Edgar Lee Masters
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?All, all, are sleeping on the hill.One passed in a fever,One was burned in a mine,One was killed in a brawl,One died in a jail,One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.One died in shameful child-birth,One of a thwarted love,One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,One after life in far-away London and ParisWas brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,And Major Walker who had talkedWith venerable men of the revolution?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.They brought them dead sons from the war,And daughters whom life had crushed,And their children fatherless, crying—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where is Old Fiddler JonesWho played with life all his ninety years,Braving the sleet with bared breast,Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,Of what Abe Lincoln saidOne time at Springfield.
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?All, all, are sleeping on the hill.One passed in a fever,One was burned in a mine,One was killed in a brawl,One died in a jail,One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.One died in shameful child-birth,One of a thwarted love,One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,One after life in far-away London and ParisWas brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,And Major Walker who had talkedWith venerable men of the revolution?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.They brought them dead sons from the war,And daughters whom life had crushed,And their children fatherless, crying—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.Where is Old Fiddler JonesWho played with life all his ninety years,Braving the sleet with bared breast,Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,Of what Abe Lincoln saidOne time at Springfield.
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,One was burned in a mine,One was killed in a brawl,One died in a jail,One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,One of a thwarted love,One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,One after life in far-away London and ParisWas brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,And Major Walker who had talkedWith venerable men of the revolution?—All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,And daughters whom life had crushed,And their children fatherless, crying—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler JonesWho played with life all his ninety years,Braving the sleet with bared breast,Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,Of what Abe Lincoln saidOne time at Springfield.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
Have you seen walking through the villageA man with downcast eyes and haggard face?That is my husband who, by secret crueltyNever to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty;Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth,And with broken pride and shameful humility,I sank into the grave.But what think you gnaws at my husband’s heart?The face of what I was, the face of what he made me!These are driving him to the place where I lie.In death, therefore, I am avenged.
Have you seen walking through the villageA man with downcast eyes and haggard face?That is my husband who, by secret crueltyNever to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty;Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth,And with broken pride and shameful humility,I sank into the grave.But what think you gnaws at my husband’s heart?The face of what I was, the face of what he made me!These are driving him to the place where I lie.In death, therefore, I am avenged.
Have you seen walking through the villageA man with downcast eyes and haggard face?That is my husband who, by secret crueltyNever to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty;Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth,And with broken pride and shameful humility,I sank into the grave.But what think you gnaws at my husband’s heart?The face of what I was, the face of what he made me!These are driving him to the place where I lie.In death, therefore, I am avenged.
Have you seen walking through the village
A man with downcast eyes and haggard face?
That is my husband who, by secret cruelty
Never to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty;
Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth,
And with broken pride and shameful humility,
I sank into the grave.
But what think you gnaws at my husband’s heart?
The face of what I was, the face of what he made me!
These are driving him to the place where I lie.
In death, therefore, I am avenged.
DAISY FRASER
Did you ever hear of Editor WhedonGiving to the public treasury any of the money he receivedFor supporting candidates for office?Or for writing up the canning factoryTo get people to invest?Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,When it was rotten and ready to break?Did you ever hear of the Circuit JudgeHelping anyone except the “Q” railroad,Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. SibleyGive any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,To the building of the water works?But I—Daisy Fraser, who always passedAlong the streets through rows of nods and smiles,And coughs and words such as “there she goes,”Never was taken before Justice ArnettWithout contributing ten dollars and costsTo the school fund of Spoon River!
Did you ever hear of Editor WhedonGiving to the public treasury any of the money he receivedFor supporting candidates for office?Or for writing up the canning factoryTo get people to invest?Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,When it was rotten and ready to break?Did you ever hear of the Circuit JudgeHelping anyone except the “Q” railroad,Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. SibleyGive any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,To the building of the water works?But I—Daisy Fraser, who always passedAlong the streets through rows of nods and smiles,And coughs and words such as “there she goes,”Never was taken before Justice ArnettWithout contributing ten dollars and costsTo the school fund of Spoon River!
Did you ever hear of Editor WhedonGiving to the public treasury any of the money he receivedFor supporting candidates for office?Or for writing up the canning factoryTo get people to invest?Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,When it was rotten and ready to break?Did you ever hear of the Circuit JudgeHelping anyone except the “Q” railroad,Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. SibleyGive any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,To the building of the water works?But I—Daisy Fraser, who always passedAlong the streets through rows of nods and smiles,And coughs and words such as “there she goes,”Never was taken before Justice ArnettWithout contributing ten dollars and costsTo the school fund of Spoon River!
Did you ever hear of Editor Whedon
Giving to the public treasury any of the money he received
For supporting candidates for office?
Or for writing up the canning factory
To get people to invest?
Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,
When it was rotten and ready to break?
Did you ever hear of the Circuit Judge
Helping anyone except the “Q” railroad,
Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. Sibley
Give any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,
Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,
To the building of the water works?
But I—Daisy Fraser, who always passed
Along the streets through rows of nods and smiles,
And coughs and words such as “there she goes,”
Never was taken before Justice Arnett
Without contributing ten dollars and costs
To the school fund of Spoon River!
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever’sFor cider, after school, in late September?Or gather hazel nuts among the thicketsOn Aaron Hatfield’s farm when the frosts begin?For many times with the laughing girls and boysPlayed I along the road and over the hillsWhen the sun was low and the air was cool,Stopping to club the walnut treeStanding leafless against a flaming west.Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,And the dropping acorns,And the echoes about the valesBring dreams of life. They hover over me.They question me:Where are those laughing comrades?How many are with me, how manyIn the old orchards along the way to Siever’s,And in the woods that overlookThe quiet water?
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever’sFor cider, after school, in late September?Or gather hazel nuts among the thicketsOn Aaron Hatfield’s farm when the frosts begin?For many times with the laughing girls and boysPlayed I along the road and over the hillsWhen the sun was low and the air was cool,Stopping to club the walnut treeStanding leafless against a flaming west.Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,And the dropping acorns,And the echoes about the valesBring dreams of life. They hover over me.They question me:Where are those laughing comrades?How many are with me, how manyIn the old orchards along the way to Siever’s,And in the woods that overlookThe quiet water?
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever’sFor cider, after school, in late September?Or gather hazel nuts among the thicketsOn Aaron Hatfield’s farm when the frosts begin?For many times with the laughing girls and boysPlayed I along the road and over the hillsWhen the sun was low and the air was cool,Stopping to club the walnut treeStanding leafless against a flaming west.Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,And the dropping acorns,And the echoes about the valesBring dreams of life. They hover over me.They question me:Where are those laughing comrades?How many are with me, how manyIn the old orchards along the way to Siever’s,And in the woods that overlookThe quiet water?
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever’s
For cider, after school, in late September?
Or gather hazel nuts among the thickets
On Aaron Hatfield’s farm when the frosts begin?
For many times with the laughing girls and boys
Played I along the road and over the hills
When the sun was low and the air was cool,
Stopping to club the walnut tree
Standing leafless against a flaming west.
Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,
And the dropping acorns,
And the echoes about the vales
Bring dreams of life. They hover over me.
They question me:
Where are those laughing comrades?
How many are with me, how many
In the old orchards along the way to Siever’s,
And in the woods that overlook
The quiet water?
I went up and down the streetsHere and there by day and night,Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.Do you know why?My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely ableTo hold to the railing of the new lifeWhen I saw Em Stanton behind the oak treeAt the grave,Hiding herself, and her grief!
I went up and down the streetsHere and there by day and night,Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.Do you know why?My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely ableTo hold to the railing of the new lifeWhen I saw Em Stanton behind the oak treeAt the grave,Hiding herself, and her grief!
I went up and down the streetsHere and there by day and night,Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.Do you know why?My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely ableTo hold to the railing of the new lifeWhen I saw Em Stanton behind the oak treeAt the grave,Hiding herself, and her grief!
I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why?
My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,
And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able
To hold to the railing of the new life
When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree
At the grave,
Hiding herself, and her grief!
The earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.
The earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.
The earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.
The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.
Very well, you liberals,And navigators into realms intellectual,You sailors through heights imaginative,Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets,You Margaret Fuller Slacks, Petits,And Tennessee Claflin Shopes—You found with all your boasted wisdomHow hard at the last it isTo keep the soul from splitting into cellular atoms.While we, seekers of earth’s treasures,Getters and hoarders of gold,Are self-contained, compact, harmonized,Even to the end.
Very well, you liberals,And navigators into realms intellectual,You sailors through heights imaginative,Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets,You Margaret Fuller Slacks, Petits,And Tennessee Claflin Shopes—You found with all your boasted wisdomHow hard at the last it isTo keep the soul from splitting into cellular atoms.While we, seekers of earth’s treasures,Getters and hoarders of gold,Are self-contained, compact, harmonized,Even to the end.
Very well, you liberals,And navigators into realms intellectual,You sailors through heights imaginative,Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets,You Margaret Fuller Slacks, Petits,And Tennessee Claflin Shopes—You found with all your boasted wisdomHow hard at the last it isTo keep the soul from splitting into cellular atoms.While we, seekers of earth’s treasures,Getters and hoarders of gold,Are self-contained, compact, harmonized,Even to the end.
Very well, you liberals,
And navigators into realms intellectual,
You sailors through heights imaginative,
Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets,
You Margaret Fuller Slacks, Petits,
And Tennessee Claflin Shopes—
You found with all your boasted wisdom
How hard at the last it is
To keep the soul from splitting into cellular atoms.
While we, seekers of earth’s treasures,
Getters and hoarders of gold,
Are self-contained, compact, harmonized,
Even to the end.
EDITOR WHEDON
To be able to see every side of every question;To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,To use great feelings and passions of the human familyFor base designs, for cunning ends,To wear a mask like the Greek actors—Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,Bawling through the megaphone of big type:“This is I, the giant.”Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,Poisoned with the anonymous wordsOf your clandestine soul.To scratch dirt over scandal for money,And exhume it to the winds for revenge,Or to sell papersCrushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,To win at any cost, save your own life.To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization,As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the trackAnd derails the express train.To be an editor, as I was—Then to lie here close by the river over the placeWhere the sewage flows from the village,And the empty cans and garbage are dumped,And abortions are hidden.
To be able to see every side of every question;To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,To use great feelings and passions of the human familyFor base designs, for cunning ends,To wear a mask like the Greek actors—Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,Bawling through the megaphone of big type:“This is I, the giant.”Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,Poisoned with the anonymous wordsOf your clandestine soul.To scratch dirt over scandal for money,And exhume it to the winds for revenge,Or to sell papersCrushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,To win at any cost, save your own life.To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization,As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the trackAnd derails the express train.To be an editor, as I was—Then to lie here close by the river over the placeWhere the sewage flows from the village,And the empty cans and garbage are dumped,And abortions are hidden.
To be able to see every side of every question;To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,To use great feelings and passions of the human familyFor base designs, for cunning ends,To wear a mask like the Greek actors—Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,Bawling through the megaphone of big type:“This is I, the giant.”Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,Poisoned with the anonymous wordsOf your clandestine soul.To scratch dirt over scandal for money,And exhume it to the winds for revenge,Or to sell papersCrushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,To win at any cost, save your own life.To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization,As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the trackAnd derails the express train.To be an editor, as I was—Then to lie here close by the river over the placeWhere the sewage flows from the village,And the empty cans and garbage are dumped,And abortions are hidden.
To be able to see every side of every question;
To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;
To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,
To use great feelings and passions of the human family
For base designs, for cunning ends,
To wear a mask like the Greek actors—
Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,
Bawling through the megaphone of big type:
“This is I, the giant.”
Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,
Poisoned with the anonymous words
Of your clandestine soul.
To scratch dirt over scandal for money,
And exhume it to the winds for revenge,
Or to sell papers
Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,
To win at any cost, save your own life.
To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization,
As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the track
And derails the express train.
To be an editor, as I was—
Then to lie here close by the river over the place
Where the sewage flows from the village,
And the empty cans and garbage are dumped,
And abortions are hidden.
When I died, the circulating libraryWhich I built up for Spoon River,And managed for the good of inquiring minds,Was sold at auction on the public square,As if to destroy the last vestigeOf my memory and influence.For those of you who could not see the virtueOf knowing Volney’sRuinsas well as Butler’sAnalogyAndFaustas well asEvangeline,Were really the power in the village,And often you asked me,“What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?”I am out of your way now, Spoon River—Choose your own good and call it good.For I could never make you seeThat no one knows what is goodWho knows not what is evil;And no one knows what is trueWho knows not what is false.
When I died, the circulating libraryWhich I built up for Spoon River,And managed for the good of inquiring minds,Was sold at auction on the public square,As if to destroy the last vestigeOf my memory and influence.For those of you who could not see the virtueOf knowing Volney’sRuinsas well as Butler’sAnalogyAndFaustas well asEvangeline,Were really the power in the village,And often you asked me,“What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?”I am out of your way now, Spoon River—Choose your own good and call it good.For I could never make you seeThat no one knows what is goodWho knows not what is evil;And no one knows what is trueWho knows not what is false.
When I died, the circulating libraryWhich I built up for Spoon River,And managed for the good of inquiring minds,Was sold at auction on the public square,As if to destroy the last vestigeOf my memory and influence.For those of you who could not see the virtueOf knowing Volney’sRuinsas well as Butler’sAnalogyAndFaustas well asEvangeline,Were really the power in the village,And often you asked me,“What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?”I am out of your way now, Spoon River—Choose your own good and call it good.For I could never make you seeThat no one knows what is goodWho knows not what is evil;And no one knows what is trueWho knows not what is false.
When I died, the circulating library
Which I built up for Spoon River,
And managed for the good of inquiring minds,
Was sold at auction on the public square,
As if to destroy the last vestige
Of my memory and influence.
For those of you who could not see the virtue
Of knowing Volney’sRuinsas well as Butler’sAnalogy
AndFaustas well asEvangeline,
Were really the power in the village,
And often you asked me,
“What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?”
I am out of your way now, Spoon River—
Choose your own good and call it good.
For I could never make you see
That no one knows what is good
Who knows not what is evil;
And no one knows what is true
Who knows not what is false.
I reached the highest place in Spoon River,But through what bitterness of spirit!The face of my father, sitting speechless,Child-like, watching his canaries,And looking at the court-house windowOf the county judge’s room,And his admonitions to me to seekMy own in life, and punish Spoon RiverTo avenge the wrong the people did him,Filled me with furious energyTo seek for wealth and seek for power.But what did he do but send me alongThe path that leads to the grove of the Furies?I followed the path and I tell you this:On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates,Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.Stop for a moment, and if you seeThe thread of revenge leap out of the shuttleThen quickly snatch from AtroposThe shears and cut it, lest your sons,And the children of them and their childrenWear the envenomed robe.
I reached the highest place in Spoon River,But through what bitterness of spirit!The face of my father, sitting speechless,Child-like, watching his canaries,And looking at the court-house windowOf the county judge’s room,And his admonitions to me to seekMy own in life, and punish Spoon RiverTo avenge the wrong the people did him,Filled me with furious energyTo seek for wealth and seek for power.But what did he do but send me alongThe path that leads to the grove of the Furies?I followed the path and I tell you this:On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates,Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.Stop for a moment, and if you seeThe thread of revenge leap out of the shuttleThen quickly snatch from AtroposThe shears and cut it, lest your sons,And the children of them and their childrenWear the envenomed robe.
I reached the highest place in Spoon River,But through what bitterness of spirit!The face of my father, sitting speechless,Child-like, watching his canaries,And looking at the court-house windowOf the county judge’s room,And his admonitions to me to seekMy own in life, and punish Spoon RiverTo avenge the wrong the people did him,Filled me with furious energyTo seek for wealth and seek for power.But what did he do but send me alongThe path that leads to the grove of the Furies?I followed the path and I tell you this:On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates,Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.Stop for a moment, and if you seeThe thread of revenge leap out of the shuttleThen quickly snatch from AtroposThe shears and cut it, lest your sons,And the children of them and their childrenWear the envenomed robe.
I reached the highest place in Spoon River,
But through what bitterness of spirit!
The face of my father, sitting speechless,
Child-like, watching his canaries,
And looking at the court-house window
Of the county judge’s room,
And his admonitions to me to seek
My own in life, and punish Spoon River
To avenge the wrong the people did him,
Filled me with furious energy
To seek for wealth and seek for power.
But what did he do but send me along
The path that leads to the grove of the Furies?
I followed the path and I tell you this:
On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates,
Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.
Stop for a moment, and if you see
The thread of revenge leap out of the shuttle
Then quickly snatch from Atropos
The shears and cut it, lest your sons,
And the children of them and their children
Wear the envenomed robe.
PERRY ZOLL
My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association,For this modest boulder,And its little tablet of bronze.Twice I tried to join your honored body,And was rejected,And when my little brochureOn the intelligence of plantsBegan to attract attentionYou almost voted me in.After that I grew beyond the need of youAnd your recognition.Yet I do not reject your memorial stone,Seeing that I should, in so doing,Deprive you of honor to yourselves.
My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association,For this modest boulder,And its little tablet of bronze.Twice I tried to join your honored body,And was rejected,And when my little brochureOn the intelligence of plantsBegan to attract attentionYou almost voted me in.After that I grew beyond the need of youAnd your recognition.Yet I do not reject your memorial stone,Seeing that I should, in so doing,Deprive you of honor to yourselves.
My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association,For this modest boulder,And its little tablet of bronze.Twice I tried to join your honored body,And was rejected,And when my little brochureOn the intelligence of plantsBegan to attract attentionYou almost voted me in.After that I grew beyond the need of youAnd your recognition.Yet I do not reject your memorial stone,Seeing that I should, in so doing,Deprive you of honor to yourselves.
My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association,
For this modest boulder,
And its little tablet of bronze.
Twice I tried to join your honored body,
And was rejected,
And when my little brochure
On the intelligence of plants
Began to attract attention
You almost voted me in.
After that I grew beyond the need of you
And your recognition.
Yet I do not reject your memorial stone,
Seeing that I should, in so doing,
Deprive you of honor to yourselves.
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,I was ashamed of you. I despised youAs the place of my nativity.And there in Rome, among the artists,Speaking Italian, speaking French,I seemed to myself at times to be freeOf every trace of my origin.I seemed to be reaching the heights of artAnd to breathe the air that the masters breathed,And to see the world with their eyes.But still they’d pass my work and say:“What are you driving at, my friend?Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,And I burned with shame and held my peace.And what could I do, all covered overAnd weighted down with western soil,Except aspire, and pray for anotherBirth in the world, with all of Spoon RiverRooted out of my soul?
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,I was ashamed of you. I despised youAs the place of my nativity.And there in Rome, among the artists,Speaking Italian, speaking French,I seemed to myself at times to be freeOf every trace of my origin.I seemed to be reaching the heights of artAnd to breathe the air that the masters breathed,And to see the world with their eyes.But still they’d pass my work and say:“What are you driving at, my friend?Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,And I burned with shame and held my peace.And what could I do, all covered overAnd weighted down with western soil,Except aspire, and pray for anotherBirth in the world, with all of Spoon RiverRooted out of my soul?
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,I was ashamed of you. I despised youAs the place of my nativity.And there in Rome, among the artists,Speaking Italian, speaking French,I seemed to myself at times to be freeOf every trace of my origin.I seemed to be reaching the heights of artAnd to breathe the air that the masters breathed,And to see the world with their eyes.But still they’d pass my work and say:“What are you driving at, my friend?Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,And I burned with shame and held my peace.And what could I do, all covered overAnd weighted down with western soil,Except aspire, and pray for anotherBirth in the world, with all of Spoon RiverRooted out of my soul?
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you. I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed,
And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they’d pass my work and say:
“What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s,
At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”
There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,
And I burned with shame and held my peace.
And what could I do, all covered over
And weighted down with western soil,
Except aspire, and pray for another
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River
Rooted out of my soul?
You are over there, Father Malloy,Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave,Not here with us on the hill—Us of wavering faith, and clouded visionAnd drifting hope, and unforgiven sins.You were so human, Father Malloy,Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us,Siding with us who would rescue Spoon RiverFrom the coldness and the dreariness of village morality.You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sandFrom the wastes about the pyramidsAnd makes them real and Egypt real.You were a part of and related to a great past,And yet you were so close to many of us.You believed in the joy of life.You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh.You faced life as it is,And as it changes.Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy,Seeing how your church had divined the heart,And provided for it,Through Peter the Flame,Peter the Rock.
You are over there, Father Malloy,Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave,Not here with us on the hill—Us of wavering faith, and clouded visionAnd drifting hope, and unforgiven sins.You were so human, Father Malloy,Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us,Siding with us who would rescue Spoon RiverFrom the coldness and the dreariness of village morality.You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sandFrom the wastes about the pyramidsAnd makes them real and Egypt real.You were a part of and related to a great past,And yet you were so close to many of us.You believed in the joy of life.You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh.You faced life as it is,And as it changes.Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy,Seeing how your church had divined the heart,And provided for it,Through Peter the Flame,Peter the Rock.
You are over there, Father Malloy,Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave,Not here with us on the hill—Us of wavering faith, and clouded visionAnd drifting hope, and unforgiven sins.You were so human, Father Malloy,Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us,Siding with us who would rescue Spoon RiverFrom the coldness and the dreariness of village morality.You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sandFrom the wastes about the pyramidsAnd makes them real and Egypt real.You were a part of and related to a great past,And yet you were so close to many of us.You believed in the joy of life.You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh.You faced life as it is,And as it changes.Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy,Seeing how your church had divined the heart,And provided for it,Through Peter the Flame,Peter the Rock.
You are over there, Father Malloy,
Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave,
Not here with us on the hill—
Us of wavering faith, and clouded vision
And drifting hope, and unforgiven sins.
You were so human, Father Malloy,
Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us,
Siding with us who would rescue Spoon River
From the coldness and the dreariness of village morality.
You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sand
From the wastes about the pyramids
And makes them real and Egypt real.
You were a part of and related to a great past,
And yet you were so close to many of us.
You believed in the joy of life.
You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh.
You faced life as it is,
And as it changes.
Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy,
Seeing how your church had divined the heart,
And provided for it,
Through Peter the Flame,
Peter the Rock.
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,And played snap-out at Winchester.One time we changed partners,Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,And then I found Davis.We were married and lived together for seventy years,Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,Eight of whom we lostEre I had reached the age of sixty.I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,I made the garden, and for holidayRambled over the fields where sang the larks,And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,And many a flower and medicinal weed—Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,And passed to a sweet repose.What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?Degenerate sons and daughters,Life is too strong for you—It takes life to love Life.
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,And played snap-out at Winchester.One time we changed partners,Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,And then I found Davis.We were married and lived together for seventy years,Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,Eight of whom we lostEre I had reached the age of sixty.I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,I made the garden, and for holidayRambled over the fields where sang the larks,And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,And many a flower and medicinal weed—Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,And passed to a sweet repose.What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?Degenerate sons and daughters,Life is too strong for you—It takes life to love Life.
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,And played snap-out at Winchester.One time we changed partners,Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,And then I found Davis.We were married and lived together for seventy years,Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,Eight of whom we lostEre I had reached the age of sixty.I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,I made the garden, and for holidayRambled over the fields where sang the larks,And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,And many a flower and medicinal weed—Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,And passed to a sweet repose.What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?Degenerate sons and daughters,Life is too strong for you—It takes life to love Life.
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed—
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you—
It takes life to love Life.
Out of me unworthy and unknownThe vibrations of deathless music;“With malice toward none, with charity for all.”Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,And the beneficent face of a nationShining with justice and truth.I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,Wedded to him, not through union,But through separation.Bloom forever, O Republic,From the dust of my bosom!
Out of me unworthy and unknownThe vibrations of deathless music;“With malice toward none, with charity for all.”Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,And the beneficent face of a nationShining with justice and truth.I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,Wedded to him, not through union,But through separation.Bloom forever, O Republic,From the dust of my bosom!
Out of me unworthy and unknownThe vibrations of deathless music;“With malice toward none, with charity for all.”Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,And the beneficent face of a nationShining with justice and truth.I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,Wedded to him, not through union,But through separation.Bloom forever, O Republic,From the dust of my bosom!
Out of me unworthy and unknown
The vibrations of deathless music;
“With malice toward none, with charity for all.”
Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,
And the beneficent face of a nation
Shining with justice and truth.
I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,
Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,
Wedded to him, not through union,
But through separation.
Bloom forever, O Republic,
From the dust of my bosom!
WILLIAM H. HERNDON
There by the window in the old housePerched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley,My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline,Day by day did I look in my memory,As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe,And I saw the figures of the past,As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream,Move through the incredible sphere of time.And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giantAnd throw himself over a deathless destiny,Master of great armies, head of the republic,Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative songThe epic hopes of a people;At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires,Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten outFrom spirits tempered in heaven.Look in the crystal! See how he hastens onTo the place where his path comes up to the pathOf a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare.O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part,And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play,Often and often I saw you,As the cawing crows winged their way to the woodOver my house-top at solemn sunsets,There by my window,Alone.
There by the window in the old housePerched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley,My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline,Day by day did I look in my memory,As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe,And I saw the figures of the past,As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream,Move through the incredible sphere of time.And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giantAnd throw himself over a deathless destiny,Master of great armies, head of the republic,Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative songThe epic hopes of a people;At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires,Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten outFrom spirits tempered in heaven.Look in the crystal! See how he hastens onTo the place where his path comes up to the pathOf a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare.O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part,And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play,Often and often I saw you,As the cawing crows winged their way to the woodOver my house-top at solemn sunsets,There by my window,Alone.
There by the window in the old housePerched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley,My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline,Day by day did I look in my memory,As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe,And I saw the figures of the past,As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream,Move through the incredible sphere of time.And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giantAnd throw himself over a deathless destiny,Master of great armies, head of the republic,Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative songThe epic hopes of a people;At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires,Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten outFrom spirits tempered in heaven.Look in the crystal! See how he hastens onTo the place where his path comes up to the pathOf a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare.O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part,And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play,Often and often I saw you,As the cawing crows winged their way to the woodOver my house-top at solemn sunsets,There by my window,Alone.
There by the window in the old house
Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley,
My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline,
Day by day did I look in my memory,
As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe,
And I saw the figures of the past,
As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream,
Move through the incredible sphere of time.
And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giant
And throw himself over a deathless destiny,
Master of great armies, head of the republic,
Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative song
The epic hopes of a people;
At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires,
Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten out
From spirits tempered in heaven.
Look in the crystal! See how he hastens on
To the place where his path comes up to the path
Of a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare.
O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part,
And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play,
Often and often I saw you,
As the cawing crows winged their way to the wood
Over my house-top at solemn sunsets,
There by my window,
Alone.
They brought me ambrotypesOf the old pioneers to enlarge.And sometimes one sat for me—Some one who was in beingWhen giant hands from the womb of the worldTore the republic.What was it in their eyes?—For I could never fathomThat mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,And the serene sorrow of their eyes.It was like a pool of water,Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,Where the leaves fall,As you hear the crow of a cockFrom a far-off farm house, seen near the hillsWhere the third generation lives, and the strong menAnd the strong women are gone and forgotten.And these grand-children and great grand-childrenOf the pioneers!—Truly did my camera record their faces, too,With so much of the old strength gone,And the old faith gone,And the old mastery of life gone,And the old courage gone,Which labors and loves and suffers and singsUnder the sun!
They brought me ambrotypesOf the old pioneers to enlarge.And sometimes one sat for me—Some one who was in beingWhen giant hands from the womb of the worldTore the republic.What was it in their eyes?—For I could never fathomThat mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,And the serene sorrow of their eyes.It was like a pool of water,Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,Where the leaves fall,As you hear the crow of a cockFrom a far-off farm house, seen near the hillsWhere the third generation lives, and the strong menAnd the strong women are gone and forgotten.And these grand-children and great grand-childrenOf the pioneers!—Truly did my camera record their faces, too,With so much of the old strength gone,And the old faith gone,And the old mastery of life gone,And the old courage gone,Which labors and loves and suffers and singsUnder the sun!
They brought me ambrotypesOf the old pioneers to enlarge.And sometimes one sat for me—Some one who was in beingWhen giant hands from the womb of the worldTore the republic.What was it in their eyes?—For I could never fathomThat mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,And the serene sorrow of their eyes.It was like a pool of water,Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,Where the leaves fall,As you hear the crow of a cockFrom a far-off farm house, seen near the hillsWhere the third generation lives, and the strong menAnd the strong women are gone and forgotten.And these grand-children and great grand-childrenOf the pioneers!—Truly did my camera record their faces, too,With so much of the old strength gone,And the old faith gone,And the old mastery of life gone,And the old courage gone,Which labors and loves and suffers and singsUnder the sun!
They brought me ambrotypes
Of the old pioneers to enlarge.
And sometimes one sat for me—
Some one who was in being
When giant hands from the womb of the world
Tore the republic.
What was it in their eyes?—
For I could never fathom
That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,
And the serene sorrow of their eyes.
It was like a pool of water,
Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,
Where the leaves fall,
As you hear the crow of a cock
From a far-off farm house, seen near the hills
Where the third generation lives, and the strong men
And the strong women are gone and forgotten.
And these grand-children and great grand-children
Of the pioneers!—
Truly did my camera record their faces, too,
With so much of the old strength gone,
And the old faith gone,
And the old mastery of life gone,
And the old courage gone,
Which labors and loves and suffers and sings
Under the sun!
Did you ever see an alligatorCome up to the air from the mud,Staring blindly under the full glare of noon?Have you seen the stabled horses at nightTremble and start back at the sight of a lantern?Have you ever walked in darknessWhen an unknown door was open before youAnd you stood, it seemed, in the light of a thousand candlesOf delicate wax?Have you walked with the wind in your earsAnd the sunlight about youAnd found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor?Out of the mud many times,Before many doors of light,Through many fields of splendor,Where around your steps a soundless glory scattersLike new-fallen snow,Will you go through earth, O strong of soul,And through unnumbered heavensTo the final flame!
Did you ever see an alligatorCome up to the air from the mud,Staring blindly under the full glare of noon?Have you seen the stabled horses at nightTremble and start back at the sight of a lantern?Have you ever walked in darknessWhen an unknown door was open before youAnd you stood, it seemed, in the light of a thousand candlesOf delicate wax?Have you walked with the wind in your earsAnd the sunlight about youAnd found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor?Out of the mud many times,Before many doors of light,Through many fields of splendor,Where around your steps a soundless glory scattersLike new-fallen snow,Will you go through earth, O strong of soul,And through unnumbered heavensTo the final flame!
Did you ever see an alligatorCome up to the air from the mud,Staring blindly under the full glare of noon?Have you seen the stabled horses at nightTremble and start back at the sight of a lantern?Have you ever walked in darknessWhen an unknown door was open before youAnd you stood, it seemed, in the light of a thousand candlesOf delicate wax?Have you walked with the wind in your earsAnd the sunlight about youAnd found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor?Out of the mud many times,Before many doors of light,Through many fields of splendor,Where around your steps a soundless glory scattersLike new-fallen snow,Will you go through earth, O strong of soul,And through unnumbered heavensTo the final flame!
Did you ever see an alligator
Come up to the air from the mud,
Staring blindly under the full glare of noon?
Have you seen the stabled horses at night
Tremble and start back at the sight of a lantern?
Have you ever walked in darkness
When an unknown door was open before you
And you stood, it seemed, in the light of a thousand candles
Of delicate wax?
Have you walked with the wind in your ears
And the sunlight about you
And found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor?
Out of the mud many times,
Before many doors of light,
Through many fields of splendor,
Where around your steps a soundless glory scatters
Like new-fallen snow,
Will you go through earth, O strong of soul,
And through unnumbered heavens
To the final flame!
Better than granite, Spoon River,Is the memory-picture you keep of meStanding before the pioneer men and womenThere at Concord Church on Communion day.Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youthOf Galilee who went to the cityAnd was killed by bankers and lawyers;My voice mingling with the June windThat blew over wheat fields from Atterbury;While the white stones in the burying groundAround the Church shimmered in the summer sun.And there, though my own memoriesWere too great to bear, were you, O pioneers,With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrowFor the sons killed in battle and the daughtersAnd little children who vanished in life’s morning,Or at the intolerable hour of noon.But in those moments of tragic silence,When the wine and bread were passed,Came the reconciliation for us—Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood,Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee—To us came the ComforterAnd the consolation of tongues of flame!
Better than granite, Spoon River,Is the memory-picture you keep of meStanding before the pioneer men and womenThere at Concord Church on Communion day.Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youthOf Galilee who went to the cityAnd was killed by bankers and lawyers;My voice mingling with the June windThat blew over wheat fields from Atterbury;While the white stones in the burying groundAround the Church shimmered in the summer sun.And there, though my own memoriesWere too great to bear, were you, O pioneers,With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrowFor the sons killed in battle and the daughtersAnd little children who vanished in life’s morning,Or at the intolerable hour of noon.But in those moments of tragic silence,When the wine and bread were passed,Came the reconciliation for us—Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood,Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee—To us came the ComforterAnd the consolation of tongues of flame!
Better than granite, Spoon River,Is the memory-picture you keep of meStanding before the pioneer men and womenThere at Concord Church on Communion day.Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youthOf Galilee who went to the cityAnd was killed by bankers and lawyers;My voice mingling with the June windThat blew over wheat fields from Atterbury;While the white stones in the burying groundAround the Church shimmered in the summer sun.And there, though my own memoriesWere too great to bear, were you, O pioneers,With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrowFor the sons killed in battle and the daughtersAnd little children who vanished in life’s morning,Or at the intolerable hour of noon.But in those moments of tragic silence,When the wine and bread were passed,Came the reconciliation for us—Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood,Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee—To us came the ComforterAnd the consolation of tongues of flame!
Better than granite, Spoon River,
Is the memory-picture you keep of me
Standing before the pioneer men and women
There at Concord Church on Communion day.
Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youth
Of Galilee who went to the city
And was killed by bankers and lawyers;
My voice mingling with the June wind
That blew over wheat fields from Atterbury;
While the white stones in the burying ground
Around the Church shimmered in the summer sun.
And there, though my own memories
Were too great to bear, were you, O pioneers,
With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrow
For the sons killed in battle and the daughters
And little children who vanished in life’s morning,
Or at the intolerable hour of noon.
But in those moments of tragic silence,
When the wine and bread were passed,
Came the reconciliation for us—
Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood,
Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee—
To us came the Comforter
And the consolation of tongues of flame!
WEBSTER FORD
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo,The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’GrewCried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”;And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s lightBy the flags at the water’s edge, you half-witted fools.”And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long afterPoor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death,Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carriedThe vision which perished with him like a rocket which fallsAnd quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fearOf the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart,Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hourWhen I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branchesGrowing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoningIn laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel,Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbnessCreeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!’Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring,If die you must in the spring. For none shall lookOn the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must’Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow,Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand,Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbnessCreeping up to the laurel leaves that never ceaseTo flourish until you fall. O leaves of meToo sere for coronal wreaths, and fit aloneFor urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themesFor hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers—Delphic Apollo!
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo,The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’GrewCried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”;And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s lightBy the flags at the water’s edge, you half-witted fools.”And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long afterPoor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death,Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carriedThe vision which perished with him like a rocket which fallsAnd quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fearOf the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart,Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hourWhen I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branchesGrowing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoningIn laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel,Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbnessCreeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!’Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring,If die you must in the spring. For none shall lookOn the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must’Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow,Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand,Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbnessCreeping up to the laurel leaves that never ceaseTo flourish until you fall. O leaves of meToo sere for coronal wreaths, and fit aloneFor urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themesFor hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers—Delphic Apollo!
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo,The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’GrewCried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”;And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s lightBy the flags at the water’s edge, you half-witted fools.”And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long afterPoor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death,Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carriedThe vision which perished with him like a rocket which fallsAnd quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fearOf the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart,Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hourWhen I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branchesGrowing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoningIn laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel,Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbnessCreeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!’Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring,If die you must in the spring. For none shall lookOn the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must’Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow,Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand,Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbnessCreeping up to the laurel leaves that never ceaseTo flourish until you fall. O leaves of meToo sere for coronal wreaths, and fit aloneFor urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themesFor hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers—Delphic Apollo!
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo,
The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’Grew
Cried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”;
And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s light
By the flags at the water’s edge, you half-witted fools.”
And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long after
Poor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death,
Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carried
The vision which perished with him like a rocket which falls
And quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fear
Of the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?
Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart,
Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hour
When I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branches
Growing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoning
In laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel,
Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbness
Creeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!
’Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.
Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring,
If die you must in the spring. For none shall look
On the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must
’Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow,
Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand,
Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbness
Creeping up to the laurel leaves that never cease
To flourish until you fall. O leaves of me
Too sere for coronal wreaths, and fit alone
For urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themes
For hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers—
Delphic Apollo!
SILENCE
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,And the silence of the city when it pauses,And the silence of a man and a maid,And the silence of the sickWhen their eyes roam about the room.And I ask: For the depthsOf what use is language?A beast of the field moans a few timesWhen death takes its young.And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—We cannot speak.A curious boy asks an old soldierSitting in front of the grocery store,“How did you lose your leg?”And the old soldier is struck with silence,Or his mind flies awayBecause he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.It comes back jocoselyAnd he says, “A bear bit it off.”And the boy wonders, while the old soldierDumbly, feebly lives overThe flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,The shrieks of the slain,And himself lying on the ground,And the hospital surgeons, the knives,And the long days in bed.But if he could describe it allHe would be an artist.But if he were an artist there would be deeper woundsWhich he could not describe.There is the silence of a great hatred,And the silence of a great love,And the silence of an embittered friendship.There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,Comes with visions not to be utteredInto a realm of higher life.There is the silence of defeat.There is the silence of those unjustly punished;And the silence of the dying whose handSuddenly grips yours.There is the silence between father and son,When the father cannot explain his life,Even though he be misunderstood for it.There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.There is the silence of those who have failed;And the vast silence that coversBroken nations and vanquished leaders.There is the silence of Lincoln,Thinking of the poverty of his youth.And the silence of NapoleonAfter Waterloo.And the silence of Jeanne d’ArcSaying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.And there is the silence of age,Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter itIn words intelligible to those who have not livedThe great range of life.And there is the silence of the dead.If we who are in life cannot speakOf profound experiences,Why do you marvel that the deadDo not tell you of death?Their silence shall be interpretedAs we approach them.
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,And the silence of the city when it pauses,And the silence of a man and a maid,And the silence of the sickWhen their eyes roam about the room.And I ask: For the depthsOf what use is language?A beast of the field moans a few timesWhen death takes its young.And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—We cannot speak.A curious boy asks an old soldierSitting in front of the grocery store,“How did you lose your leg?”And the old soldier is struck with silence,Or his mind flies awayBecause he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.It comes back jocoselyAnd he says, “A bear bit it off.”And the boy wonders, while the old soldierDumbly, feebly lives overThe flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,The shrieks of the slain,And himself lying on the ground,And the hospital surgeons, the knives,And the long days in bed.But if he could describe it allHe would be an artist.But if he were an artist there would be deeper woundsWhich he could not describe.There is the silence of a great hatred,And the silence of a great love,And the silence of an embittered friendship.There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,Comes with visions not to be utteredInto a realm of higher life.There is the silence of defeat.There is the silence of those unjustly punished;And the silence of the dying whose handSuddenly grips yours.There is the silence between father and son,When the father cannot explain his life,Even though he be misunderstood for it.There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.There is the silence of those who have failed;And the vast silence that coversBroken nations and vanquished leaders.There is the silence of Lincoln,Thinking of the poverty of his youth.And the silence of NapoleonAfter Waterloo.And the silence of Jeanne d’ArcSaying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.And there is the silence of age,Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter itIn words intelligible to those who have not livedThe great range of life.And there is the silence of the dead.If we who are in life cannot speakOf profound experiences,Why do you marvel that the deadDo not tell you of death?Their silence shall be interpretedAs we approach them.
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,And the silence of the city when it pauses,And the silence of a man and a maid,And the silence of the sickWhen their eyes roam about the room.And I ask: For the depthsOf what use is language?A beast of the field moans a few timesWhen death takes its young.And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—We cannot speak.
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldierSitting in front of the grocery store,“How did you lose your leg?”And the old soldier is struck with silence,Or his mind flies awayBecause he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.It comes back jocoselyAnd he says, “A bear bit it off.”And the boy wonders, while the old soldierDumbly, feebly lives overThe flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,The shrieks of the slain,And himself lying on the ground,And the hospital surgeons, the knives,And the long days in bed.But if he could describe it allHe would be an artist.But if he were an artist there would be deeper woundsWhich he could not describe.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
“How did you lose your leg?”
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, “A bear bit it off.”
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,And the silence of a great love,And the silence of an embittered friendship.There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,Comes with visions not to be utteredInto a realm of higher life.There is the silence of defeat.There is the silence of those unjustly punished;And the silence of the dying whose handSuddenly grips yours.There is the silence between father and son,When the father cannot explain his life,Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.There is the silence of those who have failed;And the vast silence that coversBroken nations and vanquished leaders.There is the silence of Lincoln,Thinking of the poverty of his youth.And the silence of NapoleonAfter Waterloo.And the silence of Jeanne d’ArcSaying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.And there is the silence of age,Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter itIn words intelligible to those who have not livedThe great range of life.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d’Arc
Saying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.If we who are in life cannot speakOf profound experiences,Why do you marvel that the deadDo not tell you of death?Their silence shall be interpretedAs we approach them.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.