Or trouble you with things for you

The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,

So very still the lake shall be,

You could not guess-though you should guess—
What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden walk,

The garden seat so very wide,

You reeds must think-if you should think—
The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,

I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
And smile,-if you should smile.

Lament

Listen, children:

Your father is dead.
From his old coats

I'll make you little jackets;
I'll make you little trousers
From his old pants.

There'll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies

Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies

To save in his bank;

Anne shall have the keys

To make a pretty noise with.

Life must go on,

And the dead be forgotten;

Life must go on,

Tho good men die;

Anne, eat your breakfast;

Dan, take your medicine;

Life must go on;

I forget just why.

MAXWELL BODENHEIM (1892-)

The Old Jew

No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his Austerity,

Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire.
They examined him; made him bow to them:

Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshipper.

Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and then there came a miracle.

The little man was above them in a bound.

His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower.

They dwindled while he soared.

Advice to a Buttercup

Undistinguished buttercup,
Lost among myriads of others,
To the red ant eyeing you
You are giant stillness.

He pauses on the boulder of a clod,
Baffled by your nearness to the sky,
But to the black loam at your feet
You are the atom of a pent-up dream.
Undistinguished buttercup,

Take your little breath of contemplation,
Undisturbed by haughty tricks of space.

To a Friend

Your head is steel cut into drooping lines
That make a mask satirically meek:

Your face is like a tired devil weak

From drinking many valued and unsought wines.
The sullen skepticism of your eyes

Forever trying to transcend itself,

Is often entered by a wistful elf

Who sits naively unperturbed and wise.

And this same remnant, with its youthful wiles
Held curiously apart from blasphemies,
Twirls starlight shivers out upon your sneers
And changes them to little, startled smiles.
And all your insolence drops to its knees
Before the half-won grandeur of past years.

JULIA COOLEY (1893-)

Vide Astra

Say not so briefly that the stars to-night
Are fair, as if to name them flocks of light,

Those hosted stars that all unheeded ride,
Unloved, unsought and unidentified.
Though they be severed similarities,

Say not they glint with sameness through the trees
And flash alike before your sightless eyes.

Say rather that you see blue Vega rise

To cap the topmost wave of heaven with fire,
Where flies, bright with her sapphire song, the Lyre!
Say that Arcturus gleams with torrid red,

And casts the image of his burning head,
His giant, million-sunned intensity

Into our minimizing earthly sea,

As one red spark upon the smitten wave!

Say that the Crown, whose perfectness you crave,
That mystic, radiant, half-unfinished Crown,

Whose candles the deep seas of Heaven cannot drown,
Shines like a nightly promise to your soul.
Say that over the horizon's bowl

Most lightly twinkles Bernice's hair,

In ecstasy of beauty,—maddening-fair.

Say that the Lynx glows watchfully and near,
With burnished eyes, striking your heart with fear.
Then turn, and fear no more! The White Swan brings
Tranquillity, flying with peaceful wings,

Serenely, with the starred world, to the west.
Say that bright Scorpius flashes without rest
In the warm South, while scorched Antares burns
Upon its heart, and near skies, as it turns,
Are bubbling with the heat! Say that you see
Great Pegasus plunge upward recklessly,
From the abandoned East, and that near by
Andromeda stands tall in the mid-sky,
While Perseus arches guarding at her side.
Then look once more, while the deep heavens glide.
The North holds clusters other than the Bear,
For there flames Cassiopeia in her floating chair.

Say not, in loveless haste, the stars to-night
Are fair. Blind joying! Know each leaping light!
Behold each star, embarked in sundered flight.
Name every flame! Rejoice the soul of sight!

MAURICE A. HANLINE (1895-)
A Song of Pierrot

The cloak of laughter I have worn
Has only served to hide the smart.
The bells and bladder I have born
Could make no echo in my heart.

And all the places where I go

Are sweet with memories of you yet.
The laughing footsteps of Pierrot
Are always searching for Pierrette.

Upon my face a painted smile,
Upon my lips a scarlet stain,
Before my feet an endless mile
That I must dance despite the pain.
Along the road red poppies grow.
Perhaps your scarlet lips have set
Upon their petals for Pierrot

A tithe of kisses, dear Pierrette.

The lips I knew have left their scars,
Each rose beneath had hid a thorn.
Your love was lost beneath the stars.
I could not wait until the morn.
The night was lonely, love, and so
I sought the roses to forget,
But they have withered and Pierrot
Longs for the kisses of Pierrette.

If in your place you hear my song,
Hear too, beneath, the strain of tears.
I dance before the grinning throng
Their mocking laughter fills my ears.
My giddy steps are all they know,
They do not see my eyes are wet.
I am a tired, lost Pierrot.

Where are you hiding, my Pierrette?

L'ENVOI

Ah, princess, I shall never know.

You smile and smile and say, "Forget."

The tears and laughter of Pierrot

Are but the playthings of Pierrette.

MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

Cloistered

To-night the little nun-girl died.

Her hands were laid

Across her breast; the last sun tried

To kiss her quiet braid;

And where the little river cried,
Her grave was made.

To where her brother Christ she saw
Under the Living Tree;

He sighed, and his face seemed to draw
Her tears, to see.

He laid his hands on her hands mild,
And gravely blessed;

"Blind, they that kept you so," he smiled, With tears unguessed.

"Saw they not Mary held a child

Upon her breast?"

The Day Before April

The day before April
Alone, alone,

I walked in the woods
And I sat on a stone.

I sat on a broad stone
And sang to the birds.
The tune was God's making
But I made the words.

ELINOR WYLIE

Peregrine

Liar and bragger,
He had no friend,

Except a dagger

And a candle-end;
The one he read by;
The one scared cravens;

And he was fed by

The Prophet's ravens.
Such haughty creatures
Avoid the human;
They fondle nature's
Breast, not woman-
A she-wolf's puppies-
A wild-cat's pussy-fur:
Their stirrup-cup is

The pride of Lucifer.
A stick he carried,
Slept in a lean-to;