Upon a hillside or along the brink In rhapsody is caught away Of beauty, to abide Translated through the night and day Of time, and by the anointing balm Of earth to outgrow decay. Hark in the wind-the word of silent lips! Look where some subtle throat, that once had wakened lust, Lies clear and lovely now, a silver link Of change and peace! Hollows and willows and a river-bed, Anemones and clouds, Raindrops and tender distances Above, beneath, Inherit and bequeath Our far-begotten beauty. We are wed With many kindred who were seeming dead. Only the delicate woven shrouds Are vanished, beauty thrown aside To honor and uncover A deeper beauty-as the veil that slips And his bride. So, by the body, may the soul surmise Of fusion: when, set free From semblance of mortality, Yielding its dust the richer to endue A common avenue Of earth for other souls to journey through, It shall put on in purer guise The mutual beauty of its destiny. And who shall fear for his identity, Be unencumbered of what troubles you- And greatly go, the wind upon your face! Grieve not for the invisible transported brow Shall alter and renew Their shape and hue Like birches white before the moon, Or a young apple-tree In spring, or the round sea; And shall pursue More ways of swiftness than the swallow dips Among . . . and find more winds than ever blew The straining sails of unimpeded ships! For never beauty dies That lived. Nightly the skies Assemble stars, the light of many eyes, And daily brood on the communal breath Which we call death. Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. To the Dead in the Graveyard Adelaide Crapsey Adelaide Crapsey was born at Rochester, New York, in 1878. She graduated from Vassar in 1901. She became instructor in Poetics at Smith College in 1911, but failing health compelled her to retire in 1913. Between 1913 and 1914, when she died, she did most of her poetic writing. What fine rebellion here! How the spirit chafes at the bonds of the broken body! Lively inflections characterize the whole poem, with the exception of the last few lines. How can you lie so still? All day I watch Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? The very worms must scorn you where you lie— A pallid, mouldering, acquiescent folk, Meek habitants of unresented graves. Why are you there in your straight row on row, Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. And in ironic quietude who is The despot of our days and lord of dust Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop And this each body and ghost of you hath heard Reprinted from Verse by Adelaide Crapsey, by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers. Mother Earth Harriet Monroe Harriet Monroe is editor of Poetry, and, with Alice Corbin Henderson, is the compiler of "The New Poetry," a collection of modern verse published by The Macmillan Company, New York, in 1917, and in 1923. Her volumes of poetry include "The Passing Show," published by Houghton Mifflin Company, and "You and I," published by The Macmillan Company. Be sure you grasp the wide sweep of imagination in this poem. Bring out the triumph that is found in Man. Do not neglect, however, the music of the lines. Он, a grand old time has the earth Through the dim first day, She labors and laughs and gives. |