Anthology of Student Verse at Pennsylvania [Reprint 2016 ed.] 9781512818765

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Editors’ Note
Semper Mutabile
Metamorphosis
Call of April
Spring Rain
To a Lipizzan Stallion
Hermit Thrush
Robin Before the Rain
Storm
Invasion
White Isle of the Waters
A Prettiness
The Angel of Death
Day in the Mountains
Night in the Mountains
Caprice
Evil Song
Natural Science
Alice
Nonsense
The Undergraduate
Tautology
The Nonsense Forest
Froggus Blaerii
The Ant
Το an Amœba
The Clerk
Unfulfillment
Ecstasy
To T. C.
Poet to a Rose in a Book
Cavalier to a Coquette
To Whom it May Concern
My Lady's Eyes
Words
Excuse for Writing Another Love Song
To Cynthia
Epigram
Challenge
Rondeau (of Jane)
If I Were King
Interlude
No Lovelier Light
Atalanta
Legacy
Act Five
Quatorzain
Alexandria, 31 B.C.
Parting
Autumn Memory
After Reading Tennyson's "Ulysses": Telemachus to Ulysses
Quatrains for Four Sages
Revelation
Lines
He Loved
Lines for a Lady in a Museum
Houston Hall
To G. S.
The Ledger
Cinquains
For Some Fear
Resource
The Great Plan
Constancy
Credo
“These Are Precious Moments”
Index of Authors

Citation preview

A N T H O L O G Y OF S T U D E N T VERSE AT PENNSYLVANIA

ANTHOLOGY

OF

Student %Jerse at Pennsylvania

UNIVERSITY

OF

PENNSYLVANIA

Philadelphia 1936

PRESS

Copyright,

19)6

UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS Manufactured in the United States of America

Contents PAGE

PREFACE: By Cornelius Weygandt ACKNOWLEDGMENTS EDITORS' NOTE SEMPER MUTABILE: By L. R. Smith METAMORPHOSIS: By Donald Pastor CALL OF APRIL: By John Howard SPRING R A I N : By E. F. Soule TO A LIPIZZAN STALLION: By Irving L. Fanti HERMIT THRUSH: By C. Wayne Smyth ROBIN BEFORE THE R A I N : By Charlotte Ramsay Lance STORM: By Benjamin Keller INVASION: By Donald Pastor WHITE ISLE OF THE WATERS: By John Morton Poole IV A PRETTINESS: By Frederick W. Langner THE A N G E L OF DEATH: By Donald Pastor D A Y IN THE MOUNTAINS: By E. F. Soule N I G H T I N THE MOUNTAINS: By E. F. Soule CAPRICE: By Lee K. Bendheim EVIL SONG: By C. Wayne Smyth N A T U R A L SCIENCE: By L. R. Smith ALICE: By Lydia Β. Hubbard NONSENSE: By Benjamin Keller THE UNDERGRADUATE: By L. R. Smith T A U T O L O G Y : By Benjamin Keller THE NONSENSE FOREST: By L. R. Smith FROGGUS BLAERII: By L. R. Smith THE A N T : By Benjamin Keller TO A N A M Œ B A : By Seymour S. Kety THE CLERK: By Charles Levy UNFULFILLMENT: By Lydia Β. Hubbard ECSTASY: By M. A. Caporale TO T. C : By Thomas M. Johnson POET TO A ROSE IN A BOOK: By Charles Levy CAVALIER TO A COQUETTE: By Charles Levy TO WHOM IT M A Y CONCERN: By Seymour S. Kety

vii viii ix ι 2 3 4 5 9 10 12 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 34 36 39 40 41 42

PAGE MY L A D Y S EYES: By Homer Nearing WORDS: By S. Clark Keeler EXCUSE FOR WRITING ANOTHER LOVE SONG: By C. Wayne Smyth TO CYNTHIA: By L. R. Smith EPIGRAM: By J. Stuart Goodman CHALLENGE: By C. Wayne Smyth RONDEAU (Of Jane) : By Benjamin Keller IF I WERE K I N G : By Frederick W. Langner INTERLUDE: By Agnes Conant NO LOVELIER LIGHT: By Agnes Conant A T A L A N T A : By Eva Moskowitz LEGACY: By John Morton Poole IV ACT FIVE: By Charles Levy QUATORZAIN: By Florence Ottenberg ALEXANDRIA, 31 B.C.: By L. R. Smith PARTING: By Agnes Conant AUTUMN MEMORY: By Edward F. Kerman AFTER READING TENNYSON'S "ULYSSES": By Eva Moskowitz QUATRAINS FOR FOUR SAGES: By J. Stuart Goodman REVELATION: By D. G. Kramer LINES: By Charlotte Ramsay Lance HE LOVED: By Agnes Conant LINES FOR A L A D Y IN A MUSEUM: By J. Stuart Goodman HOUSTON HALL: By Lee K. Bendheim TO G. S.: By Charles Levy THE LEDGER: By Donald Pastor CINQUAINS: By Wilmer Kranich FOR SOME FEAR: By Mary Jane Chapman RESOURCE: By Charlotte Ramsay Lance THE GREAT PLAN: By Frederick W. Langner CONSTANCY: By J. R. lander CREDO: By Robert A. Evans "THESE ARE PRECIOUS MOMENTS—": By C. Wayne Smyth

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 56 57 58 59 60 61 63 65 66 67 68 69 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Ψ reface^

T

HE young folks will write verse. There is no stopping them, and there should not be. Their grandparents were at it when they were in college and, let us hope, their grandchildren will be free to t r y their hands at it in the perfect tomorrow we are promised. The verse of undergraduates and young graduate students is very apt to be a playing at this and that, at love, at speculation, at settling the fates of the nations. Such hearts as are put on record as broken are mended securely by the very act of writing about the pieces. What is most genuine and appealing in the verses of this book is the out-of-doors and the little worlds of the imagination the writers have captured in the lines. The light verse, too, is within the grasp of these girls and boys. So, too, one would guess satire to be, but youth is too serious today, perhaps, to be often satiric. Oldsters have to smile when youngsters t r y to plumb the depths. The process is only fishing, really, and what strikes there are, mostly of minnows. The writers of these verses are still in Arcady. It is, on the whole, a cheerf u l anthology the editors have gathered together from the verses submitted to them, with now and then a lilting line, and imprisonings, here and there, of moments of beauty. CORNELIUS WEYGANDT

Acknowledgments

T

HE Editors acknowledge with appreciation permission to reprint the following pieces: "Parting" by Agnes Conant, The Philadelphia Inquirer; "Invasion" and "The Angel of Death" by Donald Pastor, College Verse; "The Clerk," "Poet to a Rose in a Book," "Cavalier to a Coquette," and " T o G. S.," Exile, by Charles Levy.

Editors' Tsfotu H E verses in this little book, selected out of a large number submitted to the editors, were written within the past year or two by undergraduates, or, in a few cases, by recent graduates, of the University of Pennsylvania. None of them were composed with a view to inclusion in such an anthology. They represent, very fairly, what, without artificial stimulation, is being done in verse at Pennsylvania.

T

The idea of such an anthology was originally suggested at a meeting of the Pennsylvania Chapter of the College Poetry Society of America. It seemed more worth while to make it representative not of the standards reached by a select group only, but by the undergraduate body at large. Editors were chosen, contributions asked for, and here is the result. T h e editors consider it rather a promising beginning than a definitive end. They hope that from time to time more completely representative volumes of increasing power and appeal will be inspired by it. Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Department o f English at the University for its cooperation, and particularly to Dr. Cornelius Weygandt, who, after reading the verses selected, consented to write a Preface. His long and fruitful labors, especially in the field of composition, have encouraged in successive generations of Pennsylvanians a keener observation, an increased appreciation of the things in life which are good, and a delight in individual expression within the limits of sound taste, which the editors themselves have experienced and which constitute a tradition which, they hope, is not too faintly reflected in this booklet. LEROY SMITH, HAROLD JOHN

COOPER

The College University of Pennsylvania, May 11,

JR.

SAEGER

1936.

STINE

MENDENHALL

SEMPER MUTABILE By L. R. Smith The Weather is a fickle minx, Who's always hot and coldly blowing; She's not so constant as the Sphinx, The Weather is a fickle minx. N o matter how in May she prinks, T o anyone her humors knowing, The Weather is a fickle minx, Who's always hot and coldly blowing.

METAMORPHOSIS By Donald Pastor H o w strange that spring should come again! A n d yet I doubted not within m y heart That windy coming; spirits of seed and rain In other years lay locked as long apart, And mingled finally . . . and ever their kiss Was young; for those who leave the couch of Death Are cleansed of years, forget all former bliss. Only the Wind, on whose immortal breath D r i f t s the white cloudy chrysalis—he knew! A n d never ceased to breathe the assuring word Wherever a wintry huddle of ivy blew; A n d by some frozen hedge, in last year's leaves interred, The charm lay lightly, and the dreamer heard.

CALL OF APRIL By John

Howard

I walked 'mid city streets that April day, And raised my burning head toward the east Where misted, gray-blown winds brought me the call O f crashing seas. T h e present vanished. Care And worry fled, while thought and vision dwelt On grander scenes. I stood beside those waves That crash incessantly on shifting sands With never-ending music. Sand and salt And spray, whipped up from myriad heaving coursers, Clung about my body. Eye and ear Exulted in the sight and sound of breakers Blown to beauty by an eastern gale. My heart was touched. New hope sprung up within, And formed a silent prayer to Him above For this, the urge of Spring, the call of April.

SPRING RAIN By E. F. Soule The tuneless cradle song of rain Fills the woods with delicate sound; The new leaves flicker as the drops Patter and roll to the somber ground, Insistent bird-calls through the dusk Seem sweeter for the voice of rain, As though they spoke to me alone Shadow voices sharp with pain.

TO A LIPIZZAN STALLION By Irving L. Fanti Of what great inspiration, Of what divine desire, Wert thou the consummation, The living breath and fire, What lofty mind conceived thee, wondrous steed? Thou song in alabaster, Thou spark of nature's flame, Mere man could ne'er be master To such as thee, who came From out the very womb of nature freed. What dream of lavish beauty Was sponsor to thy grace? Couldst thou be slave to duty Who scorn all time, all space, And mock the winds who imitate thy speed? Although when in my power Thou'rt slave to my command, This state lasts but the hour, For when I loose my hand, Once more thy limbs on unchecked motion feed. And then thy hoofs play lightly Upon the cushioned grass,

In freedom's measure sprightly, Gay as a comely lass, And softer than the wafted milkweed seed. I've seen the flowers dancing, The swaying of the trees, That nod to tunes entrancing Played by the summer breeze, That sighs its music through the river reed. There's rhythm in the booming Of waves upon the strand, That raise their foam-crests looming To crash upon the sand, And then in quick confusion to recede. But these are simulations Of thy eternal song; The wheat field's undulations, The sea thy pupil long Ago, unto thy sweeping stride gave heed. For in that rhythmic motion There's more than outward grace; Life, freer than the ocean, Sings in the measured pace That marks the noble station of thy breed. 'Mid emerald velvet meadows Thou skim'st with gull-like flight, O'erleaping fence and furrows, As though no depth nor height Thy far-flung aspirations could impede.

I've seen thy body gleaming, As o'er green fields thou sped, With tail and mane a-streaming Like banners overhead, That noble-hearted men to battle lead. To what terrain elysian Do these excursions stray? What transcendental vision On dim horizons play, To lead thee oft away in gay stampede? Oh, wilt thou bear me with thee Upon those sweeping flights, That take thee to, I fancy, The world of all delights, Thy steps consume the distance with such greed. For ever when returning, All radiant with life, There comes with thee a yearning Into my world of strife; To share thy secret ecstasies I plead. Could I but taste the pleasures That make thy nostrils quake, And see the hidden treasures Of which thine eyes partake, That in their glowing orbs mine own eyes read— To know the wind's sweet message That none but thee can hear, And sense its whispered presage That makes thee prick thine ear At hints of rolling hills and spreading mead!

Man can but dream and wonder, Not knowing nature's speech; The meaning of the thunder And the wind are past his reach, To their purport his senses are not keyed. In sweet imagination His thoughts must find recourse; And yet small consolation In such uncertain source, When hearts for higher understanding bleed. Oh, why wert thou made speechless Who could such great things tell O f life so wild and reachless That man, his soul a cell Enclosed, to these free joys can ne'er succeed? So I must be contented, Until thy soul can speak, To live in worlds invented By mine own mind, too weak To grasp what life reveals to thee, my steed.

HERMIT THRUSH By C. Wayne Smyth N o w when the holy summer silence of the woods Is yet enriched by some sad tremolo Of melody—like music of old sorrow Welling f r o m elusiveness; and purple hoods Of heavy shadow hide the quiet airy spaces Of the trees; I k n o w that in the darkness sings The hermit thrush, who unseen brings His melancholy rhapsody of song to places Where the world is still, before the long-awaited night With all her thousand radiances restrained in beauty, ends the light.

ROBIN BEFORE T H E RAIN By Charlotte Ramsay Lance Often, often, your facile notes Like butterflies in dappled light Had glanced into my consciousness, Trembled, and slipped away to that bright World where your song was not for the hearing, Nor stayed by any thought of mine. I wonder if you knew what the stillness Under the sun implied, when the fine Whisper of winds of spring was hushed, And beauty's breath held an unshed tear, And suddenly your heart's paean Was loosed, commanding me to hear. There was never a song in all the world Like yours for sweetness: Time was a day, With the sun climbing the hills at dawn To gather pearls where the dew-fall lay, And purple shadows growing long In a misty twilight: The heart would be crying T o know half the peace that lived in your song.

Then the wind awoke, The thick clouds rushed From the sky till they brushed The hills and broke, And the air was filled With the sound of flashing Rain-whips slashing; And your voice was stilled. Robin, remember, there's never a song Like yours for sweetness, lest for the pain Of so rude a silencing you should regret That you sang to me before the rain.

STORM By Benjamin

Keller

Gloom-bearing thunderclouds Brood in the east, Somber And sullen, Menacing low . . . Whispering fitfully, Messenger winds Whistle spasmodically, Waiting to blow. Slowly And ponderously, Ominously looming, Move the black thunderclouds, Threatening rain: Whispering raucously, Lustily bawling, Rises the voice Of the wind once again. Bright From the thunderclouds, Sharp Streaks of lightning Sparkle And crackle . . .

Spitefully play. Booming sonorously, Rumbles Of thunder Crash And resound In a frightening way. Down Swoops the wind In its might lashing wildly, Unleashed And lashing . . . Puffs gust after gust. Blasting And breaking, It shrieks through the valleys, Whirling And twirling Up mountains of dust; Ranting and damaging, Flows unimpeded, Blaring, And tearing, And blaring again. Pattering, Splashing, Water pours suddenly, Floods From the heavens In torrents of rain.

Now the wind suddenly Dies to a murmur; Down Pours the rain In a perfect deluge. Beating and splashing, It drums on the hillsides, Drains down the valleys In rivulets huge. Rumbling, Grumbling, Thunder goes farther. Mutterings faint From the distance Come low. Pattering lightly, Rain is diminishing; Sunlight bursts through With a radiant glow.

INVASION By Donald Pastor Along a weedy wagon-rut, behind a field of rye, A crowd of yellow finches observe my coming by; They dart away to perch on swaying bluebells round the turn, In a pretty consternation and a babel of concern. But when they see me unperturbed, and bent in their direction— N a y , heedless of their mobilizing f u r y of objection— In frantic haste consulting, they retreat and reassemble Upon the tips of goldenrod that see the Doom and tremble.

WHITE ISLE OF THE WATERS By John Morton Poole IV White isle, first fresh star of the sea, Loveliest burden of the waters, Whom I reclaim, sun-filled and free, Emerging into dream from out Of waking, vibrant, hammer roar Of keen Manhattan canyon depth; To hear you echo wave once more And give beach breathing and a breast! What warmer wind blows leafage of peace Across flung meadows of the sea Than breath of utter heart-release, When riveter drones to gasp and stop, When markets shudder into sleep, And the far-wanderer strangely comes Into old pauses where days keep Long-gathered driftwood to re-burn? And where the intimate warm bed Swallows these spent strivings up, Oh hail, white isle, sea-sprung and fed, Enchantment of wave-laughter and of sand! L i f t , inevitable roller; stress and roar And echo of gay greeting and gladness! And let smoke over this white water soar From fires of peace, sun-joy and smile!

A PRETTINESS By Frederick W. Langner Like a weary maiden Snuffing her candle out, Night seals up the sunset, Putting the day to rout.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH By Donald

Pastor

The sycamores are shedding. Yesterday, When the wind's wings beat madly, leaves shook down In showers, and lay so tired and old and brown That pitying winds conveyed them far away T o a heaven of fecundity, they say. N o wonder they keep dropping off to sleep, When winds are firm and kind, and rest is deep!

D A Y IN THE MOUNTAINS By E. F. Soule The stupendous glee of the wind Fills the mountains with thunder; The thin high blue of the air Stares as though in wonder. Laugh, tumbling gale, Down the stairways of the sky . . . Rave and brawl and rail While the sun goes marching b y !

NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS By E. F. Soule Beneath pearl-flecked heights The night is still with frost; Silent from cloud to cloud The small brave moon is tossed. Dead the hearty gale: In the cold red west he died . . . Crackling frost-sounds scale Through the stillness, heaven-wide.

CAPRICE

By Lee K. Bendheim Autumn is like some Painted harlot, Her jaundiced face Streaked with rouge, As though she tries to hide The somber shadows O f her growing age, And in her wantonness Entices one last lover to her side.

EVIL SONG By C. Wayne Smyth The heavy stars gleam bright tonight With cold unprismed fire; Gray shapes of bare-branched trees unite, In maze-like arbor spire Against a sky of blue and white Where fleets of clouds fly low and roam T o fleck the reeling universe with foam. The flailing trees are serpents of the skies Designing ugly patches on the tinseled grass, A n d throwing ghastly shadows as they pass Across the hills, where fields and woodlands frozen lie. Stealthily the wind stirs to go A n d murmurs to the forest in a maudlin tone Some secret that the madmen k n o w — Some secret that the witches call their own. This is a night when dead things rise, A n d wraiths of all the sordid seethe beyond the shadows; This is a night when holy men cast down their eyes A n d boastful men abandon their bravadoes. Remorse with deadly silver cords is strung About the hearts of all who one time played and loved and hated; A n d all the evil of the night recalls a song once sung, A n enemy contemned, or love ill-fated.

NATURAL SCIENCE By L. R. Smith A drop of dew O n a blade of grass Makes a perfect prism-glass; The sun looks through, A n d with his glance Makes a rainbow for the ants.

ALICE

By Lydia Β. Hubbard But, Alice dear, you merely said 'Twas just a notion in your head. You said you wished that we might go And watch the willows as they blow, And hear the hidden crickets peep, Or see the long-legg'd spiders creep Along their webs to capture flies. You wished to see the pool that lies Way down below the meadow's edge; To pull a hawthorn from the hedge; To run your fingers through the grass And use the still pool for a glass. So, Alice dear, why do you weep, As though a secret you would keep? You know, dear, I am sure you said 'Twas just a notion in your head.

NONSENSE

By Benjamin Keller "The stag at eve had drunk his fill" (I quote Sir Walter Scott). The story couldn't start until The stag, at eve, had drunk his fill. The lady would be waiting still For James, as like as not. "The stag at eve had drunk his fill" (I quote Sir Walter Scott).

THE UNDERGRADUATE By L. R. Smith Chaucer and Spenser and Pope; Shakespeare, Milton, and D r y den: Seldom indeed do I ope Chaucer and Spenser and Pope. Classics are great, but I hope All our great poets have died in Chaucer and Spenser and Pope, Shakespeare, Milton, and Dryden.

TAUTOLOGY By Benjamin

Keller

A truculent ethnologist Assaulted a geologist. Said he, " Y o u see, You worry me Worse than an archaeologist." This argument illogical, And somewhat psychological, Did seem To teem With blows abeam, And bodies astrological. The ethno's fragile monocle, Was smashed to pieces conical; His waneing brain Was under strain, Enough to fill a chronicle. This fellow's phraseology, Was formed in an apology. And so, You know, He was brought low, And now respects geology.

THE NONSENSE FOREST By L. R. Smith The Nonsense Forest is the home Of creatures strange and rare— Of Runkels and the Wild Gavome, Of Gunchins without hair. The fauna of this lovely place, Where flora always bloom, Are hardly ever commonplace, And rarely lost in gloom. Take the Bus-bus, for example, With both his sea-green eyes; Or the Llumidge, for a sample, A beast of pure surprise. Now, all these brutes are very tame, Unless they're very wild; But have no fear—it's all the same— The wildest are quite mild. Within the Forest's borders green, Intrepid let us go, And find, where man has never been, Where Nonsense Bushes grow.

FROGGUS BLAERII By L. R. Smith Where fishes swim and oysters sing, And rocks are velvet-mossed, There squats a pink and purple thing Whose eyes are neatly crossed. H e thinks he is a foundling frog With psychologic nerves: He skips along a travel log, H e swaggers and he swerves. He swims about in hollow pools, Galoshes on his feet, While little herrings go in schools, While little goldfish bleat. H e whistles woof-notes in the weeds, He chants in accents choice; Among the cat-tails and the reeds, He lifts his heavy voice. His zoologie Latin name Is Froggus blaerii; But all his scientific fame Within these lines must lie.

THE ANT By Benjamin

Keller

I watched an ant, carrying a great white pupa, And I said, "Little ant, you are always working; You are happy; Oh that I too could be an ant!" But the ant paid not the slightest bit of attention, So I squashed him.

ΤΟ AN AMŒBA By Seymour S. Kety Thou dumb progenitor of life's rich race, Embodiment of vital force and flow, What principle incites thee thus to go In solemn march through microscopic space? O denizen of atomies, what world is thine? Where is thy sphere of feeling and of thought? Art thou confined in a corporeal nought, Or does thy soul transcend its frame as mine? Is thy breast, too, by conflict harrowed sore? Does thy clay reach for pinnacles too high? Dost taste defeat and triumph as do I, And tasting both, dost yet desire more? Come, brother speck of jelly, mite of clay, By fate both buffeted, make we our way.

THE CLERK By Charles Levy A line in red—and lo, the roof Runs scarlet with the morn, Clear sounds the clatter of the hoof, Sharp ringing Roland's horn. The inkpot, then—behold the floor Rolls blue with western seas, Three dauntless ships, the distant shore, Columbus on his knees. A yellow page—rise, golden Troy, Silk hair with sunlight curled, Ten thousand soldiers die with joy While Helen mocks the world. A rubber band—a bowstring's twang, And Robin's merry eyes, A score of greenmen roaring, " H a n g ! " The bellied sheriff flies. The carbon sheet—fast fades the room, Awake the courtly cult, Warm murmurs in a purple gloom 'Twixt Tristan and Iseult.

The typist's tap—the sickly air Round ivied churchwalls clears, Electric, nimble blades whirl where Amaze the Musketeers. A varnished desk—and tawny arms Strain at the galley stands, The Sphinx and Cleopatra's charms, Proud Rome, and sunswept sands. A sharp command disturbs the dream As thunder woodland's hush, Begone a little, glowing gleam, While papers, pencil, rush . . .

UNFULFILLMENT By Lydia Β. Hubbard To you I write; there's no one else. To you I tell it all, of what there is. I'm not so sure I know myself Of what I think and feel and hear. Pain, half-sad, half-sweet, sad-sweet; Pain of doubt, of unfulfillment, fear; Pain it is; dull, aching pain. To you I write. I know you not. What does it matter? There you are. What does it matter if I never know Just how you look or speak or talk? I know, at least, you feel as I; I know you feel my pain, my doubt; That's why I write. Today it was, toward evening, close of day; Beneath great arches by a lake I walked and mused; saw other trees Mirrored deep and softened in the depth Of water dripping at the greenish edge. Throats, many of them, birds' throats Sang and sang and filled the air with song. Fleeting things—a squirrel, mumbling bees, All crossed my path. I saw them all; Saw them, loved them, felt the air Bathe me with its warmth of spring.

Yet here, O friend, tell me, say, W h y did I feel so hurried and confused? W h y feel all slip away from me? W h y did the hurting songs go through my heart, W h y fill me so, then leave me? Leave me there, leave me alone, afraid, Leave me with the pain I told you of, Leave me sad with ecstasy all gone, None of it to carry in my soul? I could not fix it in me—not The songs, the shadows, not the scent Of new grass, blossoms, earth, air, rain; None, none remains and yet I hope for it again; I hope perhaps some day I can retain This beauty, love, and peace; I long for peace. Could you, dear friend, whoe'er you are, Could you, perhaps, with gentle words, Disclose to me, yes, teach me how?

ECSTASY By M. A. Caporale Here in the twilight hush, In the gliding rhythm of shadows, Unmake me, O God! Unmold the clay of my body That beats with the breath of the night; Tear down the walls of my body, The quivering warmth of the senses. You that are lodged within me, The essence and spirit of Being, Shatter the walls of your prison— Sing past the listening night, A cold white flame through the night. Break through me, O God! Make me the cold gray stone That soars in a spiral of light. Let me rise, a column of stone, Till I lose myself in the shadows. Let me rise, on invisible wings, Into the evening sky. And men, with their twilight visions, Will follow me till I vanish, A church-spire lost in the darkness. Let me be one with the hush That softens the cool, calm evening,

Myself as cool as the silence. Let me close round the tombstones, The silence of memory guarded— Round the yielding stillness of night-time, Wherein lovers and infants lie sleeping. Let me lie over fields and mountains In the first gray light of the dawning— Spread a white path through the sky To await the coming of morning. Blow me into the breeze That lightens the heat of summer, When long, still evenings are breathless As the deep suspense of a child. I will breathe past a young girl's lashes Where the first dews of sorrow glisten; I will rest myself, cooling and healing, On a mother's damp, hot forehead. All through the gray of twilight I will play with hair shadow-misted. With none to gape or to wonder, I will soften thousands of faces. On the flaming bed of the sunset Drowning in liquid color, Fling me, O God! Hurl me through chasms of brimstone, Shatter my body to fragments. Be as the tide of all oceans Washing away all passions. Then, O You that inhabit The indestructible Ego, Stride over waters and mountains, Freed from the thick chains that bind you.

Touch the stars with your fingers, Breathing the air of your heavens. Encircle all infinite knowledge— Be the stone and the hush and the coolness— Sing through the lips of the prophet— Break through me, O God!

TO T. c. By Thomas M.

Johnson

My heart is like a softly tuned guitar When thou art by; thy gentle graces are The touch that wakes its muted voice to song. Beloved, should this ever be thy will To lay it by; then is its music still Forever, and life's eventide o'er long.

POET TO A ROSE IN A BOOK By Charles Levy I would not have this withered rose That has my book for tomb Take root again in some rich land And sweetly come to bloom. Among the many roses there It soon would fade and fall, But being plucked by you it lives And never dies at all.

CAVALIER TO A COQUETTE By Charles Levy Sweet Mistress, ere thou part from me, And rob me of sight's pleasure, One little gift I send to thee, With love beyond all measure. I send to thee a lover's heart, So tuned with thine in beating, I fear to thee it's grown a part That lives by just repeating The music of thy bosom's rise, The surge of thy blood leaping, The nocturne of thy soothing eyes, The hymn of thy calm sleeping. So take what thou thyself designed, A heart past rival's taking, Oh take, Sweet Mistress, ere thou find It fall away with breaking.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN By Seymour S. Kety For sweeping metaphor I scanned my thought, Sounded the surging billows of my brain, For words to tell of thee. I sought in vain. There's not a crown which poetry has wrought Fit to adorn thy brow. Oh, simile is trite! Thine eyes are liquid lakes, a thousand fools Might say, but I shall not. For limpid pools Are cold, their scintillance is borrowed light, Not deep, and born of life, with life's glow graced. How can I say, "Like rubies are thy lips"? Red rocks are harsh and cold; and what god sips From ruby cups the nectar I might taste? Oh, had I Jonson's wit or Shakespeare's tongue Thy virtues, dear, would still be poorly sung.

MY LADY'S EYES By Homer Nearing Ny lady's lovely eyes, They are not pools; lor pools may m u d d y when storms rise, Vhile hers flash clear when anger cries; / n d only fools Could think that storms may dull her eyes. \ y lady's eyes may weep; S> may the sky. Bit sky is gray, where, golden-deep, \y lady's eyes their luster keep; S> I deny Fer eyes are like the s k y to weep. Ky lady's eyes are bright Bit are not suns; F>r suns must surely set at night, V h e n hers the lacy lids still light; / n d so it runs That her eyes, more than suns, are bright. I k n o w m y lady's eyes Are of such stuff À baffles anyone w h o tries 10 match it in a hundred lies. 11 is enough They are m y lady's lovely eyes.

WORDS By S. Clark Keeler Oh! How can words reveal what's in the heart? Words are but tinkling cymbals from the throat; In love's enchanting fugue they play a part, But hearing the whole—theirs is a single note. Words are but crippled bearers of the joys Which swell within, and which I would impart; But lacking metaphrastic counterpoise, They shall be hid forever in my heart. There are no words with which I can compare Or compliment thy beauty as I should; For words are loose, and oftentimes ensnare The innocent, though his designs be good. Suffice it then to look into my eyes And see the love which words but do disguise.

EXCUSE FOR WRITING ANOTHER LOVE SONG By C. Wayne

Smyth

Then ask me not to read some other poet's song, The soaring passion of a Shelley nor the verse that trips along From Shakespeare's springtime pen.

They wrote, and millions since have felt again The universal quality of love in every line; And myriads of lesser men have run Each remnant of the love idea into a fond design Of foolish phrases. Now not one Of all the mysteries of love goes free For novice pens like mine to try its own originality. Ah! Love, I cannot sing your praise With other poet's lays; They sang of qualities and graces Of other loves and other faces, But you are all the newness of my song—I cannot share Their words to blend descriptions of your eyes, your lips, your hair; And therefore, let me, I entreat, Lay one more love song at your feet.

TO CYNTHIA By L. R. Smith My Cynthia, thou art like the spring, For thou art all fresh blossoming: Thy petal cheek, thy scented hair, T h y flower eyes, they are more fair Than any garden ever blown. T h y nature, too, is Nature's own: The sun of thy smiles, the rain of thy tears, The storms of thy passions, and clouds of thy fears— They keep my heart on tenterhooks, And are my best instruction books. And ah! such footnotes are thy looks! Like May in all her gentleness, Thy loveliness Is my caress; But then like April thine inconstancy Sets my soul to soaring high Only to swoon and like to die. And yet I revel in this fickleness of thine— As thou, dear heart, must do in mine!

EPIGRAM

By J. Stuart

Goodman

They tell me Troy burned for a woman's smile, Love me today, and spare London a while.

CHALLENGE By C. Wayne Smyth Innocent miss with such bright eyes, Show me, show me some surprise; Why when words of love I speak Don't the blushes stain your cheek? Half-raised eyebrows, half-cold kisses Seem so strange in innocent misses.

RONDEAU (of Jane) By Benjamin

Keller

Sometimes I have to sit and stare To see the cleverness of Jane. In shocked amazement I despair Of ever having thoughts so fair As to approach her mental plane. My wretched mind, I am aware, Can never hope to match the brain Of Jane. Her wisdom flows in endless train— It is infallible as prayer, 'Tis clear as glass, acute as pain, Unvarying as summer rain. Yet, modest, she is unaware Of Jane.

IF I WERE KING By Frederick W. Langner If I were a king of a forest green, I'd weave thee, love, a flower'd kirtle, And fashion a chaplet to crown thee queen, And woo thy heart with gifts of myrtle. If I were a king of a golden mine, I'd spin gold threads to braid thy hair, And chasten gold rings for thy fingers nine, And make the tenth my wedding care.

INTERLUDE By Agnes Conant It well may be that in another dream, A dream we cannot stain with too much love, We two shall find each other, suddenly, As if some stream of mountain water, clear And cool from snowy hills, should come at last In sight of sea, and in a quickening rush Leap free and joyous to its strong embrace, Finding certainty at last, and peace, Blessedness of knowing, in the end, The long and lonely days would be no more. So we will come together, you and I, In this old dream that is more life than living, More real than all the false realities We cling to now, a thousand years apart. And lying together in the friendly dark Turn, touch hands, and grieve no more. Feel body close to body, lip to lip, Grow warm and sweet once more, all sorrow past. And you shall touch my hair with gentle hands, And smile to see me tremble at your touch.

NO LOVELIER LIGHT By Agnes Conant Through endless time I thought I did not care, And in my blindness I shut out the light, And crept into the shadows; yet today Your radiance came and flung the dark away. Like a soft cloak, that light, so warm to wear Against the numbing chill of ever present night, It floats from off my shoulders with a grace That brings you close to me again, your smile So young, so shy, so sad in every way, Belying all the bitter words that I would say Should I remember now your sweetest face Even a moment, even a little while.

ATALANTA By Eva Moskowitz [Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon leaves off at the death of Prince Meleager. Atalanta and the chorus are mourning him.] Atalanta Was I, a mortal maid, then born for this, That I should live to see such woe come true Unhappy day, thou never shouldst have been! Thou ought'st not to have issued forth at birth; Thou shouldst have died, an infant in the womb O f thy star-jeweled and hooded mother, Night. This godly youth, golden and strong of limb, Lies now as cold as wintered Thracian streams. His true right arm no more shall smite the foe, But lies a prisoner at his helpless side. This noble head, that tokened him a prince, Spends now its royal blood upon the dust!— O twin-born goddess, thou whose awful eye Looked down upon me with thy favored love, Thou whose calm visage watches o'er the hills And wooded dells of my Arcadian home, To whose bright altar I did kneel in praise, And heap up honors in whose gracious name— Gaze with compassion, lend thine earnest ear! Daughter of Leto, I beg now of thee To bless his memory and his fresh-hued fame!

I kiss his marble brow and breathe a prayer That his bold warrior spirit may live on In lasting peace far from this dreadful land, Fed by the happy Lethe's crystal draught. Oeneus Cruel maiden, thou hast brought our prince this fate. Atalanta I swear to you I wished him naught but weal. Chorus The son of Althea lies entombed, His radiant youth forever doomed; A virgin, stranger to this land, Hath cursed him with her outstretched hand. Child of Iasius, Death's white bride, N o longer in this place abide, But seek you out some distant shore And glimpse our Calydon nevermore. Atalanta May I not even touch his lifeless hand; Or shed virginal tears for thy dead prince? Oeneus I order you to leave the palace gates. Huntsmen, she is your charge. Make haste And lead her hence, outside the royal wall. Chorus Farewell, thou wretched one, Follow the dying sun

That swiftly sinks to rest Now in the lowering west. Atalanta I, who was wont to run before the wind, And race the circling swallows o'er the plain Until they beat their wings in mad pursuit While I, laughing, would gain the treasured goal— Now strain and turn to quit this shuddering shore; Nor can I hasten through these unknown woods Where shadows leap and strike out at my soul. I, the maiden swift as sandaled Hermes, Sure and fleet of foot before all men, Must struggle forward in slow agony. These iron chains bind my two wrists as twins, And the cruel brand the younger huntsman threw Hath seared my winged right foot. A stricken bird, I wander blindly on this clouded path. O guardian goddess, I beseech thy care! Protect me now, and send to me a sign That thou art not unmindful of my plea, And I will follow ever in thy way . . . What means that noise? I hear the sound of oars. A passing ship then must be near at hand— Goddess, thou hearkenst to my cries! The moon Suddenly shines upon the shrouded seas— It is my father's ship! The helmsman stands; He sees my white-clad form among the trees! The oars, poised high above the surly foam, Now rest! The helmsman motions them to stay. They wait for me! O Joy! I come, I come!

LEGACY By John Morton Poole IV The envied laughter of your lips Selects another ear. Its throatiness has meant eclipse Of sense and doom to hear. Your urgent flesh dissolves, and shrinks The pediment of sound. And leaves me this blue flame which drinks The dark in which I drowned.

ACT FIVE By Charles Levy It was no little thing to say our love Was dead, let go your hand, and break the spell With smiling commonplaces of farewell, Stride down the street and with each step remove A dream from an infinity of dreams. It was no little thing to watch love die, Then calmly turn away and in the sky See all that blaze of stars and all my schemes, That were a magic splendor in my heart, Fade silently before the wind and cloud. You could not think me less for playing proud That moment tingling with a tragic part, For when I heard your laughter's icy roll The moon was no more dead than was my soul.

QUATORZAIN By Florence Ottenberg I do not quite remember when we came— I know the stardust glistened on your head, I know your eyes grew bright with sunlight's fiarme. I do not quite remember where we went— I know the way stretched endlessly ahead, I know the air was drenched with summer's scent. I do not quite recall your leaving, dear— Because my mind was lost in love, and fear. Tonight I came again upon our hill; The night grew cruelly black—fearfully still. And, in that space—between the earth and sky, Between my life and God's eternity— I found that love is like recurring nights Of fathomless darkness—and remembered heights.

ALEXANDRIA, 31 B.C. By L. R.

Smith

Antony by his own hand is dead . . . In the closeness of the darkened room, Magnificent in oriental l u x u r y ,

The Queen of Egypt grieves in gloom. Here to the mistress of the chiefs of Rome, Tear-stained, her breast bruised by wailing hands, The final shafts of love come home. Broken by a love she thought less deep, An ivory silhouette on purple silk she lies, And wonders that the harlot that she is should weep.

PARTING By Agnes Conant Our tragic little comedy is played; Its last brief lines flung to a darkening sky Now let no pointless epilogue be said To mar the splendor of our brave good-bye. Rather recall love with a gentle sorrow Pitying two who for a spring were young Who now go on alone to meet tomorrow, Now that love's last high requiem is sung. Go quickly, so you shall not see my tears. I shed them only for a dead dream's sake. I know the coming of the lonely years, When sometimes in the darkness you shall wake, My small and wistful ghost will touch your hand; I see you smile, and know you understand.

AUTUMN MEMORY A Sestina By Edward F.

Kerman

A golden moon against a bed of gray, With myriad twinkling stars to make her court, The silvery aura of the Milky Way Creating beauty in a night too short, A fleeting night which all too soon meets day And brilliance that cannot with shadow sort. On Earth, in mood of quite another sort, Dame Nature wills to be austere and gray; The wind, in gaining impetus all day, Unbounds the leash; belabored leaflets court The river's edge; their verdant life, so short, Is ended; now they must be out of way. For such is Nature's unrelenting way; Allotted is her time in which to sort The seasons; in their prime she cuts them short. So now, for Summer's green comes Autumn's gray; Bleak Autumn, rough usurper in the court Where gentle Summer reigned, must have his day. And now, pursuing dreariness of Comes night, strange paradox, to In which repentant Fall attempts O u r favor, in bestowing as some

day, show the way to court sort

Of balm to us, for mournful earthy gray, The brilliant moon and stars for moments short. Ah, blow, you chilling breezes! Nothing short Of death could quiet me this day. For what if cold the field, if it be gray, If dead the leafless boughs; I've found the way To mock at cheerless scenes like these. Such sort Of phantoms move me not; I'm paying Helen court. My love and I are seated in a court Which barren trees have formed. The night is short Of hours for us, as in a nameless sort Of silent awe, we lose our cares of day, And wonder to ourselves at Nature's way Of making skies so bright and Earth so gray. I court the thought: My love and I this day Are one; the Gods, in short, have shown the way In symbol of a sort, in hue of gray.

AFTER READING TENNYSON'S "ULYSSES": Telemachus

to Ulysses

By Eva

Moskowitz

Slow summers you have passed f a r from these shores, And winter blasts have echoed long your name, While here at home, impatient to be grown Full in m y powers of manhood and of life I cast no shying stone at plovers' wings, I swam no rivers rough with plashy reed; But studied straight the course of every star, And watched the tides creep f a r upon the beach, Thinking thereby to grasp the latent lore That must be his who wields the sceptered rule. Ambition had me in his crooked clasp: A n d so I strove, and striving, studied much Of logic and of ancient wisdom's root. The years pressed hard and clamored to be known, A n d still your warrior's visage was not seen, Though many a white-sailed galley steered by here. A n d so our people knew me as their king: I urged them to forget m y father's name, A n d memory's sharp-seen shadow fainter grew, As still you dwelt in foreign seas and hills. They knew you only as a presence dread Whose being had abandoned this their home. M y mother, spent with sighs for your return, Shunned the great hall that minded her of you, A n d sat in mourning darkness in her bower. Her love was stronger than the earth itself:

And I have mocked that love, and called it wrong For her to grieve thus over what had passed— I wished but to be strong and rule alone: I prayed that you would ne'er return again . . . For life to me was conqueror of faith; Her hopes were ash before triumphant youth. The land obeyed my every ordered wish, And all paid homage to my just decrees, Yet do I toss as on a gale-fraught sea When in my carven bed I meet the night, And when the sun is washed upon the leaves Of all the morning land I still sleep not. For what if envious hands should enter then And stab me through my fearful beating heart? For even if my father should be dead, Yet other men might plot to steal my throne. And now thou art returned, and I do kneel Before thee thus and place upon thy head This crown that must be yours. I have a need Of greater crowns than this that I would seek— Crowns that no human hands can mold for me Such as you wore throughout your wandering, While yet your head was bloody with the fight, While yet you struggled with the jeering waves; The very shining coronal that she, Waiting for you within her grayness here, Wore with a grace no other woman dared— For suddenly I am aware of this: My father, with thy queen thou showest me Crowned honor of a perfect love: a trust That life is not too fleet: and fearlessness That can belong but to a serene soul.

QUATRAINS FOR FOUR SAGES By J. Stuart Goodman ι Who shall doubt that all is forged of living fire, That all the turbulent pains and joys we know Are but the thin reflection of our living sire, The Flame, whose passion keeps our souls aglow? π Can we, the winged children of misty dreams, The blue shadow forms projected on the tinted day, The pink and white brevities snatched between two streams Of dark, be aught but the caprices of airy play? πι Are we not the sons of our mother, the earth, The greatness of mountain and prairie whose tireless verdant bed Formed us, suckled us, molded us, and gave us our birth, So we may sputter and speak ere sleeping there when dead? IV

Can these salt-teared slippery children of Whose thin blood is like the surf's most Be anything at all but half-fish children O Mother Water, first possessor of the

the ancient sea, tireless song, of thee, world, the strong?

REVELATION By D. G. Kramer At times I've thought about the deeper things That make of Life a full ennobled whole, And then I've wondered if there is a God. If you have lain alone in fields at night, The only sound, the chirping crickets' call, The only light, the moon and stars above, You must have looked into the darkened sky With awe, and tears arisen in your eyes That welled from out the depths of your heart's soul, T o know that past the speck our minds can grasp, Beyond the stars, beyond infinity, Beyond all thought, lies something more sublime Than plodding Genius can conceive to be! . . . . . . Know for that moment you have been with God. You rose exultant, though you fell to Earth Dragged down by duty, or ambition's plan. . . . The grass and earth were cool, the thought so sweet, You hated looking on to Life again.

LINES By Charlotte

Ramsay

Lance

Like silver birches leaning slenderly Against the darkness on a lonely hill With heads forever lifted, I would be At peace with pain, and infinitely still.

HE LOVED By Agnes

Conant

He loved dark trees against the sky; And autumn's russet ecstasy; Sorrowing song and faery dawn; The lengthening shadows on a lawn; Laughter for its own gay sake; The soft blue smoothness of a lake; High, grassy hills where he could stand And hold all Heaven in his hand; The sleek, black wetness of the rain Falling at night in a country lane; Bright, golden words with beauty fraught; And half-heard music faintly caught As in a dream from far away; The clean, new freshness of a day; Love for its endless bittersweet; The constant, restless rhythmic beat Of white-topped waves upon the shore; The sudden opening of a door; The sword-swift beauty of the mind. All these he loved and left behind T o seek the unknown, the nowhere. D o they remember now, or care?

LINES FOR A LADY IN A MUSEUM By J. Stuart Goodman Sanguine jealousy must have disturbed The multiform calm of tottered gods, And the faded tints of the ancient tomb Carried by myopic researchers From old time and old continents T o parvenu America Glittered. The cat- and hawk-headed deities were jealous As I stood with you, O fount of new wine, 'mid their crumbling likenesses. And scribbled in cabalistic hieroglyph O n the walls ran one legend: " W e have a thousand jars of wine." Poor Thoth! His worshippers revel In typographical vintages. Ptah's people are curiosa For the wonderings of the wise. Can I ever forget O r lose, Touching your hand, laughing in your eyes Where the gods are dead— And far off, outside, an April wind Dances ballets in the lake ripples—

Can I ever forget, or lose this you I loved in the dusty ruins Of old worlds? But still— Let us touch our brows to Osiris's marble feet. He is dead; But perhaps the clandestine yesterdays, That send this April laugh to my teeth, This laugh for futile death, As I touch your hand, are not misty scrawls to him. Perhaps whip-bearing Osiris remembers Yesterdays I have forgotten So foolishly, And knows the newness of your touch More ancient than he.

HOUSTON HALL By Lee K. Bendheim Only plaques are left. I see them on the walls, A t the bend in the stairs, Bright, gleaming plaques With proper words inscribed— "Born and Died." And the colored porter Shines them twice a week With meticulous care, Lest posterity should forget. "Anno Domini, In Memoriam"— Brilliant reminders Of noble lives long spent. But only plaques are left, Bright, gleaming plaques; And in some hollow tomb Lie bones long gone to dust, And we forget!

TO G. S. By Charles Levy All things that live with Nature have their day, The feeble and the strong, the foul, the fair, The creatures of the earth, the sea, and air, However small or great, they have their stay; All things that live remain the while they may, But each, at last, however mean or rare, The bird, the grass, the rose, the lover's hair, Returns unto the elemental clay. All living things the Last Adventure wait, Grope through the world, till Age exacts his fee, Then fade away beneath eternal skies; But what of life destroyed before its date, Plunged in the dark before prepared to see? I would be told where God is when Youth dies.

THE LEDGER By Donald Pastor Each night she penned The day's expenses to With bridal industry, To make an enterprise

in careful hand a dime; she planned of Time.

An ordered tale the ledger told, Page after page—a husband's joy! Month after month; then was enrolled: "Blue blanket for a baby boy." More often, now, the pen ran dry; She added with a pencil stub, Commanding, with one zealous eye, The kettle for the baby's tub. Years after, in an attic nook, She found the ledger, sealed in grime, And, fondly curious for a look Upon the mummied face of Time, Opened and read, as past her thumb The long unrustled pages dropped: "For Baby's headstone . . ." with the sum Untold—and there the entries stopped.

CINQUAINS By Wilmer Kranich ι A man Sits lost in thoughts O f why the sun does not Burn out. A bird sings near. He hears It not. π We all, Like actors, play The parts our script demands And laugh or weep according to Our cue. Ill I watch The milling throng As back and forth it flows, A wild, but futile rush to get— Nowhere.

FOR SOME FEAR By Mary

Jane

Chapman

For some fear life: And they are those Who have not lived— T o taste the wine so bittersweet, Feel joy or pain with every beat. Fear held them, and they never learned The victory by the battle earned. For some fear death: And they are those Who have not died.

RESOURCE By Charlotte

Ramsay

Lance

I know grave talk of courage That turns with steady eyes And weighted heart to meet Catastrophe, and dies In virtuous defeat. . . . Against that day that dawns In pale hostility While bitterness crawls after, O God, hold safe for me This golden shield of laughter!

THE GREAT PLAN By Frederick W. Langner Too many hearts have dried to formless stone Because they only heard the dirge's wail: They took the sequence in its tragic phase And failed to see that tragedy was a point Of view and not a thing to curse the gods for. But men are such small things who measure all The universe by their own five-finger'd span; They reason: I began with birth and end In nothingness—so far they read, but not A little farther, feigning ignorance of The great eternal alphabet of Change, Because they lack the nobleness of soul To match its cold but certain consolation.

CONSTANCY By J . R.

lander

Even as the battle crash is loudest I have seen across the sky, On its course intent, a lark high flying, Minding not the men who die. Even as the winter winds blow coldest I have seen beside a wall One lone aster—tuft of white undying— Blooming still, live out the fall. I would be as these—a bird, a flower, Living life for life as they. Constant, stable in a changing hour, Steadfast through the night to day.

CREDO By Robert A. Evans When I think upon the briefness of my stay— A flash of light across the vaulted zone, And once again the darkness rules alone— It seems so little time, so short a day Between the everlasting night of gray Eternity. So soon beneath a stone To crumble in the dreamless sleep of bone. Therefore, while my brief star shall hold its sway, I will go forth against the rising sun In joyous questing for the laughing gleam Of secret beauty in the common thing, Until the goal is reached, the race is run; For I have many splendid dreams to dream; For I have many splendid songs to sing.

"THESE ARE PRECIOUS MOMENTS—" By C. Wayne Smyth These are precious moments, mark them well— Slipping silently they ring a far-off bell And mark our measure of eternity— A jug of water taken from the sea. Know and feel the full awareness of their worth. Value words, and deeper thoughts, and mirth In mutual understanding; shadows fall Far too quickly on the narrow wall. The spring will come again—bright starlight Sprinkled on the canopy of night— The mystery of a soft warm breeze Stirring strangely in the new-leafed trees, The scent of blowing blossoms come to birth, Or the cleanness of the newly planted earth— All these will come again—but where, or how? Oh! treasure up the ever present now. For memories of youth make late years bright. Let them not slip hazily into the night— Though faint its sound, yet heed time's warning bell, For these are precious moments—mark them well.

Index of Authors Bendheim, Lee K., 2 1 , 7 1 Caporale, Μ. Α., 36 Chapman, Mary Jane, 75 Conant, Agnes, 51, 52, 60, 68 Evans, Robert Α., 79 Fanti, Irving L., 5 Goodman, J. Stuart, 47, 65, 69 Howard, John, 3 Hubbard, Lydia B., 24, 34 lander, J. R., 78

Kramer, D. G., 66 Kranich, Wilmer, 74 Lance, Charlotte Ramsay, 10, 67, 76 Langner, Frederick W., 17, 50, 77 Levy, Charles, 32, 40, 41, 57, 72 Moskowitz, Eva, 53, 63 Nearing, Homer, 43 Ortenberg, Florence, 58

Johnson, Thomas M., 39

Pastor, Donald, 2, 1 5 , 18, 73 Poole, John Morton IV, 4, 16, 56

Keeler, S. Clark, 44

Smith, L. R., ι , 23, 26, 28, 29,

Keller, Benjamin, 12, 25, 27, 30,

46, 59 Smyth, C. Wayne, 9, 22, 45, 48, 80 Soule, E. F., 4, 19, 20

49 Kerman, Edward F., 61 Kety, Seymour S., 3 1 , 42