A Portrait

The little world span round and round,
Singing along her sunny ways,
And all the glory she unwound
She gave to him for joy and praise.

And he, whom lavish morning met
With new-blown flowers and minstrelsy,
Looked on the gift through eyelids wet
For sorrow of satiety.

And he, whom noon put to the proof,
With trumpet-call and weapon blessed,
Fought the brave fight with soul aloof
Harkening for some remote behest.

Not homeward could the winged feet fare,
The lyric laughter choked a sigh—
A wanderer from he knew not where,
Dreamer of dreams, he knew not why.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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After Sunset

The forest was a shrine for her,
A temple richly dressed;
And worshippers the tall trees were,
Each to his prayer addressed.
Scarce dared I lift my eyes, or stir,
So deeply was I blessed.

She took to herself the waning day
Like a round twilight moon,
Serenely rising far away—
A silvery moon of June,
That whiter than the morning is
And fairer than the noon.

The dim world darkened round her—all
Was night save where she shone,
Save where she stood so slim and small
The shadowed earth upon;
As though the earth were new, and she
Would light its fires anon.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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A Garden In The Desert

So light and soft the days fall—
Like petals one by one
Down from yon tree whose flowers all
Must vanish in the sun.

Like almond-petals down, dear,
Odorous, rosy-white,
Falling to our green world here
Off the thick boughs of night.

One like another still lies—
Tomorrow is today.
Always the buzzing bee flies,
Who never flies away.

Ever the same blue sky rounds
Its chalice for the sun.
The mountains at the world's bounds
Their purple chorals run.

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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Telephone

Your voice, beloved, on the living wire,
Borne to me by the spirit powerful
Who binds the atoms and leaps out to pull
Great suns together! Ah, what magic lyre,
Strung for God's fingers, sounds to my desire
The little words immortal, wonderful,
That all the separating miles annul
And touch my spirit with your kiss of fire!
What house of dreams do we inhabit—yea,
What brave enchanted palace is our home,
Green-curtained, lit with cresset stars aglow,
If thus it windows gardens far away,
Groves inaccessible whence voices come
That soft in the ear call where we may not go!

poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Peacemaker

To the world-wanderer Samarkand is near,
The broad Pacific but a narrow strait.
To him old China at the Asian gate
A neighbor is, an elder brother dear.
Toward savage coasts he dares his bark to steer,
Bidding the tempest bear him on in state.
He knocks at tombs where kings their summons wait,
And meets the gods of eld in deserts drear.
So to the traveller who has long explored
Tropics of sickness, rocky wastes of pain,
Or arctic solitudes of icy sorrow—
To him is death no foe remote, abhorred,
But a wise friend, a peacemaker who fain
Would marry loud today with shy tomorrow.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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Ære Perennius

Look on the dead. Stately and pure he lies
Under the white sheet's marble folds. For him
The solemn bier, the scented chamber dim,
The sacred hush, the bowed heads of the wise,
The slow pomp, the majestical disguise
Of haughty death, the conjurer—even for him,
Poor trivial one, pale shadow on the rim,.
Whom life marked not, but death may not despise.
Now is he level with the great; no king
Enthroned and crowned more royal is, more sure
Of the world's reverence. Yesterday this thing
Was but a man, mortal and insecure;
Now chance and change their homage to him bring
And he is one with all things that endure.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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Winter

Earth bears her sorrow gladly, like a nun,
Her young face glowing through the icy veil.
The storms that threaten her, the winds that rail,
Kindle a deeper color. She has won
Graces that please the high-enthronèd sun;
Across her soft white robes that drift and trail
He casts his lordly purples, lest she quail
With the dead year, and think that all is done.
She leadeth on through desolate sad days,
A smile upon her lips, a triumph-song
Shut in her heart. Be glad! so singeth she;
Glad of the solitude, the silent ways,—
Even of the pain; so shall thy soul grow strong
For the brave spring that comes to set us free.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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Quatrains

I
Give to brave deeds emblazoned shrines
Where reverent memories may throng.
For them Art draws her perfect lines
In stone, in color, and in song.

II
For the Sierra Club Lodge in Yosemite Valley

Here, traveller, pause along your upward way—
Enter and rest, and search your soul today.
High are the mountains where your feet would fare—
Let wisdom lead, that joy may find you there.

III
The Monument by Saint-Gaudens in Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington

I WAS a woman who now sleep so still.
I laughed and wept, I loved and had my will.
Com'st thou to question? com'st thou here to

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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Temple Of Vishnu

Grand Cañon of Arizona

Vishnu, the gods of eld are dead. Long dead
Are Zeus, Astarte, and that lotus-flower,
Isis of Egypt. Unto each his hour.
Yet thou, silent within thy temple dread,
Locked against prayers, mounted above the tread
Of climbing feet, thou from thy purple tower
Contemplatest the stern inscrutable power
Whence all things come and whither all are led.
The day in splendor of lilac and clear blue
Visits thy mighty seat. The sapphire night
Broods in the abyss with darkness, and the rain
Veils thee with clouds, hails thee and bids adieu
In thunder. Steadfast on thy terraced height
Thou seest bold time besiege thy throne in vain.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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In The Louvre

Queen Karomana, slim you stand,
In bronze with little flecks of gold—
Queen Karomana.
O royal lady, lift your hand,
Shatter the stone museum cold,
Queen Karomana.

The wide Nile sleeps, the desert stings
With color. Shake your tresses free,
Queen Karomana !
The sleepy lotus shines and swings—
Loose your bound limbs and sail with me
In a smooth shallop to the sea,
Queen Karomana!

Queen Karomana, still so mute,
So delicate, yet cold as snow,
Queen Karomana?
An ice-wind, boldly resolute,
Rippled your thin robe long ago,

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poem by Harriet Monroe
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