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MAY 1916

Baldur—Holidays—Finis Allen Upward 55

May in the City .... Max Michelson 63

The Newcomers — Love-Lyric — Midnight — The Willow

Tree—Storm—The Red Light—In the Park—A Hymn to

Night. To a Golden-Crowned Thrush . . Richard Hunt 68 Sheila Eileen—Carnage ......

Antoinette DeCoursey Patterson 69 Indiana—An Old Song Daphne Kieffer Thompson 70

Forgiveness .... Charles L. O'Donnell 72

Sketches in Color Maxwell Bodenheim 73

Columns of Evening—Happiness—Suffering—A Man to a

Dead Woman—The Window-Washers—The Department

Store Pyrotechnics I-III ..... Amy Lowell 76

To a Flower Suzette Herter 77

A Little Girl I-XIII .... Mary Aldis 78

Editorial Comment . . . . . .85

Down East Reviews 90*

Chicago Granite—The Independents—Two Belgian Poets Our Contemporaries ....... 103

A New School of Poetry—The Critic's Sense of Humor

Notes 107

Copyright lgl6 by Harriet Monroe. All rights reserved.


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LD loves, old griefs, the burthen of old songs
That Time, who changes all things, cannot

Eternal themes! Ah, who shall dare to join
The sad procession of the kings of song—
Irrevocable names, that sucked the dregs
Of sorrow from the broken honeycomb
Of fellowship?—or brush the tears that hang
Bright as ungathered dewdrops on a briar?
Death hallows all; but who will bear with me
To breathe a more heartrending lamentation,
To mourn the memory of a love divided
By life, not death, a friend not dead but changed?

Not dead—but what is death? Because I hoard
Immortal love, that withers not, but keeps
Full virtue like some rare medicament

Hoarded for ages in a crystal jar

By wonder-working gnomes; that only waits

The sound of that lost voice, familiar still,

Or sight of face or touch of hand, to bring

Life, like the dawn whose gentle theft unties

The girdle of the petal-folded flowers,

And ravishes their scent before they wake:

My love is like a fountain frozen o'er,

But no returning sun will ever break

The seal of that forbidden spring; no foot

Invade the weed-grown pathway; never kiss

Wake the enchanted beauty of the wood,

And bid the wheels of time revolve again.

Though one should walk the ways of life, and wear

The sweet remembered name, yet he is not

My playmate; no, the boy whom I have loved

Died long ago; the man is nothing but

His aging sepulchre.

And I, even I, Know in my deepest heart that I am not The boy who loved him; and I would I were, With a most bitter longing which there are No creeds to comfort. Do we madly feign The soul to be immortal? Fools!—it is not Even mortal, does not last the little space The body does, but alters visibly, And dies a million times 'twixt breath and breath. Baldur

Forever and forever and forever
Outgrown and left behind and cast away
The joy that was the blossom of the soul,
And hours that were the butterflies of time.
What though Elysian fields be white with light,
Crowded with glorious forms, and freed from fear
Or spoil or shock, how shall it profit me
Aged with sad hours, to pass to them and meet
Him as he is, removed and fallen and marred?
Hath any God the power to give me back
My boyhood; to undo this growth of years,
In which I lose the sense of what I was,
And take a different nature? We, self-wrapped,
Conjure with dreams of immortality,
And wit not that the spirit is yet more frail
Than that which holds it. Constant is it in nothing
But change; the transmigration of the soul
Goes on from hour to hour, it does not wait
The dissolution of our frame, but is
The law of life, fulfilled in everywise,
And we who fear destruction perish ever.

The soul—that vaulting speck, that busy flame,
That climbing passion-flower, that god, that atom—
It is the seeding-point of forces fed
By earth and air and all we hear and see
And handle. We take life and give it, but
We may not keep it. Sooner might we hope
To clutch the trickling moments in our palm,

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