I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn,
I, against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie,
Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn-
God of Life! Creator! It was I! It was I!

THE WATCHER

She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,

In winter by the window,
In summer by the gate;

And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,

The long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.

Her thoughts were all so full of us,
She never could forget!

And so I think that where she is
She must be watching yet,

Waiting till we come home to her,
Anxious if we are late-
Watching from Heaven's window,
Leaning from Heaven's gate.

Aline Kilmer

Aline (Murray) Kilmer was born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1888. She was married to Joyce Kilmer in 1908 and, after his death during battle in France, began to deliver lectures, beginning in 1917. Since her youth, she has lived in New York.

Candles That Burn (1919) reveals a personal as well as

poetic warmth. Here is a domesticated flame, a quiet but none the less colorful hearth-fire. By its light, her world is revealed with a quaintly individualized grace. Her poems about her children are particularly well characterized. Vigils (1921) is a more ambitious and even more original offering. The nimble dexterity of "Unlearning," the banter of “Perversity" and the clean fervor of "Things" display Mrs. Kilmer as a distinct poetic personality.

EXPERIENCE

Deborah danced, when she was two,

As buttercups and daffodils do;

Spirited, frail, naïvely bold,

Her hair a ruffled crest of gold.

And whenever she spoke her voice went singing
Like water up from a fountain springing.

But now her step is quiet and slow;
She walks the way primroses go;
Her hair is yellow instead of gilt,
Her voice is losing its lovely lilt;
And in place of her wild, delightful ways
A quaint precision rules her days.

For Deborah now is three, and, oh,
She knows so much that she did not know.

THINGS

Sometimes when I am at tea with you,

I catch my breath

At a thought that is old as the world is old
And more bitter than death.

It is that the spoon that you just laid down

And the cup that you hold

May be here shining and insolent

When you are still and cold.

Your careless note that I laid away

May leap to my eyes like flame,

When the world has almost forgotten your voice

Or the sound of your name.

The golden Virgin da Vinci drew
May smile on over my head,
And daffodils nod in the silver vase
When you are dead.

So let moth and dust corrupt and thieves
Break through and I shall be glad,
Because of the hatred I bear to things
Instead of the love I had.

For life seems only a shuddering breath,
A smothered, desperate cry;

And things have a terrible permanence
When people die.

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey, but she is, she protests, completely a Pennsylvanian by parentage. She wrote from her infancy until her maturity and then, for the proverbial seven years, did not write a word.

Nets to Catch the Wind (1921) is one of the most brilliant first volumes recently issued in America. Mrs. Wylie's brilliance, it must be added, is one which always sparkles but seldom burns. Too often she achieves a frigid ecstasy; emotion is never absent from her lines but frequently it reflects a passion frozen at its source. For the most part, she exhibits a dramatic

keenness, a remarkable precision of word and gesture. A poem like "The Eagle and the Mole" is notable not only for its incisive symbolism but for its firm outlines and bright clarity of speech.

THE EAGLE AND THE MOLE

Avoid the reeking herd,

Shun the polluted flock,

Live like that stoic bird,

The eagle of the rock.

The huddled warmth of crowds

Begets and fosters hate;

He keeps, above the clouds,
His cliff inviolate.

When flocks are folded warm,

And herds to shelter run,
He sails above the storm,
He stares into the sun.

If in the eagle's track
Your sinews cannot leap,
Avoid the lathered pack,
Turn from the steaming sheep.

If you would keep your soul
From spotted sight or sound,
Live like the velvet mole;
Go burrow underground.

And there hold intercourse
With roots of trees and stones,

With rivers at their source,

And disembodied bones.

SEA LULLABY

The old moon is tarnished
With smoke of the flood,

The dead leaves are varnished
With color like blood,

A treacherous smiler
With teeth white as milk,

A savage beguiler

In sheathings of silk,

The sea creeps to pillage,
She leaps on her prey;
A child of the village
Was murdered today.

She came up to meet him
In a smooth golden cloak,

She choked him and beat him

To death, for a joke.

Her bright locks were tangled,

She shouted for joy,

With one hand she strangled

A strong little boy.

Now in silence she lingers

Beside him all night

To wash her long fingers
In silvery light.

Conrad Aiken

Conrad (Potter) Aiken was born at Savannah, Georgia, August 5, 1889. He attended Harvard, receiving his A.B. in