O F THIS edition of THE EAR TRUMPET, by Annie C. Dalton, two hundred and fifty copies have been printed. This Chap-book is a product of The Ryerson Press, Toronto, Canada. Copies of this Chap-book may be secured from The Ryerson Press, Toronto, and from Macrae Smith Com- pany, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 0, I WILL SHUT MY EYES. Oh, I will shut my eyes to see the moon Knowing that thus he ever will be there. Insurgent senses lock you t magic up, Seal up the visual world, however fair. Then I’ll see moons of silver gold and white. Our fading moons escaping in their mist; Harsh moons, red-hot, that burn into the night, Branding the dark with unforgiving light. I'll shut my ears to each enticing tune A bird may sing or streams on pebbles play; Then in my heart such harmonies will ring As wash the music of the world away. I’ll seal my nostrils to each scented thought That hides in flowered shade or sunlit prison. Such things as these by senses can't be bought, Eden itself is growing in my heart. If I were crippled, deaf and dumb and blind. And all the colors of the world turned out, Jn the grey emptiness I then would find The answer to the riddle: sight is doubt. Had I no eyes how clearly would I see; Had I no ears how deeply would I hear; Freed of all proof at last myself I’d be Without confusion, phantasy or fear. —ELIZABETH BIBESCO. The Ear Trumpet By Annie C. Dalton Author of The Marriage Music, Flame and Adventure, etc. Down the trumpet scornful Edith sang and chortled her fine solo of the Judgment- day, and crack of DOOM. . . . Auntie prattled of her boy-scouts, Edith roaring of the Judgment- day, still roaring down the trumpet — Some day Edith, too, may need one. How she’ll shiver when she knows it, thinking of that scornful solo, thinking of the Day of Judgment; of the solo, of her laughter; of her laughter and the trumpet; of HER dreadful, dreadful trumpet and the crashing Trump of Doom! Foolish, foolish Edith Sitwell sang a solo of her auntie, her rich auntie and her trumpet, such a trumpet as old ladies give to stranger- folk to blow in. * * * TO ELIZABETH BIBESCO O PEN thine eyes and gloat upon the moon, Now, whilst thou canst lest he no more be there Open thine eyes and drink the magic up. The magic of this world so good and fair. Oh, speak not of those spectral livid moons, Of fading moons escaping in their mist, Red moons, brain-burning through the lurid night, Searing the mused and hapless exorcist. Shut not thine ears to each enticing tune, Lest no bird sing, nor stream on pebble play, Lest in thy heart such deviltries should ring As drench and wash thy earth and heaven away. Seal not thy nostrils to each scented thought That hides in flowered shade, or sunlit prison, Oh, lovely things by senses can be bought: On perfume souls to Eden have arisen. If thou wert crippled, deaf and dumb, and blind, With all the odours of the world turned out, In that grey emptiness thou then shouldst find No answer to life’s riddle, do not doubt. Hadst thou no eyes, how dimly wouldst thou see; Hadst thou no ears, how dully wouldst thou hear, Straining to hold thy waning self, to be Lost in confusion, phantasy and fear. Vain as thy moons the words which thou hast said, Frail as thy moons this fancy thou hast spun, Nought canst thou know of Living-Death — his dead Salute and pardon thee, mistaken one! Ah! could we now but hear as thou canst hear — And if we could but see as thou canst see — And if we too could run as thou canst run — How very far from Hades we would flee! In austere beauty lives thy lovely song, (Unholily so wed to barren untruth) Mournful and sweet, that beauty aches, we long For our lost usage, splendour, power and youth. TO VIOLA MEYNELL I 1A/E WERE just saying— l had not thought V V That anyone so moving tale could tell Of those experiences too dearly bought, That on them knowing hearts should care to dwell. We were just saying — Have you thus said With kindly gesture to a bursting heart? Have you? . . . Then blessing be upon your head! Like Mary, you have chosen the loving part. We were just saying— Was that kind word Once said to you waiting in silent pain? And did you know the joy of hope deferred — The joy of having some dear soul explain? We were just saying— 0 simple thing! But, ’tis the simple things that make life glad; Deaf though the ears, birds in the heart can sing, Thrice deafened are the ears when the heart is sad. We were just saying— Strange tale well told— How many hearts will bless the loving thought? How many callous ones will fear the bold Light, you have thrown on the havoc they have wrought. II They were just saying— But you I may not tell, Tis such a dreadful story It must have been thought out in hell. The story of your father — Who died; The story of your mother too— A guiltless homicide; And you sit there in innocence, In semi-silence, trustful ignorance, The misery unheard! Oh, not by a word. Or ever a glance Of mine, must pass To you. . . . This frightful tragedy that was Of one, the slain, and one that slew, Two lovers to each other true. They were just saying — Nay! but those innocent eyes, So eloquently praying To share the eagerness, the great surprise Upon their animated faces. Pierce to my very heart— Ah! what sweet lies Shall I call up to fill the places Of those grim tales, so grossly nurtured, vile? Dear lady with the wistful smile! Ask me no more what the tart tongues say— Cold, evil spite their speech debases. And I— I can but pray, “Ask me no more!” Hot is my heart and sore. Pure is the air without the door, . . . Ah! come away, The very furniture grimaces! * * * MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF SAID— M arie bashkirtseff said, (From some dim place she said) So many years I have been dead To this dull world, and still Good folks are saying with a will, “Surely, surely Marie was past praying for.” Or “She was wilful, she was wild, Half a savage, half a child.” “In such a year,” they say, She threw all decency away, So and so, thus and thus; Credulous and mutinous, Calamitous and amorous, Were the things she gloried in;” All their humour turned to gall, One and all On my reputation fall, And smack their lips on storied sin. “Farrago! Snobbish and selfish farrago!’* That is their name for thee, Beloved diary! Come, let us make enquiry, Is that all these Philistines can know? Then let the true and tragic tale begin, Of that and this, Right well I wis, None ever heard These say a word. Of this, the horror that I knew, The serpent grief that coiled and threw Its small, glittering eyes on me, Green and snaky eyes that held All my will, and me compelled To the numbing misery Of some fascinated bird — Of all this, Well I wis- Never a word! Of this, the hooded snake that drew And watched me circle round and round, Of how I fluttered, fell, and flew Frantic spaces from the ground; Of the singing in my ears. Hideous clamour, mocking jeers, Of the devastating fears, Dear and familiar things unheard, Of the awful hope deferred — Oh, well I wis Of all this — Never a word! Of the hidden, dull despair, Of the grievous lassitude. Of the crowning horror where Blossomed love and plenitude; Of the odious, choking shame, Dissimulation, anger, blame, Embarrassment, I overcame, Of ridicule, mistakes absurd, Of all this, Of all this anguish borne in secret, Loss of trust in God and man, Of the great ambition shattered. Budding hope and darling plan; Of the soundless wind and rain Beating on the window-pane; Of the untruths told in vain; Of the voiceless bird and beast, Of the songless, laughless feast, Of the mind to madness spurred, Never a word! Of life’s last keen extremity, Fear of laughter, fear of pity, Of the death that would not smite, Of my heart pierced-uncontrite, Living, thrilling, mad-to-live, Quick, ceremented, splenitive, Broken heart! Of my youth so over-yeared, Of all this, Too well I wis, Not a word. . . . Ah! never a word. 1. “The Ear-Trumpet,” an answer to the poem, “Solo for Ear-Trumpet, by Edith Sitwell, in “Modern British Poetry,” by Louis Untermeyer. — Harcourt, Brace & Co. 2. “To Elizabeth Bibesco,’ will shut my eyes.” a parody on her poem, “0, I 3. To Viola Meynell,” a poem in two parts; the first one addressed to the author of a striking short story, entitled “We Were Just Saying,” illustrates that phrase, with which a thoughtful person usually begins an explanation of a conversation to one who is partially deaf, and which is always so welcome and productive of delight. . The second half of the poem portrays the thoughtlessness with which people so often discuss the affairs of the deafened in their presence. The story is included in Mrs. Meynell’s book, “Young Mrs. Cruse. ’ — Harcourt , Brace & Co. 4. “Marie Bashkirtseff said:” A protest against the action of her reviewers, who, whilst criticizing her conduct severely, usually omit the agony of her growing deafness, and the remarkable account which she gives of it— the most poignant and comprehensive description of partial deafness ever written. THE RYERSON POETRY CHAP-BOOKS Lome Pierce — Editor