Edgar Lee Masters

If your thoughts were as clear as your eyes, And the whole of your heart were true, You were fitter by far for winning,

If you in the village think that my work was a good one, Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards, And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett,

Better than granite, Spoon River, Is the memory-picture you keep of me Standing before the pioneer men and women

I bought every kind of machine that's known - Grinders, shellers, planters, mowers, Mills and rakes and ploughs and threshers -

I never saw any difference Between playing cards for money And selling real estate,

I was crushed between Altgeld and Armour. I lost many friends, much time and money Fighting for Altgeld whom Editor Whedon

Jonas Keene thought his lot a hard one Because his children were all failures. But I know of a fate more trying than that:

They laughed at me as "Prof. Moon," As a boy in Spoon River, born with the thirst Of knowing about the stars.

Why was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones?

His father had a large family Of girls and boys and he was born and bred In a barn or kind of cattle shed.

What my name is, or where I live, or if I am that Alma Bell whose name is broached With Elenor Murray's who shall know from this?

Henry got me with child, Knowing that I could not bring forth life Without losing my own.

Yes, here I lie close to a stunted rose bush In a forgotten place near the fence Where the thickets from Siever's woods

Not "a youth with hoary head and haggard eye", But an old man with a smooth skin And black hair! I had the face of a boy as long as I lived,

Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago,

Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; "With malice toward none, with charity for all.',

Anton Sosnowski, from the Shakspeare School Where he assists the janitor, sweeps and dusts, The day now done, sits by a smeared up table

Twists of smoke rise from the limpness of jewelled fingers, The softness of Persian rugs hushes the room. Under a dragon lamp with a shade the color of coral

I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you, I was ashamed of you.

Archibald Lowell, owner of the Times Lived six months of the year at Sunnyside, His Gothic castle near LeRoy, so named

Did you ever see an alligator Come up to the air from the mud, Staring blindly under the full glare of noon?

Bill, look here! Here's the Times. You see this picture, Read if you like a little later. You never Heard how I came to Fairbanks, chanced to stay.

Dear, let me tell you, safe beside you now, Your hand in mine, here from this peak of sand, Under this pine tree, where the wild grapes spill

It was a hermit on Whitsunday That came to the Table Round. "King Arthur, wit ye by what Knight

"I was walking by the river," Barrett said, "When she arrived. I took her hand, no kiss, A silence for some minutes as we walked.

The very fall my sister Nancy Knapp Set fire to the house They were trying Dr. Duval

Their spirits beat upon mine Like the wings of a thousand butterflies. I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.

Together in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law, And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend. Down the gray road, friends, children, men and women,

I winged my bird, Though he flew toward the setting sun; But just as the shot rang out, he soared

Gourgaud, these tears are tears - but look, this laugh, How hearty and serene - you see a laugh Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes

This way and that way measuring, Sighting from tree to tree, And from the bend of the river.

I had fiddled all day at the county fair. But driving home "Butch" Weldy and Jack McGuire, Who were roaring full, made me fiddle and fiddle

He follows me no more, I said, nor stands Beside me. And I wake these later days In an April mood, a wonder light and free.

After I got religion and steadied down They gave me a job in the canning works, And every morning I had to fill

Ye who are kicking against Fate, Tell me how it is that on this hill-side Running down to the river,

Song Of Men How beautiful are the bodies of men - The agonists!

Oh, you young radicals and dreamers, You dauntless fledglings Who pass by my headstone,

The press of the Spoon River Clarion was wrecked, And I was tarred and feathered, For publishing this on the day the

With our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walked, As often before, the April fields till star - light Silkened over with viewless gauze the darkness

They have chiseled on my stone the words: "His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him That nature might stand up and say to all the world,

I have seen twenty men hanged, hung myself Two in this jail, with whom I talked the night Before they had the rope, knotted behind

Did You ever find out Which one of the O'Brien boys it was Who snapped the toy pistol against my hand?

In life I was the town drunkard; When I died the priest denied me burial In holy ground.

Who is that calling through the night, A wail that dies when the wind roars? We heard it first on Shipley's Hill,

Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees, The panders who betray the idiot cities For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled,

The sudden death of Eugene Carman Put me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month, And I told my wife and children that night.

This weeping willow! Why do you not plant a few For the millions of children not yet born,

Look at that tract of land there - five good acres Held out of use these thirty years and more. They keep a cow there. See! the cow's there now.

I inherited forty acres from my Father And, by working my wife, my two sons and two daughters From dawn to dusk, I acquired

The mad wind is the warden, And the smiling dahlias nod To the dahlias across the garden,

Did you ever hear of Editor Whedon Giving to the public treasury any of the money he received For supporting candidates for office?

When I went to the city, Mary McNeely, I meant to return for you, yes I did. But Laura, my landlady's daughter,

Suppose it is nothing but the hive: That there are drones and workers And queens, and nothing but storing honey -

I belonged to the church, And to the party of prohibition; And the villagers thought I died of eating watermelon.

(Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke) Said dear old Dick To the colored waiter:

Because thou wast most delicate, A woman fair for men to see, The earth did compass thy estate,

Look here, Jack: You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh. You haven't told me any stories. You

The buzzards wheel slowly In wide circles, in a sky Faintly hazed as from dust from the road.

I went up and down the streets Here and there by day and night, Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.

No other man, unless it was Doc Hill, Did more for people in this town than I. And all the weak, the halt, the improvident

Take any life you choose and study it: It gladdens, troubles, changes many lives. The life goes out, how many things result?

When Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me I went to Springfield. There I met a lush, Whose father just deceased left him a fortune.

I was not beloved of the villagers, But all because I spoke my mind, And met those who transgressed against me

Samuel is forever talking of his elm - But I did not need to die to learn about roots: I, who dug all the ditches about Spoon River.

You've heard of potters' wheels and potters' hands. I had a dream that told the human tale As well as potters' wheels or potters' hands.

I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed

I cannot tell you, Coroner, the cause Of death of Elenor Murray, not until My chemical analysis is finished.

By the blue sky of a clear vision, And by the white light of a great illumination, And by the blood-red of brotherhood,

Is it true, Spoon River, That in the hall - way of the New Court House There is a tablet of bronze

We stand about this place - we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: "June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days."

To be able to see every side of every question; To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long; To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,

I would I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk - flowers bee-infested, Into the mirror-like core of fire

Coroner Merival took the hundred letters Which Elenor Murray wrote to Barrett Bays, Found some of them unopened, as he said,

I was among multitudes of children Dancing at the foot of a mountain. A breeze blew out of the east and swept them as leaves,

Dust of my dust, And dust with my dust, O, child who died as you entered the world,

I looked like Abraham Lincoln. I was one of you, Spoon River, in all fellowship, But standing for the rights of property and for order.

What but the love of God could have softened And made forgiving the people of Spoon River Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt

I was a peasant girl from Germany, Blue-eyed, rosy, happy and strong. And the first place I worked was at Thomas Greene's.

Where is my boy, my boy In what far part of the world? The boy I loved best of all in the school? -

How many times, during the twenty years I was your leader, friends of Spoon River, Did you neglect the convention and caucus,

My mind was a mirror: It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew. In youth my mind was just a mirror In a rapidly flying car,

Rhodes, slave! Selling shoes and gingham, Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days

Out of the mercury shimmer of glass Over these daguerreotypes The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges

A chaplain in the army, A chaplain in the prisons, An exhorter in Spoon River,

At first you will know not what they mean, And you may never know, And we may never tell you: -

You are over there, Father Malloy, Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave, Not here with us on the hill -

Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed

It was only a little house of two rooms - Almost like a child's play-house - With scarce five acres of ground around it;

The earth keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. And if the people find you can fiddle,

Elenor Murray, daughter of Henry Murray, The druggist at LeRoy, a village near The shadow of Starved Rock, this Elenor

She took my strength by minutes, She took my life by hours, She drained me like a fevered moon

From Bindle's opera house in the village To Broadway is a great step. But I tried to take it, my ambition fired

There is in the dance The joy of children on a May day lawn. The fragments of old dreams and dead romance

France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave! France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal! Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel

I could not run or play In boyhood. In manhood I could only sip the cup,

Out of a cell into this darkened space - The end at twenty-five! My tongue could not speak what stirred within me,

If I could have lived another year I could have finished my flying machine, And become rich and famous.

Said Friar Yves: "God will bless Saint Louis' other-worldliness. Whatever the fate be, still I fare

How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you

I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me - A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.

Here, Coroner Merival, look at this picture! Whom does it look like? Eyes too crystalline, A head like Byron's, tender mouth, and neck,

Do you remember when I stood on the steps Of the Court House and talked free-silver, And the single-tax of Henry George?

A stepmother drove me from home, embittering me. A squaw-man, a flaneur and dilettante took my virtue. For years I was his mistress - no one knew.

Harry Wilmans! You who fell in a swamp Near Manila, following the flag You were not wounded by the greatness of a dream,

I knew her, why of course. And you want me? What can I say? I don't know how she died. I know what people say. But if you want

I wanted to be County Judge One more term, so as to round out a service Of thirty years.

Gregory Wenner's brother married the mother Of Alma Bell, the daughter of a marriage The mother made before. Kinship enough

The cooper should know about tubs. But I learned about life as well, And you who loiter around these graves

After a long day of work in my hot - houses Sleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left side Your dreams may be abruptly ended.

I was the only child of Frances Harris of Virginia And Thomas Greene of Kentucky, Of valiant and honorable blood both.

In a lingering fever many visions come to you: I was in the little house again With its great yard of clover

I wrote him a letter asking him for old times, sake To discharge my sick boy from the army; But maybe he couldn't read it.

Do the boys and girls still go to Siever's For cider, after school, in late September? Or gather hazel nuts among the thickets

You never understood, O unknown one, Why it was I repaid

Out of the lights and roar of cities, Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River, Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,

I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick, Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, Weak from the noon-day heat.

I was just turned twenty-one, And Henry Phipps, the Sunday-school superintendent, Made a speech in Bindle's Opera House.

Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain, Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold. And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold

On an ancient vase representing in bas-relief the flight of Helen. This is the vase of Love Whose feet would ever rove

One partner may consult another - James, Here is a matter you must help me with, It's coming to a head.

I reached the highest place in Spoon River, But through what bitterness of spirit! The face of my father, sitting speechless,

Whoever thou art who passest by Know that my father was gentle, And my mother was violent,

Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife,

I was the Sunday-school superintendent, The dummy president of the wagon works And the canning factory,

The bank broke and I lost my savings. I was sick of the tiresome game in Spoon River And I made up my mind to run away

All your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of me Sprang from your delusion that it was wantonness Of spirit and contempt of your soul's rights

I Made two fights for the people. First I left my party, bearing the gonfalon Of independence, for reform, and was defeated.

I tried to win the nomination For president of the County-board And I made speeches all over the County

Here I lie close to the grave Of Old Bill Piersol, Who grew rich trading with the Indians, and who

Often Aner Clute at the gate Refused me the parting kiss, Saying we should be engaged before that;

It never came into my mind Until I was ready to die That Jenny had loved me to death, with malice of heart.

My name used to be in the papers daily As having dined somewhere, Or traveled somewhere,

- His Own Words IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL *        *        *        *        *

Nothing in life is alien to you: I was a penniless girl from Summum Who stepped from the morning train in Spoon River.

I began with Sir William Hamilton's lectures. Then studied Dugald Stewart; And then John Locke on the Understanding,

You wrote: "Come over to Saugatuck And be with me on the warm sand,

The sounds of mid-night trickle into the roar Of morning over the water growing blue. At ten o'clock the August sunbeams pour

We paused to say good-by, As we thought for a little while, Alone in the car, in the corner

I arise in the silence of the dawn hour. And softly steal out to the garden Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.

You would not believe, would you That I came from good Welsh stock? That I was purer blooded than the white trash here?

I was a gun-smith in Odessa. One night the police broke in the room Where a group of us were reading Spencer.

Elenor Murray landing in New York, After a weary voyage, none too well, Staid in the city for a week and then

They told me I had three months to live, So I crept to Bernadotte, And sat by the mill for hours and hours

Whenever the Presbyterian bell Was rung by itself, I knew it as the Presbyterian bell. But when its sound was mingled

They would have lynched me Had I not been secretly hurried away To the jail at Peoria.

How did you feel, you libertarians, Who spent your talents rallying noble reasons Around the saloon, as if Liberty

When Fort Sumter fell and the war came I cried out in bitterness of soul: "O glorious republic now no more!"

Do you remember, passer-by, the path I wore across the lot where now stands the opera house Hasting with swift feet to work through many years?

Jane Fisher says to Susan Hamilton, That Coroner has no excuse to bring You, me before him. There are many too

There would be a knock at the door And I would arise at midnight and go to the shop, Where belated travelers would hear me hammering

My valiant fight! For I call it valiant, With my father's beliefs from old Virginia: Hating slavery, but no less war.

Not, where the stairway turns in the dark A hooded figure, shriveled under a flowing cloak! Not yellow eyes in the room at night,

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking, When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock. So we came out and he went home to wife

While I was handling Dom Pedro I got at the thing that divides the race between men who are For singing "Turkey in the straw" or

In the lust of my strength I cursed God, but he paid no attention to me: I might as well have cursed the stars.

Carl Eaton and John Campbell both were raised With Elenor Murray in LeRoy. The mother Of Eaton lived there; but these boys had gone,

As to democracy, fellow citizens, Are you not prepared to admit That I, who inherited riches and was to the manor born,

I won the prize essay at school Here in the village, And published a novel before I was twenty-five.

I was attorney for the "Q" And the Indemnity Company which insured The owners of the mine.

You see I worked for Arthur Fouche, he said, Until the year before he died; I knew That worthless son of his who lived with him,

Oh! the dew-wet grass of the meadow in North Carolina Through which Rebecca followed me wailing, wailing, One child in her arms, and three that ran along wailing,

Father, thou canst never know The anguish that smote my heart For my disobedience, the moment I felt

When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River, I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander

Why did Albert Schirding kill himself Trying to be County Superintendent of Schools, Blest as he was with the means of life

After you have enriched your soul To the highest point, With books, thought, suffering,

Who carved this shattered harp on my stone? I died to you, no doubt. But how many harps and pianos Wired I and tightened and disentangled for you,

I was well known and much beloved And rich, as fortunes are reckoned In Spoon River, where I had lived and worked.

How does it happen, tell me, That I who was most erudite of lawyers, Who knew Blackstone and Coke

We quarreled that morning, For he was sixty - five, and I was thirty, And I was nervous and heavy with the child

Toward the last The truth of others was untruth to me; The justice of others injustice to me;

I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge. When I felt the bullet enter my heart I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail

And under the shadows of cliffs of brick The lake boats Huddled like swans

I have two monuments besides this granite obelisk: One, the house I built on the hill, With its spires, bay windows, and roof of slate.

What will you do when you come to die, If all your life long you have rejected Jesus, And know as you lie there,

In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower, Tea being served to painters, poets, singers, Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest,

I was the daughter of Lambert Hutchins, Born in a cottage near the grist - mill, Reared in the mansion there on the hill,

Herbert broke our engagement of eight years When Annabelle returned to the village From the Seminary, ah me!

Love is a madness, love is a fevered dream, A white soul lost in a field of scarlet flowers, Love is a search for the lost, the ever vanishing gleam

Here is the secret of the death of Elenor, From what I learn of her, from what I know In living, knowing women, I am clear

I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners,

When my moustache curled, And my hair was black, And I wore tight trousers

Back and forth, back and forth, to and from the church, With my Bible under my arm 'Till I was gray and old;

Knowlt Hoheimer ran away to the war The day before Curl Trenary Swore out a warrant through Justice Arnett

You may think, passer-by, that Fate Is a pit-fall outside of yourself, Around which you may walk by the use of foresight

Your red blossoms amid green leaves Are drooping, beautiful geranium! But you do not ask for water.

I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed,

Tell me, was Altgeld elected Governor? For when the returns began to come in And Cleveland was sweeping the East

The idea danced before us as a flag; The sound of martial music; The thrill of carrying a gun;

Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color

I would have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit,

Passer-By, To love is to find your own soul Through the soul of the beloved one.

It was just like everything else in life: Something outside myself drew me down, My own strength never failed me.

I am Minerva, the village poetess, Hooted at, jeered at by the Yahoos of the street For my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk,

Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds -

Elenor Murray asked to go in training And came to see me, but the school was full, We could not take her. Then she asked to stand

I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him,

Reverend Wiley advised me not to divorce him For the sake of the children, And Judge Somers advised him the same.

To this generation I would say: Memorize some bit of verse of truth or beauty. It may serve a turn in your life.

Gregory Wenner's wife was by the sea When Gregory Wenner killed himself, half sick And half malingering, and otiose.

Mr. Kessler, you know, was in the army, And he drew six dollars a month as a pension, And stood on the corner talking politics,

Silent before the jury Returning no word to the judge when he asked me If I had aught to say against the sentence,

He protested all his life long The newspapers lied about him villainously; That he was not at fault for Minerva's fall,

I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests,

He ran away and was gone for a year. When he came home he told me the silly story Of being kidnapped by pirates on Lake Michigan

The secret of the stars - gravitation. The secret of the earth - layers of rock. The secret of the soil - to receive seed.

I was the milliner Talked about, lied about, Mother of Dora,

I When the sea has devoured the ships, And the spires and the towers

Well, don't you see this was the way of it: We bought the farm with what he inherited, And his brothers and sisters accused him of poisoning

"Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry I woke from deeper slumber - was it sleep? - And saw a hooded figure standing by

I was only eight years old; And before I grew up and knew what it meant I had no words for it, except

Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens, When my estate was probated and everyone knew How small a fortune I left? -

You have become a forge of snow white fire, A crucible of molten steel, O France! Your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn

My mother was for woman's rights And my father was the rich miller at London Mills. I dreamed of the wrongs of the world and wanted to right them.

Have you seen walking through the village A Man with downcast eyes and haggard face? That is my husband who, by secret cruelty

Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce, They do not justify your head in bronze! Your essays! talent's failures were to you

I staggered on through darkness, There was a hazy sky, a few stars Which I followed as best I could.

Almost the shell of a woman after the surgeon's knife And almost a year to creep back into strength, Till the dawn of our wedding decennial

Horses and men are just alike. There was my stallion, Billy Lee, Black as a cat and trim as a deer,

I lost my patronage in Spoon River From trying to put my mind in the camera To catch the soul of the person.

Observe the clasped hands! Are they hands of farewell or greeting, Hands that I helped or hands that helped me?

My father who owned the wagon-shop And grew rich shoeing horses Sent me to the University of Montreal.

My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association, For this modest boulder,

Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel - Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens -

Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate?

The pathos in your face is like a peace, It is like resignation or a grace Which smiles at the surcease

Everyone laughed at Col. Prichard For buying an engine so powerful That it wrecked itself, and wrecked the grinder

There is a quiet in my heart Like one who rests from days of pain. Outside, the sparrows on the roof

All they said was true: I wrecked my father's bank with my loans To dabble in wheat; but this was true -

Medical Unit - Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, The altar flame of your love's sacrifice;

Well, Emily Sparks, your prayers were not wasted, Your love was not all in vain. I owe whatever I was in life

I had no objection at all To selling my household effects at auction On the village square.

I preached four thousand sermons, I conducted forty revivals, And baptized many converts.

The Rev. Percy Ferguson, patrician Vicar of Christ, companion of the strong, And member of the inner shrine, where men

When I first came to Spoon River I did not know whether what they told me Was true or false.

I grew spiritually fat living off the souls of men. If I saw a soul that was strong I wounded its pride and devoured its strength.

If a man could bite the giant hand That catches and destroys him, As I was bitten by a rat

Oh many times did Ernest Hyde and I Argue about the freedom of the will. My favorite metaphor was Prickett's cow

She loved me. Oh! how she loved me I never had a chance to escape From the day she first saw me.

I was sick, but more than that, I was mad At the crooked police, and the crooked game of life. So I wrote to the Chief of Police at Peoria:

If the learned Supreme Court of Illinois Got at the secret of every case As well as it does a case of rape

In the last spring I ever knew, In those last days, I sat in the forsaken orchard Where beyond fields of greenery shimmered

I, born in Weimar Of a mother who was French And German father, a most learned professor,

They brought me ambrotypes Of the old pioneers to enlarge. And sometimes one sat for me -

I ran away from home with the circus, Having fallen in love with Mademoiselle Estralada, The lion tamer.

Let me consider your emergence From the milieu of our youth: We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry.

I who kept the greenhouse, Lover of trees and flowers, Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm,

Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree. The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass, The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,

To a lustful thirst she came at first And gave him her maiden's pride; And the first man scattered the flower of her love,

I wanted to go away to college But rich Aunt Persis wouldn't help me. So I made gardens and raked the lawns

My life's blossom might have bloomed on all sides Save for a bitter wind which stunted my petals On the side of me which you in the village could see.

When I died, the circulating library Which I built up for Spoon River, And managed for the good of inquiring minds,

The white men played all sorts of jokes on me. They took big fish off my hook And put little ones on, while I was away

It was moon-light, and the earth sparkled With new-fallen frost. It was midnight and not a soul abroad.

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid,

Time that has lifted you over them all, O'er John and o'er Paul; Writ you in capitals, made you the chief

I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, I want you with me."

Reading over your letters I find you wrote me "My dear boy," or at times "dear boy," and the envelope Said "master" - all as I had been your very son,

To a western breeze A row of golden tulips is nodding. They flutter their golden wings

Her soul is like a wolf that stands Where sunlight falls between the trees Of a sparse forest's leafless edge,

You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch,

Antonio loved the Lady Clare. He caught her to him on the stair And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,

I, the scourge-wielder, balance-wrecker, Smiter with whips and swords; I, hater of the breakers of the law;

For He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust. - PSALM CIII. 14. Oh Lord, when all our bones are thrust Beyond the gaze of all but Thine;

Only a few plants up - and not a blossom My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? Old John comes by. I show him my result.

I was the laughing-stock of the village, Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves - Also of the learned, like Rev. Peet, who read Greek

Terminus shows the ways and says, "All things must have an end." Oh, bitter thought we hid away

My heart is an altar whereon Many sacrificial fires have been kindled In praise of spring and Aphrodite.

I made my bed beneath the pines Where the sea washed the sandy bars; I heard the music of the winds,

When you lie sleeping; golden hair Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink Ears that nestle, I forbear

What are the mortal facts With which we deal? The man is thirty years, Most vital, in a richness physical,

A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle.

Amid the din of cars and automobiles, At the corner of a towering pile of granite, Under the city's soaring brick and stone,

Take note, passers-by, of the sharp erosions Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain - Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred

The Sun hung like a red balloon As if he would not rise; For listless Helios drowsed and yawned.

Would that someone would knock Mr. Bryan into a cocked hat. - WOODROW WILSON. It ain't really a hat at all, Ed: You know that, don't you?

Elenor Murray stole away from Nice Before her furlough ended, tense to see Something of Italy, and planned to go

The Human Voice You knew then, starting let us say with ether, You would become electrons, out of whirling

Merival, of a mother fair and good, A father sound in body and in mind, Rich through three thousand acres left to him

There's a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears. It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears. It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres.

Sir Launcelot had fled to France For the peace of Guinevere, And many a noble knight was slain,

This is the room that thou wast ushered in. Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win? Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath?

June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, And every day it rained. And every morning I heard the wind and rain among the leaves.

There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole, And the tiger banner, he cries. Pantagruel breaks into a laugh

I'm home at last. How long were you asleep? I startled you. The time? It's midnight past. Put on your slippers and your robe, my dear,

Silvers and purples breathing in a sky Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, Of the restrained but passionate July

Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars. Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars? Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief.

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all are sleeping on the hill.

Why don't they come to me to find the cause Of Elenor Murray's death? The house is first; That is the world, and Jack is God, you know;

Two children in a garden Shouting for joy Were playing dolls and houses,

The jurymen are seated here and there In Merival's great library. They smoke, And drink a little beer or Scotch. Arise

You and your landscape! There it lies Stripped, resuming its disguise, Clothed in dreams, made bare again,

What does one gain by living? What by dying Is lost worth having? What the daily things Lived through together make them worth the while

My brother, the god, and I grow sick Of heaven's heights. We plunge to the valley to hear the tick

From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea Beyond the river walled in by red buildings, O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings,

Elenor Murray and Petain, the major, The Promenade des Anglais walked at Nice. A cloud was over him, and in her heart

I The sea moans and the stars are bright, The leaves lisp 'neath a rolling moon.

I saw a room where many feet were dancing. The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing Both flames of candles and the heaven's light,

There's not a soul on the square, And the snow blows up like a sail, Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death, But never a face like Harold's who passed in a throe of pain. There were maidens and youths in the bud, and men in the lust of life;

Of John Cabanis, wrath and of the strife Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat Who led the common people in the cause

I am a certain god Who slipped down from a remote height To a place of pools and stars.

The: Prohibitionists made me Town Marshal When the saloons were voted out, Because when I was a drinking man,

Three lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be heard If others sang; but others never sang In the great beech-wood all that May and June.

"An inquisition taken for the people Of the State of Illinois here at LeRoy, County aforesaid, on the 7th of August,

Ye young debaters over the doctrine Of the soul's immortality I who lie here was the village atheist,

Of that dear vale where you and I have lain Scanning the mysteries of life and death I dreamed, though how impassable the space

If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, Play whips for fun, or snares for game, The liar full of ease goes free,

As a boy, Theodore, you sat for long hours On the shore of the turbid Spoon With deep-set eye staring at the door of the crawfish's burrow,

Very well, you liberals, And navigators into realms intellectual, You sailors through heights imaginative,

This I saw with my own eyes: A cliff - swallow Made her nest in a hole of the high clay-bank There near Miller's Ford.

Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty passion of Tereus for Philomela,

Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye,

I was a lawyer like Harmon Whitney Or Kinsey Keene or Garrison Standard, For I tried the rights of property,

At first I suspected something - She acted so calm and absent-minded. And one day I heard the back door shut

Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt From the Cordilleran Highlands, From the Height of Land

Only the chemist can tell, and not always the chemist, What will result from compounding Fluids or solids.

You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue, Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset,

Vegetarian, non - resistant, free-thinker, in ethics a Christian; Orator apt at the rhine-stone rhythm of Ingersoll. Carnivorous, avenger, believer and pagan.

My parents thought that I would be As great as Edison or greater: For as a boy I made balloons

Rich, honored by my fellow citizens, The father of many children, born of a noble mother, All raised there

Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo, The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M'Grew Cried, "There's a ghost," and I, "It's Delphic Apollo,".

They first charged me with disorderly conduct, There being no statute on blasphemy. Later they locked me up as insane

April rain, delicious weeping, Washes white bones from the grave, Long enough have they been sleeping.

We rode, we rode against the wind. The countless lights along the town Made the town blacker for their fire,

When under the icy eaves The swallow heralds the sun, And the dove for its lost mate grieves

Marie Fortelka, widow, mother of Josef, Now seventeen, an invalid at home In a house, in Halstead Street, his running side

I What will happen, Widow La Rue? For last night at three o'clock

I was the Widow McFarlane, Weaver of carpets for all the village. And I pity you still at the loom of life,

To Coroner Merival, greetings, but a voice Dissentient from much that goes the rounds, Concerning Elenor Murray. Here's my word:

My wife lost her health, And dwindled until she weighed scarce ninety pounds. Then that woman, whom the men

To all in the village I seemed, no doubt, To go this way and that way, aimlessly. . But here by the river you can see at twilight

There by the window in the old house Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley, My days of labor closed, sitting out life's decline,

Once in a while a curious weed unknown to me, Needing a name from my books; Once in a while a letter from Yeomans.

He sits before you silent as Buddha, And then you say This man is Rabelais.

There is something about Death Like love itself! If with some one with whom you have known passion

I was Willie Metcalf. They used to call me "Doctor Meyers," Because, they said, I looked like him.

They called me the weakling, the simpleton, For my brothers were strong and beautiful, While I, the last child of parents who had aged,

They got me into the Sunday-school In Spoon River And tried to get me to drop Confucius for Jesus. I could have been no worse off

I was sixteen, and I had the most terrible dreams, And specks before my eyes, and nervous weakness. And I couldn't remember the books I read,

At four o'clock in late October I sat alone in the country school-house Back from the road, mid stricken fields,