Two lovers murmur and are still In mutual oblivion
Of any soul that saunters by
Or smiles and blesses and is gone.
Of any soul that saunters by
Or smiles and blesses and is gone.
Contemporary Verse - v01-02
Richardson, Charles Wharton Stork and Samuel McCoy.
Copyright, 1916, by the editors, trading as CONTEMPORARY VERSE.
16
THE CONTRIBUTORS
Scudder Middleton's poem, 'The Clerk," published in the June number of Contemporary Verse, is ranked in "An Anthology of Magazine Verse" as one of the thirty most distinguished poems published in the United States in 1916. Other previous contributors are Marguerite Wilkin son, John Hall Wheelock, Louis Ginsberg, Fhoebe Hcffman, John Russell McCarthy and Marjorie Allen Seiffert. Jeannette Marks, novelist, as well as poet, is a member of the faculty of Mt. Holyoke College. Leslie Nelson Jennings makes his home in California. Mary Morris Duane is a Phila- delphian. Abigail Fithian Halsey makes her home in Southampton, Long Island. Samuel Roth writes from New York. Marx Sabel's home is in Jacksonville, Florida. John Masefield is the author of "The Widow in the the Bye Street," "Good Friday," "The Everlasting Mercy," "Saltwater Ballads," "The Tragedy of Nan," and other volumes.
Here critics say
"The contents are of very good
Contemporary Verse.
"Slender in bulk—but it contains good poems. "
— New Orleans, Louisiana, Times-Picayune
" 'Contemporary Verse' is here, and, we hope, to stay. It came without a flourish — dimply print ed some very good contributions. That ought to be sufficient for those American Intellectuals who are bemoaning the deca dence of poetry. "
—The Rochester Herald, Rochester, New York
— The Literary Digest, New York Rates, $1. 50 a year
Address: 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia
quality indeed. "
— Current Opinion, New
York
"Each contribution is a gem. " —Sioux City, Iowa, Daily Tribune
"Has in it finer stuff than we've seen in many another more pre tentious journal. "
—T. A. Daly,
Philadelphia Evening Ledger
"All the contents are interesting. " —Chicago Record-Herald
"Its poetry is admirably selected
to find any other American magazine verse more notable for originality and imagination. . . . "
It would be difficult
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"Sleep on, I lie at heaven's high oriels Over the stars that mumur as they go Lighting your lattice window (ar b low;
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I have forgotten you long, long ago.
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Sleep on. I lie at heaven's high oriels Who loved you so. "
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FROM THE LIMBO OF FORGOTTEN
THINGS
A BOOK OF VERSE BY MARY STUART TYSON
Two plays have chief place in this volume. Because France to. day — perhaps more than ever in her history—is in the minds and hearts of other nations, these two poetic and romantic episodes of her past are timely.
Poems in various moods are also included in the book and add variety to its feast. Among them are Miss Tyson's contribu tions to "Contemporary Verse. "
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GALLIPOLI iNow Second Edition)
BY JOHN MASBFIEI. 0 Illustrated, $1. 25
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CHARLES WHARTON
"Like a fresh wind out of the north- land. " —Pittsburgh Post.
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CONTEMPORARY VERSE
offers a particularly remarkable series of poems for
the year 1917. Among those forthcoming numbers are:
Conrad Aiken
Louis Untermeyer
Orrick Johns
Margaret Widdemer Percival Allen
William Alexander Percy Scudder Middleton Marguerite Wilkinson John Russell McCarthy Phoebe Hoffman
Elwood Lindsay Haines Esther Morton Smith Howard Buck
Mary Humphreys
Samuel Roth
Mary Eleanor Roberts
who will contribute to
Howard Mumford Jones Clinton Scollard
John Luther Long Clement Wood
Arthur Davison Ficke Joyce Kilmer
Maxwell Struthers Burt John Hall Wheelock Laura Benet
Fullerton L. Waldo Abigail Fithian Halsey Louis Ginsberg Marjorie Allen Seiffert J. M. Batchelor
Mary Morris Duane William Laird
Freshness, strength, beauty and dignity characterize the poems in store for subscribers. The editors are confid ent that the magazine's year will be regarded as notable in American literature.
The Literary Digest says, in a recent issue :
"There are many "poetry magazines,' but so far as we know Contemporary Verse is the only Ameriean magazine devoted wholly to the publication of poetry.
"It contains no criticism, no letters, nothing but verse, and that usually of a high order of excellence. In every issue there is sure to be at least one poem so interesting as to justify the publication of that number of the magazine. "
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CONTEMPORARY VERSE VOtUMK III FEBRUARY, 1917 Number 3
THE MAN TO HIS DEAD POET By John Hall Wheelock
In the small, bare room brimmed up with twilight Hours long in silence I had sat
By the bed on which my youth lay dying And the poet that I once had been.
•
Many and many a day he had been failing, And I knew the end must come at last—
The poor fellow—I had loved him dearly, It was hard for me to see him go.
He was both my rapture and my sorrow — O how love unto its sorrow clings!
Many a bitter hour had he brought me, Loneliness, and shipwreck of the heart;
And I loved him. But my mind was weary Almost as the twilight of the day,
And my soul was sullen, and a little Tired of his everlasting talk.
Still from side to side his eyes went roaming, As in fever earnestly he moaned
Old forgotten ecstasies and splendors Ebbed from out my heart forevermore.
His poor fingers aimlessly and awkward Fumbled with the covers, and a look
On his features, fatuous and fervent, Foolish seemed and laughable enough.
«7
Softly stirred the curtains. From the river Came a sound of whistles. In the street Flared the first few lamps. A barrel-organ
Rasped a mournful measure. Night was here.
"Ah, the cities," cried he, "and the faces Like an endless river rolling on —
From what unknown deeps of being risen
All those myriads, to what shadowy coast
"Of huge doom in sullen grandeur moving, The vast waters of the human soul!
Can you see it still—as in an ocean Every sea-drop sparkles of the sea,
"Foams, and perishes—, so for a moment From each living face the dauntless, dear
Eyes of life look out at us to greet us, Shine —and hurry by into the night!
"Is it beautiful," he cried, "my brother? " With such fiery question burned his glance,
That to quiet him in haste I answered,
"All that you have said is doubtless so;
"But, pray, calm yourself, my dear, good fellow, Let it be, and let it go at that. "
And I drew the covers 'round him closer, Smoothed his pillow for him. He began:
"Do you 'mind that night beside the beaches When the whole world in one brimming cup,
Earth and sky, the sea, clouds, dews, and starlight, To our lips was lifted, and we drank,
"Dizzy with dread joy and sacrificial Rapture of self-loss and sorrow dear,
Deep of beauty's draught, divine nirvana, The bewildering wine of all the world? "
"I remember certain lonely beaches," Wearily I answered, "nothing more.
Starlight is a usual occurrence
Any pleasant night beside the sea. "
18
For my heart was sick and sore within me, — The poor fellow, every word he spoke
Shamed me, there was something in his gesture Almost comic that I could not bear.
Yet I feared this time that I had hurt him, Such offended silence long he kept:
On his hand I laid my hand in pity, Penitent, —and softly he began,
"Ah that night in May, do you remember? Nightingales are singing from the wood — —
And the moonlight through the lattice streaming Silence —and deep midnight —and one face
"Like a moonlit land, desire's kingdom, Luring from the breast the homesick self! "
Can you see it still," he cried, "my brother? Then in anger broke my wounded heart.
"Streets I see," I said, "and squalid alleys Where one lamp flares foully in the night,
Darkened windows full of empty faces — The sad jest and tragedy of man! "
"This," he cried aloud, "this, too, is holy— O dear beauty in what beggar's guise
You may hide your splendor, yet I know you; Though the ears be deaf, the eyes be blind,
"Glorious are all things, and forever Beautiful and holy is the real! "
Now I could not answer him, most strangely Touched me those old words I knew so well.
And I felt the night between us deepen,
Heard the clock that ticked upon the shelf,
The great silence closing in around us,
And his hand that he withdrew from mine.
Suddenly he struggled upward laughing,
Tears of joy were streaming down his face:
In my breast the pang of some departure Seized me, and I wept, I know not why.
19
From a gully of the jaded city
Drunken laughter filtered through the night
Where I knelt, and toward the open window Reached my hands before me as in prayer.
"Yes" I whispered "this, too, holy, Even this holy and divine,
Though to poets known and lovers only
The dear face that looks from meanest things
"And the majesty that moves about us,
The bright splendor what common guise.
O dear beauty, though forever banished, Your lost angel by the outer gate,
"Though no more see, no more may sound The lost truth that was my very soul,
Let me, baffled still yet still believing, In the darkness loyal to the light,
"Deep within this exiled bosom bear Silent, the great faith forevermore:
Beautiful are all things, and forever Holy, holy, holy the real! "
From the proud, pale east the patient morning Glimmered sadly on million rooves.
'Round me the old sorrow was awaking, And the breaking of some mighty heart.
On his breast his hands in peace folded Decently, and closed the staring eyes. —
He and had known such days together And loved him better than myself.
FACES
By Mary Morris Duane
Faces passing
Beautiful, plain,
Brutal, sweet—
Faces by the thousands,
Day after day they pass me,
Shades in world of shadows;
Only the face see with the inner vision Passes me never.
a I
I
a in
is
it,
II
is
I is it
it,
ONCE
By Mary Morris Duane
Once to lay my head on your heart again, Once to hear you say you are brave, dear heart! Once to know the fight had not been in vain, And in life dead hope would arise and start—
Start and bring visions of thy lost face
Bring ecstasies we alone could share;
But the leaves are falling on that still place, And on my heart falls the old despair.
THE SONG OF THE AIRMAN By Phoebe Hoffman
In the moonless night when the searchlight goes sneaking over the sky, I rise with a whirr of engines from the foam-tracked gloom of the sea, And shoot alone through the midnight where each star seems an Argos eye, To fence with Death in the darkness where the swift Valkyrie fly.
There are howling shells below me, and my bursting bombs reply. And the still Valkyrie hover panting for hallowed souls.
I soar up into the coldness as the air-hounds wheel on high,
And slip away in the dimness as they hunt where I circled by.
I am coming, Valkyr, I am coming, where the channel fog-banks lie;
I can see your signals blinking through the mist of their changing smoke; When I rush with the speed of a whirlwind I feel you are riding nigh;
I am counting the days, beloved, the days that I live to die.
When my wounded engines shall plunge me through the vacant depth of the sky,
And my body goes falling, falling, to my lonely mother, the sea,
You will watch for my joyous signal and swoop in swift reply,
And snatch me against your breastplate where my waking soul shall lie!
21
TO A NEW PASSION By William Laird
O newcome Passion, furious charioteer,
With whip, reins, voice ruling the steeds diverse
That whirl along my life, what height or gulf
Gave birth to thee, what Might poured forth thy strength?
Headlong into the mist we ride, our course Not unattended: all-but-voiceless shades, Wind-swift, accompany —wan Memories; Eyes from the black that pity me; pale lips Ill-boding at my ear; and feeble ghosts
Of dead and gone Desires: thou heedest none. Alas! those less imperious voices, hands
Not half so cruel as thine, those earthlier forms! Erst in thy place, now perished, some by shame, And more by time, and one by Death himself.
Master, must thou too die, thou beautiful
As Lucifer unstained, fearless as Michael helmed
For war? Must thou too fall, surrendering me
To flat, dull, ever-slackening courses to
A dusty grave? Nay, rather shalt thou die
Only with me; one bolt will do for both:
Or, if the gold of solemn dreams stand proof,
Thou shalt be heard through sounding streets of Heaven In new-taught words, at one with utter joy:
Or otherwhere, unconquered still, thy voice
A little shall make faint the din of Hell.
O newborn Passion, glorious charioteer,
Goading, restraining, swerving these the steeds That draw my life, what founts of. deathless flame Gave thee thine aureole, what Lord thy strength?
33
THE RETURN By Scudder Middleton
Hold me, O hold me, love—your lips are life! Here on your heart my heart now understands; Home have I come at last from alien lands— A pilgrim through the darkness to your eyes!
Hold me, my love — I know the answer now, O wayward, ever wandering feet of man— Always the journey ends where it began ! . . . Out of my mother's arms into your own!
Hold me, O love, serene against your breast The sun takes up the wave and gives the rain. Over the dead the grass is green again.
The lark is singing on the ruined wall.
ON BEING ASKED FOR A POEM By "A. G. H. S. "
Oh friend, oh comrade of the radiant days
Of love, of hope, of passionate surmise
When beauty throbbed like heat before the eyes And even sorrow wore a golden haze!
Can you not let them rest, those sacred ghosts
Of our dead selves—yes, yours and mine and theirs Who knew not life, yet wept its utmost cares And laughed more joys than all creation boasts?
Then was my spirit vibrant with the spheres;
Its strings across the ringing vault lay hot
Where passed to God the laughter and the tears And all the million prayers He heeded not.
But now, dear friend, chilled by the wind of years My heart is mute and all its song forgot.
»3
GHOSTS
By Samuel Roth
She stood half leaning in the dark doorway, Light kindling softly in her anxious eyes:
"I tire," she pleaded, "tire of all that's wise And witty. Is there nothing you can say"
Of love, our love, that is not of the day?
It lingered in my heart but could not rise
The word that would have wrought the sweet surmise Which turns to godliness the common clay.
Ah many days have passed and she and I
Never since crossed the green of sea or grass Together. Now I know what silenced me.
The world of shadows, ghosts that will not die, Guarded Love's Gate and would not let me pass,
And we are patient as the dead can be!
SHELLEY By Samuel Roth
Our poet, says a simple tale of him,
Held with a stubborn reverence the faith
That babes are born in heaven, and, so saith
This tale, perhaps spurred by a sudden whim,
With one new born held converse lengthy. "Oh, Pray, sir, "the lady " spake all laughter riven,
"What means this? "I but ask for news of heaven. " "Surely," —the lady smiling —"he can't know. "
And then, so runs this tale, our singer prince,
His soft eyes darkling brightly, and his lips
Widening like the child's: "O say it not.
It is but thirty dawns and twilights since
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot. "
34
MORIENS PROFECTUS By John Orth Cook
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
Rising and falling in the evening air;
And we, who all our lives have walked in fear,
Go through the thickening darkness, following where The music leads us, —be it far or near !
And no man pauses. For we are of those Whom Time has worsted in his mimic close: —But we have no despair, no grief, no woes.
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
And some will hear it early, others late;
But each will lay himself upon his bier
And hold thereon a moment's solemn state:
And there will be the brief funereal rites Whence all shall pass into the utter drear Where sunless, moonless, days succeed to nights, And no wind stirs the surface of the meer.
IF I COULD TAKE THIS LOVE FROM OUT MY HEART
By Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff
If I could take this love from out my heart And go my way in silence and alone, Unweeping, and to fear and joy unknown
Forgetful of the world's bright-colored mart — Passing amidst the human throng apart
Like one who walks with beauty in the night
Remembering all the tears and vain delight,— The rapture and the pain that were my part— Then I could watch again the swallows dart
Into the sky's blue dome unenvyingly,
Knowing I am at last as they are, free. . .
And I would say, 'Though all sweet dreams depart, I shall be ever glad remembering
As one in winter hears the voice of Spring. "
»s
A CHANGE SONG By Marguerite Wilkinson
0 life, what would you make of me That, turning, I may find no more
A welcome at each friendly door
That once stood open wide to me?
Dear hands still reach to meet with mine, And yet my heart is turned away;
Dear ringing voices answer mine
And yet my spirit may not stay.
And, gazing deep into old days,
On faces whose dear lines I knew
Whose many-colored thoughts I guessed, I find I know not the old ways;
Dear eyes are shadowed that I knew, And lips are silent that confessed With burden of bright words to me Out of their woe, their ecstasy;
Or speaking, they are quick and gay, With kindly will to warn or bless. Why can I never tear away
The veils from the old friendliness ?
Mists rise on any sunny shore — Hiding the river from the sea And all the flowing of their souls Is hidden, by a mist, from me.
The channel, that I know no more, Whence, to unfathomed oceans, rolls The current of my being, now 1
Into the dark is turning me. 7 Wraiths of old joy shift through jlht air, Wraiths of old pain that shudder and sigh, Wraiths of each outworn love and care Pluck at me as I pass them by.
The old ways wind not where I go !
The old friends share no dreams I know.
»6
O life, what would you make of them That I, who love, can understand
No glory of that holy land
Whither their dreams are bearing them? 0 life, what would you make of me That they, who love, must weave a veil
Of troubled wonder, thick and pale
Before the heaven that shines for me?
1 know not. But I seek no more
To clutch the old ways to my heart
And warm them, till they find a part
Of the old shining light they wore.
I shall not turn again and look,
But tenderly, like an old book,
That childhood loved with hot young heart, Now kindly closed and put away,
I shall set the old days apart,
1 may not rest where they must stay. And from old loves that I have known O life, I look to you, alone!
WORLD BUILDERS By Abigail Fithian Halsev
These are the things that make the world, The sun and air, the earth and sky,
The golden sunlight everywhere,
The wings of angels drifting by.
Nay, these the things that make the world, The pick and spade, the ax, the mill, The furrowed field, the ploughman grim, The sons of God that work His will.
Apart? Oh, swift as light they speed, The first light into darkness hurled, Each to his work, above, below,
The sons of God that make the world.
■r
LIFE'S ALCHEMY By Abigail Fithian Halsey
For love that came with laughter And left us all in tears,
The sting that followed after
And haunted all our years
With love's remembered laughter And unforgotten tears;
For life that came with singing And changed with time to pain, Till years the meaning bringing
Had turned our loss to gain And given back the singing Made sweeter by the pain;
For all that love has taken, For all that life has left,
Say not, "We are forsaken," Nor cry, "We are bereft. " 'Tis dross that life has taken, 'Tis gold that love has left.
a8
DOWN AND OUT By Fullerton L. Waldo
Slantwise, with head on outstretched arm, He huddles, silent, unaware —
A lonely man, a homeless man,
Uncared for, and he does not care.
The blanching moon rides high and free, The lamps like stars amid the trees Throw fluctuating arabesques
Upon the feather-fingered breeze.
Two lovers murmur and are still In mutual oblivion
Of any soul that saunters by
Or smiles and blesses and is gone.
And two exult at Heaven's gate, And one droops at the door of Hell. To them that have it shall be given; For him that hath not—all is well.
The darkness is Thy mercy, Lord! The dewfall is Thy healing balm: Beneath Thy stars is silentness, Under Thy soft new grass a calm.
Yet in his veins there flows a tide Of life's illimitable sea;
Yet in his heart there is a voice That calls, and will not let him be.
The old ambitions flare and burn; The old irresolutions die;
And planetary lustres gleam
Out of an unforgotten sky.
Lost causes triumph like the sun; Dreams that deluded are brought true; A resurrection morning breaks —
The soul in him is born anew,
Then, to the old and easy path Of dull, sad inanition wanes:
And still this is the man God made, And still the love of God remains!
*9
LAND OF THE FREE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
There is a man within a grimy window-square; —
I do not know how long it is he has been there
Three years of working-days I've passed on trains high in the air, And always he was there.
He make three motions: two are forward and one back,
Two thrusts and then a draw. There is no pause (the knack
Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack
Leather —I think —the track
Curves sharp, and will not let me see
Just what the task . . . But O, I know the moves he makes are three: I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me,
Again at night, when I am free.
No clod—
The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and tense, like wire. From some far land he came to us: was his desire
To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre hire?
He burns, I think. . . . . . dull fire.
THE FLAME AND THE SMOKE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
It is high, it is far~
Unattainably great,
Yet its rapture releases;
Melted are bonds and, unhindered,
I am at last not less than the thing that I am: Free of the universe,
Swept with pure fires,
Aware, unafraid, of the roaring, tumultuous vastness, Knowing my fire to be one with the core of all life; Set free from limits, definements and edges,
Enlarged by my high adoration,
Stilled even by madness of joy — Thus comes always upon me
The sense of the Oneness I worship, The sense of the Beauty I love.
But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
3>
THE FERRY
By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
Crossing the golden meadows,
Crossing the stately river,
Moving down to the southward gate with the far-going vessels, Casting my weary stiffness
To melt in the curl of the wavelets,
Flying free in the wind-whisps
Snapped from the top of the water,
Warmed by the early sunlight,
Touched by the self-same magic
That turns the wallowing brick-barge —
To a delicious, improbable treasure of gold
I myself am improbable
The city's tall shadow stalks forward and touches my shoulder:
I am only a useful rectangle
Built in the high walls of Business,
Now that the shadow has stolen my improbable moment of gold.
The boat bumps bluntly into its slip— I have done more than cross a river.
CONTEMPORARY VERSE
Published monthly at 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Subscription rates, one year, $1. 50; single copy, 15 cents.
Edited by James E. Richardson, Charles Wharton Stork and Samuel McCoy. Copyright, 1916, by the editors, trading as CONTEMPORARY VERSE.
ja
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If it be the duty of a poet to give voice of the conscience of his nation, Mr. Scollard has done his part in The Vale a] Shadows. In Italy in Arms he is the true acolyte of Beauty, worshipping and tending at her immemorial shrine.
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—New Orleans, Louisiana, Times-Picayune
" 'Contemporary Verse' is here, and, we hope, to stay. It came without a flourish—simply print ed some very good contributions. That ought to be sufficient for those American Intellectuals who are bemoaning the deca dence of poetry. "
— The Rochester Htrald, Rochester, New York
• :— The Literary Digest, New York Rates, $1. 50 a year
Address: 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia
"The contents are of very good
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— Current Opinion,
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"Each contribution is a gem. " —Sioux City, Iowa, Daily Tribune
"Has in it finer stuff than we've seen in many another more pre tentious journal. "
—T. A. Daly,
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"All the contents are interesting. " —Chicago Record-Herald
"Its poetry is admirably selected
to find any other American magazine verse more notable for originality and imagination. . . . "
VERSE,
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that we can no
— Contemporary
Verse.
It would be difficult
By JOHN HALL WHEELOCK
Love and Liberation $1. 50 net
"Sleep on, 1 lie at heaven's high oriels Over the start that mumur as thye go Lighting your lattice window far below:
And every star some of the glory spells Whereof 1 know.
I have forgotten jou long, long ago,
Like the svteet, silver singing of thin bells
Vanished, or music fading faint and low. Sleep on, I lie at heaven's high oriels
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Who loved you so. "
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ASPHALT AND OTHER POEMS BY ORRICK JOHNS
Mr. Johns, who known to reader* Contemporary Verse as the
author "The Dance," "The Mad woman" and "The Interpreter", a poet who sees life clearly and
whose lyric gift has grown stronger from year to year, with his philos ophy life.
To be published at an early date by ALFRED A. KNOPF
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16
THE CONTRIBUTORS
Scudder Middleton's poem, 'The Clerk," published in the June number of Contemporary Verse, is ranked in "An Anthology of Magazine Verse" as one of the thirty most distinguished poems published in the United States in 1916. Other previous contributors are Marguerite Wilkin son, John Hall Wheelock, Louis Ginsberg, Fhoebe Hcffman, John Russell McCarthy and Marjorie Allen Seiffert. Jeannette Marks, novelist, as well as poet, is a member of the faculty of Mt. Holyoke College. Leslie Nelson Jennings makes his home in California. Mary Morris Duane is a Phila- delphian. Abigail Fithian Halsey makes her home in Southampton, Long Island. Samuel Roth writes from New York. Marx Sabel's home is in Jacksonville, Florida. John Masefield is the author of "The Widow in the the Bye Street," "Good Friday," "The Everlasting Mercy," "Saltwater Ballads," "The Tragedy of Nan," and other volumes.
Here critics say
"The contents are of very good
Contemporary Verse.
"Slender in bulk—but it contains good poems. "
— New Orleans, Louisiana, Times-Picayune
" 'Contemporary Verse' is here, and, we hope, to stay. It came without a flourish — dimply print ed some very good contributions. That ought to be sufficient for those American Intellectuals who are bemoaning the deca dence of poetry. "
—The Rochester Herald, Rochester, New York
— The Literary Digest, New York Rates, $1. 50 a year
Address: 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia
quality indeed. "
— Current Opinion, New
York
"Each contribution is a gem. " —Sioux City, Iowa, Daily Tribune
"Has in it finer stuff than we've seen in many another more pre tentious journal. "
—T. A. Daly,
Philadelphia Evening Ledger
"All the contents are interesting. " —Chicago Record-Herald
"Its poetry is admirably selected
to find any other American magazine verse more notable for originality and imagination. . . . "
It would be difficult
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FROM THE LIMBO OF FORGOTTEN
THINGS
A BOOK OF VERSE BY MARY STUART TYSON
Two plays have chief place in this volume. Because France to. day — perhaps more than ever in her history—is in the minds and hearts of other nations, these two poetic and romantic episodes of her past are timely.
Poems in various moods are also included in the book and add variety to its feast. Among them are Miss Tyson's contribu tions to "Contemporary Verse. "
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GALLIPOLI iNow Second Edition)
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A complete list of Masefield's works sent on request.
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CHARLES WHARTON
"Like a fresh wind out of the north- land. " —Pittsburgh Post.
"The most powerful, the most finely imaginative Ihe most powerful" (l, e. , of Swedish poets)" —N. Y. Post.
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CONTEMPORARY VERSE
offers a particularly remarkable series of poems for
the year 1917. Among those forthcoming numbers are:
Conrad Aiken
Louis Untermeyer
Orrick Johns
Margaret Widdemer Percival Allen
William Alexander Percy Scudder Middleton Marguerite Wilkinson John Russell McCarthy Phoebe Hoffman
Elwood Lindsay Haines Esther Morton Smith Howard Buck
Mary Humphreys
Samuel Roth
Mary Eleanor Roberts
who will contribute to
Howard Mumford Jones Clinton Scollard
John Luther Long Clement Wood
Arthur Davison Ficke Joyce Kilmer
Maxwell Struthers Burt John Hall Wheelock Laura Benet
Fullerton L. Waldo Abigail Fithian Halsey Louis Ginsberg Marjorie Allen Seiffert J. M. Batchelor
Mary Morris Duane William Laird
Freshness, strength, beauty and dignity characterize the poems in store for subscribers. The editors are confid ent that the magazine's year will be regarded as notable in American literature.
The Literary Digest says, in a recent issue :
"There are many "poetry magazines,' but so far as we know Contemporary Verse is the only Ameriean magazine devoted wholly to the publication of poetry.
"It contains no criticism, no letters, nothing but verse, and that usually of a high order of excellence. In every issue there is sure to be at least one poem so interesting as to justify the publication of that number of the magazine. "
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CONTEMPORARY VERSE VOtUMK III FEBRUARY, 1917 Number 3
THE MAN TO HIS DEAD POET By John Hall Wheelock
In the small, bare room brimmed up with twilight Hours long in silence I had sat
By the bed on which my youth lay dying And the poet that I once had been.
•
Many and many a day he had been failing, And I knew the end must come at last—
The poor fellow—I had loved him dearly, It was hard for me to see him go.
He was both my rapture and my sorrow — O how love unto its sorrow clings!
Many a bitter hour had he brought me, Loneliness, and shipwreck of the heart;
And I loved him. But my mind was weary Almost as the twilight of the day,
And my soul was sullen, and a little Tired of his everlasting talk.
Still from side to side his eyes went roaming, As in fever earnestly he moaned
Old forgotten ecstasies and splendors Ebbed from out my heart forevermore.
His poor fingers aimlessly and awkward Fumbled with the covers, and a look
On his features, fatuous and fervent, Foolish seemed and laughable enough.
«7
Softly stirred the curtains. From the river Came a sound of whistles. In the street Flared the first few lamps. A barrel-organ
Rasped a mournful measure. Night was here.
"Ah, the cities," cried he, "and the faces Like an endless river rolling on —
From what unknown deeps of being risen
All those myriads, to what shadowy coast
"Of huge doom in sullen grandeur moving, The vast waters of the human soul!
Can you see it still—as in an ocean Every sea-drop sparkles of the sea,
"Foams, and perishes—, so for a moment From each living face the dauntless, dear
Eyes of life look out at us to greet us, Shine —and hurry by into the night!
"Is it beautiful," he cried, "my brother? " With such fiery question burned his glance,
That to quiet him in haste I answered,
"All that you have said is doubtless so;
"But, pray, calm yourself, my dear, good fellow, Let it be, and let it go at that. "
And I drew the covers 'round him closer, Smoothed his pillow for him. He began:
"Do you 'mind that night beside the beaches When the whole world in one brimming cup,
Earth and sky, the sea, clouds, dews, and starlight, To our lips was lifted, and we drank,
"Dizzy with dread joy and sacrificial Rapture of self-loss and sorrow dear,
Deep of beauty's draught, divine nirvana, The bewildering wine of all the world? "
"I remember certain lonely beaches," Wearily I answered, "nothing more.
Starlight is a usual occurrence
Any pleasant night beside the sea. "
18
For my heart was sick and sore within me, — The poor fellow, every word he spoke
Shamed me, there was something in his gesture Almost comic that I could not bear.
Yet I feared this time that I had hurt him, Such offended silence long he kept:
On his hand I laid my hand in pity, Penitent, —and softly he began,
"Ah that night in May, do you remember? Nightingales are singing from the wood — —
And the moonlight through the lattice streaming Silence —and deep midnight —and one face
"Like a moonlit land, desire's kingdom, Luring from the breast the homesick self! "
Can you see it still," he cried, "my brother? Then in anger broke my wounded heart.
"Streets I see," I said, "and squalid alleys Where one lamp flares foully in the night,
Darkened windows full of empty faces — The sad jest and tragedy of man! "
"This," he cried aloud, "this, too, is holy— O dear beauty in what beggar's guise
You may hide your splendor, yet I know you; Though the ears be deaf, the eyes be blind,
"Glorious are all things, and forever Beautiful and holy is the real! "
Now I could not answer him, most strangely Touched me those old words I knew so well.
And I felt the night between us deepen,
Heard the clock that ticked upon the shelf,
The great silence closing in around us,
And his hand that he withdrew from mine.
Suddenly he struggled upward laughing,
Tears of joy were streaming down his face:
In my breast the pang of some departure Seized me, and I wept, I know not why.
19
From a gully of the jaded city
Drunken laughter filtered through the night
Where I knelt, and toward the open window Reached my hands before me as in prayer.
"Yes" I whispered "this, too, holy, Even this holy and divine,
Though to poets known and lovers only
The dear face that looks from meanest things
"And the majesty that moves about us,
The bright splendor what common guise.
O dear beauty, though forever banished, Your lost angel by the outer gate,
"Though no more see, no more may sound The lost truth that was my very soul,
Let me, baffled still yet still believing, In the darkness loyal to the light,
"Deep within this exiled bosom bear Silent, the great faith forevermore:
Beautiful are all things, and forever Holy, holy, holy the real! "
From the proud, pale east the patient morning Glimmered sadly on million rooves.
'Round me the old sorrow was awaking, And the breaking of some mighty heart.
On his breast his hands in peace folded Decently, and closed the staring eyes. —
He and had known such days together And loved him better than myself.
FACES
By Mary Morris Duane
Faces passing
Beautiful, plain,
Brutal, sweet—
Faces by the thousands,
Day after day they pass me,
Shades in world of shadows;
Only the face see with the inner vision Passes me never.
a I
I
a in
is
it,
II
is
I is it
it,
ONCE
By Mary Morris Duane
Once to lay my head on your heart again, Once to hear you say you are brave, dear heart! Once to know the fight had not been in vain, And in life dead hope would arise and start—
Start and bring visions of thy lost face
Bring ecstasies we alone could share;
But the leaves are falling on that still place, And on my heart falls the old despair.
THE SONG OF THE AIRMAN By Phoebe Hoffman
In the moonless night when the searchlight goes sneaking over the sky, I rise with a whirr of engines from the foam-tracked gloom of the sea, And shoot alone through the midnight where each star seems an Argos eye, To fence with Death in the darkness where the swift Valkyrie fly.
There are howling shells below me, and my bursting bombs reply. And the still Valkyrie hover panting for hallowed souls.
I soar up into the coldness as the air-hounds wheel on high,
And slip away in the dimness as they hunt where I circled by.
I am coming, Valkyr, I am coming, where the channel fog-banks lie;
I can see your signals blinking through the mist of their changing smoke; When I rush with the speed of a whirlwind I feel you are riding nigh;
I am counting the days, beloved, the days that I live to die.
When my wounded engines shall plunge me through the vacant depth of the sky,
And my body goes falling, falling, to my lonely mother, the sea,
You will watch for my joyous signal and swoop in swift reply,
And snatch me against your breastplate where my waking soul shall lie!
21
TO A NEW PASSION By William Laird
O newcome Passion, furious charioteer,
With whip, reins, voice ruling the steeds diverse
That whirl along my life, what height or gulf
Gave birth to thee, what Might poured forth thy strength?
Headlong into the mist we ride, our course Not unattended: all-but-voiceless shades, Wind-swift, accompany —wan Memories; Eyes from the black that pity me; pale lips Ill-boding at my ear; and feeble ghosts
Of dead and gone Desires: thou heedest none. Alas! those less imperious voices, hands
Not half so cruel as thine, those earthlier forms! Erst in thy place, now perished, some by shame, And more by time, and one by Death himself.
Master, must thou too die, thou beautiful
As Lucifer unstained, fearless as Michael helmed
For war? Must thou too fall, surrendering me
To flat, dull, ever-slackening courses to
A dusty grave? Nay, rather shalt thou die
Only with me; one bolt will do for both:
Or, if the gold of solemn dreams stand proof,
Thou shalt be heard through sounding streets of Heaven In new-taught words, at one with utter joy:
Or otherwhere, unconquered still, thy voice
A little shall make faint the din of Hell.
O newborn Passion, glorious charioteer,
Goading, restraining, swerving these the steeds That draw my life, what founts of. deathless flame Gave thee thine aureole, what Lord thy strength?
33
THE RETURN By Scudder Middleton
Hold me, O hold me, love—your lips are life! Here on your heart my heart now understands; Home have I come at last from alien lands— A pilgrim through the darkness to your eyes!
Hold me, my love — I know the answer now, O wayward, ever wandering feet of man— Always the journey ends where it began ! . . . Out of my mother's arms into your own!
Hold me, O love, serene against your breast The sun takes up the wave and gives the rain. Over the dead the grass is green again.
The lark is singing on the ruined wall.
ON BEING ASKED FOR A POEM By "A. G. H. S. "
Oh friend, oh comrade of the radiant days
Of love, of hope, of passionate surmise
When beauty throbbed like heat before the eyes And even sorrow wore a golden haze!
Can you not let them rest, those sacred ghosts
Of our dead selves—yes, yours and mine and theirs Who knew not life, yet wept its utmost cares And laughed more joys than all creation boasts?
Then was my spirit vibrant with the spheres;
Its strings across the ringing vault lay hot
Where passed to God the laughter and the tears And all the million prayers He heeded not.
But now, dear friend, chilled by the wind of years My heart is mute and all its song forgot.
»3
GHOSTS
By Samuel Roth
She stood half leaning in the dark doorway, Light kindling softly in her anxious eyes:
"I tire," she pleaded, "tire of all that's wise And witty. Is there nothing you can say"
Of love, our love, that is not of the day?
It lingered in my heart but could not rise
The word that would have wrought the sweet surmise Which turns to godliness the common clay.
Ah many days have passed and she and I
Never since crossed the green of sea or grass Together. Now I know what silenced me.
The world of shadows, ghosts that will not die, Guarded Love's Gate and would not let me pass,
And we are patient as the dead can be!
SHELLEY By Samuel Roth
Our poet, says a simple tale of him,
Held with a stubborn reverence the faith
That babes are born in heaven, and, so saith
This tale, perhaps spurred by a sudden whim,
With one new born held converse lengthy. "Oh, Pray, sir, "the lady " spake all laughter riven,
"What means this? "I but ask for news of heaven. " "Surely," —the lady smiling —"he can't know. "
And then, so runs this tale, our singer prince,
His soft eyes darkling brightly, and his lips
Widening like the child's: "O say it not.
It is but thirty dawns and twilights since
He left his playmates back of the eclipse,
It cannot be he has so soon forgot. "
34
MORIENS PROFECTUS By John Orth Cook
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
Rising and falling in the evening air;
And we, who all our lives have walked in fear,
Go through the thickening darkness, following where The music leads us, —be it far or near !
And no man pauses. For we are of those Whom Time has worsted in his mimic close: —But we have no despair, no grief, no woes.
The silver bugle blows across the meer,
And some will hear it early, others late;
But each will lay himself upon his bier
And hold thereon a moment's solemn state:
And there will be the brief funereal rites Whence all shall pass into the utter drear Where sunless, moonless, days succeed to nights, And no wind stirs the surface of the meer.
IF I COULD TAKE THIS LOVE FROM OUT MY HEART
By Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff
If I could take this love from out my heart And go my way in silence and alone, Unweeping, and to fear and joy unknown
Forgetful of the world's bright-colored mart — Passing amidst the human throng apart
Like one who walks with beauty in the night
Remembering all the tears and vain delight,— The rapture and the pain that were my part— Then I could watch again the swallows dart
Into the sky's blue dome unenvyingly,
Knowing I am at last as they are, free. . .
And I would say, 'Though all sweet dreams depart, I shall be ever glad remembering
As one in winter hears the voice of Spring. "
»s
A CHANGE SONG By Marguerite Wilkinson
0 life, what would you make of me That, turning, I may find no more
A welcome at each friendly door
That once stood open wide to me?
Dear hands still reach to meet with mine, And yet my heart is turned away;
Dear ringing voices answer mine
And yet my spirit may not stay.
And, gazing deep into old days,
On faces whose dear lines I knew
Whose many-colored thoughts I guessed, I find I know not the old ways;
Dear eyes are shadowed that I knew, And lips are silent that confessed With burden of bright words to me Out of their woe, their ecstasy;
Or speaking, they are quick and gay, With kindly will to warn or bless. Why can I never tear away
The veils from the old friendliness ?
Mists rise on any sunny shore — Hiding the river from the sea And all the flowing of their souls Is hidden, by a mist, from me.
The channel, that I know no more, Whence, to unfathomed oceans, rolls The current of my being, now 1
Into the dark is turning me. 7 Wraiths of old joy shift through jlht air, Wraiths of old pain that shudder and sigh, Wraiths of each outworn love and care Pluck at me as I pass them by.
The old ways wind not where I go !
The old friends share no dreams I know.
»6
O life, what would you make of them That I, who love, can understand
No glory of that holy land
Whither their dreams are bearing them? 0 life, what would you make of me That they, who love, must weave a veil
Of troubled wonder, thick and pale
Before the heaven that shines for me?
1 know not. But I seek no more
To clutch the old ways to my heart
And warm them, till they find a part
Of the old shining light they wore.
I shall not turn again and look,
But tenderly, like an old book,
That childhood loved with hot young heart, Now kindly closed and put away,
I shall set the old days apart,
1 may not rest where they must stay. And from old loves that I have known O life, I look to you, alone!
WORLD BUILDERS By Abigail Fithian Halsev
These are the things that make the world, The sun and air, the earth and sky,
The golden sunlight everywhere,
The wings of angels drifting by.
Nay, these the things that make the world, The pick and spade, the ax, the mill, The furrowed field, the ploughman grim, The sons of God that work His will.
Apart? Oh, swift as light they speed, The first light into darkness hurled, Each to his work, above, below,
The sons of God that make the world.
■r
LIFE'S ALCHEMY By Abigail Fithian Halsey
For love that came with laughter And left us all in tears,
The sting that followed after
And haunted all our years
With love's remembered laughter And unforgotten tears;
For life that came with singing And changed with time to pain, Till years the meaning bringing
Had turned our loss to gain And given back the singing Made sweeter by the pain;
For all that love has taken, For all that life has left,
Say not, "We are forsaken," Nor cry, "We are bereft. " 'Tis dross that life has taken, 'Tis gold that love has left.
a8
DOWN AND OUT By Fullerton L. Waldo
Slantwise, with head on outstretched arm, He huddles, silent, unaware —
A lonely man, a homeless man,
Uncared for, and he does not care.
The blanching moon rides high and free, The lamps like stars amid the trees Throw fluctuating arabesques
Upon the feather-fingered breeze.
Two lovers murmur and are still In mutual oblivion
Of any soul that saunters by
Or smiles and blesses and is gone.
And two exult at Heaven's gate, And one droops at the door of Hell. To them that have it shall be given; For him that hath not—all is well.
The darkness is Thy mercy, Lord! The dewfall is Thy healing balm: Beneath Thy stars is silentness, Under Thy soft new grass a calm.
Yet in his veins there flows a tide Of life's illimitable sea;
Yet in his heart there is a voice That calls, and will not let him be.
The old ambitions flare and burn; The old irresolutions die;
And planetary lustres gleam
Out of an unforgotten sky.
Lost causes triumph like the sun; Dreams that deluded are brought true; A resurrection morning breaks —
The soul in him is born anew,
Then, to the old and easy path Of dull, sad inanition wanes:
And still this is the man God made, And still the love of God remains!
*9
LAND OF THE FREE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
There is a man within a grimy window-square; —
I do not know how long it is he has been there
Three years of working-days I've passed on trains high in the air, And always he was there.
He make three motions: two are forward and one back,
Two thrusts and then a draw. There is no pause (the knack
Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack
Leather —I think —the track
Curves sharp, and will not let me see
Just what the task . . . But O, I know the moves he makes are three: I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me,
Again at night, when I am free.
No clod—
The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and tense, like wire. From some far land he came to us: was his desire
To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre hire?
He burns, I think. . . . . . dull fire.
THE FLAME AND THE SMOKE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
It is high, it is far~
Unattainably great,
Yet its rapture releases;
Melted are bonds and, unhindered,
I am at last not less than the thing that I am: Free of the universe,
Swept with pure fires,
Aware, unafraid, of the roaring, tumultuous vastness, Knowing my fire to be one with the core of all life; Set free from limits, definements and edges,
Enlarged by my high adoration,
Stilled even by madness of joy — Thus comes always upon me
The sense of the Oneness I worship, The sense of the Beauty I love.
But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
3>
THE FERRY
By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
Crossing the golden meadows,
Crossing the stately river,
Moving down to the southward gate with the far-going vessels, Casting my weary stiffness
To melt in the curl of the wavelets,
Flying free in the wind-whisps
Snapped from the top of the water,
Warmed by the early sunlight,
Touched by the self-same magic
That turns the wallowing brick-barge —
To a delicious, improbable treasure of gold
I myself am improbable
The city's tall shadow stalks forward and touches my shoulder:
I am only a useful rectangle
Built in the high walls of Business,
Now that the shadow has stolen my improbable moment of gold.
The boat bumps bluntly into its slip— I have done more than cross a river.
CONTEMPORARY VERSE
Published monthly at 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Subscription rates, one year, $1. 50; single copy, 15 cents.
Edited by James E. Richardson, Charles Wharton Stork and Samuel McCoy. Copyright, 1916, by the editors, trading as CONTEMPORARY VERSE.
ja
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If it be the duty of a poet to give voice of the conscience of his nation, Mr. Scollard has done his part in The Vale a] Shadows. In Italy in Arms he is the true acolyte of Beauty, worshipping and tending at her immemorial shrine.
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—New Orleans, Louisiana, Times-Picayune
" 'Contemporary Verse' is here, and, we hope, to stay. It came without a flourish—simply print ed some very good contributions. That ought to be sufficient for those American Intellectuals who are bemoaning the deca dence of poetry. "
— The Rochester Htrald, Rochester, New York
• :— The Literary Digest, New York Rates, $1. 50 a year
Address: 622 South Washington Square, Philadelphia
"The contents are of very good
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— Current Opinion,
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"Each contribution is a gem. " —Sioux City, Iowa, Daily Tribune
"Has in it finer stuff than we've seen in many another more pre tentious journal. "
—T. A. Daly,
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"All the contents are interesting. " —Chicago Record-Herald
"Its poetry is admirably selected
to find any other American magazine verse more notable for originality and imagination. . . . "
VERSE,
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that we can no
— Contemporary
Verse.
It would be difficult
By JOHN HALL WHEELOCK
Love and Liberation $1. 50 net
"Sleep on, 1 lie at heaven's high oriels Over the start that mumur as thye go Lighting your lattice window far below:
And every star some of the glory spells Whereof 1 know.
I have forgotten jou long, long ago,
Like the svteet, silver singing of thin bells
Vanished, or music fading faint and low. Sleep on, I lie at heaven's high oriels
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Who loved you so. "
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ASPHALT AND OTHER POEMS BY ORRICK JOHNS
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author "The Dance," "The Mad woman" and "The Interpreter", a poet who sees life clearly and
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