BOOKS RECEIVED

The Lyric Year. Mitchell Kennerley. Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Houghton Mifflin Co. Shadows of the Flowers, by T. B. Aldrich. Houghton Mifflin Co. Poems and Plays, by William Vaughn Moody. Houghton Mifflin Co. Nimrod, by Francis Rolt-Wheeler. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard. The Shadow Garden and Other Plays, by Madison Cawein. G. P. Putman's Sons. Via Lucis, by Alice Harper. M. E. Church South, Nashville, Tenn. Songs of Courage and Other Poems, by Bertha F. Gordon. The Baker & Taylor Co. Narrative Lyrics, by Edward Lucas White. G. P. Putnam's Sons. The Dance of Dinwiddie, by Marshall Moreton. Stewart & Kidd Co. The Three Visions and Other Poems, by John A. Johnson. Stewart & Kidd Co. Hands Across The Equator, by Alfred Ernest Keet. Privately printed. Songs Under Open Skies, by M. Jay Flannery. Stewart & Kidd Co. Denys Of Auxerre, by James Barton. Christophers, London. Songs in Many Moods, by Charles Washburn Nichols. L. H. Blackmer Press. The Lord's Prayer. A Sonnet Sequence by Francis Howard Williams. George W. Jacobs & Co. The Buccaneers, by Don C. Seitz. Harper & Bros. The Tale of a Round-House, by John Masefield. The MacMillan Co. XXXIII Love Sonnets, by Florence Brooks. John Marone. The Poems of Ida Ahlborn Weeks. Published By Her Friends, Sabula, Iowa. The Poems of LeRoy Titus Weeks. Published by the author. Ripostes, by Ezra Pound. Stephen Swift. The Spinning Woman of the Sky, by Alice Corbin. The Ralph Fletcher Seymour Co. The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves. Maunsel & Co. Welsh Poetry Old and New, in English Verse, by Alfred Perceval Graves. Longmans, Green & Co.

Vol. I
No. 5
FEBRUARY, 1913
————

POEMS
BY
ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

SWINBURNE, AN ELEGY

I

The autumn dusk, not yearly but eternal, Is haunted by thy voice. Who turns his way far from the valleys vernal And by dark choice Disturbs those heights which from the low-lying land Rise sheerly toward the heavens, with thee may stand And hear thy thunders down the mountains strown. But none save him who shares thy prophet-sight Shall thence behold what cosmic dawning-light Met thy soul's own.

II

Master of music! unmelodious singing Must build thy praises now. Master of vision! vainly come we, bringing Words to endow Thy silence,—where, beyond our clouded powers, The sun-shot glory of resplendent hours Invests thee of the Dionysiac flame. Yet undissuaded come we, here to make Not thine enrichment but our own who wake Thy echoing fame.

III

Not o'er thy dust we brood,—we who have never Looked in thy living eyes. Nor wintry blossom shall we come to sever Where thy grave lies. Let witlings dream, with shallow pride elate, That they approach the presence of the great When at the spot of birth or death they stand. But hearts in whom thy heart lives, though they be By oceans sundered, walk the night with thee In alien land.

IV

For them, grief speaks not with the tidings spoken That thou art of the dead. No lamp extinguished when the bowl is broken, No music fled When the lute crumbles, art thou nor shalt be; But as a great wave, lifted on the sea, Surges triumphant toward the sleeping shore, Thou fallest, in splendor of irradiant rain, To sweep resurgent all the ocean plain Forevermore.

V

The seas of earth with flood tides filled thy bosom; The sea-winds to thy voice Lent power; the Grecian with the English blossom Twined, to rejoice Upon thy brow in chaplets of new bloom; And over thee the Celtic mists of doom Hovered to give their magics to thy hand; And past the moon, where Music dwells alone, She woke, and loved, and left her starry zone At thy command.

VI

For thee spake Beauty from the shadowy waters; For thee Earth garlanded With loveliness and light her mortal daughters; Toward thee was sped The arrow of swift longing, keen delight, Wonder that pierces, cruel needs that smite, Madness and melody and hope and tears. And these with lights and loveliness illume Thy pages, where rich Summer's faint perfume Outlasts the years.

VII

Outlasts, too well! For of the hearts that know thee Few know or dare to stand On thy keen chilling heights; but where below thee Thy lavish hand Has scattered brilliant jewels of summer song And flowers of passionate speech, there grope the throng Crying—"Behold! this bauble, this is he!" And of their love or hate, the foolish wars Echo up faintly where amid lone stars Thy soul may be.

VIII

But some, who find in thee a word exceeding Even thy power of speech— To whom each song,—like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding, Fallen,—can teach Tidings of that high forest whence it came Where the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flame Burns as the Autumn kindles on its quest— These rapt diviners gather close to thee:— Whom now the Winter holds in dateless fee Sealèd of rest.

IX

Strings never touched before,—strange accents chanting,— Strange quivering lambent words,— A far exalted hope serene or panting Mastering the chords,— A sweetness fierce and tragic,—these were thine, O singing lover of dark Proserpine! O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song! O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine, Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shine Down on the throng.

X

Not thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding glory Maketh men blind to thee. For them thou hast no evening fireside story. But to be free— But to arise, spurning all bonds that fold The spirit of man in fetters forged of old— This was the mighty trend of thy desire; Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mould No longer idols, but aloft to hold The soul's own fire.

XI

Yea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture; And thy strong heart has passed From youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture, Into the vast Desolate bleakness of life's iron spaces; And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces, Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control. In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven, Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge woven From thine own soul.

XII

The faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning, Dropping, like leaves. Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complaining As Time bereaves Pitiful hearts of all that they thought holy. The icy stars look down on melancholy Shelterless creatures of a pillaged day: A day of disillusionment and terror, A day that yields no solace for the error It takes away.

XIII

Thee with no solace, but with bolder passion The bitter day endowed. As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashion At last the proud Indomitable master of their tides, Who with exultant power splendidly rides The terrible summit of each whelming wave,— So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain; Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main, Strength that shall save.

XIV

Here where old barks upon new headlands shatter, And worlds seem torn apart, Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatter The mortal heart, Where the wild welter of strange knowledge won From grave and engine and the chemic sun Subdues the age to faith in dust and gold: The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth, In living witness of the spirit's truth, Like prophets old.

XV

Thee shall the future time with joy inherit. Hast thou not sung and said: "Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit, None ever led"? Time shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod, Where the soul speaks authentically of God, Sustained by glories strange and strong and new. Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heart Only to kindred can thy speech impart; And they are few.

XVI

Few men shall love thee, whom fierce powers have lifted High beyond meed of praise. But as some bark whose seeking sail has drifted Through storm of days, We hail thee, bearing back thy golden flowers Gathered beyond the Western Isles, in bowers That had not seen, till thine, a vessel's wake. And looking on thee from our land-built towers Know that such sea-dawn never can be ours As thou sawest break.

XVII

Now sailest thou dim-lighted, lonelier water. By shores of bitter seas Low is thy speech with Ceres' ghostly daughter, Whose twined lilies Are not more pale than thou, O bard most sweet, Most bitter;—for whose brow sedge-crowns were mete And crowns of splendid holly green and red; Who passest from the dust of careless feet To lands where sunrise thou hast sought shall greet Thy holy head.

XVIII

Thou hast followed after him whose hopes were greatest,— That meteor-soul divine; Near whom divine we hail thee: thou the latest Of that bright line Of flame-lipped masters of the spell of song, Enduring in succession proud and long, The banner-bearers in triumphant wars: Latest; and first of that bright line to be, For whom thou also, flame-lipped, spirit-free, Art of the stars.

TO A CHILD—TWENTY YEARS HENCE

You shall remember dimly, Through mists of far-away, Her whom, our lips set grimly, We carried forth today.

But when, in days hereafter, Unfolding time shall bring Knowledge of love and laughter And trust and triumphing,—

Then from some face the fairest, From some most joyous breast, Garner what there is rarest And happiest and best,—

The youth, the light the rapture Of eager April grace,— And in that sweetness, capture Your mother's far-off face.

And all the mists shall perish That have between you moved. You shall see her you cherish; And love, as we have loved.

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.

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.

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are the three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two your ivy vine. For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

AMONG SHADOWS

In halls of sleep you wandered by, This time so indistinguishably I cannot remember aught of it, Save that I know last night we met. I know it by the cloudy thrill That in my heart is quivering still; And sense of loveliness forgot Teases my fancy out of thought. Though with the night the vision wanes Its haunting presence still may last— As odour of flowers faint remains In halls where late a queen has passed.

A WATTEAU MELODY

Oh, let me take your lily hand, And where the secret star-beams shine Draw near, to see and understand Pierrot and Columbine.

Around the fountains, in the dew, Where afternoon melts into night, With gracious mirth their gracious crew Entice the shy birds of delight.

Of motley dress and maskèd face, Of sparkling unrevealing eyes, They track in gentle aimless chase The moment as it flies.

Their delicate beribboned rout, Gallant and fair, of light intent, Weaves through the shadows in and out With infinite artful merriment.

——————

Dear Lady of the lily hand, Do then our stars so clearly shine That we, who do not understand, May mock Pierrot and Columbine?

Beyond this garden-grove I see The wise, the noble and the brave In ultimate futility Go down into the grave.

And all they dreamed and all they sought, Crumbled and ashen grown, departs; And is as if they had not wrought These works with blood from out their hearts.

The nations fall, the faiths decay, The great philosophies go by,— And life lies bare, some bitter day, A charnel that affronts the sky.

The wise, the noble and the brave,— They saw and solved, as we must see And solve, the universal grave, The ultimate futility.

——————

Look, where beside the garden-pool A Venus rises in the grove, More suave, more debonair, more cool Than ever burned with Paphian love.

'Twas here the delicate ribboned rout Of gallants and the fair ones went Among the shadows in and out With infinite artful merriment.

Then let me take your lily hand, And let us tread, where starbeams shine, A dance; and be, and understand Pierrot and Columbine.

Arthur Davison Ficke

POEMS
BY
WITTER BYNNER

APOLLO TROUBADOUR

Could any playmate on our planet, Hid in a house of earth's own granite, Be so devoid of primal fire That a wind from this wild crated lyre Should find no spark and fan it? Would any lady half in tears, Whose fashion, on a recent day Over the sea, had been to pay Vociferous gondoliers, Beg that the din be sent away And ask a gentleman, gravely treading As down the aisle at his own wedding, To toss the foreigner a quarter Bribing him to leave the street; That motor-horns and servants' feet Familiar might resume, and sweet To her offended ears, The money-music of her peers!

Apollo listened, took the quarter With his hat off to the buyer, Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy, Led away his hurdy-gurdy Street by street, then turned at last Toward a likelier piece of earth Where a stream of chatter passed, Yesterday at noon; By a school he stopped and played Suddenly a tune.... What a melody he made! Made in all those eager faces, Feet and hands and fingers! How they gathered, how they stayed With smiles and quick grimaces, Little man and little maid!— How they took their places, Hopping, skipping, unafraid, Darting, rioting about, Squealing, laughing, shouting out! How, beyond a single doubt, In my own feet sprang the ardour (Even now the motion lingers) To be joining in their paces! Round and round the handle went,— Round their hearts went harder;— Apollo urged the happy rout And beamed, ten times as well content With every son and daughter As though their little hands had lent The gentleman his quarter.— (You would not guess—nor I deny— That that same gentleman was I!) No gentleman may watch a god With proper happiness therefrom; So street by street again I trod The way that we had come. He had not seen me following And yet I think he knew; For still, the less I heard of it, The more his music grew: As if he made a bird of it To sing the distance through.... And, O Apollo, how I thrilled, You liquid-eyed rapscallion, With every twig and twist of Spring, Because your music rose and filled Each leafy vein with dew,— With melody of olden sleigh-bells, Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells, And the heart of an Italian, And the tinkling cup and spoon,— Such a melody as star-fish, And all fish that really are fish, In a gay remote battalion Play at midnight to the moon!

ONE OF THE CROWD

Oh I longed, when I went in the woods today, To see the fauns come out and play, To see a satyr try to seize A dryad's waist—and bark his knees, To see a river-nymph waylay And shock him with a dash of spray!— And I teased, like a child, by brooks and trees: "Come back again! We need you! Please! Come back and teach us how to play!" But nowhere in the woods were they.

I found, when I went in the town today, A thousand people on their way To offices and factories— And never a single soul at ease; And how could I help but sigh and say: "What can it profit them, how can it pay To strain the eye with rivalries Until the dark is all it sees?— Or to manage, more than others may, To store the wasted gain away?"

But one of the crowd looked up today, With pointed brows. I heard him say: "Out of the meadows and rivers and trees We fauns and many companies Of nymphs have come. And we are these, These people, each upon his way, Looking for work, working for pay— And paying all our energies To earn true love ... For, seeming gay, "Once we were sad," I heard him say.

NEIGHBORS

Neighbors are not neighborly Who close the windows tight,— Nor those who fix a peeping eye For finding things not right.

Let me have faith, is what I pray, And let my faith be strong!— But who am I, is what I say, To think my neighbor wrong?

And though my neighbor may deny That faith could be so slight, May call me wrong, yet who am I To think my neighbor right?

Perhaps we wisely by and by May learn it of each other, That he is right and so am I— And save a lot of bother.

THE HILLS OF SAN JOSÉ

I look at the long low hills of golden brown With their little wooded canyons And at the haze hanging its beauty in the air— And I am caught and held, as a ball is caught and held by a player Who leaps for it in the field. And as the heart in the breast of the player beats toward the ball, And as the heart beats in the breast of him who shouts toward the player, So my heart beats toward the hills that are playing ball with the sun, That leap to catch the sun And to throw it to other hills— Or to me!

GRIEVE NOT FOR BEAUTY

Grieve not for the invisible, transported brow On which like leaves the dark hair grew, Nor for the lips of laughter that are now Laughing inaudibly in sun and dew, Nor for those limbs that, fallen low And seeming faint and slow, Shall yet pursue More ways of swiftness than the swallow dips Among ... and find more winds than ever blew The straining sails of unimpeded ships! Mourn not!—yield only happy tears To deeper beauty than appears!

THE MYSTIC

By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine,

When, "Hark!" you said,—"Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The wingèd breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill— But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill.

PASSING NEAR

I had not till today been sure, But now I know: Dead men and women come and go Under the pure Sequestering snow.

And under the autumnal fern And carmine bush, Under the shadow of a thrush, They move and learn; And in the rush

Of all the mountain-brooks that wake With upward fling To brush and break the loosening cling Of ice, they shake The air with Spring!

I had not till today been sure, But now I know: Dead youths and maidens come and go Below the lure And undertow

Of cities, under every street Of empty stress, Or heart of an adulteress: Each loud retreat Of lovelessness.

For only by the stir we make In passing near Are we confused, and cannot hear The ways they take Certain and clear.

Today I happened in a place Where all around Was silence; until, underground, I heard a pace, A happy sound.

And people whom I there could see Tenderly smiled, While under a wood of silent, wild Antiquity Wandered a child,

Leading his mother by the hand, Happy and slow, Teaching his mother where to go Under the snow. Not even now I understand— I only know.

Witter Bynner