REVIEWS

He who has once been happy is for ayeOut of destruction's reach;

Ernest Rhys, weary with much editing and hack work, to whom we owe gold digged in Wales, translations, transcripts, and poems of his own, among them the fine one to Dagonet; Victor Plarr, one of the "old" Rhymers' Club, a friend of Dowson and of Lionel Johnson. His volume,In The Dorian Mood, has been half forgotten, but not his versesEpitaphium Citharistriae. One would also name the Provost of Oriel, not for original work, but for his very beautiful translations from Dante.

In fact one might name nearly a hundred writers who have given pleasure with this or that matter in rhyme. But it is one thing to take pleasure in a man's work and another to respect him as a great artist.

Ezra Pound

The Lyric Year, Mr. Kennerley's new annual, contains among its hundred contributions nearly a score of live poems, among which a few excite the kind of keen emotion which only art of real distinction can arouse.

Among the live poems the present reviewer would count none of the prize-winners, not even Mr. Sterling's, the best of the three, whose rather stiff formalities in praise of Browning are, however, lit now and then by shining lines, as—

Drew as a bubble from old infamies....The shy and many-colored soul of man.

The other two prize-poems must have been measured by some academic foot-rule dug up from the eighteenth century. Orrick Johns'Second Avenueis aGrays Elegyessay of prosy moralizing, without a finely poetic line in it, or any originality of meaning or cadence. And the second prize went to an ode still more hopelessly academic. Indeed,To a Thrush, by Thomas Augustine Daly, is one of the most stilted poems in the volume, a far-away echo of echoes, full of the approved "poetic" words—throstle,pregnant,vernal,cerulean,teen,chrysmal, evenparaclete—and quite guiltless of inspiration.

But one need not linger with these. As we face the other way one poem outranks the rest and ennobles the book. This isThe Renascence, said to be by Edna St. Vincent Millay, who, according to the editor, is only twenty years old. This poem is the daring flight of a wide-winged imagination, and the art of it, though not faultless, is strong enough to carry us through keen emotions of joy and agony to a climax of spiritual serenity. Though marred by the last twelve lines, which should be struck out for stating the thesis too explicitly, this poem arouses high hopes of its youthful author.

Among the other live poems—trees, saplings or flowers—are various species.Kisa-Gotami, by Arthur Davison Ficke, tells its familiar story of the Buddha in stately cadences which sustain the beauty of the tale.Jetsam, a "Titanic" elegy by Herman Montagu Donner, carries the dread and dangerous subject without violating its terrors and sanctities with false sentiment or light rhythm. Ridgeley Torrence'sRitual for a Funeralis less sure of its ground, sometimes escaping into vapors, but on the whole noble in feeling and flute-like in cadence. Mrs. Conkling's bird ode has now and then an airy delicacy, and Edith Wyatt'sCity Swallowgives the emotion of flight above the roofs and smoke of a modern town.

Of the shorter poems who could ignore Harry Kemp's noble lyric dialogue,I Sing the Battle;The Forgotten Soulby Margaret Widdemer,Selma, by Willard H. Wright;Comradesby Fannie Stearns Davis, or Nicholas Vachel Lindsay's tribute to O. Henry, a more vital elegy than Mr. Sterling's? These are all simple andsincere—straight modern talk which rises into song without the aidof worn-out phrases.Paternity, by William Rose Benét,To My Vagrant Love, by Elouise Briton, andDedication, by Pauline Florence Brower, are delicate expressions of intimate emotion; andMartin, by Joyce Kilmer, touches with grace a lighter subject.

To have gathered such as these together is perhaps enough, but more may be reasonably demanded. As a whole the collection, like the prizes, is too academic; Georgian and Victorian standards are too much in evidence. The ambition ofThe Lyric Yearis to be "an annual Salon of American poetry;" to this end poets and their publishers are invited to contribute gratis the best poems of the year, without hope of reward other than the three prizes. That so many responded to the call, freely submitting their works to anonymous judges, shows how eager is the hitherto unfriended American muse to seize any helping hand.

However, if this annual is to speak with any authority as a Salon, it should take a few lessons from art exhibitions. Mr. Earle's position as donor, editor and judge, is as if Mr. Carnegie should act as hanging committee at the Pittsburg show, and help select the prize-winners. And Messrs. Earle, Braithwaite and Wheeler, this year's jury of awards, are not, even though all have written verse, poets of recognized distinction in the sense that Messrs. Chase, Alexander, Hassam, Duveneck, and other jurymen in our various American Salons, are distinguished painters.

In these facts lie the present weaknesses ofThe Lyric Year. However, the remedy for them is easy and may be applied in future issues. Meantime the venture is to be welcomed; at last someone, somewhere, is trying to do something for the encouragement of the art in America.Poetry, which is embarked in the same adventure, rejoices in companionship.

H. M.

_____

Already many books of verses come to us, of which a few are poetry. Sometimes the poetry is an aspiration rather than an achievement; but in spite of crude materials and imperfect artistry one may feel the beat of wings and hear the song. Again one searches in vain for the magic touch, even though the author has interesting things to say in creditable and more or less persuasive rhymed eloquence.

Of recent arrivals Mr. John Hall Wheelock has the most searching vision and appealing voice. InThe Human Fantasy(Sherman, French & Co.) his subject is New York, typified in the pathetic little love-affair of two young starvelings, which takes its course through a stirring, exacting milieu to a renunciation that leaves the essential sanctities intact. The poet looks through the slang and shoddy of the lovers, and the dust and glare of the city, to the divine power of passion in both. InThe Beloved Adventurethe emotion is less poignant; or, rather, the poet has included many indifferent pieces which obscure the quality of finer lyrics. More rigorous techniqueand resolute use of the waste-basket would make more apparent the fact that we have here a true poet, one with a singing voice, and a heart deeply moved by essential spiritual beauty in the common manifestations of human character. At his best he writes with immense concentration and unflagging vigor; and his hearty young appetite for life in all its manifestations helps him to transmute the repellant discords of the modern town into harmony. The fantasy ofLove in a Cityis a "true thing" and a vital.

Mr. Hermann Hagedorn is also a true poet, capable of lyric rapture, but sometimes, when he seems least aware, his muse escapes him.The Infidel, the initial poem of hisPoems and Ballads(Houghton Mifflin Co.), recalls hisWoman of Corinth, and others in this book remind one of this and of his Harvard class poem,The Troop of the Guard, in that the words do not, like colored sands, dance inevitably into the absolute shape determined by the wizardry of sound. He is still somewhat hampered by the New England manner, a trend toward an external formalism not dependent on interior necessity. This influence makes for academic and lifeless work, and it must be deeply rooted since it casts its chill also over the Boston school of painters.

But now and then Mr. Hagedorn frees himself; perhaps in the end he may escape altogether. In such poems asSong,Doors,Broadway,Discovery,The Wood-Gatherer,The Crier in the NightandA Chant on the Terrible Highway, we feel that he begins to speak for himself, to sing with his own voice. Such poems are a challenging note that should arrest the attention of all seekers after sincere poetic expression.

Mr. Percy MacKaye, inUriel and Other Poems(Houghton Mifflin Co.), shows also the Boston influence, but perhaps it is difficult to escape the academic note in such poems for occasions as these. With fluent eloquence and a ready command of verse forms he celebrates dead poets, addresses noted living persons, and contributes to a number of ceremonial observances. The poems in which he is most freely lyric are perhapsIn the Bohemian RedwoodsandTo the Fire-Bringer, the shorter of his elegies in honor of Moody, his friend.

In two dramatic poems,The Tragedy of Etarre, by Rhys Carpenter (Sturgis & Walton Co.), andGabriel, a Pageant of Vigil, by Mrs. Isabelle Howe Fiske (Mosher), the academic note is confidently insisted on. The former shows the more promise of ultimate freedom. It is an Arthurian venture of which the prologue is the strongest part. In firm-knit iambics Mr. Carpenter strikes out many effective lines and telling situations. Indeed, they almost prompt the profane suggestion that, simplified and compressed, they might yield a psychological libretto for some "advanced" composer.

Mrs. Fiske's venture is toward heaven itself; but her numerous archangels are of the earth earthy.

InThe Unconquered Air and Other Poems(Houghton Mifflin Co.), Mrs. Florence Earle Coates shows not inspiration but wide and humane sympathies. Her verse is typical of much which has enough popular appeal and educative value to be printed extensively in the magazines; verse in which subjects of modern interest and human sentiment are expressed in the kind of rhymed eloquence which passes for poetry with the great majority.

These poets may claim the justification of illustrious precedent. The typical poem of this class in America, the most famous verse rhapsody which stops short of lyric rapture, is Lowell'sCommemoration Ode.

Our poets this month play divers instruments. The audience may listen to H. D.'s flute, the 'cello of Mr. Rhys, the big bass drum of Mr. Lindsay, and so on through the orchestra, fitting each poet to his special strain. Some of these performers are well known, others perhaps will be.

Mr. Ernest Rhys is of Welsh descent. In 1888-9 he lectured in America, and afterward returned to London, where he has publishedA London Rose, Arthurian plays and poems, and Welsh ballads, and editedEveryman's Library.

Mr. Madison Cawein, the well-known Kentucky poet resident in Louisville, scarcely needs an introductory word. His is landscape poetry chiefly, but sometimes, as in Wordsworth, figures blend with the scene and become a part of nature. A volume of his own selections from his various books has recently been published by The MacMillan Company.

Mr. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay is the vagabond poet who loves to tramp through untravelled country districts without a cent in his pocket, exchanging "rhymes for bread" at farmers' hearths. The magazines have published engaging articles by him, but in verse he has been usually his own publisher as yet.

"H. D.,Imagiste," is an American lady resident abroad, whose identity is unknown to the editor. Her sketches from the Greek are not offered as exact translations, or as in any sense finalities, but as experiments in delicate and elusive cadences, which attain sometimes a haunting beauty.

Mr. Kendall Banning is an editor and writer of songs. "The Love Songs of the Open Road," with music by Lena Branscord, will soon be published by Arthur Schmidt of Boston.

Mrs. Anita Fitch of New York has contributed poems to various magazines.

The February number ofPoetrywill be devoted to the work of two poets, Messrs. Arthur Davison Ficke and Witter Bynner.

The Lyric Year.Mitchell Kennerley.Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Houghton Mifflin Co.Shadows of the Flowers, by T. B. Aldrich. Houghton Mifflin Co.Poems and Plays, by William Vaughn Moody. Houghton Mifflin Co.Nimrod, by Francis Rolt-Wheeler. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard.The Shadow Garden and Other Plays, by Madison Cawein. G. P. Putman's Sons.Via Lucis, by Alice Harper. M. E. Church South, Nashville, Tenn.Songs of Courage and Other Poems, by Bertha F. Gordon. The Baker & Taylor Co.Narrative Lyrics, by Edward Lucas White. G. P. Putnam's Sons.The Dance of Dinwiddie, by Marshall Moreton. Stewart & Kidd Co.The Three Visions and Other Poems, by John A. Johnson. Stewart & Kidd Co.Hands Across The Equator, by Alfred Ernest Keet. Privately printed.Songs Under Open Skies, by M. Jay Flannery. Stewart & Kidd Co.Denys Of Auxerre, by James Barton. Christophers, London.Songs in Many Moods, by Charles Washburn Nichols. L. H. Blackmer Press.The Lord's Prayer.A Sonnet Sequence by Francis Howard Williams. George W. Jacobs & Co.The Buccaneers, by Don C. Seitz. Harper & Bros.The Tale of a Round-House, by John Masefield. The MacMillan Co.XXXIII Love Sonnets, by Florence Brooks. John Marone.The Poems of Ida Ahlborn Weeks.Published By Her Friends, Sabula, Iowa.The Poems of LeRoy Titus Weeks.Published by the author.Ripostes, by Ezra Pound. Stephen Swift.The Spinning Woman of the Sky, by Alice Corbin. The Ralph Fletcher Seymour Co.The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves.Maunsel & Co.Welsh Poetry Old and New, in English Verse, by Alfred Perceval Graves. Longmans, Green & Co.

POEMSBYARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

SWINBURNE, AN ELEGYIThe autumn dusk, not yearly but eternal,Is haunted by thy voice.Who turns his way far from the valleys vernalAnd by dark choiceDisturbs those heights which from the low-lying landRise sheerly toward the heavens, with thee may standAnd hear thy thunders down the mountains strown.But none save him who shares thy prophet-sightShall thence behold what cosmic dawning-lightMet thy soul's own.IIMaster of music! unmelodious singingMust build thy praises now.Master of vision! vainly come we, bringingWords to endowThy silence,—where, beyond our clouded powers,The sun-shot glory of resplendent hoursInvests thee of the Dionysiac flame.Yet undissuaded come we, here to makeNot thine enrichment but our own who wakeThy echoing fame.IIINot o'er thy dust we brood,—we who have neverLooked in thy living eyes.Nor wintry blossom shall we come to severWhere thy grave lies.Let witlings dream, with shallow pride elate,That they approach the presence of the greatWhen at the spot of birth or death they stand.But hearts in whom thy heart lives, though they beBy oceans sundered, walk the night with theeIn alien land.IVFor them, grief speaks not with the tidings spokenThat thou art of the dead.No lamp extinguished when the bowl is broken,No music fledWhen the lute crumbles, art thou nor shalt be;But as a great wave, lifted on the sea,Surges triumphant toward the sleeping shore,Thou fallest, in splendor of irradiant rain,To sweep resurgent all the ocean plainForevermore.VThe seas of earth with flood tides filled thy bosom;The sea-winds to thy voiceLent power; the Grecian with the English blossomTwined, to rejoiceUpon thy brow in chaplets of new bloom;And over thee the Celtic mists of doomHovered to give their magics to thy hand;And past the moon, where Music dwells alone,She woke, and loved, and left her starry zoneAt thy command.VIFor thee spake Beauty from the shadowy waters;For thee Earth garlandedWith loveliness and light her mortal daughters;Toward thee was spedThe arrow of swift longing, keen delight,Wonder that pierces, cruel needs that smite,Madness and melody and hope and tears.And these with lights and loveliness illumeThy pages, where rich Summer's faint perfumeOutlasts the years.VIIOutlasts, too well! For of the hearts that know theeFew know or dare to standOn thy keen chilling heights; but where below theeThy lavish handHas scattered brilliant jewels of summer songAnd flowers of passionate speech, there grope the throngCrying—"Behold! this bauble, this is he!"And of their love or hate, the foolish warsEcho up faintly where amid lone starsThy soul may be.VIIIBut some, who find in thee a word exceedingEven thy power of speech—To whom each song,—like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding,Fallen,—can teachTidings of that high forest whence it cameWhere the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flameBurns as the Autumn kindles on its quest—These rapt diviners gather close to thee:—Whom now the Winter holds in dateless feeSealèd of rest.IXStrings never touched before,—strange accents chanting,—Strange quivering lambent words,—A far exalted hope serene or pantingMastering the chords,—A sweetness fierce and tragic,—these were thine,O singing lover of dark Proserpine!O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song!O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine,Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shineDown on the throng.XNot thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding gloryMaketh men blind to thee.For them thou hast no evening fireside story.But to be free—But to arise, spurning all bonds that foldThe spirit of man in fetters forged of old—This was the mighty trend of thy desire;Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mouldNo longer idols, but aloft to holdThe soul's own fire.XIYea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture;And thy strong heart has passedFrom youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture,Into the vastDesolate bleakness of life's iron spaces;And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces,Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control.In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven,Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge wovenFrom thine own soul.XIIThe faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning,Dropping, like leaves.Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complainingAs Time bereavesPitiful hearts of all that they thought holy.The icy stars look down on melancholyShelterless creatures of a pillaged day:A day of disillusionment and terror,A day that yields no solace for the errorIt takes away.XIIIThee with no solace, but with bolder passionThe bitter day endowed.As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashionAt last the proudIndomitable master of their tides,Who with exultant power splendidly ridesThe terrible summit of each whelming wave,—So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain;Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main,Strength that shall save.XIVHere where old barks upon new headlands shatter,And worlds seem torn apart,Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatterThe mortal heart,Where the wild welter of strange knowledge wonFrom grave and engine and the chemic sunSubdues the age to faith in dust and gold:The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth,In living witness of the spirit's truth,Like prophets old.XVThee shall the future time with joy inherit.Hast thou not sung and said:"Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit,None ever led"?Time shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod,Where the soul speaks authentically of God,Sustained by glories strange and strong and new.Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heartOnly to kindred can thy speech impart;And they are few.XVIFew men shall love thee, whom fierce powers have liftedHigh beyond meed of praise.But as some bark whose seeking sail has driftedThrough storm of days,We hail thee, bearing back thy golden flowersGathered beyond the Western Isles, in bowersThat had not seen, till thine, a vessel's wake.And looking on thee from our land-built towersKnow that such sea-dawn never can be oursAs thou sawest break.XVIINow sailest thou dim-lighted, lonelier water.By shores of bitter seasLow is thy speech with Ceres' ghostly daughter,Whose twined liliesAre not more pale than thou, O bard most sweet,Most bitter;—for whose brow sedge-crowns were meteAnd crowns of splendid holly green and red;Who passest from the dust of careless feetTo lands where sunrise thou hast sought shall greetThy holy head.XVIIIThou hast followed after him whose hopes were greatest,—That meteor-soul divine;Near whom divine we hail thee: thou the latestOf that bright lineOf flame-lipped masters of the spell of song,Enduring in succession proud and long,The banner-bearers in triumphant wars:Latest; and first of that bright line to be,For whom thou also, flame-lipped, spirit-free,Art of the stars.

SWINBURNE, AN ELEGY

The autumn dusk, not yearly but eternal,Is haunted by thy voice.Who turns his way far from the valleys vernalAnd by dark choiceDisturbs those heights which from the low-lying landRise sheerly toward the heavens, with thee may standAnd hear thy thunders down the mountains strown.But none save him who shares thy prophet-sightShall thence behold what cosmic dawning-lightMet thy soul's own.

Master of music! unmelodious singingMust build thy praises now.Master of vision! vainly come we, bringingWords to endowThy silence,—where, beyond our clouded powers,The sun-shot glory of resplendent hoursInvests thee of the Dionysiac flame.Yet undissuaded come we, here to makeNot thine enrichment but our own who wakeThy echoing fame.

III

Not o'er thy dust we brood,—we who have neverLooked in thy living eyes.Nor wintry blossom shall we come to severWhere thy grave lies.Let witlings dream, with shallow pride elate,That they approach the presence of the greatWhen at the spot of birth or death they stand.But hearts in whom thy heart lives, though they beBy oceans sundered, walk the night with theeIn alien land.

For them, grief speaks not with the tidings spokenThat thou art of the dead.No lamp extinguished when the bowl is broken,No music fledWhen the lute crumbles, art thou nor shalt be;But as a great wave, lifted on the sea,Surges triumphant toward the sleeping shore,Thou fallest, in splendor of irradiant rain,To sweep resurgent all the ocean plainForevermore.

The seas of earth with flood tides filled thy bosom;The sea-winds to thy voiceLent power; the Grecian with the English blossomTwined, to rejoiceUpon thy brow in chaplets of new bloom;And over thee the Celtic mists of doomHovered to give their magics to thy hand;And past the moon, where Music dwells alone,She woke, and loved, and left her starry zoneAt thy command.

For thee spake Beauty from the shadowy waters;For thee Earth garlandedWith loveliness and light her mortal daughters;Toward thee was spedThe arrow of swift longing, keen delight,Wonder that pierces, cruel needs that smite,Madness and melody and hope and tears.And these with lights and loveliness illumeThy pages, where rich Summer's faint perfumeOutlasts the years.

VII

Outlasts, too well! For of the hearts that know theeFew know or dare to standOn thy keen chilling heights; but where below theeThy lavish handHas scattered brilliant jewels of summer songAnd flowers of passionate speech, there grope the throngCrying—"Behold! this bauble, this is he!"And of their love or hate, the foolish warsEcho up faintly where amid lone starsThy soul may be.

VIII

But some, who find in thee a word exceedingEven thy power of speech—To whom each song,—like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding,Fallen,—can teachTidings of that high forest whence it cameWhere the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flameBurns as the Autumn kindles on its quest—These rapt diviners gather close to thee:—Whom now the Winter holds in dateless feeSealèd of rest.

Strings never touched before,—strange accents chanting,—Strange quivering lambent words,—A far exalted hope serene or pantingMastering the chords,—A sweetness fierce and tragic,—these were thine,O singing lover of dark Proserpine!O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song!O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine,Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shineDown on the throng.

Not thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding gloryMaketh men blind to thee.For them thou hast no evening fireside story.But to be free—But to arise, spurning all bonds that foldThe spirit of man in fetters forged of old—This was the mighty trend of thy desire;Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mouldNo longer idols, but aloft to holdThe soul's own fire.

Yea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture;And thy strong heart has passedFrom youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture,Into the vastDesolate bleakness of life's iron spaces;And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces,Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control.In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven,Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge wovenFrom thine own soul.

XII

The faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning,Dropping, like leaves.Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complainingAs Time bereavesPitiful hearts of all that they thought holy.The icy stars look down on melancholyShelterless creatures of a pillaged day:A day of disillusionment and terror,A day that yields no solace for the errorIt takes away.

XIII

Thee with no solace, but with bolder passionThe bitter day endowed.As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashionAt last the proudIndomitable master of their tides,Who with exultant power splendidly ridesThe terrible summit of each whelming wave,—So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain;Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main,Strength that shall save.

XIV

Here where old barks upon new headlands shatter,And worlds seem torn apart,Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatterThe mortal heart,Where the wild welter of strange knowledge wonFrom grave and engine and the chemic sunSubdues the age to faith in dust and gold:The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth,In living witness of the spirit's truth,Like prophets old.

Thee shall the future time with joy inherit.Hast thou not sung and said:"Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit,None ever led"?Time shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod,Where the soul speaks authentically of God,Sustained by glories strange and strong and new.Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heartOnly to kindred can thy speech impart;And they are few.

XVI

Few men shall love thee, whom fierce powers have liftedHigh beyond meed of praise.But as some bark whose seeking sail has driftedThrough storm of days,We hail thee, bearing back thy golden flowersGathered beyond the Western Isles, in bowersThat had not seen, till thine, a vessel's wake.And looking on thee from our land-built towersKnow that such sea-dawn never can be oursAs thou sawest break.

XVII

Now sailest thou dim-lighted, lonelier water.By shores of bitter seasLow is thy speech with Ceres' ghostly daughter,Whose twined liliesAre not more pale than thou, O bard most sweet,Most bitter;—for whose brow sedge-crowns were meteAnd crowns of splendid holly green and red;Who passest from the dust of careless feetTo lands where sunrise thou hast sought shall greetThy holy head.

XVIII

Thou hast followed after him whose hopes were greatest,—That meteor-soul divine;Near whom divine we hail thee: thou the latestOf that bright lineOf flame-lipped masters of the spell of song,Enduring in succession proud and long,The banner-bearers in triumphant wars:Latest; and first of that bright line to be,For whom thou also, flame-lipped, spirit-free,Art of the stars.

TO A CHILD—TWENTY YEARS HENCEYou shall remember dimly,Through mists of far-away,Her whom, our lips set grimly,We carried forth today.But when, in days hereafter,Unfolding time shall bringKnowledge of love and laughterAnd trust and triumphing,—Then from some face the fairest,From some most joyous breast,Garner what there is rarestAnd happiest and best,—The youth, the light the raptureOf eager April grace,—And in that sweetness, captureYour mother's far-off face.And all the mists shall perishThat have between you moved.You shall see her you cherish;And love, as we have loved.

TO A CHILD—TWENTY YEARS HENCE

You shall remember dimly,Through mists of far-away,Her whom, our lips set grimly,We carried forth today.

But when, in days hereafter,Unfolding time shall bringKnowledge of love and laughterAnd trust and triumphing,—

Then from some face the fairest,From some most joyous breast,Garner what there is rarestAnd happiest and best,—

The youth, the light the raptureOf eager April grace,—And in that sweetness, captureYour mother's far-off face.

And all the mists shall perishThat have between you moved.You shall see her you cherish;And love, as we have loved.

PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMANShe limps with halting painful pace,Stops, wavers, and creeps on again;Peers up with dim and questioning faceVoid of desire or doubt or pain.Her cheeks hang gray in waxen foldsWherein there stirs no blood at all.A hand like bundled cornstalks holdsThe tatters of a faded shawl.Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps;A knot jerks where were woman-hips;A ropy throat sends writhing gaspsUp to the tight line of her lips.Here strong the city's pomp is poured ...She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast:An empty temple of the LordFrom which the jocund Lord has passed.He has builded him another house,Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright,Shines stark upon these weathered browsAbandoned to the final night.

PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMAN

She limps with halting painful pace,Stops, wavers, and creeps on again;Peers up with dim and questioning faceVoid of desire or doubt or pain.

Her cheeks hang gray in waxen foldsWherein there stirs no blood at all.A hand like bundled cornstalks holdsThe tatters of a faded shawl.

Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps;A knot jerks where were woman-hips;A ropy throat sends writhing gaspsUp to the tight line of her lips.

Here strong the city's pomp is poured ...She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast:An empty temple of the LordFrom which the jocund Lord has passed.

He has builded him another house,Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright,Shines stark upon these weathered browsAbandoned to the final night.

THE THREE SISTERSGone are the three, those sisters rareWith wonder-lips and eyes ashine.One was wise and one was fair,And one was mine.Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hairOf only two your ivy vine.For one was wise and one was fair,But one was mine.

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are the three, those sisters rareWith wonder-lips and eyes ashine.One was wise and one was fair,And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hairOf only two your ivy vine.For one was wise and one was fair,But one was mine.

AMONG SHADOWSIn halls of sleep you wandered by,This time so indistinguishablyI cannot remember aught of it,Save that I know last night we met.I know it by the cloudy thrillThat in my heart is quivering still;And sense of loveliness forgotTeases my fancy out of thought.Though with the night the vision wanesIts haunting presence still may last—As odour of flowers faint remainsIn halls where late a queen has passed.

AMONG SHADOWS

In halls of sleep you wandered by,This time so indistinguishablyI cannot remember aught of it,Save that I know last night we met.I know it by the cloudy thrillThat in my heart is quivering still;And sense of loveliness forgotTeases my fancy out of thought.Though with the night the vision wanesIts haunting presence still may last—As odour of flowers faint remainsIn halls where late a queen has passed.

A WATTEAU MELODYOh, let me take your lily hand,And where the secret star-beams shineDraw near, to see and understandPierrot and Columbine.Around the fountains, in the dew,Where afternoon melts into night,With gracious mirth their gracious crewEntice the shy birds of delight.Of motley dress and maskèd face,Of sparkling unrevealing eyes,They track in gentle aimless chaseThe moment as it flies.Their delicate beribboned rout,Gallant and fair, of light intent,Weaves through the shadows in and outWith infinite artful merriment.——————Dear Lady of the lily hand,Do then our stars so clearly shineThat we, who do not understand,May mock Pierrot and Columbine?Beyond this garden-grove I seeThe wise, the noble and the braveIn ultimate futilityGo down into the grave.And all they dreamed and all they sought,Crumbled and ashen grown, departs;And is as if they had not wroughtThese works with blood from out their hearts.The nations fall, the faiths decay,The great philosophies go by,—And life lies bare, some bitter day,A charnel that affronts the sky.The wise, the noble and the brave,—They saw and solved, as we must seeAnd solve, the universal grave,The ultimate futility.——————Look, where beside the garden-poolA Venus rises in the grove,More suave, more debonair, more coolThan ever burned with Paphian love.'Twas here the delicate ribboned routOf gallants and the fair ones wentAmong the shadows in and outWith infinite artful merriment.Then let me take your lily hand,And let us tread, where starbeams shine,A dance; and be, and understandPierrot and Columbine.Arthur Davison Ficke

A WATTEAU MELODY

Oh, let me take your lily hand,And where the secret star-beams shineDraw near, to see and understandPierrot and Columbine.

Around the fountains, in the dew,Where afternoon melts into night,With gracious mirth their gracious crewEntice the shy birds of delight.

Of motley dress and maskèd face,Of sparkling unrevealing eyes,They track in gentle aimless chaseThe moment as it flies.

Their delicate beribboned rout,Gallant and fair, of light intent,Weaves through the shadows in and outWith infinite artful merriment.

——————

Dear Lady of the lily hand,Do then our stars so clearly shineThat we, who do not understand,May mock Pierrot and Columbine?

Beyond this garden-grove I seeThe wise, the noble and the braveIn ultimate futilityGo down into the grave.

And all they dreamed and all they sought,Crumbled and ashen grown, departs;And is as if they had not wroughtThese works with blood from out their hearts.

The nations fall, the faiths decay,The great philosophies go by,—And life lies bare, some bitter day,A charnel that affronts the sky.

The wise, the noble and the brave,—They saw and solved, as we must seeAnd solve, the universal grave,The ultimate futility.

——————

Look, where beside the garden-poolA Venus rises in the grove,More suave, more debonair, more coolThan ever burned with Paphian love.

'Twas here the delicate ribboned routOf gallants and the fair ones wentAmong the shadows in and outWith infinite artful merriment.

Then let me take your lily hand,And let us tread, where starbeams shine,A dance; and be, and understandPierrot and Columbine.

Arthur Davison Ficke

POEMSBYWITTER BYNNER

APOLLO TROUBADOURWWhen a wandering ItalianYesterday at noonPlayed upon his hurdy-gurdySuddenly a tune,There was magic in my ear-drums:Like a baby's cup and spoonTinkling time for many sleigh-bells,Many no-school, rainy-day-bells,Cow-bells, frog-bells, run-away-bells,Mingling with an ocean medleyAs of elemental peopleMore emotional than wordy,—Mermaids laughing off their tantrums,Mermen singing loud and sturdy,—Silver scales and fluting shells,Popping weeds and gurgles deadly,Coral chime from coral steeple,Intermittent deep-sea bellsRinging over floating knuckles,Buried gold and swords and buckles,And a thousand bubbling chuckles,Yesterday at noon,—Such a melody as star-fish,And all fish that really are fish,In a gay, remote battalionPlay at midnight to the moon!Could any playmate on our planet,Hid in a house of earth's own granite,Be so devoid of primal fireThat a wind from this wild crated lyreShould find no spark and fan it?Would any lady half in tears,Whose fashion, on a recent dayOver the sea, had been to payVociferous gondoliers,Beg that the din be sent awayAnd ask a gentleman, gravely treadingAs down the aisle at his own wedding,To toss the foreigner a quarterBribing him to leave the street;That motor-horns and servants' feetFamiliar might resume, and sweetTo her offended ears,The money-music of her peers!Apollo listened, took the quarterWith his hat off to the buyer,Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy,Led away his hurdy-gurdyStreet by street, then turned at lastToward a likelier piece of earthWhere a stream of chatter passed,Yesterday at noon;By a school he stopped and playedSuddenly a tune....What a melody he made!Made in all those eager faces,Feet and hands and fingers!How they gathered, how they stayedWith smiles and quick grimaces,Little man and little maid!—How they took their places,Hopping, skipping, unafraid,Darting, rioting about,Squealing, laughing, shouting out!How, beyond a single doubt,In my own feet sprang the ardour(Even now the motion lingers)To be joining in their paces!Round and round the handle went,—Round their hearts went harder;—Apollo urged the happy routAnd beamed, ten times as well contentWith every son and daughterAs though their little hands had lentThe gentleman his quarter.—(You would not guess—nor I deny—That that same gentleman was I!)No gentleman may watch a godWith proper happiness therefrom;So street by street again I trodThe way that we had come.He had not seen me followingAnd yet I think he knew;For still, the less I heard of it,The more his music grew:As if he made a bird of itTo sing the distance through....And, O Apollo, how I thrilled,You liquid-eyed rapscallion,With every twig and twist of Spring,Because your music rose and filledEach leafy vein with dew,—With melody of olden sleigh-bells,Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells,And the heart of an Italian,And the tinkling cup and spoon,—Such a melody as star-fish,And all fish that really are fish,In a gay remote battalionPlay at midnight to the moon!

APOLLO TROUBADOUR

WWhen a wandering ItalianYesterday at noonPlayed upon his hurdy-gurdySuddenly a tune,There was magic in my ear-drums:Like a baby's cup and spoonTinkling time for many sleigh-bells,Many no-school, rainy-day-bells,Cow-bells, frog-bells, run-away-bells,Mingling with an ocean medleyAs of elemental peopleMore emotional than wordy,—Mermaids laughing off their tantrums,Mermen singing loud and sturdy,—Silver scales and fluting shells,Popping weeds and gurgles deadly,Coral chime from coral steeple,Intermittent deep-sea bellsRinging over floating knuckles,Buried gold and swords and buckles,And a thousand bubbling chuckles,Yesterday at noon,—Such a melody as star-fish,And all fish that really are fish,In a gay, remote battalionPlay at midnight to the moon!

Could any playmate on our planet,Hid in a house of earth's own granite,Be so devoid of primal fireThat a wind from this wild crated lyreShould find no spark and fan it?Would any lady half in tears,Whose fashion, on a recent dayOver the sea, had been to payVociferous gondoliers,Beg that the din be sent awayAnd ask a gentleman, gravely treadingAs down the aisle at his own wedding,To toss the foreigner a quarterBribing him to leave the street;That motor-horns and servants' feetFamiliar might resume, and sweetTo her offended ears,The money-music of her peers!

Apollo listened, took the quarterWith his hat off to the buyer,Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy,Led away his hurdy-gurdyStreet by street, then turned at lastToward a likelier piece of earthWhere a stream of chatter passed,Yesterday at noon;By a school he stopped and playedSuddenly a tune....What a melody he made!Made in all those eager faces,Feet and hands and fingers!How they gathered, how they stayedWith smiles and quick grimaces,Little man and little maid!—How they took their places,Hopping, skipping, unafraid,Darting, rioting about,Squealing, laughing, shouting out!How, beyond a single doubt,In my own feet sprang the ardour(Even now the motion lingers)To be joining in their paces!Round and round the handle went,—Round their hearts went harder;—Apollo urged the happy routAnd beamed, ten times as well contentWith every son and daughterAs though their little hands had lentThe gentleman his quarter.—(You would not guess—nor I deny—That that same gentleman was I!)No gentleman may watch a godWith proper happiness therefrom;So street by street again I trodThe way that we had come.He had not seen me followingAnd yet I think he knew;For still, the less I heard of it,The more his music grew:As if he made a bird of itTo sing the distance through....And, O Apollo, how I thrilled,You liquid-eyed rapscallion,With every twig and twist of Spring,Because your music rose and filledEach leafy vein with dew,—With melody of olden sleigh-bells,Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells,And the heart of an Italian,And the tinkling cup and spoon,—Such a melody as star-fish,And all fish that really are fish,In a gay remote battalionPlay at midnight to the moon!

ONE OF THE CROWDOh I longed, when I went in the woods today,To see the fauns come out and play,To see a satyr try to seizeA dryad's waist—and bark his knees,To see a river-nymph waylayAnd shock him with a dash of spray!—And I teased, like a child, by brooks and trees:"Come back again! We need you!Please!Come back and teach us how to play!"But nowhere in the woods were they.I found, when I went in the town today,A thousand people on their wayTo offices and factories—And never a single soul at ease;And how could I help but sigh and say:"What can it profit them, how can it payTo strain the eye with rivalriesUntil the dark is all it sees?—Or to manage, more than others may,To store the wasted gain away?"But one of the crowd looked up today,With pointed brows. I heard him say:"Out of the meadows and rivers and treesWe fauns and many companiesOf nymphs have come. And we are these,These people, each upon his way,Looking for work, working for pay—And paying all our energiesTo earn true love ... For, seeming gay,"Once we were sad," I heard him say.

ONE OF THE CROWD

Oh I longed, when I went in the woods today,To see the fauns come out and play,To see a satyr try to seizeA dryad's waist—and bark his knees,To see a river-nymph waylayAnd shock him with a dash of spray!—And I teased, like a child, by brooks and trees:"Come back again! We need you!Please!Come back and teach us how to play!"But nowhere in the woods were they.

I found, when I went in the town today,A thousand people on their wayTo offices and factories—And never a single soul at ease;And how could I help but sigh and say:"What can it profit them, how can it payTo strain the eye with rivalriesUntil the dark is all it sees?—Or to manage, more than others may,To store the wasted gain away?"

But one of the crowd looked up today,With pointed brows. I heard him say:"Out of the meadows and rivers and treesWe fauns and many companiesOf nymphs have come. And we are these,These people, each upon his way,Looking for work, working for pay—And paying all our energiesTo earn true love ... For, seeming gay,"Once we were sad," I heard him say.

NEIGHBORSNeighbors are not neighborlyWho close the windows tight,—Nor those who fix a peeping eyeFor finding things not right.Let me have faith, is what I pray,And let my faith be strong!—But who am I, is what I say,To think my neighbor wrong?And though my neighbor may denyThat faith could be so slight,May call me wrong, yet who am ITo think my neighbor right?Perhaps we wisely by and byMay learn it of each other,That he is right and so am I—And save a lot of bother.

NEIGHBORS

Neighbors are not neighborlyWho close the windows tight,—Nor those who fix a peeping eyeFor finding things not right.

Let me have faith, is what I pray,And let my faith be strong!—But who am I, is what I say,To think my neighbor wrong?

And though my neighbor may denyThat faith could be so slight,May call me wrong, yet who am ITo think my neighbor right?

Perhaps we wisely by and byMay learn it of each other,That he is right and so am I—And save a lot of bother.

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