A Power-Plant
The Fisk Street turbine power station in Chicago
The invisible wheels go softly round and round—
Light is the tread of brazen-footed Power.
Spirits of air, caged in the iron tower,
Sing as they labor with a purring sound.
The abysmal fires, grated and chained and bound,
Burn white and still, in swift obedience cower;
While far and wide the myriad lamps, aflower,
Glow like star-gardens and the night confound.
This we have done for thee, almighty Lord;
Yea, even as they who built at thy command
The pillared temple, or in marble made
Thine image, or who sang thy deathless word.
We take the weapons of thy dread right hand,
And wield them in thy service unafraid.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Maternity
After the months of torpor,
Weakness and ache and strain,
After this day's deep drowning
In stormy seas of pain—
To feel your hand, my baby,
Upon my bosom lain!
My little one, my baby,
What woes your touches quell!
It is the Christ-child coming
To save a soul from hell.
Out in the happy gardens
You bring me now to dwell.
My baby—O beloved,
Mine only you shall be,
Even as the soul our Lord's is,
Who died upon the tree.
Have I not won you, dearest,
By pain, as he won me?
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Battle-Flags Of Illinois
Through the red dusk of war they flew
From Shiloh to the sea.
Black fumes from shattered bolts that blew
Withered the colors three,
And crimson rains made sombre stains.
For every flag a grave—yes, more—
For each a score of graves.
Crossed are the heroes' hands that bore,
No wind the furled folds waves.
Sweet be their rest, by soft peace blest.
Is there no end? What mighty host
Of spirits ranged for war
The signal of the Holy Ghost
Shall summon hence afar!
Vast armies wait in solemn state.
Where valor fights for freedom—there,
Till the last slave is free,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Water Ouzel
Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters!
Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges --
Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers?
How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty --
Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff?
Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains?
Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug
the rocks?
Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them?
Must you batter your wings in the torrent?
Must you plunge for life and death through the foam?
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Pine At Timber-Line
What has bent you,
Warped and twisted you,
Torn and crippled you?
What has embittered you,
O lonely tree?
You search the rocks for a footing,
dragging scrawny roots;
You bare your thin breast to the storms,
and fling out wild arms behind you;
You throw back your witch-like head,
with wisps of hair stringing the wind.
You fight with the snows,
You rail and shriek at the tempests.
Old before your time, you challenge the cold stars.
Be still, be satisfied!
Stand straight like your brothers in the valley,
The soft green valley of summer down below.
Why front the endless winter of the peak?
Why seize the lightning in your riven hands?
Why cut the driven wind and shriek aloud?
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Sierran Song
To the California Sierra Club
Come climb the mountain trails with me,
Where pine-trees plume the sky,
Where snowy peaks salute the sea
When herald winds pass by.
Wah ho! the day is blue,
The night with stars aglow;
And all the dreams come true
Up there—wah ho!
The stream runs dancing on its way,
The meadows flush with flowers.
The gay birds sing a roundelay
Through all the crystal hours.
Wah ho! the sky is blue,
The world is soft as snow;
And all the dreams come true
Up there—wah ho!
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Lullaby
My little one, sleep softly
Among the toys and flowers.
Sleep softly, O my first-born son,
Through all the long dark hours.
And if you waken far away
I shall be wandering too.
If far away you run and play
My heart must follow you.
Sleep softly, O my baby,
And smile down in your sleep.
Here are red rose-buds for your bed—
Smile, and I will not weep.
We made our pledge—you had no fear;
What then to fear have I?
Though long you sleep, I shall be near;
So hush—we must not cry.
Sleep softly, dear one, softly—
They cannot part us now;
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Washington
Oh, hero of our younger race!
Great builder of a temple new!
Ruler, who sought no lordly place!
Warrior who sheathed the sword he drew!
Lover of men, who saw afar
A world unmarred by want or war,
Who knew the path, and yet forbore
To tread, till all men should implore;
Who saw the light, and led the way
Where the gray world might greet the day;
Father and leader, prophet sure,
Whose will in vast works shall endure,
How shall we praise him on this day of days,
Great son of fame who has no need of praise?
How shall we praise him? Open wide the -
Of heroes moves o’er unresounding floors
Men whose brawned arms upraised these colors high
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Nancy Hanks
Prairie child,
Brief as dew,
What winds of wonder
Nourished you?
Rolling plains
Of billowy green,
Far horizons,
Blue, serene;
Lofty skies
The slow clouds climb,
Where burning stars
Beat out the time:
These, and the dreams
Of fathers bold,
Baffled longings,
Hopes untold,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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In Tuolumne Meadows
I Love to sit in the sun
And watch the foaming Lyell
Leap over its granite bed.
I love these days that run
On a burnished golden dial
With the blue sky overhead.
I love to waken at night
And whisper the stars above me,
And feel the fingering breeze.
So still is the world, so right,
Where even the black pines love me,
And the white moon guards my ease.
I love the upward ways
To the sun-tipped crest of the mountains
High over the billowy world;
Where the wind sings hymns of praise,
And the snows break into fountains,
And life is a flag unfurled.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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