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“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind sings. His voice is a harp, a harp of a thousand strings; His voice is a harp, and he rides on swift and terrible wings.

“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind shrills; And the pine-trees mutter threats to their parent hills, The ragged scrub-oaks writhe and clash at fierce demoniac wills.

“Woe . . . . . . !”

My Lord Wind rails; And the young oak bends to the hiss of his stinging flails, While the old oak breaks and the cowering pine-tree wails.

“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind grieves; ~ And a plaintive echo stirs through the fallen leaves, Like a child-lorn mother's breast the grassy hill-side heaves.

“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind cries, And the word is a mad crescendo of sobs and sighs. Then out in the far somewhere the voice-of my Lord Wind dies.


Giant stallions that froth and champ,
Yellow plunging racers
Leaping full at the barrier,
Leaping full at the barrier!
The thick masonry trembles, crumbles;
They surmount it —

They rush on.
While the village sleeps,
Down the night-wind
Comes the thunder of their hoofs.

O charging steeds,

Soon, satiated,

You will be led back to your stalls;

Your frenzy past,

Your tawny manes smoothly shining.

Soon you will be led back,

Fed fat on human desolation,

Fed fat and tame. * * Ida Judith Johnson


The moon has gone to her bed tonight,
And all over the sky
She has hung out her garments of light
To dry.

w I think I saw her, at the day's break, A morning or so ago, Washing them, down by the end of the lake, Bending quite low, So tired she was, and pale.

And now each shimmering veil—
Sea-greens and sapphires
Jeweled with orange fires—
Floats from the star she has pinned it to. . . .

Spring—Fort Sheridan

Placid breezes sauntering
Over a lake of glass,
Kissing the pouting elm-buds,
Patting the new grass;
Turquoise overhead,
Swimming May skies—
(“Trench-knives are top-hole
For gouging out their eyes!”)

Great bees, clover-laden,
Solemnly drone past;
All the fresh world shouts
Of spring come at last.
Bobolinks, meadowlarks o
Bursting with May—
(“If you can't pull the bayonet out,
Shoot the body away!”)
J. Wan. Alstyne Weaver, Jr.

we who HAVE LOST i They were pursuing us along the road. My arm was gone, and I was weak from loss of blood. Presently a steel splinter ripped my belly; I fell into the slimy ditch, and struggled, struggled !

Soon an officer beneath me spoke, through half a mouth: “Be quiet, little brother, and I will show you how to lie at ease.”

Now we are at rest.

The heavy tread of the victors shakes the earth;

The loose dirt falls from the side of the ditch,

Little by little. Howard Unger


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From olden hallways
He led to beauty's ample rooms—
Out to her rain-drenched garden's frond,
Out to her suns . . . beyond . . . beyond.
Ah! did we call his art a whim,
Before we woke to him?

High above war
His music, rising past the stars,
Is heard at heaven's door.
Heaven opens to the soul of song,
And unto art that never ends
The soul of song ascends.

Agnes Lee \

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