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 So let moth and dust corrupt and thieves For life seems only a shuddering breath, And things have a terrible permanence Elinor Wylie Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey, but she is, she protests, completely a Pennsylvanian by parentage. She t 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, The huddled warmth of crowds Begets and fosters hate; He keeps, above the clouds, When flocks are folded warm, If in the eagle's track If you would keep your soul And there hold intercourse With rivers at their source, And disembodied bones. SEA LULLABY The old moon is tarnished The dead leaves are varnished A treacherous smiler With teeth white as milk, A savage beguiler In sheathings of silk, The sea creeps to pillage, She came up to meet him 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 Conrad Aiken Conrad (Potter) Aiken was born at Savannah, Georgia, August 5, 1889. He attended Harvard, receiving his A.B. in 1912, travelled extensively for three years, and since then, he has devoted all his time to literature, living at South Yarmouth, Massachusetts. The most outstanding feature of Aiken's creative work is its adaptations of other models transmuted by Aiken's own music. His first volume, Earth Triumphant and Other Tales in Verse (1914), is the Keats tradition crossed and paraphrased by Masefield. Turns and Movies (1916) is a complete change; in more than half of this book, Aiken begins to speak with his true voice. Here he is the natural musician, playing with new rhythms, haunting cadences, muted philosophy. Nocturne of Remembered Spring (1917), The Charnel Rose (1918) and The House of Dust (1920) are packed with a tired but often beautiful music. Primarily, a lyric poet, Aiken frequently condenses an emotion in a few lines; some of his best moments are these "lapses" into tune. The music of the Morning Song from "Senlin" (in The Charnel Rose) is rich with subtleties of rhythm. But it is much more than a lyrical movement. Beneath the flow and flexibility of these lines, there is a delightful whimsicality, an extraordinary summoning of the immensities that loom behind the casual moments of everyday. Punch, the Immortal Liar (1921), in many ways Aiken's most appealing work, contains this poet's sharpest characterizations as well as his most beautiful symphonic effects. MIRACLES Twilight is spacious, near things in it seem far, And distant things seem near. Now in the green west hangs a yellow star. Silent as thought in evening contemplation In a clear dusk like this Mary climbed up the hill to seek her son, Men with wings In the dusk walked softly after her. She did not see them, but may have felt She did not see them, but may have known Now, unless persuaded by searching music Which suddenly opens the portals of the mind, We guess no angels, And are contented to be blind. Let us blow silver horns in the twilight, And lift our hearts to the yellow star in the green, PORTRAIT OF A GIRL This is the shape of the leaf, and this of the flower, Which watches its bough in a pool of unwavering water The thrush on the bough is silent, the dew falls softly, In the evening is hardly a sound. . . . And the three beautiful pilgrims who come here together Touch lightly the dust of the ground. |