I

'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze, A prosy little village, You drowse away the days.

And yet — a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living lyric story Makes music of your prose.

Here once, returning never, The feet of song have trod; And flashed — Oh, once forever! — The singing Flame of God.

II

These were his fields Elysian: With mystic eyes he saw The sowers planting vision, The reapers gleaning awe.

Serfs to a sordid duty, He saw them with his heart, Priests of the Ultimate Beauty, Feeding the flame of art.

The weird, untempled Makers Pulsed in the things he saw; The wheat through its virile acres Billowed the Song of Law.

The epic roll of the furrow Flung from the writing plow, The dactyl phrase of the green-rowed maize Measured the music of Now.

III

Sipper of ancient flagons, Often the lonesome boy Saw in the farmers' wagons The chariots hurled at Troy.

Trundling in dust and thunder They rumbled up and down, Laden with princely plunder, Loot of the tragic Town.

And once when the rich man's daughter Smiled on the boy at play, Sword-storms, giddy with slaughter, Swept back the ancient day!

War steeds shrieked in the quiet, Far and hoarse were the cries; And Oh, through the din and the riot, The music of Helen's eyes!

Stabbed with the olden Sorrow, He slunk away from the play, For the Past and the vast To-morrow Were wedded in his To-day.

IV

Rich with the dreamer's pillage, An idle and worthless lad, Least in a prosy village, And prince in Allahabad;

Lover of golden apples, Munching a daily crust; Haunter of dream-built chapels, Worshipping in the dust;

Dull to the worldly duty, Less to the town he grew, And more to the God of Beauty Than even the grocer knew!

V

Corn for the buyers, and cattle — But what could the dreamer sell? Echoes of cloudy battle? Music from heaven and hell?

Spices and bales of plunder Argosied over the sea? Tapestry woven of wonder, And myrrh from Araby?

None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, Looter of Samarcand! Gold is heavy and yellow, And value is weighed in the hand!

VI

And yet, when the years had humbled The Kings in the Realm of the Boy, Song-built bastions crumbled, Ash-heaps smothering Troy;

Thirsting for shattered flagons, Quaffing a brackish cup, With all of his chariots, wagons — He never could quite grow up.

The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, He never could comprehend: Why should the borrowers borrow? Why should the lenders lend?

Never an oak tree borrowed, But took for its needs — and gave. Never an oak tree sorrowed; Debt was the mark of the slave.

Grass in the priceless weather Sucked from the paps of the Earth, And the hills that were lean it fleshed with green — Oh, what is a lesson worth?

But still did the buyers barter And the sellers squint at the scales; And price was the stake of the martyr, And cost was the lock of the jails.

VII

Windflowers herald the Maytide, Rendering worth for worth; Ragweeds gladden the wayside, Biting the dugs of the Earth;

Violets, scattering glories, Feed from the dewy gem: But dreamers are fed by the living and dead — And what is the gift from them?

VIII

Never a stalk of the Summer Dreams of its mission and doom: Only to hasten the Comer — Martyrdom unto the Bloom.

Ever the Mighty Chooser Plucks when the fruit is ripe, Scorning the mass and letting it pass, Keen for the cryptic type.

Greece in her growing season Troubled the lands and seas, Plotted and fought and suffered and wrought — Building a Sophocles!

Only a faultless temple Stands for the vassal's groan; The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife Blend in a graven stone.

Ne'er do the stern gods cherish The hope of the million lives; Always the Fact shall perish And only the Truth survives.

Gardens of roses wither, Shaping the perfect rose: And the poet's song shall live for the long, Dumb, aching years of prose.

IX

King of a Realm of Magic, He was the fool of the town, Hiding the ache of the tragic Under the grin of the clown.

Worn with the vain endeavor To fit in the sordid plan; Doomed to be poet forever, He longed to be only a man;

To be freed from the god's enthralling, Back with the reeds of the stream; Deaf to the Vision calling, And dead to the lash of the Dream.

X

But still did the Mighty Makers Stir in the common sod; The corn through its awful acres Trembled and thrilled with God!

More than a man was the sower, Lured by a man's desire, For a triune Bride walked close at his side — Dew and Dust and Fire!

More than a man was the plowman, Shouting his gee and haw; For a something dim kept pace with him, And ever the poet saw;

Till the winds of the cosmic struggle Made of his flesh a flute, To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune Unto the million mute.

XI

Son of the Mother of mothers, The womb and the tomb of Life, With Fire and Air for brothers And a clinging Dream for a wife;

Ever the soul of the dreamer Strove with its mortal mesh, And the lean flame grew till it fretted through The last thin links of flesh.

Oh, rending the veil asunder, He fled to mingle again With the dred Orestean thunder, The Lear of the driven rain!

XII

Once in a cycle the comet Doubles its lonesome track. Enriched with the tears of a thousand years, Aeschylus wanders back.

Ever inweaving, returning, The near grows out of the far; And Homer shall sing once more in a swing Of the austere Polar Star.

Then what of the lonesome dreamer With the lean blue flame in his breast? And who was your clown for a day, O Town, The strange, unbidden guest?

XIII

~'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze; A prosy little village, You drowse away the days.

And yet — a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living, lyric story Makes music of your prose!~

The New Life. [Witter Bynner]

Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth, Told him that truth Had unappealably been said In the great masterpieces of the dead: — Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head In acquiescent honour, while his heart Held natal tidings, — that a new life is the part Of every man that's born, A new life never lived before, And a new expectant art; It is the variations of the morn That are forever, more and more, The single dawning of the single truth. So answers Dante to the heart of youth!

Martin. [Joyce Kilmer]

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth.

Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, — Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress. Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success.

As in the Midst of Battle there is Room. [George Santayana]

As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind.

Ex Libris. [Arthur Upson]

In an old book at even as I read Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, I crossed a tale of how, in other age, At Arqua, with his books around him, sped The word to Petrarch; and with noble head Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage To Silence paid his willing seigniorage. And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!"

Thus timely from old comradeships would I To Silence also rise. Let there be night, Stillness, and only these staid watchers by, And no light shine save my low study light — Lest of his kind intent some human cry Interpret not the Messenger aright.

The Poet. [Mildred McNeal Sweeney]

Himself is least afraid When the singing lips in the dust With all mute lips are laid. For thither all men must. Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song Upon the faithful air And given it speed — is strong That last strange hour to dare, Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time That greater self shall pass, And wear its eager prime And lend the youth it has Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest And now — his word gone forth — May have his perfect rest Low in the tender earth, The wind across his breast.

When I have gone Weird Ways. [John G. Neihardt]

When I have finished with this episode, Left the hard, uphill road, And gone weird ways to seek another load, Oh, friends, regret me not, nor weep for me, Child of Infinity!

Nor dig a grave, nor rear for me a tomb To say with lying writ: "Here in the gloom He who loved bigness takes a narrow room, Content to pillow here his weary head, For he is dead."

But give my body to the funeral pyre, And bid the laughing fire, Eager and strong and swift, like my desire, Scatter my subtle essence into space, Free me of time and place.

And sweep the bitter ashes from the hearth, Fling back the dust I borrowed from the earth Into the chemic broil of death and birth, The vast alembic of the cryptic scheme, Warm with the master-dream.

And thus, O little house that sheltered me, Dissolve again in wind and rain, to be Part of the cosmic weird economy. And, Oh, how oft with new life shalt thou lift Out of the atom-drift!

Trumbull Stickney. [George Cabot Lodge]