The Second Book of Modern Verse · Chapter 12IV (2)
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Autumn. [Jean Starr Untermeyer]
(For my Mother)
How memory cuts away the years, And how clean the picture comes Of autumn days, brisk and busy; Charged with keen sunshine. And you, stirred with activity; The spirit of these energetic days.
There was our back-yard, So plain and stripped of green, With even the weeds carefully pulled away From the crooked, red bricks that made the walk, And the earth on either side so black.
Autumn and dead leaves burning in the sharp air; And winter comforts coming in like a pageant. I shall not forget them: Great jars laden with the raw green of pickles, Standing in a solemn row across the back of the porch, Exhaling the pungent dill; And in the very center of the yard, You, tending the great catsup kettle of gleaming copper Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and down Like jolly monks in a drunken dance. And there were bland banks of cabbages that came by the wagon-load, Soon to be cut into delicate ribbons Only to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers. Such feathery whiteness — to come to kraut! And after, there were grapes that hid their brightness under a grey dust, Then gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; And enamelled crab-apples that tricked with their fragrance But were bitter to taste. And there were spicy plums and ill-shaped quinces, And long string beans floating in pans of clear water Like slim, green fishes. And there was fish itself, Salted, silver herring from the city . . .
And you moved among these mysteries, Absorbed and smiling and sure; Stirring, tasting, measuring, With the precision of a ritual. I like to think of you in your years of power — You, now so shaken and so powerless — High priestess of your home.
Autumn Movement. [Carl Sandburg]
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
God's World. [Edna St. Vincent Millay]
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists that roll and rise! Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart, — Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me, — let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Overtones. [William Alexander Percy]
I heard a bird at break of day Sing from the autumn trees A song so mystical and calm, So full of certainties, No man, I think, could listen long Except upon his knees. Yet this was but a simple bird, Alone, among dead trees.
When the Year grows Old. [Edna St. Vincent Millay]
I cannot but remember When the year grows old — October — November — How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky, And turn from the window With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves Were brittle on the ground, And the wind in the chimney Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her That I wish I could forget — The look of a scared thing Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall The soft spitting snow! And beautiful the bare boughs Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire, And the warmth of fur, And the boiling of the kettle Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember When the year grows old — October — November — How she disliked the cold!
In the Monastery. [Norreys Jephson O'Conor]
Cold is the wind to-night, and rough the sea, Too rough for even the daring Dane to find A landing-place upon the frozen lea. Cold is the wind.
The blast sweeps round the chapel from behind, Making the altar-light flare fitfully, While I must kneel and pray with troubled mind.
Patrick and Brigid, I have prayed to ye! The night is over, and my task resigned To Colum. Though God's own dwelling shelter me, Cold is the wind.
The Narrow Doors. [Fannie Stearns Davis]
The Wide Door into Sorrow Stands open night and day. With head held high and dancing feet I pass it on my way.
I never tread within it, I never turn to see The Wide Door into Sorrow. It cannot frighten me.
The Narrow Doors to Sorrow Are secret, still, and low: Swift tongues of dusk that spoil the sun Before I even know.
My dancing feet are frozen. I stare. I can but see. The Narrow Doors to Sorrow They stop the heart in me.
— Oh, stranger than my midnights Of loneliness and strife The Doors that let the dark leap in Across my sunny life!
"I Pass a Lighted Window". [Clement Wood]
I pass a lighted window And a closed door — And I am not troubled Any more.
Though the road is murky, I am not afraid, For a shadow passes On the lighted shade.
Once I knew the sesame To the closed door; Now I shall not enter Any more;
Nor will people passing By the lit place, See our shadows marry In a gray embrace.
Strange a passing shadow Has a long spell! What can matter, knowing She does well?
How can life annoy me Any more? Life: a lighted window And a closed door.
Doors. [Hermann Hagedorn]
Like a young child who to his mother's door Runs eager for the welcoming embrace, And finds the door shut, and with troubled face Calls and through sobbing calls, and o'er and o'er Calling, storms at the panel — so before A door that will not open, sick and numb, I listen for a word that will not come, And know, at last, I may not enter more.
Silence! And through the silence and the dark By that closed door, the distant sob of tears Beats on my spirit, as on fairy shores The spectral sea; and through the sobbing — hark! Down the fair-chambered corridor of years, The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.
Where Love once was. [James Oppenheim]
Where love once was, let there be no hate: Though they that went as one by night and day Go now alone, Where love once was, let there be no hate.
The seeds we planted together Came to rich harvest, And our hearts are as bins brimming with the golden plenty: Into our loneliness we carry granaries of old love . . .
And though the time has come when we cannot sow our acres together, And our souls need diverse fields, And a tilling apart, Let us go separate ways with a blessing each for each, And gentle parting, And let there be no hate, Where love once was.
Irish Love Song. [Margaret Widdemer]
Well, if the thing is over, better it is for me, The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free, Far too clever a lover not to be having still A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the farther hill — Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody glen — (Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?)
Ay, if the thing is ending, now I'll be getting rest, Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest, Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore For a laugh on the path and a voice by the gate and a step on the shieling floor — Grief on my ways and grief on my work and grief till the evening's dim — (Lord, will I never hear it, never a sound of him?)
Sure if it's done forever, better for me that's wise, Never the hurt, and never tears in my aching eyes, No more the trouble ever to hide from my asking folk Beat of my heart at click o' the latch, and throb if his name is spoke; Never the need to hide the sighs and the flushing thoughts and the fret, And after awhile my heart will hush and my hungering hands forget . . . Peace on my ways, and peace in my step, and maybe my heart grown light — (~Mary, helper of heartbreak, send him to me to-night!~)
Nirvana. [John Hall Wheelock]
Sleep on — I lie at heaven's high oriels, Over the stars that murmur as they go Lighting your lattice-window far below; And every star some of the glory spells Whereof I know. I have forgotten you, long long ago; Like the sweet, silver singing of thin bells Vanished, or music fading faint and low. Sleep on — I lie at heaven's high oriels, Who loved you so.
A Nun. [Odell Shepard]
One glance and I had lost her in the riot Of tangled cries. She trod the clamor with a cloistral quiet Deep in her eyes As though she heard the muted music only That silence makes Among dim mountain summits and on lonely Deserted lakes.
There is some broken song her heart remembers From long ago, Some love lies buried deep, some passion's embers Smothered in snow, Far voices of a joy that sought and missed her Fail now, and cease . . . And this has given the deep eyes of God's sister Their dreadful peace.
Silence. [Edgar Lee Masters]
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask: For the depths, Of what use is language? A beast of the field moans a few times When death takes its young. And we are voiceless in the presence of realities — We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?" And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off." And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed. But if he could describe it all He would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, And the silence of an embittered friendship. There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life. There is the silence of defeat. There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours. There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders. There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth. And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo. And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" — Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope. And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead. If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death? Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them.
The Dark Cavalier. [Margaret Widdemer]
I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover: My arms shall welcome you when other arms are tired; I stand to wait for you, patient in the darkness, Offering forgetfulness of all that you desired.
I ask no merriment, no pretense of gladness, I can love heavy lids and lips without their rose; Though you are sorrowful you will not weary me; I will not go from you when all the tired world goes.
I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover; I promise faithfulness no other lips may keep; Safe in my bridal place, comforted by darkness, You shall lie happily, smiling in your sleep.
Indian Summer. [William Ellery Leonard]
(After completing a book for one now dead)
(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done.~) In the brown grasses slanting with the wind, Lone as a lad whose dog's no longer near, Lone as a mother whose only child has sinned, Lone on the loved hill . . . and below me here The thistle-down in tremulous atmosphere Along red clusters of the sumach streams; The shrivelled stalks of golden-rod are sere, And crisp and white their flashing old racemes. (. . . forever . . . forever . . . . forever . . .) This is the lonely season of the year, This is the season of our lonely dreams.
(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!~) The corn-shocks westward on the stubble plain Show like an Indian village of dead days; The long smoke trails behind the crawling train, And floats atop the distant woods ablaze With orange, crimson, purple. The low haze Dims the scarped bluffs above the inland sea, Whose wide and slaty waters in cold glaze Await yon full-moon of the night-to-be, (. . . far . . . and far . . . and far . . .) These are the solemn horizons of man's ways, These are the horizons of solemn thought to me.
(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!~) And this the hill she visited, as friend; And this the hill she lingered on, as bride — Down in the yellow valley is the end: They laid her . . . in no evening autumn tide . . . Under fresh flowers of that May morn, beside The queens and cave-women of ancient earth . . .
This is the hill . . . and over my city's towers, Across the world from sunset, yonder in air, Shines, through its scaffoldings, a civic dome Of piled masonry, which shall be ours To give, completed, to our children there . . . And yonder far roof of my abandoned home Shall house new laughter . . . Yet I tried . . . I tried And, ever wistful of the doom to come, I built her many a fire for love . . . for mirth . . . (When snows were falling on our oaks outside, Dear, many a winter fire upon the hearth) . . . (. . . farewell . . . farewell . . . farewell . . .) We dare not think too long on those who died, While still so many yet must come to birth.
Death — Divination. [Charles Wharton Stork]
Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood, That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves; 'T is like the web that some old perfume weaves In a dim, lonely room where memories brood; Like snow-chilled wine it steals into the blood, Spurring the pulse its coolness half reprieves; Tenderly quickening impulses it gives, As April winds unsheathe an opening bud.
Death is like all sweet, sense-enfolding things, That lift us in a dream-delicious trance Beyond the flickering good and ill of chance; But most is Death like Music's buoyant wings, That bear the soul, a willing Ganymede, Where joys on joys forevermore succeed.
The Mould. [Gladys Cromwell]
No doubt this active will, So bravely steeped in sun, This will has vanquished Death And foiled oblivion.
But this indifferent clay, This fine experienced hand, So quiet, and these thoughts That all unfinished stand,
Feel death as though it were A shadowy caress; And win and wear a frail Archaic wistfulness.
In Patris Mei Memoriam. [John Myers O'Hara]
By the fond name that was his own and mine, The last upon his lips that strove with doom, He called me and I saw the light assume A sudden glory and around him shine; And nearer now I saw the laureled line Of the august of Song before me loom, And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom, That whispered and forbade me to repine. And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank Out of the stars and faded as a flame, And down the night, on clouds of glory, came The battle seraphs halting rank on rank; And lifted heavenward to heroic peace, He passed and left me hope beyond surcease.
Ad Matrem Amantissimam et Carissimam Filii in Aeternum Fidelitas. [John Myers O'Hara]
With all the fairest angels nearest God, The ineffable true of heart around the throne, There shall I find you waiting when the flown Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod; And when the grief-retracing ways I trod Become a shining path to thee alone, My weary feet, that seemed to drag as stone, Shall once again, with wings of fleetness shod, Fare on, beloved, to find you! Just beyond The seraph throng await me, standing near The gentler angels, eager and apart; Be there, near God's own fairest, with the fond Sweet smile that was your own, and let me hear Your voice again and clasp you to my heart.
Afterwards. [Mahlon Leonard Fisher]
There was a day when death to me meant tears, And tearful takings-leave that had to be, And awed embarkings on an unshored sea, And sudden disarrangement of the years. But now I know that nothing interferes With the fixed forces when a tired man dies; That death is only answerings and replies, The chiming of a bell which no one hears, The casual slanting of a half-spent sun, The soft recessional of noise and coil, The coveted something time nor age can spoil; I know it is a fabric finely spun Between the stars and dark; to seize and keep, Such glad romances as we read in sleep.
Pierrette in Memory. [William Griffith]
Pierrette has gone, but it was not Exactly that she died, So much as vanished and forgot To tell where she would hide.
To keep a sudden rendezvous, It came into her mind That she was late. What could she do But leave distress behind?
Afraid of being in disgrace, And hurrying to dress, She heard there was another place In need of loveliness.
She went so softly and so soon, She hardly made a stir; But going took the stars and moon And sun away with her.
The Three Sisters. [Arthur Davison Ficke]
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.
Song. [Adelaide Crapsey]
I make my shroud, but no one knows — So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows.
In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.
The Unknown Beloved. [John Hall Wheelock]
I dreamed I passed a doorway Where, for a sign of death, White ribbons one was binding About a flowery wreath.
What drew me so I know not, But drawing near I said, "Kind sir, and can you tell me Who is it here lies dead?"
Said he, "Your most beloved Died here this very day, That had known twenty Aprils Had she but lived till May."
Astonished I made answer, "Good sir, how say you so! Here have I no beloved, This house I do not know."
Quoth he, "Who from the world's end Was destined unto thee Here lies, thy true beloved Whom thou shalt never see."
I dreamed I passed a doorway Where, for a sign of death, White ribbons one was binding About a flowery wreath.
Cinquains. [Adelaide Crapsey]
Fate Defied
As it Were tissue of silver I'll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
Night Winds
The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?
The Warning
Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew . . . Why am I grown So cold?
The Lonely Death. [Adelaide Crapsey]
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe In waters of ice; myself Will shiver, and shrive myself, Alone in the dawn, and anoint Forehead and feet and hands; I will shutter the windows from light, I will place in their sockets the four Tall candles and set them aflame In the grey of the dawn; and myself Will lay myself straight in my bed, And draw the sheet under my chin.
Exile from God. [John Hall Wheelock]
I do not fear to lay my body down In death, to share The life of the dark earth and lose my own, If God is there.
I have so loved all sense of Him, sweet might Of color and sound, — His tangible loveliness and living light That robes me 'round.
If to His heart in the hushed grave and dim We sink more near, It shall be well — living we rest in Him. Only I fear
Lest from my God in lonely death I lapse, And the dumb clod Lose him; for God is life, and death perhaps Exile from God.
Loam. [Carl Sandburg]
In the loam we sleep, In the cool moist loam, To the lull of years that pass And the break of stars.
From the loam, then, The soft warm loam, We rise: To shape of rose leaf, Of face and shoulder.
We stand, then, To a whiff of life, Lifted to the silver of the sun Over and out of the loam A day.
Hills of Home. [Witter Bynner]
Name me no names for my disease, With uninforming breath; I tell you I am none of these, But homesick unto death —
Homesick for hills that I had known, For brooks that I had crossed, Before I met this flesh and bone And followed and was lost. . . .
And though they break my heart at last, Yet name no name of ills. Say only, "Here is where he passed, Seeking again those hills."
The Last Piper. [Edward J. O'Brien]
Dark winds of the mountain, White winds of the sea, Are skirling the pibroch Of Seumas an Righ.
The crying of gannets, The shrieking of terns, Are keening his dying High over the burns.
Grey silence of waters And wasting of lands And the wailing of music Down to the sands,
The wailing of music, And trailing of wind, The waters before him, The mountains behind, —
Alone at the gathering, Silent he stands, And the wail of his piping Cries over the lands,
To the moan of the waters, The drone of the foam, Where his soul, a white gannet, Wings silently home.
The Provinces. [Francis Carlin]
~O God that I May arise with the Gael To the song in the sky Over Inisfail!~
Ulster, your dark Mold for me; Munster, a lark Hold for me!
Connaght, a `caoine' Croon for me; Lienster, a mean Stone for me!
~O God that I May arise with the Gael To the song in the sky Over Inisfail!~
Omnium Exeunt in Mysterium. [George Sterling]
The stranger in my gates — lo! that am I, And what my land of birth I do not know, Nor yet the hidden land to which I go. One may be lord of many ere he die, And tell of many sorrows in one sigh, But know himself he shall not, nor his woe, Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow; Nor why one star is taken from the sky. An urging is upon him evermore, And though he bide, his soul is wanderer, Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste — Where fade the tracks of all who went before: A dim and solitary traveller On ways that end in evening and the waste.
Moth-Terror. [Benjamin De Casseres]
I have killed the moth flying around my night-light; wingless and dead it lies upon the floor. (O who will kill the great Time-Moth that eats holes in my soul and that burrows in and through my secretest veils!) My will against its will, and no more will it fly at my night-light or be hidden behind the curtains that swing in the winds. (But O who will shatter the Change-Moth that leaves me in rags — tattered old tapestries that swing in the winds that blow out of Chaos!) Night-Moth, Change-Moth, Time-Moth, eaters of dreams and of me!
Old Age. [Cale Young Rice]
I have heard the wild geese, I have seen the leaves fall, There was frost last night On the garden wall. It is gone to-day And I hear the wind call. The wind? . . . That is all.
If the swallow will light When the evening is near; If the crane will not scream Like a soul in fear; I will think no more Of the dying year, And the wind, its seer.
Atropos. [John Myers O'Hara]
Atropos, dread One of the Three, Holding the thread Woven for me;
Grimly thy shears, Steely and bright, Menace the years Left for delight.
Grant it may chance, Just as they close, June may entrance Earth with the rose;
Reigning as though, Bliss to the breath, Endless and no Whisper of death.
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Biographical Notes
[The format of these notes has been slightly altered. Most notably, dates (hopefully correct, but not entirely certain for the lesser known poets) have been added — when available — in square brackets after each name, and the number of entries for that author in this anthology is in parentheses. In some cases there are several short poems under one entry. These notes (first included in 1920, whereas the selections were made in 1919) combined with the searchability of electronic texts, renders the original Indexes of Authors and of First Lines obsolete, and so both have been dropped. Occasionally, relevant comments follow in angled brackets. — A. L., 1998.]
Aiken, Conrad. [1889-1973] (3) Born at Savannah, Ga., Aug. 5, 1889. Received the degree of A.B. from Harvard University in 1912 and in August of the same year married Miss Jessie McDonald, of Montreal, Canada. Mr. Aiken's first volume of poetry, "Earth Triumphant", was published in 1914, and has been followed by "Turns and Movies", 1916; "Nocturne of Remembered Spring", 1917; and "The Charnel Rose", 1918. Mr. Aiken is a keen and trenchant critic, as well as a poet, and his volume on the modern movement in poetry, "Skepticisms", is one of the finest and most stimulating contributions to the subject. [Conrad Aiken won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1930 for "Selected Poems". — A. L., 1998.]
Akins, Zoe. [1886-1958] (1) <Zoe"> Born at Humansville, Mo., Oct. 30, 1886. Educated at home and at Monticello Seminary, Godfrey, Ill. Miss Akins began her literary work by contributing poems and critical articles to `Reedy's Mirror', St. Louis, and in 1911 published her volume of poems, "Interpretations". The drama, however, soon began to absorb her, and she has had several plays produced, including "The Magical City", "Papa", a comedy, and "Declasse", which won a great success with Ethel Barrymore in the leading role.
Anderson, Margaret Steele. [1867-1921] (2) Born in Louisville, Ky., and educated in the public schools of that city, with special courses at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss Anderson has been Literary Editor of the `Evening Post' of Louisville, and is known as one of the most discriminating critics of the South. She has published but one volume of verse, "The Flame in the Wind", 1914, but it is choice in quality. Miss Anderson is also a critic of Art and is the author of "A Study of Modern Painting".
Arensberg, Walter Conrad. [1878-1954] (2) Mr. Arensberg has been active in the new movement in poetry and was one of the group who contributed to the yearly collection called "Others". He is the author of "Idols", 1916.
Baker, Karle Wilson. [1878-1960] (2) Born in Little Rock, Ark., Oct. 13, 1878. Educated in public and private schools at Little Rock and at the University of Chicago. Mrs. Baker taught for several years in Virginia and in the High Schools of Little Rock, but in 1901 took up her residence in Texas, whither her family had preceded her, and in 1907 was married to Thomas Ellis Baker, of Nacogdoches, which is her present home. Mrs. Baker is one of the promising new writers, her first volume of verse, "Blue Smoke", having been published in 1919, by the Yale Press.
Bates, Katharine Lee. [1859-1929] (1) Born at Falmouth, Mass., Aug. 12, 1859. Was educated at Wellesley College, from which she received the degree of A.B., in 1880 and that of A.M. in 1891. She also had the honorary degree of Litt.D. conferred upon her by Middlebury College and by Oberlin. She was continuously in educational work, teaching first at Dana Hall and then in Wellesley College, where she was professor and head of the English Department. Miss Bates spent four years in foreign travel and study and published numerous books in the field of education. Her best-known volumes of verse are: "America the Beautiful", 1911; "Fairy Gold", 1916; and "The Retinue", 1918.