But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
Contemporary Verse - v01-02
He make three motions: two are forward and one back,
Two thrusts and then a draw. There is no pause (the knack
Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack
Leather —I think —the track
Curves sharp, and will not let me see
Just what the task . . . But O, I know the moves he makes are three: I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me,
Again at night, when I am free.
No clod—
The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and tense, like wire. From some far land he came to us: was his desire
To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre hire?
He burns, I think. . . . . . dull fire.
THE FLAME AND THE SMOKE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
It is high, it is far~
Unattainably great,
Yet its rapture releases;
Melted are bonds and, unhindered,
I am at last not less than the thing that I am: Free of the universe,
Swept with pure fires,
Aware, unafraid, of the roaring, tumultuous vastness, Knowing my fire to be one with the core of all life; Set free from limits, definements and edges,
Enlarged by my high adoration,
Stilled even by madness of joy — Thus comes always upon me
The sense of the Oneness I worship, The sense of the Beauty I love.
But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
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THE FERRY
By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
Crossing the golden meadows,
Crossing the stately river,
Moving down to the southward gate with the far-going vessels, Casting my weary stiffness
To melt in the curl of the wavelets,
Flying free in the wind-whisps
Snapped from the top of the water,
Warmed by the early sunlight,
Touched by the self-same magic
That turns the wallowing brick-barge —
To a delicious, improbable treasure of gold
I myself am improbable
The city's tall shadow stalks forward and touches my shoulder:
I am only a useful rectangle
Built in the high walls of Business,
Now that the shadow has stolen my improbable moment of gold.
The boat bumps bluntly into its slip— I have done more than cross a river.
CONTEMPORARY VERSE
Published monthly at 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
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Edited by James E. Richardson, Charles Wharton Stork and Samuel McCoy. Copyright, 1916, by the editors, trading as CONTEMPORARY VERSE.
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ITALY IN ARMS AND
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THE VALE OF SHADOWS 60 CENTS
If it be the duty of a poet to give voice of the conscience of his nation, Mr. Scollard has done his part in The Vale a] Shadows. In Italy in Arms he is the true acolyte of Beauty, worshipping and tending at her immemorial shrine.
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POEMS
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