CORNELL' 
 
 Ijniversity 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 
 BOUQHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 611.U61 1919 
 
 Modern American Poetiyian introduction.e 
 
 3 1924 022 151 892 
 
The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9240221 51 892 
 
MODERN AMERICAN 
 POETRY 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 Author of "These Times," " Including Horace,' 
 " The New Era in American Poetry," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE 
 ^919 V 
 
A •It.oltea. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC. 
 
 flAHW^V. N. J. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 For permission to reprint most of the material in this 
 volume, the editor wishes to thank not only the poets 
 whose co-operation has been of such assistance, but also 
 the publishers, most of whom are holders of the copy- 
 right. This indebtedness is alphabetically acknowledged 
 to: 
 
 Bobbs-Merrill Company — for the two poems from The Com- 
 plete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 The Century Company — for the selections from Merchants 
 from Cathay by William Rose Benet, Songs for the Neia 
 Age by James Oppenheim, and Challenge by Louis 
 Untermeyer. 
 
 DoDD, Mead & Company — for the two poems from Lyrics of 
 Loiuly Life by Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
 
 Doubleday, Page & Company — for the selections from Tobog- 
 ganning on Parnassus by Franklin P. Adams, The Man 
 toith the Hoe and Lincoln and Other Poems by Edwin 
 Markham. 
 
 George H. Doran Company — for the selections from In Deep 
 Places by Amelia Josephine Burr and Trees and Other 
 Poems by Joyce Kilmer. 
 
 E. P. DuTTON & Company — for the two poems from Lanterns 
 in Gethsemane by Willard Wattles. 
 
 Four Seas Company — for the quotation from The Charnel Rose 
 by Conrad Aiken. 
 
 Harper & Brothers— -for the selections from The Laughing 
 Muse by Arthur Guiterman, Dreams and Dust by Don 
 Marquis. 
 
 Henry Holt and Company — for the selections from A Boy's 
 Will, North of Boston, and Mountain Interval by Robert 
 Frost; Outcasts in Beulah Land by Roy Helton, Chicago 
 Poems and Cornhuskers by Carl Sandburg, These Times 
 by Louis Untermeyer, and Factories by Margaret 
 Widdemer. 
 
iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 The selections from The Shoes That Danced by Anna Hemp- 
 stead Branch, Davy and the Goblin by Charles E. Carryl, 
 Grimm Tales Made Gay by Guy Wetnjore Carryl, Riders 
 of the Stars by Henry Herbert Knibbs, The Door of 
 Dreams by Jessie B. Rittenhouse, Sea Garden by '_' H. D." 
 and the two poems of John Gould Fletcher in Some 
 Imagist Poets — igi6 and Some Imagist Poets — iglj are 
 used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, 
 Houghton Mifflin Compant, the authorized publishers. 
 
 B. W. Huebsch — for the selections from A Family Album by 
 Alter Brody, The Vaunt of Man by William Ellery 
 Leonard, and Groining Pains by Jean Starr Untermeyer. 
 
 Alfred A. Knopf — for the selections from Colors of Life by 
 Max Eastman, Asphalt and Other Poems by Orrick Johns, 
 Mushrooms by Alfred Kreymborg, Lustra by Ezra Pound, 
 Body and Raiment by Eunice Tietjens. 
 
 John Lane Company — for the poem from The Lonely Dancer 
 by Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 The Laurentian Publishers — for the poem from Motley 
 Measures by Bert Leston Taylor. 
 
 Little, Brown & Company — for Ae selections from Poems and 
 Poems — Third Series by Emily Dickinson. 
 
 Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company — for the quotation from 
 Lyrics of Brotherhood by Richard Burton. 
 
 The Macmillan Company — for the selections from Poems by 
 Madison Cawein, The Congo and Other Poen^ and The 
 Chinese Nightingale by Vachel Lindsay, Pictures of the 
 Floating World by Amy Lowell, Spoon River Anthology 
 and Songs and Satires by Edgar Lee Masters, The Quest 
 by John G. Neihardt, and Love Songs by Sara Teasdale. 
 
 David McKay — for the two excerpts from Canzoni by T. A. 
 Daly. 
 
 The M'anas Press — for the selections from Ferse by Adelaide 
 Crapsey. 
 
 Thomas B. Mosher — for the selections from The Rose Jar by 
 Thomas S. Jones, Junior, A Quiet Road by Lizette Wood- 
 worth Reese, and The Flower from the Ashes by Edith M. 
 Thomas. 
 
 Pagan Publishing Company — for the poem from Minna and 
 Myself by Maxwell Bodenheim. 
 
 A. M. Robertson — for the sonnet from The House of Orchids 
 by George Sterling. 
 
 Chas. Scribner's Sons— for the selections from Poems by Henry 
 Cuyler Bunner, Poems by Eugene Field, The Bashful 
 Earthquake by Oliver Herford, The Children of the Night 
 and_ The Tcwn Doian the River by Edwin Arlington 
 Robinson, and Poems by Alan Seeger. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS V 
 
 Sherman French & Company — for the quotation from The 
 Human Fantasy by John Hall Wheelock. 
 
 Small, Maynard & Company — for selections from Along the 
 Trail by Richard Hovey, Songs of Vagabondia and More 
 Songs from Vagabonditt by Richard Hovey and Bliss Car- 
 man, and the poems of Clinton ScoUard and Charlotte 
 Perkins Stetson Gilman. 
 
 F. A. Stokes Company — for the selections from The Burgess 
 Nonsense Book by G«lett Burgess and Grenstone Poems by 
 Witter Bynner. 
 
 Sturgis & Walton Company — for the poem from Monday 
 Morning by James Oppenheim. 
 
 The Yale University Press — for selections from Young Ad- 
 venture by Stephen Vincent Benet and The Burglar of the 
 Zodiac by William Rose Benet. 
 
 The poem by Edna St. Vincent MiMay is from her volume 
 Renascence. The sonnet by Arthur Davison Ficke is from 
 his Sonnets of a Portrait Painter. 
 
AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 " America's poetic renascence " is no longer a phrase ; 
 it is a fact. The last few decades have witnessed a 
 sudden and amazing growth in the volume as well as 
 in the quality of the work of our poets. A new spirit, 
 energetic, alert, penetrative, seems to have stirred these 
 states, and a countryful of writers has responded to it. 
 No longer confined to one or two literary centers, the 
 impulse to create is everywhere; there is scarcely a re- 
 mote corner which has not produced its laureate. 
 
 It must be made plain, however, that not even the 
 mcfst ardent admirers of modern American poetry believe 
 that the new poets are the only poets that we have pro- 
 duced, or that they are necessarily greater than the old. 
 What they do believe is this: that the modern poets 
 are different and must be granted their own points of 
 difference. Times change and tastes change with them. 
 The old-fashioned mythological verses and the excellent 
 but too often merely moralizing poems of the immediate 
 past could not be written to-day. Walt Whitman, with 
 his emphasis on the beauty that lurks in familiar things 
 and his insistence on the " divine average," was the 
 greatest of the moderns who showed the grandeur of 
 simplicity, the rich poetry of everyday. " The cow 
 crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue," 
 he wrote ; he declared that " a leaf of grass is no less 
 
VIU AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 than the journey-work of the stars," and that the com- 
 mon " running blackberry is fit to adorn the parlors of 
 heaven." 
 
 Many, though not all of the poets that have succeeded 
 Whitman have found a fresh, living and vigorous poetry 
 in a world of honest and sometimes harsh reality. They 
 respond to the spirit of their times. The singer to-day 
 vvrites about things unknoWn to the poet of yesterday. 
 Not only has his view been changed, his vision has wid- 
 ened. He can employ any incident, any subject, instead 
 of being restricted to legendary, classical or traditionally 
 " poetic " themes. In learning to distinguish real beauty 
 from mere prettiness, he is expressing the deepest aspects 
 of life and, in so doing, he is recording not, as has been 
 charged, " more truth than poetry " but more truth and 
 poetry. 
 
 An editorial in the conservative New York Times, 
 which has been none too hospitable to innovators, de- 
 clared a few months ago, " The so-called society-verse, 
 the didactic rhyme, the musical love-poem that pleased 
 mainly because, in language and sentiment, it was so 
 remote from everyday, prosaic experience, has lost in 
 popularity — superseded, apparently, by a poetry that de- 
 lights in searching for stronger beauty and in portraying 
 rugged realities." 
 
 With the choice of more familiar subjects there has 
 come a further simplification: — the use of a simpler and 
 less stilted language. The rare or rhetorical words have 
 been practically discarded in favor of words that are 
 part of our daily vocabulary; actual speech instead of 
 ornate literary phrasing has become the medium of the 
 
AN INTRODUCTION IX 
 
 modern poet. The " peradventures," " forsooths," 
 " alackadays " and " O thous " have gone. His language, 
 that used to be borrowed almost exclusively from litera- 
 taie, comes now almost entirely out of life. And as his 
 speech has grown less elaborate, so have the forms that 
 embody it. The intricate versification has given way 
 to lines that reflect and suggest the tones of direct talk, 
 even of Ordinary conversation. The result of this has 
 been a great gain both in sincerity and intensity; for it 
 has enabled the poet of to-day to put greater emphasis 
 on his emotion than on the shell that covers it — he dwells 
 with richer detail on the matter than the manner. 
 
 These changes can be easily seen and studied in the 
 work of most of our recent and particularly our con- 
 temporary makers of verse. Notice, for instance, in the 
 direct but fully-flavored blank verse of Robert Frosty 
 how the words are so chosen and arrani^atKt the 
 speaker is almost heard on the printed page. Observe 
 how, beneath these native sounds, we hear the accents 
 of his people walking the New England farms and hill- 
 sides. Listen to YasbcL^ldli^jy, ^nd catch with him 
 the buoyant and even burly music of canip-meetings, 
 negro " revivals " and religious gatherings. Read him 
 aloud, and hear how his words roll with the solemnity 
 of a great prayer or snap, crackle, wink and dance with 
 all the humorous rhythms of a piece of " rag-time." 
 Note how, in the work of E. L. Masters, the author 
 explores the borderland between poetry and prose. Or 
 listen to the quiet but deeply-moving singing of James 
 Oppenheim, music of a biblical quality, like mystical 
 modern psalms. Hear how, without rhyme or a strict 
 
X AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 rhythm, Carl Sandburg makes little melodies that are 
 sheer music and how, by combining vision with the sim- 
 plest talk (even with slang), he achieves magic. Ex- 
 amine the delicate verbal designs in the almost cail^ed 
 lines of Emily Dickinson, " H.D.," Adelaide Crapsey. 
 
 And, on the other hand, turn to those who, by adapt- 
 ing and sharpening old forms, are no less original/ No- 
 tice how Edwin Arlington Robinson uses the strictest 
 rhymes and most conventional metres and, by the use 
 of a subtle intellect and even subtler sympathy, makes 
 them more " modern " than the freest free-verse, i Ex- 
 amine the homely and mystical verses of Anna Hemp- 
 stead Branch. Read the outspoken lyrics of Sara Teas- 
 dale and see how frank and straightforward these lines 
 are, how different from either the tinkling or over-senti- 
 mental love-songs that passed for genuine emotion. Ob- 
 serve how breezy, spirited and full of the tang of native 
 sounds and scenes are the songs of Richar d^Hovev. BHss 
 Carman, James Whitcomb Riley, H. H. Knibbs, the 
 two Benets and a half a dozen others. 
 
 Study the highly decorative poetry of Amy Lowell; see 
 how she has responded to Oriental and French influences 
 and how she has incorporated them in her work with 
 a touch entirely her own. Witness how, even in the 
 light verses of Paul Laurence Dunbar and T. A. Daly, 
 there is dignity as well as humor; how in their use 
 of dialect, they have emphasized, paradoxical as it may 
 seem, an American quality — particularly the fusjoru-of 
 native and foreign tongues and temperaments. Even 
 our deprecated " comic newspaper poetry " has taken on 
 something of a native character; nothing is more remark- 
 
AN INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 able than the rising standards in our satirical and frankly 
 humorous verse. 
 
 I will not go into greater detail concerning the growth 
 of an American spirit in our literature nor point out 
 how, in many of the poems in the present collection, the 
 authors have responded to indigenous forces deeper than 
 their backgrounds. I will, however, call attention in 
 passing to the fact that, young as this nation is com- 
 pared to her transatlantic cousins, she is already being 
 supplied with the stuff of legends, ballads and even 
 epics. The modern singer, discarding imported myths, 
 has turned to celebrate his own folk-tales. It is there- 
 fore particularly interesting to observe how the figure of 
 Lincoln has been treated by the best of our living poets. I 
 have accordingly included seven poems by seven writers, 
 each differing in manner, technique and angle of vision. 
 
 For the rest, I leave the casual reader as well as the 
 student to discover the awakened vigor and energy in this, 
 the most poetic period in native literature. Realizing 
 that this brief gathering is not so much a summary as 
 an introduction, still it is hoped that, in spite of its 
 obvious limitations, this collection will draw the reader 
 on to a closer consideration of the poets here included 
 — even, possibly, to those omitted. The purpose of 
 such an anthology must always be to arouse an interest 
 rather than to satisfy a curiosity. And if it brings its 
 owners nearer the source, it will have fulfilled its prime 
 function. Such, at least, is the hope and aim of the pres- 
 ent editor. L. U. 
 
 August, 1919. 
 
 New York City. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An Introduction vii 
 
 Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) 
 
 Chartless 3 
 
 Beclouded 3 
 
 A Book 4 
 
 Charles E. Carryl (1841- ) 
 
 Robinson Crusoe's Story 5 
 
 Eugene Field (1850-1895) 
 
 Little Boy Blue 6 
 
 Seein' Things 7 
 
 Edwin Markham (1852- ) 
 
 A Prayer 9 
 
 ^Lincoln, the Man of the People 10 
 
 Charles Erskine Scott Wood (1852- ) 
 
 Sunrise .12 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916) 
 
 "When the Frost is ^n the Punkin'' .... 13 
 
 A Parting Guest, 15 
 
 Irwi^ Russell (1853-1879) 
 
 De Fust Banjo 15 
 
 George Edward Woodberry (1855- ) 
 
 "Immortal Love " 18 
 
 Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896) 
 
 Bihold the Deeds! 19 
 
 A Pitcher of Mignonette 21 
 
 Edith M. Thomas (1854- ) 
 
 "Frost To-night" 22 
 
 Lizett? Woodworth Reese (1856- ) 
 
 Tears 22 
 
 Wise 23 
 
 Frank 'Dempster Sherman ^(1860-1916) 
 
 Bacchus ■ .... 24 
 
 xiii 
 
XIV CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Clinton Scollard (i860- ) 
 
 A Day for Wandering Z5 
 
 Richard Burton (1861- ) 
 
 Black Sheep 26 
 
 Charlotte Perkins S. Gilman (i860- ) 
 
 A Conservative 37 
 
 Louise Imogen Guiney (i86i- ) 
 
 Tlie Wild Ride 29 
 
 Bliss Carman (1861- ) 
 
 A Vagabond Song 30 
 
 Hem and Haw 31 
 
 Daisies 32 
 
 John Kendrick Bangs (1862- ) 
 
 The Little Elf 32 
 
 Oliver Herford (1863- ) 
 
 The Elf and the Dormouse 33 
 
 Japanesque . ' 34 
 
 Richard Hovey (1864-1900) 
 
 At the Crossroads 34 
 
 A Stein Song 36 
 
 Unmanifest Destiny 37 
 
 Madison Cawein (18*65-1914) 
 
 Deserted 38 
 
 The Man Hunt 39 
 
 Richard Le Gallienne ti866- ) 
 
 August Moonlight 41 
 
 Gelett Burgess (1866- ) 
 
 The Purple Cow 42 
 
 On Digital Extremities 42 
 
 Psycholophon .... 43 
 
 Bert Leston Taylor (1866- ) 
 
 Canopus 43 
 
 William Vaughn Moody (i869-i9io)_ 
 
 On a Soldier Fallen in the Philippines .... 44 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters (1869- ) 
 
 Lucinda Matlock 46 
 
 Anne Rutledge 47 
 
 Silence . / 47 
 
CONTENTS XV 
 
 FACE 
 
 Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869- ) 
 
 The Master . . ^ 50 
 
 Ric[i)^Td Corey 53 
 
 An Old Story 54 
 
 George Sterling (1869- ) 
 
 The Black Vulture 54 
 
 Carolyn Wells^ (1869- ) 
 
 A Penitential Week 55 
 
 The Spelling, Lesson 56 
 
 Arthur Guiterman (1871- ) 
 
 Strictly Germ-proof 56 
 
 T. A. Daly (1871- ) 
 
 Mia Carlotta 57 
 
 Between Two -Loves 59 
 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) 
 
 Discovered 60 
 
 A Coquette Conquered 61 
 
 Guy Wetmore Carryl (187J-1904) 
 
 How Jack Found that Beans May Go Back On a Chap 62 
 
 How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted 65 
 
 Amy Lowell (1874- ) 
 
 Free Fantasia on Japanese Themes 68 
 
 Madonna of the Evening Flowers 71 
 
 Two Lacquer Prints 72 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody (1874- ) 
 
 Spinning in April 73 
 
 Anna Hempstead Branch 
 
 The Monk in the Kitchen 74 
 
 While Loveliness Goes By 78 
 
 Henry Herbert Knibbs (1874- ) 
 
 The Trail-Makers 79 
 
 Ro^RT Frost (1875- ) 
 
 • Mending Wall 81 
 
 The Tuft of Flowers 83 
 
 Birches 85 
 
 k/ The Road Not Taken 87 
 
 RiDGELY TORRENCE (1875- ) 
 
 The Bird and the Tree 88 
 
XVI CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Percy MacKaye (1875- ) 
 
 The Child-Dancers 9° 
 
 William Ellery Leonard (1876- ) 
 
 To the Victor - 9' 
 
 Don Marquis (1878- ) 
 
 Unrest 9* 
 
 Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914) 
 
 Triad 93 
 
 The Warning 94 
 
 On Seeing Weather-beaten Trees 94 
 
 Carl Sandburg (1878- ) 
 
 Cool Tombs . < 94 
 
 Fog 95 
 
 Nocturne in a Deserted Brickyard 95 
 
 Grass 96 
 
 Amelia Josephine Burr (1878- ) 
 
 Lie-Awake Song 96 
 
 Grace Hazard Conkling (1878- ) 
 
 April in the Huasteca 97 
 
 Vachel Lindsay (1879- ) 
 
 The Congo 98 
 
 The Eagle That Is Forgotten 106 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight .... 108 
 
 Edwin Meade Robinson (1879- ' ) 
 
 " Halcyon Days " 109 
 
 Alice Corbin 
 
 Echoes of Childhood iii 
 
 Jessie B. Rittenhouse 
 
 Paradox 114 
 
 John G. Neihardt (1881- ) 
 
 Let Me Live Out My Years 115 
 
 Franklin P. Adams (1881- ) 
 
 The Rich Man 115 
 
 Those Two Boys 116 
 
 Witter Bynner (rSSi- ) 
 
 Train-Mates 117 
 
 A Farmer Remembers Lincoln 119 
 
CONTENTS XVU 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thomas S. Jones, Jr. (1882- ) 
 
 Sometimes 120 
 
 James Oppenheim (1882- ) 
 
 The Slave 121 
 
 Tasting the Earth 122 
 
 The Lincoln-Child 123 
 
 Max Eastman (1883- ) 
 
 At the Aquarium 128 
 
 Diogenes 129 
 
 Arthur Davison Ficke (1883- ) 
 
 Sonnet 129 
 
 Portrait of an Old Woman 130 
 
 Sara Teasdale (1884.- ) 
 
 Spring Night 131 
 
 I Shall Not Care 132 
 
 Night Song at Amalfi 133 
 
 Eunice Tietjens (1884- ) 
 
 The Drug Clerk 133 
 
 Ezra Pound (1884- ) 
 
 Ballad for Gloom 135 
 
 Aupta 136 
 
 In a Station of the Metro . 137 
 
 Louis Untermeyer (1885- ) 
 
 Prayer 137 
 
 Summons 138 
 
 On the Birth of a Child 140 
 
 Jean Starr Untermeyer (i886- ) 
 
 Autumn 141 
 
 "H. D." (1886- ) 
 
 Oread 143 
 
 Pear Tree 143 
 
 John Gould Fletcher (1886- ) 
 
 Lincoln 144 
 
 The Skaters 148 
 
 Roy Helton {1886- ) 
 
 In Passing 148 
 
 John Hall Wheelock (1886- ) 
 
 Sunday Evening in the Common 149 
 
XVm CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William Rose BEsfr (i886- ) 
 
 His Ally . . 150 
 
 How to Catch Unicorns 151 
 
 Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) 
 
 Trees 152 
 
 Orrick Johns (1887- ) 
 
 Little Things 153 
 
 Alan Seeger (1888-1916) 
 
 "I Have a Rendezvous vrith Death" . . . -154 
 
 WiLLARD Wattles (1888- ) 
 
 The Builder 155 
 
 Creeds 156 
 
 Haniel Long (1888- ) 
 
 Dead Men Tell No Tales 156 
 
 Margaret Widdemer 
 
 Factories 157 
 
 Conrad Aiken (1889- ) 
 
 Morning Song from "Senlin'' 158 
 
 Alfred Kreymborg 
 
 Old Manuscript 161 
 
 MAXWELt BODENHEIM (1892- ) 
 
 Poet to His Love 162 
 
 Christopher Morley (1890- ) 
 
 To a Post-Office Inkwell ^62 
 
 Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892- ) 
 
 God's World 163 
 
 Alter Brody (1895- ) 
 
 Searchlights 163 
 
 Stephen Vincent Ben£t (1898- ) 
 
 Portrait of a Boy 164 
 
 Index of Authors and Titles 167 
 
MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
CHARTLESS 
 
 I never saw a moor, 
 
 I never saw the sea; 
 
 Yet now I know how the heather looks, 
 
 And what a wave must be. 
 
 I never spoke with God, 
 
 Nor visited in Heaven; 
 
 Yet certain am I of the spot 
 
 As if the chart were given. 
 
 Emily Dickinson 
 
 [Born in 1830 at Amherst, Mass. 
 Died there in 1886.] 
 
 BECLOUDED 
 
 The sky is low, the clouds are mean, 
 A travelling flake of snow 
 Across a barn or through a rut 
 Debates if it will go. 
 
 A narrow wind complains all day 
 How some one treated him; 
 Nature, like us, is sometimes caught 
 Without her diadem. 
 
 Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] 
 3 
 
4 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 A BOOK 
 
 There is no frigate like a book 
 
 To take us lands away, 
 Nor any coursers like a page 
 
 Of prancing poetry. 
 This traverse may the poorest take 
 
 Without oppress of toll; 
 How frugal is the chariot 
 
 That bears a human soul! 
 
 Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] 
 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY 
 
 The night was thick and hazy 
 
 When the " Piccadilly Daisy " 
 Carried down the crew and captain in the sea; 
 
 And I think the water drowned *em; 
 
 For they never, never found 'em. 
 And I know they didn't come ashore with me. 
 
 Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely 
 
 When I found myself the only 
 Population on this cultivated shore; 
 
 But I've made a little tavern 
 
 In a rocky little cavern, 
 And I sit and watch for people at the door. 
 
 I spent no time in looking 
 For a girl to do my cooking, 
 As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews ; 
 
CHARLES E. CARRYL 
 
 But I had that fellow Friday, 
 Just to keep the tavern tidy, 
 And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes. 
 
 I have a little garden 
 
 That I'm cultivating lard in. 
 As the things I eat are rather tough and dry; 
 
 For I live on toasted lizards, 
 
 Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards, 
 And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie. 
 
 The clothes I had were furry. 
 
 And it made me fret and worry 
 When I found the moths were eating off the hair; 
 
 And I had to scrape and sand 'em. 
 
 And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em, 
 Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear. 
 
 I sometimes seek diversion 
 
 In a family excursion 
 With the few domestic animals you see; 
 
 And we take along a carrot 
 
 As refreshment for the parrot, 
 And a little can of jungleberry tea. 
 
 Then we gather as we travel, 
 
 Bits of moss and dirty gravel. 
 And we chip off little specimens of stone; 
 
 And we carry home as prizes 
 
 Funny bugs, of handy sizes. 
 Just to give the day a scientific tone. 
 
MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 If the roads are wet and muddy 
 
 We remain at home and study, — 
 For the Goat is very clever at a sum, — 
 
 And the Dog, instead of fighting. 
 
 Studies ornamental writing, 
 While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum. 
 
 We retire at eleven. 
 
 And we rise again at seven; 
 And I wish to call attention, as I close, 
 
 To the fact that all the scholars 
 
 Are correct about their collars. 
 And particular in turning out their toes. 
 
 Charles E. Carryl 
 
 [Father of Guy Wetmofe Carryl. 
 Born, 1841, in New York City.] 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE ^ 
 
 The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
 
 But sturdy and staunch he stands; 
 The little toy soldier is red with rust. 
 
 And his musket moulds in his hands. 
 Time was when the little toy dog was new, 
 
 And the soldier was passing fair; 
 And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
 
 Kissed them and put them there. 
 
 ^ Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission 
 of Charles Scribner's Sons, hdldefs of the copyright. 
 
EUGENE FIELD ^ 
 
 " Now don't you go till I come," he said, 
 
 "And don't you make any noise! " 
 So, toddling off to his trundle bed, 
 
 He dreamt of the pretty toys; 
 And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
 
 Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
 Oh ! the years are many, the years are long, 
 
 But the little toy friends are true ! 
 
 Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 
 
 Each in the same old place. 
 Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 
 
 The smile of a little face; 
 And they wonder, as waiting the long years 
 through 
 
 In the dust of that little chair, 
 What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 
 
 Since he kissed them and put them there. 
 
 Eugene Field 
 
 [Born, 1850, in St. Louis, Mo. 
 Died, 1895, in Chicago, 111.] 
 
 SEEIN' THINGS ^ 
 
 I ain't afraid uv snakes or toads, or bugs or worms or 
 
 mice. 
 An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! 
 I'm pretty brave I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, 
 For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my 
 
 prayers are said, 
 
 ^ Reprinted from The Complete Works- of Eugene Field by permission 
 of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright. 
 
8 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Mother tells me " Happy Dreams " an' takes away the 
 
 light, 
 An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night! 
 
 Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the 
 
 door. 
 Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the 
 
 floor; 
 Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're 
 
 walkin' round 
 So softly and so creepy-like they never make a sound ! 
 Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're 
 
 white — 
 But color ain't no difference when you see things at night ! 
 
 Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our 
 
 street, 
 An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, 
 I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a 
 
 row, 
 A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me — so! 
 Oh, my ! I wuz so skeered 'at time I never slep' a mite — 
 It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night! 
 
 Lucky thing I ain't a girl or I'd be skeered to death! 
 Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath. 
 An' I am, oh so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then 
 I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again! 
 Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right 
 When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night! 
 
EDWIN MARKHAM 9 
 
 An' so when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, 
 I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within ; 
 An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, 
 I want to — ^but I do not pass my plate f'r them things 
 
 twice! 
 No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight 
 Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night! 
 
 Eugene Field [1850-1895] 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 Teach me, Father, how to go 
 Softly as the grasses grow; 
 Hush my soul to meet the shock 
 Of the wild world as a rock; 
 But my spirit, propt with power, 
 Make as simple as a flower. 
 Let the dry heart fill its cup, 
 Like a poppy looking up; 
 Let life lightly wear her crown 
 Like a poppy looking down, 
 When its heart is filled with dew, 
 And its life begins anew. 
 
 Teach me, Father, how to be 
 Kind and patient as a tree. 
 Joyfully the crickets croon 
 Under the shady oak at noon; 
 Beetle, on his mission bent. 
 Tarries in that cooling tent. 
 
10 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Let me, also, cheer a spot, 
 Hidden field or garden grot — 
 Place where passing souls can rest 
 On the way and be their best. 
 
 Edwin Markham 
 
 [Born, 1852, at Oregon City, Ore. 
 Now living on Staten Island, 
 N. Y.] 
 
 LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE * 
 
 When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 
 Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, 
 She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down 
 To make a man to meet the mortal need. 
 She took the tried clay of the common road — 
 Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth. 
 Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; 
 Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; 
 Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. 
 Into the shape she breathed a flame to light 
 That tender, tragic, ever-changing face. 
 Here was a man to hold against the world, 
 A man to match the mountains and the sea. 
 
 The color of the ground was in him, the red e^^T; 
 
 The smack and tang of eleniental things: 
 
 The rectitude and patience of the cliff;, 
 
 The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; 
 
 The friendly welcome of the wayside well ; 
 
 •See pages 47, 50, 108, 119, 123. i44- 
 
EDWIN MARKHAM II 
 
 The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 
 The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; 
 The pity of the snow that hides all scars; 
 The secrecy of streams that make their way 
 Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock; 
 The tolerance and equity of light 
 That gives as freely to the shrinking flower 
 As to the great oak flaring to the wind — 
 To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn 
 That shoulders out the sky. 
 
 Sprung from the West, 
 The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, 
 The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. 
 Up from log cabin to the Capitol, 
 One fire was on his spirit, one resolve: — 
 To send the keen axe to the root of wrong, 
 Clearing a free way for the feet of God. 
 And evermore he burned to do his deed 
 With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: 
 He built the rail-pile as he built the State, 
 Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; 
 The conscience of him testing every stroke. 
 To make his deed the measure of a man. 
 
 So came the Captain with the mighty heart; 
 And when the judgment thunders split the house, 
 Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, 
 He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again 
 The rafters of the Home. He held his place — 
 Held the long purpose like a growing tree — 
 
12 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
 And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
 As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, 
 Goes down with a great shout upon the hills. 
 And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 
 
 Edimn Markham [1852- ] 
 
 SUNRISE 
 
 The lean coyote, prowler of the night, 
 
 Slips to his rocky fastnesses, 
 
 Jack-rabbits noiselessly shuttle among the sage-brush. 
 
 And from the castellated clifEs, 
 
 Rock-ravens launch their proud black sails upon the day. 
 
 The wild horses troop back to their pastures. 
 
 The poplar-trees watch beside the irrigation-ditches. 
 Orioles, whose nests sway in the cotton-wood trees by 
 
 the ditch-side, begin to twitter. 
 All shy things, breathless, watch 
 The thin white skirts of dawn. 
 The dancer of the sky, 
 
 Who trips daintily down the mountain-side 
 Emptying her crystal chalice. . . . 
 And a red-bird, dipped in sunrise, cracks from a poplar's 
 
 top 
 
 His exultant whip above a silver world. 
 
 Charles Ersiine Scott Wood 
 
 [Born, 1852, at Erie, Pa. Now liv- 
 ing in Portland, Ore.] 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY I3 
 
 " WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN " ^ 
 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock, 
 And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' 
 
 turkey-cock, 
 And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the 
 
 hens, 
 And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; 
 O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 
 With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful 
 
 rest. 
 As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed 
 
 the stock. 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock. 
 
 They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere 
 When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is 
 
 here — 
 Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the 
 
 trees, 
 And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the 
 
 bees; 
 But the air's so appetizin' ; and the landscape through the 
 
 haze 
 Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days 
 
 • From the Biographicatl Edition of the Complete Works of James 
 Whiteonjb Riley. Copyright, 191 3. Used by special permission of the 
 publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 
 
14 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock — 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 shock. 
 
 The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, 
 
 And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the 
 
 morn; 
 The stubble in the furries — kindo' lonesome-like, but still 
 A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to 
 
 fill; 
 The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed ; 
 The bosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! — 
 O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock. 
 
 Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller 
 
 keeps 
 Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps; 
 And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is 
 
 through 
 With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and 
 
 sausage too! . . . 
 I don't know how to tell it — but ef such a thing could be 
 As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around 
 
 on me — 
 I'd want to 'commodate 'em — all the whole-indurin' 
 
 flock- 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock. 
 
 James Whitcomh Riley 
 
 [Born, 1853, at Greenfield, Ind. 
 Died, 1916, at Indianapolis, Ind.] 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 1 5 
 
 A PARTING GUEST ^ 
 
 What delightful hosts are they — 
 
 Life and Love! 
 Lingeringly I turn away, 
 
 This late hour, yet glad enough 
 They have not withheld from me 
 
 Their high hospitality. 
 So, with face lit with delight 
 
 And all gratitude, I stay 
 
 Yet to press their hands and say, 
 " Thanks. — So fine a time! Good night." 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley [1853-1916] 
 
 DE FUST BANJO 
 
 Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. 
 Keep silence fur you' betters! don't you heah de banjo 
 
 talkin'? 
 About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter — ladies, 
 
 listen ! 
 About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin': 
 
 " Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 
 
 solemn — 
 Fur Noah tuk de " Herald," an' he read de ribber 
 
 column — 
 
 ^ From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of Jaines 
 Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the 
 publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 
 
1 6 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin' timber-patches, 
 An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah 
 Natchez. 
 
 or Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin' ; 
 
 An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin' ; 
 
 But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut was gwine to 
 
 happen : 
 An' forty days an* forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. 
 
 Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es— 
 Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! 
 He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle — 
 An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thun- 
 der rattle. 
 
 Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! It come so awful hebby, 
 
 De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; 
 
 De people all wuz drownded out — 'cep Noah an' de crit- 
 ters, 
 
 An' men he'd hired to wuk de boat — an' one to mix de 
 bitters. 
 
 De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an a-sailin' ; 
 De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin' ; 
 De sarpints hissed ; de painters yelled ; tel', whut wid all 
 
 de fussin'. 
 You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' 
 
 cussin'. 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 17 
 
 Now Ham, de only nigger whut was runnin' on de 
 
 packet, 
 Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 
 
 racket; 
 An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' 
 
 bent it. 
 An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz invented. 
 
 He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' 
 
 screws an' aprin; 
 An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' taprin' ; 
 He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it: 
 An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to 
 
 string it? 
 
 De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; 
 De bar's so long an' thick an' strong, — des fit fur banjo- 
 
 stringin' ; 
 Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner 
 
 graces : 
 An' sorted ob 'em by de size — f'om little E's to basses. 
 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber 
 
 mm de wedder," — 
 She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder: 
 Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de 
 
 figgers; 
 An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob 
 
 niggers! 
 
1 8 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not de 
 
 slightes' showin' 
 Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ; 
 An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber 
 
 los' 'em — 
 Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 
 
 'possum ! 
 
 lr<win Russell 
 
 [Born, 1853, at Port Gibson, Miss. 
 Died, 1879, at New Orleans, La.] 
 
 " IMMORTAL LOVE " 
 
 Immortal love, too high for my possessing, — 
 
 Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose? 
 
 Long in my youth I sang the morning rose. 
 By earthly things the heavenly pattern guessing! 
 Long fared I on, beauty and love caressing, 
 
 And finding in my heart a place for those 
 
 Eternal fugitives; the golden close 
 Of evening folds me, still their sweetness blessing. 
 
 Oh happy we, the first-born heirs of nature. 
 For whom the Heavenly Sun delays his light! 
 
 He by the sweets of every mortal creature 
 Tempers eternal beauty to our sight; 
 
 And by the glow upon love's earthly feature 
 Maketh the path of our departure bright. 
 George E. Woodberry 
 
 [Born, 1855, at Beverley, Mass. 
 Still living there and in New 
 York.] 
 
HENRY C. BUNNER 1 9 
 
 BEHOLD THE DEEDS! 
 
 [A burlesque of the old ballads in the guise of a Chant 
 Royal, the strictest and most difBcult of the French forms. 
 " Being," as Bunner has it, " the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper 
 Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his 
 Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday Night."] 
 
 I would that all men my hard case would know, 
 
 How grievously I suffer for no sin: 
 I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! 
 
 I of my landlady am locked in 
 For being short on this sad Saturday, 
 Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay: 
 She turned and is departed with my key; 
 Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, 
 
 I sing, (as prisoners to their dungeon-stones 
 When for ten days they expiate a spree) : 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones ! 
 
 One night and one day have I wept my woe ; 
 
 Nor wot I, when the morrow doth begin. 
 If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., 
 
 To pray them to advance the requisite tin 
 For ransom of their salesman, that he may 
 Go forth as other boarders go alway — 
 As those I hear now flocking from their tea, 
 Led by the daughter of my landlady 
 
 Piano-ward. This day, for all my moans. 
 Dry-bread and water have been served me. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
20 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so 
 
 The heart of the young he-boarder doth -win, 
 Playing " The Maiden's Prayer " adagio — 
 
 That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the " bunko skin " 
 The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray 
 That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye 
 Ere sits she with a lover, as did we 
 Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be 
 
 That all that arduous wooing not atones 
 For Saturday's shortness of trade dollars three? 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 Yea ! She forgets the arm that was wont to go 
 
 Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin 
 Galleth the crook of her young man's elbfiw. 
 
 I forget not, for I that youth have been ! 
 Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. 
 Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay 
 Close in his room. Not calm as I was he; 
 But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. 
 
 Small ease he got of playing on the bones 
 Or hammering on the stove-pipe, that I see. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow 
 I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! 
 
 Thee I will show up — yea, up I will show 
 Thy too-thick buckwheats and thy tea too thin. 
 
 Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray: 
 
 Thou dost not " keep a first-class house " I say ! 
 
 It does not with the advertisements agree. 
 
HENRY C. BUNNER 21 
 
 Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree, 
 
 And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns, 
 
 Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 Envoy 
 
 Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: 
 She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee 
 
 Privily by the window. Hence these groans. 
 There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 Henry Cuyler Bunner 
 
 [Born, i8ss, at Oswego, N. Y. 
 Died, 1896, at Nutley, N. J.] 
 
 A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE » 
 
 A pitcher of mignonette 
 
 In a tenement's highest caseiAent, — 
 
 Queer sort of flower-pot-— yet 
 
 That pitcher of mignonette 
 
 Is a garden in heaven set, 
 To the little sick child in the basement — 
 
 The pitcher of mignonette. 
 In a tenement's highest casement. 
 
 Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896] 
 
 • Reprinted, by permission, from Poems by H. C. Bunner. Copy- 
 riglit, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 
22 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 " FROST TO-NIGHT " 
 
 Apple-green west and an orange bar ; 
 And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . . 
 And, " Child, take the shears arid cut what you will. 
 Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still." 
 
 Then I sally forth, half sad, half proud, 
 And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, 
 The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, — 
 The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. 
 
 The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! 
 A gleam of shears in the fading light. 
 And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng, 
 And in one great sheaf I bore them along. 
 
 In my garden of Life with its all late flowers 
 I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: 
 " Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still "... 
 Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. 
 Edith M. Thomas 
 
 [Born, i8s4, at Chatham, Ohio. 
 Now living on Staten Island.] 
 
 TEARS 
 
 I'l 
 
 ' When I consider Life and its few years — 
 <- A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun ; 4 
 «! A call to battle, and the battle done > 
 i-^ Ere the last echo dies within our ears ; c^ 
 
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 23 
 
 A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears; C 
 The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat ; L 
 The burst of music down an unlistening street, — ^?^. 
 I .wonder at the idleness of tears. <^. 
 
 Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight, (^. 
 Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep. 
 By every cup of sorrow that you had. 
 Loose me from tears, and make me see aright 
 How each hath back what once he stayed to weep:, 
 Homer his sight, David his little lad! ':'. 
 
 Lizette Woodiuorth Reese 
 
 [Born, 1856, near Baltimore, Md. 
 Still living there.] 
 
 WISE 
 
 An apple orchard smells like wine; 
 
 A succory flower is blue; 
 Until Grief touched these eyes of mine. 
 
 Such things I never knew. 
 
 And now indeed I know so plain 
 Why one would like to cry 
 
 When spcJuts are full of April rain — 
 Such lonely folk go by! 
 
 So wise, so wise — that my tears fall 
 Each breaking of the dawn; 
 
 That I do long to tell you all — 
 But you are dead and gone. 
 
 Lieette Woodiuorth Reese [1856- 
 
24 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 BACCHUS 
 
 Listen to the tawny thief, 
 Hid beneath the waxen leaf, 
 Growling at his fairy host, 
 Bidding her with angry boast 
 Fill his cup with wine distilled 
 From the dew the dawn has spilled : 
 Stored away in golden casks 
 Is the precious draught he asks. 
 
 Who, — who makes this mimic din 
 In this mimic meadow inn, 
 Sings in such a drowsy note, 
 Wears a golden-belted coat; 
 Loiters in the dainty room 
 Of this tavern of perfume; 
 Dares to linger at the cup 
 Till the yellow sun is up? 
 
 Bacchus 'tis, come back again 
 To the busy haunts of men; 
 Garlanded and gaily dressed, 
 Bands of gold about his breast; 
 Straying from his paradise, 
 Having pinions angel-wise, — 
 'Tis the honey-bee, who goes 
 Reveling within a rose! 
 
 Frank Dempster Sherman [1860-1916] 
 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 25 
 
 A DAY FOR WANDERING 
 
 I set apart a day for wandering; 
 
 I heard the woodlands ring, 
 
 The hidden white-throat sing, 
 
 And the harmonic West, 
 
 Beyond a far hill-crest, 
 
 Touch its Aeolian string. 
 
 Remote from all the brawl and bruit of men, 
 
 The iron tongue of Trade, 
 
 I followed the clear calling of a wren 
 
 Deep to the bosom of a sheltered glade. 
 
 Where interwoven branches spread a shade 
 
 Of soft cool beryl like the evening seas 
 
 Unruffled by the breeze. 
 
 And there — and there — 
 
 I watched the maiden-hair. 
 
 The pale blue iris-grass. 
 
 The water-spider in its pause and pass 
 
 Upon a pool that like a mirror was. 
 
 I took for confidant 
 
 The diligent ant 
 
 Threading the clover and the sorrel aisles; 
 
 For me were all the smiles 
 
 Of the sequestered blossoms there abloom — 
 
 Chalice and crown and plume; 
 
 I drank the ripe rich attars blurred and blent, 
 
 And won — Content! 
 
 Clinton Scollard 
 
 [Born, i86a, at Clinton, N. Y., and 
 living there at present.] 
 
26 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 BLACK SHEEP 
 
 From their folded mates they wander far, 
 Their ways seem harsh and wild; 
 
 They follow the beck of a baleful star, 
 Their paths are dream-beguiled. 
 
 Yet haply they sought but a wider range, 
 
 Some loftier mountain-slope. 
 And little recked of the country strange 
 
 Beyond the gates of hope. 
 
 And haply a bell with a luring call 
 
 Summoned their feet to tread 
 Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall 
 
 And the lurking snare are spread. 
 
 Maybe, in spite of their tameless days 
 
 Of outcast liberty. 
 They're sick at heart for the homely ways 
 
 Where their gathered brothers be. 
 
 And oft at night, when the plains fall dark 
 And the hills loom large and dim, 
 
 For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, 
 And their souls go out to him. 
 
 Meanwhile, " Black sheep ! Black sheep ! " we cry, 
 
 Safe in the inner fold; 
 And maybe they hear, and wonder why. 
 
 And marvel, out in the cold. 
 Richard Burton 
 
 [Born, 1 86 1, at Hartford, Conn. At present head of the English de- 
 ment of the University of Minnesota.] 
 
CHARLOTtE P. S. OILMAN 27 
 
 A CONSERVATIVE 
 
 The garden beds I wandered by 
 One bright and cheerful morn, 
 
 When I found a new-fledged butterfly, 
 A-sitting on a thorn, 
 
 A black and crimson butterfly 
 All doleful and forlorn. 
 
 I thought that life could have no sting 
 
 To infant butterflies, 
 So I gazed on this unhappy thing 
 
 With wonder and surprise. 
 While sadly with his waving wing 
 
 He wiped his weeping eyes. 
 
 Said I, " What can the matter be ? 
 
 Why weepest thou so sore? 
 With garden fair and sunlight free 
 
 And flowers in goodly store," — 
 But he only turned away from me 
 
 And burst into a roar. 
 
 Cried he, " My legs are thin and few 
 Where once I had a swarm! 
 
 Soft fuzzy fur — a joy to view — 
 Once kept my body warm. 
 
 Before these flapping wing-things grew, 
 To hamper and deform ! " 
 
28 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 At that outrageous bug I shot 
 
 The fury of mine eye; 
 Said I, in scorn all burning hot, 
 
 In rage and anger high, 
 "You ignominious idiot! 
 
 Those wings are made to fly!" 
 
 " I do not want to fly," said he, 
 
 " I only want to squirm ! " 
 And he drooped his wings dejectedly. 
 
 But still his voice was firm: 
 " I do not want to be a fly ! 
 
 I want to be a worm ! " 
 
 yesterday of unknown lack 
 To-day of unknown bliss! 
 
 1 left my fool in red and black; 
 The last I saw was this, — 
 
 The creature madly climbing back 
 
 Into his chrysalis. 
 
 Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman 
 
 [Born, i860, at Hartford, Conn. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 29 
 
 THE WILD RIDE 
 
 / hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses. 
 All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses. 
 All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and 
 neighing. 
 
 Let cowards and laggards fall back! But alert to the 
 
 saddle 
 [Weatherworn and abreast, go men of our galloping 
 
 legion, 
 With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves 
 
 him. 
 
 The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and 
 
 morasses ; 
 There are shapes by the way, there are things that 
 
 appal or entice us: 
 What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are 
 
 vowed to the riding. 
 
 Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb, 
 And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sun- 
 beam: 
 Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing. 
 
 A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, 
 A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty; 
 We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers. 
 
30 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 / hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses. 
 All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses. 
 All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and 
 neighing. 
 
 We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind ; 
 We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil. 
 Thou leadest, O God! All's well with Thy troopers 
 that follow. 
 
 Louise Imogen Guiney 
 
 [Born, 1861, at Boston, Mass. 
 Now living near Oxford, Eng- 
 land.] 
 
 A VAGABOND SONG 
 
 There is something in the autumn that is native to my 
 
 blood — 
 Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
 And my heart is like a rhyme, 
 With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping 
 
 time. 
 
 The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 
 
 Of bugles going by. 
 
 And my lonely spirit thrills 
 
 To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 
 
 There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 
 We must rise and follow her, 
 
BLISS CARMAN 3 I 
 
 When from every hill of flame 
 
 She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 
 
 Bliss Carman 
 
 [Born, 1861, at Fredericton, N. B. Collaborator with Richard Hovey 
 on the famous " Songs from Vagabondia." Now living at New 
 Canaan, Ct.] 
 
 HEM AND HAW 
 
 Hem and Haw were the sons of sin, 
 Created to shally and shirk; 
 Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on 
 While God did all the work. 
 
 Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig. 
 For both had the dull, dull mind ; 
 And whenever they found a thing to do, 
 They yammered and went it blind. 
 
 Hem was the father of bigots and bores; 
 As the sands of the sea were they. 
 And Haw was the father of all the tribe 
 Who criticize to-day. 
 
 But God was an artist from the first, 
 And knew what he was about; 
 While over his shoulder sneered these two, 
 And advised him to rub it out. 
 
 They prophesied ruin ere man was made; 
 
 " Such folly must surely fail! " 
 
 And when he was done, " Do you ^Jiink, my Lord, 
 
 He's better without a tail? " 
 
32 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And still in the honest working world, 
 With posture and hint and smirk, 
 These sons of the devil are standing by 
 While man does all the work. 
 
 They balk endeavor and baffle reform. 
 In the sacred name of law; 
 And over the quavering voice of Hem 
 Is the droning voice of Haw. 
 
 Bliss Carman [t86i- ] 
 
 DAISIES 
 
 Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune 
 I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, 
 A host in the sunshine, an army in June, 
 The people God sends us to set our hearts free. 
 
 The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, 
 The orioles whistled them out of the wood;. 
 And all of their singing was, " Earth, it is well ! " 
 And all of their dancing was, " Life, thou art good ! " 
 Bliss Carman [1861- ] 
 
 THE LITTLE ELF v 
 
 met a little Elf-man, once, 
 Down where the lilies blow, 
 asked him why he was so small, 
 And why he didn't grow. 
 
OLIVER HERFORD 33 
 
 He slightly frowned, and with his eye 
 He looked me through and through. 
 
 " I'm quite as big for me," said he, 
 " As you are big for you." 
 
 John Kendrick Bangs 
 
 [Born, 1862, at Yonkers, N. Y. 
 Now living at Ogonquit, Maine.] 
 
 THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE 
 
 Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, 
 Out of the rain to shelter himself. 
 
 Under the toadstool, sound asleep. 
 Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap. 
 
 Trembled the wee Elf, frightened and yet 
 Fearing to fly away lest he get wet. 
 
 To the next shelter — maybe a mile! 
 Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile. 
 
 Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. 
 Holding it over him, gaily he flew. 
 
 Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. 
 Soon woke the Dormouse — " Good gracious me ! 
 
 " Where is my toadstool ? " loud he lamented. 
 
 — :And that's how umbrellas first were invented. 
 
 Oliver Herford 
 
 [Bom, 1863, in England. Moved to America about 1892. Now 
 living in Lakewood, N. J., and New York City.] 
 
34 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 JAPANESQUE ^ 
 
 Oh, where the white quince blossom swings 
 
 I love to take my Japan ease! 
 I love the maid Anise who clings 
 
 So lightly on my Japan knees; 
 I love the little song she sings, 
 
 The little love-song Japanese. 
 I almost love the lute's tink-tunkle 
 
 Played by that charming Jap Anise — 
 For am I not her old Jap uncle? 
 
 And is she not my Japan niece? 
 
 Oliver Herford [1863- ] 
 
 AT THE CROSSROADS 
 
 You to the left and I to the right, 
 
 For the ways of men must sever— 
 
 And it well may be for a day and a night. 
 
 And it well may be forever. 
 
 But whether we meet or whether we part 
 
 (For our ways are past our knowing), 
 
 A pledge from the heart to its fellow heart 
 
 On the ways we all are going! 
 
 Here's luck! 
 
 For we know not where we are going. 
 
 * Reprinted from The Bashful Earthquake by Oliver Herford, Copy- 
 right, 1898, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
RICHARD HOVEY 35 
 
 Whether we win or whether we lose 
 
 With the hands that life is dealing, 
 
 It is not we nor the ways we choose 
 
 But the fall of the cards that's sealing. 
 
 There's a fate in love and a fate in fight, 
 
 And the best of us all go under— 
 
 And whether we're wrong or whether we're 
 
 right, 
 We win, sometimes, to our wonder. 
 Here's luck! 
 That we may not yet go under! 
 
 With a steady swing and an open brow 
 
 We have tramped the ways together, 
 
 But we're clasping hands at the crossroads now 
 
 In the Fiend's own night for weather; 
 
 And whether we bleed or whether we smile 
 
 In the leagues that lie before us 
 
 The ways of life are many a mile 
 
 And the dark of Fate is o'er us. 
 
 Here's luck! 
 
 And a cheer for the dark before us! 
 
 You to the left and I to the right. 
 
 For the ways of men must sever. 
 
 And it well may be for a day and a night 
 
 And it well may be forever! 
 
 But whether we live or whether we die 
 
 (For the end is past our knowing), 
 
 Here's two frank hearts and the open sky, 
 
 Be a fair or an ill wind blowing! 
 
36 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Here's luck! 
 
 In the teeth of all winds blowing. 
 
 Richard Hovey 
 
 [Born, 1864, at Normal, HI. Died, 1900. His buoyant rhythms 
 brought a fresh virility to American poetry; his most characteristic 
 verses may be found in " Songs from Vagabondia " (in collabora- 
 tion with Bliss Carman) and " More Songs from Vagabondia."] 
 
 A STEIN SONG 
 {From " Spring ") 
 
 Give a rouse, then, in the May time 
 
 For a life that knows no fear! 
 Turn night-time into daytime 
 With the sunlight of good cheer! 
 For it's always fair weather 
 When good fellows get together, 
 With a stein on the table and a good song 
 ringing clear. 
 
 When the wind comes up from Cuba, 
 
 And the birds are on the wing, 
 And our hearts are patting juba 
 To the banjo of the spring. 
 
 Then it's no wonder whether 
 The boys will get together, 
 With a stein on the table and a cheer for 
 everything. 
 
 For we're all frank-and-twenty 
 
 When the spring is in the air; 
 And we've faith and hope a-plenty, 
 
 And we've life and love to spare; 
 
RICHARD HOVEY 37 
 
 And it's birds of a feather 
 When we all get together, 
 With a stein on the table and a heart with- 
 out a care. 
 
 For we know the world is glorious, 
 
 And the goal a golden thing, 
 And that God is not censorious 
 When his children have their fling; 
 And life slips its tether 
 When the boys get together, 
 With a stein on the table in the fellowship 
 of spring. 
 
 Richard Hovey [1864-19C0] 
 
 UNMANIFEST DESTINY 
 
 To what new fates, my country, far 
 And unforeseen of foe or friend. 
 
 Beneath what unexpected star 
 Compelled to what unchosen end. 
 
 Across the sea that knows no beach. 
 The Admiral of Nations guides 
 
 Thy blind obedient keels to reach 
 The harbor where thy future rides! 
 
 The guns that spoke at Lexington 
 Knew not that God was planning then 
 
 The trumpet word of Jefferson 
 To bugle forth the rights of men. 
 
38 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, 
 What was it but despair and shame? 
 
 Who saw behind the cloud the sun? 
 Who knew that God was in the flame? 
 
 Had not defeat upon defeat, 
 
 Disaster on disaster come, 
 The slave's emancipated feet 
 
 Had never marched behind the drum. 
 
 There is a Hand that bends our deeds 
 To mightier issues than we planned ; 
 
 Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds, 
 My country, serves It's dark command. 
 
 I do not know beneath what sky 
 Nor on what seas shall be thy fate ; 
 
 I only know it shall be high, 
 I only know it shall be great. 
 
 Richard Hovey [1864-1900] 
 
 DESERTED 
 
 The old house leans upon a tree 
 Like some old man upon a staff: 
 
 The night wind in its ancient porch 
 Sounds like a hollow laugh. 
 
 The "heaven is wrapped in flying clouds, 
 As grandeur cloaks itself in gray: 
 
 The starlight flitting in and out, 
 Glints like a lanthorn ray. 
 
MADISON CAWEIN 39 
 
 The dark is full of whispers. Now 
 
 A fox-hound howls : and through the night, 
 
 Like some old ghost from out its grave, 
 
 The moon comes, misty white. 
 
 Madison Ca<wein 
 
 [Born, 1865, at Louisville, Ky. 
 Died there in 1914.] 
 
 THE MAN HUNT^ 
 
 The woods stretch wild to the mountain side, 
 And the brush is deep where a man may hide. 
 
 They have brought the bloodhounds up again 
 To the roadside rock where they found the slain. 
 
 They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they 
 Have taken the trail to the mountain way. 
 
 Three times they circled the trail and crossed, 
 And thrice they found it and thrice they lost. 
 
 Now straight through the pines and the underbrush 
 They follow the scent through the forest's hush. 
 
 And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear 
 In the- heart of the wood that the man must hear. 
 
 The man who crouches among the trees 
 From the stern-faced men that follow these. 
 
 A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed — 
 And the trail of the hunted again is lost. 
 
 * Taken by permission from The Vale of Tempe by Madison Cawein. 
 Copyright, J905, by E. P. Dutton and Co., New York. 
 
40 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 An upturned pebble; a bit of ground 
 A heel has trampled — the trail is found. 
 
 And the woods re-echo the bloodhounds' bay 
 As again they take to the mountain way. 
 
 A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge, 
 
 With a pine-tree clutching its crumbling edge. 
 
 A pine, that the lightning long since clave. 
 Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave. 
 
 A shout; a curse; and a face aghast, 
 And the human quarry is laired at last. 
 
 The human quarry, with clay-clogged hair 
 And eyes of terror, who waits them there; 
 
 That glares and crouches and rising then 
 Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men. 
 
 Until the blow of a gun-butt lays 
 Him stunned and bleeding upon his face. 
 
 A rope, a prayer, and an oak-tree near. 
 And a score of hands to swing him clear. 
 
 A grim black thing for the setting sun 
 And the moon and the stars to look upon. 
 
 Madison Caiuein [1865-1914] 
 
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 4 1 
 
 AUGUST MOONLIGHT 
 
 The solemn light behind the barns, 
 The rising moon, the cricket's call, 
 
 The August night, and you and I — 
 What is the meaning of it all! 
 
 Has it a meaning, after all? 
 
 Or is it one of Nature's lies, 
 That net of beauty that she casts 
 
 Over Life's unsuspecting eyes? 
 
 That web of beauty that she weaves 
 For one strange purpose of her own, — 
 
 For this the painted butterfly, 
 For this the rose — for this alone! 
 
 Strange repetition of the rose. 
 
 And strange reiterated call 
 Of bird and insect, man and maid, — 
 
 Is that the meaning of it all? 
 
 If it means nothing after all ! 
 
 And nothing lives except to die — 
 It is enough — that solemn light 
 
 Behind the barns, and you and I. 
 Richard Le Gallienne 
 
 [Bom, 1866, in Liverpool, England. Moved to America about 1900. 
 Now living at Rowayton, Conn.] 
 
42 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 THE PURPLE COW^ 
 
 (Reflections on a Mythic Beast 
 Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least.) 
 
 I never saw a Purple Cow; 
 
 I never hope to See One; 
 But I can Tell you, Anyhow, 
 
 I'd rather See than Be One. 
 
 Gelett Burgess 
 
 [Born, 1866, at Boston, Mass. Creator, both as rhymer and draughts- 
 man, of the Goops and several books of delightful, pure nonsense. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
 ON DIGITAL EXTREMITIES * 
 A Poem, and a Gem it Is I 
 
 I'd rather have Fingers than Toes; 
 I'd rather have Ears than a Nose; 
 
 And as for my Hair, 
 
 I'm Glad it's All There; 
 
 I'll be Awfully Sad when it Goes! 
 
 Gelett Burgess [1866- ] 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Frederick A. Stokes 
 Company, from The Burgess Nonsense Book by Gelett Burgess. Copy- 
 right, 1901, by Gelett Burgess. 
 
GELETT BURGESS 43 
 
 PSYCHOLOPHON: Supposed to Be 
 Translated from the Old Parsee ''■ 
 
 Twine then the rays 
 
 Round her soft Theban tissues. 
 All will be as She says, 
 
 When the dead Past reissues. 
 Matters not what nor where, 
 
 Hark, to the moon's dim cluster! 
 How was her heavy hair 
 
 Lithe as a feather-duster! 
 Matters not when nor whence ; 
 
 Flittertigibbet! 
 Sound make the song, not sense, 
 
 Thus I inhibit! 
 
 Geleti Burgess [1866- ] 
 
 CANOPUS 
 
 When quacks with pills political would dope us, 
 When politics absorbs the livelong day, 
 
 I like to think about that star Canopus, 
 So far, so far away. 
 
 Greatest of visioned suns, they say who list 'em; 
 
 To weigh it science almost must despair. 
 Its shell would hold our whole dinged solar system, 
 
 Nor even know 'twas there. 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Frederick A. Stokes 
 Company, from The Burgess Nonsense Book by Gelett Bijirgess. Copy- 
 right, 1901, by Gelett Burgess. 
 
44 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 When temporary chairmen utter speeches, 
 
 And frenzied henchmen howl their battle hymnS, 
 
 My thoughts float out across the cosmic reaches 
 To where Canopus swims. 
 
 When men are calling names and making faces, 
 And all the world's ajangle and ajar, 
 
 I meditate on interstellar spaces 
 And smoke a mild seegar. 
 
 For after one has had about a week of 
 The argument of friends as well as foes, 
 
 A star that has no parallax to speak of 
 
 Conduces to repose. 
 
 Bert Lesion Taylor 
 
 [Born, I see, at Goshen, Mass. Has conducted a column of verse and 
 prose in the Chicago Tribune for many years. Living in Chicago, 
 111.] 
 
 ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES 
 
 Streets of the roaring town, 
 
 Hush for him; hush, be still! 
 
 He comes, who was stricken down 
 
 Doing the word of our will. 
 
 Hush ! Let him have his state. 
 
 Give him his soldier's crown. 
 
 The grists of trade can wait 
 
 Their grinding at the mill. 
 But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has 
 
 been blown. 
 Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on 
 his breast of stone. 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 4;5 
 
 Toll! Let the great bells toll 
 
 Till the clashing air is dim, 
 
 Did we wrong this parted soul? 
 
 We will make it up to him. 
 
 Toll! Let him never guess 
 
 What work we sent him to. 
 
 Laurel, laurel, yes. ' 
 
 He did what we bade him do. 
 Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he 
 
 fought was good; 
 Never a word that the blood on' his sword was his coun- 
 try's own heart's-blood. 
 
 A flag for a soldier's bier 
 
 Who dies that his land may live ; 
 
 O banners, banners here, 
 
 That he doubt not nor misgive! 
 
 That he heed not from the tomb 
 
 The evil days draw near 
 
 When the nation robed in gloom 
 
 With its faithless past shall strive. 
 
 Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide 
 
 of its island mark, 
 
 Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled 
 
 and sinned in the dark. 
 
 William Vaughn Moody 
 
 [Born, 1869, at Spencer, Ind. 
 Died, 1910, at Colorado Springs.] 
 
46 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 LUCINDA MATLOCK 1 
 
 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. 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters 
 
 [Born, 1869, at Garnett, Kansas. Has written several volumes before 
 and since S^oon River Anthology^ which is his most famous. 
 Living in Chicago, 111.] 
 
 ' Reprinteii by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters. 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 47 
 
 ANNE RUTLEDGE* 
 
 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! 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters [1869- ] 
 
 SILENCE 1 
 
 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 for which music alone finds the word. 
 And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring 
 
 . begin. 
 And the silence of the sick 
 
 *See pages 10, 50, 108, 119, 123, 144. 
 
 ' Reprinted by permission of the publidiers, The MaoniM^n Com- 
 pany, from Songs and Satires by Edgar Lee Masters, 
 
48 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 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 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 a deep peace of mind. 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS '49 
 
 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. 
 
 And the silence of the gods who understand each other 
 
 without speech. 
 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 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 sorrow, 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. 
 
50 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 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. 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters [1869- 
 
 THE MASTER*! 
 
 [Lincoln as seen presumably by one of his contemporaries. Sup' 
 posed to have been written shortly after the Civil War.] 
 
 A flying word from here and there 
 Had sown the name at which we sneered, 
 But soon the name was everywhere, 
 To be reviled and then revered: 
 A presence to be loved and feared, 
 We cannot hide it, or deny 
 That we, the gentlemen who jeered, 
 May be forgotten by and by. 
 
 He came when days were perilous 
 And hearts of men were sore beguiled ; 
 And having made his note of us. 
 He pondered and was reconciled. 
 
 * See pages 10, 47, io8, 119, 123, 144. 
 
 ^ Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner*s Sons, 
 from The Town down the River by E. A. Robinson. 
 
EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 5 I 
 
 Was ever master yet so mild 
 
 As he, and so untamable? 
 
 We doubted, even when he smiled. 
 
 Not knowing what he knew so well. 
 
 He knew that undeceiving fate 
 Would shame us whom he served unsought ; 
 He knew that he must wince and wait — 
 The jest of those for whom he fought; 
 He knew devoutly what he thought 
 Of us and of our ridicule; 
 He knew that we must all be taught 
 Like little children in a school. 
 
 We gave a glamour to the task 
 
 That he encountered and saw through, 
 
 But little of us did he ask, 
 
 And little did we ever do. 
 
 And what appears if we review 
 
 The season when we railed and chaffed? 
 
 It is the face of one who knew 
 
 That we were learning while we laughed. 
 
 The face that in our vision feels 
 Again the venom that we flung. 
 Transfigured to the world reveals 
 The vigilance to which we clung. 
 Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among 
 The mysteries that are untold. 
 The face we see was never young. 
 Nor could it ever have been old. 
 
52 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 For he, to whom we have applied 
 Our shopman's test of age and worth, 
 Was elemental when he died. 
 As he was ancient at his birth: 
 The saddest among kings of earth. 
 Bowed with a galling crown, this man 
 Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, 
 Laconic — and Olympian. 
 
 The love, the grandeur, and the fame 
 Are bounded by the world alone; 
 The calm, the smouldering, and the flame 
 Of awful patience were his own: 
 With him they are forever flown 
 Past all our fond self-shadowings. 
 Wherewith we cumber the Unknown 
 As with inept Icarian wings. 
 
 For we were not as other men: 
 
 'Twas ours to soar and his to see. 
 
 But we are coming down again. 
 
 And we shall come down pleasantly ; 
 
 Nor shall we longer disagree 
 
 On what it is to be sublime. 
 
 But flourish in our perigee 
 
 And have one Titan at a time. 
 
 Ediuin Arlington Robinson 
 
 [Born, 1869, at Head Tide, Maine. 
 Now living in Brooklyn, N. Y.] 
 
EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 53 
 
 RICHARD CORY ^ 
 
 Whenever Richard Cory went down town, 
 We people on the pavement looked at him : 
 
 He was a gentleman from sole to crown, 
 Clean favored, and imperially slim. 
 
 And he was always quietly arrayed, 
 And he was always human when he talked ; 
 
 But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 
 
 " Good-morning," and he glittered when he 
 walked. 
 
 And he was rich — ^yes, richer than a king, 
 And admirably schooled in every grace: 
 
 In fine, we thought that he was everything 
 To make us wish that we were in his place. 
 
 So on we worked, and waited fqr the light. 
 And went without the meat, and cursed the 
 bread ; 
 And Richard Cory, one calm summer night. 
 Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
 
 Ediain Arlington Robinson [1869- ] 
 
 ' Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 from The Children of the Night, 
 
54 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 AN OLD STORY » 
 
 Strange that I did not know him then, 
 
 That friend of mine! 
 I did not even show him then 
 
 One friendly sign; 
 
 But cursed him for the ways he had 
 
 To make me see 
 My envy of the praise he had 
 
 For praising me. 
 
 I would have rid the earth of him 
 Once, in my pride! . . . 
 
 I never knew the worth of him 
 Until he died. 
 
 Edioin Arlington Robinson [1869- 
 
 THE BLACK VULTURE 
 
 Aloof upon the day's immeasured dome. 
 
 He holds unshared the silence of the sky. 
 
 Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry 
 The eagle's empire and the falcon's home — 
 Far down, the galleons of sunset roam; 
 
 His hazards on the sea of morning lie; 
 
 Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh 
 Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam. 
 
 ' Reprinted by permission ^f the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 from The Children of the Ntgkt. 
 
GEORGE STERLING 55 
 
 And least of all he holds the human swarm — 
 
 Unwitting now that envious men prepare 
 
 To make their dream and its fulfillment one, 
 
 When, poised above the caldrons of the storm, 
 
 Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare 
 
 His roads between the thunder and the sun. 
 
 George Sterling 
 
 [Born, 1869, at Sag Harbor, N. Y. 
 Now living at San Francisco, 
 Cal.] 
 
 A PENITENTIAL WEEK 
 
 The week had gloomily begun 
 For Willie Weeks, a poor man's 
 
 He was beset with bill and dun. 
 And he had very little 
 
 SUN. 
 
 MON. 
 
 " This cash," said he, " won't pay my dues, 
 I've nothing here but ones and 
 
 TUES." 
 
 A bright thought struck him, and he said : 
 " The rich Miss Goldrocks I will 
 
 WED." 
 
 But when he paid his court to her. 
 She lisped, but firmly said : " No, 
 
 THUR." 
 
S6 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 ,"Alas," said he, "then I must die! 
 Although hereafter I may 
 
 FRI." 
 
 They found his gloves, and coat, and hat; 
 The Coroner upon them 
 
 SAT. 
 Carolyn Wells 
 
 [Bom, 1869, at Rahway, N. J. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
 THE SPELLING LESSON 
 
 When Venus said : " Spell no for me," 
 " N-O," Dan Cupid wrote with glee, 
 
 And smiled at his success; 
 "Ah, child," said Venus, laughing low, 
 "We women do not spell it so, 
 
 We spell it Y-E-S." 
 
 Carolyn Wells [1869- ] 
 
 STRICTLY GERM-PROOF 
 
 The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup 
 
 Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled 
 up; 
 
 They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undis- 
 guised ; — 
 
 It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized. 
 
ARTHUR GUITERMAN 57 
 
 They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease ; 
 They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees ; 
 They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished 
 
 Hope 
 And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap. 
 
 In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears; 
 
 They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard- 
 boiled shears; 
 
 They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by 
 the hand 
 
 And elected it a member of the Fumigated Band. 
 
 There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play ; 
 They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day ; 
 And each imbibes his rations from a Hygienic Cup — 
 The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup. 
 
 Arthur Guiterman 
 
 [Born, 187 1, in Vienna, Austria, of 
 American parents. Now living 
 in New York City,] 
 
 MIA CARLOTTA 
 
 Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for " mash," 
 He gptta da bigga, da blacka mustache, 
 Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash. 
 
 W'enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street. 
 Da peopla dey talka, " how nobby! how, neat! 
 How softa da handa, how smalla da feet." 
 
S8 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 He raisa hees hat an' he shaka hees curls, 
 An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls; 
 O ! many da heart of da seelly young girls 
 
 He gotta. 
 Yes, playnta he gotta — 
 
 But notta 
 
 Carlotta! 
 
 Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye, 
 An' lika da steam engine puffa an' sigh, 
 For catcha Carlotta w'en she ees go by. 
 
 Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air. 
 
 An' look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare. 
 
 As eef she no see dere ees som'body dere. 
 
 Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash. 
 
 He gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache. 
 
 He gotta da seely young girls for da "mash," 
 
 But notta — 
 
 You bat my life, notta — 
 
 Carlotta. 
 
 I gotta! 
 
 T. A. Daly 
 
 [Born, 1871, at Philadelphia, Fa. Has written several books in vari- 
 ous dialects and " straight " English, although he is best known 
 for his Italian-American interpretations. Living in Germantown, 
 Pa.] 
 
T. A. DALY 59 
 
 BETWEEN TWO LOVES 
 
 I gotta lov' for Angela, 
 
 I lov' Carlotta, too. 
 I no can marry both o' dem, 
 
 So w'at I gona do? 
 
 O! Angela ees pretta girl, 
 
 She gotta hair so black, so curl, 
 
 An' teeth so white as anytheeng. 
 
 An' O! she gotta voice to seeng, 
 
 Dat mak' your hearta feel eet must 
 
 Jump up an' dance or eet weell bust 
 
 An' alia time she seeng, her eyes 
 
 Dey smila like Italia's skies. 
 
 An' makin' flirtin' looks at you — 
 
 But dat ees all w'at she can do. 
 
 Carlotta ees no gotta song, 
 But she ees twice so big an' strong 
 As Angela, an' she no look 
 So beautiful — but she can cook. 
 You oughta see her carry wood! 
 I tal you w'at, eet do you good. 
 When she ees be som'body's wife 
 She worka hard, you bat my life! 
 She never gattin' tired, too — 
 But dat ees all w'at she can do. 
 
60 MODERN AMERICAN. POETRY 
 
 O! my! I weesh dat Angela 
 
 Was strong for carry wood, 
 Or else Carlotta gotta song 
 
 An' looka pretta good. 
 I gotta lov' for Angela, 
 
 I lov' Carlotta, too. 
 I no can marry both o' dem. 
 
 So w'at I gona do? 
 
 T. A. Daly [1871- J 
 
 DISCOVERED * 
 
 Seen you down at chu'ch las' night, 
 
 Nevah min'. Miss Lucy. 
 What I mean? Oh, dat's all right, 
 
 Nevah min', Miss Lucy. 
 You was sma't ez sma't could be,, 
 But you couldn't hide f'om me. 
 Ain't I got two eyes to see! 
 
 Nevah min'. Miss Lucy. 
 
 Guess you thought you's awful keen; 
 
 Nevah min', Miss Lucy. 
 Evahthing you done, I seen; 
 
 Nevah min'. Miss Lucy. 
 Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so. 
 When he got outside de do' — 
 Oh, I know dat man's yo' beau! 
 
 Nevah min'. Miss Lucy. 
 
 ' From Lyrics of Lowly Life. Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead 
 Company. 
 
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 6 1 
 
 Say now, honey, wha'd he say? — 
 
 Nevah min'. Miss Lucy. 
 Keep yo' secrets — dat's yo' way — 
 
 Nevah min', Miss Lucy. 
 Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal! 
 I'm gwine tell his othah gal, — 
 Know huh, too, huh name is Sal. 
 
 Nevah min', Miss Ludy. 
 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar 
 
 [Born, 1872, at Dayton, Ohio, the son of two negro slaves. He was, 
 before and after he wrote his interpretative poetry, an elevator-boy. 
 Many of his verses are in ** literary English," but his most char- 
 acteristic work is in the rich negro dialect. He died, 1906, in 
 Washington.] 
 
 A COQUETTE CONQUERED^ 
 
 Yes, my ha't's ez ha'd ez stone — 
 Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone. 
 No; I ain't gwine change my min'; 
 Ain't gwine ma'y you — nuflSn' de kin'. 
 
 Phiny loves you true an' deah? 
 Go ma'y Phiny; whut I keer? 
 Oh, you needn't mou'n an' cry — 
 I don't keer how soon you die. 
 
 Got a present! Whut you got? 
 Somef'n fu' de pan er pot! 
 Huh! Yo' sass do sholy beat — 
 Think I don't git 'nough to eat? 
 
 * From Lsrics of Lowly Life. Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead & 
 Company. 
 
62 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Whut's dat un'neaf yo' coat? 
 Looks des lak a little ^at. 
 'Tain't no possum? Bless de Lamb! 
 Yes, it is, you rascal, Sam! 
 
 Gin it to me; whut you say? 
 Ain't you sma't now! Oh, go 'way! 
 Possum do look mighty nice; 
 But you ax too big a price. 
 
 Tell me, is you talkin' true, 
 Dat's de gal's whut ma'ies you? 
 - Come back, Sam ; now whah's you gwine ? 
 Co'se you knows dat possum's mine! 
 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar [1872-1906] 
 
 HOW JACK FOUND THAT BEANS MAY GO 
 BACK ON A CHAP 
 
 Without the slightest basis 
 For hypochondriasis 
 A widow had forebodings 
 
 which a cloud around her flung, 
 And with expression cynical 
 For half the day a clinical 
 Thermometer she held 
 
 beneath her tongue. 
 
 Whene'er she read the papers 
 
 She suffered from the vapors, 
 
 At every tale of malady 
 
 or accident she'd groan; 
 
GUY WETMORE CARRYL 63 
 
 In every new and smart disease, 
 From housemaid's knee to heart disease, 
 She recognized the symptoms 
 as her own! 
 
 She had a yearning chronic 
 To try each novel tonic, 
 Elixir, panacea, lotion, 
 
 opiate, and balm; 
 And from a homeopathist 
 Would change to an hydropathist. 
 And back again, 
 
 with stupefying calm ! 
 
 She was nervous, cataleptic, 
 And anemic, and dyspeptic: 
 
 Though not convinced of apoplexy, 
 yet she had her fears. 
 She dwelt with force fanatical 
 Upon a twinge rheumatical. 
 And said she had a 
 
 buzzing in her ears! 
 
 Now all of this bemoaning 
 And this grumbling and this groaning 
 The mind of Jack, her son and heir, 
 unconscionably bored. 
 His heart completely hardening, 
 He gave his time to gardening, 
 For raising beans was 
 
 something he adored. 
 
64 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Each hour in accents morbid 
 This limp maternal bore bid 
 Her callous son affectionate 
 
 and lachrymose good-bys. 
 She never granted Jack a day 
 Without some long "Alackaday!" 
 Accompanied by 
 
 rolling of the eyes. 
 
 But Jack, no panic showing, 
 Just watched his beanstalk growing. 
 And twined with tender fingers 
 
 the tendrils up the pole. 
 At all her words funereal 
 He smiled a smile ethereal. 
 Or sighed an absent-minded 
 
 " Bless my soul ! " 
 
 That hollow-hearted creature 
 Would never change a feature: 
 
 No tear bedimmed his eye, however 
 touching was her talk. 
 She never fussed or flurried him, 
 The only thing that worried him 
 Was when no bean-pods 
 
 grew upon the stalk! 
 
 But then he wabbled loosely 
 His head, and wept profusely, 
 And, taking out his handkerchief 
 
 to mop away his tears, 
 
GUY WETMORE CARRYL 65 
 
 Exclaimed: " It hasn't got any! " 
 He found this blow to botany 
 Was sadder than were all 
 
 his mother's fears. 
 
 The Moral is that gardeners pine 
 Whene'er no pods adorn the vine. 
 Of all sad words experience gleans 
 The saddest are : " It might have beans." 
 
 (I did not make this up myself: 
 
 'Twas in a book upon my shelf. 
 
 It's witty, but I don't deny 
 
 It's rather Whittier than I!) 
 
 Guy Wetmore Carryl 
 
 [The son of Charles E. Carryl (see page 4), he inherited his father's 
 great gifts and became the most brilliant versifier we have pro- 
 duced. _ Although he wrote several serious poems, his most char- 
 acteristic work is to be found in his burlesques of the old nursery 
 rhymes ("Mother Goose for Grownups"), the parables of ^sop 
 (" Fables for the Frivolous ") and his perversions of the ancient 
 fairy-tales (" Grimm Tales Made Gay ") — all '.vith a highly divert- 
 ing Moral attached. He was born, 1873, in New York City and 
 died in 1904.] 
 
 HOW A CAT WAS ANNOYED AND A POET 
 WAS BOOTED 
 
 A poet had a cat. 
 
 There is nothing odd in that — 
 
 (I might make a little pun about the Mews I) 
 But what is really more 
 Remarkable, she wore 
 
 A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes. 
 
66 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And I doubt me greatly whether 
 
 E'er you heard the like of that: 
 Pointed shoes of patent-leather 
 On a cat! 
 
 His time he used to pass 
 Writing sonnets, on the grass — 
 
 (I miffht say something good on pen and sward!) 
 While the cat sat near at hand, 
 Trying hard to understand 
 
 The poems he occasionally roared. 
 (I myself possess a feline, 
 
 But when poetry I roar 
 He is sure to make a bee-line 
 For the door.) 
 
 The poet, cent by cent. 
 All his patrimony spent — 
 
 (I might tell how he went from verse to werse!) 
 Till the cat was sure she could, 
 By advising, do him good. 
 
 So addressed him in a manner that was terse : 
 " We are bound toward the scuppers, 
 
 And the time has come to act, 
 Or we'll both be on our uppers 
 For a fact!" 
 
 On her boot she fixed her eye, 
 But the boot made no reply — 
 
 (I might say: " Couldn't speak to save its sole I") 
 
GUY WETMORE CARRYL 67 
 
 And the foolish bard, instead 
 Of responding, only read 
 
 A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole. 
 And it pleased the cat so greatly, 
 
 Though she knew not what it meant, 
 That I'll quote approximately 
 How it went: — 
 
 " If I should live to be 
 
 The last leaf upon the tree " — 
 
 (I might put in: " I think I'd just as leaf I") 
 " Let them smile, as I do now. 
 At the old forsaken bough " — 
 
 Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief! 
 But that cat' of simple breeding 
 
 Couldn't read the lines between. 
 So she took it to a leading 
 Magazine. 
 
 She was jarred and very sore 
 When they showed her to the door. 
 
 (I miffht hit off the door that was a jarf) 
 To the spot she swift returned 
 Where the poet sighed and yearned. 
 
 And she told him that he'd gone a little far. 
 " Your performance with this rhyme has 
 
 Made me absolutely sick," 
 She remarked. " I think the time has 
 Come to kick!" 
 
 I coqld fill up half the page 
 With descriptions of her rage — 
 
68 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 (I might say that she went a bit too furl) 
 When he smiled and murmured : " Shoo ! " 
 " There is one thing I can do ! " 
 
 She answered with a wrathful kind of purr. 
 " You may shoo me, and it suit you, 
 
 But I feel my conscience bid 
 Me, as tit for tat, to boot you! " 
 (Which she did.) 
 
 The Moral of the plot 
 
 (Though I say it, as should not!) 
 
 Is: An editor is difficult to suit. 
 But again there're other times 
 When the man who fashions rhymes 
 
 Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot! 
 
 Guy Wetmore Carryl [1873-1904] 
 
 FREE FANTASIA ON JAPANESE THEMES ^ 
 
 All the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds, 
 And the sun lies warm and still on the western sides of 
 
 swollen branches. 
 There is no wind; 
 Even the little twigs at the ends of the branches do not 
 
 move. 
 And the needles of the pines are solid 
 Bands of inarticulated blackness 
 Against the blue-white sky. 
 
 ^ Reprinted fay permission of the publishers. The Macmillaa Com- 
 pany, from Pictures of the Floating World by Amy Lowell, 
 
AMY LOWELL 69 
 
 Still, but alert; 
 And my heart is still and alert, 
 Passive with sunshine, 
 Avid of adventure. 
 
 I would experience new emotions, 
 
 Submit to strange enchantments, 
 
 Bend to influences 
 
 Bizarre, exotic, 
 
 Fresh with burgeoning. 
 
 I would climb a sacred mountain, 
 
 Struggle with other pilgrims up a steep path through 
 
 pine-trees. 
 Above to the smooth, treeless slopes. 
 And prostrate myself before a painted shrine, 
 Beating my hands upon the hot earth, 
 Quieting my eyes upon the distant sparkle 
 Of the faint spring sea. 
 
 I would recline upon a balcony 
 
 In purple curving folds of silk, 
 
 And my dress should be silvered with a pattern 
 
 Of butterflies and swallows. 
 
 And the black band of my obi 
 
 Should flash with gold circular threads. 
 
 And glitter when I moved. 
 
 I would lean against the railing 
 
 While you sang to me of wars 
 
 Past and to eome — 
 
 Sang, and played the samisen. 
 
70 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Perhaps I would beat a little hand drum 
 In time to your singing; 
 Perhaps I would only watch the play of light 
 Upon the hilt of your two swords. 
 
 I would sit in a covered boat, 
 Rocking slowly to the narrow waves of a river, 
 While above us, an arc of moving lanterns. 
 Curved a bridge, 
 A hiss of gold 
 Blooming out of darkness. 
 Rockets exploded, 
 
 And died in a soft dripping of colored stars. 
 We would float between the high trestles, 
 And drift away from other boats, 
 Until the rockets flared soundless. 
 And their falling stars hung silent in the sky, 
 Like wistaria clusters above the ancient entrance of a 
 temple. 
 
 I would anything 
 
 Rather than this cold paper; 
 
 With outside, the quiet sun on the sides of burgeoning 
 
 branches. 
 And inside, only my books. 
 
 Amy Loiuell 
 
 [Born, 1874, at Brookline, Mass. 
 Still living there.] 
 
AMY LOWELL 7 1 
 
 MADONNA OF THE EVENING FLOWERS ^^ 
 
 All day long I have been working 
 
 Now I am tired. 
 
 I call: "Where are you?" 
 
 But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind. 
 
 The house is very quiet, 
 
 The sun shines in on your books, 
 
 On your scissors and thimble just put down, 
 
 But you are not there. 
 
 Suddenly I am lonely: 
 
 Where are you? 
 
 I go about searching. 
 
 Then I see you, 
 
 Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur, 
 
 With a basket of roses on your arm. 
 
 You are cool, like silver. 
 
 And you smile. 
 
 I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes, 
 
 You tell me that the peonies need spraying, 
 
 That the columbines have overrun all bounds. 
 
 That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and 
 
 rounded. 
 You tell me these things. 
 But I look at you, heart of silver. 
 White heart-flame of polished silver. 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from Pictures of the Floating World by Amy Lowell. 
 
72 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur, 
 , And I long to kneel instantly at your feet, 
 While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums 
 of the Canterbury bells. 
 
 Amy Loiiiell [1874- ] 
 
 JWO LACQUER PRINTS 
 
 The Emperor s Garden 
 
 Once, in the sultry heat of midsummer, 
 
 An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in 
 
 his garden 
 To be covered with white silk. 
 That so crowned, 
 They might cool his eyes 
 With the sparkle of snow. 
 
 Meditation 
 
 A wise man. 
 
 Watching the stars pass across the sky. 
 
 Remarked : 
 
 In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly. 
 
 Amy Lowell [1874- 1 
 
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY 73 
 
 SPINNING IN APRIL 
 
 Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander, 
 Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways, 
 Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight 
 
 yonder ; 
 All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days. 
 
 Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be 
 
 flying! 
 Oh, my heart's a meadow-lark that ever would be free! 
 Well it is that I must spin until the light is dying; 
 Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me! 
 
 All the hill-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows 
 Something calls for ever, calls me ever, low and clear: 
 A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows, — 
 The voice of running waters that I always thirst to hear. 
 
 Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-beating; 
 Oftentime it coaxes, as I sit weary-wise, 
 Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating. 
 And leaves me at the spinning-wheel with dark, unseeing 
 eyes. 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody 
 
 [Born, i8;;4, in New York City. 
 Now living at Cambridge, Mass. ] 
 
74 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 THE MONK IN THE KITCHEN 
 
 Order is a lovely thing; 
 
 On disarray it lays its wing, 
 
 Teaching simplicity to sing. 
 
 It has a meek and lowly grace, 
 
 Quiet as a nun's face. 
 
 Lo — I will have thee in this place! 
 
 Tranquil well of deep delight. 
 
 All things that shine through thee appear 
 
 As stones through water, sweetly clear. 
 
 Thou clarity, 
 
 That with angelic charity 
 
 Revealest beauty where thou art. 
 
 Spread thyself like a clean pool. 
 
 Then all the things that in thee are, 
 
 Shall seem more spiritual and fair. 
 
 Reflection from serener air — 
 
 Sunken shapes of many a star 
 
 In the high heavens set afar. 
 
 II 
 
 Ye stolid, homely, visible things, 
 Above you all brood glorious wings 
 Of your deep entities, set high. 
 Like slow moons in a hidden sky. 
 
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH 75 
 
 But you, their likenesses, are spent 
 Upon another element. 
 Truly ye are but seemings — 
 The shadowy cast-off gleamings 
 Of bright solidities. Ye seem 
 Soft as water, vague as dream ; 
 Image, cast in a shifting stream. 
 
 in 
 
 What are ye? 
 
 I know not. 
 
 Brazen pan and iron pot, 
 
 Yellow brick and gray flag-stone 
 
 That my feet have trod upon — 
 
 Ye seem to me 
 
 Vessels of bright mystery. 
 
 For ye do bear a shape, and so 
 
 Though ye were made by man, I know 
 
 An inner Spirit also made, 
 
 And ye his breathings have obeyed. 
 
 IV 
 
 Shape, the strong and awful Spirit, 
 Laid his ancient hand on you. 
 He waste chaos doth inherit; 
 He can alter and subdue. 
 Verily, he doth lift up 
 Matter, like a sacred cup. 
 
76 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Into deep substance he reached, and lo 
 Where ye were not, ye were; and so 
 Out of useless nothing, ye 
 Groaned and laughed and came to be. 
 And I use you, as I can. 
 Wonderful uses, made for man. 
 Iron pot and brazen pan. 
 
 What are ye? 
 I know not; 
 Nor what I really do 
 When I move and govern you. 
 There is no small work unto God. 
 He required of us greatness; 
 Of his least creature 
 A high angelic nature. 
 Stature superb and bright completeness. 
 He sets to us no humble duty. 
 Each act that he would have us do 
 Is haloed round with strangest beauty; 
 Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks 
 Of his plainest child he asks. 
 When I polish the brazen pan 
 I hear a creature laugh afar 
 In the gardens of a star, 
 And from his burning presence run 
 Flaming wheels of many a sun. 
 Whoever makes a thing more bright, 
 He is an angel of all light. 
 
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH 77 
 
 When I cleanse this earthen floor 
 
 My spirit leaps to see 
 
 Bright garments trailing over it, 
 
 A cleanness made by me. 
 
 Purger of all men's thoughts and waySi 
 
 With labor do I sound Thy praise, 
 
 My work is done for Thee. 
 
 Whoever makes a thing more bright, 
 
 He is an angel of all light. 
 
 Therefore let me spread abroad 
 
 The beautiful cleanness of my God. 
 
 VI 
 
 One time in the cool of dawn 
 
 Angels came and worked with me. 
 
 The air was soft with many a wing. 
 
 They laughed amid my solitude 
 
 And cast bright looks on everything. 
 
 Sweetly of me did they ask 
 
 That they might do my common task 
 
 And all were beautiful — but one 
 
 With garments whiter than the sun 
 
 Had such a face 
 
 Of deep, remembered grace; 
 
 That when I saw I cried — " Thou art 
 
 The great Blood-Brother of my heart. 
 
 Where have I seen thee ? " — And he said, 
 
 " When we are dancing round God's throne, 
 
 How often thou art there. 
 
 Beauties from thy hands have flown 
 
 Like white doves wheeling in mid air. 
 
78 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Nay — thy soul remembers not? 
 Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot." 
 
 VII 
 
 What are we? I know not. 
 
 Anna Hempstead Branch 
 
 [Born at New London, Conn,, and 
 still living there.] 
 
 WHILE LOVELINESS GOES BY 
 
 Sometimes when all the world seems grey and dun 
 And nothing beautiful, a voice will cry, 
 " Look out, look out ! Angels are drawing nigh ! " 
 Then my slow burdens leave me one by one, 
 And swiftly does my heart arise and run 
 Even like a child while loveliness goes by — 
 And common folk seem children of the sky, 
 And common things seem shaped of the sun. 
 Oh, pitiful! that I who love them, must 
 So soon perceive their shining garments fade! 
 And slowly, slowly, from my eyes of trust 
 Their flaming banners sink into a shade! 
 While this earth's sunshine seems the golden dust 
 Slow settling from that radiant cavalcade. 
 Anna Hempstead Branch 
 
HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 79 
 
 THE TRAIL-MAKERS 
 
 North and west along the coast among the misty islands, 
 Sullen in the grip of night and smiling in the day: 
 
 Nunivak and Akutan, with Nome against the highlands, 
 On we drove with plated prow agleam with frozen 
 spray. 
 
 Loud we sang adventuring and lustily we jested; 
 
 Quarreled, fpught, and then forgot the taunt, the blow, 
 the jeers; 
 Named a friend and clasped a hand — a compact sealed, 
 attested; 
 Shared tobacco, yarns, and drink, and planned sur- 
 passing years. 
 
 Then — the snow that locked the trail where famine's 
 shadow followed 
 Out across the blinding white and through the stab- 
 bing cold, 
 Past tents along the tundra over faces blotched and hol- 
 lowed ; 
 Toothless mouths that babbled foolish songs of hidden 
 gold. 
 
 Wisdom, lacking sinews for the toil, gave over trying; 
 Fools, with thews of iron, blundered on and won the 
 fight; 
 Weaklings drifted homeward; else they tarried — ^worse 
 than dying — 
 With the painted lips and wastrels on the edges of the 
 night. 
 
8o MODERN AMfeRICAN POETRY 
 
 Berries of the saskatoon were ripening and falling; 
 Flowers decked the barren with its timber scant and 
 low; 
 All along the river-trail were many voices calling, 
 
 And e'en the whimpering Malemutes they heard — ^and 
 whined to go. 
 
 Eyelids seared with fire and ice and frosted parka- 
 edges ; 
 Firelight like a spray of blood on faces lean and 
 brown ; 
 Shifting shadows of the pines across our loaded sledges, 
 And far behind the fading trail, the lights and lures of 
 town. 
 
 So we played the bitter game nor asked for pi^ise or 
 pity: 
 Wind and wolf they found the bones that biased out 
 lonely trails. . . . 
 Where a dozen shacks were set, to-day there blooms a ■ 
 city; 
 Now where once was empty blue, there pass a thousand 
 sails. 
 
 Scarce a peak that does not mark the grave of those who 
 perished 
 Nameless, lost to lips of men who followed, gleaning 
 fame 
 From the soundless triumph of adventurers who cher- 
 ished 
 Naught above the glory of a chance to play the game. 
 
ROBERT FROST 8 I 
 
 Half the toil — and we had won to wealth in other 
 station ; 
 Rusted out as useless ere our worth was tried and 
 known. 
 But the Hand that made us caught us up and hewed a 
 nation 
 From the frozen fastness that so long was His alone. 
 
 Loud we sang adventuring and lustily we jested; 
 
 Quarreled, fought, and then forgot the taunt, the blow, 
 the jeers; 
 Sinned and slaved and vanished — we, the giant-men who 
 wrested 
 Truth from out a dream wherein we planned surpassing 
 years. 
 
 Henry Herbert Knibbs 
 
 (Born, 1874, at Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, of American parents. 
 Now living in Los Angeles, Cal.] 
 
 MENDING WALL 
 
 Something there is that doesn't love a wall, 
 That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, 
 And spills the upper boulders in the sun; 
 And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. 
 The work of hunters is another thing: 
 I have come after them and made repair 
 Where they have left not one stone on stone, 
 But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, 
 To please the yelping dogs. Tlje gaps I mean. 
 No one has seen them made or heard them made. 
 
82 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 But at spring mending-time we find them there. 
 
 I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; 
 
 And on a day we meet to walk the line 
 
 And set the wall between us once again. 
 
 We keep the wall between us as we go. 
 
 To each the boulders that have fallen to each. 
 
 And some are loaves and some so nearly balls 
 
 We have to use a spell to make them balance : 
 
 " Stay where you are until our backs are turned ! " 
 
 We wear our fingers rough with handling them. 
 
 Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, 
 
 One on a side. It comes to little more: 
 
 He is all pine and I am apple-orchard. 
 
 My apple trees will never get across 
 
 And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. 
 
 He only says, " Good fences make good neighbors." 
 
 Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder 
 
 If I could put a notion in his head: 
 
 " Why do they make good neighbors ? Isn't it 
 
 Where there are cows? But here there are no 
 
 cows. 
 Before I built a wall I'd ask to know 
 What I was walling in or walling out. 
 And to whom I was like to give offence. 
 Something there is that doesn't love a wall. 
 That wants it down ! " I could say " Elves " to 
 
 him. 
 But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather 
 He said it for himself. I see him there, 
 Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top 
 In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. 
 
ROBERT FROST 83 
 
 He moves in darkness as it seems to me, 
 Not of woods only and the shade of trees. 
 He will not go behind his father's saying, 
 And he likes having thought of it so well 
 He says again, " Good fences make good neigh- 
 bors." 
 
 Rolert Frost 
 
 [Born, 187s, in San Francisco, Cal. Took up farming at Derry, 
 N. H., from igoo to igo5. Since then he has taught psychology 
 and English in various schools, academies, and Amherst College. 
 Now living in Franconia, N. H.] 
 
 THE TUFT OF FLOWERS 
 
 I went to turn the grass once after one 
 Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. 
 
 The dew was gone that made his blade so keen 
 Before I came to view the levelled scene. 
 
 I looked for him behind an isle of trees; 
 I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. 
 
 But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, 
 And I must be, as he had been,— alone, 
 
 " As all must be," I said within my heart, 
 " Whether they work together or apart." 
 
 But as I said it, swift there passed me by 
 On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, 
 
84 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Seeking with memories grown dim over night 
 Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. 
 
 And once I marked his flight go round and round, 
 As where some flower lay withering on the ground. 
 
 And then he flew as far as eye could see, 
 And then on tremulous wing came back to me. 
 
 I thought of questions that have no reply, 
 
 And would have turned to toss the grass to dry ; 
 
 But he turned first, and led my eye to look 
 At a tall, tuft of flowers beside a brobk, 
 
 A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared 
 Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. 
 
 I left my place to know them by their name, 
 Finding them butterfly-weed when I came. 
 
 The mower in the dew had loved them thus, 
 By leaving them to flourish, not for us, 
 
 Nor yet to draw one thought of 'ours to him. 
 But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. 
 
 The butterfly and I had lit upon. 
 Nevertheless, a message from the dawn. 
 
 That made me hear the wakening birds around, 
 And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground. 
 
ROBERT FROST 85 
 
 And feel a spirit kindred to my own ; 
 
 So that henceforth I worked no more alone; 
 
 But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, 
 And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; 
 
 And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech 
 With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 
 
 " Men work together," I told him from the heart, 
 " Whether they work together or apart." 
 
 Robert Frost [1875- ] 
 
 BIRCHES 
 
 When I see birches bend to left and right 
 
 Across the line of straighter darker trees, 
 
 I like to think some boy's been swinging them. 
 
 But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. 
 
 Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them 
 
 Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning 
 
 After a rain. They click upon themselves 
 
 As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored 
 
 As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. 
 
 Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells 
 
 Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust — 
 
 Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away 
 
 You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. 
 
 They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load. 
 
 And they seem not to break ; though once'they are bowed 
 
86 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 So low for long, they never right themselves: 
 
 You may see their trunks arching in the woods 
 
 Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground'"^ 
 
 Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair 
 
 Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. 
 
 But I was going to say when Truth broke in 
 
 With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm 
 
 (Now am I free to be poetical?) 
 
 I should prefer to have some boy bend them— v* 
 
 As he went out and in to fetch the cows — - ; 
 
 Some boy too far from town to learn baseball. 
 
 Whose only play was what he found himself. 
 
 Summer or winter, and could play alone. 
 
 One by one he subdued his father's trees 
 
 By riding them down over and over again 
 
 Until he took the stiffness out of them. 
 
 And not one but hung limp, not one was left 
 
 For him to conquer. He learned all there was 
 
 To learn about not launching out too soon 
 
 And so not carrying the tree away 
 
 Clear to the ground. He always kepthis poise 
 
 To the top branches, climbing carefully 
 
 With the same pains you use to fill a cup 
 
 Up to the brim, and even above the brim. 
 
 Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish. 
 
 Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. 
 
 So was I once myself a swinger of birches; 
 And so I dream of going back to be. 
 It's when I'm weary of considerations. 
 And life is too much like a pathless wood 
 
ROBERT FROST 87 
 
 Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs 
 Broken across it, and one eye is weeping 
 From a twig's having lashed across it open. 
 I'd like to get away from earth awhile 
 And then come back to it and begin over. 
 May no fate wilfully misunderstand me 
 And half grant what I wjsh and snatch me away 
 Not to return. Earth's the right place for love : 
 I don't know where it's likely to go better. 
 I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, 
 And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk 
 Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, 
 But dipped its top and set me down again. 
 That would be good both going and coming back. 
 One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 
 Rohert Frost [1875- ] 
 
 THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 
 
 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. 
 And sorry I could not travel both 
 And be one traveler, long I stood 
 And looked down one as far as I could 
 To where it bent in the undergrowth; 
 
 Then took the other, as just as fair. 
 And having perhaps the better claim 
 Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 
 Though as for that, the passing there 
 Had worn them really about the same, 
 
88 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And both that morning equally lay 
 In leaves no step had trodden black. 
 Oh, I marked the first for another day! 
 Yet knowing how way leads on to way 
 I doubted if I should ever come back. 
 
 I shall be telling this with a sigh 
 Somewhere ages and ages hence: 
 Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, 
 I took the one less traveled by. 
 And that has made all the difference. 
 Robert Frost [1875- ] 
 
 THE BIRD AND THE TREE 
 
 Blackbird, blackbird in the cage, 
 There's something wrong to-night. 
 Far off the sheriff's footfall dies, 
 The minutes crawl like last year's flies 
 Between the bars, and like an age 
 The hours are long to-night. 
 
 The sky is like a heavy lid 
 
 Out here beyond the door to-night. 
 
 What's that? A mutter down the street. 
 
 What's that? The sound of yells and feet. 
 
 For what you didn't do or did 
 
 You'll pay the score to-night. 
 
 No use to reek with reddened sweat. 
 No use to whimper and to sweat. 
 They've got the rope; they've got the guns, 
 They've got the courage and the guns; 
 
RIDGELY TORRENCE 89 
 
 An' that's the reason why to-night 
 
 No use to ask them any more. 
 
 They'll fire the answer through the door — 
 
 You're out to die to-night. 
 
 There where the lonely cross-road lies, 
 There is no place to make replies; 
 But silence, inch by inch, is there. 
 And the right limb for a lynch is there ; 
 And a lean daw waits for both your eyes, 
 Blackbird. 
 
 Perhaps you'll meet again some place. 
 Look for the mask upon the face; 
 That's the way you'll know them there— 
 A white mask to hide the face. 
 And you can halt and show them there 
 The things that they are deaf to now. 
 And they can tell you what they meant — 
 To wash the blood with blood. But how 
 If you are innocent? 
 
 Blackbird singer, blackbird mute, ' 
 
 They choked the seed you might have found. 
 
 Out of a thorny field you go — 
 
 For you it may be better so — 
 
 And leave the sowers of the ground 
 
 To eat the harvest of the fruit, 
 
 Blackbird. 
 
 Ridgely Torrence 
 
 [Born, 187s, at Xenia, Ohio. Now 
 living in New York City.] 
 
90 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 THE CHILD-DANCERS 
 
 A bomb has fallen over Notre Dame: 
 Germans have burned another Belgian town: 
 Russians quelled in the east: England in qualm: 
 
 I closed my eyes, and laid the paper down. 
 
 Gray ledge and moor-grass and pale bloom of 
 
 light 
 By pale blue seas! 
 
 What laughter of a child world-sprite, 
 Sweet as the horns of lone October bees, 
 Shrills the faint shore with mellow, old delight? 
 What elves are these 
 In smocks gray-blue as sea and ledge, 
 Dancing upon the silvered edge 
 Of darkness — each ecstatic one 
 Making a happy orison, 
 
 With shining limbs, to the low-sunken sun? — 
 See: now they cease 
 Like nesting birds from flight: 
 Demure and debonair 
 They troop beside their hostess' chair 
 To make their bedtime courtesies: 
 " Spokoinoi notchi! — Gute Nacht! 
 Bon soirl Bon soir! — Good night!" 
 
WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD 9I 
 
 What far-gleaned lives are these 
 Linked in one holy family of art? — 
 Dreams: dreams once Christ and Plato dreamed: 
 How fair their happy shades depart! 
 
 Dear God ! how simple it all seemed, 
 
 Till once again 
 
 Before my eyes the red type quivered: Slain: 
 
 Ten thousand of the enemy. — 
 
 Then laughter! laughter from the ancient sea 
 
 Sang in the gloaming: Athens/ Galilee! 
 
 And elfin voices called from the extinguished 
 
 light:— 
 " Spokoinoi notchiJ — Gute Nacht! 
 
 Bon soir! Bon soir! — Good night I" 
 
 Percy MacKaye 
 
 [Born, 187s, in New York and still 
 living there.] 
 
 \ 
 
 TO THE VICTOR 
 
 Man's mind is larger than his brow of tears; 
 This hour is not my all of time; this place 
 My all of earth; nor this obscene disgrace 
 My all of life; and thy complacent sneers 
 Shall not pronounce my doom to my compeers 
 While the Hereafter lights me in the face, 
 And from the Past, as from the mountain's base, 
 Rise, as I rise, the long tumultuous cheers. 
 
92 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And who slays me must overcome a world: 
 
 Heroes at arms, and virgins who became 
 
 Mothers of children, prophecy and song; 
 
 Walls of old cities with their flags unfurled ; 
 
 Peaks, headlands, ocean and its isles of fame — 
 
 And sun and moon and all that made me strong! 
 
 William Ellery Leonard 
 
 [Born, 1876, at Flainfield, N. J. Living at Madison, Wis. Professor 
 of English at University of Wisconsin.] 
 
 UNREST 
 
 A fierce unrest seethes at the core 
 
 Of all existing things: 
 It was the eager wish to soar 
 
 That gave the gods their wings. 
 
 From what flat wastes of cosmic slime, 
 And stung by what quick fire. 
 
 Sunward the restless races climb! — 
 Men risen out of mire! 
 
 There throbs through all the worlds that are 
 This heart-beat hot and strong. 
 
 And shaken systems, star by star, 
 Awake and glow in song. 
 
 But for the urge of this unrest 
 These joyous spheres are mute; 
 
 But for the rebel in his breast 
 Had man remained a brute. 
 
DON MARQUIS 93 
 
 When baffled lips demanded speech, 
 Speech trembled into birth — 
 
 (One day the lyric word shall reach 
 From earth to laughing earth.) — 
 
 When man's dim eyes demanded light, 
 The light he sought was born — 
 
 His wish, a Titan, scaled the height 
 And flung him back the morn! 
 
 From deed to dream, from dream to deed, 
 
 From daring hope to hope. 
 The restless wish, the instant need. 
 
 Still lashed him up the slope ! 
 
 I sing no governed firmament, 
 
 Cold, ordered, regular — 
 I sing the stinging discontent 
 
 That ^eaps from star to star ! 
 Don Marquis 
 
 [Born, 1878, at Walnut, 111. Has been on the staff of several papers 
 and is now running a column, " The Sun Dial," on The New 
 York Evening Sun.^ 
 
 TRIAD 
 
 These be 
 
 Three silent things: 
 
 The falling snow ... the hour 
 
 Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one 
 
 Just dead. 
 
 Adelaide Crapsey 
 
 [Born, 1878, at Rochester, N. Y. Died, 1914, after struggling with a 
 1 fatal illness, at Saranac Lake, N. Y.] 
 
94 MODERN AMERICAN POETliY 
 
 THE WARNING 
 
 Just now, 
 
 Out of the strange 
 
 Still dusk ... as strange, as still . . . 
 
 A white moth flew. Why am I grown 
 
 So cold? 
 
 Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914] 
 
 ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES 
 
 Is it as plainly in our living shown, 
 By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown? 
 Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914] 
 
 COOL TOMBS 
 
 When Abraham Lincoln v^as shoveled into the tombs, 
 he forgot the copperheads and the assassin . . . 
 in the dust, in the cool tombs. 
 
 And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall 
 Street, cash and collateral turned ashes ... in the 
 dust, in the cool tombs. 
 
 Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw 
 in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? 
 does she remember? ... in the dust, in the cool 
 tombs? 
 
CARL SANDBURG 95 
 
 Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, 
 cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing 
 tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . 
 tell me if any get more than the lovers ... in the 
 dust ... in the cool tombs. 
 
 Carl Sandburg 
 
 [Born, 1878, at Galesburg, 111. 
 Now living at Maywood, 111.] 
 
 FOG 
 
 The fog comes 
 on little cat feet. 
 
 It sits looking 
 over harbor and city 
 on silent haunches 
 and then moves on. 
 
 Carl Sandburg [1878- 
 
 NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD 
 
 Stuff of the moon 
 Runs on the lapping sand 
 Out to the longest shadows. 
 Under the curving willows, 
 And round the creep of the wave line, 
 Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters 
 Make a wide dreaming pansy of an old pond in the night. 
 Carl Sandburg [1878- ] 
 
96 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 GRASS 
 
 Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. 
 Shovel them under and let me work — 
 
 I am the grass; I cover all. 
 
 And pile them high at Gettysburg 
 
 And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. 
 
 Shovel them under and let me work. 
 
 Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: 
 
 What place is this? 
 
 Where are we now? 
 
 I am the grass. 
 Let me work. 
 
 Carl Sandburg [1878- ] 
 
 LIE-AWAKE SONGi 
 
 God has a house three streets away, 
 And every Sunday, rain or shine. 
 My nurse goes there her prayers to say. 
 She's told me of the candles fine 
 That, burning all night long, they keep 
 Because God never goes to sleep. 
 Then there's a steeple full of bells. 
 All through the dark the time it tells. 
 
 ' From In Deep Places by Amelia Josephine Burr. Copyright, 1914, 
 by Geotge H. Doran Company, publishers. 
 
GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 97 
 
 I like to hear it in the night 
 
 And think about those candles bright. 
 
 I wonder if God stays awake 
 
 For kindness, like the Furnace-man 
 
 Who comes before it's day, to make 
 
 Our house as pleasant as he can . . . 
 
 I like to watch the sky grow blue, 
 
 And think perhaps, the whole world through, 
 
 No one's awake but just us three — 
 
 God, and the Furnace-man, and me. 
 
 Amelia Josephine Burr 
 
 [Bom, 1878, in New York City. 
 Now living in Englewood, N. J.] 
 
 APRIL IN THE HUASTECA 
 
 Dark on the gold west, 
 
 Mexico hung inscrutable like a curtain of heavy velvet 
 Before a lighted shrine. 
 Black on the west 
 
 All Mexico stood up from the Gulf, 
 Colossal, perpendicular, superb; 
 Mexico secretly veined with metals, 
 Mexico preoccupied with volcanoes, palm forests, 
 Deserts, cities, jungles, 
 Plantations of coffee and maguey. 
 Unknown valleys, hills of iron, 
 Orchids. 
 
 I heard the river flash down the canyon between the 
 rosewoods, 
 
98 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And the scream of parrots going to roost above the 
 
 water. 
 Through the tracery of bamboo plumes against the 
 
 afterglow, 
 I saw mystery flicker along the sky-line 
 And vanish over Yucatan. 
 Exotic the thought of northern trees, 
 Oaks, maples, beeches, 
 Elms still unfledged in the early April. 
 For April here was wild white lilac, 
 Jargon of mocking-birds, 
 Air that glittered with the voice of a river, 
 Heaped shell-pink of rosewood blooms. 
 Bamboo feathers etched on the sunset. 
 And below the sunset, hanging hills like a weighted 
 
 curtain of velvet 
 Before the shrine of an indifferent god. 
 
 Grace Hazard Conkling 
 
 [Born, 1878, in New York City. At present living in Nortbamilton, 
 Mass., where she is Assistant Professor of English at Smith Col- 
 lege. ] 
 
 THE CONGO ^ 
 
 (A Study of the Negro Race) 
 
 I. Their Basic Savagery 
 
 Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room. 
 Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable. 
 Sagged and reeled and pounded on the A deep rolling 
 table, '""'■ 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from The Congo and Other Poems by Vachel Lindsay. 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 99 
 
 Pounded on the table, 
 
 Beat an empty barrel with the handle of 
 a broom, 
 
 Hard as they were able. 
 
 Boom, boom, Boom, 
 
 With a silk umbrella and the handle of a 
 broom, 
 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom. 
 
 Then I had religion, Then I had a 
 vision. 
 
 I could not turn from their revel in deri- 
 sion. 
 
 Then I saw the Congo, creeping More deliberate. 
 
 THROUGH the BLACK, Solemnly 
 
 chanted. 
 
 Cutting through the jungle with 
 
 a golden track. 
 Then along that riverbank 
 A thousand^ miles 
 Tattooed cannibals danced in files; 
 Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust 
 
 song 
 And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan a rapidly 
 
 gong. *f "f f ""^ 
 
 ^ ^ ^ of speed and 
 
 And " Blood " screamed the whistles racket. 
 
 and the fifes of the warriors, 
 " Blood " screamed the skull-faced, lean 
 
 witch-doctorsj 
 " Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, 
 Harry the uplands. 
 Steal all the cattle. 
 Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, 
 
100 
 
 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Bing! 
 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom," 
 
 A roaring, epic, rag-time tune 
 
 From the mouth of the Congo 
 
 To the Mountains of the Moon. 
 
 Death is an Elephant, 
 
 Torch-eyed and horrible, 
 
 Foam-flanked and terrible. 
 
 Boom, steal the pygmies. 
 
 Boom, kill the Arabs, 
 
 Boom, kill the white men, 
 
 Hoo, Hoo, Hoo. 
 
 Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost 
 
 Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed 
 host. 
 
 Hear how the demons chuckle and yell 
 
 Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. 
 
 Listen to the creepy proclamation. 
 
 Blown through the lairs of the forest- 
 nation. 
 
 Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, 
 
 Blown past the marsh where the butter- 
 flies play: — 
 
 " Be careful what you do. 
 
 Or Mumbo- Jumbo, God of the Congo, 
 
 And all of the other 
 
 Gods of the Congo, 
 
 Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you, 
 
 Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you, 
 
 Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you." 
 
 With a philo- 
 sophic pause. 
 
 Shrilly and with 
 a heavily ac- 
 cented meter. 
 
 Like the wind 
 in the chimney. 
 
 All the o sounds 
 very golden. 
 Heavy accents 
 very heavy. 
 Light accents 
 very light. Last 
 line whispered. 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 lOI 
 
 II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits 
 
 Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a Rather shrill 
 
 call 
 
 and high. 
 
 Danced the juba in their gambling-hall 
 And laughed fit to kill, and shook the 
 
 town, 
 And guyed the policenoien and laughed 
 
 them down 
 With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, 
 
 Boom. . . . 
 
 Then I saw the Congo, creeping Read exactly as 
 
 in arst section. 
 
 through the black, 
 Cutting through the jungle with 
 
 A golden track. 
 A negro fairyland swung into view, 
 A minstrel river 
 Where dreams come true. 
 The ebony palace soared on high 
 Through the blossoming trees to the 
 
 evening sky. 
 The inlaid porches and casements shone 
 With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. 
 And the black crowd laughed till their 
 
 sides were sore 
 At the baboon butler in the agate door. 
 And the well-known tunes of the parrot 
 
 band 
 That trilled on the bushes of that magic 
 
 land. 
 
 Lay emphasis 
 on the delicate 
 ideas. Keep as 
 light-footed as 
 possible. 
 
102 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came iVith pomposity. 
 
 Through the agate doorway in suits of 
 flame, 
 
 Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf 
 crust 
 
 And hats that were covered with dia- 
 mond-dust. 
 
 And the crowd in the court gave a whoop 
 and a call 
 
 And danced the juba from wall to wall. 
 
 But the witch-men suddenly stilled the , 
 
 throng W'*'' " sreat 
 
 ■.-.■,• I , 1 J 1 J i ij deliberation and 
 
 With a stern cold glare, and a stern old g^„,tiiness. 
 
 song: — 
 " Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you." . . . 
 Just then from the doorway, as fat as 
 
 shotes, with overwhelm- 
 
 f~, ., , 1, . • ^L • 1 ««g assurance, 
 
 Came the cake-walk prmces m their long ^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^„j 
 red coats, pomp. 
 
 Shoes with a patent leather shine, 
 
 And tall silk hats that were red as wine. 
 
 And they pranced with their butterfly 
 
 partners there. With growing 
 
 Coal-black maidens with pearls in their fZtiytarked 
 
 hair, dance-rhythm. 
 
 Knee-skirts trimmed with the jessamine 
 
 sweet, 
 And bells on their ankles and little black 
 
 feet. 
 And the couples railed at the chant and 
 
 the frown 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY IO3 
 
 Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them 
 
 down. 
 (O rare was the revel, and well worth 
 
 while 
 That made those glowering witch-men 
 
 smile. ) 
 
 The cake-walk royalty then began 
 
 To walk for a cake that was tall as a 
 
 man 
 To the tune of " Boomlay, boomlay, 
 
 Boom," 
 While the witch-men laughed, with a With a touch of 
 
 * • , • negro dialect, 
 
 Sinister air, ^ -^^^ 
 
 And sang with the scalawags prancing as rapidly as 
 
 .i_ possible toward 
 
 there:— _ ' the end. 
 
 " Walk with care, walk with care. 
 Or Mumbo- Jumbo, God of the Congo, 
 And all of the other 
 Gods of the Congo, 
 Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you. 
 Beware, beware, walk with care, 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, 
 Boom." 
 Oh rare was the revel, and well worth Slow phiio- 
 
 1 .. Sophie calm. 
 
 while 
 That made those glowering witch-men 
 smile. 
 
I04 
 
 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 III. The Hope of their Religion 
 
 A good old negro in the slums of the Heavy bass. 
 
 With a literal 
 
 town 
 Preached at 
 
 a sister for her velvet 
 
 imitation of 
 camp-meeting 
 racket, and 
 trance. 
 
 gown. 
 Howled at a brother for his low-down 
 
 ways, 
 His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. 
 Beat on the Bible till he wore it out, 
 Starting the jubilee revival shout. 
 And some had visions, as they stood on 
 
 chairs. 
 And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs. 
 And they all repented, a thousand strong, 
 From their stupor and savagery and sin 
 
 and wrong 
 And slammed their hymn books till they 
 
 shook the room 
 With " Glory, glory, glory," 
 And " Boom, boom. Boom." 
 
 Then I saw the Congo, creeping Exactly as in 
 
 ,.,,,«„„„„ ™,,,^ ■„-, .^», **« *"** section. 
 
 through the black, ' 
 
 Cutting through the jungle with 
 
 A golden track. 
 And the gray sky opened like a new-rent 
 
 veil 
 And showed the apostles with their coats 
 
 of mail. 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 105 
 
 In bright white steel they were seated 
 round 
 
 And their fire-eyes watched where the 
 Congo wound. 
 
 And the twelve apostles, from their 
 thrones on high, 
 
 Thrilled all the forest with their heav- 
 enly cry: — 
 
 " Mumbo- Jumbo will die in the jungle ; 
 
 Never again will he hoo-doo you, 
 
 Never again will he hoo-doo you." 
 
 Sung to the 
 tune of " Hark, 
 ten thousand 
 harps' and 
 
 Then along that river, a thousand miles, 
 The vine-snared trees fell down in files. 
 Pioneer angels cleared the way 
 For a Congo paradise, for babes at play. 
 For sacred capitals, for temples clean. 
 Gone were the skull-faced witch-men 
 
 lean. 
 There, where the wild ghost-gods had 
 
 wailed 
 A million boats of the angels sailed 
 With oars of silver, and prows of blue 
 And silken pennants that the sun shone 
 
 through. 
 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new 
 
 creation. 
 Oh, a singing wind swept the negro 
 
 nation ; 
 And on through the backwoods clearing 
 
 flew: — 
 
 With growing 
 deliberation 
 and joy. 
 
 In a rather 
 high key — as 
 delicately as 
 possible. 
 
I06 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 " Mumbo- Jumbo is dead in the jungle. To the tune of 
 
 ■».T • Ml I 1 1 "Hark, ten 
 
 Never again will he hoo-doo you. thousand harps 
 
 Never again will he hoo-doo you." and voices." 
 
 into a pene- 
 trating. 
 
 Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and 
 
 the men, 
 And only the vulture dared again 
 By the far, lone mountains of the moon 
 To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune : — 
 " Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Dying off 
 
 Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you, 
 
 Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . will . . . terriM 
 
 hoo-doo . . . you." '"^'^''- 
 
 Vachel Lindsay 
 
 [Born, 1879, at Springfield, III., 
 and still living there.] 
 
 THE EAGLE THAT IS FORGOTTEN ^ 
 
 [John P. Altgeld. Born December 30, 184.7; 
 died March 12, igo2.\ 
 
 Sleep softly * * * eagle forgotten * * * under 
 
 the stone. 
 Time has its way with you there, and the Hay has its, 
 
 own. 
 " We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in 
 
 secret rejoiced. 
 They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred 
 
 unvoiced. 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of the publishers. The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from General William Booth, Enters into Heaven and Other 
 Poems by Vachel Lindsay. 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY IO7 
 
 They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, 
 
 day after day, 
 Now you were ended. They praised you, * * * and 
 
 laid you away. 
 
 The others that mourned you in silence and terror and 
 
 truth. 
 The widow bereft of her pittance, the boy without youth. 
 The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame 
 
 and the poor 
 That should have remembered forever, * * * j-g. 
 
 member no more. 
 
 I 
 Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they 
 
 caU 
 The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? 
 They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, 
 A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons. 
 The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming 
 
 began 
 The valor that v/ore out your soul in the service of man. 
 
 Sleep softly, * * * eagle forgotten, * * * under 
 
 the stone, 
 Time has its way with you there and the clay has its own. 
 Sleep on, O brave hearted, O wise man, that kindled 
 
 the flame — 
 To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name. 
 To live in mankind, far, far more * * * than to 
 
 live in a name. 
 
 Vachel Lindsay [1879- ] 
 
I08 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MID- 
 NIGHT * ^ 
 
 (In Springfield, Illinois) 
 
 It is portentous, and a thing of state 
 That here at midnight, in our little town 
 A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, 
 Near the old court-house pacing up and down, 
 
 Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards 
 He lingers where his children used to play, 
 Or through the market, on the well-worn stones 
 He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. 
 
 A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, 
 A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl 
 Make him the quaint great figure that men love, 
 The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. 
 
 He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. 
 He is among us: — as in times before! 
 And we who toss and lie awake for long. 
 Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. 
 
 His head is bowed. He thinks of men and kings. 
 Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? 
 Too many peasants fight, they know not why; 
 Too many homesteads in black terror weep. 
 
 *See pages lo, 47, 50, 119, 123, 144. 
 
 ^ Reprinted_by permission of the publisher, The_ MacmiIlan__Cq!n; 
 
 ny, fr ' ' ' " 
 
 ,inds^. 
 
 £any, from The Chinese Nightingale and Other Poems by Vachd 
 
E. M. ROBINSON IO9 
 
 The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. 
 He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. 
 He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now 
 The bitterness, the folly and the pain. 
 
 He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn 
 Shall come ; — the shining hope of Europe free : 
 A league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, 
 Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. 
 
 It breaks his heart that things must murder still, 
 That all his hours of travail here for men 
 Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace 
 That he may sleep upon his hill again ? 
 
 Vachel Lindsay [1879- ] 
 
 "HALCYON DAYS" 
 
 Ere yet the giants of modern science had gone a-slumming 
 
 in smelly slums. 
 And through the Ghettos and lazarettos had put in 
 
 plumbing (and pulled out plums!) 
 When wily wizards in inky vizards employed their talents 
 
 at homicide, 
 And poisoned goblets for faithless squablets by knightly 
 
 gallants were justified; 
 When maids were fairest, and baths were rarest, and 
 
 thaumaturgy was wrought by dames, 
 When courts were rotten and faith forgotten, and none 
 
 but clergy could write their names — 
 
I lO MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 When he who flouted the Church, or doubted, would find 
 
 his neck fast in hempen ruff. 
 And saint and sinner thought eggs for dinner and beer 
 
 for breakfast the proper stuff; 
 When men were scary of witch and fairy, of haunted 
 
 castle, of spook and elf, 
 When every mixer of cough-elixir was thought a vassal 
 
 of Nick himself; 
 When income taxes and prophylaxis and Comic Sections 
 
 were yet unborn, 
 When Leagues of Nations and Spring Vacations and Fall 
 
 Elections were held in scorn — 
 
 When all brave fellows would fight duellos with sword 
 
 and dagger, with lance and mace. 
 When good men guzzled until, clean fuzzled, they'd reel 
 
 and stagger about the place; 
 When pious journeys and jousts and tourneys brought 
 
 high adventure ahd secret tryst, 
 When knives were many, but forks not any — 'twas fist 
 
 to trencher, and mouth to fist! — 
 Oh, men' had chances ^for true romances, for fame and 
 
 glory, and knightly acts . . . 
 (And childish quarrels and beastly morals, if song and 
 
 story would stick to facts!) 
 
 Edwin Meade Robinson 
 
 [Born, 1879, at Lima, Indiana. Now living in Cleveland, Ohio, where 
 he conducts a column of prose and verse on The Plain Dealer. 
 This jpoem is interesting as an adroit example of interior rhyming; 
 the hidden rhymes being not only within the lines, but running over 
 from line to line.] 
 
ALICE CORBIN 
 
 III 
 
 ECHOES OF CHILDHOOD 
 (A Folk-Medley) 
 
 Uncle Jim 
 
 Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole, 
 But he could fiddle Virginia Reels, 
 Till you felt the sap run out of your heels. 
 Till you knew the devil had got your soul — 
 
 Down the middle and swing yo' partners. 
 Up agin and salute her low. 
 Shake yo' foot an keep a-goin, 
 Down the middle an do-se-do! 
 
 Mind yo' manners an doan git keerless. 
 Swing yo' lady and bow full low, 
 S'lute yo' partner an turn yo' neighbor, 
 Gran'-right-an-'left, and aroun you go! 
 
 Delphy 
 
 Delphy's breast was wide and deep, 
 A shelf to lay a child asleep. 
 
 Swing low, sweet chariot, swing low; 
 Rocking like a lifted boat 
 On lazy tropic seas afloat, 
 
 Swing low, sweet chariot^, swing loxv. 
 
112 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Delphy, when my mother died, 
 Taught me wisdom, curbed my pride. 
 
 Swing low, sweet chariot, swing low; 
 And when she laid her body down, 
 It shone, a jewel, in His crown. 
 
 Swing low, sweet chariot, swing low. 
 
 (Underneath the southern moon 
 I was cradled to the tune 
 Of the banjo and the fiddle 
 And the plaintive negro croon.) 
 
 * * * 
 Mandy's 
 
 Religion 
 
 I'se got religion an' I doan care 
 
 Who knows that God an' I are square, 
 
 I wuz carryin' home my mistis' wash 
 
 When God came an' spoke to me out'n de 
 
 hush. 
 
 An' I th'ew de wash up inter de air. 
 An' I climbed a tree to de golden stair, 
 Ef it hadn't a been fur Mistah Wright 
 I'd had ter stayed dere all de night! 
 
 (Underneath the southern moon 
 I was cradled to the tune 
 
ALICE CORBIN II3 
 
 Of the banjo and the fiddle 
 
 And the plaintive negro croon.) 
 
 Betsy's Boy 
 
 Betsy's boy could shuffle and clog, 
 Though you couldn't get him to saw a log, 
 Laziest boy about the place 
 Till he started to dance — and you saw his 
 
 face! 
 It was all lit up like a mask of bronze 
 Set in a niche between temple gongs — 
 For he would dance and never stop 
 Till he fell on the floor like a spun-out top. 
 His feet hung loose from his supple waist. 
 He danced without stopping, he danced 
 
 without haste. 
 Like Shiva the Hindu his feet were bound 
 In the rhythm of stars and of streams un- 
 derground : 
 
 Banjo playin and de sanded floor. 
 Fiddle cryin, always callin' more. 
 Can't help dancin though de preacher 
 
 says 
 Cant git to heaven doin no sich ways. 
 Can't help dancin though de devil Stan's 
 With a pitch-fork waitin in his brim- 
 I stone han's; 
 
114 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Got — ter — keep — dancin, — can't — stop 
 
 — now. 
 Got — tei — keep — dancin, I~—doan — 
 
 know— how . . . 
 
 Banjo playin' and de sanded floor. 
 Fiddle cryin, always callin more. 
 People's faces lookin scared an white. 
 Hands a clappin an eyes starin bright. 
 Can't help dancin though de candle's 
 
 dyin. 
 Can't help dancin while de fiddle's cryin ; 
 Got — ter — keep — dancin , can't — stop—' 
 
 now. 
 Got — ter — keep — dancin, — / — doanr^ 
 
 know — how! 
 Alice Corbin 
 
 [Born in St. Louis, Mo. Now liv 
 ing in Santa Fe, New Mexico.] 
 
 PARADOX 
 I went out to the woods to-day 
 
 To hide away from you, 
 From you a thousand miles away — 
 
 But you came, too. 
 
 And yet the old dull thought would stay, 
 And all my heart benumb — . 
 
 If you were but a mile away 
 
 You would not come. 
 
 Jessie B. Rittenhouse 
 [Born at Mt. Morris, N. Y. Best known as an anthologist and author 
 of several volumes on contemporary poetry. Now living in New 
 York City.] 
 
JOHN G. NEIHARDT II5 
 
 LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS ^ 
 
 Let me live out my years in heat of blood ! 
 Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine! 
 Let me not see this soul-house built of mud 
 Go toppling to the dusk — a vacant shrine. 
 
 Let me go quickly, like a candle light 
 Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow. 
 Give me high noon — and let it then be night! 
 Thus would I go. 
 
 And grant that when I face the grisly Thing, 
 My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps. 
 Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring 
 That feels the Master Melody — and snaps! 
 
 John G. Neihardt 
 
 [Bora, i88i, near Sharpsburg, 111. Specialist in American folklore. 
 Now living at Bancroft, Neb.] 
 
 THE RICH MAN 
 
 The rich man has his motor-car, 
 His country and his town estate. 
 , He smokes a fifty-cent cigar 
 
 And jeers at Fate. 
 
 » Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from The Quest by John G. Neihardt. 
 
Il6 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 He frivols through the livelong day, 
 
 He knows not Poverty, her pinch. 
 His lot seems light, his heart seems gay; 
 He has a cinch. 
 
 Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, 
 
 Though I must slave for livelihood — 
 
 Think you that I would change with him? 
 
 You bet I would! 
 
 Franklin P. Adams 
 
 [Born, 1881, in Chicago, III. Conducted a column of prose and verse 
 there, and later in New York. At present, he is on the staff of 
 The New York Tribune, writing, editing and arranging " The Con- 
 ning Tower."] 
 
 THOSE TWO BOYS 
 
 When Bill was a lad he was terribly bad. 
 
 He worried his parents a lot ; 
 He'd lie and he'd swear and pull little girls' hair; 
 
 His boyhood was naught but a blot. 
 
 At play and in school he would fracture each rule — 
 In mischief from autumn to spring; 
 
 And the villagers' knew when to manhood he grew 
 He would never amount to a thing. 
 
 When Jim was a child he was not very wild ; 
 He was known as a good little boy; 
 
 He was honest and bright and the teacher's delight- 
 To his mother and father a joy. 
 
WITTER BYNNER II7 
 
 All the neighbors were sure that his virtue'd endure, 
 That his life would be free of a spot; 
 
 They were certain that Jim had a great head on him 
 And that Jim would amount to a lot. 
 
 And Jim grew to manhood and honor and fame 
 
 And bears a good name; 
 While Bill is shut up in a dark prison cell — 
 
 You never can tell. 
 
 Franklin P. Adams [i88i- ] 
 
 TRAIN-MATES * 
 
 Outside hove Shasta, snowy height on heightj 
 A glory; but a negligible sight, 
 For you had often seen a mountain-peak 
 But not my paper. So we came to speak . . . 
 
 A smoke, a smile, — a good way to commence 
 The comfortable exchange of difference! 
 You a young engineer, five feet eleven. 
 Forty-five chest, with football in your heaven, 
 Liking a road-bed newly built and clean, 
 Your fingers hot to cut away the green 
 Of brush and flowers that bring beside a track 
 The kind of beauty steel lines ought to lack, — 
 And I a poet, wistful of my betters, 
 Reading George Meredith's high-hearted letters, 
 
 * Reprinted by permission from Grenstone Poems by Witter Bynner, 
 Copyright, 1917, by Frederick A. Stokes Company. 
 
1 1 8 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Joining betweenwhile in the mingled speech 
 Of a drummer, circus-man, and parson, each 
 Absorbing to himself — as I to me 
 And you to you — a glad identity! 
 
 After a time, when others went away, 
 A curious kinship made us choose to stay, 
 Which I could tell you now ; but at the time 
 You thought of baseball teams and I of rhyme, 
 Until we found that we were college men 
 And smoked more easily and smiled again; 
 And I from Cambridge cried, the poet still: 
 " I know your fine Greek theatre on the hill 
 At Berkeley! " With your happy Grecian head 
 Upraised, " I never saw the place," you said — 
 " Once I was free of class, I always went 
 Out to the field." 
 
 Young engineer, you meant 
 As fair a tribute to the better part 
 As ever I did. Beauty of the heart 
 Is evident in temples. But it breathes 
 Alive where athletes quicken curly wreaths, 
 Which are the lovelier because they die. 
 You are a poet quite as much as I, 
 Though differences appear in what we do, 
 And I an athlete quite as much as you. 
 Because you half-surmise my quarter-mile 
 And I your quatrain, we could greet and smile. 
 Who knows but we shall look again and find 
 The circus-man and drummer, not behind 
 
WITTER BYNNER II9 
 
 But leading in our visible estate — 
 As discus-thrower and as laureate? 
 
 Witter Bynner 
 
 [Born, 1881, at Brooklyn, N. Y. Has been assistant editor for various 
 magazines as well as playwright. His home is in Windsor, 
 Vermont. ] 
 
 A FARMER REMEMBERS LINCOLN * ^ 
 
 "Lincoln?— 
 
 Well, I was in the old Second Maine, 
 
 The first regiment in Washington from the Pine Tree 
 
 State. 
 Of course I didn't get the butt of the clip; 
 We was there for guardin' Washington — ' 
 We was all green. 
 
 " I ain't never ben to the theayter in my life — 
 
 I didn't know how to behave. 
 
 I ain't never ben since. 
 
 I can see as plain as my hat the box where he sat in 
 
 When he was shot. 
 
 I can tell you, sir, there was a panic 
 
 When we found our President was in the shape he was in ! 
 
 Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him. 
 
 " Yes, sir. His looks was kind o' hard to forget. 
 He was a spare man, 
 
 * See pages 10, 47, 50, 108, 123, 144. 
 
 ^ Reprinted by permission from Grenstone Poems by Witter Bynner. 
 Copyright, 1917, by Fredericlc A. Stokes Company. 
 
I20- MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 An old farmer. 
 
 Everything was all right, you know, 
 
 But he wasn't a smooth-appearin' man at all — 
 
 Not in no ways; 
 
 Thin-faced, long-necked, 
 
 And a swellin' kind of a thick lip like. 
 
 " And he was a jolly old fellow — always cheerful ; 
 
 He wasn't so high but the boys could talk to him their 
 
 own ways. 
 While I was servin' at the Hospital 
 He'd come in and say, ' You look nice in here,' 
 Praise us up, you know. 
 And he'd bend over and talk to the boys — 
 And he'd talk so good to 'em — so close — 
 That's why I call him a farmer. 
 I don't mean that everything about him wasn't all right, 
 
 you understand. 
 It's just — ^well, I was a farmer — 
 And he was my neighbor, anybody's neighbor. 
 I guess even you young folks would 'a' liked him." 
 H^itter Bynner [1881- ] 
 
 SOMETIMES 
 
 Across the fields of yesterday 
 He sometimes comes to me, 
 
 A little lad just back from play — 
 The lad I used to be. 
 
JAMES OtPENHEIM 121 
 
 And yet he smiles so wistfully 
 
 Once he has crept within, 
 I wonder if he hopes to see 
 
 The man I might have been. 
 
 Thomas S. Jones, Jr. 
 
 [Born, 1882, at Boonville, N. Y. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
 THE SLAVE 
 
 They set the slave free, striking off his chains . . . 
 Then he was as much of a slave as ever. 
 
 He was still chained to servility, 
 
 He was still manacled to indolence and sloth, 
 
 He was still bound by fear and superstition. 
 
 By ignorance, suspicion, and savagery . . ., 
 
 His slavery was not in the chains, 
 
 But in himself. . . . 
 
 They can only set free men free . . . 
 And there is no need of that: 
 Free men set themselves free. 
 
 James Oppenheim 
 
 [Born, 1882, in St. Paul, Minn. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
122 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 TASTING THE EARTH 
 In a dark hour, tasting the Earth. 
 
 As I lay on my couch in the muffled night, and the rain 
 
 lashed my window, 
 And my forsaken heart would give me no rest, no pause 
 
 and no peace, 
 Though I turned my face far from the wailing of my 
 
 bereavement. . . . 
 Then I said: I will eat of this sorrow to its last shred, 
 I will take it unto me utterly, 
 
 I will see if I be not strong enough to contain it. . . . 
 What do I fear? Discomfort? 
 How can it hurt me, this bitterness? 
 
 The miracle, then! 
 
 Turning toward it, and giving up to it, 
 
 I found it deeper than my own self. . . . 
 
 O dark great mother-globe so close beneath me . . . 
 
 It was she with her inexhaustible grief. 
 
 Ages of blood-drenched jungles, and the smoking of 
 
 craters, and the roar of tempests. 
 And moan of the forsaken seas, 
 It was she with the hills beginning to walk in the shapes 
 
 of the dark-hearted animals, 
 It was she risen, dashing away tears and praying to dumb 
 
 skies, in the pomp-crumbling tragedy of man . . . 
 It was she, container of all griefs, and the buried dust of 
 
 broken hearts, 
 
JAMES OPPENHEIM 1 23 
 
 Cry of the christs and the lovers and the child-stripped 
 mothers, 
 
 And ambition gone down to defeat, and the battle over- 
 borne, 
 
 And the dreams that have no waking. . . . 
 
 My heart became her ancient heart: 
 On the food of the strong I fed, on dark strange life itself : 
 Wisdom-giving and sombre with the unremitting love 
 of ages. . . . 
 
 There was dank soil in my mouth, 
 
 And bitter sea on my lips, 
 
 In a dark hour, tasting the Earth. 
 
 James Oppenheim [1882- ] 
 
 THE LINCOLN CHILD* 
 
 Clearing in the forest, 
 In the wild Kentucky forest. 
 And the stars, wintry stars strewn above! 
 O Night that is the starriest 
 Since Earth began to roll — 
 For a Soul 
 Is born out of Love! 
 
 Mother love, father love, love of Eternal God- 
 Stars have pushed aside to let him through — 
 Through heaven's sun-sown deeps 
 
 •See pages 10, 47, 50, 108, 119, 144. 
 
124 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 One sparkling ray of God 
 
 Strikes the clod — 
 
 (And while an angel-host through wood and clear- 
 ing sweeps!) 
 
 Born in the wild 
 
 The Child- 
 Naked, ruddy, new, 
 
 Wakes with the piteous human cry and at the 
 mother-heart sleeps. 
 
 To the mother wild berries and honey. 
 To the father awe without end. 
 To the child a swaddling of flannel — 
 And a dawn rolls sharp and sunny 
 And the skies of winter bend 
 To see the first sweet word penned 
 In the godliest human annal. 
 
 Frail Mother of the Wilderness — 
 How strange the world shines in 
 And the cabin becomes chapel 
 And the baby lies secure — 
 Sweet Mother of the Wilderness, 
 New worlds for you begin, 
 You have tasted of the apple 
 That giyeth wisdom sure. . . . 
 
 Soon in the wide wilderness, 
 On a branch blown over a creek. 
 Up a trail of the wild coon, 
 In a lair of the wild bee, 
 
JAMES OPPENHEIM 1 25 
 
 The rugged boy, by danger's stress, 
 Learnt the speech the wild things speak, 
 Learnt the Earth's eternal tune 
 Of strife-engendered harmony — 
 Went to school where Life itself was master, 
 Went to church where Earth was minister — 
 And in Danger and Disaster 
 Felt his future manhood stir! 
 
 All about him lay the land. 
 
 Eastern cities, Western prairie. 
 
 Wild, immeasurable, grand; 
 
 But he was lost where blossomy boughs make airy 
 
 Bowers in the forest, and the sand 
 
 Makes brook-water a clear mirror that gives back 
 
 Green branches and trunks black 
 
 And clouds across the heavens lightly fanned. 
 
 Yet all the Future dreams, eager to waken. 
 
 Within that woodland soul — 
 
 And the bough of boy has only to be shaken 
 
 That the fruit drop whereby this Earth shall roll 
 
 A little nearer God than ever before. 
 
 Little recks he of war. 
 
 Of national millions waiting on his word — 
 
 Dreams still the Event unstirred 
 
 In the heart of the boy, the little babe of the wild — 
 
 But the years hurry and the tide of the sea 
 
 Of Time flo.ws fast and ebbs, and he, even he. 
 
 Must leave the wilderness, the wood^haunts wild — 
 
 Soon shall the cyclone of Humanity 
 
126 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Tearing through Earth suck up this little child 
 And whirl him to the top, where he shall be 
 Riding the storm-column in the lightning-stroke, 
 Calm at the peak, while down below worlds rage, 
 And Earth goes out in blood and battle-smoke. 
 And leaves him with the sun — an epoch and an 
 age! 
 
 And lo, as he grew ugly, gaunt. 
 
 And gnarled his way into a man. 
 
 What wisdom came to feed his want. 
 
 What worlds came near to let him scan ! 
 
 And as he fathomed through and through 
 
 Our dark and sorry human scheme, 
 
 He knew what Shakespeare never knew, 
 
 What Dante never dared to dream — 
 
 That Men are one 
 
 Beneath the sun, 
 
 And before God are equal souls — 
 
 This truth was his, 
 
 And this it is 
 
 That round him such a glory rolls — 
 
 For not alone he knew it as a truth. 
 
 He made it of his blood, and of his brain — 
 
 He crowned it on the day when piteous Booth 
 
 Sent a whole land to weeping with world-pain — 
 
 When a black cloud blotted the sun 
 
 And men stopped in the streets to sob. 
 
 To think Old Abe was dead. 
 
 Dead, and the day's work still undone. 
 
 Dead, and war's ruining heart athrob, 
 
JAMES OPPENHEIM 1 27 
 
 And earth with fields of carnage freshly spread — 
 Millions died fighting, 
 But in this man we mourned 
 Those millions, and one other — 
 And the States to-day uniting, 
 North and South, 
 East and West, 
 Speak with a people's mouth 
 A rhapsody of rest 
 To him our beloved best. 
 Our big, gaunt, homely brother — 
 Our huge Atlantic coast-storm in a shawl, 
 Our cyclone in a smile — our President, 
 Who knew and loved us all 
 With love more eloquent 
 
 Than his own words — with Love that in real 
 deeds was spent. . . . 
 
 Oh, to pour love through deeds — 
 
 To be as Lincoln, was! — 
 
 That all the.hnd might fill its daily needs 
 
 Glorified by a human Cause! 
 
 Then were America a vast World-Torch 
 
 Flaming a faith across the dying Earth, 
 
 Proclaiming from the Atlantic's rocky porch. 
 
 That a New World was struggling at the birth! 
 
 O living God, O Thou who living art, 
 
 And real, and near, draw, as at that babe's birth. 
 
 Into our souls and sanctify our Earth — 
 
 Let down Thy strength that we endure 
 
128 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Mighty and pure 
 
 As mothers and fathers of our own Lincoln-child — 
 
 Make us more wise, more true, more strong, more 
 
 mild, 
 That we may day by day 
 Rear this wild blossom through its soft petals of 
 
 clay; 
 That hour by hour 
 
 We may endow it with more human power 
 Than is our own — 
 That it may reach the goal 
 Our Lincoln long has shown! 
 O Child, flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone. 
 Soul torn from out our Soul! 
 May you be great, and pure, and beautiful — 
 A Soul to search this world 
 To be a father, brother, comrade, son, 
 A toiler powerful; 
 A man whose toil is done 
 One with God's Law above: 
 Work wrought through Love! 
 
 James Oppenheim [i88z- ] 
 
 AT THE AQUARIUM 
 
 Serene the silver fishes glide, 
 Stern-lipped, and pale, and wonder-eyed! 
 As thrdugh the aged deeps of ocean, 
 They glide with wan and wavy motion. 
 They have no pathway where they go. 
 They flow like water to and fro, 
 
MAX EASTMAN 1 29 
 
 They watch with never-winking eyes, 
 
 They watch with staring, cold surprise, 
 
 The level people in the air. 
 
 The people peering, peering there: 
 
 Who wander also to and fro. 
 
 And know not why or where they go, 
 
 Yet have a wonder in their eyes. 
 
 Sometimes a pale and cold surprise. 
 
 Max Eastman 
 
 [Born, 1883, at Canandaigua, N. Y. Lecturer and editor as well as 
 poet. Now living at Croton-on-Hudson, N. Y.] 
 
 DIOGENES 
 
 A hut, and a tree, 
 
 And a hill for me. 
 And a piece of weedy meadow. 
 
 I'll ask no thing, 
 
 Of God or king. 
 But to clear away his shadow. 
 Max Eastman [1883- 
 
 SONNET 
 
 There are strange shadows fostered of the moon, 
 More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day. 
 Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June, 
 Into the dusk of swooping bats at play; 
 
130 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Or go into that late November dusk 
 
 When hills take on the noble lines of death, 
 
 And on the air the faint, astringent musk 
 
 Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath. 
 
 Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun. 
 
 Knows nothing — aye, a thousand shadows there 
 
 Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run, 
 
 Like petrels of the changing foul or fair; 
 
 Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him 
 
 Whose homeland lies past each horizon's rim. . . . 
 
 Arthur Dawson Ficke 
 
 [Born, 1883, at Davenport, Ohio, 
 and still living there.] 
 
 PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMAN 
 
 She limps with halting painful pace, 
 Stops, wavers and creeps on again ; 
 
 Peers up with dim and questioning face, 
 Void of desire or doubt or pain. 
 
 Her cheeks hang gray in waxen folds 
 Wherein there stirs no blood at all. 
 
 A hand, like bundled cornstalks, holds 
 The 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 gasps 
 
 Up to the tight line of her lips. 
 
SARA TEASDALE I3I 
 
 Here strong the city's pomp is poured . . . 
 
 She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast: 
 An empty temple of the Lord 
 
 From which the jocund Lord has passed. 
 
 He has builded him another house, 
 Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, 
 
 Shines stark upon these weathered brows 
 Abandoned to the final night. 
 
 Arthur Davison Ficke [1883- ] 
 
 SPRING NIGHT ^ 
 
 The park is filled with night and fog. 
 The veils are drawn about the world, 
 
 The drowsy lights along the paths 
 Are dim and pearled. 
 
 Gold and gleaming the empty streets. 
 Gold and gleaming the misty lake. 
 
 The mirrored lights like sunken swords, 
 Glimmer and shake. 
 
 Oh, is it not enough to be 
 
 Here with this beauty over me? 
 
 My throat should ache with praise, and I 
 
 Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. 
 
 O beauty, are you not enough? 
 
 Why am I crying after love, 
 
 • Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macinillavi Com- 
 pany, from Rivers to the Sea by Sara Te^sdale, 
 
132 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 With youth, a singing voice, and eyes 
 
 To take earth's wonder with surprise? 
 
 Why have I put off my pride, 
 
 Why am I unsatisfied, — 
 
 I, for whom the pensive night 
 
 Binds her cloudy hair with light, — 
 
 I, for whom all beauty burns 
 
 Like incense in a million urns? 
 
 O beauty, are you not enough? 
 
 Why am I crying after love? 
 
 Sara Teasdale 
 
 [Born, 1884, in St. Louis, Mo. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
 I SHALL NOT CARE ^ 
 
 When I am dead and over me bright April 
 
 Shakes out her rain-drenched hair. 
 Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, 
 
 I shall not care. 
 
 I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful 
 
 When rain bends down the bough; 
 And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted 
 
 Than you are now. 
 
 Sara Teasdale [1884- ] 
 
 ' Reprinted by permission of the publishers. The Macmillan Com- 
 ny, from hove Songs by Sara Teasdale. 
 
 pany 
 
SARA TEASDALE 1 33 
 
 NIGHT SONG AT AMALFI ^ 
 
 I asked the heaven of stars 
 What I should give my love — 
 
 It answered me with silence, 
 Silence above. 
 
 I asked the darkened sea 
 
 Down where the fishes go — 
 It answered me with silence, 
 
 Silence below. 
 
 Oh, I could give him weeping, 
 Or I could give him song — 
 But how can I give silence 
 ' My whole life long? 
 
 Sara Teasdale [1884- ] 
 
 THE DRUG CLERK 
 
 The drug clerk stands behind the counter 
 Young and dapper and debonair. . . . 
 
 Before him burn the great unwinking lights 
 The hectic stars of city nights, 
 Red as hell's pit, green as a mermaid's hair. 
 A queer half-acrid smell is in the air. 
 
 * Reprinted by permission of tlic_-publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, from Love Songs by Sara Teasdale. 
 
134 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Behind him on the shelves in ordered rows 
 With strange, abbreriated names 
 Dwell half the facts of life. That young man knows, 
 Bottled and boxed and powdered here, 
 Dumb tragedies, deceptions, secret shames, 
 'And comedy and fear. 
 
 Sleep slumbers here, like a great quiet sea 
 
 Shrunk to this bottle's compass; sleep that brings 
 
 Sweet respite from the teeth of pain 
 
 To those poor tossing things 
 
 That the white nurses watch so thoughtfully. 
 
 And here again 
 
 Dwell the shy souls of Maytime flowers 
 
 That shall make sweeter still those poignant hours 
 
 When wide-eyed youth looks on the face of love. 
 
 And, for those others who have found too late 
 
 The bitter fruits thereof, 
 
 Here are cosmetics, powders, paints, — the arts 
 
 That hunted women use to hunt again 
 
 With scented flesh for bait. 
 
 And here is comfort for the hearts 
 
 Of sucking babes in their first teething pain. 
 
 Here dwells the substance of huge fervid dreams, 
 
 Fantastic, many-colored, shot with gleams 
 
 Of ecstasy and madness, that shall come 
 
 To some pale, twitching sleeper in a bunk. 
 
 And here is courage, cheaply bought 
 
 To cure a blue sick funk, 
 
 And dearly paid for in the final sum. 
 
 Here in this powdered fly is caught 
 
EZRA POUND 135 
 
 Desire more ravishing than Tarquin's. . . . 
 
 And at last 
 When the one weary hope is past 
 Here is the sole escape, 
 The little postern in the house of breath 
 Where pallid fugitives keep tryst with death. 
 
 All this the drug clerk knows and there he stands, 
 
 Young and dapper and debonair. . . . 
 
 He rests a pair of slender hands, 
 
 Much manicured, upon the counter there 
 
 And speaks: " No, we don't carry no pomade. 
 
 We only cater to the high-class trade." 
 
 Eunice Tietjens 
 
 [Born, 1884, in Chicago, 111. Still 
 living there.] 
 
 BALLAD FOR GLOOM 
 
 For God, our God is a gallant foe 
 That playeth behind the veil. 
 
 I have loved my God as a child at heart 
 That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, 
 I have loved my God as a maid to man — 
 But lo, this thing is best: 
 
 To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind 
 
 the veil; 
 To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond 
 
 Arcturus' pale. 
 
136 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 I have played with God for a woman, 
 I have staked with my God for truth, 
 I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed — 
 His dice be not of ruth. 
 
 For I am made as a naked blade, 
 But hear ye this thing in sooth : 
 
 Who loseth to God as man to man 
 
 Shall win at the turn of the game. 
 I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet 
 
 But the ending is the same: 
 Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose 
 
 Shall win at the end of the game. 
 
 For God, our God is a gallant foe that playeth behind 
 
 the veil. 
 Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple 
 
 mail. 
 
 Ezra Pound 
 
 [Born, 1884, at Haley, Idaho. Now 
 living in London, England.] 
 
 Joopia 
 
 Be in me as the eternal moods 
 
 of the bleak wind, and not 
 
 As transient things are — 
 gaiety of flowers. 
 
 Have me in the strong loneliness 
 of sunless cliffs 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 1 37 
 
 And of gray waters. 
 
 Let the gods speak softly of us 
 In days hereafter, 
 
 the shadowy flowers of Orcus 
 Remember thee. 
 
 Ezra Pound [1884- ] 
 
 IN A STATION OF THE METRO 
 
 The apparition of tnese faces in the crowd ; 
 Petals on a wet, black bough. 
 
 Ezra Pound [1884- ] 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 God, though this life is but a wraith, 
 Although we know not what we use. 
 
 Although we grope with little faith. 
 
 Give me the heart to fight — and lose. 
 
 Ever insurgent let me be, 
 
 Make me more daring than devout; 
 From sleek contentment keep me free, 
 
 And fill me with a buoyant doubt. 
 
 Open my eyes to visions girt 
 
 With beauty, and with wonder lit — 
 But always let me see the dirt, 
 
 And all that spawn and die in it. 
 
138 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Open my ears to music; let 
 
 Me. thrill with Spring's first flutes and 
 drums — 
 But never let me dare forget 
 
 The bitter ballads of the slums. 
 
 From compromise and things half done, 
 
 Keep me with stern and stubborn pride; 
 
 And when at last the fight is won, 
 God, keep me still unsatisfied. 
 Louis Untermeyer 
 
 [Born, 1885, in New York City 
 and still living there.] 
 
 SUMMONS 
 
 The eager night and the impetuous winds. 
 The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, 
 And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, 
 Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me 
 
 on . . . 
 The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, 
 Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill 
 Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. 
 A slender stream became a naked sprite, 
 Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me 
 Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. 
 A saffron moon, dangling among the trees. 
 Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs. 
 Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful 
 
 breeze . . . 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 1 39 
 
 And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, 
 The vifhole world's lethargy was brushed away; 
 The night kept tugging at my torpid mood 
 And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew 
 My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; 
 And over all indifference there streamed 
 A myriad urges in one rushing wave . . . 
 Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, 
 I felt the brave persistence of the grass; 
 The far desire of rivulets; the keen. 
 Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; 
 The endless labors of the patient worm; 
 The lichen's strength; the prowess of the ant; 
 The constancy of flowers; the blind belief 
 Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; 
 The eternal struggles and eternal deaths — 
 And yet the groping faith of every root! 
 Out of old graves arose the cry of life; 
 Out of the dying came the deathless call. 
 And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, 
 The thing that was my boyhood woke in me — 
 Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; 
 Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, 
 And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth. 
 With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh. 
 Leaped up to face the heaven's unconcern. . . . 
 
 And then — veil upon veil was torn aside — 
 Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys. 
 Danced gaily 'round me, plucking at my hand; 
 The night, scorning its stubborn mystery, 
 
140 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; 
 The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song, 
 Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; 
 Love and the faces of a world of children 
 Swept like a conquering army through my blood. 
 And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, 
 Beauty, the passion of the universe. 
 Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, 
 And, like a wine, poured itself out for me 
 To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go 
 Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; 
 To meet with confidence the cynic years; 
 Battling in wars that never can be won, 
 Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat. 
 
 Louis Utttermeyer [1885- ] 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD 
 
 Lo, to the battle-ground of Life, 
 
 Child, you have come, like a conquering shout, 
 Out of a struggle — into strife; 
 
 Out of a darkness — into doubt. 
 
 Girt with the fragile armor of youth, 
 Child, you must ride into endless wars. 
 
 With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth. 
 And a banner of love to sweep the stars. 
 
 About you the world's despair will surge; 
 
 Into defeat you must plunge and grope. 
 Be to the faltering an urge; 
 
 Be to the hopeless years a hope! 
 
JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER I4I 
 
 Be to the darkened world a flame; 
 
 Be to its unconcern a blow — 
 For out of its pain and tumult you came, 
 
 And into its tumult and pain you go. 
 
 Louis Untermeyer [1885- ] 
 
 AUTUMN 
 (to my mother) 
 
 How memory cuts away the years, 
 And how clean the picture comes 
 Of autumn days, brisk and busy ; 
 Charged with keen sunshine. 
 And you, stirred with activity, 
 The spirit of those energetic days. 
 
 There was our back-yard, 
 
 So plain and stripped of green. 
 
 With even the weeds carefully pulled away 
 
 From the crooked red bricks that made the walk, 
 
 And the earth on either side so black. 
 
 Autumn and dead leaves burning in the sharp air. 
 
 And winter comforts coming in like a pageant. 
 
 I shall not forget them: — 
 
 Great jars laden with the raw green of pickles, 
 
 Standing in a solemn row across the back of the porch, 
 
 Exhaling the pungent dill; 
 
 And in the very centre of the yard, 
 
 You, tending the great catsup kettle of gleaming copper, 
 
142 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and down 
 
 Like jolly monks in a drunken dance. 
 
 And there were bland banks of cabbages that came by the 
 wagon-load, 
 
 Soon to be cut into delicate ribbons 
 
 Only to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers. 
 
 Such feathery whiteness — to come to kraut! 
 
 And after, there were grapes that hid their brightness 
 under a grey dust, 
 
 Then gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; 
 
 And enamelled crab-apples that tricked with their fra- 
 grance 
 
 But were bitter to taste. 
 
 And there were spicy plums and ill-shaped quinces. 
 
 And long string beans floating in pans of clear water 
 
 Like slim, green fishes. ' 
 
 And there was fish itself, 
 
 Salted, silver herring from the city. . . . 
 
 And you moved among these mysteries, 
 
 Absorbed and smiling and sure; 
 
 Stirring, tasting, measuring. 
 
 With the precision of a ritual. 
 
 I like to think of you in your years of power — 
 
 You, now so shaken and so powerless — 
 
 High priestess of your home. 
 
 Jean Starr Untermeyer 
 
 [Born, 1886, at Zanesville, Ohio. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
" H. D." 143 
 
 OREAD 
 
 Whirl up, sea — 
 Whirl your pointed pines. 
 Splash your great pines 
 On our rocks. 
 Hurl your green over us — 
 Cover us with your pools of fir. 
 " H. D." 
 
 [The pen name of Hilda Doolittle, wife of Richard Aldington — both 
 of them being among the leading Imagist poets. She was born in 
 Bethlehem, Pa., in i885. Now living in England.] 
 
 PEAR TREE 
 
 Silver dust 
 
 lifted from the earth, 
 
 higher than my arms reach, 
 
 you have mounted. 
 
 O silver, 
 
 higher than my arms reach 
 
 you front us with great mass; 
 
 no flower ever opened 
 so staunch a white leaf, 
 no flower ever parted silver 
 from such rare silver; 
 
 O white pear, 
 
 your flower-tufts, 
 
 thick on the branch, 
 
 bring summer and ripe fruits 
 
 in their purple hearts. 
 
 "H. D." [i886^ ] 
 
144 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 LINCOLN * 
 
 Like a gaunt, scraggly pine 
 
 Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills; 
 And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence, 
 Untended and uncared for, begins to grow. 
 
 Ungainly, labouring, huge. 
 
 The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its 
 
 branches ; 
 Yet in the heat of midsummer days, when thunder-clouds 
 
 ring the horizon, 
 A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade. 
 
 And it shall protect them all. 
 
 Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silen«e; 
 Until at last one mad stray bolt from the zenith 
 Shall strike it in an instant down to earth. 
 
 11 
 
 There was a darkness in this man ; an immense and hollow 
 darkness. 
 
 Of which we may not speak, nor share with him, nor 
 enter ; 
 
 A darkness through which strong roots stretched down- 
 wards into the earth 
 
 ♦ §ee pages lo, ij.7, 50, 108, iJ?, izj. 
 
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER 1 45 
 
 Towards old things; 
 
 Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and 
 
 spoke with God, 
 Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not 
 
 what, and found their goal at last; 
 Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently 
 
 when all seemed lost. 
 Many bitter winters of defeat; 
 Down to the granite of patience 
 These roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, 
 
 seeking, 
 And drew from the living rock and the living waters 
 
 about it 
 The red sap to carry upwards to the sun. 
 
 Not proud, but humble. 
 
 Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through 
 
 service ; 
 For the ax is laid at the root of the trees, and all that 
 
 bring not forth good fruit 
 Shall be cut down on the day to come and cast into 
 
 the fire. 
 
 ui 
 
 There is silence abroad in the land to-day. 
 
 And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence; 
 
 And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly 
 
 open. 
 Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light. 
 
146 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the 
 
 endless silence 
 Like labouring oxen that drag a plow through the chaos 
 
 of rude clay-fields: 
 " I went forward as the light goes forward in early 
 
 spring, 
 But there were also many things which I left behind. 
 
 " Tombs that were quiet ; 
 
 One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the 
 
 darkness. 
 One, of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long 
 
 falling, 
 One, only of a child, but it was mine. 
 
 Have you forgot your graves? Go, question them in 
 
 anguish. 
 Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages 
 
 to silence, 
 Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without 
 
 sun-setting, 
 No victory but to Him who has given all." 
 
 IV 
 
 The clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth 
 
 of the battle is silent. 
 The midwinter syn dips and descends, the earth takes 
 
 on afresh its bright colours. 
 But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we 
 
 scorned and mistrusted. 
 He has descended, like a god, to his rest. 
 
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER 1 47 
 
 Over the uproar of cities, 
 
 Over the million intricate threads of life wavering and 
 crossing, 
 
 In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, per- 
 plexing, ensnaring, 
 
 Rises one white tomb alone. 
 
 Beam over it, stars. 
 
 Wrap it round, stripes — stripes red for the pain that he 
 
 bore for you — 
 Enfold it forever, O flag, rent, soiled, but repaired 
 
 through your anguish; 
 Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shall bow 
 
 to your law. 
 
 Strew over him flowers; 
 
 Blue forget-me-nots from the north, and the bright pink 
 arbutus 
 
 From the east, and from the west rich orange blos- 
 soms. 
 
 But from the heart of the land take the passion-flower. 
 
 Rayed, violet, dim. 
 
 With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and 
 the circlet. 
 
 And beside it there, lay also one lonely snow-white mag- 
 nolia, % 
 
 Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed. 
 John Gould Fletcher 
 
 [Born, 1886, in Little Rock, Ark. Although he belongs to the Imagist 
 group, in this poem he shows the influence of Whitman and tlie 
 rhapsodists. Jfow living in England.] 
 
148 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 THE SKATERS 
 
 Black swallows swooping or gliding 
 
 In a flurry of entangled loops and curves; 
 
 The skaters skim over the frozen river. 
 
 And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge 
 
 upon the surface, 
 Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver. 
 John Gould Fletcher .[i%%6- ] 
 
 IN PASSING 
 
 Through the dim window, I could see 
 The little room — a sordid square 
 
 Of helter-skelter penury: 
 
 Piano, whatnot, splintered chair. . . 
 
 It is so small a room that I 
 
 Seemed almost at the woman's side: 
 
 Galled jade — too fat for vanity, 
 And far too frankly old for pride. 
 
 Her greasy apron 'round her waist; 
 
 The dish cloth by her on the chair; 
 As if in some wild headlong haste. 
 
 She has come in and settled there. 
 
JOHN HALL WHEELOCK 149 
 
 Grimly she bends her back and tries 
 To stab the keys, with heavy hand; 
 
 A child's first finger exercise 
 Before her on the music stand. 
 Roy Helton 
 
 [Born, 1886, in Washington, D. C. 
 At present is teaching in Phila- 
 delphia, Fa.] 
 
 SUNDAY EVENING IN THE COMMON 
 
 Look — on the topmost branches of the world 
 The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick; 
 Over the huddled rows of stone and brick, 
 
 A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled 
 Like ghosts, languid and sick. 
 
 One breathless moment now the city's moaning 
 Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim ; 
 There is no sound around the whole world's rim, 
 
 Save in the distance a small band is droning 
 Some desolate old hymn. 
 
 Van Wyck, how often have we been together 
 When this same moment made all mysteries dear ; 
 — ^The infinite stars that brood above us here, 
 
 And the gray city in the soft June weather, 
 So tawdry and so dear! 
 
 John Hall Wheelock 
 
 [Born, 1886, at Far Rockaway, L. I. 
 Now living in New York City.] 
 
150 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 HIS ALLY 
 
 He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting 
 
 Tried hard his strength. 
 " One needs seven souls for this long requiting," 
 
 He said at length. 
 
 " Six times have I come where my first hope jeered me 
 And laughed me to scorn; 
 
 But now I fear as I never feared me 
 To fall forlorn. 
 
 " God ! when they fight upright and at me 
 
 I give them back 
 Even such blows as theirs that combat me; 
 
 But now, alack! 
 
 " They fight with the wiles of fiends escaping 
 
 And underhand. 
 Six times, O God, and my wounds are gaping! 
 
 I — reel to stand. 
 
 " Six battles' span ! By this gasping breath, 
 
 No pantomime. 
 'Tis all that I can. I am sick unto death. 
 
 And — a seventh time? 
 
 " This is beyond all battles' soreness ! " 
 
 Then his wonder cried: 
 For Laughter, with shield and steely harness, 
 
 Stood up at his side! 
 
 William Rose Benet 
 
 [Born, 1886, at Fort Hamilton, 
 New York Harbor. Living in 
 New York City.] 
 
WILLIAM ROSE BEN£T 151 
 
 HOW TO CATCH UNICORNS 
 
 Its cloven hoofprint on the sand 
 Will lead you — where? 
 Into a phantasmagoric land — 
 Beware ! 
 
 There all the bright streams run up-hill. 
 The birds on every tree are still. 
 But from stocks and stones, clear voices come 
 That should be dumb. 
 
 If you have taken along a net, 
 
 A noose, a prod, 
 
 You'll be waiting in the forest yet . . . 
 
 Nid — nod/ 
 
 In a virgin's lap the beast slept sound, 
 They say . . . but I — 
 I think (Is anyone around?) 
 That's just a lie I 
 
 If you have taken a musketoon 
 To flinders 'twill flash 'neath the wizard moon. 
 So I should take browned batter-cake, 
 Hot-buttered inside, like foam to flake. 
 
 And I should take an easy heart 
 
 And a whimsical face, 
 
 And a tied-up lunch of sandwich and tart, 
 
 Arid spread a cloth in the open chase. 
 
152 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 And then I should pretend to snore . . . 
 
 And I'd hear a snort and I'd hear a roar, 
 The wind of a mane and a tail, and four 
 Wild hoofs prancing the forest-floor. 
 
 And I'd open my eyes on a flashing horn — 
 And see the Unicorn ! 
 
 Paladins fierce and virgins sweet . . . 
 But he's never had anything to eat! 
 Knights have tramped in their iron-mong'ry . . 
 But nobody thought — that's all! — he's hungry 1 
 
 ADDENDUM 
 
 Really hungry! Good Lord deliver us. 
 The Unicom is not carnivorous! 
 
 William Rose Benet [1886- ] 
 
 TREES 1 
 
 I think that I shall never see 
 A poem lovely as a tree. 
 
 A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
 Against the sweet earth's flowing breast ; 
 
 ' From Trees and other Poems by Joyce Kilmer. Copyright, 19 14, 
 by George H. Doran Company, publishers. 
 
ORRICK JOHNS 1 53 
 
 A tree that looks at God all day, 
 And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 
 
 A tree that may in summer wear 
 A nest of robins in her hair; 
 
 Upon whose bosom snow has lain ; 
 Who intimately lives with rain. 
 
 Poems are made by fools like me, 
 
 But only God can make a tree. 
 
 Joyce Kilmer 
 
 [Born, 1886, at New Brunswick, 
 N. J. Killed in action in 
 France, 1918.] 
 
 LITTLE THINGS 
 
 There's nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay 
 About the rush of faces in the town by day; 
 But a light tan cow in a pale green mead. 
 That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed . . . 
 And the soft March wind and the low March mist 
 Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed . . . 
 The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, 
 The fragnance of a trim green village lawn, 
 The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play — 
 These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! 
 And I shan't stand waiting for love or scorn 
 When the f?3st is laid fpr a day new-born . . , 
 
154 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Oh, better let the little things I loved when little 
 Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; 
 And better is a temple made of bark and thong 
 Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long. 
 
 Orrick Johns 
 
 [Born, 1887, in St. Louis, Mo., 
 and still living there.] 
 
 " I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH " ^ 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 At some disputed barricade, 
 
 When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
 
 And apple-blossoms fill the air — 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 
 
 It may be he shall take my hand 
 
 And lead me into his dark land 
 
 And close my eyes and quench my breath — 
 
 It may be I shall pass him still. 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 On some scarred slope of battered hill. 
 
 When Spring comes round again this year 
 
 And the first meadow-flowers appear. 
 
 God knows 'twere better to be deep 
 Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
 Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
 
 ^ From Poems by Alan Se«ger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Sorib- 
 ner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. 
 
WILLARD WATTLES 1 55 
 
 Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
 Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . 
 But I've a rendezvous with Death 
 At midnight in some flaming town. 
 When Spring trips north again this year, 
 And I to my pledged word am true, 
 I shall not fail that rendezvous. 
 Alan Seeger 
 
 IBom, 1888, in New York City. Killed on the field of Belloy-en- 
 Santerre, France, July 4, 1916.] 
 
 THE BUILDER 1 
 
 Smoothing a cypress beam 
 
 With a scarred hand, 
 I saw a carpenter 
 
 In a far lartd. 
 
 Down past the flat roofs 
 
 Poured the white sun ; 
 But still he bent his back, 
 
 The patient one. 
 
 And I paused surprised 
 
 In that queer place 
 To find an old man 
 
 With a haunting face. 
 
 • Taken by permission from Lanterns in Gethsemane by WillarJ 
 Wattles. Copyright, 1918, by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 
 
IS6 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 "Who art thou, carpenter, 
 Of the bowed head; 
 
 And what buildest thou?" 
 " Heaven," he said. 
 Willard Wattles 
 
 [Born, i88S, in Bayneville, Kan. 
 Now living in Lawience, Kan.] 
 
 CREEDS 
 
 How pitiful are little folk — 
 
 They seem so very small; 
 
 They look at stars, and think they are 
 
 Denominational. 
 
 Willard Wattles [i88g- ] 
 
 DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES 
 The]/ say that dead men tell no tales! 
 
 Except of barges with red sails 
 And sailors mad for nightingales ; 
 
 Except of jongleurs stretched at ease 
 Beside old highways through the trees; 
 
 Except of dying moons that break 
 The hearts of lads who lie awake; 
 
 Except of fortresses in shade, 
 And heroes crumbled and betrayed. 
 
MARGARET WIDDEMER 1 57 
 
 'But dead men tell no tales, they say I 
 
 Except old tales that burn away 
 The stifling tapestries of day: 
 
 Old tales of life, of love and hate, 
 Of time and space, and will, and fate. 
 
 Haniel Long 
 
 [Bom, 188S, at Rangoon, Burmah; educated at Exeter and Harvard. 
 Now teadbing at Carnegie Institute, Pittsburgh, Fa.] 
 
 FACTORIES 
 
 I have shut my little sister in from life and light 
 
 (For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair), 
 
 I have made her restless feet still until the night, 
 
 Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring 
 air; 
 
 I who ranged the meadowlands, free from sun to sun. 
 
 Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings 
 
 fly. 
 
 I have bound my sister till her playing time was done — 
 Oh, my little sister, was it I ? Was it I ? 
 
 I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood 
 (For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless 
 spark), 
 Shut from love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know 
 good. 
 How shall she go scatheless through the sin-lit dark? 
 
I58~ MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 I who could be innocent, I who could be gay, 
 I who could have love and mirth before the light 
 went by, 
 
 I have put my sister in her mating-time away — 
 Sister, my young sister, was it I? Was it I? 
 
 I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast, 
 
 (For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace 
 and lawn). 
 Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest — 
 
 How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? 
 I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn, 
 
 I, against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie. 
 Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn — 
 
 God of Life ! Creator ! It was I ! It was I ! 
 Margaret Widdemer 
 
 [Born at Doylestown, Pa. At pres- 
 ent living at Larchmont Manor, 
 
 N. y.] 
 
 MORNING SONG FROM " SENLIN " 
 
 It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
 When the light drips through the shutters like the 
 
 dew, 
 I arise, I face the sunrise. 
 And do the things my fathers learned to do. 
 Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops 
 Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, 
 And I myself on swiftly tilting planet 
 Stand before a glass and tie my tie. 
 
CONRAD AIKEN 1 59 
 
 Vine-leaves tap my window, 
 Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
 The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree 
 Repeating three clear tones. 
 
 It is morning. I stand by the mirror 
 
 And tie my tie once more. 
 
 While waves far off in a pale rose twilight 
 
 Crash on a white sand shore. 
 
 I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: 
 
 How small and white my face! — 
 
 The green earth tilts through a sphere of air 
 
 And bathes in a flame of space. 
 
 There are houses hanging above the stars 
 
 And stars hung under a sea . . . 
 
 And a sun far off in a shell of silence 
 
 Dapples my walls for me. . . . 
 
 It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
 Should I not pause in the light to remember God ? 
 Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, 
 He is immense and lonely as a cloud. 
 I will dedicate this moment before my mirror 
 To him alone, for him I will comb my hair. 
 Accept these humble offerings, clouds of silence! 
 I will think of you as I descend the stair. 
 
 Vine-leaves tap my window, 
 The snail-track shines on the stones; 
 Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree 
 Repeating two clear tones. 
 
l6o MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, 
 Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. 
 The walls are about me still as in the evening, 
 I am the same, and the same name still I keep. 
 The earth revolves with me, yet makes no mo- 
 tion, 
 The stars pale silently in a coral sky. 
 In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, 
 Unconcerned, and tie my tie. 
 
 There are horses neighing on far-off hills 
 Tossing their long white manes. 
 And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, 
 Their shoulders black with rains. . . . 
 It is morning, I stand by the mirror 
 And surprise my soul once more; 
 The blue air rushes above my ceiling. 
 There are suns beneath my floor. . . . 
 
 ... It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from 
 
 darkness 
 And depart on the winds of space for I know not 
 
 where ; 
 My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, 
 And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. 
 There are shadows across the windows, clouds in 
 
 heaven. 
 And a god among the stars; and I will go 
 Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak 
 And humming a tune I know, . . , 
 
ALFRED KREYMBORG l6l 
 
 Vine-leaves tap at the window, 
 Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
 The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree 
 Repeating three clear tones. 
 
 Conrad Aiken 
 
 [Born, 1889, at Savannah, Ga. 
 Now living at South Yarmouth, 
 Mass.] 
 
 OLD MANUSCRIPT 
 
 The sky 
 
 is that beautiful old parchment 
 
 in which the sun 
 
 and the moon 
 
 keep their diary. 
 
 To read it all, 
 
 one must be a linguist 
 
 more learned than Father Wisdom; 
 
 and a visionary 
 
 more clairvoyant than Mother Dream. 
 
 But to feel it, 
 
 one must be an apostle: 
 
 one who is more than intimate 
 
 in having been, always, 
 
 the only confidant — 
 
 like the earth 
 
 or the sea. 
 
 Alfred Kreymborg 
 
 [The leader of the group known as " Others ". He has edited their 
 magazine and the two anthologies of their work. He lives in New 
 York City.] 
 
1 62 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 POET TO HIS LOVE 
 
 An old silver church in a forest 
 
 Is my love for you. 
 
 The trees around it 
 
 Are words that I have stolen from your heart. 
 
 An old silver bell, the last smile you gave, 
 
 Hangs at the top of my church. 
 
 It rings only when you come through the forest 
 
 And stand beside it. 
 
 And then, it has no need for ringing, 
 
 For your voice takes its place. 
 
 Maxiuell Bodenheim 
 
 [Born, 1892, in Natchez, Miss. One of the most decorative and im- 
 aginative of the younger insurgents. Now living in New York City.] 
 
 TO A POST-OFFICE INKWELL 
 
 How many humble hearts have dipped 
 In you, and scrawled their manuscript! 
 Have shared their secrets, told their cares, 
 Their curious and quaint alfairs! 
 
 Your pool of ink, your scratchy pen, 
 Have moved the lives of unborn men, 
 And watched young people, breathing hard, 
 Put Heaven on a postal card. 
 
 Christopher Morley 
 
 [Born, 1890, at Haverford, Pa. Is at present an editorial writer and 
 columnist on the Philadelphia Public Ledger. His home is in 
 Wyncote, Pa.] 
 
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY 1 63 
 
 GOD'S WORLD 
 
 O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! 
 
 Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! 
 
 Thy mists that roll and rise! 
 Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag 
 And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag 
 To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! 
 World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! 
 
 Long have I known a glory in it all, 
 
 But never knew I this; 
 
 Here such a passion is 
 
 As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear 
 
 Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year. 
 
 My soul is all but out of me, — let fall 
 
 No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. 
 
 Edna St. Vincent Millay 
 
 [Born, 1892, in Camden, Maine. Her remarkable long poem Renas- 
 cence, written at the age of nineteen, brought her sudden notice. 
 She is now living in New York City.] 
 
 SEARCHLIGHTS 
 
 Tingling shafts of light, 
 
 Like gigantic staffs 
 
 Brandished by blind, invisible hands. 
 
 Cross and recross each other in the sky, 
 
 Frantically — 
 
164 MODERN AMERICAN POETRY 
 
 Groping among the stars — stubbing themselves against 
 
 the bloated clouds — 
 Tapping desperately for a sure foothold 
 In the fluctuating mists. 
 
 Calm-eyed and inaccessible 
 
 The stars peer through the blue fissures of the sky, 
 
 Unperturbed among the panic of scurrying beams; 
 
 Twinkling with a cold, acrid merriment. 
 
 Alter Brody 
 
 [Born, 1895, in KartAsbkya-Beroza, province of Grodno, Russia. Came 
 to America at the age of eight. Now living in New Yorlc City.] 
 
 PORTRAIT OF A BOY 
 
 After the whipping, he crawled into bed; 
 Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping. 
 How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red! 
 He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping 
 A black frayed rag of tattered cloud before 
 In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed. 
 Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor 
 Fat motes danced. He sobbed; closed his eyes and 
 dreamed. 
 
 Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light 
 Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's 
 
 mouth 
 Shone with a large fierce Splendor, wildly bright. 
 The crooked constellations of the South; 
 Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars, 
 
STEPHEN VINCENT BEN£T 1 65 
 
 The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars. 
 
 Within, great casks like wattled aldermen 
 
 Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold 
 
 Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again, 
 
 Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold, 
 
 A black chest bore the skull and bones in white 
 
 Above a scrawled " Gunpowder ! " By the flames, 
 
 Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite, 
 
 Hailing their fellows by outrageous names 
 
 The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons. 
 
 " Doubloons ! " they said. The words crashed gold. 
 
 Doubloons ! " 
 
 Stephen Vincent Benet 
 
 [Born, 1898, at Bethlehem, Pa.; a brother of William Rose Benet. 
 Now living in New York.] 
 
INDEX 
 
 Names of Authors are in Capitals. 
 Titles of Poems are in Italics. 
 
 Adams, Franklin P., 115- 
 
 116 
 Aiken, Conrad, 158-161 
 Anne Rutledge, 47 
 An Old Story, 54 
 A Parting Guest, 15 
 April in the Huasteca, 97 
 At the Aquarium, 128 
 At the Crossroads, 34 
 August Moonlight, 41 
 Autumn, 141 
 
 Bacchus, 24 
 
 'Ballad for Gloom, 13S 
 
 Bangs, John K., 32 
 
 Beclouded, 3 
 
 Behold the Deeds!, 19 
 
 Benet, Stephen Vincent, 
 
 164 
 Benet, William Rose, x, 
 
 149-IS1 
 Between Two Loves, 59 
 Birches, 85 
 
 Bird and the Tree, The, 88 
 Black Sheep, 26 
 Black Vulture, The, 54 
 BoDEkHEiM, Maxwell, 162 
 Book, A, 4 
 Branch, Anna Hempstead, 
 
 X, 74-78 
 Brody, Alter, 163 
 Builder, The, 155 
 Bunner, H. C, ig-2i 
 Burgess, Gelett, 42-43 
 Burr, Amelia J., 96 
 Burton, Richard, 26 
 
 Bynner, Witter, 117- 120 
 
 Canopus, 43 
 
 Carman, Bliss, x, 30-32 
 Carryl, Charles E., 4-6 
 Carryl, Guy Wetmore, 62-68 
 Cawein, Madison, 38-40 
 Chartless, 3 
 Child-Dancers, The, go 
 Congo, The, 98 
 CoNKLiNG, Grace Hazard, 97 
 Conservative, A, 27 
 Cool Tombs, 94 
 Coquette Conquered, A, 61 
 CoRBiN, Alice, hi -113 
 Crapsey, Adelaide, x, 93-94 
 Creeds, 156 
 
 "D., H.", X, 143 
 Daisies, 32 
 Daly, T. A., x, 57-59 
 Day for Wandering, A, 25 
 Dead Men Tell No Tales, 156 
 De Fust Banjo, 15 
 Deserted, 38 
 Dickinson, Emily, x, 3 
 Diogenes. 129 
 Discovered, 60 
 Drug Clerk, The, 133 
 Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 
 
 x, 60-62 
 Aupra, 136 
 
 Eagle that is Forgotten, The, 
 
 106 
 Eastman, Max, 128 
 
 167 
 
l68 INDEX 
 
 Echoes of Childhood, iii 
 Elf and the Dormouse, The, 
 
 33 
 Factories, 157 
 
 FiCKE, Arthur Davison, 129- 
 
 131 
 Field, Eugene, 6-9 
 Fletcher, John Gould, 144- 
 
 148 
 Fog, 95 
 Free Fantasia on Japanese 
 
 Themes, 68 
 "Frost to-night", 22 
 Frost, Robert, ix, 81-88 
 
 GiLMAN, Charlotte P. S., 27- 
 
 28 
 God's World, 163 
 Grass, 96 
 GuiNEY, Louise Imogen, 29- 
 
 30 
 Guiterman, Arthur, 56 
 
 "Halcyon Days'', 109 
 
 Helton, Roy, 148 
 
 Hem and Haw, 31 
 
 Herford, Oliver, 33-34 
 
 His Ally, 149 
 
 Hovey, Richard, x, 34-38 
 
 How A Cat Was Annoyed 
 
 and a Poet Was Booted, 65 
 How Jack Found that Beans 
 
 may Go Back on a Chap, 62 
 How to Catch Unicorns, 151 
 
 "/ Have a Rendezvous with 
 
 Death", 154 
 "Immortal Love", l8 
 In A Station of the Metro, 
 
 137 
 In Passing, 148 
 / Shall Not Care, 13a 
 
 Japanesque, 34 
 Johns, Orrick, 153 
 
 Jones, Thomas S., Jr., 120 
 
 Kilmer, Joyce, 152 
 Knibbs, Henry H., 79-81 
 Kreymborg, Alfred, 161 
 
 Lacquer-Prints, Two, 72 
 Le Gallienne, Richard, 41 
 Leonard, William Ellery, 
 
 91 
 Let Me Live Out My Years, 
 
 Lie-Awake Song, 96 
 
 Lincoln, 144 
 
 Lincoln, A Farmer Remem- 
 bers, 119 
 
 Lincoln Child, The, 123 
 
 Lincoln, the Man of the Peo- 
 ple, 10 
 
 Lincoln Walks at Midnight, 
 108 
 
 Lindsay, Vachel, ix, 98-108 
 
 Little Boy Blue, 6 
 
 Little Elf, The, 32 
 
 Little Things, 153 
 
 Long, Haniel, 156 
 
 Lowell, Amy, x, 68-72 
 
 Lucinda Matlock, 46 
 
 MacKaye, Percy, 90 
 Madonna of the Evening 
 
 Flowers, 71 
 Man Hunt, The, 39 
 Markham, Edwin, 9-12 
 Marquis, Don, 92 
 Masters, E. L., ix, 46-50 
 Mending Wall, 81 
 Mia Carlotta, 57 
 MiLLAY, Edna St. Vincent, 
 
 163 
 Monk in the Kitchen, The, 
 
 74 
 Moody, William Vaughn, 
 
 44-45 
 MoRLEY, Christopher, 162 
 Morning Song from " Sen- 
 
 lin", 158 
 
INDEX 
 
 169 
 
 Neihardt, John G., 115 
 Night Song at Anialfi, 133 
 Nocturne in a Deserted 
 Brickyard, 95 
 
 Old Manuscript, 161 
 
 On A Soldier Fallen in the 
 
 Philippines, 44 
 On Digital Extremities, 42 
 On Seeing Weather-Beaten 
 
 Trees, 94 
 On the Birth of A Child, 140 
 Oppenheim, James, ix, 121- 
 
 128 
 Oread, 143 
 
 Paradox, 114 
 
 Peabody, Josephine P., 73 
 Pear Tree, 143 
 Penitential Week, A, 55 
 Pitcher of Mignonette, A, 21 
 Poet to his Love, 162 
 Portrait of A Boy, 164 
 Portrait of An Old Woman, 
 
 130 
 Pound, Ezra, 135-137 
 Prayer, 137 
 Prayer, A, 9 
 Psycholophon, 43 
 Purple Cow, The, 42 
 
 Reese, Lizette M., 22-23 
 
 Richard Cory, 53 
 
 Riley. James Whitcomb, x, 
 
 13-IS 
 Rittenhouse, Jessie B., 114 
 Road Not Taken, The, 87 
 Robinson Crusoe's Story, 4 
 Robinson, Edwin Arlington, 
 
 X, 50-54 
 Robinson, E. M., 109 
 Russell, Irwin,- 15-18 
 
 Sandburg, Carl, ix, 94-96 
 ScoLLARD, Clinton, 25 
 
 Searchlights, 163 
 
 SeegeRj Alan, 154 
 
 Seein' Things, 7 
 
 Sherman, Frank Dempster, 
 24 
 
 Silence, 47 
 
 Skaters, The, 148 
 
 Slave, The, 121 
 
 Sometimes, 120 
 
 Sonnet, 129 
 
 Spelling Lesson, The, 56 
 
 Spinning in April, 73 
 
 Spring Night, 131 
 
 Stein Song, A, 36 
 
 Sterling, George, 54 
 
 Strictly Germ-proof, 56 
 
 Summons, 138 
 
 Sunday Evening in the Com- 
 mon, 149 
 
 Sunrise, 12 
 
 Tasting the Earth, 122 
 Taylor, Bert Leston, 43 
 Tears, 22 
 
 Teasdale, Sara, x, 131-133 
 Tietjens, Eunice, 133 
 
 TORRENCE, RiDGELY, 88-89 
 
 The Master, 50 
 
 The Rich Man, 115 
 
 Thomas, Edith M., 22 
 
 Those Two Boys. 116 
 
 To A Post-OMce Inkwell, 162 
 
 To the Victor, 91 
 
 Trail-Makers, The, 79 
 
 Train-Mates, 117 
 
 Trees, 152 
 
 Triad, 93 
 
 Tuft of Flowers, The, 83 
 
 Unmanifest Destiny, 37 
 
 Unrest, 92 
 
 Untermeyer, Jean Stark, 
 
 141 
 Untermeyer, Louis, 137-140 
 
 Vagabond Song, A, 3p 
 
170 INDEX 
 
 Warning, The, 94 
 Wattles, Willard, 153-156 
 Wells, Carolyn, 55-56 
 Wheelock, John Hall, 
 
 149 
 " When the Frost is on the 
 
 Punkin", 13 
 
 While Loveliness Goes By, 78 
 
 Whitman, Walt, ix 
 
 WiDDEMER, Margaret, 157 
 
 Wild Ride. The, 29 
 
 Wise, 23 
 
 Wood, C. E. S., 12 
 
 Woodberry, G. E., 18