The Little ReviewVol. INOVEMBER, 1914No. 8Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson.
The Little Review
Vol. INOVEMBER, 1914No. 8
Vol. INOVEMBER, 1914No. 8
Vol. I
NOVEMBER, 1914
No. 8
Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson.
Scharmel Iris
High in the forest of the skyThe stars and branches interlace;As cloth-of-gold the fallen leaves lieWhere twilight-peacocks lord the place,Spendthrifts of pride and grace.The grapes on vines are rubies red,They burn as flame, when day is done.The Dusk, brown Princess, turns her headWhile sunset-panthers past her runTo caverns of the Sun.She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought,About the sunset-panthers, fleet,And rides them joyously, when caught,Across the poppied fields of wheat—Their hearts with terror beat.They reach the caverns of the Sun,The raven-clouds above them fly;Dame Night her tapestry’s begun.High, o’er the forest of the skyThe moon, a boat, sails by.
High in the forest of the skyThe stars and branches interlace;As cloth-of-gold the fallen leaves lieWhere twilight-peacocks lord the place,Spendthrifts of pride and grace.The grapes on vines are rubies red,They burn as flame, when day is done.The Dusk, brown Princess, turns her headWhile sunset-panthers past her runTo caverns of the Sun.She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought,About the sunset-panthers, fleet,And rides them joyously, when caught,Across the poppied fields of wheat—Their hearts with terror beat.They reach the caverns of the Sun,The raven-clouds above them fly;Dame Night her tapestry’s begun.High, o’er the forest of the skyThe moon, a boat, sails by.
High in the forest of the skyThe stars and branches interlace;As cloth-of-gold the fallen leaves lieWhere twilight-peacocks lord the place,Spendthrifts of pride and grace.
High in the forest of the sky
The stars and branches interlace;
As cloth-of-gold the fallen leaves lie
Where twilight-peacocks lord the place,
Spendthrifts of pride and grace.
The grapes on vines are rubies red,They burn as flame, when day is done.The Dusk, brown Princess, turns her headWhile sunset-panthers past her runTo caverns of the Sun.
The grapes on vines are rubies red,
They burn as flame, when day is done.
The Dusk, brown Princess, turns her head
While sunset-panthers past her run
To caverns of the Sun.
She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought,About the sunset-panthers, fleet,And rides them joyously, when caught,Across the poppied fields of wheat—Their hearts with terror beat.
She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought,
About the sunset-panthers, fleet,
And rides them joyously, when caught,
Across the poppied fields of wheat—
Their hearts with terror beat.
They reach the caverns of the Sun,The raven-clouds above them fly;Dame Night her tapestry’s begun.High, o’er the forest of the skyThe moon, a boat, sails by.
They reach the caverns of the Sun,
The raven-clouds above them fly;
Dame Night her tapestry’s begun.
High, o’er the forest of the sky
The moon, a boat, sails by.
My son is dead and I am going blind,And in the Ishmael-wind of griefI tremble like a leaf;I have no mind for any word you say:My son is dead and I am going blind.
My son is dead and I am going blind,And in the Ishmael-wind of griefI tremble like a leaf;I have no mind for any word you say:My son is dead and I am going blind.
My son is dead and I am going blind,And in the Ishmael-wind of griefI tremble like a leaf;I have no mind for any word you say:My son is dead and I am going blind.
My son is dead and I am going blind,
And in the Ishmael-wind of grief
I tremble like a leaf;
I have no mind for any word you say:
My son is dead and I am going blind.
I loved her more than moon or sun—There is no moon or sun for me;Of lovely things to look upon,The loveliest was she.She does not hear me, though I sing—And, oh, my heart is like to break!The world awakens with the Spring,But she—she does not wake!
I loved her more than moon or sun—There is no moon or sun for me;Of lovely things to look upon,The loveliest was she.She does not hear me, though I sing—And, oh, my heart is like to break!The world awakens with the Spring,But she—she does not wake!
I loved her more than moon or sun—There is no moon or sun for me;Of lovely things to look upon,The loveliest was she.
I loved her more than moon or sun—
There is no moon or sun for me;
Of lovely things to look upon,
The loveliest was she.
She does not hear me, though I sing—And, oh, my heart is like to break!The world awakens with the Spring,But she—she does not wake!
She does not hear me, though I sing—
And, oh, my heart is like to break!
The world awakens with the Spring,
But she—she does not wake!
(Struck at the double standard)
The woman who is scarlet nowWas soul of whiteness yesterday;A void is she wherein a manMay leave his lust to-day.’Twas with the kiss IschariotA traitor bore her heart away;Her body now is leased by menThat kneel at church to pray.
The woman who is scarlet nowWas soul of whiteness yesterday;A void is she wherein a manMay leave his lust to-day.’Twas with the kiss IschariotA traitor bore her heart away;Her body now is leased by menThat kneel at church to pray.
The woman who is scarlet nowWas soul of whiteness yesterday;A void is she wherein a manMay leave his lust to-day.
The woman who is scarlet now
Was soul of whiteness yesterday;
A void is she wherein a man
May leave his lust to-day.
’Twas with the kiss IschariotA traitor bore her heart away;Her body now is leased by menThat kneel at church to pray.
’Twas with the kiss Ischariot
A traitor bore her heart away;
Her body now is leased by men
That kneel at church to pray.
I who am Giver of LifeOut of the cradle of dawnBring you this infant of song.—He has a golden tongueAnd wings upon his feet.The apple of silver he holdsOnce lay at the breast of the moon;I give him an apple of gold’Twas forged in the fires of the sun;This apple of copper I giveThat Sunset concealed in her hair.When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars,Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew,And peace will overtake him like a songLike thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind.The spear-scars of the red world he will wearAs women in their hair may wear a rose.On the rosary of his daysHe will say a prayer for your sake,The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side,And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet.The apple of silver will work him a charmWhen under his pillow he lays it at night;The apple of copper will warm his heartWhen a heart he loves grows cold on his own;The apple of gold will teach him a songFor children to sing when he blows on a reed;The dew will hear and run to the sun,The sun will whisper it in my ear,And you, being dead, the song will hear.
I who am Giver of LifeOut of the cradle of dawnBring you this infant of song.—He has a golden tongueAnd wings upon his feet.The apple of silver he holdsOnce lay at the breast of the moon;I give him an apple of gold’Twas forged in the fires of the sun;This apple of copper I giveThat Sunset concealed in her hair.When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars,Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew,And peace will overtake him like a songLike thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind.The spear-scars of the red world he will wearAs women in their hair may wear a rose.On the rosary of his daysHe will say a prayer for your sake,The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side,And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet.The apple of silver will work him a charmWhen under his pillow he lays it at night;The apple of copper will warm his heartWhen a heart he loves grows cold on his own;The apple of gold will teach him a songFor children to sing when he blows on a reed;The dew will hear and run to the sun,The sun will whisper it in my ear,And you, being dead, the song will hear.
I who am Giver of LifeOut of the cradle of dawnBring you this infant of song.—He has a golden tongueAnd wings upon his feet.
I who am Giver of Life
Out of the cradle of dawn
Bring you this infant of song.—
He has a golden tongue
And wings upon his feet.
The apple of silver he holdsOnce lay at the breast of the moon;I give him an apple of gold’Twas forged in the fires of the sun;This apple of copper I giveThat Sunset concealed in her hair.
The apple of silver he holds
Once lay at the breast of the moon;
I give him an apple of gold
’Twas forged in the fires of the sun;
This apple of copper I give
That Sunset concealed in her hair.
When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars,Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew,And peace will overtake him like a songLike thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind.The spear-scars of the red world he will wearAs women in their hair may wear a rose.
When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars,
Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew,
And peace will overtake him like a song
Like thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind.
The spear-scars of the red world he will wear
As women in their hair may wear a rose.
On the rosary of his daysHe will say a prayer for your sake,The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side,And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet.
On the rosary of his days
He will say a prayer for your sake,
The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side,
And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet.
The apple of silver will work him a charmWhen under his pillow he lays it at night;The apple of copper will warm his heartWhen a heart he loves grows cold on his own;The apple of gold will teach him a songFor children to sing when he blows on a reed;The dew will hear and run to the sun,The sun will whisper it in my ear,And you, being dead, the song will hear.
The apple of silver will work him a charm
When under his pillow he lays it at night;
The apple of copper will warm his heart
When a heart he loves grows cold on his own;
The apple of gold will teach him a song
For children to sing when he blows on a reed;
The dew will hear and run to the sun,
The sun will whisper it in my ear,
And you, being dead, the song will hear.