BOOKS RECEIVED
The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems, by William Ellery Leonard. B. W. Huebsch. Romance, Vision and Satire: English Alliterative Poems of the XIV Century, Newly Rendered in the Original Metres, by Jessie L. Weston. Houghton Mifflin Co. Etain The Beloved, by James H. Cousins. Maunsel & Co. Uriel and Other Poems, by Percy MacKaye. Houghton Mifflin Co. The Unconquered Air, by Florence Earle Coates. Houghton Mifflin Co. A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, by Amy Lowell. Houghton Mifflin Co. The Lure of the Sea, by J. E. Patterson. George H. Doran Co. The Roadside Fire, by Amelia Josephine Burr. George H. Doran Co. By the Way. Verses, Fragments and Notes, by William Allingham. Arranged by Helen Allingham. Longmans, Green & Co. Gabriel, A Pageant of Vigil, by Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher. Pilgrimage to Haunts of Browning, by Pauline Leavens. The Bowrons, Chicago. The Wind on the Heath, Ballads and Lyrics, by May Byron. George H. Doran. Valley Song and Verse, by William Hutcheson. Fraser, Asher & Co. The Queen of Orplede, by Charles Wharton Stork. Elkin Mathews. Pocahontas, A Pageant, by Margaret Ullman. The Poet Lore Co. Poems, by Robert Underwood Johnson. The Century Co. Songs Before Birth, Isabelle Howe Fiske. Thomas B. Mosher. Book Titles From Shakespeare, by Volney Streamer. Thomas B. Mosher. A Bunch of Blossoms, Little Verses for Little Children, by E. Gordon Browne. Longmans, Green & Co. June on the Miami, by William Henry Venable. Stewart & Kidd. The Tragedy of Etarre, A Poem, by Rhys Carpenter. Sturgis & Walton Co. In Other Words, by Franklin P. Adams. Doubleday, Page & Co. Verses and Sonnets, by Julia Stockton Dinsmore. Doubleday, Page & Co. Anna Marcella's Book of Verses, by Cyrenus Cole. Printed for Personal Distribution. Atala, An American Idyl, by Anna Olcott Commelin. E. P. Dutton & Co. Spring in Tuscany, an Authology. Thos. B. Mosher.
| Vol. I No. 4 | |
| JANUARY, 1913 | |
| ———— |
GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN (To be sung to the tune of The Blood Of The Lamb with indicated instruments.)
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? The saints smiled gravely, and they said, "He's come," Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?Bass Drum Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravos from the ditches dank, Drabs from the alleyways and drug-fiends pale— Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail! Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of death— Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over—Booth had groaned for more. Every banner that the wide world flies
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang! Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang,Banjo Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free! Loons with bazoos blowing blare, blare, blare— On, on, upward through the golden air. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.Bass drums Booth led boldly and he looked the chief:slower and softer Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land.
Jesus came from out the Court-House door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. Booth saw not, but led his queer ones thereFlutes Round and round the mighty Court-House square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new sweet world.
Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!Bass drums Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl;louder and faster Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean. Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
The hosts were sandalled and their wings were fire— Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir.Grand Chorus— Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?tambourines— Oh, shout Salvation! it was good to seeall instruments Kings and princes by the Lamb set free.in full blast The banjos rattled, and the tambourines Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of queens!
And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master through the flag-filled air.Reverently sung— Christ came gently with a robe and crownno instruments For Booth the soldier while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesus—they were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
WASTE LAND
Briar and fennel and chincapin, And rue and ragweed everywhere; The field seemed sick as a soul with sin, Or dead of an old despair, Born of an ancient care.
The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr, And the note of a bird's distress, With the rasping sound of the grasshopper, Clung to the loneliness Like burrs to a trailing dress.
So sad the field, so waste the ground, So curst with an old despair, A woodchuck's burrow, a blind mole's mound, And a chipmunk's stony lair, Seemed more than it could bear.
So lonely, too, so more than sad, So droning-lone with bees— I wondered what more could Nature add To the sum of its miseries ... And then—I saw the trees.
Skeletons gaunt that gnarled the place, Twisted and torn they rose— The tortured bones of a perished race Of monsters no mortal knows, They startled the mind's repose.
And a man stood there, as still as moss, A lichen form that stared; With an old blind hound that, at a loss, Forever around him fared With a snarling fang half bared.
I looked at the man; I saw him plain; Like a dead weed, gray and wan, Or a breath of dust. I looked again— And man and dog were gone, Like wisps of the graying dawn....
Were they a part of the grim death there— Ragweed, fennel, and rue? Or forms of the mind, an old despair, That there into semblance grew Out of the grief I knew?
Madison Cawein
MY LADY OF THE BEECHES
Here among the beeches Winds and wild perfume, That the twilight pleaches Into gleam and gloom, Build for her a room.
Her, whose Beauty cometh, Misty as the morn, When the wild bee hummeth, At its honey-horn, In the wayside thorn.
As the wood grows dimmer, With the drowsy night, Like a moonbeam glimmer Here she walks in white, With a firefly-light.
Moths around her flitting, Like a moth she goes; Here a moment sitting By this wilding rose, With my heart's repose.
Every bough that dances Has assumed the grace Of her form: and Fancies, Flashed from eye and face, Brood about the place.
And the water, shaken In its plunge and poise, To itself has taken Quiet of her voice, And restrains its joys.
Would that these could tell me What and whence she is; She, who doth enspell me, Fill my soul with bliss Of her spirit kiss.
Though the heart beseech her, And the soul implore, Who is it may reach her— Safe behind the door Of all woodland lore?
Madison Cawein
THE WAYFARERS
Earth, I dare not cling to thee Lest I should lose my precious soul.
'Tis not more wondrous than the fluff Within the milkweed's autumn boll.
Earth, shall my sacred essences But sink into thy senseless dust?
The springtide takes its way with them— And blossoms blow as blossoms must.
Earth, I swear with solemn vow, I feel a greatness in my breath!
The grass-seed hath its dream of God, Its visioning of life and death.
Anita Fitch
LES CRUELS AMOUREUX
Two lovers wakened in their tombs— They had been dead a hundred years— And in the langue of old Provence They spoke of ancient tears.
"M'amour," she called, "I've pardoned you;" (How sad her dreaming seemed to be!) "When I had kissed your dead face once Love's sweet returned to me."
"M'amour," he called, "it was too late." (How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!) "Blessed the soul that love forgives," He whispered, "ere it dies."
And then they turned again and slept With must and mold in ancient way; And so they'll sleep and wake, 'tis told, Until the Judgment Day.
ENVOI
O damoiseau et damoiselle, Guard ye your loving while ye live! Sin not against love's sacred flame— While yet ye may, forgive.
Anita Fitch
LOVE-SONGS OF THE OPEN ROAD
MORNING
The morning wind is wooing me; her lips have swept my brow. Was ever dawn so sweet before? the land so fair as now? The wanderlust is luring to wherever roads may lead, While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but heed?
The forest whispers of its shades; of haunts where we have been,— And where may friends be better made than under God's green inn? Your mouth is warm and laughing and your voice is calling low, While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but go?
NOON
The bees are humming, humming in the clover; The bobolink is singing in the rye; The brook is purling, purling in the valley, And the river's laughing, radiant, to the sky!
The buttercups are nodding in the sunlight; The winds are whispering, whispering to the pine; The joy of June has found me; as an aureole it's crowned me Because, oh best belovèd, you are mine!
In Arcady by moonlight, (Where only lovers go), There is a pool where only The fairest roses grow.
Why are the moonlit roses So sweet beyond compare? Among their purple shadows My love is waiting there.
————————
To Arcady by moonlight The roads are open wide, But only joy can enter And only joy abide.
There is the peace unending That perfect faith can know— In Arcady by moonlight, Where only lovers go.
Kendall Banning
SYMPATHY
As one within a moated tower, I lived my life alone; And dreamed not other granges' dower, Nor ways unlike mine own. I thought I loved. But all alone As one within a moated tower I lived. Nor truly knew One other mortal fortune's hour. As one within a moated tower, One fate alone I knew. Who hears afar the break of day Before the silvered air Reveals her hooded presence gray, And she, herself, is there? I know not how, but now I see The road, the plain, the pluming tree, The carter on the wain. On my horizon wakes a star. The distant hillsides wrinkled far Fold many hearts' domain. On one the fire-worn forests sweep, Above a purple mountain-keep And soar to domes of snow. One heart has swarded fountains deep Where water-lilies blow: And one, a cheerful house and yard, With curtains at the pane, Board-walks down lawns all clover-starred, And full-fold fields of grain. As one within a moated tower I lived my life alone; And dreamed not other granges' dower Nor ways unlike mine own. But now the salt-chased seas uncurled And mountains trooped with pine Are mine. I look on all the world And all the world is mine.
Edith Wyatt
A SONG OF HAPPINESS
Ah Happiness: Who called you "Earandel"? (Winter-star, I think, that is); And who can tell the lovely curve By which you seem to come, then swerve Before you reach the middle-earth? And who is there can hold your wing, Or bind you in your mirth, Or win you with a least caress, Or tear, or kiss, or anything— Insensate happiness?
Once I thought to have you Fast there in a child: All her heart she gave you, Yet you would not stay. Cruel, and careless, Not half reconciled, Pain you cannot bear; When her yellow hair Lay matted, every tress; When those looks of hers, Were no longer hers, You went: in a day She wept you all away.
Once I thought to give You, plighted, holily— No more fugitive, Returning like the sea: But they that share so well Heaven must portion Hell In their copartnery: Care, ill fate, ill health, Came we know not how And broke our commonwealth. Neither has you now.
Some wait you on the road, Some in an open door Look for the face you show'd Once there—no more. You never wear the dress You danced in yesterday; Yet, seeming gone, you stay, And come at no man's call: Yet, laid for burial, You lift up from the dead Your laughing, spangled head.
Yes, once I did pursue You, unpursuable; Loved, longed for, hoped for you— Blue-eyed and morning brow'd. Ah, lovely happiness! Now that I know you well, I dare not speak aloud Your fond name in a crowd; Nor conjure you by night, Nor pray at morning-light, Nor count at all on you:
But, at a stroke, a breath, After the fear of death, Or bent beneath a load; Yes, ragged in the dress, And houseless on the road, I might surprise you there. Yes: who of us shall say When you will come, or where? Ask children at their play, The leaves upon the tree, The ships upon the sea, Or old men who survived, And lived, and loved, and wived. Ask sorrow to confess Your sweet improvidence, And prodigal expense And cold economy, Ah, lovely happiness!
Ernest Rhys
HELEN IS ILL
When she is ill my laughter cowers; An exile with a broken rhyme, My head upon the breast of time, I hear the heart-beat of the hours; I close my eyes without a sigh; The vision of her flutters by As glints the light of Mary's eyes Upon the lakes in Paradise.
I seem to reach an olden town And enter at the sunset gate; And as the streets I hurry down, I find the men are all elate, As if an angel of the Lord Had passed with dearest word and nod, Remembered like a yearning chord Of songs the people sing to God; I come upon the sunrise gate— As silent as her listless room— There seven beggers sing and wait And this the song that breaks the gloom:
God a 'mercy is most kind; She the fairest passed this way; We the lowest were not blind; God a 'mercy bless the day.
Roscoe W. Brink
VERSES, TRANSLATIONS, AND REFLECTIONS FROM
"The Anthology"
HERMES OF THE WAYS
The hard sand breaks, And the grains of it Are clear as wine.
Far off over the leagues of it, The wind, Playing on the wide shore, Piles little ridges, And the great waves Break over it.
But more than the many-foamed ways Of the sea, I know him Of the triple path-ways, Hermes, Who awaiteth.
Dubious, Facing three ways, Welcoming wayfarers, He whom the sea-orchard Shelters from the west, From the east Weathers sea-wind; Fronts the great dunes.
Wind rushes Over the dunes, And the coarse, salt-crusted grass Answers.
Heu, It whips round my ankles!
II
Small is This white stream, Flowing below ground From the poplar-shaded hill, But the water is sweet.
Apples on the small trees Are hard, Too small, Too late ripened By a desperate sun That struggles through sea-mist.
The boughs of the trees Are twisted By many bafflings; Twisted are The small-leafed boughs.
But the shadow of them Is not the shadow of the mast head Nor of the torn sails.
Hermes, Hermes, The great sea foamed, Gnashed its teeth about me; But you have waited, Where sea-grass tangles with Shore-grass.
H. D.
PRIAPUS Keeper-of-Orchards
I saw the first pear As it fell. The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness!) And I fell prostrate, Crying, Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms; Spare us the beauty Of fruit-trees!
The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, And I alone was prostrate.
O rough-hewn God of the orchard, I bring thee an offering; Do thou, alone unbeautiful (Son of the god), Spare us from loveliness.
The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.
H. D.
EPIGRAM (After the Greek)
The golden one is gone from the banquets; She, beloved of Atimetus, The swallow, the bright Homonoea: Gone the dear chatterer; Death succeeds Atimetus.
H. D., "Imagiste."