Grass

Man cuts down the tall green spears
And trims them to his smallest whim;
He mows them down and plucks them out
Mercilessly, with his strong pointed tools.
Whenever a thin green blade lifts its head
He conquers it with one ruthless stroke.
Man is master of the soil and grass
Is but a cringing helpless slave;
But when Man puts away his tools
And shuts his eyes, the green grass creeps
Out once again and takes revenge
By covering him beneath the soil and
Climbing gleefully over his face and hands.

RUTH ROGERs.

Plunder

Fossicking around
In the dictionary,
Words may be found
Fit for a l'aree.
Orpiment, ore,
Varvel and gibble's,
Zizany, tore,
Dimity, fribbles.
Quaint, if inept,
Odd bits from babel,
Like old things kept
On grandma's table.

JACK HORNER.

New Song For Memorial Day

We are the dead, who are not laid away,
For whom no flowers deck the quiet grave.
You passed us in the crowded street today;
Thinking of those gone back to earth, you gave
No second glance. We are the dead, who died
Not with one kind abandonment of breath,
Sudden and merciful; but dreams denied
And slow frustration worked a living death.
You will lay blossoms on a sunny slope
For those called dead, who cannot need them now;
And we shall take the subway with you, grope
Ever so slightly for your thought; then bow
The head again, and face the empty years
Dead without grace of tribute, or of tears.

HELEN FRAZEE-BoWER.

Worm'll Turn

He thinks I didn't hear that nasty crack.
He'll he surprised when it comes back
To him one day, with lawful force
¬The day I apply for a divorce.

B. V. KINDLER.

A Censor

Day in, day out upon his classic quest;

He haunts the book stores one by one to scan
Page after page assiduously, lest
Some doubtful volume should escape his ban.
He thumbs the classics over, fondly lingers
On Richardson and Sterne and Rabelais
And turns their pages with excited fingers
He'd censor Scripture if he had his way.
A few books he takes home for late inspection
Long after dark when good folk are in bed.
A dozen moderns of his own selection
Contribute thrills by which his mind is fed.
On his chaste brow, then, let us twine the laurels
Due him for elevating public morals!

SYDNEY KING RUSSELL.

Wish For A Lover

May he be gentle, yet may he be strong
To bear all wind and rain against his cheek,
Eager to battle what he knows is wrong,
Yet slow to anger, and, in self-praise, meek.
May he be beauty-loving, turning back
To hear one bird again, or find one flower,
And may he be a dreamer, yet not lack
Stamina for an unforeseen dark hour.
May he know intimately deep, kind laughter,
May he have working hands, and eyes that say
All he cannot. . . May he be tolerant after
He learns how much I love him, some far day.

ELAINE V. EMANS.

Fanfare For Janet

Let Abyssinian kings be meek,
Let dime store queens be humble,
Let brave policemen cease to seek
For hunted men. Ah, stumble,
You haughty matrons, pouter-pigeon
Chested; ah, grave preachers,
Smile and be gay in your religion;
You sober-visaged teachers,
Let routine pause. Clerks, cold as clams,
Stand silent in your doors;
Messengers carrying telegrams,
Go softly on your chores:
For here she comes, her majesty
Queenly and grave and mild
So dark of hair, so blue of eye,
My own, my youngest child:
A regal baby, fine and good,
Wearing a fuzzy woolen hood!

LEONA AMES HILL.

... --- ... --- … --- …

GUGLIELMO MARCONI
Earth marvels yet! What height his rapture when
He caught C Q sent through infinite space,
Which drew him from this multitude of men!
Did he who conquered ether-silence-trace
Immeasurable orbits, planet-known,
To give his answer somewhere, face to face?
He was a gracious gift, who had been shown
In part the hidden, purposefully led
To hasten brotherhood into its own.
Mind God-endowed, by the Creator fed,
That he might date an era which God sieves
Anomoly of gentleness high-bred.
In lands where lust breeds war-a thought that lives
In every S 0 S that mankind gives.

MATTIE HALLAM LACY.

From Socrates' Talk to His Friends Before Drinking the Hemlock.

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like to talk with you about this thing which has happened, before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then awhile, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges ¬for so I may truly call you, I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance.

Hitherto the familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me, even in trifles, if I was going to make a slip or err in any matter; and now, as you see, there has come upon me the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech; but now in nothing that I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this! I will tell you. I regard this as a great proof that what has happened to me is a good; and that those who think that death is an evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to good. Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good. For one of two things- either death is a state of nothingness; or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another.

Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare this with the other days and nights of his life; and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think this man- I will not say a private man, but even the great king- will not find many such days or nights, when compared with others. Now if death is like this I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night.

But if death is the journey to another place-'-and there, as men say, all the dead are-what good can be greater than this? If, indeed, when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there.

Above all, I shall then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge, as in this world, so also in that. And I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise and is not. What would not a man give to be able to examine the leader of the Trojan expedition; or Odysseus, or Sisyphus, or numberless others-men and women, too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking questions in another world they do not put a man to death for asking questions; assuredly not. For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said be true. Wherefore, be of good cheer about death, and know of a certainty that no evil can happen to a good man, either in this life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods, nor has my own approaching, end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign.

For which reason, also, I am not angry with my condemners or with my accusers. They have done me no harm, although they did not mean to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them. Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons grow up, I would ask you, my friends, to punish them. And I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches or anything more than about virtue. Or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing, then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are really something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.

The hour of my departure has arrived, and we go our ways-I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows.

-From Socrates' Talk to His Friends Before Drinking the Hemlock.

AN EPITAPH
The Body of Benjamin Franklin,
Printer
(Like the cover of an old book,
Its contents torn out
And stripped of its lettering and gilding)
Lies here food for worms.
Yet the work itself shall not be lost,
For it will (as he believes) appear once more
In a new
 And more beautiful Edition

Corrected and Amended
By
The Author

The Teak Forest

Whether I loved you who shall say?

Whether I drifted down your way
In the endless River of Chance and Change,
And you woke the strange
Unknown longings that have no names,
But burn us all in their hidden flames,
Who shall say?

Lite is a strange 'and a wayward thing:
We heard the bells of the Temples ring,
The married children, in passing, sing.
The month of marriage, the month of spring,
Was full of the breath of sunburnt flowers
That bloom in a fiercer light than ours,
And, under a sky more fiercely blue,
I came to you!

You told me tales of your vivid life
Where death was cruel and danger rife
Of deep dark forests, of poisoned trees,
Of pains and passions that scorch and freeze,
Of southern noontides and eastern nights,
Where love grew frantic with strange delights,
While men were slaying and maidens danced,
Till I, who listened, lay still, entranced.
Then, swift as a swallow heading south,
I kissed your mouth!

One night when the plains were bathed in blood
From sunset light in a crimson flood,
We wandered under the young teak trees
Whose branches whined in the light night breeze;
You led me down to the water's brink,
The Spring where the Panthers come to drink
At night; there is always water here
Be the season never so parched and sere.

Have we souls of beasts in the forms of men?
I fain would have tasted your life-blood then.
The night fell swiftly; this sudden land
Can never lend us a twilight strand
'Twixt the daylight shore and the ocean night,
But takes-as it gives-at once, tpelight.

We laid us down on the steep hillside,
While far below us wild peacocks cried,
And we sometimes heard, in the sunburnt grass,
The stealthy steps of the Jungle pass.
We listened; knew not whether they went
On love or hunger the more intent.
And under your kisses I hardly knew
Whether I loved or hated you.

But your words were flame and your kisses fire,
And who shall resist a strong desire?
Not I, whose life is a broken boat.
On a sea of passions, adrift, afloat.
And, whether I came in love or hate,
That I came to you was written by Fate
In every hue of the blood-red sky,
In every tone of the peacocks' cry,

While every gust of the Jungle night
Was fanning the flame you had set alight,
For these things have power to stir the blood
And compel us all to their own chance mood,
And to love or not we are no more free
Than a ripple to rise and leave the sea.

We are ever and always slaves of these,
Of the suns that scorch and the winds that freeze,
Of the faint sweet scents of the sultry air,
Of the half heard howl from the far off lair.
These chance things master us ever.
Compel To the heights of Heaven, the depths of Hell.

Whether I love you ? You do not ask,
Nor waste yourself on the thankless task.
I give your kisses at least return,
What matter whether they freeze or burn.
I feel the strength of your fervent arms,
What matter whether it heals or harms.

You are wise; you take what the Gods have sent.
You ask no question, but rest content
So I am with you to take your kiss,
And perhaps I value you more for this.
For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,
To take what Fate, or the Gods, may give,
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion's ebb as you greet its flow,
To have,-to hold,-and,-in time,-let go!

And this is our Wisdom: we rest together
On the great lone hills in the storm-filled weather,
And watch the skies as they pale and burn,
The golden stars in their orbits turn,
While Love is with us, and Time and Peace,
And life has nothing to give but these.

But, whether you love me, who shall say,
Or whether you, drifting down my way
In the great sad River of Chance and Change,
With your looks so weary and words so strange,
Lit my soul from some hidden flame
To a passionate longing without a name,
Who shall say?

Not I, who am but a broken boat,
Content for a while to drift afloat
In the little noontide of love's delights
Between two Nights.

LAURENCE HOPE.

Your letter came today.
What can I say
To make you know the way
I feel, so well
As just to tell
You simply this:
Your letter came today!
Your letter has the power
To light an hour
From gloom to the full radiance of a flower.
Your letters are the healing for all pain.
In life's dismal loss, they are bright gain.
Oh, write again!

MARY CAROLYN DAVIES.

A Letter To A Daughter-In-Law

My own dear daughter:-from my heart at last,
At long, long last, I call you this sweet name;
(Before, lip-service only to my shame,
I admit it.) Today that time is past,
And now, I wonder at the foolish jealousy
I felt, when you became my tall lad's wife
It might have alienated him for life:
The apple of my eye! Oh, don't you see
I thought, through marriage, I had lost a son?
(Love, richer for the sharing, proves me wrong.
Instead-God bless you-I find I have won
The daughter my heart's hungered for so long.
I humbly sue for your affection. Dear,
When you come home, you'll find a mother here.

ETHEL RoMIG FULLER.

Freedom

When we were young we heard love must be free.
Agreeing with this valiant platitude
We went our ways. A mountain with no tree
Arose between us barren, silent, rude.
You put your books and pictures on new walls;
I built a garden on a sunny slope.
I knew naught of your flights or of your falls;
You cared not for my blossoms or my hope.
Now you are dead upon another hill;
The snow seems colder drifting on your mound;
When laurels bloom again my eyes will fill
For other petals that must strew your ground.
Why are these thoughts of you steel chains for me?
We proved so long ago love must be free.

NORA DEL SMITH.

Sometimes Dreams Come True

Last night, dear heart, I dreamed I walked with you
On some far isle, where skies were deepest blue;
Beneath tall trees like a cathedral grand.
Slowly we walked together, hand in hand;
Softly you whispered to me o'er and o'er,
"You shall be with me, dear, forevermore."
One thing that gives me strength from day to day
To bear the long, long hours you are away;
To live the long, long days apart from you
Sometimes, beloved, sometimes dreams come true.

ETHEL B. CHENEY.

Frustration

I am not certain what it is I want
From you-friendship, or understanding help,
Or merely words that you would speak to me
Alone, and your ears listening to words
That I have stored to say to you. But when
You speak to me, you always stand a step
Above me, on an eminence, and you
Are even then aloof; you will not stay.
Elusive as quicksilver, you slip past
The words I would have said, and past my hands
That would not lift or clutch to make you wait
To listen or to speak. I do not know
Exactly what it is I want from you;
But this one thing I never need be told!
Whatever it may be, you will withhold.

IRMA W ASSALL.

Lines To A Garbage Man

I hope there waits a heaven,
When they are dead and gone,
For all the sleepy people,
Who rise before the dawn
To work while we sleep on.

I like to think that heaven
Has couches soft with silk
Awaiting patient horses
And men who leave the milk,
And others of their ilk.

Oh yes, somewhere in heaven
There open dawnlike doors
To railroad men and farmers
And people who scrub floors
And those who open stores.

A silent, tiptoed angel
Will smile to watch these men
Turn off their gold alarm-clocks,
Yawn happily, and then
Go back to sleep again.

GEORGE GREEN~AY.

Retribution

The candle knows not
That the flame it proudly bears
Slowly devours it.

HANNAH SHOMER.

If It Be A Daughter

Teach her to be as gentle
As the dew of dawn
Settling on a blade of grass.
Show her the grandeur in a ragged leaf
And in a winding road,
And in a single star.

Teach her to be forgiving
Tolerant, kind,
For kindness is lovelier
Than any glittering gown,
Or any silver slipper.

Show her the greatness of all
Simple things and the majesty
Of a roaring, foaming, sea.
Place in her hands
The shining threads
With which to weave ideals
And with which to bind securely
The love of life
Given her by you.

Teach her that if she would be great,
She would make fine use of common things. . .
A tiny house with curtains,
A fireplace, a grate of cinders,
A kitchen, and a man and child.

Give to her the knowledge
You have gained,
From singing winds and bending trees
And wistful smiles.

Show her the sparkle of
The yet uncovered diamond
In a dreamed-of scheme.

Point out to her the sun behind a cloud
 That she may never cry to God:
"You did not hear!"

Give her a belief in books.
Though they be but paper and worn
And of cracked binding.

For if she would know peace in spirit
And in heart,
She would read with all the eagerness
 Of a flower, forcing its bloom
Up, above the earth.
And lastly,
Teach her to live as quietly
As the magic passing of the moon
Over a smooth, clear space of sky.

JULIA B. COHAN.

First Love

Page God for me - once let His sparrows fall unheeded,
Once unattended go, their crushed and dust-grey wings;

Page Him, down the corridors of misery - He is needed
To answer here for urgent and more human things.

Then here, accuse Him of faulty manufacturing. This heart
He guaranteed to last for life - kept sixteen years; today
Used for the first time, and sparingly, it fell apart!

Page God to wipe a daughter's first real tears away.

FRANCES SHELLY HARHAN.

Crossing Bridges (To a five-year-old daughter)

Now, you are five and I am-well,
To you-as old as God and Time.
With deep humility and prayer
To keep your faith in me sublime,
I answer all your questionings
Of birds and bees and clouds and trees,
Your hows and whens and whys and wheres
And all about the brown Chinese.
Your wide, dark eyes with wonder glow
And rapture as we talk about
The stars and God and baby bugs
But never with a spark of doubt.
My prayers are ten years in advance
against that hour when you arise
And close a door and shut me out
And find that you, not I, are wise.

ALICE WADDELL PORTIS.

A Prayer For A Bride's House

"She is so young, dear Lord, so very young,
She is so wide-eyed and naively sweet,
She does not dream of great rooms, draped and hung
With master paintings, rugs where some queen's feet
Have lightly trod. She dreams of this instead;
A small new house with freshly painted floors,
With hand-stitched curtains, and above her head
Bright dishes gleaming through wee cupboard doors.
She'll learn, some day, the value of old things,
When eagerness is still, and she is wise
Knowing the disillusionment time brings
But now, there's so much springtime in her eyes,
And this is her first house-Whate'er you do,
Let everything about it, Lord, be-new!

CHRISTIE LUND COLES.

I Have No Sons

I have no sons
With strong young limbs
To stand straight and tall
And face the guns
At warlords' whims
And rot upon the spot they fall.
I have no sons to lay
At the feet of the lords of war,
Yet I might have had
If on a day
These twenty years ago or more,
They'd spared a lad
They crushed beneath the torch he bore.

CLAUDIA BLAND.

Ben Franklin invents "Pay It Forward"

I send you herewith a bill for ten louis d'ors. I do not pretend to give such a sum; I only lend it to you. When you shall return to your country with a good character, you cannot fail of getting into some business, that will in time enable you to pay all your debts. In that case, when you meet with another honest man in similar distress, you must pay me by lending this sum to him; enjoining him to discharge the debt by a like operation, when he shall be able, and shall meet with such another opportunity. I hope it may thus go through many hands, before it meets with a knave that will stop its progress. This is a trick of mine for doing a deal of good with a little money. I am not rich enough to afford much in good works, and so am obliged to be cunning and make the most of a little.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

My Love

A wild thing beats within my pulsing breast;
It pounds and throbs and makes my spirit shriek
For want of breath. And yet this deep unrest
Is calm when you are here, and I am meek.
You see I should pretend your sweet caress
Is very commonplace. For love laid bare
The sages say, will soon grow less and less,
So I must try to hide how much I care.
I think to-night I'll pray, on bended knee
For power to curb such deep emotion
Yet when you come, I know your eyes will see
In all I do complete devotion.
No weak resolve can hide, this love I know
And Oh! I thank my God
I love you BO.

EVA JANE GARVER.