Immagini della pagina

For God has hung the Southern Cross
Above the kneeling hill.


I see them in the storm-washed light,
Like ebony against the sand;

The wrecks of ships lost long ago
From many a mellow land.

Oh, may the sand soon cover them,
And all their sorrow be unlearned

They are too like those dreams of mine
That nevermore returned.


Oh, for the comet's trail
Across the purple sky,
So far we could not hear
The glory rushing by

It will not come again
For more than ninety years,
When we shall have forgotten
All our tears! }
Grace Hazard Conkling |
- –

to LOVE UNTOLD f I cannot tell How much I love you. A haunting legend frightens me.

The men who dared for Helen
Knew sacredly
What I have learned and fear:
The swan that sings its soul
Must die, my dear,

Must die.

I cannot tell
How much I love you.

There was a Man
Once, long ago, -
Who loved you so divinely,
That he hung upon a cross
And died—
Died shamefully—for you.

My darling, would you understand?

I cannot tell
How much I love you, sweet-my-dear,
Unless I die—

Unless I die.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

People are strange.
I cannot understand them.
But God—
He loves them.
Earl Marlatt



Ah, I am heavy now and patient,
Moving as the dumb, tamed animals move, ploddingly,
Burdened, burdened; }
Knowing ahead of me the iron pain—yet am I dumb and

patient. A stillness is thick and heavy upon me . . . Waiting . . .

Inevitably you unfold within me.
Sudden I am smitten with terror—
How shall I carry the burden of a soul!


[ocr errors]

My nerves are riding a race-horse.

I shall storm, storm through the gates of pain, I shall win victory.

Huzzah, I am coming!

I shall shatter the gates of pain,

I shall go hurtling through pain!

I am riding, riding. . . .


They have me again in the birth-room,
Where all night long I lay in a rhythm of agony,
Horrible hell-rhythm of birth-giving!

Pain . . .

A gasping cessation

How I loathe the white nurses!
Yet they too are women,

They too . . . are women
I should be sorry . . . for women.

There is a single white, sweet star in the sky.
It is afloat in illimitable peace.
I have achieved it, I have set it in the sky—
My baby!


Little tugger,

Little drawer of milk,

Feeding from me as your life drew through mine in the


What flows again from you to me, seeker?

Currents are about us

Do you think it you tugging,

My breast that is being tugged! , \

Ah, little beloved,

We do not know rightly f

In what stream we are drifting! o Florence Kiper Frank

« IndietroContinua »