MARTIN 1 When I am tired of earnest men, Or counting metal discs forever, Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good, that he who always knew Should have gold halls to wander through To leave those halls of splendid mirth Some people ask: What cruel chance 'From Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer. Copyright, 1914, by George H. Doran Company, Publishers. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,- Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Rich joy and love he got and gave; Orrick Johns Orrick Johns was born at St. Louis, Missouri, in 1887. He schooled himself to be an advertising copy writer, his creative work being kept as an avocation. Asphalt and Other Poems (1917) is a queer mixture. Cheap stanzas crowd against lines of singular beauty. The same peculiarity is evident in Black Branches (1920), where much that is strained and artificial mingles with poetry that is not only spontaneous but searching. At his best, notably in the refreshing "Country Rhymes," Johns is a true and poignant singer. THE INTERPRETER In the very early morning when the light was low Like snow in the springtime on a sunny hill, And we were only frightened and can't think still. We can't think quite that the katydids and frogs And the other living things that she spoke for to us Have nothing more to tell her since it happened thus. She never is around for anyone to touch, But of ecstasy and longing she too knew much . Alan Seeger Alan Seeger was born in New York, June 22, 1888. When he was still a baby, his parents moved to Staten Island, where he remained through boyhood. Later, there were several other migrations, including a sojourn in Mexico, where Seeger spent the most impressionable years of his youth. In 1906, he entered Harvard. 1914 came, and the European war had not entered its third week when, along with some forty of his fellow-countrymen, Seeger enlisted in the Foreign Legion of France. He was in action almost continually, serving on various fronts. On the fourth of July, 1916, ordered to take the village of Belloy-enSanterre, Seeger advanced in the first rush with his squad which was practically wiped out by hidden machine-gun fire. Seeger fell, mortally wounded, and died the next morning. Seeger's literary promise was far greater than his poetic accomplishment. With the exception of his one famous poem, there is little of importance, though much of charm, in his collected Poems (published, with an Introduction by William Archer, in 1916). "I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH"' RENDEZ I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade 1 From Poems by Alan Seeger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath- I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, God knows 'twere better to be deep Margaret Widdemer Margaret Widdemer was born at Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and began writing in her childhood. After graduating from Drexel Institute Library School in 1909, she contributed to various magazines. Miss Widdemer's poetic work has two distinct phases. In the one mood, she is the protesting poet, the champion of the down-trodden, the lyricist on fire with angry passion. In the other, she is the writer of well-made, polite and popular sentimental verse. Her finest poems are in Factories with Other Lyrics (1915), although several of her best songs are in The Old Road to Paradise (1918), which divided, with Sandburg's Cornhuskers, the Columbia Poetry Prize in 1918. A new volume, Cross Currents, appeared in 1921. Miss Widdemer is also the author of two books of short stories, four novels and several books for girls. FACTORIES I have shut my little sister in from life and light (For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair), I have made her restless feet still until the night, Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring air; I who ranged the meadowlands, free from sun to sun, Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly, I have bound my sister till her playing time was doneOh, my little sister, was it I? Was it I? I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood (For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless spark), Shut from love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good, How shall she go scatheless through the sun-lit dark? I who could be innocent, I who could be gay, I who could have love and mirth before the light went by, I have put my sister in her mating-time away Sister, my young sister, was it I? Was it I? I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast, (For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn), Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot restHow can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? |