—Hamlin Garland
I toss upon Thy grave,
(After Thy life resumed, after the pause, the backward glance of Death;
Hence, hence the vistas on, the march continued,
In larger spheres, new lives in paths untrodden,
On! till the circle rounded, ever the journey on!)
Upon Thy grave,—the vital sod how thrilled as from
Thy limbs and breast transpired,
Rises the spring’s sweet utterance of flowers,—
I toss this sheaf of song, these scattered leaves of love!
For thee, Thy Soul and Body spent for me,
—And now still living, now in love, transmitting still
Thy Soul, Thy Flesh to me, to all!—
These variant phrases of the long-immortal chant
I toss upon Thy grave!
—George Cabot Lodge
I am no slender singing bird
That feeds on puny garden seed!
My songs are stronger than those heard
In ev’ry wind-full, shallow reed!
My pipes are jungle-grown and need
A strong man’s breath to blow them well;
A strong soul’s sense to solve their spell
And be by their deep music stirred.
My voice speaks not, in lisping notes,
The madrigals of lesser minds!
My heart tones thunder from the throats
Of throbbing seas and raging winds;
And yet, the master-spirit finds
The tenderness of mother earth
Is there expressed, despite the dearth
Of tinkle tunes like dancing motes!
My hand strokes not a golden lyre
Threaded with silver—spider spun!
The strings I strike are strands of fire,
Strung from Earth’s center to the Sun!
Thrilled with passion, ev’ry one!
With songs of forest, corn, and vine;
Of rushing water, blood, and wine;
Of man’s conception and desire!
But listen, comrade! This I say:
In all of all I give my heart!
With lover’s voice I bid you stay
To share with me the better part
Of all my days! nights! thoughts! and start
With far-spread arms to welcome you,
And we will shout a song so true
That it shall ring for aye and aye.
—Ray Clarke Rose
Your lonely muse, unraimented with rhyme,
Her hair unfilleted, her feet unshod,
Naked and not ashamed demands of God
No covering for her beauty’s youth or prime.
Clad but with thought, as space is clad with time,
Or both with worlds where man and angels plod,
She runs in joy, magnificently odd,
Ruggedly wreathed with flowers of every clime.
And you to whom her breath is sweeter far
Than choicest attar of the martyred rose
More deeply feel mortality’s unrest
Than poets born beneath a happier star,
Because the pathos of your grand repose
Shows that all earth has throbbed within your breast.
—Albert Edmund Lancaster