With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen
That play in the golden hair of a girl,-
A ripple of amber-a flare
Of light sweeping after-a curl
In the hollows. Like swirling feet
Of fairy waltzers, the colors run
To the western sun
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.
Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,
Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,
The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye
Under the fierce sun's alchemy.
The slow hawk stoops
To his prey in the deeps;
The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps.
Then all in dazzling links and loops,
A riot of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
To the westering sun the colors run
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.
O glorious land! My Western land,
Outspread beneath the setting sun!
Once more amid your swells I stand,
And cross your sod lands dry and dun.
I hear the jocund calls of men
Who sweep amid the ripened grain,
With swift, stern reapers, once again.
The evening splendor floods the plain:
The crickets' chime
Makes pauseless rhyme,
And toward the sun
The splendid colors ramp and run
Before the wind's feet
In the wheat!
Reprinted by permission of the author.
For biographical note concerning the author, see "The Laughers," page 88.
The varied scenes and objects so beautifully portrayed in this poem, together with the contrasting picture toward the close, should be clearly shown by due emphasis, while the rhythm of the whole should not be neglected.
THE rain was over, and the brilliant air
Made every little blade of grass appear
Vivid and startling—everything was there
With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear,
As though one saw it in a crystal sphere.
The rusty sumac with its struggling spires;
The golden-rod with all its million fires;
(A million torches swinging in the wind)
A single poplar, marvelously thinned,
Half like a naked body, half like a sword;
Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord;
A group of pansies with their shrewish faces,
Little old ladies cackling over laces;
The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well;
The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell;
The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field-
How bountifully were they all revealed!
How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive-
So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!
And over all the morning-minded earth.
There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth,
Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw
The toad face heaven without shame or awe,
The ant confront the stars, and every weed
Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed;
While all the things that die and decompose
Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose.
Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive
And keep the very dirt that died, alive!
And now I saw the slender willow-tree,
No longer calm or drooping listlessly,
Letting its languid branches sway and fall
As though it danced in some sad ritual;
But rather like a young athletic girl,
Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl,
And flying in the wind-her head thrown back,
Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack,
And all her rushing spirits running over...
What made a sober tree seem such a rover-
Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees,
That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace,
Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame,
And burn the trembling orchard there below?
What lit the heart of every golden-glow-
Oh, why was nothing weary, dull, or tame? ...
Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth
That drives the vast and energetic earth.
And, with abrupt and visionary eyes,
I saw the huddled tenements arise.
Here where the merry clover danced and shone
Sprang agonies of iron and stone;
There, where the green Silence laughed or stood enthralled,
Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled.
The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills;
Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills-
The menace of these things swept over me;
A threatening, unconquerable sea. . . .
A stirring landscape and a generous earth!
Freshening courage and benevolent mirth-
And then the city, like a hideous sore.
Good God, and what is all this beauty for?
Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry Holt and Company.
For biographical mention of Richard Le Gallienne see "May is Building Her House," page 29.
Do you think that the author has omitted anything in this "Catalog of Lovely Things"? In any event, you will need to go slowly in rendering these lines, in order that the things successively mentioned may be duly appreciated and impressed.
I WOULD make a list against the evil days
Of lovely things to hold in memory:
First, I set down my lady's lovely face,
For earth hath no such lovely thing as she; And next I add, to bear her company, The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings; Then the wild rose upon its little treeSo runs my catalog of lovely things.
The enchanted dogwood, with its ivory trays;
The water-lily in its sanctuary
Of reeded pools; and dew-drenched lilac sprays:
For these, of all fair flowers, the fairest be.
Next write I down the great name of the sea,
Lonely in greatness as the names of kings;
Then the young moon that hath us all in fee— So runs my catalog of lovely things.
Imperial sunsets that in crimson blaze
Along the hills; and, fairer still to me,
The fireflies dancing in a netted maze
Woven of twilight and tranquillity;
Shakespeare and Virgil—their high poesy;
And a great ship, splendid with snowy wings,
Voyaging on into Eternity-
So runs my catalog of lovely things.
Prince, not the gold bars of thy treasury,
Not all thy jeweled scepters, crowns, and rings,
Are worth the honeycomb of the wild bee-
So runs my catalog of lovely things.
Reprinted by permission of the author and Harper and Brothers, the publishers of the author's works.
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