And having made his note of us, We doubted, even when he smiled, He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that we must all be taught We gave a glamor to the task That he encountered and saw through, And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed? The face that in our vision feels For he, to whom we had applied As he was ancient at his birth: The love, the grandeur, and the fame, For we were not as other men: And have one Titan at a time. [From "The Town Down the River"; copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.] GEORGE STERLING (1869–) The Black Vulture Aloof upon the day's immeasured dome, A Legend of the Dove Soft from the linden's bough, "Ah, gone! long gone! Shall I not find thee soon?" That yearning in his voice Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale: As other birds rejoice He sang, a brother to the nightingale. By twilight on her breast He saw the flower asleep, the star awake, Made all the dawn melodious for her sake. And then the Tempter's breath, The sword of exile and the mortal chain The heritage of death, That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain. . . In Eden desolate, The seraph heard his lonely music swoon, As now, reiterate: "Ah, gone! long gone! Shall I not find thee soon?" Omnia Exeunt in Mysterium The stranger in the gates-lo! that am I, An urging is upon him evermore, And though he bide, his soul is wanderer, Scanning the shadows with a sense of hasteWhere fade the tracks of all who went before: A dim and solitary traveller On ways that end in evening and in waste. STEPHEN CRANE (1870-1900) Why? Behold, the grave of a wicked man, And near it, a stern spirit. There came a drooping maid with violets, But the spirit grasped her arm. "No flowers for him," he said. The maid wept: "Ah, I loved him." But the spirit, grim and frowning: "No flowers for him." Now, this is it If the spirit was just, Why did the maid weep? Content A youth in apparel that glittered Went to walk in a grim forest. There he met an assassin Attired all in garb of old days; Rushed upon the youth. "I am enchanted, believe me. In this mediæval fashion, Then took he the wound, smiling, Ancestry Once I saw mountains angry, "Surely," replied this other; "His grandfathers beat them many times.” Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers,— At least, for the little man Who stood against the mountains. T. A. DALY (1871—) Mia Carlotta Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for "mash," W'enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street, He raisa hees hat an' he shaka hees curls, Yes, playnta he gotta But notta Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye, Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air, Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash, He gotta da seelly young girls for da "mash," You bat my life, notta- I gotta! The Mother She was so frail, my little one, But now far spaces feel her might, EDWIN FORD PIPER (1871-) Sweetgrass Range Come sell your pony, cowboy- Braided bridle and your puncher saddle, "If I should sell my pony, And ride the range no more, Nail up my hat and my silver spurs "And let my door stand open wide As I came down the sweetgrass range I heard a singing in the early dusk I heard a singing to the early stars, The joy of the riding singer I never shall forget. |