Spoon River Anthology Part 5

One time, having starved the lions For more than a day, I entered the cage and began to beat Brutus And Leo and Gypsy.

Whereupon Brutus sprang upon me, And killed me.

On entering these regions I met a shadow who cursed me, And said it served me right. . . .

It was Robespierre!

c.o.o.ney Potter

I INHERITED forty acres from my Father And, by working my wife, my two sons and two daughters From dawn to dusk, I acquired A thousand acres.

But not content, Wis.h.i.+ng to own two thousand acres, I bustled through the years with axe and plow, Toiling, denying myself, my wife, my sons, my daughters.

Squire Higbee wrongs me to say That I died from smoking Red Eagle cigars.

Eating hot pie and gulping coffee During the scorching hours of harvest time Brought me here ere I had reached my sixtieth year.

Fiddler Jones

THE earth keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you.

And if the people find you can fiddle, Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.

What do you see, a harvest of clover?

Or a meadow to walk through to the river?

The wind's in the corn; you rub your hands For beeves hereafter ready for market; Or else you hear the rustle of skirts Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.

To c.o.o.ney Potter a pillar of dust Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth; They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy Stepping it off, to "Toor-a-Loor."

How could I till my forty acres Not to speak of getting more, With a medley of horns, ba.s.soons and piccolos Stirred in my brain by crows and robins And the creak of a wind-mill--only these?

And I never started to plow in my life That some one did not stop in the road And take me away to a dance or picnic.

I ended up with forty acres; I ended up with a broken fiddle-- And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, And not a single regret.

Nellie Clark

I WAS only eight years old; And before I grew up and knew what it meant I had no words for it, except That I was frightened and told my Mother; And that my Father got a pistol And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy, Fifteen years old, except for his Mother.

Nevertheless the story clung to me.

But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five, Was a newcomer and never heard it 'Till two years after we were married.

Then he considered himself cheated, And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin.

Well, he deserted me, and I died The following winter.

Louise Smith

HERBERT broke our engagement of eight years When Annabelle returned to the village From the Seminary, ah me!

If I had let my love for him alone It might have grown into a beautiful sorrow-- Who knows?--filling my life with healing fragrance.

But I tortured it, I poisoned it I blinded its eyes, and it became hatred-- Deadly ivy instead of clematis.

And my soul fell from its support Its tendrils tangled in decay.

Do not let the will play gardener to your soul Unless you are sure It is wiser than your soul's nature.

Herbert Marshall

ALL your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of me Sprang from your delusion that it was wantonness Of spirit and contempt of your soul's rights Which made me turn to Annabelle and forsake you.

You really grew to hate me for love of me, Because I was your soul's happiness, Formed and tempered To solve your life for you, and would not.

But you were my misery.

If you had been My happiness would I not have clung to you?

This is life's sorrow: That one can be happy only where two are; And that our hearts are drawn to stars Which want us not.

George Gray

I HAVE studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me-- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.

In truth it pictures not my destination But my life.

For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.

Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.

And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat.

To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Hon. Henry Bennett

IT never came into my mind Until I was ready to die That Jenny had loved me to death, with malice of heart.

For I was seventy, she was thirty--five, And I wore myself to a shadow trying to husband Jenny, rosy Jenny full of the ardor of life.

For all my wisdom and grace of mind Gave her no delight at all, in very truth, But ever and anon she spoke of the giant strength Of Willard Shafer, and of his wonderful feat Of lifting a traction engine out of the ditch One time at Georgie Kirby's.

So Jenny inherited my fortune and married Willard-- That mount of brawn! That clownish soul!

Griffy the Cooper

THE cooper should know about tubs.

But I learned about life as well, And you who loiter around these graves Think you know life.

You think your eye sweeps about a wide horizon, perhaps, In truth you are only looking around the interior of your tub.

You cannot lift yourself to its rim And see the outer world of things, And at the same time see yourself.

You are submerged in the tub of yourself-- Taboos and rules and appearances, Are the staves of your tub.

Break them and dispel the witchcraft Of thinking your tub is life And that you know life.

A. D. Blood

IF YOU in the village think that my work was a good one, Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards, And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett, In many a crusade to purge the people of sin; Why do you let the milliner's daughter Dora, And the worthless son of Benjamin Pantier Nightly make my grave their unholy pillow?

Dora Williams

WHEN Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me I went to Springfield. There I met a lush, Whose father just deceased left him a fortune.