But gray, gray sands at evening, From trees of long ago, O grass, flowers, trees unfruitful, Buried deep in the sand-dune's keep, Is all of life gone by? Can a springing bough lift your glory now And give it back to the sky? Janet Norris Bangs THE BIRCHES Around the stretch of hemlock and pine and cedar, Antoinette DeCoursey Patterson The moon rose: THE MOON ROSE She spread a circle of fire on the waters, She drew a path of golden fire across the ocean . Straight to us, sitting idly on the balcony after supper. She waited. We looked too long upon the shining path: We arose and went down to the sea; We dropped our dark earth-skins upon the sands, And stood up white with edges of fire. The moon laid a blazing finger on our bodies, And drew us into the dark waters. Each gleaming ripple touched our bodies, left its gold on them, And returned black to the black water; Until we lay in the circle of fire, Until we swayed in the arms of the moon. The black waves reached for us She lifted us gently. The waves broke into points of fire against our bodies And fell back She sang to us, rocking, "Sleep, sleep!" But all the fire of the moon-path was in our bodies We could not sleep. We leapt from the aims of the moon, Our bodies were transparent with edges of fire- We had become strangely thin, Our dark earth-skins fitted us ill. And when we looked, The moon-path lay behind us across the ocean We had dropped it in our haste. Marguerite Zorach LOOK, THE SEA! Look, the sea-how it lifts me in its arms like a child! Oh, how I love to ride on the white foam of the waves And dive down into the deep bottom of the sea! Look, the sun- Oh, how I love to bathe in the hot rays of the sun Look, the moon-how it rides me in sky! Oh, how I love to sail on the shining edge of the clouds, And sleep in the cool depths of the blue! William Zorach The gaunt old man THE DJINN Who teaches Latin and Greek in High School Is not as old as he looks. He has a lean ill-fed soul And has missed the real nourishment of life Because he has merely nibbled at it, Canned, Out of books. But the Recording Angel Has inscribed one good deed to his credit. When Jane Howe was all on edge to go as a missionary to India Although her orphaned brothers and sisters needed her at home He got Jane to read queer books The Mahabarata and the Zend Avesta And they discouraged her And opened her eyes to the impertinence Of going to India as a missionary; They impelled her to stay at home, Where she helped to bring up the younger children. After a while she married a good provider, And has a family of young and savage Americans Who need her prayers and labors Much more than the Hindoos. They say that the teacher of Greek and Latin Was in love with Jane. If he was he never breathed it. He always hid his desires And crushed them, And never had the courage Even to make to himself The apology he thought they merited. Sometimes the gaunt old man Who teaches Latin and Greek in High School Sits in Weinberg's Café On rainy nights; And in the hazy, half-lighted room, Through the wavering smoke from many cigars, He suddenly looms up large Like a Djinn out of a bottle. READERS In the reading room of the public library Has been called by some persons a tramp. So that he may stay here Safe in the warmth, |
