Young Maverick in the upland pastures layWoven as in the grass, while star-like flowers,Shaking their petals down in sweet arrayDappled his flanks with gentle breathless showers.The thread green stems, tangled in bending bowers,Their pollen plumes of dust closed over him,Enwoofing through the drowse of summer hours,The pattern of his body, head and limb;His color of pale gold glowed as with sunshine dim.
Young Maverick in the upland pastures layWoven as in the grass, while star-like flowers,Shaking their petals down in sweet arrayDappled his flanks with gentle breathless showers.The thread green stems, tangled in bending bowers,Their pollen plumes of dust closed over him,Enwoofing through the drowse of summer hours,The pattern of his body, head and limb;His color of pale gold glowed as with sunshine dim.
The spirit of the West is in this poem, its freedom, spaciousness, strong sunshine; also its careless good humor and half sardonic fun. The race between the horse and the Mexican boy is as swift, vivid and rhythmical as a mountain stream; and the Mexican family, even to the fat old Gregorio, are characterized to the life, with a sympathy only too rare among writers of the Anglo-Saxon race.
Certain other characterizations are equally incisive, this for example:
Sometimes I peep into a modern poetLike Arthur Symons, vaguely beautiful,Who loves but love, not caring who shall know it;I wonder that he never finds it dull.
Sometimes I peep into a modern poetLike Arthur Symons, vaguely beautiful,Who loves but love, not caring who shall know it;I wonder that he never finds it dull.
Mr. White is so profoundly a democrat, and so wholeheartedly a poet of the broad, level average American people, that both social and artistic theories sit very lightly upon him. He achieves beauty as by chance now and then, because he can not help it, but always he achieves a warm vitality, the persuasive illusion of life.
The Iscariot, by Eden Phillpotts (John Lane), is the ingenious effort of a theorist in human nature to unroll the convolutions of the immortal traitor's soul. And it is as ineffectual as any such effort must be to remould characters long fixed in literary or historic tradition. In the art of the world Judas is Judas; anyone who tries to make him over into a pattern of misguided loyalty has his labor for his pains.
The blank verse in which the monologue is uttered is accurately measured and sufficiently sonorous.
H. M.
Interpretations: A Book of First Poems, by Zoë Akins (Mitchell Kennerley).
The poems in this volume are creditable in texture, revealing a conscious sense of artistic workmanship which it is a pleasure to find in a book of first poems by a young American. A certain rhythmic monotony may be mentioned as an impression gained from a consecutive reading, and a prevailing twilight mood, united, in the longer poems, with a vein of the emotionally feminine.
Two short lyrics, however,I Am the WindandThe Tragedienne, stand apart in isolated perfection, even as the two Greek columns in the ruined theater at Arles; an impression recalled by the opening stanza ofThe Tragedienne:
Upon a hill in ThessalyStand broken columns in a lineAbout a cold forgotten shrineBeneath a moon in Thessaly.
Upon a hill in ThessalyStand broken columns in a lineAbout a cold forgotten shrineBeneath a moon in Thessaly.
This is the first of the monthly volumes of poetry to be issued by Mr. Kennerley. It awakens pleasant anticipation of those to follow.
Lyrical Poems, By Lucy Lyttelton. (Thomas B. Mosher.)
The twilight mood also prevails in the poems of Lucy Lyttelton, although the crest of a fine modern impulse may be traced inA Vision,The Japanese Widow,The Black Madonna, andA Song of Revolution.
"Where is Owen Griffiths?" Broken and aloneCrushed he lies in darkness beneath Festiniog stone."Bring his broken body before me to the throneFor a crown."Oftentimes in secret in prayer he came to me,Now to men and angels I know him openly.I that was beside him when he came to dieFathoms down."And, Evan Jones, stand forward, whose life was shut in gloom,And a narrow grave they gave you 'twixt marble tomb and tomb.But now the great that trod you shall give you elbow roomAnd renown."
"Where is Owen Griffiths?" Broken and aloneCrushed he lies in darkness beneath Festiniog stone."Bring his broken body before me to the throneFor a crown.
"Oftentimes in secret in prayer he came to me,Now to men and angels I know him openly.I that was beside him when he came to dieFathoms down.
"And, Evan Jones, stand forward, whose life was shut in gloom,And a narrow grave they gave you 'twixt marble tomb and tomb.But now the great that trod you shall give you elbow roomAnd renown."
These poems unite delicacy and strength. They convince us of sincerity and intensity of vision.
A. C. H.
It is hardly necessary to introduce to the lovers of lyric and dramatic verse Mr. William Butler Yeats, who honors the Christmas number ofPoetryby his presence. A score or more of years have passed since his voice, perfect in quality, began to speak and sing in high loyalty to the beauty of poetic art, especially the ancient poetic art of his own Irish people. His influence, reinforced by the prompt allegiance of Lady Gregory, Mr. Douglass Hyde, the late J. M. Synge, and many other Irish men and women of letters, has sufficed to lift the beautiful old Gaelic literature out of the obscurity of merely local recognition into a position of international importance. This fact alone is a sufficient acknowledgment of Mr. Yeats' genius, and of the enthusiasm which his leadership has inspired among the thinkers and singers of his race.
Mr. George Sterling, of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, is well known to American readers of poetry through his two books of verse,Wine of WizardryandThe House of Orchids.
Mr. Clark Ashton Smith, also of California, is a youth whose talent has been acclaimed quite recently by a few newspapers of his own state, and recognized by one or two eastern publications.
Mr. John Reed, of New York, and Alice Corbin, the wife of William P. Henderson, the Chicago painter, are Americans. The latter has contributed verse and prose to various magazines. The former is a young journalist, born in 1887, who has published little verse as yet.
Rabindranath Tagore, the poet of Bengal, is sufficiently introduced by Mr. Pound's article.
The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems, by William Ellery Leonard. B. W. Huebsch.Romance, Vision and Satire: English Alliterative Poems of the XIV Century,Newly Rendered in the Original Metres, by Jessie L. Weston. Houghton Mifflin Co.Etain The Beloved, by James H. Cousins. Maunsel & Co.Uriel and Other Poems, by Percy MacKaye. Houghton Mifflin Co.The Unconquered Air, by Florence Earle Coates. Houghton Mifflin Co.A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, by Amy Lowell. Houghton Mifflin Co.The Lure of the Sea, by J. E. Patterson. George H. Doran Co.The Roadside Fire, by Amelia Josephine Burr. George H. Doran Co.By the Way.Verses, Fragments and Notes, by William Allingham.Arranged by Helen Allingham. Longmans, Green & Co.Gabriel, A Pageant of Vigil, by Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher.Pilgrimage to Haunts of Browning, by Pauline Leavens. The Bowrons, Chicago.The Wind on the Heath, Ballads and Lyrics, by May Byron. George H. Doran.Valley Song and Verse, by William Hutcheson. Fraser, Asher & Co.The Queen of Orplede, by Charles Wharton Stork. Elkin Mathews.Pocahontas, A Pageant, by Margaret Ullman. The Poet Lore Co.Poems, by Robert Underwood Johnson. The Century Co.Songs Before Birth, Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher.Book Titles From Shakespeare, by Volney Streamer. Thomas B. Mosher.A Bunch of Blossoms, Little Verses for Little Children, by E. Gordon Browne.Longmans, Green & Co.June on the Miami, by William Henry Venable. Stewart & Kidd.The Tragedy of Etarre, A Poem, by Rhys Carpenter. Sturgis & Walton Co.In Other Words, by Franklin P. Adams. Doubleday, Page & Co.Verses and Sonnets, by Julia Stockton Dinsmore. Doubleday, Page & Co.Anna Marcella's Book of Verses, by Cyrenus Cole. Printed for Personal Distribution.Atala, An American Idyl, by Anna Olcott Commelin. E. P. Dutton & Co.Spring in Tuscany, an Authology. Thos. B. Mosher.
The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems, by William Ellery Leonard. B. W. Huebsch.Romance, Vision and Satire: English Alliterative Poems of the XIV Century,Newly Rendered in the Original Metres, by Jessie L. Weston. Houghton Mifflin Co.Etain The Beloved, by James H. Cousins. Maunsel & Co.Uriel and Other Poems, by Percy MacKaye. Houghton Mifflin Co.The Unconquered Air, by Florence Earle Coates. Houghton Mifflin Co.A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, by Amy Lowell. Houghton Mifflin Co.The Lure of the Sea, by J. E. Patterson. George H. Doran Co.The Roadside Fire, by Amelia Josephine Burr. George H. Doran Co.By the Way.Verses, Fragments and Notes, by William Allingham.Arranged by Helen Allingham. Longmans, Green & Co.Gabriel, A Pageant of Vigil, by Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher.Pilgrimage to Haunts of Browning, by Pauline Leavens. The Bowrons, Chicago.The Wind on the Heath, Ballads and Lyrics, by May Byron. George H. Doran.Valley Song and Verse, by William Hutcheson. Fraser, Asher & Co.The Queen of Orplede, by Charles Wharton Stork. Elkin Mathews.Pocahontas, A Pageant, by Margaret Ullman. The Poet Lore Co.Poems, by Robert Underwood Johnson. The Century Co.Songs Before Birth, Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher.Book Titles From Shakespeare, by Volney Streamer. Thomas B. Mosher.A Bunch of Blossoms, Little Verses for Little Children, by E. Gordon Browne.Longmans, Green & Co.June on the Miami, by William Henry Venable. Stewart & Kidd.The Tragedy of Etarre, A Poem, by Rhys Carpenter. Sturgis & Walton Co.In Other Words, by Franklin P. Adams. Doubleday, Page & Co.Verses and Sonnets, by Julia Stockton Dinsmore. Doubleday, Page & Co.Anna Marcella's Book of Verses, by Cyrenus Cole. Printed for Personal Distribution.Atala, An American Idyl, by Anna Olcott Commelin. E. P. Dutton & Co.Spring in Tuscany, an Authology. Thos. B. Mosher.
GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN(To be sung to the tune ofThe Blood Of The Lambwith indicated instruments.)
GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN(To be sung to the tune ofThe Blood Of The Lambwith indicated instruments.)
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?The saints smiled gravely, and they said, "He's come,"Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Bass DrumWalking lepers followed, rank on rank,Lurching bravos from the ditches dank,Drabs from the alleyways and drug-fiends pale—Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail!Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath,Unwashed legions with the ways of death—Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Every slum had sent its half-a-scoreThe round world over—Booth had groaned for more.Every banner that the wide world flies
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?The saints smiled gravely, and they said, "He's come,"Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Bass DrumWalking lepers followed, rank on rank,Lurching bravos from the ditches dank,Drabs from the alleyways and drug-fiends pale—Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail!Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath,Unwashed legions with the ways of death—Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Every slum had sent its half-a-scoreThe round world over—Booth had groaned for more.Every banner that the wide world flies
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang!Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang,BanjoAre you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Hallelujah! It was queer to seeBull-necked convicts with that land make free!Loons with bazoos blowing blare, blare, blare—On, on, upward through the golden air.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang!Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang,BanjoAre you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Hallelujah! It was queer to seeBull-necked convicts with that land make free!Loons with bazoos blowing blare, blare, blare—On, on, upward through the golden air.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod,Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.Bass drumsBooth led boldly and he looked the chief:slower and softerEagle countenance in sharp relief,Beard a-flying, air of high commandUnabated in that holy land.
Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod,Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.Bass drumsBooth led boldly and he looked the chief:slower and softerEagle countenance in sharp relief,Beard a-flying, air of high commandUnabated in that holy land.
Jesus came from out the Court-House door,Stretched his hands above the passing poor.Booth saw not, but led his queer ones thereFlutesRound and round the mighty Court-House square.Yet in an instant all that blear reviewMarched on spotless, clad in raiment new.The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurledAnd blind eyes opened on a new sweet world.
Jesus came from out the Court-House door,Stretched his hands above the passing poor.Booth saw not, but led his queer ones thereFlutesRound and round the mighty Court-House square.Yet in an instant all that blear reviewMarched on spotless, clad in raiment new.The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurledAnd blind eyes opened on a new sweet world.
Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!Bass drumsGone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl;louder and fasterSages and sibyls now, and athletes clean.Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!Bass drumsGone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl;louder and fasterSages and sibyls now, and athletes clean.Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
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.Grand Chorus—Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?tambourines—Oh, shout Salvation! it was good to seeall instrumentsKings and princes by the Lamb set free.in full blastThe banjos rattled, and the tambourinesJing-jing-jingled in the hands of queens!
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.Grand Chorus—Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?tambourines—Oh, shout Salvation! it was good to seeall instrumentsKings and princes by the Lamb set free.in full blastThe banjos rattled, and the tambourinesJing-jing-jingled in the hands of queens!
And when Booth halted by the curb for prayerHe saw his Master through the flag-filled air.Reverently sung—Christ came gently with a robe and crownno instrumentsFor Booth the soldier while the throng knelt down.He saw King Jesus—they were face to face,And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
And when Booth halted by the curb for prayerHe saw his Master through the flag-filled air.Reverently sung—Christ came gently with a robe and crownno instrumentsFor Booth the soldier while the throng knelt down.He saw King Jesus—they were face to face,And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
WASTE LANDBriar and fennel and chincapin,And rue and ragweed everywhere;The field seemed sick as a soul with sin,Or dead of an old despair,Born of an ancient care.The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr,And the note of a bird's distress,With the rasping sound of the grasshopper,Clung to the lonelinessLike burrs to a trailing dress.So sad the field, so waste the ground,So curst with an old despair,A woodchuck's burrow, a blind mole's mound,And a chipmunk's stony lair,Seemed more than it could bear.So lonely, too, so more than sad,So droning-lone with bees—I wondered what more could Nature addTo the sum of its miseries ...Andthen—I saw the trees.Skeletons gaunt that gnarled the place,Twisted and torn they rose—The tortured bones of a perished raceOf monsters no mortal knows,They startled the mind's repose.And a man stood there, as still as moss,A lichen form that stared;With an old blind hound that, at a loss,Forever around him faredWith a snarling fang half bared.I looked at the man; I saw him plain;Like a dead weed, gray and wan,Or a breath of dust. I looked again—And man and dog were gone,Like wisps of the graying dawn....Were they a part of the grim death there—Ragweed, fennel, and rue?Or forms of the mind, an old despair,That there into semblance grewOut of the grief I knew?Madison Cawein
WASTE LAND
Briar and fennel and chincapin,And rue and ragweed everywhere;The field seemed sick as a soul with sin,Or dead of an old despair,Born of an ancient care.
The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr,And the note of a bird's distress,With the rasping sound of the grasshopper,Clung to the lonelinessLike burrs to a trailing dress.
So sad the field, so waste the ground,So curst with an old despair,A woodchuck's burrow, a blind mole's mound,And a chipmunk's stony lair,Seemed more than it could bear.
So lonely, too, so more than sad,So droning-lone with bees—I wondered what more could Nature addTo the sum of its miseries ...Andthen—I saw the trees.
Skeletons gaunt that gnarled the place,Twisted and torn they rose—The tortured bones of a perished raceOf monsters no mortal knows,They startled the mind's repose.
And a man stood there, as still as moss,A lichen form that stared;With an old blind hound that, at a loss,Forever around him faredWith a snarling fang half bared.
I looked at the man; I saw him plain;Like a dead weed, gray and wan,Or a breath of dust. I looked again—And man and dog were gone,Like wisps of the graying dawn....
Were they a part of the grim death there—Ragweed, fennel, and rue?Or forms of the mind, an old despair,That there into semblance grewOut of the grief I knew?
Madison Cawein
MY LADY OF THE BEECHESHere among the beechesWinds and wild perfume,That the twilight pleachesInto gleam and gloom,Build for her a room.Her, whose Beauty cometh,Misty as the morn,When the wild bee hummeth,At its honey-horn,In the wayside thorn.As the wood grows dimmer,With the drowsy night,Like a moonbeam glimmerHere she walks in white,With a firefly-light.Moths around her flitting,Like a moth she goes;Here a moment sittingBy this wilding rose,With my heart's repose.Every bough that dancesHas assumed the graceOf her form: and Fancies,Flashed from eye and face,Brood about the place.And the water, shakenIn its plunge and poise,To itself has takenQuiet of her voice,And restrains its joys.Would that these could tell meWhat and whence she is;She, who doth enspell me,Fill my soul with blissOf her spirit kiss.Though the heart beseech her,And the soul implore,Who is it may reach her—Safe behind the doorOf all woodland lore?Madison Cawein
MY LADY OF THE BEECHES
Here among the beechesWinds and wild perfume,That the twilight pleachesInto gleam and gloom,Build for her a room.
Her, whose Beauty cometh,Misty as the morn,When the wild bee hummeth,At its honey-horn,In the wayside thorn.
As the wood grows dimmer,With the drowsy night,Like a moonbeam glimmerHere she walks in white,With a firefly-light.
Moths around her flitting,Like a moth she goes;Here a moment sittingBy this wilding rose,With my heart's repose.
Every bough that dancesHas assumed the graceOf her form: and Fancies,Flashed from eye and face,Brood about the place.
And the water, shakenIn its plunge and poise,To itself has takenQuiet of her voice,And restrains its joys.
Would that these could tell meWhat and whence she is;She, who doth enspell me,Fill my soul with blissOf her spirit kiss.
Though the heart beseech her,And the soul implore,Who is it may reach her—Safe behind the doorOf all woodland lore?
Madison Cawein
THE WAYFARERSEarth, I dare not cling to theeLest I should lose my precious soul.'Tis not more wondrous than the fluffWithin the milkweed's autumn boll.Earth, shall my sacred essencesBut sink into thy senseless dust?The springtide takes its way with them—And blossoms blow as blossoms must.Earth, I swear with solemn vow,I feel a greatness in my breath!The grass-seed hath its dream of God,Its visioning of life and death.Anita Fitch
THE WAYFARERS
Earth, I dare not cling to theeLest I should lose my precious soul.
'Tis not more wondrous than the fluffWithin the milkweed's autumn boll.
Earth, shall my sacred essencesBut sink into thy senseless dust?
The springtide takes its way with them—And blossoms blow as blossoms must.
Earth, I swear with solemn vow,I feel a greatness in my breath!
The grass-seed hath its dream of God,Its visioning of life and death.
Anita Fitch
LES CRUELS AMOUREUXTwo lovers wakened in their tombs—They had been dead a hundred years—And in thelangueof old ProvenceThey spoke of ancient tears."M'amour," she called, "I've pardoned you;"(How sad her dreaming seemed to be!)"When I had kissed your dead face onceLove's sweet returned to me.""M'amour," he called, "it was too late."(How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!)"Blessed the soul that love forgives,"He whispered, "ere it dies."And then they turned again and sleptWith must and mold in ancient way;And so they'll sleep and wake, 'tis told,Until the Judgment Day.ENVOIO damoiseau et damoiselle,Guard ye your loving while ye live!Sin not against love's sacred flame—While yet ye may, forgive.Anita Fitch
LES CRUELS AMOUREUX
Two lovers wakened in their tombs—They had been dead a hundred years—And in thelangueof old ProvenceThey spoke of ancient tears.
"M'amour," she called, "I've pardoned you;"(How sad her dreaming seemed to be!)"When I had kissed your dead face onceLove's sweet returned to me."
"M'amour," he called, "it was too late."(How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!)"Blessed the soul that love forgives,"He whispered, "ere it dies."
And then they turned again and sleptWith must and mold in ancient way;And so they'll sleep and wake, 'tis told,Until the Judgment Day.
ENVOI
O damoiseau et damoiselle,Guard ye your loving while ye live!Sin not against love's sacred flame—While yet ye may, forgive.
Anita Fitch
LOVE-SONGS OF THE OPEN ROADMORNINGThe morning wind is wooing me; her lips have swept my brow.Was ever dawn so sweet before? the land so fair as now?The wanderlust is luring to wherever roads may lead,While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but heed?The forest whispers of its shades; of haunts where we have been,—And where may friends be better made than under God's green inn?Your mouth is warm and laughing and your voice is calling low,While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but go?NOONThe bees are humming, humming in the clover;The bobolink is singing in the rye;The brook is purling, purling in the valley,And the river's laughing, radiant, to the sky!The buttercups are nodding in the sunlight;The winds are whispering, whispering to the pine;The joy of June has found me; as an aureole it's crowned meBecause, oh best belovèd, you are mine!NIGHTIn Arcady by moonlight,(Where only lovers go),There is a pool where onlyThe fairest roses grow.Why are the moonlit rosesSo sweet beyond compare?Among their purple shadowsMy love is waiting there.————————To Arcady by moonlightThe roads are open wide,But only joy can enterAnd only joy abide.There is the peace unendingThat perfect faith can know—In Arcady by moonlight,Where only lovers go.Kendall Banning
LOVE-SONGS OF THE OPEN ROAD
MORNING
The morning wind is wooing me; her lips have swept my brow.Was ever dawn so sweet before? the land so fair as now?The wanderlust is luring to wherever roads may lead,While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but heed?
The forest whispers of its shades; of haunts where we have been,—And where may friends be better made than under God's green inn?Your mouth is warm and laughing and your voice is calling low,While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but go?
NOON
The bees are humming, humming in the clover;The bobolink is singing in the rye;The brook is purling, purling in the valley,And the river's laughing, radiant, to the sky!
The buttercups are nodding in the sunlight;The winds are whispering, whispering to the pine;The joy of June has found me; as an aureole it's crowned meBecause, oh best belovèd, you are mine!
NIGHT
In Arcady by moonlight,(Where only lovers go),There is a pool where onlyThe fairest roses grow.
Why are the moonlit rosesSo sweet beyond compare?Among their purple shadowsMy love is waiting there.
————————
To Arcady by moonlightThe roads are open wide,But only joy can enterAnd only joy abide.
There is the peace unendingThat perfect faith can know—In Arcady by moonlight,Where only lovers go.
Kendall Banning
SYMPATHYAs one within a moated tower,I lived my life alone;And dreamed not other granges' dower,Nor ways unlike mine own.I thought I loved. But all aloneAs one within a moated towerI lived. Nor truly knewOne other mortal fortune's hour.As one within a moated tower,One fate alone I knew.Who hears afar the break of dayBefore the silvered airReveals her hooded presence gray,And she, herself, is there?I know not how, but now I seeThe road, the plain, the pluming tree,The carter on the wain.On my horizon wakes a star.The distant hillsides wrinkled farFold many hearts' domain.On one the fire-worn forests sweep,Above a purple mountain-keepAnd soar to domes of snow.One heart has swarded fountains deepWhere water-lilies blow:And one, a cheerful house and yard,With curtains at the pane,Board-walks down lawns all clover-starred,And full-fold fields of grain.As one within a moated towerI lived my life alone;And dreamed not other granges' dowerNor ways unlike mine own.But now the salt-chased seas uncurledAnd mountains trooped with pineAre mine. I look on all the worldAnd all the world is mine.Edith Wyatt
SYMPATHY
As one within a moated tower,I lived my life alone;And dreamed not other granges' dower,Nor ways unlike mine own.I thought I loved. But all aloneAs one within a moated towerI lived. Nor truly knewOne other mortal fortune's hour.As one within a moated tower,One fate alone I knew.Who hears afar the break of dayBefore the silvered airReveals her hooded presence gray,And she, herself, is there?I know not how, but now I seeThe road, the plain, the pluming tree,The carter on the wain.On my horizon wakes a star.The distant hillsides wrinkled farFold many hearts' domain.On one the fire-worn forests sweep,Above a purple mountain-keepAnd soar to domes of snow.One heart has swarded fountains deepWhere water-lilies blow:And one, a cheerful house and yard,With curtains at the pane,Board-walks down lawns all clover-starred,And full-fold fields of grain.As one within a moated towerI lived my life alone;And dreamed not other granges' dowerNor ways unlike mine own.But now the salt-chased seas uncurledAnd mountains trooped with pineAre mine. I look on all the worldAnd all the world is mine.
Edith Wyatt
A SONG OF HAPPINESSAh Happiness:Who called you "Earandel"?(Winter-star, I think, that is);And who can tell the lovely curveBy which you seem to come, then swerveBefore you reach the middle-earth?And who is there can hold your wing,Or bind you in your mirth,Or win you with a least caress,Or tear, or kiss, or anything—Insensate happiness?Once I thought to have youFast there in a child:All her heart she gave you,Yet you would not stay.Cruel, and careless,Not half reconciled,Pain you cannot bear;When her yellow hairLay matted, every tress;When those looks of hers,Were no longer hers,You went: in a dayShe wept you all away.Once I thought to giveYou, plighted, holily—No more fugitive,Returning like the sea:But they that share so wellHeaven must portion HellIn their copartnery:Care, ill fate, ill health,Came we know not howAnd broke our commonwealth.Neither has you now.Some wait you on the road,Some in an open doorLook for the face you show'dOnce there—no more.You never wear the dressYou danced in yesterday;Yet, seeming gone, you stay,And come at no man's call:Yet, laid for burial,You lift up from the deadYour laughing, spangled head.Yes, once I did pursueYou, unpursuable;Loved, longed for, hoped for you—Blue-eyed and morning brow'd.Ah, lovely happiness!Now that I know you well,I dare not speak aloudYour fond name in a crowd;Nor conjure you by night,Nor pray at morning-light,Nor count at all on you:But, at a stroke, a breath,After the fear of death,Or bent beneath a load;Yes, ragged in the dress,And houseless on the road,I might surprise you there.Yes: who of us shall sayWhen you will come, or where?Ask children at their play,The leaves upon the tree,The ships upon the sea,Or old men who survived,And lived, and loved, and wived.Ask sorrow to confessYour sweet improvidence,And prodigal expenseAnd cold economy,Ah, lovely happiness!Ernest Rhys
A SONG OF HAPPINESS
Ah Happiness:Who called you "Earandel"?(Winter-star, I think, that is);And who can tell the lovely curveBy which you seem to come, then swerveBefore you reach the middle-earth?And who is there can hold your wing,Or bind you in your mirth,Or win you with a least caress,Or tear, or kiss, or anything—Insensate happiness?
Once I thought to have youFast there in a child:All her heart she gave you,Yet you would not stay.Cruel, and careless,Not half reconciled,Pain you cannot bear;When her yellow hairLay matted, every tress;When those looks of hers,Were no longer hers,You went: in a dayShe wept you all away.
Once I thought to giveYou, plighted, holily—No more fugitive,Returning like the sea:But they that share so wellHeaven must portion HellIn their copartnery:Care, ill fate, ill health,Came we know not howAnd broke our commonwealth.Neither has you now.
Some wait you on the road,Some in an open doorLook for the face you show'dOnce there—no more.You never wear the dressYou danced in yesterday;Yet, seeming gone, you stay,And come at no man's call:Yet, laid for burial,You lift up from the deadYour laughing, spangled head.
Yes, once I did pursueYou, unpursuable;Loved, longed for, hoped for you—Blue-eyed and morning brow'd.Ah, lovely happiness!Now that I know you well,I dare not speak aloudYour fond name in a crowd;Nor conjure you by night,Nor pray at morning-light,Nor count at all on you:
But, at a stroke, a breath,After the fear of death,Or bent beneath a load;Yes, ragged in the dress,And houseless on the road,I might surprise you there.Yes: who of us shall sayWhen you will come, or where?Ask children at their play,The leaves upon the tree,The ships upon the sea,Or old men who survived,And lived, and loved, and wived.Ask sorrow to confessYour sweet improvidence,And prodigal expenseAnd cold economy,Ah, lovely happiness!
Ernest Rhys
HELEN IS ILLWhen she is ill my laughter cowers;An exile with a broken rhyme,My head upon the breast of time,I hear the heart-beat of the hours;I close my eyes without a sigh;The vision of her flutters byAs glints the light of Mary's eyesUpon the lakes in Paradise.I seem to reach an olden townAnd enter at the sunset gate;And as the streets I hurry down,I find the men are all elate,As if an angel of the LordHad passed with dearest word and nod,Remembered like a yearning chordOf songs the people sing to God;I come upon the sunrise gate—As silent as her listless room—There seven beggers sing and waitAnd this the song that breaks the gloom:God a 'mercy is most kind;She the fairest passed this way;We the lowest were not blind;God a 'mercy bless the day.Roscoe W. Brink
HELEN IS ILL
When she is ill my laughter cowers;An exile with a broken rhyme,My head upon the breast of time,I hear the heart-beat of the hours;I close my eyes without a sigh;The vision of her flutters byAs glints the light of Mary's eyesUpon the lakes in Paradise.
I seem to reach an olden townAnd enter at the sunset gate;And as the streets I hurry down,I find the men are all elate,As if an angel of the LordHad passed with dearest word and nod,Remembered like a yearning chordOf songs the people sing to God;I come upon the sunrise gate—As silent as her listless room—There seven beggers sing and waitAnd this the song that breaks the gloom:
God a 'mercy is most kind;She the fairest passed this way;We the lowest were not blind;God a 'mercy bless the day.
Roscoe W. Brink
VERSES, TRANSLATIONS, AND REFLECTIONS FROM"The Anthology"
HERMES OF THE WAYSThe hard sand breaks,And the grains of itAre clear as wine.Far off over the leagues of it,The wind,Playing on the wide shore,Piles little ridges,And the great wavesBreak over it.But more than the many-foamed waysOf the sea,I know himOf the triple path-ways,Hermes,Who awaiteth.Dubious,Facing three ways,Welcoming wayfarers,He whom the sea-orchardShelters from the west,From the eastWeathers sea-wind;Fronts the great dunes.Wind rushesOver the dunes,And the coarse, salt-crusted grassAnswers.Heu,It whips round my ankles!IISmall isThis white stream,Flowing below groundFrom the poplar-shaded hill,But the water is sweet.Apples on the small treesAre hard,Too small,Too late ripenedBy a desperate sunThat struggles through sea-mist.The boughs of the treesAre twistedBy many bafflings;Twisted areThe small-leafed boughs.But the shadow of themIs not the shadow of the mast headNor of the torn sails.Hermes, Hermes,The great sea foamed,Gnashed its teeth about me;But you have waited,Where sea-grass tangles withShore-grass.H. D.
HERMES OF THE WAYS
The hard sand breaks,And the grains of itAre clear as wine.
Far off over the leagues of it,The wind,Playing on the wide shore,Piles little ridges,And the great wavesBreak over it.
But more than the many-foamed waysOf the sea,I know himOf the triple path-ways,Hermes,Who awaiteth.
Dubious,Facing three ways,Welcoming wayfarers,He whom the sea-orchardShelters from the west,From the eastWeathers sea-wind;Fronts the great dunes.
Wind rushesOver the dunes,And the coarse, salt-crusted grassAnswers.
Heu,It whips round my ankles!
II
Small isThis white stream,Flowing below groundFrom the poplar-shaded hill,But the water is sweet.
Apples on the small treesAre hard,Too small,Too late ripenedBy a desperate sunThat struggles through sea-mist.
The boughs of the treesAre twistedBy many bafflings;Twisted areThe small-leafed boughs.
But the shadow of themIs not the shadow of the mast headNor of the torn sails.
Hermes, Hermes,The great sea foamed,Gnashed its teeth about me;But you have waited,Where sea-grass tangles withShore-grass.
H. D.
PRIAPUSKeeper-of-OrchardsI saw the first pearAs it fell.The honey-seeking, golden-banded,The yellow swarmWas not more fleet than I,(Spare us from loveliness!)And I fell prostrate,Crying,Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms;Spare us the beautyOf fruit-trees!The honey-seekingPaused not,The air thundered their song,And I alone was prostrate.O rough-hewnGod of the orchard,I bring thee an offering;Do thou, alone unbeautiful(Son of the god),Spare us from loveliness.The fallen hazel-nuts,Stripped late of their green sheaths,The grapes, red-purple,Their berriesDripping with wine,Pomegranates already broken,And shrunken fig,And quinces untouched,I bring thee as offering.H. D.
PRIAPUSKeeper-of-Orchards
I saw the first pearAs it fell.The honey-seeking, golden-banded,The yellow swarmWas not more fleet than I,(Spare us from loveliness!)And I fell prostrate,Crying,Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms;Spare us the beautyOf fruit-trees!
The honey-seekingPaused not,The air thundered their song,And I alone was prostrate.
O rough-hewnGod of the orchard,I bring thee an offering;Do thou, alone unbeautiful(Son of the god),Spare us from loveliness.
The fallen hazel-nuts,Stripped late of their green sheaths,The grapes, red-purple,Their berriesDripping with wine,Pomegranates already broken,And shrunken fig,And quinces untouched,I bring thee as offering.
H. D.
EPIGRAM(After the Greek)The golden one is gone from the banquets;She, beloved of Atimetus,The swallow, the bright Homonoea:Gone the dear chatterer;Death succeeds Atimetus.H. D.,"Imagiste."
EPIGRAM(After the Greek)
The golden one is gone from the banquets;She, beloved of Atimetus,The swallow, the bright Homonoea:Gone the dear chatterer;Death succeeds Atimetus.
H. D.,"Imagiste."
London, December 10, 1912
The state of things here in London is, as I see it, as follows:
I find Mr. Yeats the only poet worthy of serious study. Mr. Yeats' work is already a recognized classic and is part of the required reading in the Sorbonne. There is no need of proclaiming him to the American public.
As to his English contemporaries, they are food, sometimes very good food, for anthologies. There are a number of men who have written a poem, or several poems, worth knowing and remembering, but they do not much concern the young artist studying the art of poetry.
The important work of the last twenty-five years has been done in Paris. This work is little likely to gain a large audience in either America or England, because of its tone and content. There has been no "man with a message," but the work has been excellent and the method worthy of our emulation. No other body of poets having so little necessity to speak could have spoken so well as these modern Parisians and Flemings.
There has been some imitation here of their manner and content. Any donkey can imitate a man's manner. There has been little serious consideration of theirmethod. It requires an artist to analyze and apply a method.
Among the men of thirty here, Padraic Colum is the one whom we call most certainly a poet, albeit he has written very little verse—and but a small part of that is worthy of notice. He is fairly unconscious of such words as "aesthetics," "technique" and "method." He is at his best inGaradh, a translation from the Gaelic, beginning:
O woman, shapely as a swan,On your account I shall not die.The men you've slain—a trivial clan—Were less than I:
O woman, shapely as a swan,On your account I shall not die.The men you've slain—a trivial clan—Were less than I:
and inA Drover. He is bad whenever he shows a trace of reading. I quote the opening ofA Drover, as I think it shows "all Colum" better than any passage he has written. I think no English-speaking writer now living has had the luck to get so much of himself into twelve lines.
To Meath of the pastures,From wet hills by the sea,Through Leitrim and LongfordGo my cattle and me.I hear in the darknessTheir slipping and breathing.I name them the bye-waysThey're to pass without heeding.Then the wet, winding roads,Brown bogs with black water;And my thoughts on white shipsAnd the King o' Spain's daughter.
To Meath of the pastures,From wet hills by the sea,Through Leitrim and LongfordGo my cattle and me.
I hear in the darknessTheir slipping and breathing.I name them the bye-waysThey're to pass without heeding.
Then the wet, winding roads,Brown bogs with black water;And my thoughts on white shipsAnd the King o' Spain's daughter.
I would rather talk about poetry with Ford Madox Hueffer than with any man in London. Mr. Hueffer's beliefs about the art may be best explained by saying that they are in diametric opposition to those of Mr. Yeats.
Mr. Yeats has been subjective; believes in the glamour and associations which hang near the words. "Works of art beget works of art." He has much in common with the French symbolists. Mr. Hueffer believes in an exact rendering of things. He would strip words of all "association" for the sake of getting a precise meaning. He professes to prefer prose to verse. You would find his origins in Gautier or in Flaubert. He is objective. This school tends to lapse into description. The other tends to lapse into sentiment.
Mr. Yeats' method is, to my way of thinking, very dangerous, for although he is the greatest of living poets who use English, and though he has sung some of the moods of life immortally, his art has not broadened much in scope during the past decade. His gifts to English art are mostly negative; i. e., he has stripped English poetry of many of its faults. His "followers" have come to nothing. Neither Synge, Lady Gregory nor Colum can be called his followers, though he had much to do with bringing them forth, yet nearly every man who writes English verse seriously is in some way indebted to him.
Mr. Hueffer has rarely "come off." His touch is so light and his attitude so easy that there seems little likelihood of his ever being taken seriously by anyone save a few specialists and a few of his intimates. His last leaflet,High Germany, contains, however, three poems from which one may learn his quality. They are not Victorian. I do not expect many people to understand why I praise them. They areThe Starling,In the Little Old Market-PlaceandTo All the Dead.
The youngest school here that has the nerve to call itself a school is that of theImagistes. To belong to a school does not in the least mean that one writes poetry to a theory. One writes poetry when, where, because, and as one feels like writing it. A school exists when two or three young men agree, more or less, to call certain things good; when they prefer such of their verses as have certain qualities to such of their verses as do not have them.
Space forbids me to set forth the program of theImagistesat length, but one of their watchwords is Precision, and they are in opposition to the numerous and unassembled writers who busy themselves with dull and interminable effusions, and who seem to think that a man can write a good long poem before he learns to write a good short one, or even before he learns to produce a good single line.
Among the very young men, there seems to be a gleam of hope in the work of Richard Aldington, but it is too early to make predictions.
There are a number of men whose names are too well known for it to seem necessary to tell them over. America has already found their work in volumes or anthologies. Hardy, Kipling, Maurice Hewlett, Binyon, Robert Bridges, Sturge Moore, Henry Newbolt, McKail, Masefield, who has had the latest cry; Abercrombie, with passionate defenders, and Rupert Brooke, recently come down from Cambridge.
There are men also, who are little known to the general public, but who contribute liberally to the "charm" or the "atmosphere" of London: Wilfred Scawen Blunt, the grandest of old men, the last of the great Victorians; great by reason of his double sonnet, beginning—