From side to side of us as we go down its path; I sit on the deck at midnight, and watch it slipping and sliding, Under my tilted chair, like a thin film of spilt water. It is weaving a river of light to take the place of this river A river where we shall drift all night, then come to rest in its shallows. And then I shall wake from my drowsiness and look down from some dim tree-top Over white lakes of cotton, like moon-fields on every side. The Moon's Orchestra When the moon lights up Its dull red camp-fire through the trees; And floats out, like a white balloon, Into the blue cup of the night, borne by a casual breeze; The moon-orchestra then begins to stir: Jiggle of fiddles commence their crazy dance in the darkness; Crickets churr Against the stark reiteration of the rusty flutes which frogs Puff at from rotted logs In the swamp. And the moon begins her dance of frozen pomp Over the lightly quivering floor of the flat and mournful river. Her white feet slightly twist and swirl She is a mad girl In an old unlit ball-room, Whose walls, half-guessed-at through the gloom, Are hung with the rusty crape of stark black cypresses, Which show, through gaps and tatters, red stains half hidden away. The Stevedores Frieze of warm bronze that glides with cat-like movements Over the gang-plank poised and yet awaiting— The sinewy thudding rhythms of forty shuffling feet Falling like muffled drum-beats on the stillness: Oh, roll the cotton down Roll, roll, the cotton down! From the further side of Jordan, And the river waits, The river listens, Chuckling with little banjo-notes that break with a plop on the stillness. And by the low dark shed that holds the heavy freights, Two lonely cypress trees stand up and point with stiffened fingers Far southward where a single chimney stands aloof in the sky. Night Landing After the whistle's roar has bellowed and shuddered, Shaking the sleeping town and the somnolent river, The deep-toned floating of the pilot's bell Suddenly warns the engines. They pause like heart-beats that abruptly stop: And poised at the end of it, half naked beneath the searchlight, A blue-black negro with gleaming teeth waits for his chance to leap. The Silence There is a silence which I carry about with me always A silence perpetual, for it is self-created; A silence of heat, of water, of unchecked fruitfulness, Through which each year the heavy harvests bloom, and burst, and fall. Deep, matted green silence of my South, Often, within the push and the scorn of great cities, I have seen that mile-wide waste of water swaying out to you, And on its current glimmering I am going to the sea, There is a silence I have achieved-I have walked beyond its threshold. I know it is without horizons, boundless, fathomless, perfect. And some day, maybe, far away, I shall curl up in it at last and sleep an endless sleep. Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The Macmillan Company. A Vagabond Song Bliss Carman For biographical note concerning the author, see "The Winter Scene," page 37. This is truly a song, but do not fail to reveal the emotions stirred by the flitting visions of autumn. THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by, And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Small, Maynard and Co. God's World Edna St. Vincent Millay Edna St. Vincent Millay was born at Camden, Maine, and was educated at Vassar College. Some of her published volumes are "Renascence and Other Poems," "Second April," both published by Mitchell Kennerley, New York, and "Some Figs from Thistles," published by Frank Shay, New York. Seldom does such passion as this succeed in revealing itself in verse. Restraint must characterize any reading of this poem, but such a restraint as threatens every moment to break out of bounds. A holding back upon the beginning of the words, and an impassioned emphasis upon the latter parts of them may help the reader. O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy mists that roll and rise! Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag Long have I known a glory in it all, Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,-Lord, I do fear Reprinted by permission of Mitchell Kennerley. |