title: The valley of Enna & other poems of 1922. The growing dawn, and Spirit of the lower north side; plays of 1922
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Chicago - cOVICI-M?GEE CO. -1923 CONTENTS PAGE "Eroica”.1 The Withered Garden.1 A Winter Narcissus.3 A Resurrection.4 Alice.5 La Flute Enchantee.6 The Grave at Kelmscott.7 After the Years.8 The Still, Small Voice.9 A Convention of Alley Kats.10 Humoresque.11 The Valley of Enna.12 Lilac Flames.17 The Marble Nymph.18 Contentment.19 A Poet’s Thoughts.20 Castled Rocks.21 Galena Hills.22 White Birches.23 Sun Flowers.24 Washington Square.25 -. H ■ i V “EROICA” (Symphony No. 3) Beethoven A great life has entered the tomb. The low sob of violins Carries an elegy of remembrance As they breathe its tender melancholy. The double bass re-echoes These falling tears of despair At its hopeless loss Without a resurrection. The trumpets’ cry of desolation Is the wailing desert Of wild barbaric winds That have blasphemed their oasis. Out of all comes silence And the growing tide of hope In a unison of sweeter harmony, Saddened by recollection. The comfort of despair Rises in a louder cry Of praise: Farewell, beloved Chief, for Eternity’s rest! Theodore Thomas Memorial THE WITHERED GARDEN A Tone Poem All the shadows there are Have fallen,— All the twilights draped In darkness. [1] Greenness has changed To grayness— Withered grayness In the dry leaves And the black stalks, Trembling in the wind. The sigh of the branches Is woeful memory Of a life fulfilled. Of a life run its course And passed into the tomb, With dying prayers On its lips, That it may come again Unto its garden of joy In the resurrection of spring. A lonesome bird Flits from the naked branch, Strangely caressed By the chilling breath Of winter rimes That make forlorn its plaintive song. The passion of life Lies deep buried in a winter’s sleep. Withered romance Has fallen To the frozen bosom of earth, Hopeless in despair. In its soul there burns The flickering spark Of dying memories, Where lost youth Vaunts itself In a boasted strength, Now strangled and helpless. Undying life, With its flickering spark, Lit from the fire of heaven [2] That ne’er grows cold, Sleeps and dreams Of the sun, Whose calling, coming closer, And speaking louder, Rouses the sleeping spark With the breath of a gentle wind That blows it Into glow again. The withered garden Stirs in its sleep, memories Of the sweetness of past loves, Un forgotten; Lingering in the souls of its dead, They listen, For the gaining march of spring. O soul of resurrection, Wave the wand of a newer life O’er my withered garden, That it may awaken to youth once more. The Chicago Orchestra. A WINTER NARCISSUS It seemed as if the sensuous breath Of a thousand Edens Was borne on the quiet air When my white narcissus bloomed Its fragrance in a last farewell. The poignant grief of despairing life Shed itself in the burning tears of a drooping face, As if to say: Your memory of one will be the stronger As I recede— You know the sweetness of my soul. I pour out to you, as a legacy, All the gathered nectar of my life \ [ 3 ] From the first day, When you gave me drink And turned my greenness to the sun, I have felt your companionship,— Yet was dumb to speak my gratitude. I sensed the joy of the bursting buds That came in later days,— For I knew then my soul would speak to you In thankfulness For all your care and solicitude. In these few days that remain to me, Before I wither away And lose my joy of expression, I give you gladly From my deepest wells, The emblems of my existence: Fragrance, and beauty— These two that are my part In the blossoming of the Universe. For you they will be added Beauty and fragrance to your soul— These I bequeath to you That nothing may be lost of the joy of life. A RESURRECTION Thoughts that have long been sleeping Arouse themselves at the growing light. Softly come forth the clustering blossoms Of Spring. The winter thoughts of the trees Have burst at their impatient waiting; Swelling ecstasies That come to a fruition of whiteness. How the ghosts of another life Break into realities, As the warmth of the kissing sun Aligns them anew to the pleading harmonies— [ 4 ] The great soul of things That bids an expression of beauty. Restless ghosts they are, Playing the scheme of an invisible life Until the desire of expression Arouses them to action. The white clusters tell the story Of great divinity, Seeking to show the fragrance of beauty As the caressing force of creation. What a boundless warehouse Of unseen sweetness there is That seeks the open stage of day On which to play its fitting part. O, strange and beauteous manifests Of some desire eternal, That all life shall cry for joy In the springtides of its impulse. You bring the growing light and warmth Of a fulsome heart That the green youth of a world May spring forth As token of undying thoughts That sleep themselves in freshness To come again In the newer glory of a resurrection. ALICE Sweet Alice! No other name Seems so fit as I look on your face again. How oft, as the years of my life Have sped, one by one, Has your joyous youth Filled and o’erflowed my ageing heart. Your never changing smile of freshness Still looks down on me, As it has in the two generations of years r s i Which have passed Since first I met you in your gilded frame And I learned to feel the rhythm of your swaying step. How few unchanging things there are; All vital life is movement Toward a better end—or worse, maybe— Yet still thou art the same, The same sweet Alice Whom I knew so long ago When youth to me, too, was the rhythm of swaying step;— Yet mine has gone, And with my eyes and senses dulled, I stand in envied musing of those days When each of us could say of life: “Thou jewel of unchanging things that never dies.” Yes, so it is to me That in the glass I see myself As changing thing of a changing world— Yet in your face another world Reflects itself, in which beauty once bestowed Remains fore’er. Youth challenges The march of Time, nor feels the hand of Fate In deadly workmanship. ’Tis this I envy you, sweet youth; The coming years will bring the passing throngs To look upon your silent face Where beauty, once adorned, has never passed away. A lice , William M. Chase The Art Institute LA FLUTE ENCHANTEE (Ravel) The forest lies still in the moonlight. An enchantment of silver white robes Brings its spell of expectant silence, And awaits the overture of night. [6] Now the haunting maiden spirit sips The dew of the green forest’s still breath.— Hungry eyes and eagerness for life As moon in a silver silence dips. A pool in the quiet forest deeps Grows white lotus flowers—iris fair And grasses bending tall, stand sedate While spirit of the coy maiden sleeps. The place of the maiden’s golden dreams, By pool of the white lotus flowers, Is where enchantments lure their fair nymphs When the fragile moonlight intervenes. This haunting maid is the wind of night, With silver notes of a spirit flute, Rustling to life sleeping forest leaves— Waking the dawn of tomorrow’s light. THE GRAVE AT KELMSCOTT When I see strong and beautiful grass Growing on the grave of one Who has lived a strong and beautiful life I feel the brotherhood of strength and beauty. Burne-Jones and William Morris Were equal parts of a pattern of art Which flames with an incandescence Reaching far out into the years;— Years of growing poverty to a world That had gone on with their unfinished work In its idle hands, And for which there was no fit executor or assign. The light of a great personality flickered out On that October day of eighteen hundred ninety-six. Morris had been like some great viking of old Set down in the midst of these later years To breathe a spirit of Art and Human Brotherhood. [ 7 ] Books and manuscripts, Looms and vats, Tenderness for the decaying structures Of early England which bespoke the disintegration of Time, Roused his interest In a fascination of iron Which made of him their crying voice in a wilderness. The call to Odin came in the autumn day. Michaelmas daisies, Thinning willows of dull, tarnished gold, Rooks silent in the elms, Apples strewing the orchard grass. In the garden the yew dragon untrimmed,— A few pink roses and sweet peas Lingered with the dahlias and crysanthemums As the door of the tomb opened For him to enter and there await the advent of the winter’s snows. These winter snows are eternal— But the touch of this dead on life Has forged, too, its wreath of beautiful immortality. In Memoriam William Morris AFTER THE YEARS I wandered thro’ an old house today Where every room had something to say. Gone were the years and the people too, But thro’ the shadows soft visions flew, And I felt caressing hands I knew. Half a century has passed me by Since I left this house with tearful eye; The world was a romance to me then But the house its starting place had been— And now I’m back in the nest again. [ 8 ] Time has worked on with a quiet zest Testing all things—the bad and the best; All things that we love must meet this fate And the old house, ’tis sad to relate, Hovering Time yearns to desecrate. It shivers and shakes in North Wind’s breath— Echoing rooms are footsteps of death; Faded walls with their flowers of grime Telling years of a half century’s time— All stand before me in misery’s rhyme. And so I drop here a tear—a sigh As memory rebuilds the days gone by. Time’s mist entrances—its vistas elate The old home again I fain would create— Could heaven’s wide sky more azure translate? THE STILL, SMALL VOICE There’s a wide flowing river that leads to the sea— It pleads in siren song to me; I cannot always trace its way, Nor will it hesitate and for a moment stay, To tell me why it is hurrying day by day. Does it lead to horizons broad— To some sweet world of strangeness by my feet untrod? Oft I stand in the silence of its grassy shores, When moonlight’s flood resistless pours, To wonder why it never rests; What relentless master commands unceasing quests In the far off world of an ocean’s boundlessness. Still the placid face only smiles To pass, with a regretful look that reconciles. But this river and I are bound by friendship’s ties— It moves along with smiles and sighs; Speaks of a world beyond—unknown— To which, all unwittingly, it has strangely flown. Will I let it lead me there where the mysteries shown Tell a secret the river knows,— An ocean’s Nirvana, to which each pilgrim goes? [ 9 ] A CONVENTION OF ALLEY KATS (Fast , with Restless Energy) Mr. Tom Was chasing his lady friend About the backyard of the hotel When the sun suddenly collapsed And fell behind the overheated mountains. A multitude of pale moons Arose and began to babble their little troubles To a great Universe Which tried to preserve its serenity In the calmness of the night. Tears trickled adown the faces of these little moons As the wails of the alley kats Arose in the pink atmosphere of the barnyard. (With Quiet Languor) The first violins purred, As if to appease the restless Tom, But the glittering saffron of a thousand female eyes Only spurred him on. His mind swelled and swelled, until the orbits of his eyes Sank into the palpitating flesh around them And he fell into a morass Of deep languor. It must have been the midnight orgies Of an overfed stomach For the rising clash of the cubist harmonies Made a nightmare That paled to insignificance the song of the kats. (With Triumphal Sweep) Fairly Fast Mr. Tom Finally awoke from his purple dream, The gray dawn of a better life Was slyly creeping, with the female kats, Down the alley like a slinking shadow. Each note was sobbing [ 10 ] The triumph of the dawn— With a sudden crash the sun awakened And dried the tears of night. In a low sweet murmur of the violins The majesty of day Cast its blushing radiance on a world It had loved and lost and now loved again, While Mr. Tom Shed a parting tear as the baton fell on the field of carnage. Impressions of Leo Sowerby s Symphony No. I Chicago Orchestra HUMORESQUE Yes, she was quite a decided brunette— Black, snappy eyes— Hauteur— All that goes with money riches— Perhaps inherited—maybe married; At any rate the possessor of a fine electric coupe And going down the boulevard alone. Nature had shed a few tears And the pavement was moist— Too moist for uncorded tires Which some people use. This was her misfortune, For a skidding machine racing toward her Seemed like a cruel Juggernaut. But it wasn’t, And was satisfied to push her rather gently Into a stone safety post Lying complacently in the middle of the boulevard. This put her out of action for a while anyway And there was not much to do But take a street-car and go home. [11] It was a new experience to ride in a street-car, And when the gentlemanly conductor Gave her a thin strip of paper In exchange for her eight cents She knew not its purport. The giver b^ing a man of humor, Seeing her look of inquiry, Politely advised her To keep it, As, when she had collected twelve of them, Upon presentation at the office of the Company, She would receive in exchange A photograph of the motorman. Upon telling the glad news To her husband later It is not surprising to learn That the humorous conductor Was soon looking for A new job Where his peculiar talents would be better appreciated. THE VALLEY OF ENNA The breath of Zephyrus Fondly kisses the Valley of Enna. The Valley of Enna Is the valley of sweetness. In all Sicily shines not the sun More kindly, For Demeter, the Mother goddess, And her fair daughter, Persephone, Dwell therein. The days come and go In this Golden Age, And Time interweaves everywhere The spirit of a carefree eternity. [12] Nature’s tranquil moods Brood with a hovering tenderness In this glad valley of Sicily; The colors of rainbows Shimmer and laugh in the petals Of all its flowers— Roses, hyacinths, lilies, and the purple iris. Persephone and the valley nymphs Play amongst them, And their joyous chatter Is the sound of laughing music. One splendid flower stands by itself, Majestic, alone, supremely beautiful To the young girl’s eyes Nothing can withstand its fascination. In the ecstasy of the moment Persephone grasps its stem, That the fragrance of a bountiful life Might be hers, And there come to pass In consequence, Events that change the Golden Age To a world where both joy and sorrow Commingle with the passing seasons. At her side, In the transformation of a moment, The earth beneath the flower Has opened. From its cavern depths Appears a chariot of gold, Drawn by horses hued to the blackest coal. And in the chariot’s seat Sits a king—a smileless king— Long lost in darkness’ depths. Pluto is his name. In his loneliness he calls Upon the greater gods, And their sympathy for him Lends the beauty and smile of Persephone. [ 13 ] As his bride it is That he takes her now Beside him in his chariot Down into the realm called Hades— The abode of the dead, For there his kingdom is And there he must remain. Very great and terrible Was the sorrow of Demeter, the Mother, At this strange loss Of her heart’s delight. No recompense could be hers— The world of sweet joyousness Became a tearful sea Wherein her sorrows merged themselves To conspire for vengeance! For was she not the goddess of the fruitful Earth— And thus resolved was she That if her child did not return, No longer would the Valley smile With corn and wine. Her messengers sent she far abroad: The great white crane That brings the rain from pastures of the mist; At night the torches Lit on Aetna’s heights Lent the distant skies a glare; But alas, no returning tale Of joy to her. At length the thought of one Who sat upon a glowing seat To cross the skies each day, Brought consolation’s balm. Helios, the sun god It was, who told her this: That Pluto, lonesome king of Hades, With Zeus’ consent, Had taken the playing nymph away To the shades’ abode [ 14 ] Which lies beneath the earth— Nor could she evermore return. And now at this The Mother god was sorely wrought, Nor comforted could be. What cause could greater gods have found To do this cruel thing? Resolved was she to punish them And from all the earth Take life of growing things Until repentance sought their heal again. So it was, without her care, The trees no blossoms bore, The fields were gray and bare; No colors flowered, While Nature stood with leaden eyes In vacant stare. Zeus, on great Olympus, Paused, and in his compassion For the Earth Mother, Seeing that her sorrows must be healed, Called Iris To set her rainbowed bridge across the sky And quickly go to comfort Demeter. Only the return of the Spring maiden Could do this, And Pluto was commanded to bring her back to Earth. Do this he must; For none dared disobey the voice of Zeus. But craftily he tempted her To eat a certain fruit, The seeds of which would keep her love Fore’er alive— Then took her in his chariot Back to Earth again That life could lift its head To joyousness. The strings of Hermes’ lyre In prologue’s song of sweetness, [ 15 ] Told Demeter to dry her tears— For now had Zeus returned The missing joy That life and gladness might again Fill all the fields and vales. Certain fruits in Pluto’s realm Demeter had learned, Gave lasting potions of the heart’s desire Whereby unbound again Could never be the hold of love. Persephone knew this binding force, And to her Mother Told the story of the pomegranate seeds Whereby her contract now must be To stay on Earth from early Spring ’Til harvest-time; Then again return To Hades ’til desire of Earth for Spring Should importune. “Grieve not, dear Mother, Kindness received I from Pluto’s hand; His nobility inspires my love And now at his hands My freedom on Earth For eight months of each year shall be, But for four months Must I remain with him beneath the world. Let us then be comforted, Our mourning turn to joy, And together, once again, Return to the fields of Enna That the Earth may renew its gladness.” Thus the Golden Age passed Into seasons of joy and sadness. Demeter and Persephone Returned to the Island of Sicily With the wand of renewing life For its valleys and fields. Soon the yellow corn swayed in the breeze, The olive and the grape put forth their sprouts, [ 16 ] And the brown grass became green. The trees and the flowers awakened To the melody of the birds and the bees. Once again The Valley of Enna became the valley of sweetness Fondly kissed by the breath of Zephyrus. Thus, under the new dispensation, Persephone brought the sunshine warmth Of Spring and Summer, and Autumn To her goddess Mother; But when Winter came Hermes drove the golden chariot With the coal-black horses To claim the Spring maiden For Pluto’s time of reward. Thus the world now sleeps For a season of cold and frost, Until the Spring maiden’s return To gladden the Earth with seedtime and harvest. LILAC FLAMES White and purple flames of love Burn fiercely on the lilacs— The heart burst of Spring That speaks God’s voice To Youth. The world of laughing flame— A blazing torch To light Spring’s bridal feast Of blossomed petals— Fragile white faces— Long buried Winter sweetness Drawn to a gateway Of Sun’s desire. Is this the heart Of Divinity Opening itself To a resurrection of hope? [ 17 ] The warmth of a great love Is in this laughing flame Where the wind wooer Plays his lisping flute. Faint wood voices call With the green spirit breath Of untired trees, Whose newborn leaves Make another sky To the forest— A blue canopy hidden By the clasp of branches Borne to each other’s arms Where tender leaves kiss. ’Tis now, this symphony of Nature In which there sounds the triumph of Spring, Leads the procession of virgins To a Sun Whose white hot flame burns them to fruition. THE MARBLE NYMPH Yes, I kissed those cold lips of marble,— She was a wood nymph, Sitting carelessly—yet thoughtfully By a leafy stream, With the shell of a mollusk in her hand And her eyes dreaming of something far away—• I know not of what. Her lips were of cold marble Because she was the child of a sculptor— Some dream of his that had become visible— Some dream that would never pass away; A mood as persistent as the tides, And it bid me stay That I, too, might dream a lasting dream. [IB] Her pensive gaze Seemed to tell of a long-lost time Of rapture— Something once born into her life Only to find its little day of joy too soon outlived— Then a passing on to dull monotony. I could fancy her the child Of a Pygmalion, Born ne’er to feel the breath of life But sweetly cold in everlasting death; One to tell her story silently, In the whispering wind, As the stone face looked back at her From the leafy stream. I said in life such beauty grows to decay, The joys of a changing world Pass with each futile hour And are gone forever; So I clasped my stone beauty in my arms And pressed her cold lips with mine, While her eyes looked away, As in the sweet sleep of a dead love That fades not nor changes As time weaves the ever-passing years. Nymph with a Shell , Art Institute CONTENTMENT How trite the stories of the centuries run— There are the pioneers who find No prepared places— Are forgers of their way Thro’ unbroken wildernesses O’er run by the freedom of wildness. ’Tis through wildness that the places Of accomplishment beckon. [ 19 ] One century stands before a dozen As the resting-place Of the hunter Who has blazed his way to the goal. The mine of the blazing jewels Lies hidden in the deeps— Far away, through unbroken forests, Across distant seas. Privation, poverty, the allure of unknown shores— Separation from the familiar— Songs of strange birds—the tropic maze. To possess—the passion to possess What men at home call wealth— A sacredness that law builds walls about, As birds build strong nests of straw In which to hide their blue shell jewels. I sit at a little window Rocking myself to calmness as the twilight grows; One by one the stars of night Take their places before me in the sky. I say to myself: These are the jewels which have come out Of those far away places Where the men have gone In the peril of the jungle fever. I wonder why they struggle so—these men; Why pioneers must feel the pangs Of hope, and fear, and despair While I can sit and rock in the twilight And the jewels of the sky Full blaze their costless pleasures deep into my heart With an everlasting, unending smile. A POET’S THOUGHTS One star, of all that filled the skies, Bent low, as if to tell me things— Words and songs that twilight brings Of the vastness where silence lies. [ 20 ] Sometimes I think the great white way Is one of deep sky’s boulevards— A trysting place of heavenly bards, And where the star-beams romp and play. My bending star, whispering low, Pointed beyond the great white way; “ ’Tis further on,” it seemed to say, “Where the thoughts of poets go.” CASTLED ROCKS And I stood on the high bridge Across the Father of Waters, Facing the great stone fortress In front of Dubuque. The mist of the years filled my eyes, As I saw written there, The story of the pioneers— The breakers of a new way of freedom— Taking freedom from those they faced, Yet wielding the mighty force Of a tide that could be turned No more than the waters of the flowing river. And I looked down from the bridge To the flooding stream That passed on, and on,— Taking the homage of the States As it swept toward the tropical sea Into which its varied tribute poured. O, mighty, silent stream; What majesty in your unending procession, Dividing the East from the West— The old from the new; Giving the freshness of vigor To the soil that it might bear a testimony. And then the visions of the ages Shewed themselves to me In the rugged features of the towering rocks. A mighty force had parted them [ 21 ] That the river might find itself And draw its brood together In some lavish day of sweeping triumph. The signal fires of a Black Hawk Blazed to the answering fires On Savanna’s heights As my visions came to the later days When the red man’s corn was turned against him By the power of another’s greed. The Mississippi River at Dubuque GALENA HILLS One day more, Where the mystery of silent hills Floods the mind with tranquility. No sailor, without a shore To circumscribe his freedom, Could feel a greater thrill Of adventure, Than in the stillness of these places Of unending horizons— The tribute of greenness to the visible world Where a Summer’s sun Has kissed life into undulations of serenity. Riding abreast of the sky, With a unisoned choir of the hoot owls Like the play of a thousand silver strings— Now loud—now dying away in the distance— Nature’s prayer of thanksgiving For the morning of life and light— The heart of a god breaking forth into ecstasy At his handiwork. Down deep by the roadside A vine-covered ravine of fruits and flowers To whom the echo of the musical stream below Seemed the solace of a lover’s heart. [ 22 ] O, Time, how thou hast caressed these hills Of rock and iron To a softness of green and verdure. Their stubborn heads uplift themselves That the children of sun and rain May find a dwelling-place— The blossoming tryst of love and hope. Here divinity dwells in its robes of silence, Giving the tokens of all the years That have spent their days In an adoration of some unseen mind That has spelled the glorious way. From Galena To Savanna. WHITE BIRCHES Where the glacier once stretched in the sun Is the grooved earth—a ravine begun On shores of the lake, and a brooklet’s run Following its joyous way enthralled, With echoes of its laughter unrecalled. Here the slim white birches lean, listening In the silence, and below, glistening, The dancing face Of water’s race. How sweet the tranquil course of Nature’s day Where in the world of life and heart at play Time works with the centuries’ teeming hands; ’Tis thus the universal scheme expands, Unfolding in a mysterious way Its drapery, and the potter’s plans display. Art transforms the chaos of Nature’s hand— It strives to modify, but not command; Brings wholeness of a comprehensive book To lights and shadows in a world’s outlook. Nature weaves the colors—Art arranges, [ 23 ] Where the white birches lean nothing changes, But in mind of man, imagination, Sets fire to things, like frosty Autumn’s sun. His poesy flings laughter to the brook, Gives voice to bending birches’ silent look; The glistening eyes of dancing water’s face Are sporting dryads in the tumbling race Where deep within the leafy, tree’d ravine The rushing brooklet seeks a greater scene. How now, O, fellow things of Nature’s deed— What golden dreams sail forth in restless speed To mould their rugged shapes to artists’ need? Methinks the slender birches’ listening ear Will catch the softer cadences of cheer That in Nature’s rhyme and Nature’s story Bring to Artist’s mind his poem’s glory. The North Ravine Lake Bluff SUN FLOWERS Along the roadside’s dusty way The peering faces, smiling, gay, Gaze archly from their yellow hair In silence of a canny stare. They seem to think that I intrude And break their peace of solitude; Throw dust-clouds on their dress of green To spoil the velvet of its sheen. I doff my hat to left and right, As if in pleasure at the sight, And as I quickly pass and turn, Forgiving, nodding heads, discern. Sunflower Boulevard Chicago [ 24 ] POMONA In her August garden of apple trees She stirs herself—then bending on her knees Her apron fills, save with the waving leaves Of a clustering branch she holds on high Which paints its red and green against the sky; And as she raptly turns to me So proudly, in her face I see The shadows of the red and green, Alike some joyous mask, or screen Hiding the love of her eyes, and a smile That has played in the gleam of artless guile. O, raptured scene to me—where innocence Sweetly plays its part with a love’s intents, Yet holding my eyes to the Season’s charms Which fill o’erflowingly her circling arms. Pomona Edward Burne-Jones Art Institute “1 am the ancient apple green, As once I was, so am I now, Forever more a hope unseen Between the blossom and the bough” WASHINGTON SQUARE All around me The yellow and orange canna blossoms Listen to the music of the plashing fountain In Washington Square. The quiet evening sky, Not yet subdued from its dying sunlight, Looks complacently down— Its white clouds of filminess Stir lazily in a soft and gentle wind That, too, scarce disturbs the leaves of the summer trees. Old men with puffing pipes lounge about On the green settees of the Park, [ 25 ] Talking in the explosives of their mother tongues, Or languidly reading the strange alphabets Of their different evening papers. Groups of twos and threes discuss affairs of State With gestures of a positive assurance— The unbidden thought-mongers Of a busy world which has cast its refuse On the shores of an ending day. I sit with the words of wisdom Full open before me, in the Emerson book, And read:—“Because the soul is progressive It never quite repeats itself, But in every act attempts the production Of a newer and fairer whole.” I muse at these words, and I look about me At the cannas, and the plashing fountain With its merry music, Then up to the sky-depths and their floating clouds, And down to the gently waving trees, And say to myself:— “Yes, this will never be quite so again, All of it is a part of the moving soul of God In the act of expression— Each day speaking its message In a little different language That I may at last understand The journey of all things toward perfection.” And as I look again across the canna beds, The kissing sunshine of an earlier hour Has gone—the cloudlets change, Assuming another shape, as if to say:— “Do you like us better now, in the newer guise?” And I say:—“Herein lies the great soul’s mood of the moment, Thou art the fair setting thereof—the fitting frame— In perfection’s journey.” Washington Square Reverie [ 26 ] ON THE LAKE STREET ELEVATED Moving thoughts on the Elevated Rush into the arms of the years agone; Eastward, towards the Lake, Past Hamlin, and California To Campbell, where decay Shows its bitterness And the white man’s forgetting His burden in a negro’s inheritance. Everywhere the scarred and battleworn Faces of the houses, Once the domiciles Of the first inhabitants— But long ago deserted In the roar of the Elevated. Fifty years of tramping, restless TIME , Since the early sweetness Of Oakley and Ashland, with the latter’s Countryside Nestling at its border As if to bring A measure of greenness To the City’s westward flow. At Sheldon, Ann and Morgan How the dreary skeletons shake As the old train structure itself shakes In its weariness and despair ; Dismantled churches, Untenanted saloons— Both the abodes Of the past generation In its hours of piety and play Lift their vacant eyes In the agony of rooted helplessness, Crying at their desertion And neglect By the hopeless crowd of another Age That gropes about [ 27 ] In sordid way In the garbage of the Past. Halsted and Canal Bring the determination of another century Into view. Wrecks of the earlier years, Have succumbed To the waves of prosperity That bespeak commercial greatness— And now the faces Of things living and dead Put on a lineament of the grimness of Peace As the train Passes on the bridge To join the surging crowds Of a hurrying Mecca. THE IRISH MOON In the high sky, over the Irish sea Where I weep in silence, you come to me As I sit in grief of my country’s woes. Deep down are the sunken wells of sorrows Which bow my head; I feel the galling rod— The despair of dreams that have failed of God. When I press my face toward you, response Is quick—I sense your silver smile, beauteous To my heart transfixed at the cold gray shore, As if no moon could charm again the lore That bloomed so full on other Edenside And beyond the “blarney” of ocean’s tide. Here now I rest, the softness of your light Translates the deeper shadows of the night. Until my mind is freed, I feel the slip Of a slowly changing world in the dip Of melting hours, when the Baal fires glow On the mountains where the sacred oaks grow. [ 28 ] Sidhe forms glide in the wild orange flames In play of their summer middle night games. O, Ireland, song of my heart, let me be To thee a lover, careless, joyous, free; I pledge the moon, soft shining o’er the sea, As hostage for the fairy world, and me. Great night, where quiet music stirs its breast In the moan of the trees by wind’s lips pressed Curtain o’er my land, as if changeful scene, Can bring to morning’s light a yester’s dream. A dream of Ireland free to make its place In a world unbought by a slave’s disgrace. Freely to live its moods of head and heart Where romance disports in a friendship’s mart. Now the long centuries close in the light Of a moon that has guarded Ireland’s night, Even tho’ shrouded in a paleness’ gloom The days are prophets of its master’s doom. CONVALESCENCE Today again I say the things That long have lain with folded wings; Some mistral, wayward, desert blast Had torn them from my heartstrings’ grasp As if their touch of love were past. My clouded mind to misty shores Stretches out, and with cry implores, As if some spark of life divine Had lost itself in distant clime Wherein it sought its old align. I grope about the fading mist That hides the shore of shadow tryst— I urge my song to break its lyre In bounding pulse of blood’s desire, As if to drench with crimson fire. [ 29 ] And thus I shed some tears—a sigh For vagrant days that pass me by; My soul’s asleep—some peaceful morn I shall awake to think with scorn Of sunless days and love forlorn. The world breaks forth in oldtime song, Stars press down in clustering throng, Life is a-thrill once more, as when All things laughed in the faith of ken That Beauty’s throne had always been. A PROCESSION OF SEASONS The spirit of Nature is cold: Winter is the General of the bivouac That lies before us. In the mistful light of an early sun The stern face of a dead Season Uplifts itself As if to say: “I have covered the world With my white blanket— Let it rest, for there is much work to do; Soon must come a day When yonder sun will stretch himself And call his sleeping camp to life again.” The spirit of Youth is warm: It speaks its protest of the sleeping camp Wherein the soul of deadness Writes, in drifts of white, Its silent words of hopelessness. Some opening way must show a path By which the heart may glow Its youth to action. Dormant Nature revolts the soul of Youth Who digs the Autumn leaves, As if to wreath a place Wherein the feet of one he loves May go their way. [ 30 ] The spirit of the leaves is restless In the Winter’s wind; Now released before their time Of breaking Spring, They shiver with the chattering birds Who make a noisy play about the path. The heart of the woman is Spring; The heart of the man is a growing Summer; The wreath of the leaves is the end of love Whose destiny is the cold world of these Winter snows. A Pathway in the Winter Roadway Jules Breton Art Institute SAFFRON TWILIGHT A jug of saffron twilight Has broken softly Where the upturned face of the lily pond Awaits the summer stars. The lotus blooms asleep, dream languid dreams, Save as touched anon By some wayward zephyr, seeking its repose Within the folds of a growing night. The symphony of the ending day Sings heavy with the sorrow Of a losing love, Receding tremulously in the darkening shadows. Sans care, in the placid stillness Of the pond Floats the little boat, Whose unmanned oars bespeak a quietude, Wherein the art of love Is master of its shafts of conquest. Human hearts, whose beat of early youth Is brought to vibrant pulse By common touch of hands, Forget the growing shades [ 31 ] In thinking that their net is seeking other things While they themselves are caught within. To Saffron skies of a passing day In Nature hushed and stilled Is born a spark of evening flame. As the twine of rose about the fallen tree So newborn love of youth Befits a sinking sun. The gathering shadows of the night Are Nature’s rest In which to drape a newer stage Of light More potent then to these whose common touch Has opened wide to them their eyes in paradise. The Amateurs Alexander Harrison Art Institute LEGENDS OF ST. SEBALD The romance of religion lies buried in the centuries. Mistfull halos lend enchantments Which sanctify unrealities. The mind is charged with the embellishments Of an Age of processions and pageantries; Color is the expression Of a divinity’s tapestries of witchery Which mould the minds of an expectant people. The imposing edifice with its pointing spires; The deep-toned, or the wildly joyous bells of the steeple; The vaulted naves, and transepts With the falling flood of a dimness of light From the pictured windows; The hush of a cooling silence Broken by the fresh-voiced choir And the monotone of the priestly chant; Swinging censers, the elevation of the Host, [ 32 ] The Holy Eucharist, all work in the soil Of Imagination’s garden, To lend reality to the mirage of an unknown world. The mission of Ecclesiasticism Is the solace of life to the multitudes Who grope through the mazes of existence, Unwitting to its deeper meanings. Thus has ignorance been the handmaiden of romance, Deepseated in the Ages, Where the colors of the passing show Have caught the eyes and held in grasp The obedience of a wondering world. In the mysterious silence of a great cathedral, Where the bended knee Of a penitent Translates him to a diviner presence— There flows the rhythm of tranquil soul Which fills his mind with the renewing force Of an eternal reality. NURNBERG It was in old Niirnberg, on the river Pegnitz, In the days of Frederick Barbarossa,—red beard,— Beloved of the people, born to bring glory and greatness To the city of his choosing;— Back in the days of the early renaissance Which was to break the darkness Of the Middle Ages,— Unloose Europe from the sleep of centuries In which all stimulus to art and progress Had been smothered by the devotees Of sects and religions struggling for the mastery. The first glimmering stars of a newer day Were hanging low in the horizon, Separated by the impassable distances of untracked space, Yet granting hope, each to the other, In the conscious sense of their common mission. Italy, Germany, France, Spain, Holland, England,— [ 33 ] Alike feeling the impulse of life’s desire To sing and to smile, To walk in the fields and valleys of joyousness, Drink from the springs of knowledge And let Beauty’s hand lead them out through the mists Into a clear day of cerulean skies. Thus was born a newer art of color; The printing press, the Reformation, Scholarships broke the shells of bigotry Outgrown in the broader horizons And walked manfully in the open road Of a braver expression. God’s voice to the simple peasants Of Franconia was the old voice Of the early church. Sturdy in the habits of daily life and toil, Their faith reflected in the mirror of the passing days, The steadfast cling to a simple trust Which marked the constancy of their foregoers, And to these convictions gave adherence. To this day and time Came a youth of royal blood; Nurtured, like St. Francis of Assissi, In the cradle of affluence. His parents, a king and queen of Denmark,— Devout servants of Almighty God, Childless until now. But now, as an answer to their ardent prayers, Blest with the presence of an heir To the throne. Strange inheritances there be, And the fondest hopes of longspent dreams Oft are wrecked on rocks of desert coasts. Implanted in this royal, princely heart Were seeds of difference, Wherein a life of ease and power Would give its place To devotion of another sort. Like Jesus, Son of God and man, Was he to walk the Earth [ 34 ] Doing good. Power and ease he cast aside To seek the kingdom of the poor, Wherein to find his better part And lead the life to which a germinating seed within Had destined him. It was the gay springtime of Paris When Summer’s lips were holding themselves in readiness To greet the voyagers of life. At eighteen’s age, Our youth bade goodby to school and friends. His ardent nature had brought to him The responses of a receptive mind, The companionships of loyal associations In friends and teachers; He left behind The pleasant memories Of a truthful zeal with mind of keen achievement. Then to his home returned, To parents, and the fate for him They’d patterned out. Full sure were they that this son A royal heir in every sense would be; And so for him a mate of gentle blood Was found. In silence he acquiesced, Though broadly sure the call of God Was stronger than all earthly ties Of sovereignty or State. When the hour had come At end of marriage feast, He left the gathered throng With her, his wedded wife, As if to spend the joyous hours Of love’s first revelation. But passing out the castle’s gate He found himself now face to face With resolution’s firm command:— Go ye hence alone, away from here, To forests deep and mountains wild, And there commune with self, and God, [ 35 ] That thou shalt learn The will of Him who holds thee strong. The quiet voice within Then gave him courage To speak the final words By which the flimsy link of State Was cast aside,— Then asking for her silence, Fled in shadows of the night And lost himself fore’er To all the things Of life that princes love:— The rulership of men Through royal pomp and power. Alone in depths of death-still forests Meditative hours Prepared the way. No deprivation too severe To test his faithfulness In the mission of life’s devotion. Several years of wanderings Unknown save to the few Who, like him, were religious devotees, Preparing themselves for lives of penury, Sacrificing all for the Christ’s sake And a hope of eternal blessedness. The crucifix ever beholden To the eyes,— The divine guide that stayed hunger And the pains of wandering, Yet with it the growing strength From benedictions of a tranquil mind. Youth sang its songs of ecstasy In memories of all the saints Who had won their way To blessedness through self-immolation. “He that shall forsake father and mother For my sake—take up his cross To follow me, Him will I endow with the peace [ 36 ] That passeth all understanding. To him shall be granted The visions of the heavenly host That come to them In the passion of a great poverty For my sake. Verily, I say unto you, my son, I rejoice greatly at your sacrifice. Keep steadily onward; I will be your keeper, even unto the end.” And the voice of a lonesome bird High up in a tree of the forest In which he sat, Seemed to be this voice of the Redeemer Speaking— The voice of God, speaking through Nature, Was his divine accompanist. Each leaf which stirred in the breath of the wind, The ripple of the water in the wayside brook, The song of the bird in the forest,— All formed a choir of acolytes Learning with him the lessons of divinity. When the storm came And the harshness of the elements Stirred the forest’s depths To a sublime consternation, He saw again the conflict that had raged within himself Made evident. Life was a storm When taken without those strong gates or walls of peace That he had forsaken For Christ’s sake. Then after the storm, would come the calm And, unlike the forest, His mind could anchor forever In a sea of placidity— The gift of God to those who chose it in freedom. Thus he fortified himself In daily contemplation; Strong in body, courageous in mind, The purity of the open world [ 37 ] Entered into his willing grasp Until he felt the power of leadership, And a readiness Then to go forth wherever his steps were led By the whisperings of an inner self. One Springtime morn, After many days of toilsome wandering, There came to him—our youth of royal blood— A scene of hope. To fairest Italy had his footsteps turned And there in peace before his eyes Lay sleeping, yet unkissed by warmth of sun, A Lombard lake,— Most perfect jewel of all that set The crown of Piedmont’s gems. Cinderella was it called, For haughty pride of sister lakes— Lario, Lugano, and Maggiore, Forgot its littleness In their greater selves, Nor sought its gentle shores The travelers of the day Because its voice in stillness lay Held close in modest beauty’s blush. He paused in wonderment At the peaceful scene And soon the rising sun above the mountain’s tops Shed gladness on the waking day. Perfumed clouds of sweetness On wafted gusts of sudden winds, Kissed his lips and soothed his sunbrowned cheeks, As if to welcome him to rest and ease. The greeting of the sumptuous blossoms And pungent odors of the shrubs and trees That dwelt in great profusion. Rhododendrons, azaleas, magnolias and oleanders, Fig trees, and all the kindred Of the softer latitudes, Gave him greeting of their ardent hearts And conjured him to tarry there Encircled by their languorous spell. [ 38 ] To a scene like this what could he say? A conflict in his mind was born. Here was ease, and a listless life— Why should he be remiss To the call of class Which whispered in his mind The softer things Which made for indolence. The call of Christ spelled renunciation, A shriven self of impotence Wherein the plenitudes were hid In stubborn growth of vagrant wilderness. And then to him his eyes of mind beheld The mountain top of legend’s page, Whereon the Christ was led By him who sought his compromise, And on its Summer’s summit Passed to view the gorgeous kingdoms of the world Lying low before his eyes. A fortune might be his To turn about and join the peaceful ways A royal heir could conjure with. The beauteous lake with mountains all around Bespoke to him this life of tranquil hesitation. Alone he struggled with himself— A wandering, forest life had brought with it Forgetfulness of the finer things That ease and restfulness provoke. Before him now a royal Eden Stretched itself—where lake and scent of flowers Awoke his deadened self To conflict with his newborn life of sacrifice; But as he more intenser grew, In struggle of his mind, A distant convent bell spake out As if to call him back to penitence. Out on the lake he looked To see from whence the sound had come, And in his eyes there rested, Through brilliance of twilight, The outlines of a terraced slope [ 39 ] Upon which reposed a white-faced monastery. An island in the lake there was That seemed to be the residence of monks and saints Who lived alike the ways of peace and strife. 