The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 1

The Little Book of Modern Verse.

Edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse.

Foreword

"The Little Book of Modern Verse", as its name implies, is not a formal anthology. The pageant of American poetry has been so often presented that no necessity exists for another exhaustive review of the art. Nearly all anthologies, however, stop short of the present group of poets, or represent them so inadequately that only those in close touch with the trend of American literature know what the poet of to-day is contributing to it.

It is strictly, then, as a reflection of our own period, to show what is being done by the successors of our earlier poets, what new interpretation they are giving to life, what new beauty they have apprehended, what new art they have evolved, that this little book has taken form. A few of the poets included have been writing for a quarter of a century, and were, therefore, among the immediate successors of the New England group, but many have done their work within the past decade and the volume as a whole represents the twentieth-century spirit.

From the scheme of the book, that of a small, intimate collection, representative rather than exhaustive, it has been impossible to include all of the poets who would naturally be included in a more ambitious anthology. In certain instances, also, matters of copyright have deterred me from including those whom I had originally intended to represent, but with isolated exceptions the little book covers the work of our later poets and gives a hint of what they are doing.

I have attempted, as far as possible, to unify the collection by arranging the poems so that each should set the keynote to the next, or at least bear some relation to it in mood or theme. While it is impossible, with so varied a ma.s.s of material, that such a sequence should be exact, and in one or two instances the arrangement has been disturbed by the late addition or elimination of poems, the idea has been to differentiate the little volume from the typical anthology by giving it a unity impossible to a larger collection.

Jessie B. Rittenhouse.

Lord of my Heart's Elation. [Bliss Carman]

Lord of my heart's elation, Spirit of things unseen, Be thou my aspiration Consuming and serene!

Bear up, bear out, bear onward, This mortal soul alone, To selfhood or oblivion, Incredibly thine own, --

As the foamheads are loosened And blown along the sea, Or sink and merge forever In that which bids them be.

I, too, must climb in wonder, Uplift at thy command, -- Be one with my frail fellows Beneath the wind's strong hand,

A fleet and shadowy column Of dust or mountain rain, To walk the earth a moment And be dissolved again.

Be thou my exaltation Or fort.i.tude of mien, Lord of the world's elation, Thou breath of things unseen!

Gloucester Moors. [William Vaughn Moody]

A mile behind is Gloucester town Where the fishing fleets put in, A mile ahead the land dips down And the woods and farms begin.

Here, where the moors stretch free In the high blue afternoon, Are the marching sun and talking sea, And the racing winds that wheel and flee On the flying heels of June.

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The wild geranium holds its dew Long in the boulder's shade.

Wax-red hangs the cup From the huckleberry boughs, In barberry bells the grey moths sup Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up Sweet bowls for their carouse.

Over the shelf of the sandy cove Beach-peas blossom late.

By copse and cliff the swallows rove Each calling to his mate.

Seaward the sea-gulls go, And the land-birds all are here; That green-gold flash was a vireo, And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow Was a scarlet tanager.

This earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone.

Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship.

These summer clouds she sets for sail, The sun is her masthead light, She tows the moon like a pinnace frail Where her phosphor wake churns bright.

Now hid, now looming clear, On the face of the dangerous blue The star fleets tack and wheel and veer, But on, but on does the old earth steer As if her port she knew.

G.o.d, dear G.o.d! Does she know her port, Though she goes so far about?

Or blind astray, does she make her sport To brazen and chance it out?

I watched when her captains pa.s.sed: She were better captainless.

Men in the cabin, before the mast, But some were reckless and some aghast, And some sat gorged at mess.

By her battened hatch I leaned and caught Sounds from the noisome hold, -- Cursing and sighing of souls distraught And cries too sad to be told.

Then I strove to go down and see; But they said, "Thou art not of us!"

I turned to those on the deck with me And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be: Our ship sails faster thus."

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The alder-clump where the brook comes through Breeds cresses in its shade.

To be out of the moiling street With its swelter and its sin!

Who has given to me this sweet, And given my brother dust to eat?

And when will his wage come in?

Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town.

There is cash to purse and spend, There are wives to be embraced, Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end, -- O little sails, make haste!

But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee?

What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see?

Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly?

Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do?

On a Subway Express. [Chester Firkins]

I, who have lost the stars, the sod, For chilling pave and cheerless light, Have made my meeting-place with G.o.d A new and nether Night --

Have found a fane where thunder fills Loud caverns, tremulous; -- and these Atone me for my reverend hills And moonlit silences.

A figment in the crowded dark, Where men sit muted by the roar, I ride upon the whirring Spark Beneath the city's floor.

In this dim firmament, the stars Whirl by in blazing files and tiers; Kin meteors graze our flying bars, Amid the spinning spheres.

Speed! speed! until the quivering rails Flash silver where the head-light gleams, As when on lakes the Moon impales The waves upon its beams.

Life throbs about me, yet I stand Outgazing on majestic Power; Death rides with me, on either hand, In my communion hour.

You that 'neath country skies can pray, Scoff not at me -- the city clod; -- My only respite of the Day Is this wild ride -- with G.o.d.