BOOKS RECEIVED

Bugle Notes of Courage and Love, by Althea A. Ogden. Unity Publishing Co. Altar-Side Messages, by Evelyn H. Walker. Unity Publishing Co. Dream Harbor, by J. W. Vallandingham. Privately printed. Hopeful Thoughts, by Eleanor Hope. Franklin Hudson Publishing Co. The Youth Replies, by Louis How. Sherman, French & Co. Songs of the Love Unending, A Sonnet Sequence, by Kendall Banning. Brothers of the Book. William Allingham, The Golden Treasury Series. The Macmillan Co. Idylls Beside the Strand, by Franklin F. Phillips. Sherman, French & Co. The Minstrel with the Self-Same Song, by Charles A. Fisher. The Eichelberger Book Co. The Wife of Potiphar, with Other Poems, by Harvey M. Watts. The John C. Winston Co. A Scroll of Seers, A Wall Anthology. Peter Paul & Son.

	Vol. I No. 6

MARCH, 1913
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THE SILENT HOUSE

David. [Re-reading a letter.] How may a letter bring such darkness down— With this: "She dallied with your love too long!" And this: "It is the word of all the town: "Corinna has no soul, for all her song!"

Martha. [Entering with flowers.] O sir, I bring you flaming bergamot, And early asters, for your window-sill. And where I found them? Now you'll guess it not. I visited the garden on the hill, And gathered till my arms could hold no more.

David. The garden of the little silent house!

Martha. The city lured her from her viny door. But see, the flowers have stayed!

David. They seem to drowse And dream of one they lost, a paler-blown. How fares the house upon the hill?

Martha. The blinds Are fast of late, and all are intergrown With weedy havoc tossed by searching winds.

David. How somber suddenly the sky! A shower Is in the air.

Martha. I'll light the lamps.

David. Not yet. Leave me the beauty of the twilit hour.

Martha. Hear the wind rising! How the moorings fret! More than a shower is on its way through space. I would not be aboard of yonder barque. [She goes out.] David. Corinna! Now may I recall her face. It is my light to think by in the dark. Yes, all my years of study, all the will Tenacious to achieve, the tempered strife, The victories attained through patient skill, Lie at the door of one dear human life. And yet ... the letter ... Often have I read How love relumes the flowers and the trees. True! For my world is newly garmented: Rewards seem slight, and slighter penalties. Daily companionship is more and more. To make one little good more viable, To lift one load, is worth the heart's outpour. And she—she has made all things wonderful. And yet ... the letter ... O to break a spell Wherein the stars are crumbling unto dust! There never was a hope—I know it well, And struggle on, and love because I must. Never a hope? Shall ever any scheme, Her silence, or alarm of written word, Or voiced asseveration, shake my dream? She loves me! By love's anguish, I have heard! We two from our soul-towers across a vale Are calling each to each, alert, aware. Shall one of us one day the other hail, And no reply be borne upon the air? Corinna, come to light my heart's dim place! O come to me, Belovèd and Besought, O'er grief, o'er gladness,—even o'er death apace,— For I could greet your phantom, so it brought Love's own reality!... A song of hers Seems striving hither, a faint villanelle Half smothered by the gale's mad roisterers. She used to sing it in the bracken dell. Here is the rain against the window beating In heavy drops that presage wilder storm. The lake is lost within a lurid sheeting; The house upon the hill has changed its form. The melancholy pine-trees weep in rocking. And what's that clamor at the outer door? Martha! O Martha! Somebody is knocking! [Calling.]

Martha. [Re-entering.] You hear the rills that down the gutters roar.

David. And are you deaf? The door—go open it! This is no night to leave a man outside!

Martha. [Muttering and going toward the door.] And is it I am growing deaf a bit, And blind a bit, with other ill-betide! Well, I can see to thread a needle still, And I can hear the ticking of the clock, And I can fetch a basket from the mill. But hallow me if ever I heard knock! [She throws the door open. David starts up and rushes forward with outstretched arms.] David. Corinna! You, Corinna! Drenched and cold! At last, at last! But how in all the rain! Martha! [Martha stands motionless, unseeing.] Good Martha, you are growing old! Draw fast the shades—shut out the hurricane. Here, take the dripping cloak from out the room; Bring cordial from the purple damson pressed, And light the lamps, the candles—fire the gloom. Why stand you gaping? See you not the guest?

Martha. I opened wide the door unto the storm. But never heard I step upon the sill. All the black night let in no living form. I see no guest. Look hard as e'er I will, I see none here but you and my poor self.

David. The room that was my mother's room prepare. Spread out warm garments on the oaken shelf— Her gown, the little shawl she used to wear. [Martha, wide-eyed, bewildered, lights the lamps and candles and goes out, raising her hands.] Corinna. The moments I may tarry fade and press. Something impelled me hither, some clear flame. They said I had no soul! O David, yes, They said I had no soul! And so I came. I have been singing, singing, all the way, O, singing ever since the darkness grew And I grew chill and followed the small ray. Lean close, and let my longing rest in you!

David. Dear balm of light, I never thought to win From out the pallid hours for ever throbbing! How did you know the sorrow I was in?

Corinna. A flock of leaves came sobbing, sobbing, sobbing.

David. O, now I hold you fast, my love, my own, My festival upleaping from an ember! But, timid child, how could you come alone Across the pathless woods?

Corinna. Do you remember?— Over the summer lake one starry, stilly, Sweet night, when you and I were drifting, dear, I frighted at the shadow of a lily! It is all strange, but now I have no fear.

David. Your eyes are weary, drooping. Sleep, then, sleep.

Corinna. I must go over to the silent house.

David. The dwelling stands forsaken up the steep, With never beast nor human to arouse!

Corinna. Soon will the windows gleam with many lamps. Hark!—heavy wheels are toiling to the north.

David. I will go with you where the darkness ramps.

Corinna. Strong arms are in the storm to bear me forth.

David. Not in these garments dripping as the trees! Not in these clinging shadows!

Corinna. Ah, good-night! Dear love, dear love, I must go forth in these. Tomorrow you shall see me all in white.

Agnes Lee

THE ORACLE (To the New Telescope on Mt. Wilson)

Of old sat one at Delphi brooding o'er The fretful earth;—ironically wise, Veiling her prescience in dark replies, She shaped the fates of men with mystic lore. The oracle is silent now. No more Fate parts the cloud that round omniscience lies. But thou, O Seer, dost tease our wild surmise With portents passing all the wealth of yore. For thou shalt spell the very thoughts of God! Before thy boundless vision, world on world Shall multiply in glit'ring sequence far; And all the little ways which men have trod Shall be as nothing by His star-dust whirled Into the making of a single star.

A GARGOYLE ON NOTRE DAME

With angel's wings and brutish-human form, Weathered with centuries of sun and storm, He crouches yonder on the gallery wall, Monstrous, superb, indifferent, cynical: And all the pulse of Paris cannot stir Her one immutable philosopher.

Edmund Kemper Broadus

SANTA BARBARA BEACH

Now while the sunset offers, Shall we not take our own: The gems, the blazing coffers, The seas, the shores, the throne?

The sky-ships, radiant-masted, Move out, bear low our way. Oh, Life was dark while it lasted, Now for enduring day.

Now with the world far under, To draw up drowning men And show them lands of wonder Where they may build again.

There earthly sorrow falters, There longing has its wage; There gleam the ivory altars Of our lost pilgrimage.

—Swift flame—then shipwrecks only Beach in the ruined light; Above them reach up lonely The headlands of the night.

A hurt bird cries and flutters Her dabbled breast of brown; The western wall unshutters To fling one last rose down.

A rose, a wild light after— And life calls through the years, "Who dreams my fountains' laughter Shall feed my wells with tears."

Ridgely Torrence

MATERNITY

One wept, whose only babe was dead, New-born ten years ago. "Weep not; he is in bliss," they said. She answered, "Even so.

"Ten years ago was born in pain A child, not now forlorn; But oh, ten years ago in vain A mother, a mother was born."

Alice Meynell

PROFITS

Yes, stars were with me formerly. (I also knew the wind and sea; And hill-tops had my feet by heart. Their shaggéd heights would sting and start When I came leaping on their backs. I knew the earth's queer crooked cracks, Where hidden waters weave a low And druid chant of joy and woe.)

But stars were with me most of all. I heard them flame and break and fall. Their excellent array, their free Encounter with Eternity, I learned. And it was good to know That where God walked, I too might go.

Now, all these things are passed. For I Grow very old and glad to die. What did they profit me, say you, These distant bloodless things I knew? Profit? What profit hath the sea Of her deep-throated threnody? What profit hath the sun, who stands Staring on space with idle hands? And what should God Himself acquire From all the aeons' blood and fire?

My profit is as theirs: to be Made proof against mortality: To know that I have companied With all that shines and lives, amid So much the years sift through their hands, Most mortal, windy, worthless sands.

This day I have great peace. With me Shall stars abide eternally!

TWO SONGS OF CONN THE FOOL MOON FOLLY

I will go up the mountain after the Moon: She is caught in a dead fir-tree. Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl, Like a great pale apple is she.

I will leap and will clasp her in quick cold hands And carry her home in my sack. I will set her down safe on the oaken bench That stands at the chimney-back. And then I will sit by the fire all night, And sit by the fire all day. I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart's delight, Till I gnaw her slowly away.

And while I grow mad with the Moon's cold taste, The World may beat on my door, Crying "Come out!" and crying "Make haste! And give us the Moon once more!" But I will not answer them ever at all; I will laugh, as I count and hide The great black beautiful seeds of the Moon In a flower-pot deep and wide. Then I will lie down and go fast asleep, Drunken with flame and aswoon. But the seeds will sprout, and the seeds will leap: The subtle swift seeds of the Moon.

And some day, all of the world that beats And cries at my door, shall see A thousand moon-leaves sprout from my thatch On a marvellous white Moon-tree! Then each shall have moons to his heart's desire: Apples of silver and pearl: Apples of orange and copper fire, Setting his five wits aswirl. And then they will thank me, who mock me now: "Wanting the Moon is he!" Oh, I'm off to the mountain after the Moon, Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree!

WARNING

You must do nothing false Or cruel-lipped or low; For I am Conn the Fool, And Conn the Fool will know.

I went by the door When Patrick Joyce looked out. He did not wish for me Or any one about.

He thought I did not see The fat bag in his hand. But Conn heard clinking gold, And Conn could understand.

I went by the door Where Michael Kane lay dead. I saw his Mary tie A red shawl round her head.

I saw a dark man lean Across her garden-wall. They did not know that Conn Walked by at late dusk-fall.

You must not scold or lie, Or hate or steal or kill, For I shall tell the wind That leaps along the hill;

And he will tell the stars That sing and never lie; And they will shout your sin In God's face, bye and bye.

And God will not forget, For all He loves you so.— He made me Conn the Fool, And bade me always know!

STORM DANCE

The water came up with a roar, The water came up to me. There was a wave with tusks of a boar, And he gnashed his tusks on me. I leaned, I leapt, and was free. He snarled and struggled and fled. Foaming and blind he turned to the sea, And his brothers trampled him dead.

The water came up with a shriek, The water came up to me. There was a wave with a woman's cheek, And she shuddered and clung to me. I crouched, I cast her away. She cursed me and swooned and died. Her green hair tangled like sea-weed lay Tossed out on the tearing tide.

Challenge and chase me, Storm! Harry and hate me, Wave! Wild as the wind is my heart, but warm, Sudden and merry and brave. For the water comes up with a shout, The water comes up to me. And oh, but I laugh, laugh out! And the great gulls laugh, and the sea!

Fannie Stearns Davis

DIRGE FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL

What woman but would be Rid of thy mastery, Thou bully of the sea?

No more the gray sea's breast Need answer thy behest; No more thy sullen gun Shall greet the risen sun, Where the great dreadnaughts ride The breast of thy cold bride; Thou hast fulfilled thy fate: Need trade no more with hate!

Nay, but I celebrate Thy long-to-be-lorn mate, Thy mistress and her state, Thy lady sea's lorn state. She hath her empery Not only over thee But o'er our misery.

Hark, doth she mourn for thee?

Nay, what hath she of grief? She knoweth not the leaf That on her bosom falls, Thou last of admirals!

Under the winter moon She singeth that fierce tune, Her immemorial rune; Knoweth not, late or soon, Careth not Any jot For her withholden boon To all thy spirit's pleas For infinite surcease!

If, on this winter night, O thou great admiral That in thy sombre pall Liest upon the land, Thy soul should take his flight And leave the frozen sand, And yearn above the surge, Think'st thou that any dirge, Grief inarticulate From thy bereaved mate, Would answer to thy soul Where the waste waters roll?

Nay, thou hast need of none! Thy long love-watch is done!

SPRING-SONG

Early some morning in May-time I shall awaken When the breeze blowing in at the window Shall bathe me With the delicate scents Of the blossoms of apples, Filling my room with their coolness And beauty and fragrance— As of old, as of old, When your spirit dwelt with me, My heart shall be pure As the heart that you gave me.

A SWEETHEART: THOMPSON STREET

Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue Stretches her slender limbs From the great Arch of Triumph, on,— On, where the distance dims

The splendors of her jewelled robes, Her granite draperies; The magic, sunset-smitten walls That veil her marble knees;

For ninety squares she lies a queen, Superb, bare, unashamed, Yielding her beauty scornfully To worshippers unnamed.

But at her feet her sister glows, A daughter of the South: Squalid, immeasurably mean,— But oh! her hot, sweet mouth!

My Thompson Street! a Tuscan girl, Hot with life's wildest blood; Her black shawl on her black, black hair, Her brown feet stained with mud;

A scarlet blossom at her lips, A new babe at her breast; A singer at a wine-shop door, (Her lover unconfessed).

Listen! a hurdy-gurdy plays— Now alien melodies: She smiles, she cannot quite forget The mother over-seas.

But she no less is mine alone, Mine, mine!... Who may I be? Have I betrayed her from her home? I am called Liberty!

THE OFF-SHORE WIND

The skies are sown with stars tonight, The sea is sown with light, The hollows of the heaving floor Gleam deep with light once more, The racing ebb-tide flashes past And seeks the vacant vast, A wind steals from a world asleep And walks the restless deep.

It walks the deep in ecstasy, It lives! and loves to free Its spirit to the silent night, And breathes deep in delight; Above the sea that knows no coast, Beneath the starry host, The wind walks like the souls of men Who walk with God again.

The souls of men who walk with God! With faith's firm sandals shod, A lambent passion, body-free, Fain for eternity! O spirit born of human sighs, Set loose 'twixt sea and skies, Be thou an Angel of mankind, Thou night-unfettered wind!

Bear thou the dreams of weary earth, Bear thou Tomorrow's birth, Take all our longings up to Him Until His stars grow dim; A moving anchorage of prayer, Thou cool and healing air, Heading off-shore till shoreless dawn Breaks fair and night is gone.

Samuel McCoy

"THE HILL-FLOWERS" "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills."

Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, Ere I waken in the city—Life, thy dawn makes all things new! And up a fir-clad glen, far from all the haunts of men, Up a glen among the mountains, oh my feet are wings again!

Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, O mountains of my boyhood, I come again to you, By the little path I know, with the sea far below, And above, the great cloud-galleons with their sails of rose and snow;

As of old, when all was young, and the earth a song unsung And the heather through the crimson dawn its Eden incense flung From the mountain-heights of joy, for a careless-hearted boy, And the lavrocks rose like fountain sprays of bliss that ne'er could cloy,

From their little beds of bloom, from the golden gorse and broom, With a song to God the Giver, o'er that waste of wild perfume; Blowing from height to height, in a glory of great light, While the cottage-clustered valleys held the lilac last of night,

So, when dawn is in the skies, in a dream, a dream, I rise, And I follow my lost boyhood to the heights of Paradise. Life, thy dawn makes all things new! Hills of Youth, I come to you, Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.

Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, Floats a brother's face to meet me! Is it you? Is it you? For the night I leave behind keeps these dazzled eyes still blind! But oh, the little hill-flowers, their scent is wise and kind;

And I shall not lose the way from the darkness to the day, While dust can cling as their scent clings to memory for aye; And the least link in the chain can recall the whole again, And heaven at last resume its far-flung harvests, grain by grain.

To the hill-flowers clings my dust, and tho' eyeless Death may thrust All else into the darkness, in their heaven I put my trust; And a dawn shall bid me climb to the little spread of thyme Where first I heard the ripple of the fountain-heads of rhyme.

And a fir-wood that I know, from dawn to sunset-glow, Shall whisper to a lonely sea, that swings far, far below. Death, thy dawn makes all things new. Hills of Youth, I come to you, Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.

Alfred Noyes