Anthology of Massachusetts Poets Part 16

LILLA CABOT PERRY

THREE QUATRAINS

THE CUP

SHE said, "Lift high the cup!"

Of her arm's weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up That none might see or guess it held no wine.

FORGIVE ME NOT!

FORGIVE me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love's fire still burns within your breast!

Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.

THE ROSE

ONE deep red rose I dropped into his grave, So small a thing to give so great a friend!

Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave And must fare on without it to the end,

LILLA CABOT PERRY

A VALENTINE, UNSENT STAY, flaming rose, 'twould grieve her heart To see you fade away, Unloved, unwelcome and apart From every joy to-day.

Once long ago your tale was new, Days distant yet so dear; Why say her lover still is true, When that is all her fear?

Why thus recall another's pain, Her tender heart to fret?

Best let her think he loves again, Who never can forget!

MARGARET PERRY

SHIPBUILDERS

THE German people reared them An idol made of wood; And Hindenburg before them Lifelike and stupid stood.

To clothe him all in iron And thus his soul express, With nails and spikes they covered His wooden nakedness.

And when they, thus had clothed him All in a suit of mail, Still came they, wild-eyed, looking For s.p.a.ce to drive a nail.

Whenever Teuton airmen Slay boys and girls at play, Or U-boats, drowning babies, Create a holiday.

Then, gathering round their statue, A happy German throng Drive nails into the idol To make him still more strong.

Avenge the babes, shipbuilders, That on the seas have died; Avenge the little children Murdered for Wilhelm's pride.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And let your hammers ring, For more than ships and cargoes Waits on your fashioning.

Come, gather at the shipyards; With every bolt you drive Bethink you 'tis the Kaiser Whose brutish head you rive.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And swing with might and main; 'Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince That you to-day have slain.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And heat the metal hot, For it is Bethmann Hollweg You're boiling in the pot.

Come, gather at the shipyards,-- And when the day is done, You've spent it in driving spikes, In Hindernburg the Hun.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And toil with healthy hate, For only you can save the world, The Hun is at the gate.

ARTHUR STANWOOD PIE

UNFADING PICTURES

("The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers....

The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt's inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china ... and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything."

-"David Copperfield," Chapter XIII.)

HOW many are the scenes he limned, With artist strokes, clear-cut and free-- Our d.i.c.kens; time shall not efface Their charm, and they will ever grace The halls of memory.

Oft and again we turn to them, To contemplate in pleased review; And like some picture on the screen Comes now to mind a favorite scene His master-pencil drew:--

Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, I see a small lad, spent and worn, And by the window, stern and grim, A silent figure watching him, So dusty, ragged, torn.

Ah, now she rises from behind The round green fan beside her chair; "Poor fellow!" croons-and pity lends Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair.

Then in his sleep he softly stirs.

Was that a dream, these murmured words?

He wakes! There by the cas.e.m.e.nt sat Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat And her canary birds.

The peaceful calm of that quaint room, Its marks of comfort everywhere-- Old china and mahogany And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air.

Poor little pilgrim so bereft, So weary at his journey's end!

What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal-- To find--oh, such a friend!...

And then night came, and from his bed He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, And dreamed there came, to bless her son, His mother, with her little one, Adown that path of light.

Ah, greater blessing I'd not crave, When my life's pilgrimage is o'er, Than such repose, content, and love; Some shining path that leads above To dear ones gone before!

LOUELLA C. POOLE

WITH WAVES AND WINGS

WAVES and Wings and Growing Things!