Plattsburgh—and windless beauty on the bay;Autumnal morning and the sun at seven:Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heavenDwindles, and far awayDim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their preyLie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin,The war-ships—Eagle, Preble, Saratoga,Ticonderoga.And now a little wind from the northwestFlutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks.A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks,Peers from his cannon’s rest,Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crestBehind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks,Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened walesOf bellying sails.Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view,Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance:Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly ConfianceLeading with Downie’s crewThe line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to,Whistling their flock of galleys who advanceBehind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast,Tack landward, west.Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore;Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffsAnd blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs.Waiting the cannon’s roarA nation holds its breath for knell of NevermoreOr peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughsOf generations—and one old dame’s joy:Her gunner boy.One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneelsBeside his Commodore and fighting squad.Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God—Toward God, to whom appealsStill rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals.Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.—They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silentlyThe enemy.Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout:“He that wavereth is like a wave of the seaDriven with the wind. Behold the ships, that beSo great, are turned aboutEven with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue cloutAround his waist, and watches casuallyClose-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirsAnd spreads his spurs.Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoopWings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire;The English Linnet answers, aiming higher,Andcrashalong Jock’s poopHer hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop,Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crierStrutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew—Yankee-doodle-doo!Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar:“You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!”“Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie.Calmly the CommodoreTouches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four.Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!”And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling,Fall scatter-rolling.Boom!flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys.The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bayWith both her port-bow anchors torn away,Flutters, but proudly ralliesTo broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys.Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray,And double-shotted from his roaring flailHurls the black hail.The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom.Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouthAnd grapples with great winds. The winds blow south,And scent of lilac bloomSteals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room.Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth!He staggers up, and stares at blinding light:“God! This is fight!”Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins;He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming,Where little round suns in a dance go rimmingThe dark with golden coins;Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoinsReel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning—Lonely and loud—of ululating choirsStrangling with wires.Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums,The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spumeFilling his spirit with a wild perfume;Now noisome anguish numbsHis sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums.Whang!splits the spanker near him, and the boomCrushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck,Stunned on the deck.No time to glance where wounded leaders lie,Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm—Only to fight! The prone commander’s formStirs, rises stumblingly,And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry,Men’s bodies wamble like a mangled swarmOf bees. He bends to sight his gun again,Bleeding, and then—Oh, out of void and old oblivionAnd reptile slime first rose Apollo’s head;And God in likeness of Himself, ’tis said,Created such an one,Now shaping Shakespeare’s forehead, now Napoleon,Various, by infinite invention bred,In His own image molding beautifulThe human skull.Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gunTo fire—but in his face a ball of flesh,A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a meshOf tangled rope and tun,While still about the deck the lubber clod is spunAnd, bouncing from the rail, lies in a pleshOf oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red—A gunner’s head.* * * * * * * *Above the ships, enormous from the lake,Rises a wraith—a phantom dim and gory,Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory;And little children quakeAnd lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake,And bards proclaim her in their fiery story;And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding,Hearts—hearts are bleeding.
Plattsburgh—and windless beauty on the bay;Autumnal morning and the sun at seven:Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heavenDwindles, and far awayDim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their preyLie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin,The war-ships—Eagle, Preble, Saratoga,Ticonderoga.And now a little wind from the northwestFlutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks.A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks,Peers from his cannon’s rest,Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crestBehind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks,Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened walesOf bellying sails.Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view,Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance:Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly ConfianceLeading with Downie’s crewThe line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to,Whistling their flock of galleys who advanceBehind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast,Tack landward, west.Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore;Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffsAnd blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs.Waiting the cannon’s roarA nation holds its breath for knell of NevermoreOr peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughsOf generations—and one old dame’s joy:Her gunner boy.One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneelsBeside his Commodore and fighting squad.Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God—Toward God, to whom appealsStill rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals.Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.—They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silentlyThe enemy.Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout:“He that wavereth is like a wave of the seaDriven with the wind. Behold the ships, that beSo great, are turned aboutEven with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue cloutAround his waist, and watches casuallyClose-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirsAnd spreads his spurs.Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoopWings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire;The English Linnet answers, aiming higher,Andcrashalong Jock’s poopHer hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop,Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crierStrutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew—Yankee-doodle-doo!Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar:“You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!”“Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie.Calmly the CommodoreTouches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four.Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!”And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling,Fall scatter-rolling.Boom!flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys.The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bayWith both her port-bow anchors torn away,Flutters, but proudly ralliesTo broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys.Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray,And double-shotted from his roaring flailHurls the black hail.The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom.Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouthAnd grapples with great winds. The winds blow south,And scent of lilac bloomSteals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room.Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth!He staggers up, and stares at blinding light:“God! This is fight!”Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins;He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming,Where little round suns in a dance go rimmingThe dark with golden coins;Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoinsReel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning—Lonely and loud—of ululating choirsStrangling with wires.Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums,The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spumeFilling his spirit with a wild perfume;Now noisome anguish numbsHis sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums.Whang!splits the spanker near him, and the boomCrushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck,Stunned on the deck.No time to glance where wounded leaders lie,Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm—Only to fight! The prone commander’s formStirs, rises stumblingly,And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry,Men’s bodies wamble like a mangled swarmOf bees. He bends to sight his gun again,Bleeding, and then—Oh, out of void and old oblivionAnd reptile slime first rose Apollo’s head;And God in likeness of Himself, ’tis said,Created such an one,Now shaping Shakespeare’s forehead, now Napoleon,Various, by infinite invention bred,In His own image molding beautifulThe human skull.Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gunTo fire—but in his face a ball of flesh,A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a meshOf tangled rope and tun,While still about the deck the lubber clod is spunAnd, bouncing from the rail, lies in a pleshOf oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red—A gunner’s head.* * * * * * * *Above the ships, enormous from the lake,Rises a wraith—a phantom dim and gory,Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory;And little children quakeAnd lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake,And bards proclaim her in their fiery story;And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding,Hearts—hearts are bleeding.
Plattsburgh—and windless beauty on the bay;Autumnal morning and the sun at seven:Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heavenDwindles, and far awayDim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their preyLie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin,The war-ships—Eagle, Preble, Saratoga,Ticonderoga.
And now a little wind from the northwestFlutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks.A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks,Peers from his cannon’s rest,Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crestBehind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks,Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened walesOf bellying sails.
Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view,Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance:Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly ConfianceLeading with Downie’s crewThe line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to,Whistling their flock of galleys who advanceBehind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast,Tack landward, west.
Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore;Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffsAnd blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs.Waiting the cannon’s roarA nation holds its breath for knell of NevermoreOr peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughsOf generations—and one old dame’s joy:Her gunner boy.
One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneelsBeside his Commodore and fighting squad.Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God—Toward God, to whom appealsStill rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals.Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.—They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silentlyThe enemy.
Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout:“He that wavereth is like a wave of the seaDriven with the wind. Behold the ships, that beSo great, are turned aboutEven with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue cloutAround his waist, and watches casuallyClose-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirsAnd spreads his spurs.
Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoopWings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire;The English Linnet answers, aiming higher,Andcrashalong Jock’s poopHer hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop,Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crierStrutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew—Yankee-doodle-doo!
Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar:“You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!”“Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie.Calmly the CommodoreTouches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four.Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!”And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling,Fall scatter-rolling.
Boom!flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys.The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bayWith both her port-bow anchors torn away,Flutters, but proudly ralliesTo broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys.Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray,And double-shotted from his roaring flailHurls the black hail.
The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom.Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouthAnd grapples with great winds. The winds blow south,And scent of lilac bloomSteals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room.Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth!He staggers up, and stares at blinding light:“God! This is fight!”
Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins;He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming,Where little round suns in a dance go rimmingThe dark with golden coins;Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoinsReel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning—Lonely and loud—of ululating choirsStrangling with wires.
Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums,The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spumeFilling his spirit with a wild perfume;Now noisome anguish numbsHis sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums.Whang!splits the spanker near him, and the boomCrushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck,Stunned on the deck.
No time to glance where wounded leaders lie,Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm—Only to fight! The prone commander’s formStirs, rises stumblingly,And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry,Men’s bodies wamble like a mangled swarmOf bees. He bends to sight his gun again,Bleeding, and then—
Oh, out of void and old oblivionAnd reptile slime first rose Apollo’s head;And God in likeness of Himself, ’tis said,Created such an one,Now shaping Shakespeare’s forehead, now Napoleon,Various, by infinite invention bred,In His own image molding beautifulThe human skull.
Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gunTo fire—but in his face a ball of flesh,A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a meshOf tangled rope and tun,While still about the deck the lubber clod is spunAnd, bouncing from the rail, lies in a pleshOf oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red—A gunner’s head.* * * * * * * *Above the ships, enormous from the lake,Rises a wraith—a phantom dim and gory,Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory;And little children quakeAnd lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake,And bards proclaim her in their fiery story;And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding,Hearts—hearts are bleeding.
Macdonough lies with Downie in one land.Victor and vanquished long ago were peers.Held in the grip of peace an hundred years,England has laid her handIn ours, and we have held—and still shall hold—the bandThat makes us brothers of the hemispheres;Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhoodOf law and blood.Yet one whose terror racked us long of yoreStill wreaks upon the world her lawless might:Out of the deeps again the phantom FightLooms on her wings of war,Sowing in armèd camps and fields her venomed spore,Embattling monarch’s whim against man’s right,Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of timeBack in the slime.We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought,First rose in the eyes of patient Washington,And through the molten heart of Lincoln wonTo liberty forgot,Now, standing lone in peace, ’mid titans strange distraught,Pray much for patience, more—God’s will be done!—For vision and for power nobly to seeThe world made free.
Macdonough lies with Downie in one land.Victor and vanquished long ago were peers.Held in the grip of peace an hundred years,England has laid her handIn ours, and we have held—and still shall hold—the bandThat makes us brothers of the hemispheres;Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhoodOf law and blood.Yet one whose terror racked us long of yoreStill wreaks upon the world her lawless might:Out of the deeps again the phantom FightLooms on her wings of war,Sowing in armèd camps and fields her venomed spore,Embattling monarch’s whim against man’s right,Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of timeBack in the slime.We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought,First rose in the eyes of patient Washington,And through the molten heart of Lincoln wonTo liberty forgot,Now, standing lone in peace, ’mid titans strange distraught,Pray much for patience, more—God’s will be done!—For vision and for power nobly to seeThe world made free.
Macdonough lies with Downie in one land.Victor and vanquished long ago were peers.Held in the grip of peace an hundred years,England has laid her handIn ours, and we have held—and still shall hold—the bandThat makes us brothers of the hemispheres;Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhoodOf law and blood.
Yet one whose terror racked us long of yoreStill wreaks upon the world her lawless might:Out of the deeps again the phantom FightLooms on her wings of war,Sowing in armèd camps and fields her venomed spore,Embattling monarch’s whim against man’s right,Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of timeBack in the slime.
We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought,First rose in the eyes of patient Washington,And through the molten heart of Lincoln wonTo liberty forgot,Now, standing lone in peace, ’mid titans strange distraught,Pray much for patience, more—God’s will be done!—For vision and for power nobly to seeThe world made free.
The OutlookPercy MacKaye
Jeremiah, will you come?Will you gather up the multitudes, and wake them with a drum?Will you dare anoint the chosen ones from all the cattle kind,And threaten with the fire of God the foolish and the blind?Jeremiah, Jeremiah, we have waited for you long,To see the flaming fury of your hate against the wrong,For we dally in the Temple, and we flee the eye of Truth,And we waste along the wilderness the glory of our youth.Jeremiah, Jeremiah, here the lying prophets speak,Here they flatter in their feebleness the gilded and the sleek;But their languid pipings die in shame when trumpet cries are heard.Are you coming? Are you coming? O Prophet of the Word!
Jeremiah, will you come?Will you gather up the multitudes, and wake them with a drum?Will you dare anoint the chosen ones from all the cattle kind,And threaten with the fire of God the foolish and the blind?Jeremiah, Jeremiah, we have waited for you long,To see the flaming fury of your hate against the wrong,For we dally in the Temple, and we flee the eye of Truth,And we waste along the wilderness the glory of our youth.Jeremiah, Jeremiah, here the lying prophets speak,Here they flatter in their feebleness the gilded and the sleek;But their languid pipings die in shame when trumpet cries are heard.Are you coming? Are you coming? O Prophet of the Word!
Jeremiah, will you come?Will you gather up the multitudes, and wake them with a drum?Will you dare anoint the chosen ones from all the cattle kind,And threaten with the fire of God the foolish and the blind?
Jeremiah, Jeremiah, we have waited for you long,To see the flaming fury of your hate against the wrong,For we dally in the Temple, and we flee the eye of Truth,And we waste along the wilderness the glory of our youth.
Jeremiah, Jeremiah, here the lying prophets speak,Here they flatter in their feebleness the gilded and the sleek;But their languid pipings die in shame when trumpet cries are heard.Are you coming? Are you coming? O Prophet of the Word!
The ForumLyman Bryson
On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in sprayAs when our fathers saw them first alee.If such a one could come again and seeThis ancient haven in its latter day,These haughty palaces and gardens gay,These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a treeBorne like a gem from Ind or Araby;If he could see the race he bred, at play—Bright like a flock of tropic birds alluredTo pause a moment on the southward wingBy these warm sands and by these summer seas—Would he not cry, “Alas, have I enduredExile and famine, hate and suffering,To win religious liberty for these?”
On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in sprayAs when our fathers saw them first alee.If such a one could come again and seeThis ancient haven in its latter day,These haughty palaces and gardens gay,These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a treeBorne like a gem from Ind or Araby;If he could see the race he bred, at play—Bright like a flock of tropic birds alluredTo pause a moment on the southward wingBy these warm sands and by these summer seas—Would he not cry, “Alas, have I enduredExile and famine, hate and suffering,To win religious liberty for these?”
On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in sprayAs when our fathers saw them first alee.If such a one could come again and seeThis ancient haven in its latter day,These haughty palaces and gardens gay,These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a treeBorne like a gem from Ind or Araby;If he could see the race he bred, at play—Bright like a flock of tropic birds alluredTo pause a moment on the southward wingBy these warm sands and by these summer seas—Would he not cry, “Alas, have I enduredExile and famine, hate and suffering,To win religious liberty for these?”
Smart SetAlice Duer Miller
I have known joy and woe and toil and fightI have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand,Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sightThe lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,Of struggle and of service and command;And now you show me This—this waxen, blandAnd placid face—unlined, untroubled, white!This is not I—this fatuous face you showRetouched and prettified and smoothed to please,Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know;I have spent blood and brain achieving these,Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,They are my scars of battle—PUT THEM BACK!
I have known joy and woe and toil and fightI have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand,Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sightThe lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,Of struggle and of service and command;And now you show me This—this waxen, blandAnd placid face—unlined, untroubled, white!This is not I—this fatuous face you showRetouched and prettified and smoothed to please,Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know;I have spent blood and brain achieving these,Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,They are my scars of battle—PUT THEM BACK!
I have known joy and woe and toil and fightI have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand,Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sightThe lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,Of struggle and of service and command;And now you show me This—this waxen, blandAnd placid face—unlined, untroubled, white!This is not I—this fatuous face you showRetouched and prettified and smoothed to please,Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know;I have spent blood and brain achieving these,Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,They are my scars of battle—PUT THEM BACK!
Harper’s WeeklyBerton Braley
Flesh unto flowers,And flame unto wind,The cleansing of showersShall come to thee blind.In the night of thy sleepingThe sound of the tideShall waken thee weepingTo turn to my side.
Flesh unto flowers,And flame unto wind,The cleansing of showersShall come to thee blind.In the night of thy sleepingThe sound of the tideShall waken thee weepingTo turn to my side.
Flesh unto flowers,And flame unto wind,The cleansing of showersShall come to thee blind.
In the night of thy sleepingThe sound of the tideShall waken thee weepingTo turn to my side.
Boston TranscriptEdward J. O’Brien
Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowingPast legend-peopled hillsides to the deep;From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing;The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep;The Cornish sea is silent with the SummerThat once bore Iseult from the Irish shore;And lovely lone Fiesole is dumberThan when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore.This eve for us the emerald clearness glowingOver the stream, where late was ruddy might,Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,—Known but to you, the silence, and the night.Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying;Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.
Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowingPast legend-peopled hillsides to the deep;From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing;The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep;The Cornish sea is silent with the SummerThat once bore Iseult from the Irish shore;And lovely lone Fiesole is dumberThan when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore.This eve for us the emerald clearness glowingOver the stream, where late was ruddy might,Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,—Known but to you, the silence, and the night.Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying;Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.
Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowingPast legend-peopled hillsides to the deep;From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing;The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep;The Cornish sea is silent with the SummerThat once bore Iseult from the Irish shore;And lovely lone Fiesole is dumberThan when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore.This eve for us the emerald clearness glowingOver the stream, where late was ruddy might,Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,—Known but to you, the silence, and the night.Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying;Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.
The ForumArthur Davison Ficke
In the silence of a midnight lost, lost forevermore,I stood upon a nameless beach where none had been before,And red gold and yellow gold were the shells upon that shore.Lone, lone it was as a mist-enfolded strandSet round a lake where marble demons stand—Held like a sapphire-stone in Thibet’s monstrous hand.And there I beheld how One stood in her graceTo hold to the stars her wet and faery face,And on the smooth and haunted sands her footfall had no trace.White, white was she as the youngest seraph’s word,Or milk of Eden’s kine or Eden’s fragrant curd,Cast in love by Eve’s wan hand to her most snowy bird.Fair, fair was she as Venus of the sky,And the jasmine of her breast and starlight of her eyeMade the heart a pain and the soul a hopeless sigh.Weak with the sight I leaned upon my sword,Till my soul that had sighed was become an unseen chordFor stress of music rendered to unknown things adored.Surely she heard, but her beauty gave no signTo me for whom the hushed sea was odorous as wine,—To me for whom the voiceless world was made her silent shrine.And she sent forth her gaze to the waters of the West,And she sent forth her soul to the Islands of the Blest,Below a star whose silver throes set pearls upon her breast.But chill in the East brake a glory on the lands,And she moaned like some low wave that dies on frozen sands,And held to her sea-lover sweet and cruel hands.Then rose the moon, and its lance was in her side,And there was bitter music because in woe she cried,Ere on the hard and gleaming beach she laid her down and died.I leapt to her succor, my sword I left behind;But one low mound of opal foam was all that I could find—A moon-washed length of airy gems that trembled in the wind.I knelt below the stars; the sea put forth a wave;The moon drew up the captive tides upon her shining grave,As far away I heard the cry her dim sea-lover gave.
In the silence of a midnight lost, lost forevermore,I stood upon a nameless beach where none had been before,And red gold and yellow gold were the shells upon that shore.Lone, lone it was as a mist-enfolded strandSet round a lake where marble demons stand—Held like a sapphire-stone in Thibet’s monstrous hand.And there I beheld how One stood in her graceTo hold to the stars her wet and faery face,And on the smooth and haunted sands her footfall had no trace.White, white was she as the youngest seraph’s word,Or milk of Eden’s kine or Eden’s fragrant curd,Cast in love by Eve’s wan hand to her most snowy bird.Fair, fair was she as Venus of the sky,And the jasmine of her breast and starlight of her eyeMade the heart a pain and the soul a hopeless sigh.Weak with the sight I leaned upon my sword,Till my soul that had sighed was become an unseen chordFor stress of music rendered to unknown things adored.Surely she heard, but her beauty gave no signTo me for whom the hushed sea was odorous as wine,—To me for whom the voiceless world was made her silent shrine.And she sent forth her gaze to the waters of the West,And she sent forth her soul to the Islands of the Blest,Below a star whose silver throes set pearls upon her breast.But chill in the East brake a glory on the lands,And she moaned like some low wave that dies on frozen sands,And held to her sea-lover sweet and cruel hands.Then rose the moon, and its lance was in her side,And there was bitter music because in woe she cried,Ere on the hard and gleaming beach she laid her down and died.I leapt to her succor, my sword I left behind;But one low mound of opal foam was all that I could find—A moon-washed length of airy gems that trembled in the wind.I knelt below the stars; the sea put forth a wave;The moon drew up the captive tides upon her shining grave,As far away I heard the cry her dim sea-lover gave.
In the silence of a midnight lost, lost forevermore,I stood upon a nameless beach where none had been before,And red gold and yellow gold were the shells upon that shore.
Lone, lone it was as a mist-enfolded strandSet round a lake where marble demons stand—Held like a sapphire-stone in Thibet’s monstrous hand.
And there I beheld how One stood in her graceTo hold to the stars her wet and faery face,And on the smooth and haunted sands her footfall had no trace.
White, white was she as the youngest seraph’s word,Or milk of Eden’s kine or Eden’s fragrant curd,Cast in love by Eve’s wan hand to her most snowy bird.
Fair, fair was she as Venus of the sky,And the jasmine of her breast and starlight of her eyeMade the heart a pain and the soul a hopeless sigh.
Weak with the sight I leaned upon my sword,Till my soul that had sighed was become an unseen chordFor stress of music rendered to unknown things adored.
Surely she heard, but her beauty gave no signTo me for whom the hushed sea was odorous as wine,—To me for whom the voiceless world was made her silent shrine.
And she sent forth her gaze to the waters of the West,And she sent forth her soul to the Islands of the Blest,Below a star whose silver throes set pearls upon her breast.
But chill in the East brake a glory on the lands,And she moaned like some low wave that dies on frozen sands,And held to her sea-lover sweet and cruel hands.
Then rose the moon, and its lance was in her side,And there was bitter music because in woe she cried,Ere on the hard and gleaming beach she laid her down and died.
I leapt to her succor, my sword I left behind;But one low mound of opal foam was all that I could find—A moon-washed length of airy gems that trembled in the wind.
I knelt below the stars; the sea put forth a wave;The moon drew up the captive tides upon her shining grave,As far away I heard the cry her dim sea-lover gave.
Smart SetGeorge Sterling
To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass of fire-engines pumping. In this passage the reading or chanting is shriller and higher.
“Give the engines room,Give the engines room.”Louder, fasterThe little band-masterWhips up the fluting,Hurries up the tooting.He thinks that he stands,The reins in his hands,In the fire-chief’s placeIn the night alarm chase.The cymbals whang,The kettledrums bang:—“Clear the street,Clear the streetClear the street—Boom, boom.In the evening gloom,In the evening gloom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.”The sparks and the pine-brandsWhirl on highFrom the black and reeking alleysTo the wide red sky.Hear the hot glass crashing,Hear the stone steps hissing.Coal black streamsDown the gutters pour.There are cries for helpFrom a far fifth floor.For a longer ladderHear the fire-chief call.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
“Give the engines room,Give the engines room.”Louder, fasterThe little band-masterWhips up the fluting,Hurries up the tooting.He thinks that he stands,The reins in his hands,In the fire-chief’s placeIn the night alarm chase.The cymbals whang,The kettledrums bang:—“Clear the street,Clear the streetClear the street—Boom, boom.In the evening gloom,In the evening gloom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.”The sparks and the pine-brandsWhirl on highFrom the black and reeking alleysTo the wide red sky.Hear the hot glass crashing,Hear the stone steps hissing.Coal black streamsDown the gutters pour.There are cries for helpFrom a far fifth floor.For a longer ladderHear the fire-chief call.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
“Give the engines room,Give the engines room.”Louder, fasterThe little band-masterWhips up the fluting,Hurries up the tooting.He thinks that he stands,The reins in his hands,In the fire-chief’s placeIn the night alarm chase.The cymbals whang,The kettledrums bang:—“Clear the street,Clear the streetClear the street—Boom, boom.In the evening gloom,In the evening gloom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.”The sparks and the pine-brandsWhirl on highFrom the black and reeking alleysTo the wide red sky.Hear the hot glass crashing,Hear the stone steps hissing.Coal black streamsDown the gutters pour.There are cries for helpFrom a far fifth floor.For a longer ladderHear the fire-chief call.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
To be read or chanted in a heavy bass.
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Faster, fasterThe red flames come.“Hum grum,” say the engines,“Hum grum grum.”
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Faster, fasterThe red flames come.“Hum grum,” say the engines,“Hum grum grum.”
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Faster, fasterThe red flames come.“Hum grum,” say the engines,“Hum grum grum.”
Shriller and higher.
“Buzz, buzz,”Says the crowd.“See, see,”Calls the crowd.“Look out,”Yelps the crowdAnd the high walls fall:—Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
“Buzz, buzz,”Says the crowd.“See, see,”Calls the crowd.“Look out,”Yelps the crowdAnd the high walls fall:—Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
“Buzz, buzz,”Says the crowd.“See, see,”Calls the crowd.“Look out,”Yelps the crowdAnd the high walls fall:—Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.Listen to the musicOf the firemen’s ball.
Heavy bass.
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.NightOf doom,Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Whangaranga, whangaranga,Whang, whang, whang,Clang, clang, clangaranga,
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.NightOf doom,Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Whangaranga, whangaranga,Whang, whang, whang,Clang, clang, clangaranga,
“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Say the ding-dong doom-bells.NightOf doom,Say the ding-dong doom-bells.Whangaranga, whangaranga,Whang, whang, whang,Clang, clang, clangaranga,
Bass, much slower.
Clang, clang, clang.Clang—a—ranga—Clang—a—ranga—Clang,Clang.Listen—to—the—music—Of the firemen’s ball—
Clang, clang, clang.Clang—a—ranga—Clang—a—ranga—Clang,Clang.Listen—to—the—music—Of the firemen’s ball—
Clang, clang, clang.Clang—a—ranga—Clang—a—ranga—Clang,Clang.Listen—to—the—music—Of the firemen’s ball—
To be read or sung slowly and softly, in the manner of lustful, insinuating music.
“Many’s the heart that’s breakingIf we could read them allAfter the ball is over.” (An old song.)Scornfully, gailyThe bandmaster sways,Changing the strainThat the wild band plays.With a red and royal intoxication,A tangle of soundsAnd a syncopation,Sweeping and bendingFrom side to side,Master of dreams,With a peacock pride.A lord of the delicate flowers of delightHe drives compunctionBack through the night.Dreams he’s a soldierPlumed and spurred,And valiant ladsArise at his word,Flaying the soberThoughts he hates,Driving them backFrom the dream-town gates.How can the languorousDancers knowThe red dreams comeWhen the good dreams go?
“Many’s the heart that’s breakingIf we could read them allAfter the ball is over.” (An old song.)Scornfully, gailyThe bandmaster sways,Changing the strainThat the wild band plays.With a red and royal intoxication,A tangle of soundsAnd a syncopation,Sweeping and bendingFrom side to side,Master of dreams,With a peacock pride.A lord of the delicate flowers of delightHe drives compunctionBack through the night.Dreams he’s a soldierPlumed and spurred,And valiant ladsArise at his word,Flaying the soberThoughts he hates,Driving them backFrom the dream-town gates.How can the languorousDancers knowThe red dreams comeWhen the good dreams go?
“Many’s the heart that’s breakingIf we could read them allAfter the ball is over.” (An old song.)Scornfully, gailyThe bandmaster sways,Changing the strainThat the wild band plays.With a red and royal intoxication,A tangle of soundsAnd a syncopation,Sweeping and bendingFrom side to side,Master of dreams,With a peacock pride.A lord of the delicate flowers of delightHe drives compunctionBack through the night.Dreams he’s a soldierPlumed and spurred,And valiant ladsArise at his word,Flaying the soberThoughts he hates,Driving them backFrom the dream-town gates.How can the languorousDancers knowThe red dreams comeWhen the good dreams go?
To be read or chanted slowly and softly in the manner of lustful insinuating music.
“’Tis theNightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells,“NightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells.“Honey and wine,Honey and wine.Sing low, now, violins,Sing, sing low,Blow gently, wood-wind,Mellow and slow.Like midnight poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.Their eyes flash power,Their lips are dumb.Faster and fasterTheir pulses come,Though softer nowThe drum-beats fall.Honey and wine,Honey and wine.’Tis the firemen’s ball,’Tis the firemen’s ball.
“’Tis theNightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells,“NightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells.“Honey and wine,Honey and wine.Sing low, now, violins,Sing, sing low,Blow gently, wood-wind,Mellow and slow.Like midnight poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.Their eyes flash power,Their lips are dumb.Faster and fasterTheir pulses come,Though softer nowThe drum-beats fall.Honey and wine,Honey and wine.’Tis the firemen’s ball,’Tis the firemen’s ball.
“’Tis theNightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells,“NightOf love,”Call the silver joy-bells.“Honey and wine,Honey and wine.Sing low, now, violins,Sing, sing low,Blow gently, wood-wind,Mellow and slow.Like midnight poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.Their eyes flash power,Their lips are dumb.Faster and fasterTheir pulses come,Though softer nowThe drum-beats fall.Honey and wine,Honey and wine.’Tis the firemen’s ball,’Tis the firemen’s ball.
With a climax of whispered mourning.
“I am slain,”Cries true-loveThere in the shadow.“And I die,”Cries true-love,There laid low.“When the fire-dreams come,The wise dreams go.”
“I am slain,”Cries true-loveThere in the shadow.“And I die,”Cries true-love,There laid low.“When the fire-dreams come,The wise dreams go.”
“I am slain,”Cries true-loveThere in the shadow.“And I die,”Cries true-love,There laid low.“When the fire-dreams come,The wise dreams go.”
Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. Then gradually musical and sonorous.
But his cry is drownedBy the proud band-masterAnd now great gongs whang,Sharper, faster,And kettledrums rattleAnd hide the shameWith a swish and a swirkIn dead love’s name.Red and crimsonAnd scarlet and roseMagical poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.The scarlet staysWhen the rose-flush goes,And love lies lowIn a marble tomb.“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.
But his cry is drownedBy the proud band-masterAnd now great gongs whang,Sharper, faster,And kettledrums rattleAnd hide the shameWith a swish and a swirkIn dead love’s name.Red and crimsonAnd scarlet and roseMagical poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.The scarlet staysWhen the rose-flush goes,And love lies lowIn a marble tomb.“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.
But his cry is drownedBy the proud band-masterAnd now great gongs whang,Sharper, faster,And kettledrums rattleAnd hide the shameWith a swish and a swirkIn dead love’s name.Red and crimsonAnd scarlet and roseMagical poppiesThe sweethearts bloom.The scarlet staysWhen the rose-flush goes,And love lies lowIn a marble tomb.“’Tis theNightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.“NightOf doom,”Call the ding-dong doom-bells.
Sharply interrupting in a very high key. Heavy bass.Hark how the piccolos still make cheer.“’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.”Clangaranga, clangaranga,Clang ... clang ... clang.Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... clang ... clang ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... firemen’s ball ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... Firemen’s ... Ball ...
Sharply interrupting in a very high key. Heavy bass.Hark how the piccolos still make cheer.“’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.”Clangaranga, clangaranga,Clang ... clang ... clang.Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... clang ... clang ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... firemen’s ball ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... Firemen’s ... Ball ...
Sharply interrupting in a very high key. Heavy bass.
Hark how the piccolos still make cheer.“’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.”Clangaranga, clangaranga,Clang ... clang ... clang.Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... a ... ranga ...Clang ... clang ... clang ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... firemen’s ball ...Listen ... to ... the ... music ...Of ... the ... Firemen’s ... Ball ...
In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: “There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: ‘Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair.... A disciple, ... becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.’”)
In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.
(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: “There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: ‘Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair.... A disciple, ... becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.’”)
To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.I once knew a teacher,Who turned from desire,Who said to the young men,“Wine is a fire.”Who said to the merchants:—“Gold is a flameThat sears and torturesIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desireWho said to the soldiers,“Hate is a fire.”Who said to the statesmen:—“Power is a flameThat flays and blistersIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desire,Who said to the lordly,“Pride is a fire.”Who thus warned the revellers:—“Life is a flame.Be cold as the dewWould you win at the gameWith hearts like the stars,
To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.I once knew a teacher,Who turned from desire,Who said to the young men,“Wine is a fire.”Who said to the merchants:—“Gold is a flameThat sears and torturesIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desireWho said to the soldiers,“Hate is a fire.”Who said to the statesmen:—“Power is a flameThat flays and blistersIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desire,Who said to the lordly,“Pride is a fire.”Who thus warned the revellers:—“Life is a flame.Be cold as the dewWould you win at the gameWith hearts like the stars,
To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.
I once knew a teacher,Who turned from desire,Who said to the young men,“Wine is a fire.”Who said to the merchants:—“Gold is a flameThat sears and torturesIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desireWho said to the soldiers,“Hate is a fire.”Who said to the statesmen:—“Power is a flameThat flays and blistersIf you play at the game.”I once knew a teacherWho turned from desire,Who said to the lordly,“Pride is a fire.”Who thus warned the revellers:—“Life is a flame.Be cold as the dewWould you win at the gameWith hearts like the stars,
Interrupting very loudly for the last time.With hearts like the stars.”SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE OF THE FIRE.Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.Says the swift white horseTo the swift black horse:—“There goes the alarm,There goes the alarm.They are hitched, they are off,They are gone in a flash,And they strain at the driver’s iron arm.”Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga....Clang ... clang ... clang ...Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga...Clang ... clang ... clang....Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga.Clang ... clang ...clang.
Interrupting very loudly for the last time.With hearts like the stars.”SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE OF THE FIRE.Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.Says the swift white horseTo the swift black horse:—“There goes the alarm,There goes the alarm.They are hitched, they are off,They are gone in a flash,And they strain at the driver’s iron arm.”Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga....Clang ... clang ... clang ...Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga...Clang ... clang ... clang....Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga.Clang ... clang ...clang.
Interrupting very loudly for the last time.
With hearts like the stars.”SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE,SoBEWARE OF THE FIRE.Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Clear the streets,Boom, boom,Give the engines room,Give the engines room,Lest souls be trappedIn a terrible tomb.Says the swift white horseTo the swift black horse:—“There goes the alarm,There goes the alarm.They are hitched, they are off,They are gone in a flash,And they strain at the driver’s iron arm.”Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga....Clang ... clang ... clang ...Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga...Clang ... clang ... clang....Clang ... a ... ranga ... clang ... a ... ranga.Clang ... clang ...clang.
Poetry: A Magazine of VerseVachel Lindsay
The eager night and the impetuous winds,The hints and whispers of a thousand lures,And all the swift persuasion of the Spring,Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on....The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear,Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrillOf some well-known but half-forgotten voice.A slender stream became a naked sprite,Flashed around curious bends, and winked at meBeyond the turns, alert and mischievous.A saffron moon, dangling among the trees,Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs,Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze....And as it hung there, vivid and unreal,The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away;The night kept tugging at my torpid moodAnd tore it into shreds. A warm air blewMy wintry slothfulness beyond the stars;And over all indifference there streamedA myriad urges in one rushing wave....Touched with the lavish miracles of earth,I felt the brave persistence of the grass;The far desire of rivulets; the keen,Unconquerable fervor of the thrush;The endless labors of the patient worm;The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant;The constancy of flowers; the blind beliefOf ivy climbing slowly toward the sun;The eternal struggles and eternal deaths—And yet the groping faith of every root!Out of old graves arose the cry of life;Out of the dying came the deathless call.And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness,The thing that was my boyhood woke in me—Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again;Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come,And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth,With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh,Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern....And then—veil upon veil was torn aside—Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys,Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand;The night, scorning its ancient mystery,Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart;The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song,Sang with a happy challenge to the skies;Love, and the faces of a world of children,Swept like a conquering army through my blood—And Beauty, rising out of all its forms,Beauty, the passion of the universe,Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears,And, like a wine, poured itself out for meTo drink of, to be warmed with, and to goRefreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight;To meet with confidence the cynic years;Battling in wars that never can be won,Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.
The eager night and the impetuous winds,The hints and whispers of a thousand lures,And all the swift persuasion of the Spring,Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on....The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear,Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrillOf some well-known but half-forgotten voice.A slender stream became a naked sprite,Flashed around curious bends, and winked at meBeyond the turns, alert and mischievous.A saffron moon, dangling among the trees,Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs,Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze....And as it hung there, vivid and unreal,The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away;The night kept tugging at my torpid moodAnd tore it into shreds. A warm air blewMy wintry slothfulness beyond the stars;And over all indifference there streamedA myriad urges in one rushing wave....Touched with the lavish miracles of earth,I felt the brave persistence of the grass;The far desire of rivulets; the keen,Unconquerable fervor of the thrush;The endless labors of the patient worm;The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant;The constancy of flowers; the blind beliefOf ivy climbing slowly toward the sun;The eternal struggles and eternal deaths—And yet the groping faith of every root!Out of old graves arose the cry of life;Out of the dying came the deathless call.And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness,The thing that was my boyhood woke in me—Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again;Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come,And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth,With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh,Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern....And then—veil upon veil was torn aside—Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys,Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand;The night, scorning its ancient mystery,Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart;The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song,Sang with a happy challenge to the skies;Love, and the faces of a world of children,Swept like a conquering army through my blood—And Beauty, rising out of all its forms,Beauty, the passion of the universe,Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears,And, like a wine, poured itself out for meTo drink of, to be warmed with, and to goRefreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight;To meet with confidence the cynic years;Battling in wars that never can be won,Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.
The eager night and the impetuous winds,The hints and whispers of a thousand lures,And all the swift persuasion of the Spring,Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on....The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear,Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrillOf some well-known but half-forgotten voice.A slender stream became a naked sprite,Flashed around curious bends, and winked at meBeyond the turns, alert and mischievous.A saffron moon, dangling among the trees,Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs,Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze....And as it hung there, vivid and unreal,The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away;The night kept tugging at my torpid moodAnd tore it into shreds. A warm air blewMy wintry slothfulness beyond the stars;And over all indifference there streamedA myriad urges in one rushing wave....Touched with the lavish miracles of earth,I felt the brave persistence of the grass;The far desire of rivulets; the keen,Unconquerable fervor of the thrush;The endless labors of the patient worm;The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant;The constancy of flowers; the blind beliefOf ivy climbing slowly toward the sun;The eternal struggles and eternal deaths—And yet the groping faith of every root!Out of old graves arose the cry of life;Out of the dying came the deathless call.And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness,The thing that was my boyhood woke in me—Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again;Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come,And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth,With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh,Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern....
And then—veil upon veil was torn aside—Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys,Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand;The night, scorning its ancient mystery,Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart;The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song,Sang with a happy challenge to the skies;Love, and the faces of a world of children,Swept like a conquering army through my blood—And Beauty, rising out of all its forms,Beauty, the passion of the universe,Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears,And, like a wine, poured itself out for meTo drink of, to be warmed with, and to goRefreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight;To meet with confidence the cynic years;Battling in wars that never can be won,Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.
CenturyLouis Untermeyer
Would you lay a pattern on life and say, thus shall ye live?I tell you that is a denial of life;I say that thus we pour our spirits in a mold, and they cake and die.I want to go to the man who quickens me;I want the gift of life, the flame of his spirit eating along the tinder of my heart;I want to feel the flood-gates within flung open and the tides pouring through me;I want to take what I am and bring it to fruit.Quicken me, and I will grow;Touch me with flame, and the blossoms will open and the fruit appear.Call forth in me a creator, and the god will answer.And then, if I commit what you call a sin,Better so.It will not be a sin. It will be a mere breaking of your patterns;For the only sin is death, and the only virtue to be altogether alive and your own authentic self.
Would you lay a pattern on life and say, thus shall ye live?I tell you that is a denial of life;I say that thus we pour our spirits in a mold, and they cake and die.I want to go to the man who quickens me;I want the gift of life, the flame of his spirit eating along the tinder of my heart;I want to feel the flood-gates within flung open and the tides pouring through me;I want to take what I am and bring it to fruit.Quicken me, and I will grow;Touch me with flame, and the blossoms will open and the fruit appear.Call forth in me a creator, and the god will answer.And then, if I commit what you call a sin,Better so.It will not be a sin. It will be a mere breaking of your patterns;For the only sin is death, and the only virtue to be altogether alive and your own authentic self.
Would you lay a pattern on life and say, thus shall ye live?I tell you that is a denial of life;I say that thus we pour our spirits in a mold, and they cake and die.
I want to go to the man who quickens me;I want the gift of life, the flame of his spirit eating along the tinder of my heart;I want to feel the flood-gates within flung open and the tides pouring through me;I want to take what I am and bring it to fruit.
Quicken me, and I will grow;Touch me with flame, and the blossoms will open and the fruit appear.Call forth in me a creator, and the god will answer.And then, if I commit what you call a sin,Better so.It will not be a sin. It will be a mere breaking of your patterns;For the only sin is death, and the only virtue to be altogether alive and your own authentic self.
CenturyJames Oppenheim
Sea-rimmed and teeming with millions poured out on thy granite shoreSurge upon surge, many-nationed, O City far-famed for the roarOf thy cavernous iron streets and thy towers half hung in the sun,Rising in layer on layer, twelve cities piled upon one,All feeding and sleeping and breeding, enormous, half palace, half den,With ever a tide washing through thee whose clamoring waters are men,O where is the hand of thy builder? What god, canst thou tell,Hath his hand on the clay of thy face? Or what demon from Hell?I have viewed with the eye of the stranger and the pride of the New World manThe mountainous leap of thy glory, the miles of thy endless span,And my heart has gone up with thy towers and my love has fallen as dewOn thy night-blooming lamps in rows on thy beautiful Avenue.I have stood with a seaman’s glass on the roofs of thy high hotels;I have rolled through the sheer ravines where the cliff dweller dwells;I have peered from the place of the Tomb far up where the hills break freeAnd the length of the lordly River comes down as a bride to the sea;I have fled with a roar through the rock where the myriad lights flash by;I have heard the song of the soaring steel come down from the sky;I have watched as a lover thy waters all mottled with cloud and with sunWhere the ocean comes in to caress thee, O Beautiful One;And the days and the years of my life are a gift unto thee,And I dwell in thy marvelous gates, O Goddess cast up by the sea!I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White WayThat gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the BayWhen the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roarAnd the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore.Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands,The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands,And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to beAnd the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea.As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wineIs the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divineWhen from building on populous building thy power unfurledLeaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world.I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie;I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky;I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of RomeSwing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home;I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yellWhen the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell;I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hourCome over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible powerWhen story on story lets out on the pavement belowAnd thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow.Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in,For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin,And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys,Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys.I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirlsAnd whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls;I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace;I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet placeOf the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches thereWith the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair;Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skiesThe just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble riseTo its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sunIs the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done.Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky,And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by,And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea,And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see,And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart,And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start,And the Rock drinks in its thousands from the moving flood in the streetAs the strong male tide goes out with the roar of a million feet.I know when the night comes down that a beautiful Siren awakes.I have seen the flash of her eyes and the light that her shadow makesOn the rain-wet Avenue when the flutes of pleasure are heardAnd she dances her way to the wine cup and sings like a bird.Hand in hand go the sons of Youth and the daughters of Beauty divine,And the children of Hunger are there who have trodden the grapes of their wine,And the thousands pour and pour through the huge illumined Fair,And the booths of a hundred lands are bright and the Wonder-worker is there.The red star is out on the roof and the horses are off on the wall,And the girl and the dog are blown along and the flashing water fall,And the flush of thy far-flung revel goes up to the ribbons of sky,And forgotten Orion sinks down and the Pleiades die.I have trailed down the pleasant river; I have tramped where the iron “L’s”Go thundering down through the haunts of care; I have slummed through the hidden hells;I have jostled the mingling Bowery where the stream of the races rolls;I know the town where the yellow man goes by on his velvet soles;I have threaded the still, dark canyons where the clustered towers rise;Not a foot is heard of the thousands; they are ghosts on the midnight skies;I have seen o’er the glamour of waters thy piles upon shadowy pilesStanding out on the canvas of night and twinkling for miles upon miles.As a grail is the gleam of thy towers and the glow of the Great White Way,And a thousand ships have sailed and sailed to the lure of the lights on the Bay,And the spell of thy song, O Enchantress, is sweet on the southern air,And the shepherd far out on the plains feels the sting of thy hair.Thou art young with the youth of them, strong with the strength of them, filled with the beauty of girls;Thy throat where the River gleams is beaded with lamps as with pearls;And the languor of night is around thee and the waters rise and fall,And over invisible bridges slow fireworms crawl,And the Ferries that glide o’er the bay, o’er the rivers that laveThe feet of thy emerald towers, are lighted swans on the wave,As Merlin had walked o’er thy waters, or Prospero’s eyeWere watching alternate old cities line out on the sky,One moment Jerusalem gleams and thy towers are holy and white,And lo, at the turn of a glass, old Babylon etched on the nightWith high summer gardens abloom and the wealth of the world in her hair;Then Carnival laughs in thy streets and Cairo is thereBarbaric all over with brooches and fountains of fireTill the new day quenches the lamps and flares over Tyre.
Sea-rimmed and teeming with millions poured out on thy granite shoreSurge upon surge, many-nationed, O City far-famed for the roarOf thy cavernous iron streets and thy towers half hung in the sun,Rising in layer on layer, twelve cities piled upon one,All feeding and sleeping and breeding, enormous, half palace, half den,With ever a tide washing through thee whose clamoring waters are men,O where is the hand of thy builder? What god, canst thou tell,Hath his hand on the clay of thy face? Or what demon from Hell?I have viewed with the eye of the stranger and the pride of the New World manThe mountainous leap of thy glory, the miles of thy endless span,And my heart has gone up with thy towers and my love has fallen as dewOn thy night-blooming lamps in rows on thy beautiful Avenue.I have stood with a seaman’s glass on the roofs of thy high hotels;I have rolled through the sheer ravines where the cliff dweller dwells;I have peered from the place of the Tomb far up where the hills break freeAnd the length of the lordly River comes down as a bride to the sea;I have fled with a roar through the rock where the myriad lights flash by;I have heard the song of the soaring steel come down from the sky;I have watched as a lover thy waters all mottled with cloud and with sunWhere the ocean comes in to caress thee, O Beautiful One;And the days and the years of my life are a gift unto thee,And I dwell in thy marvelous gates, O Goddess cast up by the sea!I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White WayThat gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the BayWhen the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roarAnd the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore.Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands,The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands,And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to beAnd the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea.As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wineIs the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divineWhen from building on populous building thy power unfurledLeaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world.I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie;I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky;I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of RomeSwing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home;I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yellWhen the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell;I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hourCome over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible powerWhen story on story lets out on the pavement belowAnd thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow.Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in,For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin,And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys,Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys.I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirlsAnd whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls;I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace;I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet placeOf the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches thereWith the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair;Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skiesThe just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble riseTo its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sunIs the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done.Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky,And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by,And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea,And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see,And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart,And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start,And the Rock drinks in its thousands from the moving flood in the streetAs the strong male tide goes out with the roar of a million feet.I know when the night comes down that a beautiful Siren awakes.I have seen the flash of her eyes and the light that her shadow makesOn the rain-wet Avenue when the flutes of pleasure are heardAnd she dances her way to the wine cup and sings like a bird.Hand in hand go the sons of Youth and the daughters of Beauty divine,And the children of Hunger are there who have trodden the grapes of their wine,And the thousands pour and pour through the huge illumined Fair,And the booths of a hundred lands are bright and the Wonder-worker is there.The red star is out on the roof and the horses are off on the wall,And the girl and the dog are blown along and the flashing water fall,And the flush of thy far-flung revel goes up to the ribbons of sky,And forgotten Orion sinks down and the Pleiades die.I have trailed down the pleasant river; I have tramped where the iron “L’s”Go thundering down through the haunts of care; I have slummed through the hidden hells;I have jostled the mingling Bowery where the stream of the races rolls;I know the town where the yellow man goes by on his velvet soles;I have threaded the still, dark canyons where the clustered towers rise;Not a foot is heard of the thousands; they are ghosts on the midnight skies;I have seen o’er the glamour of waters thy piles upon shadowy pilesStanding out on the canvas of night and twinkling for miles upon miles.As a grail is the gleam of thy towers and the glow of the Great White Way,And a thousand ships have sailed and sailed to the lure of the lights on the Bay,And the spell of thy song, O Enchantress, is sweet on the southern air,And the shepherd far out on the plains feels the sting of thy hair.Thou art young with the youth of them, strong with the strength of them, filled with the beauty of girls;Thy throat where the River gleams is beaded with lamps as with pearls;And the languor of night is around thee and the waters rise and fall,And over invisible bridges slow fireworms crawl,And the Ferries that glide o’er the bay, o’er the rivers that laveThe feet of thy emerald towers, are lighted swans on the wave,As Merlin had walked o’er thy waters, or Prospero’s eyeWere watching alternate old cities line out on the sky,One moment Jerusalem gleams and thy towers are holy and white,And lo, at the turn of a glass, old Babylon etched on the nightWith high summer gardens abloom and the wealth of the world in her hair;Then Carnival laughs in thy streets and Cairo is thereBarbaric all over with brooches and fountains of fireTill the new day quenches the lamps and flares over Tyre.
Sea-rimmed and teeming with millions poured out on thy granite shoreSurge upon surge, many-nationed, O City far-famed for the roarOf thy cavernous iron streets and thy towers half hung in the sun,Rising in layer on layer, twelve cities piled upon one,All feeding and sleeping and breeding, enormous, half palace, half den,With ever a tide washing through thee whose clamoring waters are men,O where is the hand of thy builder? What god, canst thou tell,Hath his hand on the clay of thy face? Or what demon from Hell?I have viewed with the eye of the stranger and the pride of the New World manThe mountainous leap of thy glory, the miles of thy endless span,And my heart has gone up with thy towers and my love has fallen as dewOn thy night-blooming lamps in rows on thy beautiful Avenue.I have stood with a seaman’s glass on the roofs of thy high hotels;I have rolled through the sheer ravines where the cliff dweller dwells;I have peered from the place of the Tomb far up where the hills break freeAnd the length of the lordly River comes down as a bride to the sea;I have fled with a roar through the rock where the myriad lights flash by;I have heard the song of the soaring steel come down from the sky;I have watched as a lover thy waters all mottled with cloud and with sunWhere the ocean comes in to caress thee, O Beautiful One;And the days and the years of my life are a gift unto thee,And I dwell in thy marvelous gates, O Goddess cast up by the sea!
I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White WayThat gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the BayWhen the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roarAnd the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore.Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands,The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands,And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to beAnd the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea.As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wineIs the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divineWhen from building on populous building thy power unfurledLeaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world.I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie;I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky;I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of RomeSwing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home;I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yellWhen the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell;I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hourCome over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible powerWhen story on story lets out on the pavement belowAnd thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow.Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in,For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin,And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys,Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys.I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirlsAnd whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls;I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace;I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet placeOf the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches thereWith the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair;Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skiesThe just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble riseTo its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sunIs the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done.Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky,And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by,And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea,And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see,And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart,And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start,And the Rock drinks in its thousands from the moving flood in the streetAs the strong male tide goes out with the roar of a million feet.I know when the night comes down that a beautiful Siren awakes.I have seen the flash of her eyes and the light that her shadow makesOn the rain-wet Avenue when the flutes of pleasure are heardAnd she dances her way to the wine cup and sings like a bird.Hand in hand go the sons of Youth and the daughters of Beauty divine,And the children of Hunger are there who have trodden the grapes of their wine,And the thousands pour and pour through the huge illumined Fair,And the booths of a hundred lands are bright and the Wonder-worker is there.The red star is out on the roof and the horses are off on the wall,And the girl and the dog are blown along and the flashing water fall,And the flush of thy far-flung revel goes up to the ribbons of sky,And forgotten Orion sinks down and the Pleiades die.I have trailed down the pleasant river; I have tramped where the iron “L’s”Go thundering down through the haunts of care; I have slummed through the hidden hells;I have jostled the mingling Bowery where the stream of the races rolls;I know the town where the yellow man goes by on his velvet soles;I have threaded the still, dark canyons where the clustered towers rise;Not a foot is heard of the thousands; they are ghosts on the midnight skies;I have seen o’er the glamour of waters thy piles upon shadowy pilesStanding out on the canvas of night and twinkling for miles upon miles.As a grail is the gleam of thy towers and the glow of the Great White Way,And a thousand ships have sailed and sailed to the lure of the lights on the Bay,And the spell of thy song, O Enchantress, is sweet on the southern air,And the shepherd far out on the plains feels the sting of thy hair.Thou art young with the youth of them, strong with the strength of them, filled with the beauty of girls;Thy throat where the River gleams is beaded with lamps as with pearls;And the languor of night is around thee and the waters rise and fall,And over invisible bridges slow fireworms crawl,And the Ferries that glide o’er the bay, o’er the rivers that laveThe feet of thy emerald towers, are lighted swans on the wave,As Merlin had walked o’er thy waters, or Prospero’s eyeWere watching alternate old cities line out on the sky,One moment Jerusalem gleams and thy towers are holy and white,And lo, at the turn of a glass, old Babylon etched on the nightWith high summer gardens abloom and the wealth of the world in her hair;Then Carnival laughs in thy streets and Cairo is thereBarbaric all over with brooches and fountains of fireTill the new day quenches the lamps and flares over Tyre.
The Smart SetEdwin Davies Schoonmaker