A Play Festival In Ogden Park
Oh gay and shining June time!
Oh meadow brave and bright,
Abloom with little children,
All tossing in the light!
They dance and circle singing—
Oh, what a joy to see!
They twinkle in the sunshine,
They shout in company.
Beyond are pointed houses
Patterned against the blue,
With bushes flower-embroidered,
And trees all trim and true.
Around are rows of people
Watching the dainty show,
Guarding the fairy kingdom
Where blossom babies blow.
Their merry little footsteps
Race with the tricksy air,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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At Twilight
You are a painter—listen—
I'll paint you a picture too!
Of the long white lights that glisten
Through Michigan Avenue;
With the red lights down the middle
Where the street shines mirror-wet,
While the rain-strung sky is a fiddle
For the wind to feel and fret.
Look! far in the east great spaces
Meet out on the level lake,
Where the lit ships veil their faces
And glide like ghosts at a wake;
And up in the air, high over
The rain-shot shimmer of light,
The huge sky-scrapers hover
And shake out their stars at the night.
Oh, the city trails gold tassels
From the skirts of her purple gown,
And lifts up her commerce castles
Like a jewel-studded crown.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Deserted
O Love, my love, it's over then—
Your heart flies free;
And it's now no more us two again,
The door on you and me.
And it's now no more the supper spread,
The stove singing low.
Oh, worlds away your feet are led,
Where wild winds blow!
Oh, seas between and worlds away
Our paths run now.
Go, for more dead than coffined clay
Is love's dead vow.
Go, may your bread be sweet, your rest
As soft and deep be
As when you slept upon my breast
And gave the world for me.
Go, for my heart cries out with pain,
With joy cries out.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Meeting
The ox-team and the automobile
Stood face to face on the long red road,
The long red road was narrow
At the turn of the hill,
And below was the sun-dancing river
Afoam over the rocks.
The mild-mannered beasts stood par, chewing their cud.
The stubble-bearded man from the mountains,
Rustier than his wagon,
Unmoving eyed the proud chauffeur.
The little ragged girl,
With sun-bleached hair,
Sitting on a ahrd, yellow-powdrey bag,
Looked across at the smart motor hats of the ladies,
And their chiffon scarfs
That the light breeze fingered.
The proud chauffeur blew his horn,
But nothing moved-
Except the foaming, sun-dancing river down below.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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A Little Old Maid
She grew, like other girls and flowers,
Sheltered and tended daintily;
And told her dolls, through sunny hours,
A prince would come her love to be.
And none denied her as she grew
The kingdom where her prince was lord.
For him she bloomed, and drank the dew
Of youth, and wore the virgin's sword.
From her strong tower of maidenhood
She saw brave men ride east and west;
And dreamed of peace in love's deep wood,
With babies nestling on her breast.
And when no knight her banner bore,
Nor hailed her with love's accolade,
Silent beside her open door
She wondered first, then grew afraid:
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Sage
Sequoia, growing grandly
Out of the long ago,
Beloved of Time, whose sons
March by to measures slow,
How tenderly you cherish
All little lives below!
Your mighty column pillars
The blue dome of the sky.
Your foliage plumes with greenness
The clouds that pass on high.
Yet here below slim lilies grow,
And here at peace am I.
How have you won Time over—
That lord of dark renown?
His hand, that withers all things,
Has given your brow a crown.
From your crest forty centuries
Now upon me look down.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Night-Blooming Cereus
FLOWER of the moon!
Still white is her brow whom we worshiped on earth long ago;
Yea, purer than pearls in deep seas, and more virgin than snow.
The dull years veil their eyes from her shining, and vanish afraid,
Nor profane her with age—the immortal, nor dim her with shade.
It is we are unworthy, we worldlings, to dwell in her ways;
We have broken her altars and silenced her voices of praise.
She hath hearkened to singing more silvern, seen raptures more bright;
To some planet more pure she hath fled on the wings of the night,—
Flower of the moon!
Yet she loveth the world that forsook her, for, lo! once a year
She, Diana, translucent, pale, scintillant, down from her sphere
Floateth earthward like star-laden music, to bloom in a flower,
And our hearts feel the spell of the goddess once more for an hour.
See! she sitteth in splendor nor knoweth desire nor decay,
And the night is a glory around her more bright than the day,
And her breath hath the sweetness of worlds where no sorrow is known;
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The River Kern
While I walk the pavement sooty
In the town,
Tread the stony path of duty
Up and down,
Oh, the Kern, all clad in beauty—
Silver sheen
On blue and green—
Down his canon goes cascading,
Cavalcading,
Cannonading,
Seizing all the brooks and fountains
How they beat
Their crystal feet!—
Shouting to the haughty mountains,
Giant peaks that frown !
Oh, my heart runs with the river
Far away,
Though through wintry streets I shiver
Day by day!
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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On The Train
I
THE lady in front of me in the car,
With little red coils close over her ears,
Is talking with her friend;
And the circle of ostrich foam around her hat,
Curving over like a wave,
Trembles with her little windy words.
What she is saying, I wonder,
That her feathers should tremble
And the soft fur of her coat should slip down over her shoulders?
Has her string of pearls been stolen,
Or maybe her husband?
II
He is drunk, that man -
Drunk as a lord, a lord of the bibulous past. [sic]
He shouts wittily from his end of the car to the man in the corner;
He bows to me with chivalrous apologies.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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For Peace
Flowers grow in the grass,
Baby footfalls pass
Over the fields once red,
Over the hero's head—
For Peace.
The earth, through her leafy veil,
Whispers a magic tale;
And the scholar reads in the clod
The latest news of God—
For Peace.
Brave little wires are spun
For voices to fly upon;
Words out of clouds are caught
From some witch's woof of thought
For Peace.
And the cataract's foamy troubles
Illumine a million bubbles,
In some city far away
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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