EIGHT HARVARD POETS

E. ESTLIN CUMMINGS
S. FOSTER DAMON
J. R. DOS PASSOS
ROBERT HILLYER
R. S. MITCHELL
WILLIAM A. NORRIS
DUDLEY POORE
CUTHBERT WRIGHT

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NEW YORK
LAURENCE J. GOMME
1917

Copyright, 1917, by
LAURENCE J. GOMME

VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

CONTENTS

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E. ESTLIN CUMMINGS

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[THOU IN WHOSE SWORD-GREAT STORY SHINE THE DEEDS]

Thou in whose sword-great story shine the deeds

Of history her heroes, sounds the tread

Of those vast armies of the marching dead,

With standards and the neighing of great steeds

Moving to war across the smiling meads;

Thou by whose page we break the precious bread

Of dear communion with the past, and wed

To valor, battle with heroic breeds;

Thou, Froissart, for that thou didst love the pen

While others wrote in steel, accept all praise

Of after ages, and of hungering days

For whom the old glories move, the old trumpets cry;

Who gav'st as one of those immortal men

His life that his fair city might not die.

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A CHORUS GIRL

When thou hast taken thy last applause, and when

The final curtain strikes the world away,

Leaving to shadowy silence and dismay

That stage which shall not know thy smile again,

Lingering a little while I see thee then

Ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;

I see the red mouth tarnished, the face grey,

And smileless silent eyes of Magdalen.

The lights have laughed their last; without, the street

Darkling, awaiteth her whose feet have trod

The silly souls of men to golden dust.

She pauses, on the lintel of defeat,

Her heart breaks in a smile—and she is Lust ...

Mine also, little painted poem of God.

This is the garden: colors come and go,

Frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing,

Strong silent greens serenely lingering,

Absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow

Upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing,

Of harps celestial to the quivering string,

Invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap,

And on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,

In other lands where other songs be sung;

Yet stand They here enraptured, as among

The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

It may not always be so; and I say

That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch

Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

His heart, as mine in time not far away;

If on another's face your sweet hair lay

In such a silence as I know, or such

Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,

Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

If this should be, I say if this should be—

You of my heart, send me a little word;

That I may go unto him, and take his hands,

Saying, Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird

Sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

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CREPUSCULE

I will wade out

till my thighs are steeped in burn-

ing flowers

I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air

Alive

with closed eyes

to dash against darkness

in the sleeping curves of my

body

Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery

with chasteness of sea-girls

Will I complete the mystery

of my flesh

I will rise

After a thousand years

lipping

flowers

And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

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FINIS

Over silent waters

day descending

night ascending

floods the gentle glory of the sunset

In a golden greeting

splendidly to westward

as pale twilight

trem-

bles

into

Darkness

comes the last light's gracious exhortation

Lifting up to peace

so when life shall falter

standing on the shores of the

eternal

god

May I behold my sunset

Flooding

over silent waters

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THE LOVER SPEAKS

Your little voice

Over the wires came leaping

and I felt suddenly

dizzy

With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers

wee skipping high-heeled flames

courtesied before my eyes

or twinkling over to my side

Looked up

with impertinently exquisite faces

floating hands were laid upon me

I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing

up

Up

with the pale important

stars and the Humorous

moon

dear girl

How I was crazy how I cried when I heard

over time

and tide and death

leaping

Sweetly

your voice

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EPITAPH

Tumbling-hair

picker of buttercups

violets

dandelions

And the big bullying daisies

through the field wonderful

with eyes a little sorry

Another comes

also picking flowers

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S. FOSTER DAMON

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INCESSU PATUIT DEUS

The little clattering stones along the street

Dance with each other round my swimming feet;

The street itself, as in some crazy dream,

Streaks past, a half-perceived material stream.

Brighter than early dawn's most brilliant dye

Are blown clear bands of color through the sky,

That swirl and sweep and meet, to break and foam

Like rainbow veils upon a bubble's dome.

Yours are the songs that burst about my ears,

Or blow away as many-colored spheres.

You are the star that made the skies all bright,

Yet tore itself away in flaming flight;

You are the tree that suddenly awoke;

You are the rose that came to life and spoke....

Guided by you, how we might stroll towards death,

Our only music one another's breath,

Through gardens intimate with hollyhocks,

Where silent poppies burn between the rocks,

By pools where birches bend to confidants

Above green waters scummed with lily-plants.

There we might wander, you and I alone,

Through gardens filled with marble seats moss-grown,

And fountains—water-threads that winds disperse—

While in the spray the birds sit and converse.

And when the fireflies mix their circling glow

Through the dark plants, then gently might I know

Your lips, light as the wings of the dragon-flies....

—Merely dreams, fluttering in my eyes....

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[YOU THOUGHT I HAD FORGOTTEN]

You thought I had forgotten. Well, I had!

(Although I never guessed I could forget

Those few great moments when we both went mad.)

The other day at someone's tea we met,

Smiling gayly, bowed, and went our several ways,

Complacent with successful coldness.—Yet

Suddenly I was back in the old days

Before you felt we ought to drift apart.

It was some trick—the way your eyebrows raise,

Your hands—some vivid trifle. With a start

Then I remembered how I lived alone,

Writing bad poems and eating out my heart

All for your beauty.—How the time has flown!

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VENICE

In a sunset glowing of crimson and gold,

She lies, the glory of the world,

A beached king's galley, whose sails are furled,

Who is hung with tapestries rich and old.

Beautiful as a woman is she,

A woman whose autumn of life is here,

Proud and calm at the end of the year

With the grace that now is majesty.

The sleeping waters bathe her sides,

The warm, blue streams of the Adrian Sea;

She dreams and drowses languorously,

Swayed in the swaying of the tides.

She is a goddess left for us,

Veiled with the softening veils of time;

Her blue-veined breasts are now sublime,

Her moulded torso glorious.

The pity that we must come and go—!

While the old gold and the marble stays,

Forever gleaming its soft strong blaze,

Calm in the early evening glow.

And still the sensitive silhouettes

Of the gondolas pass and leave no track,

Light on the tides as lilies, and black

In the rippling waters of long sunsets.

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THE NEW MACABER

The pleasant graveyard of my soul

With sentimental cypress trees

And flowers is filled, that I may stroll

In meditation, at my ease.

The little marble stones are lost

In flowers surging from the dead;

Nor is there any mournful ghost

To wail until the night is sped.

And while night rustles through the trees,

Dragging the stars along, I know

The moon is rising on the breeze,

Quivering as in a river's flow.

And ah! that moon of silver sheen!

It is my heart hung in the sky;

And no clouds ever float between

The grave-flowers and my heart on high.

I do not read upon each stone

The name that once was carven there;

I merely note new blossoms blown

And breathe the perfume of the air.

Thus walk I through my wonderland

While all the evening is atune,

Beneath the cypress trees that stand

Like candles to the barren moon.

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TO WAR

The music beats, up the chasmed street,

Then flares from around the curve;

The cheers break out from the waving crowd:

—Our soldiers march, superb!

Over the track-lined city street

The young men, the grinning men, pass.

Last night they danced to that very tune;

Today they march away;

Tomorrow, perhaps no band at all,

Or the band beside the grave.

Above, in the long blue strip of sky,

The whirling pigeons, the thoughtless pigeons, pass.

Another band beats down the street;

Contending rhythms clash;

New melodies win place, then fade,

And the flashing legs move past.

Down the cheering, grey-paved street

The fringed flags, the erect flags, pass.

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CALM DAY, WITH ROLLERS

Always the ships that move in mystery, on the dim horizon,

Shadow-filled sails of dreams, sliding over the blue-grey ocean,

Far from the rock-edged shore where willow-green waves are rushing,