You know their doubts, the desperate questions — And the answers too. Hills, you are strong ; and my burdens Are scattered like foam. You have opened your deep, blue bosom And taken me home. — Louis Untermeyer THE COUNTRY 67 A VIGNETTE Among the meadows lightly going, "With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing, Far from town and toil of living, To a holy day my spirit giving, , . , * * * Thon tender flower, I kneel beside thee Wondering why God so beautified thee. — An answering thought within me springeth, A bloom of the mind her vision bringeth. Between the dim hill's distant azure And flowery foreground of sparkling pleasure I see the company of figures sainted. For whom the picture of earth was painted. 68 MODERN VERSE Those robed seers who made man's story The crown of Nature, Her cause his glory. They walk in the city which they have builded. The city of God from evil shielded : To them for canopy the vault of heaven. The flowery earth for carpet is given; "Whereon I wander not unknowing, With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing. — Robert Bridges THE WORLD'S MISER* 1 A miser with an eager face Sees that each roseleaf is in place. * Reprinted with permission from Poems, by Thecdore Maynard. Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. THE COUNTRY 69 He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars The piercing beauty of the stars. The colours of the dying day He hoards as treasure — well He may ! And saves with care (lest they be lost) The dainty diagrams of frost. He counts the hairs of every head, And grieves to see a sparrow dead. II Among the yellow primroses He holds His summer palaces, And sets the grass about them all To guard them as His spearmen small. He fixes on each wayside stone A mark to shew it as His Own, And knows when raindrops fall through air Whether each single one be there. That gathered into ponds and brooks They may become His picture-books, To shew in every spot and place The living glory of His face. — Theodore Maynard 70 MODERN VERSE GOOD COMPANY To-day I have gfrown 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. AA^oke 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 1 that they should stoop — these holy folk of thine? — Karle Wilsoji Baker IRRADIATIONS The trees, like great jade elephants. Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze; The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants : The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies. The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah. AVould I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees. — John Gould Fletcher THE COUNTRY 71 TREES * I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth 's sweet flowing breast ; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me. But only God can make a tree. Joyce Kilmer NIGHT-PIECE * Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan, Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still ; * From Joyce Kilmer; Poems, Essays, and Letters, copyriglit 1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. * Taken by permission from The Old IJunfsman, by Siegfried Sassoon, copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. 72 MODERN VERSE For now the moon through heaven sails alone, Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill. The faun from out his dim and secret place Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream Plalf-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam. To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow Some drowsy note that charms the listening air: The dryads from their trees come down and creep Near to his side ; monotonous and low, He plays and plays till all the woodside there Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep. — Siegfried Sassoon THE FINAL SPURT From Reynard, the Fox* At the sixth green field came the long slow climb. To the Mourne End Wood as old as time Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows, Oak woods green with the mistletoes, Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep "With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep. He saw his point on the heaving hill, He had failing flesh and a reeling will. He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff. He saw black woods, which would shelter — If — * From Reynard the Fox. by John Masefield. Used by special per- mission of The Macmilhin Company, publishers. THE COUNTRY 73 Nothing else, but the steepening slope, And a black line nodding, a line of hope The line of the yews on the long slope's brow, A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now. A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed They yelled to have him this side the wood, Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them, Then up went hackles as Shatterer led, '']\Iob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead. Turn him, damn it ; Yooi, beauties, beat him, O God, let them get him ; let them eat him. O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed. If you'll let us get him this side the wood." But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone, The pack went wild up the hill alone. Three hundred yards, and the worst was past, The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed. The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall. He saw the skeleton trees show sky, And the yew trees darken to see him die. And the line of the woods go reeling l)lack; There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack. Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller, Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller, Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping. He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting, Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting. The hounds were gaining like spotted pards And the wood-hedge still was a hundred vards. 74 MODERN VERSE The wood hedge black was a two year, quick Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick Thorns all over, and strongly plied, With a clean red ditch on the take-off side. He saw it now as a redness, topped With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped, Spiky to leap on, stitl' to force, No safe jump for a failing horse, But beyond it, darkness of yews together, Dark green plumes over soft brown feather. Darkness of woods where scents were blowing Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going, Scents that might draw these hounds away. So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay, Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back. All his strength seemed to draw the pack, The trees drew over him dark like Norns, He was over the ditch and at the thorns. He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield, He leaped, but fell, in sight of the tield, The hounds went wild as they saw him fall. The fence stood stiff like a Buck's flint wall. He gathered himself for a new attempt, His life before was an old dream dreamt. All that he was was a blown fox quaking, Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking. While over the grass in crowd, in cry. Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die, The eyes intense, dull, smoldering red. The fell like a ruft' round each keen head, THE COUNTRY 75 The pace like fire, and scarlet men Galloping-, yelling-, "Yooi, e.;t him, then." He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached. He steadied a second and then leaped down To the dark of the wood where bright things drown. — John Maseficld THE HORSE THIEF There he moved, cropping the grass at the pnrple canyon's lip. His mane was mixed with the moonlight that silvered his snow-white side, For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the wake of a spectral ship. I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my lariat coil looped wide. Dimly and dark the mesas broke on the starry sky. A pall covered every color of their gorgeous glory at noon. I smelt the yucca and mesquite, and stifled my heart's t[uick cry, And wormed and crawled on my belly to where he moved against the moon ! Some Moorish barb was that mustang's sire. His lines were beyond all wonder. From the prick of his ears to the flow of his tail he ached in my throat and eyes. 76 MODERN VERSE Steel and velvet grace! As the prophet says, God had "clothed his neck with thunder". Oh, marvelous with the drifting cloud he drifted across the skies ! And then I was near at hand — crouched, and balanced, and east the coil ; And the moon was smothered in cloud, and the rope through my hands with a rip ! But somehow I gripped and clung, with the blood in my brain aboil, — With a turn round the rugged tree-stump there on the purple canyon's lip. Right into the stars he reared aloft, his red eye rolling and raging. He whirled and sunfished and lashed, and rocked the earth to thunder and flame. He squealed like a regular devil horse. I was haggard and spent and aging — Roped clean, but almost storming clear, his fury too fierce to tame. And I cursed myself for a tenderfoot moon-dazzled to play the part, But I was doubly desperate then, with the posse pulled out from town. Or I 'd never have tried it. I only knew I must get a mount and a start. The filly had snapped her foreleg short. I had had to shoot her down. So there he struggled and strangled, and I snubbed him around the tree. Nearer, a little nearer — hoofs planted, and lolling tongue — THE COUNTRY . 77 Till a sudden slack pitched me backward. He reared right on top of me. Mother of God — that moment ! He missed me . . . and up I swung. Somehow, gone daft completely and clawing a buncb of his mane, As he stumbled and tripped in the lariat, there 1 was — up and astride. And cursing for seven counties! And the mustang? Just insane! Crack-bang ! went the rope ; we cannoned off the tree — then — gods, that ride ! A rocket — that's all, a rocket! I dug with my teeth and nails. Why, we never hit even the high spots (though I hardly remember things). But I heard a monstrous booming like a thunder of flapping sails When he spread — well, call me a liar! — when he spread those wings, those wings ! So white that my eyes were blinded, thick-feathered and wide unfurled They beat the air into billows. We sailed, and the earth was gone. Canyon and desert and mesa withered below, with the world. And then I knew that mustang; for I — was Bellerophon ! Yes, glad as the Greek, and mounted on a horse of the elder gods, With never a magic bridle or a fountain-mirror nigh! 78 . MODERN VEKSE My chaps and spurs and holster must have looked it? Wliat's the odds? I'd a leg over lightning and thunder, careering across the sky! And forever streaming before me, fanning my forehead cool, Flowed a mane of molten silver; and just before my thighs (As I gripped his velvet-muscled ribs, wliile 1 cursed myself for a fool), The steady pulse of those pinions — their wonderful fall and rise! The bandanna I bought in Bowie blew loose and whipped from m^^ neck. My shirt was stuck to my shoulders and ribboning out behind. The stars were dancing, wheeling and glancing, dipping with smirk and beck. The clouds were flowing, dusking and glowing. We rode a roaring wind. We soared through the silver starlight to knock at the planets' gates. New shimmering constellations came whirling into our ken. Red stars and green and golden swung out of the void that waits For man 's great last adventure ; the Signs took shape — and then I knew the lines of that Centaur the moment I saw him come! The musical-box of the heavens all around us rolled to a tune That tinkled and chimed and trilled with silver sounds that struck you dumb, As if some archangel were grinding out the nnisie of the moon. THE COUNTRY 79 ]\Ielody-drunk on the Milky Way, as we swept and soared hilarious, Full in our pathway, sudden he stood — the Centaur of the Stars, Flashing from head and hoofs and breast ! I knew him for Sagittarius. He reared and bent and drew his bow. He crouched as a boxer spars. Flung- back on his haunches, weird he loomed — then leapt — and the dim void lightened. Old White Wrings shied and swerved aside, and tied from die splendor-shod. Through a flashing welter of worlds we charged. I knew why my horse was frightened. He had two faces — a dog's and a man's — that Babylonian god! Also, he followed us real as fear. Ping ! went an arrow past. ]My broncho buck-jumped, humping high. We plunged ... I guess that 's all ! I lay on the purple canyon's lip, when I opened my eyes at last- Stiff and sore and my head like a drum, but I broke no bones in the fall. So you know — and now j'ou may string me up. Such was the way you caught me. Thank you for letting me tell it straight, though you never could greatly care. For I took a horse that wasn't mine! . . . But there's one the heavens brought me, And I'll hang right happy, because I know he is waiting for me up there. 80 MODERN VERSE From creamy muzzle to cannon-bone, by God, he's a peerless wonder ! He is steel and velvet and furnace-fire, and death's su- premest prize; A'nd never again shall be roped on earth that neck that is "clothed with thunder" . . . String me up, Dave ! Go dig my grave ! I rode him across the skies! — William Rose Benet y WAR THE RETURN * He went, and he was gay to go ; And I smiled on him as he went. My son — 'twas well he couldn't know My darkest dread, nor what it meant — Just what it meant to smile and smile And let my son go cheerily — My son . . . and wondering all the while What stranger would come back to me. — Wilfrid Wilson Gihson THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES * Listen to the tramping ! Oh, God of pity, listen ! Can we kneel at prayer, sleep all unmolested, While the echo thunders? — God of pity, listen! Can we think of prayer — or sleep — so arrested? Million upon million fleeing feet in passing Trample down our prayers — trample down our sleeping; How the patient roads groan beneath the massing Of the feet in going, bleeding, running, creeping! * From Collected Poems, by \Yilfrid Wilson Gibson. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. * From The fiad Years, by Dora Sigerson, copyright, 1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 83 84 MODERN VERSE Clank of iron shoe, unshod hooves of cattle, Pad of roaming hound, creak of wheel in turning, Clank of dragging chain, harness ring and rattle, Groan of breaking beam, crash of roof-tree burning. Listen to the tramping ! God of love and pity ! jMillion upon million fleeing feet in passing Driven by the war out of field and city, How the sullen road echoes to the massing ! Little feet of children, running, leaping, lagging, Toiling feet of women, wounded, weary guiding, Slow feet of the aged, stumbling, halting, flagging. Strong feet of the men loud in passion striding. Hear the lost feet straying, from the roadway slipping They will walk no longer in this march appalling; Hear the sound of rain dripping, dripping, dripping, Is it rain or tears? What, God, is falling? Hear the flying feet! Lord of love and pity! Cnishing down our prayers, tramping down our sleeping, Driven by the war out of field and city. Million upon million, running, bleedinc, creeping. — Dora Sigerson THE BOMBARDMENT * Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then * From Men, Women, and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. WAR 85 slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swnigs against the rain. Boom, again ! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. The lusters of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the etagere. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom ! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration ! Boom ! The vibration shatters a glass on the etagere. It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crim- son gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it — " Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom ! It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom ! The flame-flowers snap 86 MODERN VERSE on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom ! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom! — Boom! — Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom ! It is night, and they are shelling the city ! Boom ! Boom ! A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the bed shake? "jMother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room, shook." Boom! ''Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom 1 Retorts, globes, tubes and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is his story. Boom ! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Disease like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night. Boom ! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. Boom ! The bohemian glass on the etagcre WAR 87 is no longer there. Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom ! — Boom ! — Boom ! The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. Over roofs and walls and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles along the floors. The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams. The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. The}' seek shelter and crowd into the cellar. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom ! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom ! Boom, again ! The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom ! — Amy Lowell THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS The old houses of Flanders, They watch by the high cathedrals ; 88 MODERN VERSE They overtop the high town-halls; They have eyes, mournful, tolerant, and sardonic, for the ways of men In the high, white, tiled gables. The rain and the night have settled down on Flanders ; It is all wet darkness; you can see nothing. Then those old eyes, mournful, tolerant, and sardonic, Look at great, sudden, red lights, Look upon the shade., of the cathedrals; And the golden rods of the illuminated rain, For a second . . . And those old eyes. Very old eyes that have watched the ways of men for many generations, Close forever. The high, white shoulders of the gables Slouch together for a consultation, Slant drunkenly over in the lee of the flaming cathedrals. They are no more, the old houses of Flanders. — Ford Madox Hueffer EHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers; Now are the windows dust that were thy flowers Patterned like frost, petaled like asphodels. Gone are the angels and the archangels. WAR 89 The saints, the little lamb above thy door. The shepherd Christ ! They are not, any more, Save in the sonl where exiled beauty dwells. But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom That old divine insistence of the sea. When music tiows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom Like faithful sunset, warm immortally ! Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone ! — Grace Hazard Conkling THE OLD SOLDIER (14th November 1914) Lest the young soldiers be strange in Heaven, God bids the old soldier they all adored Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, A happy door-keeper in the House of the Lord. Lest it abash them, the great new splendor. Lest they affright them, the new robes clean, God sets an old face there, long-tried and tender, A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. My hoys! he welcomes them and Heaven is homely; He, their great Captain in days gone o'er. Dear is the face of a friend, honest and comely, As they come home from the war and he at the door. — Katkerine Tynan 90 MODERN VERSE FUNK "When your marrer bone seems 'oiler, And you're glad you ain't no taller, And j'ou're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; When your skin creeps like a pullet's, And you're dnckin' all the bullets. And 3'ou're green as gorgonzola round the gills; When your legs seem made of jelly, And you're squeamish in the belly. And you want to turn about and do a bunk: For Gawd 's sake, kid, don 't show it ! Don 't let your mateys know it — You 're just sufferin ' from funk, funk, funk. Of course there's no denyin' That it ain't so easy tryin' To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, When the 'ole world rips asunder, And you sees your pal go under. As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut: I admit it's 'ard contrivin' When you 'ears the shells arrivin ', To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; But my lad, you've got to do it, And your God will see you through it, For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. So stand up, son; look gritty, And just 'um a lively ditty, And only be afraid to be afraid ; Just 'old yer rifle steady. WAR 91 And 'ave yer bay 'nit ready, For that 's the way good soldier-men is made. And if you 'as to die, As it sometimes 'appens, why, Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; A-doin' of yer bit, And so — to 'ell with it, There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. — Robert W. Service THE DEVOUT HIGHLANDER Listen, laddies : Gin ye go into the battle, be devout ; Dinna trust to thews an' sinews or yer sin wull find»ye out; Dinna think yoursel' omnipotent — gie Providence His due An' then fight fer a' yer worth because the Lord expects ye to. An' ye maun pray, pray. Lord defend the right; Pray, praj', Before ye start to fight ; Dinna waver at a trifle (Use the butt-end o' yer rifle). Ask the Lord to gie ye strength wherewith to smite, smite, smite, an' pit yer back into it, laddie, gin ye smite! * From Songs of the Shrapnel Shell, by Captain Cyril Morton Home Copyright, 1916, 1918, by Harper & Brothers. 92 MODERN VERSE II When the Germans came upon us, said me mither — ' ' Donald, Boy, Yell no look upon this fightin' as a pastime or a joy." Sez I — "Mither, I'm for prayin' an' for fightin' I am loath. But the Lord Almighty wills it that I '11 do a bit o ' both ! ' ' But ye maun pray, pray — etc. Ill I remember out at Wipers I obsarved a German lad Takkin ' pot shots at our snipers — but his aim was awf u ' bad — So I prayed the Lord to help me, found the range and drew a bead, An' the Lord was verra kind because the German laddie's de'ed. So ye maun pray, pray — etc. IV There was muckle lusty fightin' round the Yser River banks. An' the German dum-dum bullets caused confusion i' the ranks ; It was then, through force o' circumstance (as feyther used to say) I felt justified i' feeling I had rayther fight than pray! But ye maun pray, pray — etc. WAR 93 V At La Bassey I was singled — while we wallowed i ' the mud — By a German unbeliever who was thirstin' for me blood, So I turned before retreatin' frae the trench, an' made a stand An' I pierced him thro' the stomach as the Lord had fully planned. So ye maun pray, pray — etc. VI This is no a lecture, laddies; ye can only do yer best — Draw a bead an' pull the trigger, an' the Lord wall do the rest. Ye maun simply tr}^ to follow out the toachin' c' the church, An' since the Lord is on yer side ye mauna leave Him i' the lurch. But ye maun pray, pray, Lord defend the right; Pray, pray. Before ye start to fight ; Dinna waver at a trifle (Use the butt-end o' yer rifle). Ask the Lord to gie ye strength wherewith to smite, smite, smite, an' pit yer back into it, laddie, gin ye smite! — Cyril Morton Home 94 MODERN VERSE THE SPIRES OF OXFORD * (Seen from a Train) I saw the spires of Oxford As I was passing: by, The gray spires of Oxford Against a pearl-gray sky; My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay; The hoary colleges look down On careless boys at play, But when the bugles sounded — ^War! They put their games away. They left the peaceful river, The cricket field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod. They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest you, happy gentlemen. Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. —W. M. Letts * Taken by permission from The Spires of Oxford, by Winifred M. Letts, copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. WAR 95 THE SOLDIER ^ If I should die, think only this of me : That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, "Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends ; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. — Rupert Brooke I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air — I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land 96 MODERN VERSE And close my eyes and quench my breath — It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill. When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I have a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. — Alan Seeger IN FLANDERS FIELDS * In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row. That mark our place ; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, * From In Flanders Fields, by Jolm ^.Ic Crae. Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London. M- WAR 9< Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe : To you from failing hands we throw The torch ; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. — John McCrae THE DEAD TO THE LIVING you that still have rain and sun. Kisses of children and of wife. And the good earth to tread upon. And the mere sweetness that is life, Forget not us, who gave all these For something dearer, and for you. Think in what cause we crossed the seas ! Remember, he who fails the Challenge Fails us, too. Now in the hour that shows the strong — The soul no evil powers affray — Drive straight against embattled wrong! Faith knows but one, the hardest, way. Endure; the end is worth the throe, Give, give, and dare; and again dare! On, to that Wrong's great overthrow. We are with you, of you ; we the pain And victory share. — Laurence Binyon 98 MODERN VERSE COUNTER-ATTACK * We'd gained our first objective hours before While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, Pallid, unshaven and thirsty, blind with smoke. Things seemed all right at first. We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed. And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. The place was rotten with dead ; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps; And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair. Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. And then the rain began, — the jolly old rain! A yawning soldier knelt against the bank. Staring across the morning blear with fog ; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they started with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. Mute in the clamor of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire gusts from hell. While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape, — loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. * Taken by permission from Counter-Atiack, by Siegfried Sassoon, copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. WAR 99 An officer came blundering down the trench: ' ' Stand-to and man the fire-step ! " On he went . . . Gasping and bawling. "Fire-step . . . counter-attack!" Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right Down the old sap : machine-guns on the left ; And stumbling figures looming out in front. * ' O Christ, they 're coming at us ! " Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle . . . rapid fire . . . And started blazing wildly . . . then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom. Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans . . . Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. — Siegfried Sassoon NOON * (l FROM "battle") It is midday: the deep trench glares . . , A buzz and blaze of flies. . . . The hot wind puffs the giddy airs. . . . The great sun rakes the skies. No sound in all the stagnant trench Where forty standing men *Reprinied with permission from Ardours and Endurances, by Robert Nichols. Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 100 MODERN VERSE Endure the sweat and grit and stench. Like cattle in a pen. Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs Or twangs the whining wire ; Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs As in hell's frying fire. From out a high cool cloud descends An aeroplane's far moan. . . . The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends . . . \ The black speck travels on. And sweating, dizzied, isolate In the hot trench beneath. We bide the next shrewd move of fate Be it of life or death. — Robert Nichols TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WAEr-FOR THE FOURTH TIME It doesn't matter what's the cause What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, When we're to do the fighting! And since we lads are proud and true. What else remains to do ? Lucasta, when to France your man Returns his fourth time, hating war, Yet laughs as calmly as he can And flings an oath, but says no more. WAR 101 That is not courage, that 's not fear — Lucasta, he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here. Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray. And so decide who started This bloody war, and who's to pay, But he must be stout-hearted, Make sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death. Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love or hate, But let us do the things we do ; It's pride that makes the heart be great; It is not anger, no, nor fear — Lucasta, he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here. — Robert Graves RETREAT * Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of Southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain. Half-stunned, half-blinded by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat. He dreamt of flowers in an English lane. Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain — All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet. * From Collected Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 102 MODERN VERSE All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet — The innocent names kept up a cool refrain, All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet, Chiming and tinkling through his aching brain Until he babbled as a child again — "All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet." — Wilfrid W. Gibson NIGHT IN MESOPOTAMIA A quiver in the hot and breathless air Like the faint frou-frou of a woman's dress. The restless sleepers turn, their bodies bare To this babe spirit of the wilderness Whose frail, yet welcome hands damp brows caress — Bringer of blessed sleep dispelling care — Until the pipings of dawn express Another day of blistering heat and glare. There, out beneath the open starlit dome Come dreams that bloom and fade like fragile flowers, To some, the simple cries of hearth and home, To others, memories of gilded hours; Mayhap the fragrance of some Beauty's bowers. Far out of reach to wandering souls who roam. — A. J. E. Dawson WAR 103 DOES IT MATTER?* Does it matter? — losing your leg? . . . For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When the others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter? — losing your sight? . . . There's such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light. Do they matter? — those dreams from the pit? . . . You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won 't say that you 're mad ; For they'll know that you've fought for your country, And no one will worry a bit. — Siegfried Sassoon THE DAWN PATROL Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea. Where, underneath, the restless waters flow — Silver, and cold, and slow. Dim in the East there burns a new-bom sun Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me. * Taken by permission from Coiinter-Attack, by Siegfried Sasaoon, copyrighted by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 104 MODERN VEKSE And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little tieet of anchored ships, which lie In clustered company. And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamed eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways. The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by. Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies. And far removed from warlike enterprise — Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space. Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone High in the virgin morn, so white and still And free from human ill : My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints—' As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill — As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne. My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of gray and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn — then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; — Then bow my humble head In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home. —Paul Bewsher, R. N. A. S., D. S. C. Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917 WAR 105 AN OPEN BOAT * what is that whimpering there in the darkness? ''Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing , I know. Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck." — "The sea's risinct. The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go." See — quick — by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses, The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat. And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead lover And wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat. ''Come, lady, he's dead." "No, 1 feel his heart beating. He's living I know. But he's numbed with the cold. See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him." — "No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold. "Come. Loosen your fingers." — "0 God, let me keep him!" 0, hide it, black night ! Let the winds have their way ! For there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness, To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day. — Alfred Noyes ADMIRAL DUGOUT * He had done with fleets and squadrons, with the restless, roaming seas, He had found the quiet haven he desired, * Reprinted with permission from The New Morning, by Alfred Noyes. Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. * From Small Craft, by C. Fox Smith, copyright 1919, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 106 MODERN VERSE And he lay there to his moorings with the dignity and ease Most becoming to Rear- Admirals (retired). He was reared 'mid "spit and polish," he was bred to ''stick and string" — All the things the ultra-moderns never name; But a wind blew up to seaward, and it meant the Real Thing, And he had to slip his cable when it came. So he hied him up to London, for to hang about Whitehall, And he sat upon the steps there soon and late ; He importuned night and morning, he bombarded great and small. From messengers to Ministers of State. He was like a guilty conscience, he was like a ghost unlaid, He was like a debt of which you can 't get rid, Till the Powers that Be, despairing, in a fit of temper said, "For the Lord's sake give him something" — and they did! They commissioned him a trawler with a high and raking bow. Black and workmanlike as any pirate craft, With a crew of steady seamen very handy in a row. And a brace of little barkers fore and aft. And he blessed the Lord his IMaker when he faced the North Sea sprays. And exceedingly extolled his lucky star, That had given his youth renewal in the evening of his days, (With the rank of Captain Dugout, R.N.R.) He is jolly as a sandboy, he is happier than a king, And his trawler is the darling of his heart, (With her cuddy like a cupboard where a kitten couldn't swing, WAR 107 And a scent of fish that simply won't depart). He has found upon occasion sundry targets for his guns, He could tell you tales of mine and submarhie; Oh, the holes he's in and out of, and the glorious risks he runs Turn his son (who's in a Super-Dreadnought) green. He is fit as any fiddle, he is hearty, hale and tanned. He is proof against the coldest gales that blow. He has never felt so lively since he got his first command, (Which is rather more than forty years ago). And of all the joyful picnics of his wild and wandering youth, Little dust-ups 'tween Taku and Zanzibar, There was none to match the picnic, he declares in sober sooth. That he has as Captain Dugout, R.N.E. — C. Fox Smith ''THE AVENUE OF THE ALLIES" * This is the song of the wind as it came Tossing the flags of the nations to flame: I am the breath of God. I am His laughter. I am nis Liberty. That is mj/ name. So it descended, at night, on the city. So it went lavishing beauty and pity. Lighting the lordliest street of the world With half of the banners that earth has unfurled; Over the lamps that are brighter than stars. Laughing aloud on its way to the wars, Proud as America, sweeping along Death and destruction like notes in a song. 108 MODERN VERSE Leaping to battle as man to his mate. Joyous as God wlien he moved to create, — Never was voice of a nation so glorious, Glad of its cause and afire with its fate ! Never did eagle on mightier pinion Tower to the height of a brighter dominion. Kindling the hope of the prophets to flame. Calling aloud on the deep as it came, Cleave me a way for an army with banners. I am His Liberty. That is my name. Know you the meaning of all they are doing? Know you the light that their soul is pursuing? Know you the might of the world they are making. This nation of nations whose heart is awaking? What is this mingling of peoples and races? Look at the wonder and joy in their faces ! Look how the folds of the union are spreading! Look, for the nations are come to their wedding. How shall the folk of our tongue be afraid of it? England was born of it. England was made of it. Made of this welding of tribes into one, This marriage of pilgrims that followed the sun ! Briton and Roman and Saxon were drawn By winds of this Pentecost, out of the dawn. Westward, to make her one people of many; But here is a union more mighty than any. Know you the soul of this deep exultation? Know you the word that goes forth to this nation? I am the breath of God. I am His Liberty. Let there be light over all His creation. * Reprinted with permission from The .A'eic Morning, by Alfred Noyes. Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. WAR 109 Over this Continent, wholly united, They that were foeman in Europe are plighted. Here, in a league that our blindness and pride Doubted and flouted and mocked and denied, Dawns the Republic, the laughing, gigantic Europe, united, beyond the Atlantic, That is America, spealcing one tongue, Acting her epics before they are sung, Driving her rails from the palms to the snow. Through States that are greater than Emperors know. Forty-eight States that are empires in might, But ruled by the will of one people to-night, Nerved as one body, with net-works of steel, Merging their strength in the one Commonweal, Brooking no poverty, mocking at Mars, Building their cities to talk w4th the stars. Thriving, increasing by myriads again Till even in numbers old Europe may wane. How shall a son of the England they fought Fail to declare the full pride of his thought. Stand with the scoffers who, year after year, Bring the Republic their half-hidden sneer? Now, as in beauty she stands at our side. Who shall withhold the full gift of his pride? Not tlie great England who knows that her son, Washington, fought her, and Liberty won. England, whose names like the stars in their station, Stand at the foot of that world's Declaration, — Washington, Livingston, Langdon, she claims them, It is her right to be proud when she names them. Proud of that voice in the night as it came. Tossing the flags of the nations to flame: 110 MODERN VERSE I am the hreath of God. I am His laughter. I am His Liberty. That is my name. Flags, in themselves, are but rags that are dyed. Flags, in that wind, are like nations enskied. See, how they grapple the night as it rolls And trample it under like triumphing souls. Over the city that never knew sleep, Look at the riotous folds as they leap. Thousands of tri-colors, laughing for France, Ripple and whisper and thunder and dance; Thousands of flags for Great Britain aflame Answer their sisters in Liberty's name. Belgium is burning in pride overhead. Poland is near, and her sunrise is red. Under and over, and fluttering between, Italy burgeons in red, white and green. See, how they climb like adventurous flowers, Over the tops of the terrible towers. . . . There, in the darkness, the glories are mated. There, in the darkness, a world is created. There, in this Pentecost, streaming on high. There, with a glory of stars in the sky. There the broad flag of onr union and liberty Rides the proud night-wind and tyrannies die, — Alfred Noyes PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE * My shoulders ache beneath mj^ pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). * From Joyce Kilmer; Poems, Essays, and Letters. Copyright, 1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. WAR 111 I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear. (Then shall my fickle soul forget Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?) My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea. So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen. — Joyce Kilmer THE SMALL TOWN CELEBRATES We tumbled out into the starry dark Under the cold stars ; still the sirens shrieked, As we reached the square, two rockets hissed And flowered: they were the only two in town. Down streamed the people, blowing frosty breath Under the lamps — the mayor and the marshal, The fire department, members of the band. 112 MODERN VERSE Buttoning their clothes with one hand, while the other Clutched a cold clarionet or piccolo That shivered for its first ecstatic squeal. We had no cannon — we made anvils serve. Just as our fathers did when Sumter fell ; And all a little town could do, to show That twenty haughty cities heaped together Could not be half so proud and glad as we, We did. Soon a procession formed itself — Prosperous and poor, young, old, and staid and gay, Every glad soul who'd had the hardihood To .iump from a warm bed at four o'clock Into the starry blackness. Round the square — A most unmilitary sight — it pranced, Straggled and shouted, while the street-lamps blinked In sleepy wonder. At the very end Where the procession dwindled to a tail, Shuffled Old Boozer. From a snorting car But just arrived, a leading citizen Sprang to the pavement. "Hallelujah, Boss! ' ' We 's whop de Kaiser ! ' ' "Well, you old black fraud/' (The judge's smile was hiding in his beard) "What's he to you?" Old Boozer bobbed and blinked Under the lamps; another moment, he Had scrambled to the base about the post, And through the nearer crowd the shout went round, "Listen — Old Boozer's going to preach !" He raised His tranced eyes. A moment's pause. "0 Lawd, WAR 113 You heah dis g:emman ax me dat jes' now, 'What's he to Boozer'? Doan he know, Lawd, Dat Kaiser's boot-heel jes' been tinglin' up To stomp on Boozer? Doan he know de po', De feeble, an' de littlesome toddlin' chile Dat scream to Ilebben when he tromp 'em down, Hab drug dat Bad Man right down off his throne To ebberlastin' torment? Glory, Lawd! We done pass through de Red Sea! Glory, Lawd! De Lawd done drug de mighty from his seat ! He done exalted dem ob low degree ! He «abe de spark from dem dat stomp it out ! He sabe de seed from dem dat tromp it down ! He sabe de lebben strugglin' in de lump! He sabe de — " Cheering, laughing, moving on, With cries of "Go it. Boozer ! ' ' the crowd swirled About his perch ; but, as I passed, I saw A red-haired boy, who stood, and did not move, But gazed and gazed, as if the old man's words Raised visions. In his shivering arms he held A struggling puppy ; once I heard him say, "Down, Woodrow!" but he scarcely seemed to know He spoke. The stars paled slowly overhead ; The din increased ; the crowd surged ; but the boy Stood rapt. As I turned back once more, I saw Full morning on his face. And at the end Of our one down-town street, the laughing sun Came shouting up, belated, but most glad. — Karle Wilson Baker U4 MODERN VERSE CONTINUITY No sign is made while empires pass, The flowers and stars are still His care, The constellations hid in grass, The golden miracles in air. Life in an instant will be rent. Where death is glittering blind and wild — The Heavenly Brooding is intent To that last instant on Its child. It breathes the glow in brain and heart. Life is made magical. Until Body and spirit are apart The Everlasting works Its will. In that wild orchid that your feet In their next falling shall destroy, Minute and passionate and sweet The Mighty Master holds His joy. Though the crushed jewels droop and fade, The Artist's labors will not cease, And of the ruins shall be made Some yet more lovely masterpiece. —A. E. CHILDREN AND HOME BABY PANTOMIME * Serene, he sits on other shores Than ours : with wide, unconscious lands He holds strange speech, or, silent, pores On denizens of viewless strands; On tablets of the air weird scores He writes, and makes, with eager hands As strange erasements; then, two-fisted, stores An elfin hour-glass with heavenly sands. — Fercij MacKaye A MAN-CHILD'S LULLABY Little groping hands that must learn the weight of labor, Little eyes of wonder that must learn to weep ; Mother is thy life now: that shall be to-morrow — Time enough for trouble — ^time enough for sorrow — Now . . . sleep. Little dumb lips that shall wake and make a w^oman, Little blind heart that shall know the worst and best ; Mother is thy love now: that shall be hereafter — Time enough for joy, and time enough for laughter — Now . . . rest. Little rosy body, new-born of pain and beauty, Little lonely soul new-risen from the deep ; * From The Sistine Eve, by Percy MacKaye. Used by special per- mission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 117 118 MODERN VERSE IMother is thy world now, whole and satisfying — Time enough for living — time enough for dying — Now . . . sleep. — Brian Hooker JUSTICE * Michael, come in! Stop crying at the door. Come in and see the evil you have done. Here is your sister's doll with one leg gone. Naked and helpless on the playroom floor. ' ' Poor child ! poor child ! now he can. never stand. With one leg less he could not even sit!" She mourned, but tirst, with swift avenging hand. She smote, and I am proud of her for it. Michael, my sympathies are all for you. Your cherub mouth, your miserable eyes. Your gray -blue smock tear-spattered and your cries Shatter my heart, but what am I to do? He was her baby and the fear of bears Lay heavy on him so he could not sleep But in the crook of her dear arm, she swears. So, Michael, she was right and you must weep. — Aline Kilmer * From Candles That Burn, by Aline Kilmer. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Company, publishers. CHILDREN AND HOME 119 SMELLS— (JUNIOR) * My Daddy smells like tobacco and books Mother, like lavender and listerine; Uncle John carries a whiff of cig'ars, Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean. Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own (When he's been out in the rain he smells most) ; But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all — She smells exactly like hot buttered toast ! — Christopher Morley THE RAG DOLLY'S VALENTINE* Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing, I've loved you. Mistress mine, so dear to me. With all my fervent rag-and-sawdust being Since first you took me from the Christmas Tree, I love you though my only frock you tear off; I love you though you smear my face at meals ; I love you though you've washed my painted hair off; I love you when you drag me by the heels; I love you though you've sewed three buttons on me. But most I love you when you sit upon me. * From The Rocking Horse, by Christopher Morley. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Company, publishers. * From The Laughing Muse, by Arthur Guiterman. Copyright, 191.5, by Harper & Brothers. 120 MODERN VERSE No jealous pang shall mar my pure affection ; For, while 'tis true your heart I'm forced to share With that Wax Doll of pink-and- white complexion, The Pussy Cat, the Lamb and Teddy Bear, 'Tis mine alone, whate'er the time or place is, To know your every g;rief and each delight ; I feel your childish wrath and warm embraces, I share your little pillow every night. And so, without another whj^ or whether, I'll love you while my stitches hold together! — Arthur Guiterman THE ANXIOUS FARMER * It was awful long ago That I put those seeds around ; And I guess I ought to know When I stuck 'em in the ground, 'Cause I noted down the day In a little diary book — It's gotten losted somewhere, and I don't know where to look. But I'm certain anyhow They've been planted most a week; And it must be time by now For their little sprouts to peek. They've been watered every day With a very speshul care. And once or twice I 've dug 'em up to see if they was there. * From YouiH/sters, published by E. P. Duttoii & Company ; by per- mission of the author. CHILDREN AND HOME 121 I fixed the dirt in humps Just the way they said I should ; And I crumbled all the lumps Just as finely as I could. And I fovmd a nangle-worm A-pokino; up his head, — He maybe feeds on seeds and such, and so I squushed him dead, A seed's so very small, And dirt all looks the same ; — How can they know at all The way they ought to aim? And so I'm waiting round In case of any need ; A farmer ought to do his best for ever}' single seed ! — B urges Johnson THE DEW-LIGHT * The Dew-i\lan comes over the mountains wide. Over the deserts of sand, With his bag of clear drops And his brush of feathers. He scatters brightness. The white bunnies beg him for dew. * Reprinted with permission from Poems hi/ a Little Girl, by Hilda C'onkIin<,^ Copyriglit, 1020, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 122 MODERN VERSE He sprinkles their fur . . . They shake themselves. All the time he is singing, The iinlxnoum world is 'beautiful! He polishes flowers, Humming, "Oh, beautiful!" He sings in the soft light That grows out of the dew; Out of the misty dew-light that leans over him He makes his song. It is beautiful, the unknown world! — Hilda Conkling (8 years old) THE SHADOW PEOPLE Old lame Bridget doesn't hear Fairy music in the grass When the gloaming's on the mere And the shadow people pass : Never hears their slow gray feet Coming from the village street Just be3'ond the parson's wall, Where the clover globes are sweet And the mushroom's parasol Opens in the moonlit rain. Every night I hear them call From their long and merry train. Old lame Bridget says to me, *'It is just your fancy, child." CHILDREN AND HOME 123 She cannot believe I see Laiighinoj faces in the wild, Hands that twinkle in the sedge Bowing at the water's edge Where the finny minnows quiver, Shaping on a blue wave's ledge Bubble foam to sail the river. And the sunny hands to me Beckon ever, beckon ever. Oh ! I would be wild and free And with the shadow people be. — Francis Ledwidge INCORRIGIBLE * I guess I 'm bad as I can be 'Cause after uncle found and yanked me Out of that old apple-tree, And after dad came home and spanked me, And while my teacher told me things About the narrow path of duty, And how an education brings The only truly joy and beauty, And while she said she didn't doubt They'd wasted all the good they'd taught me, I had to grin, to think about The fun I had before they caught me. — B urges Johnson * From Youngsters, published by E. P. Button & Company ; by per- mission of the author. 124 MODERN VERSE DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN I, jNIj^sal', I feela strange Een dees countra. I can no Mak' mysal' agen an' change Eento 'Merican, an' so I am w'at you calla me, Justa "dumb ole Dago man." Alia same my boy ees be Smarta younga 'Merican. Twalv' year ole ! but alia same He ees learna soocha lot He can read an' write liees name — Smarta keed ? I tal you w'at 1 He no talk Italian ; He says: "Dat's for Dagoes speak, I am younga 'Mericanj Dago langwadge mak' me seeck." Eef you gona tal lieem, too, He ees "leetla Dago," my! He ees gat so mad weetli you He gon' ponch you een da eye. Mebbe so you gona mak' Fool weetli lieem — an' mebbe not. Queeck as flash he sass you back ; Smarta keed ? I tal you w 'at ! He ees moocha' 'shame' for be Meexa weeth Italian ; He ees moocha 'shame' of me — I am dumb ole Dago man. CHILDREN AND HOME 125 Evra time w'en I go out Weetha lieem I no can speak To som'body. "Shut your mout','' He M^eell tal me pretta queeek, "You weell geeve yoursal' awry Talkin' Dago lika dat ; Try be 'Meriean," he say — Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! I am w'at you calla me, Justa "dumb ole Dago man:" Alia same my boy ees be Smarta younga 'Meriean. —T. A. Daly LITTLE PAN * Out on the hill — by an autumn-tree As red as his cheek in the weather — - He waved a sumac-torch of glee And preened, like a scarlet feather, A branch of maple bright on his breast And shook an oak in his cap ; And the dance of his heels on the reeky crest Was a woodpecker's tap-tap-tap. The eyes of a squirrel were quick in his head And the grace of a deer in his shoulder, And never a cardinal beckoned so red * Reprinted with permission from Grensione Poems, by Witter Bynner. Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 126 MODERN VERSE As his torch when he leapt on a boulder; A robin exclaiming he mocked in a voice Which hurried the heavens around him. What could we do but attend and rejoice, Celia and I who had found him ! He spied us at last, though we hid by a pine ; And before he miglit vanisli in smoke I tried to induce him to give us a sign, But he stopped in his dance when I spoke — "O tell me your name and the hill you inhabit !" He curled round his tree like a cat; ''They call me," he cried, as he fled like a rabbit, ' ' Donovan 's damned little brat ! " — Witter Bynner RUFUS PRAYS In the darkening church, Where but a few had stayed. At the Litany Desk The idiot knelt and prayed. Rufus, stunted, uncouth, The one son of his mother : "Eh, I'd sooner 'ave Kufie," She said, "than many another. " 'E 's so useful about the 'ouse And so gentle as 'e can be And 'e gets up early o' mornin's To make me a cup o' tea." CHILDREN AND HOME 127 The formal evensong Had passed over his head : He sucked his thumb, and squinted, And dreamed, instead. Now while the organ boomed To few who still were there. At the Litany Desk The idiot made his prayer ; "Gawd bless Muther, 'N ' make Rufie a good lad. Take Rufie to Heaven, 'N' forgive him when he's bad. *' 'N' early mornin's in Heaven 'E '11 make Muther 's tea, 'N' a cup for the Lord Jesus 'N' a cup for Thee." — L. A. G. Strong AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS 0, to have a little house ! To own the hearth and stool and all ! The heaped up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall ! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! 128 MODERN VERSE A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown ! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store ! I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph., Och ! but I 'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there 's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day. For a little house — a house of my own — Out of the wind's and the rain's way. — Padraic Colum THE ANCIENT BEAUTIFUL THINGS I am all alone in the room. The evening stretches before me Like a road all delicate gloom Till it reaches the midnight's gate. And I hear his step on the path. CHILDREN AND HOME 129 And his questioning whistle, low At the door as I hurry to meet him. He will ask, "Are the doors all locked? Is the fire made safe on the hearth ? And she — is she sound asleep?" I shall say "Yes, the doors are locked, And the ashes are white as the frost: Only a few red eyes To stare at the empty room. And she is all sound asleep, Up there where the silence sings. And the curtains stir in the cold." He will ask, "And what did you do While I have been gone so long? So long! Four hours or five!" I shall say, "There was nothing I did. — I mended that sleeve of your coat. And I made her a little white hood Of the furry pieces I found Up in the garret to-day. She shall wear it to play in the snow. Like a little white bear,— and shall laugh, And tumble, and crystals of stars Shall shine on her cheeks and hair. — It was nothing I did.— I thought You would never come home again!" Then he will laugh out, low, Being fond of my folly, perhaps; And softly and hand in hand 130 MODERN VERSE "We shall creep upstairs in the dusk To look at her, lying asleep : Our little gold bird in her nest : The wonderful bird who flew in At the window our life flung- wide. (How should we have chosen her. Had we seen them all in a row. The unborn vague little souls. All wings and tremulous hands? How should we have chosen her, Made like a star to shine. Made like a bird to fly, Out of a drop of our blood, And earth, and fire, and God?) Then we shall go to sleep, Glad.— God, did you know When you molded men out of clay, Urging them up and up Through the endless circles of change, Travail and turmoil and death. Many would curse you down, Many would live all gray "With their faces flat like a mask: But there would be some, God, Crying to you each night, "I am so glad! so glad! I am so rich and gay ! How shall I thank you, God?" "Was that one thing you knew When you smiled and found it was good The curious teeming earth CHILDREN AND HOME 131 That grew like a child at your hand? Ah, you might smile, for that ! — — I am all alone in the room. The books and the pictures peer. Dumb old friends^ from the dark. The wind goes high on the hills, And my fire leaps out, being proud. The terrier, down on the hearth, Twitches and barks in his sleep. Soft little foolish barks, More like a dream than a dog . . . I will mend the sleeve of that coat. All ragged, — and make her the hood Furry, and white, for the snow. She shall tumble and laugh . . . Oh, I think Though a thousand rivers of grief Flood over my head — though a hill Of horx-Qj lie on my breast, — Something will sing, "Be glad! You have had all your heart's desire: The unknown things that you asked When you lay awake in the nights, Alone, and searching the dark For the secret wonder, of life, i You have had them (can you forget?) : The ancient beautiful things!" . . . How long he is gone. And yet It is only an hour or two . . . 132 MODERN VERSE Oh, I am so happy. My eyes Are troubled with tears. Did you l^now, O God, they would like this, Your ancient beautiful things? Are there more? Are there more, — out there f God, are there always more? — Fannie Stearns Davis YOU, FOUR WALLS, WALL NOT IN MY HEART ! You, Four Walls, Wall not in my heart ! When the lovely night-time falls All so weleomely, Blinding, sweet hearth-fire, Light of heart's desire, Blind not, blind not me ! Unto them that weep apart, — While you glow, within, Wreckt, despairing kin, — - — Do not blind my heart ! You, close Heart ! Never hide from mine Worlds that I divine Through thy human dearness; 0, beloved Nearness, Hallow all I understand CHILDREN AND HOME 133 With thy hand-in-hand; — All the lights I seek With thy cheek-to-cheek. All the loveliness I loved apart. You, heart 's Home ! Wall not in my heart. Josephine Preston Pedbody MY DOG * I have no dog, but it must be Somewhere there's one belongs to me — A little chap with wagging tail, And dark brown eyes that never quail, But look 3^ou through, and through, and through With love unspeakable, but true. Somewhere it must be, I opine, There is a little dog of mine With cold black nose that sniffs around In search of what things may be found In pocket, or some nook hard by Where I have hid them from his eye. Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs The fringes of rebellious rugs. Or with the mischief of the pup Chews all mj^ shoes and slippers up. And when he's done it to the core With eyes all eager pleads for more, * From Foothills of Parnassus, by John Kendrick Bangs. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 134 MODERN VERSE Somewhere upon his hinder legs My little doggie sits and begs, And in a wistful minor tone Pleads for the pleasures of the bone — I pray it be his owner's whim To yield, and grant the same to him. Somewhere a little dog doth wait. It may be by some garden-gate, With eyes alert and tail attent — You know the kind of tail that's meant — With stores of yelips of glad delight To bid me welcome home at night. Somewhere a little dog is seen. His nose two shaggy paws between, Flat on his stomach, one eye shut Held fast in dreamy slumber, but The other open, ready for His master coming through the door. — John Kendrick Bangs IN SERVICE Little Nellie Cassidy has got a place in town. She wears a fine white apron, She wears a new black gown, An' the quarest little cap at all with straymers hanging down. I met her one fine evening stravagin' down the street, A feathered hat upon her head. CHILDREN AND HOME 135 And boots upon her feet. ''Och, Mick," says she, "may God be praised that you and I should meet. " It 's lonesome in the city with such a crowd, ' ' says she ; "I'm lost without the bog-land, I'm lost without the sea, An' the harbor an' the fishing-boats that sail out fine and free. "I'd give a golden guinea to stand upon the shore. To see the big waves lepping, To hear them splash and roar. To smell the tar and the drying nets, I'd not be asking more. "To see the small white houses, their faces to the sea, The childher in the doorway, Or round my mother's knee; For I'm strange and lonesome missing them, God keep them all," says she. Little Nellie Cassidy earns fourteen pounds and more, Waiting on the quality. And answering the door — But her heart is some place far away upon the Wexford shore. —W. M. Letts MY SWEET BROWN GAL * Wen de clouds is hangin' heavy in de sky. An' de win's 's a4aihin' moughty vig'rous by, I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way; I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day. * From Lyrics of Love and Laughter by Paul Laurence Dunbar Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Co. 136 MODERN VERSE Case I knows w 'en evenin ' draps huh shadders down, I won ' care a smidgeon f u ' de weathah 's frown ; Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah raih, Day's a happy sheltah, an' I's goin' daih. Down in my ol' cabin wa'm ez mammy's toas', 'Taters in de fiah layin' daih to roas'; No one daih to cross me, got no talkin' pal, But I's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown gal. So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh sing, Lak a blessid angel ; how huh voice do ring ! Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin' erroun', W 'n he sees de steamin ' o ' de new plowed groun '. Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas'. Needn't smg, my da lm',tek you' nones' res'. Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er !Sal i No, I means my fiddle — dat's my sweet brown gal! — raid Liuurence JJunbar THE SUNKEN GAEDEN Speak not — whisper not ; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour. Secret herbs their spices shower. Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh. Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too. All her sorrows, bitter rue. CHILDREN AND HOME 137 Breathe not — trespass not ; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon's beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air. The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep ; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, 'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad. — Walter de la Mare THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT * A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight. Contented with perfume. Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of the golden glow Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet. IMoon-shimmer on leaves and trellises. Moon-spikes shafting through the snow-ball bush. * From Pictures of the Floating World, by Amy Lowell. Used by spe- cial permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 138 MODERN VERSE Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring, Only the eat, padding between the roses, Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern As water is broken by the falling of a leaf. Then you come. And you are quiet like the garden, And white like the alyssum flowers, And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies. Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies? They knew my mother, But who belonging to me will they know When I am gone. — Amy Lowell FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE TO MY BROTHER I loved you for your loving ways, The ways that many did not know; Althour,'h my heart would heat and glow When Nations crowned you with their hays. [ loved you for the tender hand That held my own so close and warm, [ loved you for the winning charm That hrought gay sunshine to the land. I loved you for the heart that knew The need of everv little child ; I loved you when y(n turned and smiled, — It was as though a fresh wind blew. I loved you for your loving ways, That look that leaped to meet my eye, The ever-ready sympathy, The generous ardor of your praise. I loved you for the buoyant fun That made perpetual holiday For all who ever crossed your way, The highest or the humblest one. I loved you for the radiant zest, The thrill and glamor that you gave To each glad hour that we could save And garner from Time's grim behest. 141 142 MODERN VERSE I loved you for your loving ways, — And just because I loved them so, And now have lost them, — thus I know I must go softly all my days ! — Corinne Roosevelt Robinson A MILE WITH ME 0, who will walk a mile with me Along life's merry way? A comrade blithe and full of glee, Who dares to laugh out loud and free, And let his frolic fancy play, Like a happy child, through the flowers gay That fill the field and fringe the way Where he walks a mile with me. And who will walk a mile with me Along life's weary way? A friend whose heart has eyes to see The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea. And the quiet rest at the end o' the day, — A friend who knows, and dares to say, The brave, sweet words that cheer the way When he walks a mile with me. With such a comrade, such a friend I fain wouki walk till journey's end, Through summer sunshine, winter rain. And then ? — Farewell, we shall meet again ! — Henry van Dyke FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 143 MY FRIEND * The friend I love is like the sea to me, With spacious days of large tranquility "When on my heart his wordless comforts lie, As on the utter sea rim rests the sky ; And like the sea for wrath he is, and strong To launch his surges on the cliffs of Wrong ; But most I love him for his deep-sea spell Of unguessed secrets that he may not tell: So I have seen him stand and look afar Bej'ond the twilight to the evening star, And like the ocean's haunting lure to me. Deep in his eyes I read a mystery : — For he whose soul we fathom to the end Becomes our servant then, and not our friend. — Walter Prichard Eaton PEOPLE Like to islands in the seas Stand our personalities: Islands where we always face One another's watering-place; When we promenade our sands, We can hear each other's bands; We can see on festal nights Red and green and purple lights, * From Echoes and Realities, by Walter Prichard Eaton. Copyright, 1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 144 MODERN VERSE Gilt pavilions in a row, Stucco houses built for show. But our eyes can never reach Further than the tawdry beach, Never can they hope to win To the wonders far within : Jagged rocks against the sky, Where the eagles haunt and cry, Forests full of running rills. Darkest forests, sunny hills, Hollows where a Monster lowers, Sweet and unimagined flowers. — Frances D. Cornford SONG "Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, And Triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, And Sun and Moon bow down." — But that, I knew, would never do; And Heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, I will not catch her eye. "Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy head, And vinegar to thy kiss!" But Tragedy is not for me; FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 145 And I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, I went another way. And so I never feared to see You wander down the street. Or come across the fields to me On ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of. And what I never knew ; It was that all the time, my love. Love would be merely you. — Rupert Brooke THE LOOK * Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall. But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon 's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin 's eyes Haunts me night and day. — Sara Tcasdale * From Love Songs, by Rara Teasdale. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 146 MODERN VERSE TO A DISTANT ONE Through wild by-ways I come to you, my love, Nor ask of those I meet the surest way ; What way I turn I cannot go astray And miss you in my life. Though Fate may prove A tardy guide she will not make delay Leading me through strange seas and distant lands, I'm coming still, though slowly, to your hands. We'll meet one day. There is so much to do, so little done. In my life's space that I perforce did leave Love at the moonlit trysting-place to grieve Till fame and other little things were won. I have missed much that I shall not retrieve, Far will I wander yet with much to do. Much will I spurn before I yet meet you. So fair I can't deceive. Your name is in the whisper of the woods Like Beauty calling for a poet's song To one whose harp had suffered many a wrong In the lean hands of Pain. And when the broods Of flower eyes waken all the streams along In tender whiles, I feel most near to you: — Oh, when we meet there shall be sun and blue Strong as the spring is strong. — Francis Ledwidge FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 147 ''MARY, HELPER OF HEARTBREAK" Well, if the thing: is over, better it is for me. The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free, Far too clever a lover not to be having still A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the farther hill — Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody glen— (Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?) Ay, if the thing is ending, now I'll be getting rest, Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest, Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore For a laugh on the path and a voice by the gate and a step on the shieling floor — Grief on my ways and grief on my work and grief till the evening's dim — (Lord, will I never hear it, never a sound of him?) Sure if it's done forever, better for me that's wise, Never the hurt, and never tears in my aching eyes, No more the trouble ever to hide from my asking folk Beet of mj' heart at click o' the latch, and throb if his name is spoke; ■'■ ' -' i S;-' ; ' - Never the need to hide' the sighs and the flushing thoughts and the fret. And after awhile my heart will hush and my hungering hands forget . . . Peace on my ways, and peace in my step, and maybe my heart grown light — (Mary, helper of heartbreak, send him to me to-night!) — Margaret Widdemer 148 MODERN VERSE GAKDEN OF THE ROSE * Her heart is like a garden fair Where many pleasant blcssoms grow; But though I sometimes enter there, There is one path I do not know. The way I go to find it lies Through dew}^ beds of violet; Those are the portals of her eyes, Where modesty and truth are set. And just behind, a hedge is placed — A hedge of lilies, tall and white. Those are her maiden thoughts, so chaste I almost tremble in their sight. But shining through them, and above — Plalf-hid, but trembling to unfold — I spy the roses of her love. And then again I grow more bold. So, half in prayer, I seek and wait To find the secret path that goes Up from the lily-guarded gate To her heart's garden of the rose. — Charles Buxton Going * From Star-Glow and Song, by Charles Buxton Going. Copyright, 1909, by Harper & Brothers. FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 149 THE LITTLE GOLDEN FOUNTAIN Oh, my heart is a little golden fountain, Through it and spilling over the brim Wells the love of you. Brighter gleams the gold for the sparkling M^ater, And down below where the overflow drips Into a clear little pool of bubbles, Fresh spears of gras.^i spring again ;t the golden column. Oh, my heart is a little golden fountain Fashioned purely for that leaping grace, The luminous love of you. Up through the column and over the golden basin It thrills and fills and trembles in the sunlight, Showering its gladness over and bestrewing The golden fountainhead with rainbow rapture. — Mary MacMiUav SONGS OF A GIRL * XIX Within the little house Of my great love for you. This safe and happy house, I sit and sing, while all the world goes by. * From Youth Riding, by Mary Carolyn Davies. Used by special per- mission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 150 MODERN VERSE Within the house that is my love for you No harm can come, nor any thought of fear ; There is no danger that can cross the threshold. You did not build this house Nor I ; But God the Carpenter — — Mary Carolyn Davies PSALM TO MY BELOVED Lo, I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being, And like a tide you have flowed into me. The innermost recesses of my spirit are full of you, and all the channels of my soul are grown sweet with your pres- ence. For you have brought me peace; The peace of great tranquil waters, and the quiet of the sum- mer sea. Your hands are filled with peace as the noon-tide is filled with light ; about your head is bound the eternal quiet of the stars, and in your heart dwells the calm miracle of twilight. I am utterly content. In all my spirit is no ripple of unrest. For I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being And like a tide you have flowed into me. — Eunice Tietjens FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 151 THE REFLECTION* I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face, Nor touched her hand ; And yet some echo of her woman's grace I understand. I have no picture of her lovelihood, Her smile, her tint; But that she is both beautiful and good I have true hint. In all that my friend thinks and says, I see Her mirror true; His thought of her is gentle ; she must be All gentle too. In all his grief or laughter, work or play. Each mood and whim. How brave and tender, day by common day, She speaks through him! Therefore I say I know her, be her face Or dark or fair — For when he shows his heart 's most secret place I see her there ! — Christopher Morley * From The Rocking Horse, by Christopher Morley. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 152 MODERN VERSE A LYNMOUTH WIDOW * He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue As the summer meeting of skj^ and sea, And the ruddy cliffs had a colder hue Than flushed his cheek when he married me. We passed the porch where the swallows breed, We left the little brown church behind, And I leaned on his arm, though I had no need, Only to feel him so strong and kind. One thing I never can quite forget ; It grips my threat when I try to pray — The keen salt smell of a drying net That hung on the churchyard wall that day. He would have taken a long, long grave — A long, long grave, for he stood so tall . . . Oh, God, the crash of a breaking wave. And the smell of the nets on the churchyard wall ! — Amelia Josephine Burr PARTING Now I go, do not weep, woman — Woman, do not weep ; * From In Deep Places, by Amelia Josephine Burr. Copyright, 1914, Ceor^e U. Doran Company, publishers. FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 153 Though I go from you to die, W6 shall both lie down At the foot of the hill, and sleep. Now I go, do not weep, woman — Woman, do not weep ; Earth is our mother and our tent the sky. Though I go from you to die, We shall both lie down At the foot of the hill, and sleep. — Alice Corhin Henderson THE PENALTY OF LOVE If Love should count you worthy, and should deigu One day to seek your door and be your guest, Pause ! ere you draw the bolt and bid him rest, If in your old content you would remain. For not alone he enters: in his train Are angels of the mists, the lonely quest. Dreams of the unfulfilled and unpossessed, And sorrow, and Life's immemorial pain. He wakes desires you never may forget, He shows you stars you never saw before, He makes you share wath him, for evermore. The burden of the world's divine regret. How wise were you to open not! — and yet, How poor if you should turn him from the door. — Sidney Eoyse Lysaght THOUGHT AND FANCY BARTER * Life has loveliness to sell — All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Climbing fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell — ]\Iusic like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love 3'ou, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness. Buy it and never count the cost, For one white sinking hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost. And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been or could be. — Sara Teasdale TIME, YOU OLD GYPSY MAN * Time, you old gj'psy man, Will you not stay, * From Lot^e Soncfs, by Sara Teasdale. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. * From Poems, by Ralph Hodgson. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 157 158 MODERN VERSE Put up your caravan Just for one day ? All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best. Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring. Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing. Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gypsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein — Only a moment. And off once again ; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gypsy man, Will you not stay. Put up your caravan Just for one day? — Ralph Hodgson THOUGHT AND FANCY 159 SONNET There was an Indian, who had known no change, Who strayed content along a sunlit beach Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange Commingled noise ; looked up ; and gasped for speech. For in the bay, where nothing was before, Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes, With bellying cloths on poles, and not one oar. And fluttering colored signs and clambering crews. And he, in fear, this naked man alone. His fallen hands forgetting all their shells, His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone, And stared, and saw, and did not understand, Columbus's doom-burdened caravels Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land. C. Squire PROVINCETOWN All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd Elbows its way past glittering shops to strains Of noisy rag-time, men and girls, dark skinned,- From warmer foreign waters they have come To our New England. Purring like sleek cats The cushioned motors of the rich crawl through While black-haired babies scurry to the curb: Pedro, Maria, little Gabriel 160 MODERN VERSE Whose red bandana mothers selling fruit Have this in common with the fresh white caps Of those first immigrants — courage to leave Familiar hearths and build new memories. Blood of their blood who shaped these sloping roofs And low arched doorways, laid the cobble stones Not meant for motors, — you and I rejoice When roof and spire sink deep into the night And all the little streets reach out their arms To be received into the salt-drenched dark. Then Provincetown comes to her own again, Draws round her like a cloak that shelters her From too swift changes of the passing j-ears The dunes, the sea, the silent hilltop grounds Where solemn groups of leaning headstones hold Perpetual reunion of her dead. At dusk we feel our way along the wharf That juts into the harbor: anchored ships With lifting prow and slowly rocking mast Ink out their profiles; fishing dories scull With muffled lamps that glimmer through the spray; We hoar the water plash among the piers Rotted with moss, long after sunset stay To watch the dim sky-changes ripple down The length of quiet ocean to our feet Till on the sea rim rising like a world Bigger than ours, and laying bare the ships In shadowy stillness, swells the yellow moon. Between this blue intensity of sea And rolling dunes of white-hot sand that bum All day across a clean salt wilderness THOUGHT AND FANCY 161 On shores grown sacred as a place of prayer, Shine bright invisible footsteps of a band Of firm-lipped men and women w4io endured Partings from kindred, hardship, famine, death. And won for us three hundred years ago A reverent proud freedom of the soul. — Marie Louise Hersey AMERICA Up and down he goes . with terrible, reckless strides, flaunting great lamps with joyous swings — one to the East and one to the West — and flaunting two words in a thunderous call that thrills the hearts of all enemies: All, One, All, One; All, One; All, One! Beware that queer wild wonderful boy and his playground; don't go near! All, One, All, One ; All, One ; All, One ; Up and down he goes. — Alfred Krcymhorg. RECESSIONAL God of our fathers, known of old. Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — 162 MODERN VERSE Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget ! The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. Lest we forget — lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away ; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget ! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe. Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget ! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, AH valiant dust that builds on dust. And guarding, calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word — Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! — Budyard Kipling THOUGHT AND FANCY 163 IF If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream — and not make dreams your master ; If you can think— and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same ; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss ; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone. And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch. If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you. 164 MODERN VERSE If all men count with you, but none too much ; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it. And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son! — Budyard Kipling COUEAGE Courage is but a word, and yet, of words, The only sentinel of permanence ; The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days, We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords, And on. For faith — without it — has no sense; And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways; And life forever quaking marsh must tread. Laws give it not, before it prayer will blush, Hope has it not, nor pride of being true. 'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields, But hales us on and on to breast the rush Of all the fortunes we shall happen through. And when Death calls across his shadowy fields — Dying, it answers : ' ' Here ! I am not dead ! ' ' ^ohn Galsworthy PRAYER God, though this life is but a wraith. Although we know not what we use, Although we grope with little faith, Give me the heart to fight — and lose. THOUGHT AND FANCY 1G5 Ever insurgent let me be. Make me more daring than devout; From sleek contentment keep me free, And fill me with a bou.yant doubt. Open my eyes to visions girt With beauty, and with wonder lit — But let me always see the dirt. And all that spawn and die in it. Open my ears to music ; let Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums — But never let me dare forget The bitter ballads of the slums. From compromise and things half-done, Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride; And when, at last, the fight is won God, keep me still unsatisfied. — Louis Untermeyer A CREED (To Mr. David Lubin) There is a destiny that makes us brothers; None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own. 166 MODERN VERSE I care not what his temples or his creeds. One thing holds firm and fast — That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of a man is cast. — Edwin Marlham THE GREAT LOVER I have been so great a lover : filled my days So proudly with the splendor of Love's praise, The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, Desire illimitable, and still content. And all dear names men use, to cheat despair. For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear Our hearts at random down the dark of life. Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far. My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight ? Love is a flame; — we have beaconed the world's night. A city: — and we have built it, these and I. An emperor: — we have taught the world to die. So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence. And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden forever, eagles, crying flames. THOUGHT AND FANCY 167 A.nd set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines ; and feathery, faery dust ; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread ; and many tasting food ; Kainbows ; and the blue bitter smoke of wood ; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; > And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink thera under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine ; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such — The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . , . Dear names, Ancl thousand other throng to me ! Royal flames ; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the ground ; and voices that do sing ; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace ; and the deep-panting train ; Firm sands; the dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour ; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mold; Sleep ; and high places ; footprints in the dew ; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new; 168 MODERN VERSE And new-peeled sticks; and shininp; pools on o-rass; — All these have been my loves. And these shall pass. Whatever passes not, in the g'reat hour. Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death. They'll play deserter, tnni with the traitor breath. Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramental covenant to the dust. — Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers. . . . But the best I've known, Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains. O dear my loves, faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed. Praise you, "All these w^ere lovely"; say, "He loved." Mataiea, 1914. — Rupert Brooke GIFTS God does not give us, when our youth is done, Any such dower as we thought should be: We are not strong, nor crowned with moon or sun ; We are not gods nor conquerors: life's sea Has not rolled back to let our feet pass through . THOUGHT AND FANCY 1G9 And if one great desire, long-hoped, came true — Some gift long-hungered for, some starry good, Some crowning we desired. It had lost all its pageant-wonderhood : A wonted thing, enveiled no more in flame, Dully it came — Its winning has not made our feet less tired. We are so near the same Our mirrors saw in youth ! Not very wise : in truth Not nobler than we were those j-ears ago; "We have to show Only a handful of such little things As our high-thoughted youth Had named of little worth. Only . . . the gift to feel In little looks of praise, In words, in sunny days, A pleasantness, a mirth — Joy in a bird's far wings, Pleasure in flowers breaking out of earth, In a child's laughter, in a neighbor's smile; And in all quiet things Peace for awhile. And one more gift — to smile, content to see — Ay, to be very glad seeing — alight on high The stars we wanted for our jewelry Still clear ashine . . . still in the sky. — Margaret Widdemer 170 MODERN VERSE EICHARD CORY Whenever Richard Cory went down town. We people on the pavement looked at him : He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich — yes, richer than a king. And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thoujrht that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light. And went without the meat and cursed the bread ; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night. Went home and put a bullet through his head. — Edwin Arlington Robinson A FARMER REMEMBERS LINCOLN * "Lincoln?— Well, I was in the old Second Maine, The first regiment in Washington from the Pine Tree State. Of course I didn't get the butt of the clip; We was there for guardin' Washington — We was all green. * Reprinted with permission from Grenstone Poems, by Witter Bynner. Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. THOUGHT AND FANCY 171 "I ain't never ben to but one theater in my life — I didn't know how to behave. I ain't never ben since. I can see as plain as my hat the box where he sat in AVhen he was shot. I can tell you, sir, there was a panic When we found our President was in the shape he was in! Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him. "Yes, sir. His looks was kind o' hard to forget. He was a spare man, An old farmer. Everything was all right, you know, But he wan't a smooth-appearin ' man at all — Not in no ways ; Thin-faced, long-necked, And a swellin' kind of. a thick lip like. "And he was a jolly old fellow — always cheerful; He wan't so high but the boys could talk to him their own ways. While I was servin' at the Hospital He'd come in and say, 'You look nice in here,' Praise us up, you know. And he'd bend over and talk to the boys — And he'd talk so good to 'em — so close — That's why I call him a farmer. I don't mean that everything about him wan't all right, you understand. It's just — well, I was a farmer — And he was my neighbor, anybody's neighbor. "I guess even you young folks would 'a' liked him." — Witter Bynner 172 MODERN VERSE SUNSET * Behold where Night clutches the cup of heaven And quaffs the beauty of the world away ! Lo, his first draught is all of dazzling day ; The next he fills with the red wine of even And drinks; then of the twilight's amber, seven Deep liquid hues, seven times, superb in ray, He fills — and drinks; the last, a mead pale-gray Leaves the black beaker gemmed with starry levin. Even so does Time quaff our mortality ! First, of the effervescing blood and blush Of virgin years, then of maturity The deeper glow, then of the pallid hush Where only the eyes still glitter, till even they — After a pause — melt in immenser day. — Percy MacKaye. SILENCE * I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses. And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence for which music alone finds the word. And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin. And the silence of the sick * From The Sistine Eve, by Percy IMacKaye. Used by special permis- sion of The Macmillan Company, publishers. * From Songs and Ha fires, by Edgar Lee Masters. Used by special permission of the Macmillan Company, publishers. THOUGHT AND FANCY 173 When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask : For the depths Of what use is lan<>'uaoe? A beast of the tiekls moans a few times When death takes its young. And we are voiceless in the presence of realities — We cannot speak. A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?" And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off." And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The iiashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives. And the long days in bed. But if he could describe it all He would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe. There is the silence of a great hatred. And the silence of a great love, And the silence of a deep peace of mind. And the silence of an embittered friendship. There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely' tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered 174 MODERN VEKSE Into a realm of higher life. And the silence of the gods who understand each other with- out speech. There is the silence of defeat. There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the d.ying whose hand Suddenly grips yours. There is the silence between father and son. When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it. There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders. There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth. And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo. And the silence of Jeanne d'Are Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" — Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope. And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life. And there is the silence of the dead. If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death ? Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them. — Edgar Lee Masters THOUGHT AND FANCY 175 THE COWBOY'S DREAM* Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by. Roll on, roll on ; Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on, Roll on, roll on ; Roll on, little dogies, roll on. The road to that bright, happy region Is a dim narrow trail, so they say ; But the broad one that leads to perdition Is posted and blazed all the w^ay. They say there will be a great round-up, And cowboys, like dogies, will stand, To be marked by the Riders of Judgment Who are posted and know every brand. I know there's many a stray cowboy Who'll be lost at the great, final sale, When he might have gone in the green pastures Had he known of the dim, narrow trail. I wonder if ever a cowboy Stood ready for that Judgment Day, And could say to the Boss of the Riders, "I'm ready, come drive me away." Sung to the air of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocecm. 176 MODERN VERSE For they, like the cows that are locoed, Stampede at the sight of a hand, Are dragged with a rope to the round-up, Or get marked with some crooked man's brand. And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, — A maverick, unbranded on high, — And get cut in the bunch with the "rustics" When the Boss of the Riders goes by. For they tell of another big owner Who's ne'er overstocked, so they say. But who always makes room for the sinner Who drifts from the straight, narrow way. They say he will never forget yen, That he knows every action and look ; So, for safety, you'd better get branded, Have your name in the great Tally Book. — Joh7i A. Lomax. GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN * [Bass drum beaten loudhj] Booth led boldly with his big bass dnim — (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) * From (loirnil William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems, by Vacliel Lindsay. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Com- pany, publishers. (To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument) THOUGHT AND FANCY 177 The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come." (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank. Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale — Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail: — Vermin-ealen saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death — (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) [Banjos] Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent d^^es. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, ' Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang: — - "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" • Hallelujah ! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land made free. Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare On, on upward thro' the golden air! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) II {Bass drum slower and softer] Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command 178 MODERN VERSE Unabated in that holy land. [Sweet flute music] Jesus came from out the court-house door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there Eound and round the mighty court-house square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. [Bass drum louder] Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole ! Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl ! Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green ! [Grand chorus of all instruments. Tamhourines to the foreground.] The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) O, shout Salvation ! It was good to see Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. The banjos rattled and the tambourines Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens. [Reverently sung, no instruments] And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air. Christ came gently with a robe and crown THOUGHT AND FANCY 179 For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesns. They were face to face. And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? — Vachel Lindsay THE DEVIL * Along de road from Bord a Plouffe To Kaz-a-baz-u-a Were poplar trees lak sojers stan', An' all de Ian' is pleasan' Ian', In off de road dere leev's a man Call' Louis Desjardins. An' Louis, w'en he firse begin To work hees leetle place, He work so hard de neighbors say, "Unless he tak's de easy way Dat feller's sure to die some day, We see it on hees face." 'T was lak a swamp, de farm he got, De water ev'ryw'ere— Might drain her off as tight as a drum. An' back dat water is boun' to come In less 'n a day or two — ba Gum ! 'T would mak' de angel swear. So Louis t 'ink of de bimeby, If he leev so long as dat, Wen he's ole an' blin' an' mebbe deaf, * From the Poetical ^yorks of ^Yil]iam Uenrii Drummo'nd. Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London. 180 MODERN VERSE All alone on de house hese'f, No frien', no money, no not'ing lef ', An' poor — can't kip a cat. So wan of de night on winter tarn, • W 'en Louis is on hees bed, He say out loud lak a crazy man, "I'm sick of tryin' to clear dis Ian', Work any harder I can't stan'. Or it will kill me dead. "Now if de devil would show hese'f An' say to me, 'Tiens! Louis! Hard tam an' work she's at an' en', You'll leev' lak a Grand Seigneur, ma frien', If only you'll be ready w'en I want you to come wit ' me, ' "I'd say, 'Yass, yass — 'maudit ! w'at's dat?' An' he see de devil dere — Brimstone, ev'ryt'ing bad dat smell, You know right away he's come from — well, De place I never was care to tell — An' wearin' hees long black hair, Lak election man, de kin' I mean You see aroun' church door, Spreadin' hese'f on great beeg speech 'Bout poor man's goin' some day be reech, But dat's w'ere it alway come de heetch. For poor man's alway poor. De only diff'rence — me — I see 'Tween devil an ' lon^-hair man THOUGHT AND FANCY 181 It's hard to say, but I know it's true, Wen devil promise a t'ing to do Dere's no mistak' he kip it too — I hope you understan'. So de devil spik, "You're not content, An' want to be reech, Louis — All right, you'll have plaintee, never fear No wan can beat you far an' near, An' I'll leave you alone for t'orty year. An ' den you will come wit ' me. * ' Be careful now — it 's beeg- contrac ', So mebbe it 's bes ' go slow : For me — de promise I mak' to you Is good as de bank Riviere du Loup ; For you — w'enever de tam is due, Ba tonder! you got to go." Louis try hard to tak ' hees tam But w'en he see de fall Comin' along in a week or so, All aroun' heem de rain an' snow An' pork on de bar'l runnin' low. He don't feel good at all. An' w'en he t'ink of de swampy farm An' gettin' up winter night, Watehin' de stove if de win' get higher For fear de chimley go on fire. It's makin' poor Louis feel so tire He tell de devil, "All right." "Correct," dat feller say right away, 182 MODERN VERSE "I'll only say, Au revoir," An' out of de winder lie's goin' pouf ! Beeg nose, long hair, short tail, an' hoof Off on de road to Bord a Plouffe Crossin' de reever dere. Wen Louis get up nex' day, ma frien', Dere's lot of devil sign — Bar'l o' pork an' keg o' rye, Bag o' potato ten foot high. Pile o' wood nearly touch de sky, Was some o' de t'ing he fin'. Suit o' clothes would have cos' a lot An' ev'ryt'ing I dunno. Trotter horse w'en he want to ride Eatin' away on de barn outside, Stan' all day if he's never tied. An' watch an' chain also. An' swamp dat's bodder heem many tarn, Were is dat swamp to-day? Don't care if you're huntin' up an' down You won't fin' not'ing but medder groun'. An' affer de summer come aroun' Were can you see such hay? Wall! de year go by, an' Louis leev' Widout no work to do. Rise w'en he lak on winter day, Fin' all de snow is clear away. No fuss, no not'ing, dere's de sleigh An' trotter waitin' too. THOUGHT AND FANCY 183 Wen forty year is nearly t'roo An' devil's not come back 'Course Louis say, ' ' Wall ! he forget Or t 'ink de tarn 's not finish yet ; I'll tak' ma chance an' never fret," But dat's w'ere he mak' mistak'. For on a dark an' stormy night Wen Louis is sittin' dere, Affer he fassen up de door De devil come as he come before, Lookin' de sam' only leetle more, For takin' heem — you know w'ere. "Asseyez vous, sit down, ma frien', Bad night be on de road ; You come long way an' should be tire — Jus' wait an' mebbe I feex de fire — Tak' off your clothes for mak' dem drier, Dey mus' be heavy load." Dat's how poor Louis Desjardins Talk to de devil, sir — Den say, "Try leetle w'isky blanc, Dey 're makin' it back on St. Laurent — It's good for night dat's cole an' raw," But devil never stir, Until he smell de smell dat come Wen Louis mak' it hot Wit' sugar, spice, an' ev'ryt'ing. Enough to mak' a man's head sing — For winter, summer, fall an' spring — It's very bes' t'ing we got. 184 MODERN VERSE An' so the devil can't refuse To try de w'isky blanc, An' say, "I'm tryin' many drink, An' dis is de fines' I don't t'ink, De firs, ba tonder ! mak' me wink — Hooraw, poor Canadaw ! ' ' "Merci — non, non — I tak' no more," De devil say at las', ''For tam is up wit' you, Louis, So come along-, ma frien', wit' me. So many star I'm sure I see, De storm she mus' be pas'." "No hurry — wait a minute, please," Say Louis Desjardins, "We'll have a smoke before we're t'roo, 'T will never hurt mese 'f or you To try a pipe, or mebbe two, Of tabac Canayen."* "Wan pipe is all I want for me — We'll finish our smoke downstair," De devil say, an' it was enough, For w'en he tak de very firse puff He holler out, "I\Iaudit! w'at stuff! Fresh air ! fresh air ! ! fresh air ! ! ! " An ' oh ! he was never sick before Till he smoke tabac Bruneau — Can 't walk or fly, but he want fresh air So Louis put heem on rockin' chair An' t'row heem off on de road out dere — An' tole heem eo below. THOUGHT AND FANCY 185 An' he shut de door an' fill de place Wit' tabae Canayen, An' never come out, an' dat's a fac' — But smoke away till hees face is black — So dat's w'y de devil don't come back For Louis Desjardins. An' dere he's yet, an' dere he'll stay — So weech of de two '11 win Can't say for dat — it's kin' of a doubt, For Louis, de pipe never leave hee.s mout', An' night or day can't ketch heem out, An' devil's too scare' go in. —W illiani Henri) Drummond THE HOST OF THE AIR * O'Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake, From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake. And he saw how the reeds grew dark At the coming of night tide, And dreamed of the long dim hair Of Bridget his bride. * From Poems, by William Butler Yeats. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 186 MODERN VERSE He heard while he sang and dreamed A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay. And he saw young men and young girls Who danced on a level place And Bridget his bride among them, With a sad and a gay face. The dancers crowded about him And many a sweet thing said, And a young man brought him red wine And a 3'oung girl white bread. But Bridget drew him by the sleeve Away from the merry bands, To old men playing at cards With a twinkling of ancient hands. The bread and the wine had a doom. For these were the host of the air; He sat and played in a dream Of her long dim hair. He played with the merry old men And thought not of evil chance. Until one bore Bridget his bride Away from the merry dance. He bore her away in his arms. The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair. THOUGHT AND FANCY 187 O'Driscoll scattered the cards And out of his dream awoke : Old men and young men and young girls Were gone like a drifting smoke ; But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad. And never was piping so gay. — WilUam B. Yeats THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY * When I play on my fiddle in Dooney Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, ]\Iy brother in Moharabuiee. I passed my brother and cousin: They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo fair. When we come at the end of time, To Peter sitting in state, He will smile on the three old spirits. But call me first through the gate; For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, * From Poems, by William Butler Yeats. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 188 MODERN VERSE And the merry love the fiddle And the merry love to dance. And when the folk there spy me. They will all come up to me, With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney !" And dance like a wave of the sea. — William B. Yeats THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME Zeus, Brazen-thunder-hurler, Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos, Send vengeance on these Oreads Who strew White frozen flecks of mist and cloud Over the brown trees and the tufted grass Of the meadows, where the stream Runs black through shining banks Of bluish white. Zeus, Are the halls of heaven broken up That you flake down upon me Feather-strips of marble ? Dis and Styx ! When I stamp my hoof The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . THOUGHT AND FANCY 189 Fool, to stand here cursing When I might be running ! — Richard Aldington ETIQUETTE * The Gossips tell a story of the Sparrow and the Cat, The Feline thin and hungry and the Bird exceeding fat. With eager, famished energy and claws of gripping steel, Puss pounced upon the Sparrow and prepared to make a meal. The Sparrow never struggled when he found that he was caught (If somewhat slow in action he was mighty quick of thought), But chirped in simple dignity that seemed to fit the case, ' ' No Gentleman would ever eat before he 'd washed his face ! ' ' This hint about his Manners wounded Thomas like a knife (For Cats are great observers of the Niceties of Life) ; He paused to lick his paws, which seemed the Proper Thing to do, — And, chirruping derisively, away the Sparrow flew ! In helpless, hopeless hunger at the Sparrow on the bough, Poor Thomas glowered longingly, and vowed a Solemn Vow: "Henceforth I'll eat my dinner first, theii wash myself!" — And that's The Universal Etiquette for Educated Cats. —Arthur Guitcrman * From The Laughing Muse, by Arthur Guiterman. Copyright, 1915,. by Harper & Brothers. 190 MODERN VERSE THE POTATOES' DANCE* (A Poem Game) I "Down cellar," said the cricket, "Down cellar," said the cricket, "Down cellar," said the cricket, "I saw a ball last night In honor of a lady, In honor of a lady. In honor of a lady, Whose wings were pearly-white, The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, Had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves. We entertained a drift of leaves. We entertained a drift of leaves. And then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter. But we were dressed for winter. But we were dressed for winter. And loved to hear it blow. In honor of the lady. In honor of the lady, In honor of the lady, Who makes potatoes grow, Our guest the Irish lady, * From The Chinese Nightingale, by Vacliel Lindsay. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. THOUGHT AND FANCY 191 The tiny Irish lady, The airy Irish lady, Who makes potatoes grow. II "Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the band, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand. Kicking up the sand, Kicking up the sand, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, In honor of the dame, The noble Irish lady Who make potatoes dance, The witty Irish lady. The saucy Irish lady, The laughing Irish lady Who makes potatoes prance. Ill ' ' There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. 192 MODERN VERSE The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, She danced all night with him, She danced all night with him, Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, They threw him in the coal-bin, And there he is to-day, Wliere they cannot hear his sighs And his weeping for the lady, The glorious Irish lady. The beautious Irish lady. Who Gives Potatoes Eyes." — Vachel Lindsay DAGONET, ARTHUR'S FOOL Dagonet, Arthur's fool, He shocked and crashed with the rest, But they gave him his coup-de-grace, When Arthur fought in the West. Dagonet, Arthur's fool, They smashed him, body and soul, And they shoved him under a bush. To die like a rat in a hole. THOUGHT AND FANCY 193 His poor little queer fool's body- Was twisted awry with pain : — Dagonet, Arthur's fool. Left to die in the rain. He writhed and groaned in his torment. But none heard his shameful cry : — Dagonet, Arthur's fool, Whom they left alone to die. Mordred hated the fool. And he passed the place where he lay, "Ah-ha! my pleasant fool^ We'll see if you'll jest to-day!" "We've silenced your bitter tongue. We've stopped your quirks and pride!" And Mordred, who ne'er forgot, He kicked the fool aside. Mordred was ever vile. He scorned each knightly rule, He swung a crashing blow Right on the mouth of the fool. He lifted his bleeding head, Dazed for a moment's space; Then Dagonet, Arthur's fool. He laughed in Mordred 's face. — M. St. Clare Byrne 194 ' MODERN VERSE FORTY SINGING SEAMEN * "In our lands be Beeres and Lyons of dyvers colours as ye redd, grene, black, and white. And in our land be also unicornes and these Unicornes slee many Lyons. . . . Also there dare no man make a lye in our lande, for if he dyde he sholde incontynent be sleyn." — Mediaeval Epistle, of Pope Prester John. Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded, Forty singing seamen in an old black barque, And we landed in the twilight where a Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark! For his eye was growing mellow Rich and ripe and red and yellow. As was time, since old Ulysses made him bellow in the dark ! Cho. — Since Ulysses bunged his eye up with a pine-torch in the dark! II Were they mountains in the gloaming or the giant's ugly shoulders Just beneath the rolling eyeball, with its bleared and vinous glow, Red and yellow o'er the purple of the pines among the boulders And the shaggy horror brooding on the sullen slopes below ? Were they pines among the boulders Or the hair upon his shoulders? * Reprinted with permission from Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes. Copyright, 1913, Frederick A. Stokes Company. THOUGHT AND FANCY 195 We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know. Clio. — We were simply singing seamen, so of course we couldn't know. Ill But we crossed a plain of poppies, and we came upon a foun- tain Not of water, but of jewels, like a spray of leaping fire ; And behind it, in an emerald glade, beneath a golden mountain There stood a crystal palace, for a sailor to admire ; For a troop of ghosts came round us, Which with leaves of bay they crowned us. Then with grog they well nigh drowned us, to the depth of our desire! Cho. — And 'twas very friendly of them, as a sailor can admire ! IV There was music all about us, we were growing quite forgetful We were only singing seamen from the dirt of London-town, Though the nectar that we swallowed seemed to vanish half regretful As if we wasn't good enough to take such vittles down, When we saw a sudden figure, Tall and black as any nigger, Like the devil — only bigger — drawing near us with a frown ! Cho. — Like the devil — but much bigger — and he wore a golden crown ! And "What's all this?" he growls at us! With dignity we chaunted, "Forty singing seamen, sir, as won't be put upon!" 196 MODERN VERSE "What? Englishmen?" he cries, "Well, if ye don't mind being haunted, Faith you're welcome to my palace; I'm the famous Pres- ter John ! Will ye walk into my palace? I don 't bear 'ee any malice ! One and all ye shall be welcome in the halls of Prester John!" Cho. — So we walked into the palace and the halls of Prester John ! • VI Now the door was one great diamond and the hall a hollow ruby — Big as Beachy Head, my lads, nay bigger by a half ! And I sees the mate wi' mouth agape, a-staring like a booby, And the skipper close behind him, with his tongue out like a calf ! Now the way to take it rightly Was to walk along politely Just as if you didn't notice — so I couldn't help but laugh! Cho. — For they both forgot their manners and the crew was bound to laugh ! VII But he took us through his palace and, my lads, as I'm a sinner, We walked into an opal like a sunset-colored cloud — "My dining-room," he says, and, quick as light we saw a dinner Spread before us by the fingers of a hidden fairy crowd; And the skipper, swaying gently After dinner, murmurs faintly, THOUGHT AND FANCl 197 *'I looks towards you, Prester John, you've done us very proud ! ' ' Cho. — And we drank his health with honors, for he dmie us very proud ! VIII Then he walks us to his garden where we sees a feathered demon Very splendid and important on a sort of spicy tree ! "That's the Phoenix," whispers Prester, "which all eddicated seamen Knows the only one existent, and he 's waiting for to flee ! When his hundred years expire Then he'll set hisself a-fire And another from his ashes rise most beautiful to see!" Cho. — With wings of rose and emerald most beautiful to see ! IX Then he sa^'S, "In yonder forest there's a little silver river, And whosoever drinks of it, his youth shall never die! The centuries go by, but Prester John endures forever With his miLsic in the mountains and his magic on the sky ! While your hearts are growing colder, While your world is growing older. There's a magic in the distance, where the sea-line meets the sky. ' ' Cho. — It shall call to singing seamen till the fount o' song is dry! So we thought we'd up and seek it, but that forest fair defied us, — First a crimson leopard laughs at us most horrible to see. 198 MODERN VERSE Then a sea-green lion came and sniffed and licked his chops and eyed us, While a red and yellow unicorn was dancing round a tree ! We was trying to look thinner Which was hard, because our dinner Must ha' made us very tempting to a cat of high degree! Cho. — Must ha' made us very tempting to the whole menar- jeree ! XI So we scuttled from that forest and across the poppy meadows Where the awful shaggy horror brooded o 'er us in the dark ! And we pushes out from shore again a-jumping at our shadows, And pulls away most joyful to the old black barque ! And home again we plodded While the Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark, Cho. — Oh, the moon above the mountains, red and yellow through the dark! XII Across the seas of Wonderland to London-town we blundered, Forty singing seamen as was puzzled for to know If the visions that we Saw was caused by — here again we pondered — A tipple in a vision forty thousand years ago. Could the grog we dreamt we swallowed Make us dream of all that followed? We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn 't know ! Cho. — We were simple singing seamen, so of course we could not know. — Alfred Noyes THOUGHT AND FANCY 199 WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED * When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began! Even the tavern barmaids ran To choke in secret, and unbent A lace, to ease their merriment. The Mermaid rocked to hear the man. Then Ben his aching girth would span. And roar above his pasty pan, "Avast there. Will, for I am spent!" When Shakespeare laughed. I' faith, let him be grave who can When Falstaff, Puck and Caliban In one explosive jest are blent ! The boatmen on the river lent An ear to hear the mirthful clan When Shakespeare laughed. — Christopher Morley SUGGESTED BY A COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS 'S POEMS* Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign To put upon the cover of this book? * From The Rocking Horse, by Cliristoplier Morley. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Company, publisliers. * From A Dome of Many-Colored Glass, by Amy Lowell. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 200 MODERN VERSE Who heard thee singing in the distance dim. The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood, When the damp freshness of the morning earth Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song? Who followed over moss and twisted roots, And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vineB Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly, While ever clearer came the dropping notes, Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed Thee singing on a spra^^ of branching beech, Hidden, then seen; and always that same song Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate, Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood? We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps • That fairy bird, fabled in island tale, Who never sings but once, and then his song Is of such fearful beauty that he dies From sheer exuberance of melody. For this they took thee, little bird, for this They captured thee, tilting among the leaves, And stamped thee for a symbol on this book. For it contains a song surpassing thine. Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew A little while, and then he died; too frail To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song. — Amy Lowell THOUGHT AND FANCY 201 THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET Och, what's the good o' spinnin' words As fine as silken thread ? "Will "golden gorse upon the hill" Be gold to buy ye bread? An' while ye 're list'nin' in the glen "To catch the thrush's lay," Your thatch is scattered be th' wind. Your sheep have gone astray. Th ' time ye 're af ther makin ' rhymes 0' "leppin' waves an' sea," Arrah ! ye should be sellin ' then Your lambs upon the quay. Sure, 'tis God's ways is very quare. An' far beyont my ken, How o' the selfsame clay he makes Poets an ' useful men ! — Agnes,Kendrick Gray TO YOURSELF * Talking to people in well-ordered ways is prose, And talking to them in well-ordered ways or in disordered outbreak may be poetry. * Reprinted with permission from Grenstone Poems, by Witter Bynner. Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 202 MODERN VERSE But talking to yourself, out on a country road, no houses and no hedges to conceal a listener, Only yourself and heaven and the trees and a wind and a linnet ; Talking to yourself in those long breaths that sing or hum or whistle fullness of the heart, Or the short breaths, Beats of the heart, Whether it be of sadness or a haystack. Mirth or the smell of the sea, A cloud or luck or love. Any of these or none — Is poetry. — Witter Bynner NOTES THE WHY AXD WHEREFORE OF THE NOTES Recently, a former pupil was telling me about his summer vacation — two months spent near the sea. (]\Iost of it, I fancy, had been in the sea.) He casually remarked that he had taught eight people to dive. "Splendid! How do you teach them?" I queried. "Oh, anybody could do it. First you have them come out on the raft with you every day and watch the fun. After awhile you begin to tease them about not doing it and tell them how easy it is. Sometimes you .just accidentally push them off the raft when they're standing near the edge. Once they've found out that it doesn't kill them to go 'way under water, you can begin to tell them how to dive right — how to keep their feet together, and aim out rather than down. Not too much at a time, though, because that rattles them. I guess they learn most from watching the different people on the raft do it. Of course, they have to keep at it themselves all the time. But they certainly learn a lot from seeing stunts done right, or even from seeing them done wrong." "Could a person learn without being taught?" "Well, yes, if he kept at it long enough. Some people find it a lot easier than others. But I know, myself, that it would have taken me weeks longer if I hadn't kept my eyes open and taken tips from the other fellows once in a while. Maybe you don't call that being taught. It's more like — well, it's l)eing shown how to teach yourself." This boy is planning to be an engineer. I hope he will sometime have a chance to combine teaching with his en- 205 206 THE WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE NOTES gineering". For unconsciously lie lias discovered the chief secret of pedagogy — giving a person directions and examples whereby he may teach himself. These Notes give examples of the way some boys and girls at Hartford High have studied modern verse for the last two years. I don't claim it is the only way; perhaps it is not always the right way. For instance, my pupils have never cared much about lists of all the books written by individual poets. (If they were really interested in an author's work, they went down to the Public Library and looked him up for themselves; otherwise, titles made no impression on them.) So here I have usually indicated only the general extent of each poet's work, except in cases where further information was not readily accessible. Neither have my classes liked ready-made critical estimates of a poet's work. As a girl once put it, "I suppose the critics are right in saying that Shakespeare was great, because cVitics don't agree on a thing for hundreds of years unless it's true; but with modern authors, I should think every one had a right to her own opinion." That seemed to be the general feeling, and it produced some heated discussion which we found most stimu- lating. For that reason, I have tried to refrain from labels of all kinds. Now, perhaps, pupils in other schools would like all this information. If so, there are plenty of library catalogues available, and plenty of books of criticism. (At the end of the Supplementary^ Reading List will be found several titles of the latter.) Three things, however, my pupils did find of verv^ great assistance in "being shown how to teach themselves" poetry. They were always curious to know about the lives of authors, and often discovered interesting connections between bio- graphical details and poems which they read. Second, before they could really understand a poem, they sometimes needed information about its allusions, its background, its technique ; and they found such information hard to track down, espe- THE WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE NOTES 207 cially in a short time. And last, the majority of them appre- ciated a few hints how to stndy a poem — questions showing them what to look for, suggesting parallels, or stimulating thought and imagination. It was understood that any such questions were merely typical, illustrative of many others which they would doubtless ask themselves, once their minds had received the initial impetus. If pupils honestly pre- ferred — as a few did — to read the poem over and over again until subconsciously they realized its full appeal, they were quiie at liberty to do so. I should hate to feel that any future reader of this book was forced to "study" the Notes when he was inwardly convinced that such study was spoiling his en- joyment of the poems. For to some young people — a fortu- nate few — poetry comes as naturally as diving does to others; and some would rather keep patiently at it for and by themselves without paying much attention to the examples of others. But the majority of my three-hundred-odd pupils, I think, felt that it paid to "keep their eyes open and take tips once in a while" — that by learning a few facts and having a few ideas suggested to them they taught themselves sooner than they otherwise could have to appreciate poetry instinc- tively and intelligently. On a scorching summer day, the person who does not know how to dive looks with mingled awe and envy at the lithe, beautifully poised figures, on the raft and the cool, green depths below them. Down — down — down they plunge, com- ing up again with new exhilaration in their faces and new light in their eyes. Many people hesitate as they stand above the sparkling "many-voiced" sea of modern verse. But the deeper one teaches himself to dive into that sea, the oftener he wishes to do it, and the more his mind becomes refreshed and strengthened. Who wouldn't be an experienced diver? 208 NOTES SEA-FEVER (From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) John Masefield was born in 1874. From childhood he had such a love of the sea that his parents apprenticed him, at fourteen, to a shipmaster as a cabin boy. Later, he spent several years before the mast. Then he wandered on foot through various countries. For awhile he worked in New York, first in a saloon and then in a factory. Returning to England with his mind finally made up to devote himself to literature, he worked patiently for over ten years before the publication of The Everlasting Mercy (which won the Ed- mond de Polignac prize in 1912) made him famous. Since then he has published many volumes of verse and plays. Dur- ing iha-wa*.. he served with the Red Cross in France and at Gallipoli, fitting out a hospital ship at his own expense. He has made a lecture tour of the United States. For generations, love of the sea has been a characteristic of the Englishman. Over a thousand years ago, an Anglo- Saxon poet whose name we do not know — and in a way, it does not matter, since he vv^as but a voice for many of his fellows^composed a long poem called "The Seafarer." A few scattered lines from it (Cook and Tinker's translation) will show the similarity of feeling : ' ' The hail flew in showers about me ; and there I heard only The roar of the sea, ice-cold waves, and the song of the swan ; For pastime the gannet's cry served me ; the kittiwakes' chatter For laughter of men ; and for mead-drink the call of the sea-mews. ' ' NOTES 209 "Yet the thoughts of my heart now are throbbing To test the high streams, the salt waves in tumultuous play, Desire in my heart ever urges my spirit to wander To seek out the home of the stranger in lands afar oft'." "Now my spirit uneasih' turns in die heart's narrow chamber, Now wanders forth over the tide, o'er the home of the whale. To the end of the earth — and comes back to me. Eager and greedy, The lone wanderer screams, and resistlessly drives my soul onward Over the whale-path, over the tracts of the sea." On what sort of day do you love the sea best? WILD WEATHER (From Crack o' Dawn) Fannie Stearns Davis (Mrs. Gifford) is a Smith College graduate. She has published two books of verse, and con- tributes frequently to leading magazines. She lives in Pitts- tield, i\Iass. Which do you prefer — a windy day near the sea or a windy day in the country? What words here give best an idea of the onrush and might of the wind ? Do you know a famous nineteenth centur}^ poem whieli is full of a man's fierce exul- tation in this great force of Nature? 210 \ { ' NOTES 0i \^xo^ HIGH-TIDE (From Growing Pains) Jean Starr was born in Ohio, 1886. She attended private schools in Ohio and New York and took a Columbia University extension course. She married Louis Untermeyer (q. v.) in 1907. She has published one volume of verse, and contributes to leading magazines. What two ideas about the moon — one scientific, the other mythical — are skillfully combined in this poem? (The following long note on the difficult subject of free verse is not intended "for immediate consumption." In con- nection with this poem, it should be read aloud and dis- cussed ; blit it should be again referred to whenever other poems in free verse are read until the principles and their application become quite familiar. It is given here to coun- teract, at the start, the very prevalent and equally false notion that free verse is nothing but chorpped-up prose, written by some one who is too lazy to invent rhymes or preserve meter.) Free verse 'is not a lawless form. It is based upon the natu- ral cadences of the human voice — that is, the "falls" or pauses in speech which are occasioned by the speaker's need to breathe, or by his dwelling on certain words for emphasis. The contention of free verse writers is that in rhymed and metrical poetry these cadences cannot be sufficiently varied for the reader to convey exactly the author 's varied emotions. To quote John Gould Fletcher (this passage is from the preface to Irradiations) : "I maintain that poetry is capable of as many gradations in cadence as music is in time. We can have a rapid group of syllables — what is called a line — succeeded by a slow heavy -JtvCH/^^ •-^ NOTES 211 one ; like the swift scurrying of the wave and the sullen drag- ging of itself away. Or we can gradually increase or decrease our time, creating accelerando and rallentando etfects. Or we can follow a group of rapid lines with a group of slow ones, or a single slow, or vice versa. Finally, we can have a perfectly even and unaltered movement throughout, if we de- sire to be monotonous. "The good poem is that in which all these effects are used to conve.y the underlying emotions of its author, and that which welds all these emotions into a work of art by the use of dominant motif, subordinate themes, proportionate treat- ment, repetition, variation, — what in music is called devel- opment, reversal of roles, and return. In short, the good poem fixes a free emotion, or a free range of emotions, into an inevitable and artistic whole." From this passage, we see that free verse writers disre- gard the arbitrary units of feet, number or quantity of syllables in lines, and stanzas. The ul^it_^]>^«l;_ih^^'-p^^^a^rye^ is— Lh£ str ophe . ("Strophe" in Greek tragedy meant the "turn" or circuit of the altar made by the chorus in the pauses between action, and hence the group of lines which they recited or chanted while they were making this turn. It differs from the stanza in that it has no universally pre- scribed length or meter.) Free verse writers, then, mean by "strophe" a division corresponding roughly to the para- graph in prose. It may be the whole poem or only a part of it. The important consideration is that it shall be a perfect circle, give the effect of completed harmony. Usually, it does this by "returning" upon itself, "like a balanced pendulum" ; that is, some thought /or some sound at the end brings one's mind back to the thought or sound of the beginning. Within this large imit of the strophe, the lines may vary tremendously. An ill istration of this idea is found in the tyPskts, 1916: preface to Some I magi © )QX*\V. n \r.^^, V^r*-^ r<> 212 NOTES "Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it in. Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked round the circle quietly. But in order to make the task easier for him, or harder, as the case may be, he was required to complete each half-circle in exactly a minute. No other re- strictions were placed upon him. He might dawdle in the beginning, and run madly to reach the half-circle mark on time, and then complete his task by walking steadily round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run, and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow go- ing by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and vary these movements on either lap of the circle as the humor seized him, only so that he were just one minute in traversing the first half circle, and just one minute in traversing the second." Writers of free verse, then, reduce the "mechanics" of poetry to one essential — cadence. But it might be added that though they regard regularitij of rhyme and meter as a hampering non-essential, they fully realize the effectiveness of occasional metrical lines and rhyming words irregularly placed. All the devices familiar to poets for ages — assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc. — are, of course, their stock in trade, used as often as ever Spenser used them. In fact, they claim that their free technique enables them to employ the "inevitable," the most perfect, word more often than re- strictions of rhyme and meter would permit. It is true that artists who take this new form seriously have given exquisite expression to their ideas; and the crimes which have been cr'->i- mitted by others in the name of free verse ought not to preju- dice us against this real achievement. A very clear and fair estimate of the whole issue between free verse and "orthodox" verse is found in Chapter VI of Lowes' Convention and Revolt in Poetrif. It should l)e read by every one who is interested in this subject. Professor NOTES 213 Lowes' chief point is that since poets of real genius have in past ages found it possible to preserve both the small rhythms of lines and the larger strophic unit, the poets who deliberately forego one of these effects for the sake of the other must have very definite compensations to oft'er. Profes- sor Perry is anather critic who in Chapter VI of his recent book A Study in Poetry,, takes up this vexed question. As he points out, it is by no means a new one. Quite apart from discussion, there is one real benefit which you may receive from studying free verse. It gives splendid practice in reading aloud, for the cadences are more delicate than those of prose, and less obvious than those of metrical verse. The reader has power to make it an instrument of mental torture or a thing of beauty. SAILOR TOWN (From Sailor Town) Cicely Fox Smith was born in England toward the close of the last century. One of her ancestors was Captain John Smith of Virginia. Several years spent on the Pacific Coast of Canada gave her a full opportunity to indulge her passion for ships and the sea. To quote from her letter : "I wish I might truthfully tell you that I was a sea-captain's daugh- ter and had sailed with him on all his voyages. That is what some of my unknown correspondents have surmised. Also, I frequently receive letters from sailormen avIio do not know my sex asking if I am not an old shipmate. " Miss Smith has published three volumes of verse and three novels, Canadian in setting. She is now living in England. Have you ever been along the water-front in a fishing center like Gloucester or any large harbor city? If you were writing 214 NOTES a poem about it, would you choose the scene in daytime or the scene in the evening, as the author has? Of the many objects in the little shops, why do you think she picked out the ones she did for mention ? THE SHIP OF RIO (From Peacock Pie) Walter de la Mare was born in 1873, and educated at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School. Since 1902 he has written five volumes of verse. (Recently, these have been published in an American "collected edition" of two volumes.) In 1910 he won the Edmond de Poligjnac prize for that year. He is a very quiet, unworldly man, with an eternally young heart and a keen sense of humor. His poems are chiefly of three types: child-poems, many of which rival Mother Goose; char- acter-studies ; and poems of elusive and mysterious fancy. This is one of the first group. It gives equal delight to children and to grown-ups. OLD ANCHOR CHANTY (From Poems with Fables in Prose) Herbert Trench is very fond of sea life as the traveler knows it. He was born in Ireland, 1865, and educated at Haileybury and Oxford. He has held positions of honor on the Board of Education, been director of the Haymarket '1 ^ •2- NOTES 215 Theater, and done much to promote better understanding be- tween Great Britain and Italy. He has written poems and plays. ''The Chanty-Man Sings," by William Brown Meloney {Everybody's Magazine, August 1915) would be most inter- esting to read in connection with this. It gives the words and tunes for several famous old chanties — those songs that sailors used to sing while they were heaving anchor, hoisting yards, or adjusting sails, on the square-rigged ships and schooners. The chanty verse consisted of alternate solo and chorus lines. Often the leader improvised as he went along. When this is read aloud in class, two solo parts should be assigned, and all others join in the chorus. IRRADIATIONS— III (From Irradiations; Sand and Spray) John Gould Fletcher was born in Arkansas in 1886. He attended Phillips Andover and Harvard. Soon afterwards, he went to Europe, remaining six years. Eeturning to Amer- ica at the outbreak of the war, he travelled in the West. In 1916, he went back to England, where he has been living since. He has published several volumes of verse which embody in- teresting and very "advanced" poetic theories, and has translated a good deal of Japanese poetry. Mr. Fletcher is one of the so-called ' ' Imagists. ' ' The rules which these poets have set for themselves are given below, in their owai words. They are taken from the preface to Some Imagist Poets, an anthology containing representative verse by Amy Lowell, ''H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, now Mrs. Alding- ton), John Gould Fletcher, Richard Aldington, F. S. Flint, and D. H. Lawrence. Thev are nrefaeed bv the statement : 216 NOTES *' These principles are not new ; they have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry, indeed of all great literature." "1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly exact, nor the merely decorative word. "2. To create new rhythms^ — as the expression of new moods and not to copy old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon "free verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In poetry a new cadence means a new idea. "3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art to write badly of aeroplanes and automobiles, nor is it necessarily bad art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so uninspiring nor as old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911. "4. To present an image (hence the name: 'Imagist'). We are not a school of painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague gen- eralities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the responsibilities of his art. "5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred and indefinite. "6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry." A clear and interesting explanation (with illustrations) of these rules may be found in Amy Lowell's Tendencies in Modern Amcriran Poetry. Plow does this poem show l\Ir. Fletclier to ho an Imagist? Does his free verse embody the principles which were laid down in the note on "High-Tide"? NOTES 217 CARGOES (From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) (For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") Occasionally poems come in one flash of inspiration. Mr. Masefield is said to have written this in half an hour. What idea is suggested by the poem as a whole ? How does the intentional anticlimax contribute to this? Which of the three pictures is clearest in your mind? THE OLD SHIPS (From Collected Poems) In James. Elroy Flecker 's untimely death English poetry suffered a great loss. Born in 1884, he died of consumption when only thirty. He was an Oxford man. He spent four years of his life in the Consular Service, holding posts at Constantinople, Smyrna, and Beyrout. He married a Greek girl. He loved the East, especially for its picturesqueness and its age-old civilization. How long ago did "the pirate Genoese" do battle? What did the "drowsy ship of some yet older day" look like? How old might it possibly be? Do you remember the wooden horse of Troy ? Who lived on the island of ^aea? 218 NOTES SING A SONG 0' SHIPWRECK (From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) (For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") This was written while Mr. Masefield was a very young man, still serving before the mast. Do you like the poem's being written in dialect? What details give vividness? humor? What shows that the sailor is not so callous as he may seem? Should you have liked a full account of the rescue ? PIRATE TREASURE (From Heart of New England) Abbie Farwell Brown still lives in her native city — Boston, Massachusetts. She is a graduate of Radcliffe College, and has traveled much abroad. She has written many books for chil- dren and short stories, as well as verse. Though the age of pirates is past, few people can think long of the sea without thinking of a "Jolly Roger." As the lady found out, distance lends enchantment, and yet — do you think she wholly repented her adventuresomeness ? Do you know "The Skeleton in Armor," by Longfellow? These verses would be splendid to set to music. NOTES 219 FOG (From Chicago Poems) Carl Sandburg was born in 1878. Forced to leave school at thirteen, he worked at six or seven trades before enlisting for service in the Spanish-American War. After his return, he put himself through Lombard College, then roamed the IMiddle West as a newspaperman, a salesman, and an organizer for the Social-Democratic party of Wisconsin. From 1910- 1912 he w^as secretarj^ to the mayor of Milwaukee. He is now an editorial writer on the Chicago Daily News, and a lecturer on poetry, as well as one of the leading poets in America. His three volumes of verse show a steady increase in power to handle a very free technique. He uses no standard meters whatever. The whole point of this ''handful" is the unusual com- parison. What do you think of it? BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN (From New Poems) Richard Le Gallienne was bom in Liverpool, 1866, and educated at Liverpool College. He was engaged in business for seven years, but abandoned it in favor of literature. For about fifteen years he has lived in the United States. He has written much, chiefly essays and poems. Since this is the first sonnet in the collection, and there are many others, make sure you remember what a sonnet is — in respect to length, divisions, transitions of thought and vari- ous rhyme-schemes. In spite of the fact that it is an old 220 NOTES and much-used form and very difficult, it maintains tremen- dous popularity. You would find it interesting to compare this with a famous sonnet by Wordsworth, ' ' On Westminster Bridge. ' ' What is the idea common to both? What additional thought is found in the closing lines of Mr. Le Gallienne's? Which picture do you think has more of the elusive something which we call beauty ? EEN NAPOLI (From Carmina) Thomas Augustine Daly was born in 1871. After studying at Fordham University, he took up newspaper work, which has been his vocation ever since. He has been general manager for the Catholic Standard and Times, editorial writer on the Philadelphia Record, and associate editor of the Evening Ledger. He is a member of the American Press Humorists, and — as that implies — a very witty lecturer and writer. His five volumes of verse have been extremely popular. Most of the poems are in Italian or Irish dialect. How often do you think of immigrants as homesick? Through which one of the senses is poignant remembrance apt to come? CITY ROOFS (From Today and Tomorrow) "Charley" Towne is very popular in New York because of his genial, whole-hearted interest in everything and NOTES 221 everybody. He was born in Kentucky (1877) but says he could never be happy long awa}^ from New York. He has been an editor on various magazines, has written words for songs by well-known musicians, and published two volumes of verse. Have you been up to the top of the ^Metropolitan tower, or seen a similar view of any great city! Does the thought of the poem seem natural? depressing? AYould the thought of the last stanza occur to you ? Do you believe there are more bad people in the world than good ones? BROADWAY (From Poems and Ballads) Hermann Hagedorn was born in 1882. He graduated from Harvard in 1907, and from 1909-11 was instructor in Eng- lish there. He first achieved reputation through his plays; since, he has written poems, translations, and fiction. He was one of the founders of the Vigilantes (1916) and lately has been on the Executive Committee of the Roosevelt Mem- orial Association. He not only owns, but runs, a farm in Connecticut. What three things about the Broadway evening crowds sug- gest the comparison? Why should they be called "far" when the writer was probably jostling elbows with them? Does the figure of speech become too involved ? THE PEDDLER (From Poems and Ballads) (For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) Point out all the difit'erences you see between this poem > 222 NOTES and "Broadway." Should you think they were by the same author? Which do you like better? ROSES IN THE SUBWAY (From Poems) Dana Burnet was born in 1888, in Cincinnati. He studied law at Cornell, but soon turned to newspaper work. From 1911-1918 he was with the New York Evening Sun. (In the winter of 1917-18 they sent him to France as a special writer.) He now devotes himself almost entirely to his writing. He has published much fiction, as well as poetry. What line shows you that the roses mean a great deal to the girl ? Why do they ? What might have been the thoughts of some other fellow-passengers? a^^'"- ^ THE FACTORIES \\^<, (From Factories) Margaret Widdemer was born. in. Pennsylvania. She was educated at home, and attended Drexel Institute Library School. Since 1912 she has contributed to well-known maga- zines, writing fiction and essays as well as verse. In 1919 she married Robert Haven Schauffler. She has recently brought out an anthology of ghost-poems, called The Haunted Hour, which vou might find interesting. NOTES 223 How far do you think each individual is responsible for general social abuses ? The last few years have wrought great changes in conditions of labor ; is there still room for com- plaint ? PRAYERS OF STEEL (From Cornhuskers) (For biographical note, refer to "Fog.") This same theme — the fearful beauty and the big meaning of a huge industry — is to be found in the title poem of Mr. Sandburg's new volume, Smoke and Steel. What in the poem shows the author's vivid imagination? His interest in a new social order? His aspiration? Several critics have said that in structure this reminded one of the Psalms. If you doubt it, look up Psalm 100, and write it out in ten lines of free verse. You will be astonished at the similarity. The Psalms, you know, were poetry — intended to be sung — and our Bible translators kept them wonderfully rhythmic. They are prose only in form. ELLIS PARK (From Poetry; A Magazine of Verse) Helen Hoyt was born in Connecticut, and educated at private schools. She graduated from Barnard College in 1909. Since then, her home has been in the Middle AVest. She taught for awhile, then worked in an office (near Ellis Park), -and finally, as a secretary, came into the office of Poetry. In 1918 she was' made an associate editor. She has contributed to many magazines. Ellis Park is in Chicago. What is the most appealing thing about this poem-.? 224 NOTES THE PARK (From Poems) (For biog-raphical note, refer to "Roses in the Subway.") Do you see any difference between the diction of this poem and that of "Roses in the Subway," or that of the preceding poem by Miss Hoyt ? What do ' ' marge, " " heart of Arcady, ' ' "burgeoning" mean? In what sense has this poem a wider application than the preceding one? AT TWILIGHT (From You and I) Americans owe a debt of gratitude to Harriet Monroe for the interest which she has stimulated in poetry. She is the founder and editor of Poetry, a Magazine of Verse-, which has given encouragement and opportunity to many young American poets. She is also the author of several volumes of verse, and edited, with Alice Corbin Henderson, an inter- esting anthology. The New Poetry. She was born and has always lived in Chicago. The city is Chicago, but it might be almost any great city on a rainy night. Should you call the picture mainly literal, mainly suggestive, or mainly imaginative? IN LADY STEEET (From Poems) John Drinkwater was born in 1882. He has published essays, poems, and plays, and has long been interested in problems of the stage. He is general manager of the Binning- NOTES 225 ham Repertory Theater. He became famous over-night with the i^roduction of Ahraham Lincoln, which had an amazing^ run in London before its huge success here. He is to make a lecture tour of the States this winter. Do you think that poetry is poetry when it describes ugly things? (This question has been debated for hundreds of years.) What, of course, is the point of the ugliness here? Should you judge that most of Mr. Drinkwater's poems were about the city or about the country? THE BAREEL ORGAN (From Collected Poems) Alfred Noj'es, who was born in 1880, is an Englishman by birth, and an Oxford graduate. Recentlj^, however, he has spent much time in the United States, not only lecturing, but occupying a professor's chair at Princeton University, so that many Americans are coming to look upon him as an "adopted" poet of their own. (Perhaps he would not regard this as a compliment!) During the war he served for a time in the British Foreign Office, and has been created C. B. E. He has written essays and fiction, but the bulk of his work is poetry, in which line popular opinion ranks him with Kipling and Mase field. The street-organ, at least in America, will soon be a thing of the past. (Why?) Where, then, may you watch the same miracle of the effect of music on different people? Would the effect on these men and women be the same at any time of day? (Apropos of the "rowing-man," that sport has always been one of Mr. Noyes' hobbie,>.) Why does the poet introduce so much repetition, and so many variations of 226 NOTES a few ideas? Is the "lilac time" song intended to be an imi- tation of the average ragtime ditty, or is it too good for that? Why has the poem appealed so strongly to hundreds of readers? THE GREEN INN (From Scrihner's Magazine) Theodosia Garrison Faulks was born in Newark, 1874, and educated at private schools. She was married in 1898, and again in 1911. She has published three volumes of poems, and contributed to leading magazines. An extended figure like this is hard to carry through with- out a slip. What parts of it do you think are most suc- cessfully done ? Notice, too, the rather unusual rhyme-scheme. THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN {From Rudyard Kipling's Verse — Inclusive Edition) There are few parts of the world which Rudyard Kipling has not seen. He was born in Bombay, 1865 ; went to England to be educated; returned to India and wrote for the Anglo- Indian press from 1882-1889; then traveled in China, Japan, America, Africa, and Australasia. For some time he lived in Vermont. (He had already become so famous that while there he used to be annoyed by autograph fiends, who would even buy his checks, given to local dealers, for the sake of the signature !) Since then, he has made his home in England. In 1907, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature. His work is astonishing, not only for its vigor, but for its versatility. His poems fill an enormous volume (Inclusive Edition, 1885-1918). NOTES 227 He is an acknowledged master of short story writing, whether the stories be of Anglo-Indian life {Plain Tales from the Hills), children's stories (the Jungle Books and Just So Stories) or tales of ghosts and terror {The Phantom Rickshaw, At the End of the Passage, The Mark of the Beast). Of his novels, Kim is already a classic. Which call of the Red Gods do you hear most clearly? Where would you go if it were the one given in stanza III "? in stanza IV ? What is meant by ' ' 'Send your road is clear before you?" Why do you think the poet chose the Indian figure of speech as a sort of background for his vivid pictures ? TO THE THAWING WIND (From A Boy's Will) Robert Frost, who is now forty-six years old, was born in San Francisco, but his education and life has been in New England, and all his affection centers on its hillside farms, its stone walls, its taciturn, conservative villagers. He has been a farmer himself, also. He has taught a great deal — grade school, academy, normal school, and college. From 1912-15 he was in England. He is now professor of English at Amherst. He spends much time on his farm at Fran- conia, N. H. Why is the poet anxious for the thawing wind to come? Have you ever seen a window "flow" during a hard rain? WTiat is meant by — "leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix"? When you read the poem, take particular care to bring out the humorous climax. 228 NOTES MISTER HOP-TOAD (From Songs o' Cheer) People in Indiana are so proud of James Whitcomb Riley that they have made his birthday a state holiday. He was born in 1853, and died in 1916. He tried sign-painting, act- ing, and newspaper work before he devoted himself to litera- ture. ]\Iuch of his verse is in the Hoosier dialect, but his "straight English" verses, like "An Old Sweetheart of iMine" have also been much quoted. Of his many volumes, The Raggedy Man and The Little Orphant Annie Book are two that you would like. Do you know Robert Burns' poem "To a Mouse"? If you don't, hunt it up and compare it with this. There are some interesting similarities, and some interesting differences which are due to the different nationalities, times and tem- peraments of the poets. One word may puzzle you. "Mind" in the 3d verse means "remember," in this dialect. TO A POET (by spring) (From Baubles) Carolyn Wells — Mrs. Hadwin Houghton, since 1918 — has given people many an hour of delight with her nonsense poems and parodies. Look over sometimes A Parody Anthology, A Satire Anthology, and A Whimsey Anthology. She has also written many children's books. She has been engaged in lit- erary work since 1900. NOTES . 229 You know the conventional type of "Spring is here" poem. It is a case where "so much has been said, and so well said" that the goddess's protest seems quite natural. What did Chaucer say about "Aprile with his shoures sote"? What are some of Shakespeare's spring songs? Herrick's? MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE (From The Lonely Dancer) (For biographical note, refer to "Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn.") • Do you think this poem would draw a protest from sated "Spring," or is it a trifle unusual? What does "arras" mean? Which lines do you like the least? The best? A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY (From April Airs) Bliss Carman is a native of New Brunswick. Born in 1861, he received his education there, at the University of Edinburgh, and at Harvard. He read law two years, traveled, and was in editorial work. Since 1894 he has devoted him- self to literature, and has brought out twenty-seven small volumes of poetry, April Airs being the most recent. My particular "mountain gateway" is in New Hampshire. Where is yours ? Do you remember about Daphne? If you do not, look up the story in Gayley's Classic Myths. 230 NOTES HAYMAKING (From Poems) Edward Thomas — Welsh, Spanish and English by descent — was born in 1878. He met death on the battlefield of Arras, April 9, 1917. In his thirty-nine years he had published essays, reviews, biographies, and one volume of verse. The latter is dedicated to Robert Frost, whom Mr. Thomas met while he was in England, and whose work he admired. In no two periods of English literature have poets described the beauty of country life and scenery in quite the same way. Perhaps you remember Milton's description of a summer noon in the country: ''Hard by a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks. Where Corydon and Thyrsis met Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs and other country messes Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her bower she leaves With Thestylis to bind the sheaves Or, if the earlier season lead. To the tanned haj'cock in the mead." At first reading, the conventional pastoral names familiar to Milton's readers make the lines sound artificial to us. Yet doubtless Milton was remembering with keen appreciation just the sort of scene described more fully here ; and three hundred years hence, some poet will be mirroring the beautj^ of a similar scene according to the fashion of his age. Just at present we are favoring realistic detail, carefully observed. NOTES 231 but touched with unexpected bits of imagination. Point out vivid instances in this poem. AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY ON THE PRAIRIE (Prom The Congo) If Nicholas Vachel Lindsay could be persuaded to write an autobiography, it would make fascinating reading. So far as facts go — he was born in Illinois, 1879, educated at Hiram College, Chicago Art Institute, and New York School of Art ; lectured for the Y. M. C. A, and stumped for 'the Anti-Saloon League; in 1912 walked from Illinois to New Mexico, dis- tributing rhymes in return for a night's lodging, and speaking in behalf of "The Gospel of Beauty." For the last five years, he has lectured and recited his poetry in many parts of the United States, and spends three-quarters of every year at home writing. You would like "The Congo" and "The Chinese Nightingale," both too long to reprint in this volume. The Village Magazine (privately printed) contains dozens of symbolic and beautiful illustrations for poems. In what sense is this poem really built around the title? Does the imagery interfere with the accurateness of the description ? GREETING (From Collected Poems) "William Henry Davies was born in 1870, of Welsh parents. He was apprenticed to the picture-frame-making trade, but 232 NOTES after his term was over left England and became a tramp in America, for six years. Ketiirning to England, he made sev- eral walking tours as a peddler of notions and as a street singer. His first volume of poems appeared when he was thirty-four. Since then, he has published seven other volumes, which have been collected and printed in one American edition. What is it about this poem that almost makes you wish you were a tramp yourself? A VAGABOND SONG (From 3Iore Songs of Vac/ahondia) The note on Bliss Carman will be found under "A Mountain Gateway." This poem is from the second of a series of three small volumes which were written in collaboration with Kichard Hovey. He was a journalist, actor, dramatist, poet, and lecturer who died in 1900, when he was only thirty-six. Do you think autumn "sets the gypsy blood astir" more than spring? Would this poem be good to set to music — say, for a Boys' Glee Club? THREE PIECES ON THE SMOKE OF AUTUMN (From Cornhuskers) (For biographical note, refer to "Fog.") Why do you think the poet grouped these three short pieces NOTES 233 together? How does the predominant feeling here differ from that in the preceding autumn poem? In the second piece, why is the passage in parentheses inserted ? All of this is free verse — but what devices as old as poetry itself are skilfully employed? GOD'S WORLD (From Renascence and Other Poems) Edna St. Vincent Millay achieved her reputation very young. She was born in Maine, in 1892, and is a graduate of Vassar College. Her most famous long poem, "Renas- cence, " was written when she was nineteen. Since, she has contributed to many magazines, and has a new volume of verse in preparation. Here is still a third way in which the beauty of autumn affects people. Do you think it is more typical of a woman than of a man? AFTER APPLE-PICKING (From Mountain Interval) (For biographical note, refer to "To the Thawing Wind.") In that strange land of delicious drowsiness through which we pass to the sea of sleep, conscious remembrance becomes twisted into images half-real and half-fantastic. What shows the gradual blurring of the apple-picker's mind? Is the picture of the day in the orchard still fairly clear? Do you 234 NOTES like the concluding fancy? Notice the apparent carelessness of rhyme and meter. Does it satisfy your ear? BROTHER BEASTS (From Wraiths and Realities) Cale Young Rice is a native of Kentucky. He was born in 1872 and educated at Cumberland University and Harvard. He has written many poetic dramas and poems. His wife is the author of Mrs. Wiggs of the Cahhape Patch, which was published the year before their marriage. In what ways is this poem rather unusual? • Notice that there are few actual rhjTnes, and yet each stanza gives the effect of being much rhymed. How do you account for it ? BIRCHES (From North of Boston) (For biographical note, refer to "To the Thawing Wind.'') Did you ever think of trying this sport yourself? Which page of the poem do you think is most "poetical"? Read the first page and consider it, for a minute, simply as blank verse. How does it differ from blank verse you have already known? NOTES 235 HIGHMOUNT (From These Times) Louis Untermeyer is a man of many interests — by vocation a designer and manufacturer of jewelry, by avocation a poet, translator, parodist, lecturer, editor and critic. He was born in 1885, was educated in New York and has always lived there. One very enjoyable volume of his parodies is referred to under "The Sunken Garden." His two recently published anthologies, Modern American Poetry and Modern British Poetry, are ones which you would like. What did the Psalmist say about the hill?;, long, long ago? Hdfr does this poem differ from "A Mountain Gateway"? A VIGNETTE (From Collected Poems) Robert Bridges has been the poet laureate of England since 1913. (What great poets have formerly held this office?) He was born in 1844. He is an Oxford man, and for years was a physician by profession. He has written various plays, poems and critical essays; his latest volume of verse, October and Other Lyrical Poems, (1920) has been highly praised by critics in England. What trace of the older "poetic diction" do you notice here? Is the poem modern in spirit? What interpretation is here given of the beauty of Nature? 236 NOTES THE WORLD'S MISER (From Poems) Theodore Maynard, though as yet only thirty, has had a checkered career. Born in India, the son of a missionary, he studied first for the Congregational ministry and then for the Unitarian pulpit; finally he became a Roman Catholic. He spent two years in America, where, owing to unforeseen emergencies, he worked as a factory hand, a bill poster, a book canvasser, and a hand on a cattle boat. Soon after re- turning to England in 1911, he began to write poetry, and from 1916 on has' been making a reputation for himself, being a, lecturer and critic as well as a poet. •• - I recently heard a very sweet and religious but rather narrow-minded old lady say that she thought this poem was sacrilegious. Do you see why she thought so? What lines of the poem show unmistakably the love and deep reverence which lie behind the odd conception? GOOD COMPANY (From Blue Smoke) Karle Wilson Baker was born in Arkansas, 1878 ; was edu- cated at Little Rock Academy and the University of Chicago ; married in 1907. She has published only one volume of verse, but has contributed stories, essays, and poems to various lead- ing magazines, and has in preparation two nonsense fairy books for children. NOTES 237 Why is the last line italicized? Which line do you think gives the prettiest picture? IRRADIATIONS— X (From Irradiations; Sand and Spray) (For biographical note, refer to III from Irradiations.) Is the odd image justified? Is it consistently carried through ? What is a howdah ? (Mr. Fletcher has long felt the influence of Oriental art and literature,) 1 TREES (From Poems, Essays arid Letters) Joyce Kilmer was a young American soldier-poet whose death will long be mourned. He was born in New Jersey, 1886 ; graduated from Columbia in 1908 ; taught school and then became a newspaper man. He was connected longest with the New York Sunday Times. On America's declaration of war, he enlisted immediately as a private. Officially he was a sergeant, but was acting as adjutant when he was killed, on July 30, 1918. Why has this little poem been so much admired and so widely quoted? Do you personally prefer this or the pre- ceding one? 238 NOTES NIGHT-PIECE (From The Old Huntsman) An interesting slietch of Siegfried Sassoon's work and per- sonality, written by his friend Robert Nichols, forms a preface to his second volume. Counter -Attack. Briefly: Mr. Sassoon is just over thirty ; was educated at Marlborough and Christ- church (Oxford) ; served throughout the war as captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, both in France and Palestine, where he received the M. C. ; and since then has been writing and lecturing, having made a tour of the United States in 1920. He is best known as a poet of the war. Why, then, should this earlier poem be included in this collection? What are fauns? Dryads? What vowel, skilfully used throughout, somehow gives the effect of night noises in the woods? Do you remember the "blue meager hag" passage in Comusf THE FINAL SPURT (From Reynard the Fox) (For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") These seventy-eight lines are really the climax of the long narrative poem which tells the story of a whole day's thrilling fox-hunt. The fox has shaken of£ his pursuers twice, but this time he seems doomed. After reading this, you surely will want to know whether the horses too, jumped the hedge, and whether Re^niard finally escaped. Get a copy of the book and read the conclusion. It is rather unexpected, in tliat it sat- NOTES 239 isfies both our sympathy for the hunted fox and our sympathy for his pursuers. For although we, as Americans, have been bred to consider fox-hunting a cruel sport — a scruple which rarel^^ occurs to an Englishman — as we follow Mr. IVlase- field's huntsmen and horses and dogs throughout the poem^ we grow so fond of them, and so excited with them that we are ready to forgive their almost prayerful profanity and should feel really disappointed if they had their long day's chase for nothing. THE HORSE THIEF (From Burglars of the Zodiac) "William Rose Benet was born in 1886, educated at Albany Academy and Yale. Before the war he brought out three volumes of verse, and was assistant editor of the Century Magazine. After his honorable discharge from the Air Ser- vice, he went into the advertising business, then resumed his literary career, publishing Burglars of the Zodiac. He is now Associate Editor of the Literary Review (New York Evening Post). How do you know that only a lover of ho-rses could have written this poem? What makes it different from any other poem about horses that you have ever read? Why is it a good specimen of the type called "dramatic monologue?" Bellerophon rode the winged horse Pegasus. Sagittarius, "the archer," (sometimes represented as a Centaur, in older charts) is one of the constellations and a sign of the Zodiac. The idea of the Zodiac originated with the Babylonians, who not only na'ned stars and planets after their gods, but positively identified the two. 240 NOTES THE RETURN (From Collected Poems) "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was born in 1878. In his early- thirties he was a social worker, living in the East End of London. During part of the war, he served — quite charac- teristically, as a private — in the British Army. In 1917, he made a lecture tour of the United States. He has written a dozen small volumes of verse, most of which have been col- lected in one large volume. Some of the best verses are war- poems ; the others deal with "the short and simple annals of the poor." What is the unexpected twist at the end? Why is this suggestion worse than the one which probably occurred to you — that the boy might be killed? THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES (From The Sad Years) Dora Sigerson was a very sensitive, gifted young Irish writer, a member of a family who were prominent socially and intellectually, and actively interested in Irish politics. She married Mr. Clement Shorter in 1897. She lived after- wards in England, but was always passionately devoted to Ireland, and worry over the situation there doubtless hastened her death in January, 1918. She had already suffered much from the tragedy of the Great War. If you did not know, how could y^ou guess that this poem was written by a woman ? Which one of your senses is par- ticularly affected by reading the poem? By what poetic de- vice is this effect accomplished ? What is there rather unusual about the meter? NOTES 241 THE BOMBARDMENT (From Me7i, Women, and Ghosts) Amy Lowell was born in 1874, of a wealthy and distin- guished Massachusetts family. She was educated at private schools, and has traveled widely. An interesting and sig- nificant feature of her poetic career is that she spent years in learning her craft before attempting to publish a single poem. They paid. Since 1912 she has published five books of verse, two books of literary criticism, and many essays, and has become widely known for her radical yet soundly defended poetic theories. It would seem as if there were few experi- ments left for her to try. She has put free verse on a sound critical basis, and has gone a step farther in her "polyphonic prose" pieces, of which this is an example. This is what Miss Lowell says about "polyphonic prose" in her Tendencies in Modern American Poetry: " 'Polyphonic prose' is not a prose form, although being printed as prose many people have found it difficult to un- derstand this. It is printed in that manner for convenience, as it changes its character so often, with every wave of emotion, in fact. The word 'polyphonic' is its keynote. 'Polyphonic' means 'many-voiced' and the form is so called because it makes use of all the 'voices' of poetry, viz.: meter, vers libre, assonance, alliteration, rhyme, and return. It employs every form of rhythm, even prose rhythm at times, but usually holds no particular one for long. It is an ex- ceedingly difficult form to write, as so much depends upon the poet's taste. The rhymes may come at the ends of the cadences, or may appear in close juxtaposition to each other. 242 NOTES or may be only distantly related. It is an excellent medium for dramatic portrayal, for stories in scenes, as it permits of great vividness of presentation. ' ' First of all, read The Bomhardment throush aloud at least twice. By that time, your ear will have told you that this is no prose, even though it is written as such. You must have noticed many cases of assonance, alliteration, rhyme and re- turn. Pick out a few instances of each. Read it again, try- ing especially now to pick out phrases which swing into regu- lar meter for an instant. You can try all sorts of inter- esting tests on it, if you have time. But don't neglect to read it aloud once more as a whole, not stopping to think about any of the poetic devices. Subconsciously, this time, you will find your ear satisfied, and you will be free to notice the wonder- ful succession of pictures. THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS (From On Heaven and Poems Written on Active Service) Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873, the grandson of the famous English painter Ford Madox Brown. His father was German, but had an intense hatred of Prussianism. It is not surprising, therefore, that he immediately sought a commis- sion in the British Army during the war, although he was over age, and was abandoning a prosperous literary career. He was the first editor of The Enf/lish Bcvieiv, and has written fiction, essays, and biography as well as poetry. How does this poem differ from the preceding one? What is rather unusual about the conception? Is the strictly im- personal tone elf ective ? NOTES 24c RHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 (From Afternoons of April) Grace Hazard Conklino; graduated from Smith College in 1899, and afterwards studied music and languages at Heidel- berg and Paris. She was married in 1905. She has been in- structor and professor in the English Department at Smith since 1914. She has spent several years in Mexico. Word of the havoc wrought upon Rheims Cathedral came like the news of a friend's death to those who knew and loved the magnificent building, with its age-old beauty of detail. For whom does that beauty still exist? Of what lines in // Penseroso do lines 9-12 remind you? Do you know Words- worth's sonnet "On King's Chapel, Cambridge"? THE OLD SOLDIER (From Flower of Youth) Katherine Tynan (Mrs. Hinkson) was born in Dublin and educated in a Drogheda convent. Her first volume of verse was published in 1885. Since then, she has brought out many more volumes, fiction as well as poetry. She did much phil- anthropic work during the war, and gave her two sons to the British Army. This poem, evidently, wa.s written upon the death of the "great Captain." Do you like the thought? Do you like the very concrete form given to the idea of God's tender care for His children? 244 NOTES FUNK (From Rhymes of a Bed Cross Man) Robert W. Service, who is now forty-seven, is English by birth, Scotch by education, Canadian, American, and "citizen of the world" b}^ experience. He has farmed, traveled, and worked in banks and on newspapers. He spent eight years in the Yukon, and much of his poetry concerns this wonderful land. He is an ardent motorist, and through the Great War drove a Red Cross ambulance. Service has been called a disciple of Kipling. Does this poem show you why? What are the most vivid lines? The finest ? What is suggested by the steady beat of the last line in each stanza? THE DEVOUT HIGHLANDER (From Songs of the Shrapnel Shell) Captain Cyril Morton Home was one of the English soldier- poets who gave his life. He was tr.ying to rescue a wounded soldier in front of the trenches when a shrapnel shell burst overhead (Jan. 27, 1916). He was only twenty-nine. How does this poem show that Captain Home had a de- licious sense of humor as well as a thorough understanding of Scotch characteristics 1 THE SPIRES OF OXFORD (From The Spires of Oxford) Winifred M. Letts was born in 1887, in Ireland. She has always been much interested in Irish peasant life ; in fact, an NOTES 245 article in the Dublin Review called her ''a poet of the streets." She served as a nurse at base hospitals during the Great War, and that experience resulted in a vohime of war poems, of which this is the best known. Besides verse, she has written novels, and books for children. What pictures do you find here of the peace and beauty of Oxford? About how old are some of "the hoary colleges"? Should the sacrifice made by these men be appreciated any more than that made by others ? Do you know the old English carol of which the last stanza gives an echo? THE SOLDIER (From Collected Poems) Rupert Brooke was a poet of very great promise. He was born in 1887 ; educated at Rugby and Cambridge. He studied in Munich and traveled on the Continent; in 1913-1914 he made a trip to the South Seas, via the United States and Canada. He enlisted immediately on the outbreak of the war and was first sent to Antwerp. A few months later he sailed for the Dardanelles (with the British Mediterranean Expe- ditionary Force), but never reached there, dying from blood- poisoning on April 23, 1915. His grave is on the island of Scyros. The sonnet-sequence called "1914" is better known than anything else of Brooke's, and of the five sonnets, this one is most often quoted. Do you see why it has been so highly praised ? Which do you like better, the octave or the sestet ? 246 NOTES I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH (From Poems) Alan Seeger was born in 1888. He was educated at various Eastern public and private schools and at Harvard. Soon after, he sailed for Paris, where he studied several years, until the war broke out. He immediately enlisted in tlie Foreign Legion of France, and served not quite two years, be- ing killed in action on July 4, 1916. Alan Seeger 's name is often linked with Rupert Brooke's. They were both young, they 'both loved life tremendously, and they gave it up unhesitatingly. Each, too, had a strong pre- sentiment of his approaching death. Notice the contrasts here, pointed by the same constantly recurring thought. IN FLANDERS FIELDS (From In Flanders Fields) John McCrae was a Canadian, born in 1872. He took both his A. B. and his M. D. at the University of Toronto, finishing in 1898. During 1899-1900 he served in South Africa and spent the rest of his life in med'cal praetjce, for which he was exceptionally gifted. He enlisted immediately on the out- break of the war. After a few months at the front, he was sent back to No. 3 General Hospital at Boulogne, with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. His three years of tireless service there doubtless lessened his power to resist an attack of pneumonia, which caused his death in Januar.v, 1918. NOTES 247 Why is this poem more familiar to the average reader than any other poem of the Great AVar? Can you determine why it is so musical ? (In this connection, you might study the first and third stanzas of "The Solitary Reaper," by Wordsworth, where the devices and efit'ect are much the same. How does the unrhymed line in this poem help it still further?) In form, the poem is a "rondeau," a difficult and beautiful metrical pattern first used by French poets. THE DEAD TO THE LIVING (From The New World) Laurence Binyon was born in 1869, and educated at St. Paul's School and Oxford. Since 1898 he has held various offices of trust and honor in the British Museum. He lec- tured in the U. S. A. in 1912 and 1914. During the war, hri worked in a hospital in France, and as a volunteer in the anti-aircraft service. Why do you think it is that this poem dealing with almost exactly the same theme as "In Flanders Fields" has not had the same popularity? In what sense has this poem a wider and a deeper thought ? COUNTER-ATTACK (From Counter-Attack and Other Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "Night-Piece.") This illustrates a kind of war verse which Sassoon and some other young poets have insisted should be written and should 248 NOTES be read. Do you understand why tliey thought so? Do you think, on the whole, it is more or less effective than any of the five preceding poems? NOON (I FROM ^'BATTLE") (From Ardours and Endurances) Robert Nichols was one of those who left ''the shaven lawns of Oxford" and he came very near finding the 'bloody sod." An undergraduate of twenty-one, he enlisted imme- diately in 1914 and served as lieutenant for a year, until he was so severely wounded and shell-shocked that he had to be invalided out of sei'vice. He was later employed by the British Ministry of Labor. He made a lecture tour of the U. S. A. in 1918-19. He has a new volume of verse in prep- aration. What two things which make the soldiers' situation well- nigh unbearable are brought out vividly in this brief sketch? Is it the same sort of poetry as "Counter-Attack"? TO LUCASTA. ON GOING TO THE WAR— FOR THE FOURTH TIME (From Fairies and Fusiliers) Robert Graves was born in 1895. In spite of his youth, he was a captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers before his army service ceased. Picked up for dead on the battle-field, he is said to have astounded the stretcher-bearers by suddenly ex- claiming: "I'm not dead! I'm damned if I'll die!" He has just published his second volume of verse. NOTES 219 What is the very famous older poem which Mr, Graves had in mind while writing these verses? How would you know this to be a product of the twentieth century, as unmistakably as you would know the other to be one of the seventeenth ? THE RETEEAT (From Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "The Return.") At the first of the jMesopotamian campaign, the British suffered reverses because of their insufficient numbers and ex- treme difficulty in establishing communications. Very little, comparatively, has been written about these campaigns, but from the point of strategy they were most important. British Campaigns in the Nearer East, by Edmund Lane, is an in- teresting recent work on the subject. Mr. Gibson's war poems generally concern the psychology of the soldier — that is, the way war's horrors affect his mind — rather than war's horrors themselves. Should you think this kind of war poetry would be more or less effective than that which employs realistic description of the horrors? It is very unusual to tind only two rhymes in a sonnet. What do you think was the author's purpose in thus limiting them, and in repeating one line so often? NIGHT IN MESOPOTAMIA (From Night Winds of Arahy) Lieutenant A. J. Eardley Dawson is twenty-one years old. He was educated at Cheltenham College, passed into the Cadet 250 NOTES College, Qiietta, and was commissioned in 1917, Sent to an Indian regiment — the famous Queen 's Rajputs — he has served in INIesopotamia, Saloniea, South Russia, Armenia, Persia, and Constantinople. How would you like to march, fight, and sleep in an Asian desert where during the day the thermometer was above 110° and during the night not below 80° ? What do you consider the best line here ? DOES IT MATTER? (From Counter- Attack and Other Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "Night-Piece.") What is the method employed here to make people realize what war means ? Is it effective ? Do you think we have done and are doing enough for our disabled and nerve-racked veterans ? THE DAWN PATEOL (From The Dawn Patrol and Other Poenis of an Aviator.) Captain Paul Bewsher was the first airman to obtain notice as a poet. He has also won distinction as a lecturer and a journalist. He was educated at St. Paul's School (London). He gained various war honors for exploits at Zeebrugge and elsewhere on the Belgian coast. With all this, he is still in his early twenties. NOTES 251 This poem, with its beauty, its sense of soaring, and its realization of the Great Guiding Power, has always reminded me of two very famous "bird" poems — one English, one American. Do you know them? AN OPEN BOAT (From The New Morning) (For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ,") Comparatively few poems have been written about the hor- rors of submarine warfare. Does this one gain in vividness by its briefness? Would you rather have had a longer poem describing the torpedoing of the ship, the escape to the open boat, perhaps some brave deed of the lover which cost him his life? What finally happened to them all? ADMIRAL DUGOUT (From Small Craft) (For biographical note, refer to "Sailor Town.") Super-dreadnoughts, cruisers, and destroyers were not the only ships that protected the North Sea. The plucky little trawlers equipped with mine-sweeping apparatus and a few "barkers" to riddle chance-met submarines played a heroic part in the struggle. Often they were commanded by men of exactly "Admiral Dugout's" type. 252 NOTES ''THE AVENUE OF THE ALLIES" (From The New Morning) (For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ.") Throughout the Liberty Loan campaigns and the great ac- eompanying parades, Fifth Avenue (New York) was a sight never to be forgotten. The sober brown, white and gray build- ings were covered with a riot of color — thousands of flags of the Allied Nations, as far down the "lordly street" as eye could see. What was Pentecost? What was "that world's Declara- tion?" What is the device on the Polish flag? What does "burgeons" mean? Why does the poet take the scene at night, rather than in the daytime? Could you put the main thought of the poem into a few words? Does it make you any prouder of your country ? Is it what you would have expected from an Eng- lishman ? PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE (From Poems, Essays, a:nd Leiters) (For biographical note, refer to "Trees.") Joyce Kilmer was a devoted Catholic, with a strong vein of religious mysticism in his temperament. What is the reverent and beautiful thought which comes to him in the midst of his trials? Do you think it would have occurred to the average soldier? In the line ' ' Men shout at me who may not speak, ' ' what is the antecedent of ' ' who ? " NOTES 25a THE SMALL TOWN CELEBRATES (From Boston, Transcript) (For biographical note, refer to "Good Company.") What were you doing- on the dawn of November 11, 1918? What are some especially good bits of description? How is Old Boozer's "preaching" typical of a negro? Why intro- duce the boy? The puppy? CONTINUITY (From Collected Poems) George W. Russell, who writes under the pseudonym "A.E.," is a middle-aged Irish poet and painter who is known and loved throughout all Ireland. His personality is calm, sincere, straightforward and strong, and he has abiding faith in the permanence of Good. His house in Dublin is a center for gracious hospitality and the stimulating of interest in so- cial, artistic, and intellectual problems. This poem was written in war-time. What special signifi- cance does it gain from that fact? BABY PANTOMIME (From The Sistine Eve) Percy MacKaye is forty-six years old. He was educated at Harvard and Leipzig. He is a dramatic rather than a lyric poet, having written many plays and masques in verse. (You 254 NOTES would be interested in The Canterbury Pilgrims if you have read Chaucer.) He has lectured widely on the theater, and organized many community playhouses. Do you know a long- and difificult, but very beautiful poem by Wordsworth — one with an appalling title — of which this sounds like a humorous echo? Which of the gestures men- tioned have you seen a baby make most frequently? A MAN-CHILD'S LULLABY (From Poems) Brian Hooker was born in 1880, graduated from Yale, and has been instructor in English at Yale and at Columbia. He has written the libretto for several successful American operas, Horatio Parker writing the music. He is a literary editor on the Nctv York Sun, and lately has become interested in the writing of "movies." How does this difit'er from the preceding poem ? Do you remember the refrain of an old Elizabethan lullaby — "Sephestia's Song to Her Child" — which has this idea? JUSTICE (From Candles That Burn) Aline Kilmer was born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1888, and educated at a private school in New Jersey. She married Joyce Kilmer (q.v.) in 1908. Since his death, she has pub- lished a volume of verse, and she contributes to various maga- zines. NOTES 255 The Kilmers had four children. How old do you think Michael and his sister were when this happened? What primal instincts has the little girl developed? Does Michael realize his mother's decision is just? SMELLS (JUNIOR) (From The Rocking -Horse) Christopher Morley was born in Pennsylvania in 1880. He graduated from Haverford, and from 1910-1913 was a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford. He has held editorial positions with Dou- bleday, Page & Company, The Ladies' Home Journal, and the Philadelphia Public Ledger. He is now a literary editor of the Neif York Evening Post, conducting an enjoyable "col- umn." He writes fiction and essays, as well as verse. Can you remember any scents which especially struck your fancy when you were a child ? THE RAG DOLLY'S VALENTINE (From The Laughing 3Iuse) Arthur Guiterman was born in 1871, and graduated from the College of the City of New York in 1891. He has been a journalist and an editorial writer. Since 1911 he has contrib- uted a great deal of humorous verse to Life. He has con- ducted clas'>es in newspaper and magazine verse in New York University. "VYhy are children's favorite toys usually their most dis- reputable ones? What were you fond of taking to bed with vou ? 256 NOTES THE ANXIOUS FARMER (From Rhymes of Home) Burges Johnson was born in 1877, in Vermont, and gradu- ated from Amlierst in 1899. He has been a reporter, and held various editorial positions on different magazines. Since 1915 he has been associate professor of English at Vassar. He has written many books of humorous verse. Don't you feel like illustrating this poem? Is the title well chosen ? Is there any hope for the garden ? THE DEW-LIGHT (From Poems of a Little Girl) Little Hilda Conkling, the daughter of Mrs. Grace Hazard Conkling (q.v.) has been composing verse since she was four years old. (She was bom in 1910.) Her mother writes down these "songs" as Hilda gives them to her, carefully indicating by divisions and punctuation the original cadences of the child's voice. Hilda is an absolutely normal, happy, healthy little girl, in spite of her exceptional gift. As far as technique goes, this might well have been w^ritten by an older person. What shows you clearly, however, that it is the work of a child ? NOTES 257 THE SHADOW PEOPLE (From Complete Poems) Francis Ledwidge, the most promising of the young Irish poets, was only twenty-six when he was killed in action, July, 1917. He was a peasant boy with little education who had been a farmhand and laborer. But he had been writing creditable poetry since he was sixteen. We owe much to Lord Dunsany for "discovering" and encouraging him, and for making a collection of his verse, after his tragic death. The poem was written while Ledwidge was in hospital in Egypt. Might the child be his remembered self? Why, any- way, is the child distinctly Irish? What two lines do you like best? INCOEEIGIBLE (From Rhymes of Little Folk) (For biographical note, refer to "The Anxious Farmer.") Is it the boy's apple-tree exploit that makes him "incor- rigible"? DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN (From Canzoni) (For biographical note, refer to "Een Napoli. ") Why is the father proud of his boy ? the boy altogether worth being proud of? 258 NOTES LITTLE PAN (From Grenstone Poems) Witter Bynner was born in 1881, and graduated from Harvard in 1902. He has been an assistant editor and literary editor on various magazines, and a lecturer, as well as the writer of several volumes of verse. Recently he has been an instructor at the University of California. Do you like the title of the poem? What line is most im- portant ? One of m3' girls said that the youngster reminded her of Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. Do you see why ? RUFUS PEAYS (From Oxford Poetry, 1916) Leonard A. G. Strong was born in Devonshire in 1896, and educated at private schools and Wadham College, Oxford. Kept out of the army by ill health, he taught for two years at Summer Fields, Oxford, to which he has now returned. In 1919 he published DaUinrjton Bhijmes, and has a volume of collected verse in preparation for 1921. A boy said that this reminded him of the parable about the Pharisee and the publican. Rufus has the repulsive outward marks of idiocy — why, then does he not repel us? What very beautiful conception of tlie future life does he phrase in his idiot way? NOTES 259 AN OLD WOMAN OF THE KOADS (From Wild Earth and Other Poems) Padraie Colum was born in Ireland, 1881. Before coming to the United States to live (in 1914) he was an editor of the Irish Review (Dublin) and a founder of the Abbey Theater (Irish National Theater). He lectures on poetry and Irish literature. He has written plays and sketches as well as poems. In Ireland, the female tramp, be she bego-ar, peddler, or mere wanderer, is a familiar figure. Synge has drawn a charming humorous picture of such an old woman and her husband in his comedy The Well of the Saints. ]\Iight this longing find an echo in the hearts of any class in America ? Why wouldn't the old woman crave company in her little house ? THE ANCIENT BEAUTIFUL THINGS (From Atlantic Monthly) (For biographical note, refer to "AVild Weather.") What are ' ' the ancient beautiful things ' ' meant here ? How do they differ from the delights of a home as pictured by "the old woman of the roads"? Do you recall a scene in a play by Maeterlinck which is suggested by the lines beginning, "How should we have chosen her?" What famous Bible text sounds like an answer to the last question? 260 NOTES YOU, FOUE WALLS, WALL NOT IN MY HEART ! (From The Singing Man) Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Marks) was born in New York, and took her B. A. at Radcliffe in 1894. For a time she was in the English Department at Wellesley. She married in 1906. In 1910 her play The Piper was awarded the Stratford- on-Avon prize. She has published several volumes of verse. Which poem do you think has a bigger thought, this or the preceding 1 MY DOG (From Foothills of Parnassiis) John Kendriek Bangs is a lecturer and humorist as well as a writer. Also, he has been an editor on various periodicals. He was born in 1862, and is a Columbia graduate. Two well- known books of his are A Houseboat on the Styx, and Ghosts I Have Met. Why has this little poem given delight to readers of all ages? IN SERVICE (From Songs of Leinster) (For biographical note, refer to "The Spires of Oxford.") Which picture do you prefer here — that of the wistful-eyed NOTES 261 little serving-maid in her unprecedented finery (even boots!), or that of the fishing-village which is her home? Wordsworth once wrote a poem about a homesick country girl in town — do you know it ? MY SWEET BROWN GAL (From Lyrics of Love and Laughter) Paul Laurence Dunbar was born in Dayton, Ohio, and edu- cated in the public schools there. For a time he was a jour- nalist in New York, and then was on the stai'f of the Congres- sional Library. He published many small volumes of verse, beginning when he was twenty-one. His readings of his own poems delighted large audiences. His untimely death in 1906 — he was only thirty -two — meant a great loss to American poetiy. Mr. Dunbar was the first American negro to stimulate in- terest in his race through poetry characteristic of them, and written in their dialect. Ever since his death, his influence has persistently showed itself in the ever-increasing attention given to negro "spirituals" and songs. Warmth, peace, music from a beloved instniment — could the most palatial home offer much better things on a stormy night ? THE SUNKEN GAEDEN (From Moiley) (For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) What gives this poem the touch of mystery — ' ' spookiness, ' ' as one of my pupils put it? ("The Listeners" is another 2G2 NOTES famous one of this type.) Louis Untermeyer lias parodioil this trait delieiously in his volume " — and Others," where Walter de la Mare is supposed to tell the story of Jack and Jill. Yon would enjoy reading- that — and other take-offs in the book, too. "What gives you the impression tlial the garden is an old one ■? THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT (From Pictures of the Floating ^Yor]d) (For biographical note, refer to "The Bombardment.") One of ]\liss Lowell's passions is gardens. She has written many poems about them; 3-ou will find three others in this same volume. Do you tliink gardens are lovelier by day or by moonlight ? Does the touch of sadness seem natural on such a night ? Do you like the introduction of the black cat '■ Compare and con- trast this poem with the previous one. TO MY BKOTHER (From Service a)id Sacrifice) Corinne Roosevelt Robinson was the "Conie" of Theodore Roosevelt's boyhood diary — his younger sister, to whom he was always devoted. In her early twenties she married Doug- las Robinson, the capitalist. Her two hol)bies have been poetry — of which she has published two volumes — and politics, a game in which she has proved herself a forceful and vivacious speaker. On the death of our great ex-President, many poetic tributes NOTES 263 were paid to him as an official, a statesman, and a leader. (The two best known, perhaps, are by Kipling and Masters — ' ' Greatheart ' ' and ' ' At Sagamore Hill. ' ' ) This tribute by his sister shows a side of greatness which popular estimation is apt to overlook. The rhyme-scheme here is the one immortalized by Tenny- son in a poem about a dear friend of his who had died. Do you know it ? A MILE WITH ME (From The Poems of Henry van Dyke) Henry van Dyke was born in Pennsylvania, 1852. He took his B. A. at Princeton in 1873, and studied further at several other universities, from which he holds other degrees. He was ordained a Presbyterian minister in 1877. Later he was professor of English at Princeton. From 1913-16 he was American minister to the Netherlands and Luxembourg. Be- sides poetry, he has written many essays. Why would this poem be a good one to copy in an auto- graph album? MY FRIEND (From Echoes and Realities) Walter Prichard Eaton was born in ^Massachusetts, 1878. He took his A. B. at Harvard in 1900. He has been dramatic correspondent and critic on various newspapers, and lately for the American Macjazine. He has written fiction and sketches, especially for boys. 264 NOTES A certain fine reserve between even the best of friends is very characteristic of New Englanders. Do you like it, or do you prefer to share all your friends' secrets? What did Emerso» say on this subject? Bacon? What two splendid traits does ' ' my friend ' ' possess ? Do you think the compari- son employed throughout is an apt one ? PEOPLE (From Spring Morning) Frances D. Cornford is the granddaughter of Charles Dar- win. She was bom in 1886. She married in 1909, her hus- band (Francis Macdonald Cornford) being a Fellow of and Lecturer of Trinity College, Cambridge. She has published a morality play, Death and the Princess, and two volumes of poems. Dickens emphasizes this same idea in the opening para- graph of Chapter III, A Tale of Two Cities. Do you remem- ber it? The last lines of the preceding poem, also, have this thought — with what difference? Mrs. Cornford originally called this poem "Social Intercourse." Does that suggest an- other difference ? SONG (From Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke) (For biographical note, refer to "The Soldier.") Rupert Brooke was simple, normal, healthy, balanced, to a fine degree. Such j-)eople rarely need to fear their emotions. NOTES 265 for they find them spontaneous, deep, and oddly familiar. What two false emotions which mark the unbalanced type of person are suggested in the first two stanzas'? Can you think of others? THE LOOK (From Love Songs) Sara Teasdale (Mrs. Filsinger) was born in St. Louis, 1884, and educated at private schools. She has traveled much abroad. She was married in 1914, and now lives in New York City. Love Songs, published in 1917, was awarded the Colum- bia prize of $500 for that year. She has brought out two other volumes of verse, and an anthology of love-poems by women. What trait of human nature makes this little poem ring true? Would it be good to set to music? TO A DISTANT ONE (From Collected Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "The Shadow People.") This poem was written while Francis Ledwidge was in bar- racks, shortly before his death. Its prophecy, therefore, was never fulfilled on earth. But I can never read it without thinking of the young hero of a war-play Across the Border, by Beulah Marie Dix. All his life he has been looking for the girl who shall be "fragrance, light and life" to him, without 266 NOTES finding her. She is found at last, in the world beyond ours. Ought a man to wait until he has something — and that doesn't mean merely money — to offer a girl? Why does the poet say, "Till Fame and other little things were won"? MARY, HELPER OF HEARTBREAK (From The Old Road to Paradise) (For biographical note, refer to "The Factories.") A sixteenth century sonnet by Michael Drayton. "Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and part ' ' has this same idea — that the best of reasoning is often but a crumbling wall against the sweeping tide of emotion, the most carefully marshaled arguments a vain defense against "the defeat we love better than victory." It is stated in the same wa.y, too, with the unexpected twist at the end. Read the sonnet and see which of the two poems you consider more forceful. GARDEN OF THE ROSE (From Star-Glow and Song) Charles Buxton Going was born in Westchester County, 1863. He is a Columbia graduate, and his vocation is en- gineering. During the war he was a major in the Ordnance Department. He has published two volumes about engineer- ing, and three of poems. A famous Elizabethan love-song "Cherry -Ripe" compares a ffirl 's face to a garden of flowers ; but this comparison is rather new. Do you tliink it is effective? NOTES 267 Mediaeval romances are full of brave knights, each of whom worshiped one maiden. ''by years of noble deeds Until they won her. ' ' Their fair but over-capricious lady-loves often kept them waiting for a length of time which must have sorely tried the lovers' patience. Yet even in this day of rapid-fire action, the wise lover will wait patiently. For if reverent respect for another's personality is a fine quality of friendship, it is in- dispensable in the most perfect but most difficult relationship of all. THE LITTLE GOLDEN FOUNTAIN (From The Little Golden Fountain) Marj^ Mac]\Iillan was born in Ohio, and educated there and at Bryn JMawr College. She is a writer of plays {Short Plays and More Short Plays) articles, stories, and verse. She has a second volume of the latter in preparation. Here is another "conceit," as old John Donne would have called it, still more elaborately carried out. Does its elabor- ateness detract from or add to the thought so old and yet forever new — "Mon coeur est plein de toi"? (Do you know Tosti's setting of that song?) 268 NOTES SONGS OF A GIRL (From Youth Riding) Mary Carolyn Davies was married in 1919, but still writes under her maiden name. She is by birth a Far-Westerner ; she studied at the University of California, 1911-12, and later at New York University. She was among the founders of Others, a group of free verse writers. She has published sev- eral volumes of poems and plays. What feeling is here shown to be the foundation of true love? PSALM TO MY BELOVED (From Bodij and Raiment) Eunice Tietjens (Mrs. Head) was born in 1884, in Chicago. She studied much abroad, and after her first marriage com- pleted a tour of the world. She was formerly an associate editor of Poetry. Her first book was Profiles from China. Every one acknowledges that the Psalms, though written as prose, are poetry in a very true sense of the word. This little poem is deliberately modeled on their long, flowing cadences, and their trick of repetition. It is particularlj' a poem that needs reading aloud. One of the most beautiful of all German love-songs, "Wid- mung," by Riickert, (the famous setting is by Schumann) has somewhat this idea, especially in the line, "Du bist die Ruh, du bist der Frieden." NOTES 269 THE REFLECTION (From The Rockincj Horse) (For biographical note, refer to "Smells — Junior.") Is the woman mother, sister, or wife? What is the secret of her personal influence over the man? Is she conscious of it? Is he? When you finally meet people of whom you have heard a great deal, do you find the reality the same as "the reflection"? A LYNMOUTH WIDOW (From In Deep Places) Amelia Josephine Burr was born in New York City, 1878, and is a graduate of Hunter College. During the war she did interesting volunteer work of various kinds. Recently she has made a trip around the world. She has published one novel, two volumes of plays, and five volumes of verse. AYhy is this short poem so powerful? What good bit of psychology does it contain? PARTING (From Poetry) Alice Corbin was born in St. Louis. In 1905 she married William Penhallow Henderson, the artist. Since 1912 she 270 NOTES has been an associate editor of Poetry, and although severely handicapped by ill-health, has done nuich for the magazine, especially by her researches among old folk-songs. With Miss Monroe, she compiled The New Poetry (1917). She has pub- lished one volume of verse, and one of plays. This is an "interpretation," rather than an exact transla- tion, of an old Indian poem. A splendid anthology, Cronyn's Path on the Rainhow, containing many other poems of this same sort, indicates the awakening interest of modern Ameri- cans in the oldest American literature. Incidentally, we don't feel so modern when we discover that all these poems were in free verse. What famous poem did Burns write about a dear old couple who had almost reached the end of a happy life together? THE PENALTY OF LOVE (From Poems of the Unknown IV oy) Sidney Royse Lysaght is a scholarly, wealthy, widely- traveled Irish author, now middle-aged. He has published two volumes of verse and three novels. How does this differ from the other love-poems you have just read? What is "the penalty" of love, even when one's love is returned? Did Elaine think that the joy of her o^vn love was worth this penalty, when her love was not requited ? Did Sydney Carton? Why is any one "poor" if he turns love from his door? NOTES 271 BARTER (From Love Songs) (For biographical note, refer to "The Look.") Seventy-odd years ago, with the spirit of the Puritans still strong upon him, James Russell Lowell wrote : "Earth gets its price for what earth gives us; At the Devil's booth are all things sold. Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; For a cap and bell our lives we pay. Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking." Is the view of this poem Pagan, in contrast? Or are the things to be bartered of a slightly different sort? What are some other bits of loveliness that Life has sold to vou? TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN (From Poems) Ralph Hodgson has always shunned publicity of any kind. Therefore, little is known of liim, except that he is about forty, lives a quiet life in the country, and is very fond of animals. He has published only two volumes of poems (in 1907 and 1917) and those very small ones, but the quality of his verse is the opposite of the quantity. Humor and solemnity are not usually supposed to exist at the same time. How does the poet introduce the former with- out detracting from the latter? 272 NOTES SONNET (From Poems, First Series) John Collings Squire was born in 1884; educated at Blun- dell 's and Cambridge. He has published clever parodies and a good deal of original verse, and has been interested in the editing of literary magazines. His latest venture is The London Mereiiry, a delightful monthly covering poetry, novels, essays, etc. Do you think this sonnet is more effective than it would be if it were written from the point of view of Columbus and his sailors? (By the way, do you know a famous poem about Columbus?) WTiat were "caravels"? Why are they called ' ' doom-burdened ' ' ? PROVINCETOWN (From The Independent) Marie Louise Hersey (Mrs. Forbes) was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1895 ; educated in schools there and in Den- ver, Colorado; graduated from Radclitfe College in 1916, married in 1918. She has not yet published a volume of verse, but her work has appeared in magazines and an- thologies. This, as you may guess, is a "tercentenary" poem. In few towns along the New England coast is the contrast between the old America and the new more sharply impressed on one than in Provincetown. What are some particularly beautiful bits of description in the poem? NOTES 273 AMERICA (From Mushwoms) Alfred Kreymborg was born in 1883, in New York City, where he still lives. He has published three books of original verse, been the founder and editor of two anthologies of Imagist verse, and been the first to introduce free verse into drama, in his Plays for Poem Mimes. Because of IMr. Kreymborg's whimsical fancies and fearless humor, critics have accused him of flippancy. His friends know him to be a tireless, quiet, earnest toiler with a deep vein of seriousness. Do you see both sides of him in this poem, or does one predominate? "Why is the "boy" calling "All, One"? RECESSIONAL (From Rudyarcl Kiplmg's Poems ; Inclusive Edition) Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, 1897, was the occasion of such rejoicing and splendor as England had seldom known. Poets outdid themselves in florid tributes to the greatness of their Queen and their country. You can judge what an effect this poem produced, under the circumstances. Why did the poet choose this title? Why has the poem been so often quoted within the last few years? Is it at all applicable to America ? The best-known musical setting of this poem is by Reginald de Koven. 274 NOTES IF (For biographical note, refer to "The Feet of the Young Men.") Emerson once called parody a ' ' saucy homage. ' ' This poem has had that sort of homage paid to it time and time again. Why is it worth serious admiration, as well? "Which "if" would be the hardest one for you? COURAGE (From Moods, Songs, and Doggerel) John Galsworthy was born in 1867. He began writing young, and has had a most successful career as essayist, nov- elist, and dramatist ; he has also published one volume of poems. During part of the war, he gave his services at an English hospital for French soldiers. He has made several lecture-tours of the United States, and done much to strengthen the friendly relations between Britons and Americans. Courage — not only the kind that rises to emergencies, but the kind that holds on with a bulldog grip through a long, weary ordeal — has always been a superlative virtue of the English. A superb anthology might be made of English poems glorify- ing courage. Can jou think of five or six famous ones ? PEAYER (From Challenge) (For biographical note, refer to "Highmount.") "What aspirations mark this "prayer" as being one of the NOTES 275 twentieth century? Whj^ should one pray to be kept from "sleek contentment" and from "compromise"? "What line in the poem reminds you of the two you have just read ? A CREED (From The Shoes of Happiness) Edwin Markham was born in Oregon, 1852, and his boy- hood years were spent on a ranch, where he learned every- tliing from farming to blaeksmithing. He attended San Jose Normal School and two Western colleges, and was in succes- sion a teacher, a school principal, and a superintendent of schools in California. He began writing poetr}- when young, and since 1899, has devoted himself almost entirely to that and lecturing. "The Man with the Hoe," (a poem inspired by Millet's famous painting) which Mr. Markham published in 1899, created a great sensation. It emphasizes tlie age-long oppres- sion of the poor, the power dormant in tliese masses, and the responsibility of the ruling class toward them — a responsi- bility which they may realize too late, in the hour of rebellion. We appreciate that fact quite fully to-day. This poem, how- ever — dedicated by a Christian to a Jew — emphasizes another significant fact which is not yet fully appreciated. Do you think it will be within the next twenty years? You notice it's a rather broader question than that of mere religious tol- eration. THE GREAT LOVER (From Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke) (For biographical note, refer to "The Soldier,") 276 NOTES Do you see any significance in the fact that this poem was written while Brooke was visitino; one of the most beautiful places in the world? Why do some people love life more intensely than others ? What is the danger in the ' ' catalogue ' ' type of poem 'I How does Brooke avert it ? GIFTS (From Factories) (For biographical note, refer to "The Factories.") Do you think it is pessimistic to anticipate the difference between hope and achievement? Why, as one grows older, should he appreciate the little things more and more? Does such appreciation make him give up struggling for the big things? What did Browning say about a man's reach and his grasp '! EICHAED CORY (From Children of the Night) Edwin Arlington Robinson was boni in Maine, 1869. From 1891-1893 he was at Harvard. Children of the Night was his first publication. From 1905-1910 he was in the New York Custom House. The Man Against the Sky (1016) won great praise. He now devotes himself entirely to literature. Do you see any connection between the story of this poem and the Tenth Commandment ? How does Richard Cory show himself "a gentleman of the old school"? What might have driven him to suicide? Technically speaking, do you consider this a well-written poem? NOTES 277 A FARMER REMEMBERS LINCOLN (From Grejisione Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "Little Pan.") Many fine poems have been written by Americans about this great President. Five of them (four besides this) will be found in Untermeyer's Modern American Poetry. This one my own particular classes have usually liked the best, be- cause they say it "sounds the most human." SUNSET (From The Sistine Eve) (For biographical note, refer to "Baby Pantomine.") Is the double concept novel? Appealing? What was the impression of life in general, and especially of old age, given by Jaques in his famous speech about the "seven ages"? Con- trast with that the impression given by the sestet here. SILENCE (From Songs and Satires) Edgar Lee Masters was born in Kansas, 1869. In his boy- hood he lived on a farm. His father was anxious he should l)ecorae a lawyer; so he attended Knox College, practised in an office, and was admitted to the bar in 1891. His law career 278 NOTES has been very successful ; he has also been interested and in- fluential in Illinois politics; but his heart has always been in his writing, which his family opposed and which for many years failed to gain him recognition. But since the publica- tion of Sjyoon River Anthology, fame, though tardy, has made up to him for lost time. He has published five volumes since. Which conception of silence — a consolation, a refuge, a weapon, a promise, — appeals to you most? THE COWBOY'S DEE AM (From Cowboy Songs) John A. Lomax is a professor in the University of Texas. Hq^Is a graduate of that university and of Harvard. As Shel- don Fellow for the Investigation of American Ballads he trav- eled far and wide to make this collection — a task for which he was particularly fitted because his boyhood was spent on the old Chisholm Trail in Texas. He has recently published a second collection called Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp. Though interest in these ballads is recent, their composition belongs mainly to the '60 's and 70 's, when the old fashioned cowboy was a familiar figure and a real force in Western civ- ilization. They grew up in much the same manner that the old English ballads did; they often have as many different versions; like their prototypes, they are usually sung. This particular one has been selected partly because it is set to a tune familiar enough for you to sing it. Shut the classroom door and try ! The note of moralizing, and even of melancholy, is quite as evident in these songs as the note of rollicking cheer and dar- ing. Do you see why? NOTES 279 *Tlie term ^'dog-ie" {g soft) meant origmally a motherless calf; it came to be generally applied to any cattle. "Mav- erick" means the same. *For this information and mnch of the above I am indebted to Professor Lomax. GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN (From General William Booth Enters Into Heaven and Other Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "An Indian Summer Da^' on the Prairie.") Mr. Lindsay has a peculiar and effective method of reciting his poetry. He chants it (with or without musical accompa- niment), and by his rich and flexible voice creates almost orchestral effects. The English poet, Siegfried Sassoon, after hearing him in America last year, wrote an "impression" of the recital which begins: "Switch on the golden lights and set him going; Foam-flowers and dragons; rag-time glorious." The catchy rhythms and dramatic delivery often result in just that. Do you think the poem represents the spirit of the Salva- tion Army? One of my boys said he thought the treatment of the subject was over-theatrical and resulted in cheapness. (Do you agree with him?) But he went on to give two reasons why he liked the poem. What do you think they were ? 280 NOTES \ THE DEVIL (From Poetical ^Yor^xs) William Henry Driimmond was a, Canadian, born in 1854. He was edneated at McGill and Bishops University (Mont- real). By vocation he was a physician, but by avocation a writer of verse and a lecturer. He was widely known in the United States as well as in Canada. He was a great athlete and lover of the outdoors; thus he knew, first-hand, a great deal about rural French-Canadian life, the chief subject of his verse. He died in 1907. The idea of a man's selling his soul to the devil in return for material gifts in this world is a very old one. AVhat is one of the most famous versions? How does this one differ? How do you suppose a story like this might begin and grow, in a small settlement of superstitious people? Would they take it seriously, or regard it as an entertaining ' ' fish story ? ' ' By "election man" is meant the typical honey-tongued pol- itician who stumps the more remote districts to get votes for his party. THE HOST OF THE AIR (From Poems) William Butler Yeats wa.s born in Dublin, 1865. He at- tended schools at Hammersmith and Dublin, his early interest being in the study of art. But at twenty-one, he decided he NOTES 281 preferred literature as a. career. He did memorable work as a founder of the Abbey Theater, thus laying the foundation for the re-awakening of Irish national interest in the drama, and has written several plays for its stage. (You would like, especially, The Land of Heart's Desire.) He has also written many poems. Last year he made a lecture tour in the United States. A very interesting collection of Irish folk-lore may be found in Lady Gregory's latest book, Visions and Beliefs of the West of Ireland. In the Preface, she sums up the various superstitions concerning the "Sidhe" or "host of the air." These strange beings have been since the foundation of the world. Not every one can see them, and they often change their own shapes in any way they choose. ' ' They are as many as the blades of grass. . . . Fighting is heard amx)ng them, and music that is more beautiful than any of this world." Often they bewitch strong j^oung men or beautiful young women to come and live with them for seven years, or twice seven years, or perhaps their whole allotted lifetimes, send- ing them back to earth only to die. "While these are away, a body in their likeness, or the likeness of a body, is left lying in their place." Not only mortals but those who have re- cently died, may be found among the Sidhe. "When the Sidhe pass by in a blast of wind we should say some words of blessing, for there may be among them some of our own dead. ' ' THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY (From Poems) (For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) This has been set to very jolly music, by Sidney Homer. By the way, what qualities must a poem possess, if it is 282 NOTES to be given a musical setting? What poet, himself a musician, indicated the proper relations of words to music, when he said: "Lap me in soft Lydian airs. Married to immortal verse"? THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME (From Images — Old and New) Richard Aldington was born in 1892, educated at Dover College and London University. Leaving before completion of his course, he did newspaper work for awhile, then traveled on the Continent. In 1913 he became assistant editor of the Egotist. In 1916 he joined the army, soon being promoted to ot^cer's rank for great bravery. Since 1918, he has been on the staff of the London Times. lie is regarded as the leading "Imagist" poet in England. In 1913 he married "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle) , one of the young American Imagists, He is the London correspondent of Poetry. Mr. Aldington's intense admiration for the poetry of ancient Greece has influenced nrany of his own verses, not only in subject-matter, but in beaut}- and in finish. Have you ever heard Debussy's "L'Apres-^lidi d'une Faune, " with its atmosphere of summer warmth and perfume, and sunlight shimmering through green leaves? If you have, you can imagine all the better the impotent anger, dismay, and misery of this poor creature who finds himself shivering in the midst of a world he has never known before. Yet you have to laugh at him. "Why? The epithets and allusions employed are most appropriate. Can you explain them all? NOTES 283. ETIQUETTE (From The Laughing Muse) (For biographical note, refer to "The Rag Dolly's Valen- tine.") This is an amnsing variation of a story told over five hun- dred years ago by Geoffrey Chaucer — about a fox who got a rooster into his power by flattering hira and then was in turn foiled by the rooster. It's The Nun's Priest's Tale. Read it, in the original if you can, and if not in The Modern Reader's Chaucer, by Tatlock and iMacKaye. The animal story is more in vogue now than it has been since the Middle Ages — the difference being, however, that they endowed their animal-heroes with human attributes, and we do not. THE POTATOES' DANCE (From The Chinese Nightingale) (For biographical note, refer to "An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie.") This is a "poem game," a form with Avhich Mr. Lindsay has experimented a good deal. The volume from which this is taken contains an interesting preface to the "poem games," the substance of it being as follows: The poem is chanted,, and with the chanting of each line a dancer illustrates the ac- tion or idea of the line by steps or by expressive pantomine. (As you will guess at once, the repetition of the lines is necessary to give time for the dancer's illustrative motions.) "But neither the dancing nor the chanting nor any other thing should be allowed to run awa}^ with the original inten- 284 NOTES tion of the words." (This particular poem was once chanted for the Florence Fleming Noyes school of dancers, who made it into "a veritable whirlwind.") The audience, also, may take its part in playing certain games where responses are necessary. (See "King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.") The whole point is to sweep the audience into the poet 's own mood, and to make them realize the tremendous suggestive- ness of the rhythms of English speech. If any of you are interested in interpretative dancing, why not try this yourselves? DAGONET, ARTHUR'S FOOL (From Aldeharan) Muriel St. Clare Byrne is twenty-five years old. She was educated at The Belvedere School (Liverpool), and Somer- ville College, Oxford, of which University she is a I\I.A. She has taught school, been to France as a Y. M. C. A. staff- lecturer in English in the Army Schools, and is now an assistant-tutor in Oxford. In which one of Tenm'son's Idylls does one hear most of Dagonet ? Show that this little poem stops at just the right minute. FORTY SINGING SEAMEN (From Collected Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ.") For several hundred years after the Crusades, Europeans were extremely curious — and densely ignorant — about the strange, dim "rich East." In 1420, or so, everybody was NOTES 285 talking about a hook called Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Mandeville, supposedly by a returned traveler who had seen all the wonders of Asia. It told of one-eyed giants, dwarfs with no tongues, wild geese with two heads apiece, kings whose thrones, tables and chairs were of gold and jewels, a huge lake made of the tears which Adam and Eve had wept when they were driven out of Paradise, etc. A long time afterward, it was discovered that "Sir John" never existed, and his liter- ary creator had never been to Asia, but had merely drawn on old books of travel and a very fertile imagination. But the book is still vastly entertaining reading for a stormy after- noon. Chapter 27 is the one in which Prester John is men- tioned. He was a supposed Christian king and priest, reputed to rule over a huge and marvelously wealthy territory in Asia. Do you remember who Polyphemus was? What is the force of the comparison in stanzas 1 and 2? What do you consider the most ludicrous part of the sailors' experience? What was the Phoenix? Why represent the men, finally, as not sure what had happened? WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED (From The Rocking -Horse) (For biographical note, refer to "Smells — Junior.") In what plays by Shakespeare do we laugh Avith— -or at — Falstafif, Puck and Caliban? What other plays have you read which show what a keen sense of humor the great dramatist must have possessed ? What are the little touches here which make the whole picture lifelike? (Ben Jonson was very fat.) Alfred Noyes' Tales of the Mermaid Tavern give elaborately and quite wonderfully the "local color" which is just sug- gested here. 286 NOTES Perhaps you have noticed that the verse-form is exactly that of ' ' In Flanders Fields. ' ' Why is the effect here utterly different ? SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS 'S POEMS (From A Dome of Many-Colored Glass) (For biographical note, refer to "The Bombardment. ") Miss Lowell has always admired ^ireatly the works of John Keats. (When did he live, and what are some of his most famous poems f) As perhaps you remember, he died of con- sumption when he was only twenty-six. How would you know that the author of this poem was a lover of the great out-doors? THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET (From The Transcript) Agnes Kendrick Gray was bom in 1894. She has lived on army posts in this country and the Philippines and traveled in China, Japan, and Hawaii. She graduated from Leland Stanford in 1915, and studied at Radcliffe 1916-1917. She has been Assistant Editor and Translator of The New France, and published a translation of a French book on spiritualism. Her poems have appeared in magazines and anthologies. How many people do you know whose opinion of poets re- sembles the shepherd's? Do you think these "benighted NOTES 287 brethren" could ever be converted? What makes a man use- ful, in this world? TO YOURSELF (From Grenstone Poems) (For biographical note, refer to "Little Pan.") What element present in most good poetry is emphasized here? Do you think the poetic instinct is inherent in the majority of people, needing merely a chance for expression? Can one cultivate the habit of expressing himself in poetry? Would such a habit be worth while? Have any poems in this book made you wish that you could write poetry? SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST Here are one hundred and seventy-five additional titles of recent poems you may like. All but a few may be found in volumes published by the poets themselves, and if you have access to a good library, it is fun to hunt them up in those volumes. But since the average school library contains merely anthologies of modern verse, only those poems are given here which may also be found in one or more of twelve well-known collections, as follows : Braithwaite, Golden Treasury of INlagazine Verse. Braithwaite, Modern British Verse Clarke, Treasury of War Poetry (2 series) Foccroft, War Verse Monroe and Henderson, The New Poetry Poetry Bookshop {publishers), Georgian Poetry, 1911-1919 (separate volumes) Richards, High-Tide Rittenhoiise, Little Book of IModern Verse Rittenhouse, Second Book of ]Modem Verse Wilkinson, New Voices Untermeyer, Modem American Poetry Untermeyer, Modern British Poetry With this limitation, the list is by no means a complete one. It omits some poems not yet released to anthologies, like "Greatheart" by Kipling, and "Smoke and Steel" by Sand- burg; long poems like "Dauber" by Masefield (part of this, however, is given in Modern British Poetry) ; Crescent Moon by Tagore (translated from the Bengali), and Peacock Pie by De La Mare, volumes of child poems; negro songs and cow- boy ballads, like Fifty Years and Other Poems, by James Weldon Johnson and the two anthologies, Coivhoy Songs and Songs of the Cattle Trail by John A. Lomax. All these you would enjoy. However, by the time you have finished even half of the poems mentioned here, you will be familiar enough with the names of contemporary poets to continue your researches for jourself. "288 SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 289 Aiken, Miracles, Morning Song of Senlin Aldington, In the Trenches, In the British Museum, To a Gr,eek Marble Anonymous (Foxcroft), The Voices, "They Also Serve . . ." Crocuses at Nottingham Belloc, The South Country Benet, S. V., Portrait of a Boy Bewsher, Searchlights Bottomley, Netted Strawberries Branch, Songs for My Mother Brooke, The Dead, The Fish Brown, A. F., The Heritage Burnet, Gayheart Burr, Lie- Awake Songs, Kitchener's March, "Where Love Is Bynner, A Thrush in the Moonlight Camphell, J., I am the jMountainy Singer Camphell, N., The Monkey Camphell, W., Langemarck at Ypres Carman, Lord of My Heart's Elation Carruth, Each in His Own Tongue Cather, "Grandmither, Think Not I Forget" Ca/wein, Aubade Chapman, Song of the Zeppelin Chesterton, The Song of Elf, Lepanto Coates, Indian-Pipe Conkling, Refugees Corhin, Echoes of Childhood Crapsey, Cinquains Daly, Da Leetla Boy, Mia Carlotta, Song of the Thrush Davies, W. H., The" Rain Davis, F. S., Souls De la Mare, The Listeners, Nod Dohson, "When There Is Peace" H. D., Orchard, Oread, The Shrine Doyle, The Guards Came Through Drinkwater, Symbols, Politics, May Garden, The Midlands Drummond, Little Bateese, Little Lac Greiiier Dunhar, Hymn, A Coquette Conquered Dunsany, Songs from an Evil Wood Ficke, "I am in love with far, high-seeing places" 290 SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST Fletcher, Rain in the Desert, Lincoln Forman, The Three Lads Frank, The Jew to Jesus Freeman, Music Comes, November Skies Frost, Mending Wall, The Gum-Gatherer Gibson, Color, Oblivion, Gold, The Messages Gilbert, The Mandrake's Horrid Scream Glasgow, A Lullaby Gore-Booth, The Waves of Breffny Graves, It 's a Queer Time Guiney, Tryste Noel Guiterman, In the Hospital Hardy, The :\Ian He Killed Hodgson, Eve Housnian, Reveille Hoveg, The Sea Gypsy Hueff'er, Children's Song Kilmer, J., Martin Kipling, The Choice, Road-Song of the Bandar Log, Gunga Din, The Conundrum of the Workshops Kreymborg, A., Idealists, Old iManuscript Lawrence, D. H., Piano Ledwidge, Behind the Closed Eye IjCC, a.. Motherhood Letts, Chaplain to the Forces, The Call To Arms in Our Street Lindsay, The Santa Fe Trail, Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight, The Congo, The Chinese Nightingale Lowell, Patterns, iMadonna of the Evening Flowers, To A Lady MacDonagh, Wishes For j\ly Son MacGill, Before the Charge MacKaye, School Markham,, Lincoln, The Man of the People ; The Man with the Hoe Masefield, Tewksbury Road, The Island of Skj^ros blasters, Lucinda IMatlock Monro, Milk for the Cat, Solitude Monroe, Love Song, On the Porch Morgan, Work, The Choice Morley, To the Oxford Men in the War Morton, Symbol Neibardt, Let jMe Live Out My Years SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 291 Newholt, Drake's Drum Nichols, The Assault, The Full Heart Norton, I Give Thanks Nojjes, Kilmeny, A Song of Sherwood, Unity Oppenheim, The Lonely Child, The Slave Owen, Three Hills Patch, My Rosary Peabodij, A Dog, Cradle Song, The House and the Road Phillips, The Kaiser and Belgium Phillpotts, Death and the Flowers Pound, Piccadilly Remlall, The Wind Reese, A Christmas Folk-Song Rice, The Immortal, Chanson of the Bells of Oseney Robinson, E. A., Cassandra, Flammonde Sandburg, Cool Tombs, Loam Grass Sassoon, Dreamers, Aftermath Schnnffler, R. H., "Scum o' the Earth" Scollard, The King of Dreams Seaman, Thomas of the Light Heart Service, Fleurette Shepard, A Nun Simms, The Bridge-Builders Sorley, To Germany Squire, To a Bull-Dog Stephens, In the Poppy Field, What Tomas An Buile Said in a Pub Sterling, Omnia Exeunt in Mysterium Teasdale, The Lamp, Spring Night Tietjens, The Most-Sacred Mountain Torrence, The Son Trotter, The Poplars Tyjian, High Summer, The Making of Birds Tyrrell, My Son Untermeyer, J. S., Autumn Untermeyer, L., Summons, Caliban in the Coal-Mines TJpcott, Brother Fidelis Watson, The Battle of the Bight Wheelock, Earth, Spring Widdenier, A Cyprian Woman Williams, Sicilian Emigrant 's Song 292 SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST Woodherry, The Child Yeats, The Ballad of Father Gilligan A short list of books coutaining criticism or discussing mat- ters of poetic technique is also given. Most of them are fairly dilfi-cult reading, but if you are really interested to pursue the subject further, they are well worth while. Aiken, Skepticisms Fletcher, Preface to Irradiations Fletcher, Preface to Goblins and Pagodas Lowes, Convention and Revolt in Poetry Lowell, Tendencies in Modern American Poetry, Preface to Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Newholt, A New Study of English Poetry Perry, A Study of Poetry Phelps, The Advance of English Poetrj^ in the Twentieth Century Vntermeyer, The New Era in American Poetry INDEX OF FIEST LINES PAGE A black cat among roses 137 A lady loved a swaggering rover 16 A miser with an eager face 68 A quiver in the hot and breathless air 102 A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes 25 After night's thunder far away had rolled 54 Along de road from Bord a Plouffe 179 Along the wharves in sailor town a singing whisper goes 5 Among the meadows 67 A winged death has smitten dumb thy beUs 88 Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded 194 All day long the traffic goes 31 All day the children play along the walks 29 All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd 159 At the sixth green field came the long slow climb 72 Behold where Night clutches the cup of heaven 172 Booth led boldly with his big bass drum 176 Broken, bewildered by the long retreat 101 Come with rain, loud Southwester 48 Courage is but a word, and yet, of words 164 Dagonet, Arthur's fool 192 Does it matter? — losing your leg 103 "Down cellar," said the cricket 190 God does not give us, when our youth is done 168 God of our fathers, known of old 161 God, though this life is but a wraith 164 Good morning, Life — and all 57 293 294 INDEX PAGE He bad done with fleets and squadrons, with the restless, roam- ing- seas 105 He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea 14 He was straight and strong, and bis eyes were blue 152 He went, and he was gay to go 83 Her heart is like a garden fair 148 Here een Noo Yorka, where am I 22 Hills, you have answered the craving 65 How like the stars are these white, nameless faces 23 Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! Glad to see you out 49 I am all alone in the room 128 I edged back against the night 5 I guess I'm bad as I can be 123 I have a rendezvous with Death 95 I have been so great a lover ; filled my days 166 I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea 172 I have no dog, but it must be 133 I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face 151 I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep 12 I have shut my little sister in from life and light 26 I know a vale where I would go one day 53 I loved you for your loving ways 141 I, Mysal', I feela strange 124 I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky . . 3 I peddles pencils on Broadway 24 I saw the spires of Oxford 94 I sicken of men's company 43 I think that I shall never see 71 If I should die, think only this of me 95 If Love should count you worthy, and should deign 153 If you can keep your head when all about you 163 In Flanders fields the poppies blow 96 In the darkening church 126 In the gray skirts of the fog seamews skirl desolately 11 It doesn't matter what's the cause 100 It is midday : the deep trench glares 99 It was awful long ago 120 Last night as I lay on the prairie 175 Lay me on an anvil, God 27 INDEX 295 PAGE Lest the young soldiers be strange in Heaven 89 Life has loveliness to sell 157 Like to islands in the seas 143 "Lincoln?" 170 Listen, laddies: Gin ye go into the battle, be devout 91 Listen to the tramping ! Oh, God of pity, listen ! 83 Little groping hands that must learn the weight of labor 117 Little Nellie Cassidy has got a place in to\\^l 134 Little park that I pass through 28 Lo, I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being 150 May is building her house. With apple blooms 51 Michael, come in ! Stop crying at the door 118 My Daddy smells like tobacco and books 119 My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree 60 My shoulders ache beneath my pack 110 No sign is made while empires pass 114 Now T g:o. do not weep, woman 152 Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose 44 0, to have a little house 127 O, what is that whimpering there in the darkness 105 O, who will walk a mile with me 142 world, I cannot hold thee close enough 60 0, you that still have rain and sun 97 Och, what's the good o' spinnin' words 201 O'Driscoll drove with a song 185 Oh. it's "ah, fare you well," for the deep sea's crying 6 "Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings" 144 Oh, mv heart is a little golden fountain 149 Old lame Bridget doe«»i't hear 122 Out of the cleansing night of stars and tides 21 Out on the hill — by an autumn-tree 125 Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir 12 Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover 22 Serene, he sits on other shores 117 Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city 84 296 INDEX PAGE Smoke of autumn is on it all 58 Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea 103 Speak not — whisper not 136 Strephon kissed me in the si)ring 145 Talking to peoi^le in well-ordered ways is prose 201 The Dew-Man comes over the mountains wide 121 The fog comes on little cat feet 21 The friend I love is like the sea to me 143 The Gossips tell a story of the Sparrow and the Cat 189 The old houses of Flanders 87 The sea was wild. The wnnd was proud 4 The sun is a huntress young 56 The trees, like great jade elephants 70 There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyon's lip . 75 There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street 34 There is a destiny that makes us brothers 165 There is something in the autumn tkat is native to my blood . . 58 There was a ship of Rio 6 There was an Indian, who had known no change 159 This is the song of the wind as it came 107 Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing 119 Through wild by-ways I come to you, my love 146 Time, you old gypsy man 157 To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees 70 Up and down he goes with terrible, reckless strides 161 We'd gained our first objective hours before 98 We tumbled out into the starry dark , Ill Well, if the thing is over, better it is for me 147 W'en de clouds is hanjiing heavy in de sky 135 When I play on my fiddle in Dooney 187 When I see birches bend to left and right 63 When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began 199 When j^our marrer bone seems 'oiler 90 Wlienever Richard Cory went down town 170 Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign 199 Winter is here 62 INDEX 297 PAGE With a long heavy heave, my very famous men 7 Within the little house 149 Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan 71 Yes, Poet, I am coming down to earth 50 You are a painter — listen 30 You, Four Walls 132 Zeus, Brazen-thunder-hurler 188 ^.'d: