And I have not seen Carcassonne, So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, We left next morning his abode, But (Heaven forgive me!) half way on The old man died upon the road; He never gazed on Carcassonne. Each mortal has his Carcassonne. The House by the Side of the Road Sam Walter Foss Sam Walter Foss was born in 1858 and died in 1911. In the course of his life he was a newspaper man, an editor, a lecturer, and a librarian. He wrote five volumes of poetry of a popular nature. A sympathetic imagination should characterize the reading of this poem. Project yourself into the lives of the passers-by. An almost infinite kindness pervades the whole, but at no place is weakness evident. "He was a friend to man, and he lived In a house by the side of the road."-Homer THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths But let me live by the side of the road Let me live in a house by the side of the road, The men who are good and the men who are bad, I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban Let me live in a house by the side of the road I see from my house by the side of the road, The men who press with the ardor of hope, But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, Let me live in a house by the side of the road I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, Let me live in a house by the side of the road, They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish-so am I; Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Lothrop, Lee, and Shepard Company, Boston, from Dreams in Homespun. Copyright by Lothrop, Lee, and Shepard Company. Comrades George Edward Woodberry George Edward Woodberry was born at Beverly, Mass., May 12, 1855. He was formerly Professor of Comparative Literature in Columbia University, New York. He is the author of many books dealing with literary subjects. This splendid expression of the love of youths, one for an other, should be read with depth of sentiment and fervor. Be careful in handling the irregularities of the verse not to dissipate the high music of the poem. WHERE are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; oh, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!— Where is he now, the dark boy slender Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains. Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding, Biding, biding-but he rides far! O love that passes the love of woman! When the breath of life with a throb turns human, Ever, forever, lover and rover— They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart! They are dead, the American grasses under; Thousands of miles there is no one near; Hearts of my music-them dark earth covers; In the width of the world there were no such rovers Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back nevermore, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last halloing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. Invictus William Ernest Henley William E. Henley was born at Gloucester in 1849. He engaged for many years in journalistic work and was for a time editor of certain London magazines. He has published a number of critical essays entitled "Views and Reviews," a volume of plays with Robert Louis Stevenson, of which "Beau Austin" was played with great success at the Haymarket Theatre. But he is best-known as a poet, from his "Book of Verses," and "The Song of the Sword." His note is strongly modern, and in sympathy with the younger school of British poets. This heroic poem needs low pitch, a firm yet quick and energetic force, and an irresistible onward movement. The rate is slow and the tone round and full. OUT of the night that covers me, I thank whatever gods may be |