It is but thirty dawns and
twilights
since
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot.
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot.
Contemporary Verse - v01-02
"
Oh friend, oh comrade of the radiant days
Of love, of hope, of passionate surmise
When beauty throbbed like heat before the eyes And even sorrow wore a golden haze!
Can you not let them rest, those sacred ghosts
Of our dead selves—yes, yours and mine and theirs Who knew not life, yet wept its utmost cares And laughed more joys than all creation boasts?
Then was my spirit vibrant with the spheres;
Its strings across the ringing vault lay hot
Where passed to God the laughter and the tears And all the million prayers He heeded not.
But now, dear friend, chilled by the wind of years My heart is mute and all its song forgot.
»3
GHOSTS
By Samuel Roth
She stood half leaning in the dark doorway, Light kindling softly in her anxious eyes:
"I tire," she pleaded, "tire of all that's wise And witty. Is there nothing you can say"
Of love, our love, that is not of the day?
It lingered in my heart but could not rise
The word that would have wrought the sweet surmise Which turns to godliness the common clay.
Ah many days have passed and she and I
Never since crossed the green of sea or grass Together. Now I know what silenced me.
The world of shadows, ghosts that will not die, Guarded Love's Gate and would not let me pass,
And we are patient as the dead can be!
SHELLEY By Samuel Roth
Our poet, says a simple tale of him,
Held with a stubborn reverence the faith
That babes are born in heaven, and, so saith
This tale, perhaps spurred by a sudden whim,
With one new born held converse lengthy. "Oh, Pray, sir, "the lady " spake all laughter riven,
"What means this? "I but ask for news of heaven. " "Surely," —the lady smiling —"he can't know. "
And then, so runs this tale, our singer prince,
His soft eyes darkling brightly, and his lips
Widening like the child's: "O say it not.
It is but thirty dawns and twilights since
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot. "
34
MORIENS PROFECTUS By John Orth Cook
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
Rising and falling in the evening air;
And we, who all our lives have walked in fear,
Go through the thickening darkness, following where The music leads us, —be it far or near !
And no man pauses. For we are of those Whom Time has worsted in his mimic close: —But we have no despair, no grief, no woes.
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
And some will hear it early, others late;
But each will lay himself upon his bier
And hold thereon a moment's solemn state:
And there will be the brief funereal rites Whence all shall pass into the utter drear Where sunless, moonless, days succeed to nights, And no wind stirs the surface of the meer.
IF I COULD TAKE THIS LOVE FROM OUT MY HEART
By Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff
If I could take this love from out my heart And go my way in silence and alone, Unweeping, and to fear and joy unknown
Forgetful of the world's bright-colored mart — Passing amidst the human throng apart
Like one who walks with beauty in the night
Remembering all the tears and vain delight,— The rapture and the pain that were my part— Then I could watch again the swallows dart
Into the sky's blue dome unenvyingly,
Knowing I am at last as they are, free. . .
And I would say, 'Though all sweet dreams depart, I shall be ever glad remembering
As one in winter hears the voice of Spring. "
»s
A CHANGE SONG By Marguerite Wilkinson
0 life, what would you make of me That, turning, I may find no more
A welcome at each friendly door
That once stood open wide to me?
Dear hands still reach to meet with mine, And yet my heart is turned away;
Dear ringing voices answer mine
And yet my spirit may not stay.
And, gazing deep into old days,
On faces whose dear lines I knew
Whose many-colored thoughts I guessed, I find I know not the old ways;
Dear eyes are shadowed that I knew, And lips are silent that confessed With burden of bright words to me Out of their woe, their ecstasy;
Or speaking, they are quick and gay, With kindly will to warn or bless. Why can I never tear away
The veils from the old friendliness ?
Mists rise on any sunny shore — Hiding the river from the sea And all the flowing of their souls Is hidden, by a mist, from me.
The channel, that I know no more, Whence, to unfathomed oceans, rolls The current of my being, now 1
Into the dark is turning me. 7 Wraiths of old joy shift through jlht air, Wraiths of old pain that shudder and sigh, Wraiths of each outworn love and care Pluck at me as I pass them by.
Oh friend, oh comrade of the radiant days
Of love, of hope, of passionate surmise
When beauty throbbed like heat before the eyes And even sorrow wore a golden haze!
Can you not let them rest, those sacred ghosts
Of our dead selves—yes, yours and mine and theirs Who knew not life, yet wept its utmost cares And laughed more joys than all creation boasts?
Then was my spirit vibrant with the spheres;
Its strings across the ringing vault lay hot
Where passed to God the laughter and the tears And all the million prayers He heeded not.
But now, dear friend, chilled by the wind of years My heart is mute and all its song forgot.
»3
GHOSTS
By Samuel Roth
She stood half leaning in the dark doorway, Light kindling softly in her anxious eyes:
"I tire," she pleaded, "tire of all that's wise And witty. Is there nothing you can say"
Of love, our love, that is not of the day?
It lingered in my heart but could not rise
The word that would have wrought the sweet surmise Which turns to godliness the common clay.
Ah many days have passed and she and I
Never since crossed the green of sea or grass Together. Now I know what silenced me.
The world of shadows, ghosts that will not die, Guarded Love's Gate and would not let me pass,
And we are patient as the dead can be!
SHELLEY By Samuel Roth
Our poet, says a simple tale of him,
Held with a stubborn reverence the faith
That babes are born in heaven, and, so saith
This tale, perhaps spurred by a sudden whim,
With one new born held converse lengthy. "Oh, Pray, sir, "the lady " spake all laughter riven,
"What means this? "I but ask for news of heaven. " "Surely," —the lady smiling —"he can't know. "
And then, so runs this tale, our singer prince,
His soft eyes darkling brightly, and his lips
Widening like the child's: "O say it not.
It is but thirty dawns and twilights since
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot. "
34
MORIENS PROFECTUS By John Orth Cook
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
Rising and falling in the evening air;
And we, who all our lives have walked in fear,
Go through the thickening darkness, following where The music leads us, —be it far or near !
And no man pauses. For we are of those Whom Time has worsted in his mimic close: —But we have no despair, no grief, no woes.
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
And some will hear it early, others late;
But each will lay himself upon his bier
And hold thereon a moment's solemn state:
And there will be the brief funereal rites Whence all shall pass into the utter drear Where sunless, moonless, days succeed to nights, And no wind stirs the surface of the meer.
IF I COULD TAKE THIS LOVE FROM OUT MY HEART
By Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff
If I could take this love from out my heart And go my way in silence and alone, Unweeping, and to fear and joy unknown
Forgetful of the world's bright-colored mart — Passing amidst the human throng apart
Like one who walks with beauty in the night
Remembering all the tears and vain delight,— The rapture and the pain that were my part— Then I could watch again the swallows dart
Into the sky's blue dome unenvyingly,
Knowing I am at last as they are, free. . .
And I would say, 'Though all sweet dreams depart, I shall be ever glad remembering
As one in winter hears the voice of Spring. "
»s
A CHANGE SONG By Marguerite Wilkinson
0 life, what would you make of me That, turning, I may find no more
A welcome at each friendly door
That once stood open wide to me?
Dear hands still reach to meet with mine, And yet my heart is turned away;
Dear ringing voices answer mine
And yet my spirit may not stay.
And, gazing deep into old days,
On faces whose dear lines I knew
Whose many-colored thoughts I guessed, I find I know not the old ways;
Dear eyes are shadowed that I knew, And lips are silent that confessed With burden of bright words to me Out of their woe, their ecstasy;
Or speaking, they are quick and gay, With kindly will to warn or bless. Why can I never tear away
The veils from the old friendliness ?
Mists rise on any sunny shore — Hiding the river from the sea And all the flowing of their souls Is hidden, by a mist, from me.
The channel, that I know no more, Whence, to unfathomed oceans, rolls The current of my being, now 1
Into the dark is turning me. 7 Wraiths of old joy shift through jlht air, Wraiths of old pain that shudder and sigh, Wraiths of each outworn love and care Pluck at me as I pass them by.
