8•
Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.
Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.
Contemporary Verse - v01-02
G.
H.
S.
Mary Morris Duane
Freshness, strength, beauty and dignity characterize the poems in store for subscribers. The editors are confid ent that the magazine's year will be regarded as notable in American literature.
Among recent contributors to CONTEMPORARY have been :
Max Eastman
William Rose Benet Witter Bynner
Hermann Hagedorn Maxwell Struthers Burt
Salomon de la Selva
NO OTHER MAGAZINE IN THE UNITED STATES IS DEVOTED WHOLLY TO THE PUBLICATION OF POETRY.
Louis Untermeyer
Orrick Johns
Margaret Widdemer
Percival Allen
William Alexander Percy Helen Hoyt Howard Mumford Jones Amory Hare Cook
622 Washington Square
Philadelphia
J
]
Clinton Scollard Joyce Kilmer Leonard Bacon Edward J. O'Brien
VERSE
\C©HTEMF
Volume III JANUARY, 1017
THE POETS By Scudder Middleton
<AL LIBRARY
^Zl . A Number 1
HARVARD^ 'university]
We need you now, strong guardians of our hearts, Now, when a darkness lies on sea and land,
When we of weakening faith forget our parts And bow before the falling of the sand.
Be with us now or we betray our trust — And say, "There is no wisdom but in death"
—
The changeless regions of our empery,
Where once we moved in friendship with the stars.
O children of the light, now in our grief Give us again the solace of belief.
Remembering lovely eyes now closed with dust "There is no beauty that outlasts the breath. "
For we are growing blind and cannot see,
Beyond the clouds that stand like prison bars,
EN PASSANT By Marx Sabel
Out of the sultry night she came, With tired lips aflame;
Deep in her mutineering eyes The nervous anger of emprise
Wakened and fought the black, Ice-cold oppression back;
Fought in the hope of hopelessness, And fought for Artemis;
Fought in the. trust the fight would let Her weary heart forget;
Fought in the faith that some fair day True love would find its way
Over the wall that stood By her lost maidenhood.
Out of the heavy night she came, Silently calling his name;
Deep in her mutineering eyes Love chanting lullabies,
Timidly questioning
One who was wont to sing,
Stilling the songs upon his lips, Freezing his finger tips,
Stabbing his heart, and nailing his feet Fast to the iron street,
Trustingly going then
Down the dark street again.
8•
Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.
The Priests are singing in their stalls,
Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours; Yet God is as the sparrow falls;
The ivy drifts,
The votive urns
Are all left void when Fortune turns,
The god is but a marble for the kerns
To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.
O Beauty, let me know again
The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky, The one star risen.
So shall I pass into the feast
Not touched by King, Merchant or Priest;
Know the red spirit of the beast,
Be the green grain;
Escape from prison.
(Copyright, 1917, by John Masefield)
3
THE CHOICE By John Masefield
The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many. The sack of many-peopled towns
Is all their dream:
The way they take
Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
And, in the furrow that the plowmen make,
A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.
The Merchants reckon up their gold,
Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories: The profits of their treasures sold,
They tell and sum ;
Their foremen drive
, Their servants, starved to half-alive,
"
Whose labors do but make the earth a hive
THE GHOST
By Marjorie Allen Seiffert
Quiet dust is every vow We have spoken,
All alike forgotten now, Kept or broken.
One small ghost still haunts the vast Empty night,
Mutely seeking for its last Burial rite.
Just the love I long ago Ceased to mourn,
Begging that I let you know It was born.
TO BLANCHE By John Hall Wheelock
What is this memory, this homesickness, That draws me to yourself resistlessly
As to some far place where I long to be—
This exile's hungering for loveliness? Here in the night the face that I caress
Lies like a moonlit land beyond the sea,
A kingdom lost, toward which the heart of me, Shipwrecked and worn, beats backward in distress.
Have I been here before? How long ago,
And on what pilgrimage and journey far Was lost this land remembered ? By what star
Did I steer homeward? Only this I know, That all my being from my breast would go
To the dear home and heaven where you are.
4
THE SALVATION ARMY'S SONG By Phoebe Hoffman
"It's Christmas time, it's Christmas time," Echo the feet in the dusty street.
Freshness, strength, beauty and dignity characterize the poems in store for subscribers. The editors are confid ent that the magazine's year will be regarded as notable in American literature.
Among recent contributors to CONTEMPORARY have been :
Max Eastman
William Rose Benet Witter Bynner
Hermann Hagedorn Maxwell Struthers Burt
Salomon de la Selva
NO OTHER MAGAZINE IN THE UNITED STATES IS DEVOTED WHOLLY TO THE PUBLICATION OF POETRY.
Louis Untermeyer
Orrick Johns
Margaret Widdemer
Percival Allen
William Alexander Percy Helen Hoyt Howard Mumford Jones Amory Hare Cook
622 Washington Square
Philadelphia
J
]
Clinton Scollard Joyce Kilmer Leonard Bacon Edward J. O'Brien
VERSE
\C©HTEMF
Volume III JANUARY, 1017
THE POETS By Scudder Middleton
<AL LIBRARY
^Zl . A Number 1
HARVARD^ 'university]
We need you now, strong guardians of our hearts, Now, when a darkness lies on sea and land,
When we of weakening faith forget our parts And bow before the falling of the sand.
Be with us now or we betray our trust — And say, "There is no wisdom but in death"
—
The changeless regions of our empery,
Where once we moved in friendship with the stars.
O children of the light, now in our grief Give us again the solace of belief.
Remembering lovely eyes now closed with dust "There is no beauty that outlasts the breath. "
For we are growing blind and cannot see,
Beyond the clouds that stand like prison bars,
EN PASSANT By Marx Sabel
Out of the sultry night she came, With tired lips aflame;
Deep in her mutineering eyes The nervous anger of emprise
Wakened and fought the black, Ice-cold oppression back;
Fought in the hope of hopelessness, And fought for Artemis;
Fought in the. trust the fight would let Her weary heart forget;
Fought in the faith that some fair day True love would find its way
Over the wall that stood By her lost maidenhood.
Out of the heavy night she came, Silently calling his name;
Deep in her mutineering eyes Love chanting lullabies,
Timidly questioning
One who was wont to sing,
Stilling the songs upon his lips, Freezing his finger tips,
Stabbing his heart, and nailing his feet Fast to the iron street,
Trustingly going then
Down the dark street again.
8•
Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.
The Priests are singing in their stalls,
Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours; Yet God is as the sparrow falls;
The ivy drifts,
The votive urns
Are all left void when Fortune turns,
The god is but a marble for the kerns
To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.
O Beauty, let me know again
The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky, The one star risen.
So shall I pass into the feast
Not touched by King, Merchant or Priest;
Know the red spirit of the beast,
Be the green grain;
Escape from prison.
(Copyright, 1917, by John Masefield)
3
THE CHOICE By John Masefield
The Kings go by with jewelled crowns;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many. The sack of many-peopled towns
Is all their dream:
The way they take
Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
And, in the furrow that the plowmen make,
A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.
The Merchants reckon up their gold,
Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories: The profits of their treasures sold,
They tell and sum ;
Their foremen drive
, Their servants, starved to half-alive,
"
Whose labors do but make the earth a hive
THE GHOST
By Marjorie Allen Seiffert
Quiet dust is every vow We have spoken,
All alike forgotten now, Kept or broken.
One small ghost still haunts the vast Empty night,
Mutely seeking for its last Burial rite.
Just the love I long ago Ceased to mourn,
Begging that I let you know It was born.
TO BLANCHE By John Hall Wheelock
What is this memory, this homesickness, That draws me to yourself resistlessly
As to some far place where I long to be—
This exile's hungering for loveliness? Here in the night the face that I caress
Lies like a moonlit land beyond the sea,
A kingdom lost, toward which the heart of me, Shipwrecked and worn, beats backward in distress.
Have I been here before? How long ago,
And on what pilgrimage and journey far Was lost this land remembered ? By what star
Did I steer homeward? Only this I know, That all my being from my breast would go
To the dear home and heaven where you are.
4
THE SALVATION ARMY'S SONG By Phoebe Hoffman
"It's Christmas time, it's Christmas time," Echo the feet in the dusty street.
