Anthology of Massachusetts Poets Part 4

But one lone corner it invades not yet, Where low above a black and rimy crag Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered s.h.i.+eld, The holy, useless s.h.i.+eld of long-past wars, Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.

But lo! the east,--let none forget the east, Pathway ordained of old where He should tread.

Through some sweet magic common in the skies, The rosy banners are with saffron tinct; The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, And led by silence more majestical Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes!

He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.

ALICE BROWN

BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE

BURNT are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust.

Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that open the budding to-morrow.

Once was a pa.s.sion completed,-too perfect, the G.o.ds have not broken to borrow-- Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity's dust.

ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT

FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI

FRESH mists of Roman dawn; For water search the cattle; Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd's horn Above fountain Giulia's prattle.

Triton, joyous and loud Of Naiads summons troops; A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, Dancing, pursuing groups.

At high noon the trumpets peal, Neptune's chariot pa.s.ses by; Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi's jets heal Then trumpets' echoes sigh.

Tolling bell and sunset, Twittering birds and calm; Medici's fountain, s.h.i.+mmering net, Into the night brings balm.

JESSICA CARR

IN THE TROLLEY CAR

THE swart Italian in the trolley car, h.o.a.rded his children in his arms and breast; The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed.

One Raphael-boy slipped from his father's knee, Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, She turned away, and would not hear his plea, She turned away, and would not even speak.

With trembling lips the child crept back again To the warm shelter of his father's breast; We looked indignant pity, for till then We thought that mother-love bore every test.

We rose to go, the father-mother said, In deep, low tones, "Don't t'inka hard you bet The younges' was too-seeck, and he is dead, She will be alla right, when she forget."

When she forgets! "Great-Heart," hold closer yet Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack!

Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, When the warm tides of love come surging back.

RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY

IN IRISH RAIN

THE great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I've song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o' Monagan's a-singing in the rain.

The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-gra.s.s cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.

And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the p.r.i.c.kly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech--they call to me how oft!

They mind me just a slip o' girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!

And never one but had a joy to pa.s.s the time of day With little Mag o' Monagan's a-laughing down the way.

There's fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again--I'll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o' Monagan's a-singing in the rain.

MARTHA HASKELL CLARK

CRETONNE TROPICS

THE cretonne in your willow chair Shows through a zone of rosy air, A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, With blue-green crests and plumes of pride And beaks most formidably curved.

I hear the river, silver-nerved, To their shrill protests make reply, And the palm forest stir and sigh.

Curious, the spell that colors cast, Binding the fancy coweb-fast, And you would smile if you could know I like your cretonne parrots so!

But I have seen them sail toward night Superbly homeward, the last light Lifting them like a purple sea Scorned and made use of arrogantly; And I have heard them cry aloud From out a tall palm's emerald cloud; And I brought home a brilliant feather, Lost like a flake of sunset weather.

Here in the north the sea is white And mother-of-pearl in morning light, Quite lovely, but there is a glare That daunts me.

Now the willow chair Suggests a more perplexing sea, Till my heart aches with memory And parrots dye the air around, And I forget the pallid Sound.

GRACE HAZARD

TO HILDA OF HER ROSES

ENOUGH has been said about roses To fill thirty thick volumes; There are as many songs about roses As there are roses in the world That includes Mexico ... the Azores ... Oregon...

It is a pity your roses Are too late for Omar...

It is a pity Keats has gone...

Yet there must be something left to say Of flowers like these!

Adventurers, They pushed their way Through dewy tunnels of the June night Now they confer....

A little tremulous....

Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning

If Herrick would tiptoe back...

If Blake were to look this way Ledwidge, even!

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

DANDELION

LITTLE soldier with the golden helmet, O What are you guarding on my lawn?

You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff?