But we're clasping hands at the crossroads now In the Fiend's own night for weather; And whether we bleed or whether we smile In the leagues that lie before us The ways of life are many a mile And a cheer for the dark before us! You to the left and I to the right, But whether we live or whether we die (For the end is past our knowing), Here's two frank hearts and the open sky, Be a fair or an ill wind blowing! HERE'S LUCK! In the teeth of all winds blowing. Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Small, Maynard and Company. Martin Joyce Kilmer For biographical note concerning the author, see "Roofs," page 63. Here is a sharp rebuke for modern materialistic standards. Lively conversational inflections predominate throughout. WHEN I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Or counting metal discs forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me. Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gray and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, 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 To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth. Some people ask: What cruel chance A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child. Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Rich joy and love he got and gave; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success. From The Poems of Joyce Kilmer, reprinted by permission of George H. Doran Company, Publishers. Copyright 1918. The Falconer of God William Rose Benét William Rose Benét was born at Fort Hamilton, N. Y., Feb. 2, 1886. He was graduated from the Albany Academy in 1904 and obtained the degree of Ph.B. from Sheffield Scientific School in 1907. He was connected with the Century Magazine from that time until he went into the Air Service during the War. In 1919, he became editor of The Nation's Business, and contributes poems and humorous verse to many American magazines. This poem involves a highly imaginative conception of the common human experience that a realized desire rarely brings the satisfaction anticipated. The wording is mystic to a large degree, but abounds in beautiful imagery. Read the selection with a good deal of grandeur and majesty. I FLUNG my soul to the air like a falcon flying. In the marsh beneath the moon A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings, Rising and crying Wordless, wondrous things; The secret of the stars, of the world's heart strings, The answer to their woe. Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!" My wild soul waited on as falcons hover. In the marsh beneath the moon. And then-with feathery thunder-the bird of my desire Broke from the cover Flashing silver fire. High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire. As my falcon stoopt upon him, gript and held him fast. My soul dropt through the air-with heavenly plunder ?— Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew? A dark and heavy weight Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled, All of the wonder Gone that ever filled Its guise with glory. Oh, bird that I have killed, How brilliantly you flew Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you! Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor, And I ride the world below with a joyful mind. I shall start a heron soon In the marsh beneath the moon A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges! I beat forever The fens and the sedges. The pledge is still the same-for all disastrous pledges, All hopes resigned! My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find. Reprinted by permission of the author and The Yale University Press. Grieve Not for Beauty Witter Bynner For biographical note concerning the author, see "Apollo Troubadour," page 147. Here is a pagan philosophy of a high, transcendent order. As our physical beauty is not lost, but reproduced in a thousand ways in Nature, so our souls are not lost, but are Teproduced in thousand ways in the spiritual world. Throughout there runs the spirit of triumph over death, but withal a quiet resignation. In rendering this poem, the voice should be clear, yet speak from out a hushed silence, as if in the "vasty halls of death." ALMOST the body leads the laggard soul; bidding it see The beauty of surrender, the tranquillity Of fusion with the earth. The body turns to dust Not only by a sudden whelming thrust Or at the end of a corrupting calm, But oftentimes anticipates, and entering flowers and trees |