Pain
She heard the children playing in the sun,
And through her window saw the white-stemmed trees
Sway like a film of silver in the breeze
Under the purple hills; and one by one
She noted chairs and cabinets, and spun
The pattern of her bed's pale draperies:
Yet all the while she knew that each of these
Was a dull lie, in irony begun.
For down in hell she lay, whose livid fires
Love may not quench, whose pangs death may not quell.
The round immensity of earth and sky
Shrank to a point that speared her. Loves' desires,
Darkened to torturing ministers of hell,
Whose mockery of joy deepened the lie.
Little eternities the black hours were,
That no beginning knew, that knew no end.
Day waned, and night came like a faithless friend,
Bringing no joy; till slowly over her
A numbness grew, and life became a blur,
A silence, an oblivion, a dark blend
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Love Songs
I
I LOVE my life, but not too well
To give it to thee like a flower,
So it may pleasure thee to dwell
Deep in its perfume but an hour.
I love my life, but not too well.
I love my life, but not too well
To sing it note by note away,
So to thy soul the song may tell
The beauty of the desolate day.
I love my life, but not too well.
I love my life, but not too well
To cast it like a cloak on thine,
Against the storms that sound and swell
Between thy lonely heart and mine.
I love my life, but not too well.
II
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Humming-Bird
What a boom! boom!
Sounds among the honeysuckles!
Saying, 'Room! room!
Hold your breath and mind your knuckles!”
And a fairy birdling bright
Flits like a living dart of light,
With his tiny whirlwind wings
Flies and rests and sings.
All his soul one flash, one quiver,
Down each cup
He thrusts his long beak with a shiver,
Drinks the sweetness up;
Takes the best of earth and goes—
Daring sprite!—
Back to his heaven no mortal knows,
A heaven as sweet as the heart of a rose
Shut at night.
Out upon the trackless highway
Now I go,
Beaten road and trail and byway
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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A Letter To One Far Away
Dear Wanderer—
The sky is gray,
With flecks of blue
The clouds rush over.
A bird is singing
Far away,
And butterflies
Taste of the clover.
Under the trees
My hammock swings,
And a brave breeze—
The restless rover—
Flutters the leaves
And stirs the grasses
And, whispering riddles,
Lightly passes.
Day after day
My friend and I
Climb up the hills
And search the valleys;
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Shadow-Child
Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother,
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?
Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Childless Woman
O Mother of that heap of clay, so passive on your breast,
Now do you stare at death, woman, who yesterday were blest?
Now do you long to fare afar, and guide him on the way
Where he must wander all alone, his little feet astray?
But I now, but I now—
Sons of me seven and seven
The high God seals upon the brow,
And summons from his heaven.
Blest as a bride were you, woman, that time of years agone,
When love, giver of life, came close and led you to his throne.
And blest were you—have you forgot?—when through the moons of pain
The life love-given tugged at your heart and bound you with its chain.
But I now, but I now—
Seared by the high God's scorn—
Lives that will never come to birth
Body of me has borne.
And when the hour was come, woman, your dark and perilous hour,
When the twin spirits, Death and Life, clutched you with jealous power,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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To Idleness
Sweet Idleness, you linger at the door
To lead me down through meadows cool with shade—
Down to the brook, over whose pebbly floor
The fishes, unafraid,
Swim softly, careless of our airy world.
I hear you ever singing, calling ever,
Bidding me sever
The chain so close about my spirit curled.
Why do I toil and pore
When you are at the door?
Surely Time's slave am I, and you will shun me;
Surely the delvers of the dark have won me
If here I stay when you are fled away.
O Idleness, where sleep your votaries ?
In what enchanted garden of pure bliss
Float their dim dreams on lotus-laden wings?
What joy of musical imaginings
Lulls them in banishment?
Ah, call them back to earth, that weary is!
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Two Capitals—1910
Moscow
White Moscow of the pearly towers,
And golden domes for praise,
And chiming hours!
Red Moscow of the Kremlin walls,
And bloody battle ways,
And fire-scarred halls!
Beautiful Moscow brave and bright,
Whose banners floated toward the light
When Asia knocked at Europe's door
And bleeding tzars paid off our score—
Ah, shining city, far away
Your gaudy spires salute the day
Like opal-hearted iris flowers
Decking the blue transparent hours.
Now from your seat the slim rails run
Through Asia to the rising sun,
Along the ancient highway made
By caravan and cavalcade.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Ocean Liner
They went down to the sea in ships,
In ships they went down to the sea.
In boats hewn of oak-tree strips,
In galleys with skin-sewn sails,
In triremes, caravels, brigs—
Frail, flimsily rolling rigs—
They went down where the huge wave rips,
Where the black storm lashes and hales.
They went down to the sea in ships,
To the sounding, sorrowing sea.
They go down to the sea—O me !—
What ships that outbrave the sea,
What ships that outrun the gale,
With a feather of steam for a sail
And a whirling shaft for an oar,
Are the ships that my brothers build
To carry me over the sea,
That my hand with treasures filled
May knock at the morrow's door !
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Legend Of A Pass Christian
A Live-oak grows by the shallow sea.
Rest under its boughs, I pray,
And hear of the pirate—bold was he—
And the lady he stole away.
He was a black-browed buccaneer,
And she like a snow-drop white.
From a scuttled ship he bore her clear
As it sunk in the haggard night.
And with bell and book he wedded her.
And shaped her to his will.
Yet though her body could not stir
Her soul escaped him still.
Though we be wed and vows be said,
Though beaten sore I be,
I'm naught of thine, thou'rt naught of mine,
God loose these bonds from me!
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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