The iron head, Set on a monstrous jointed neck, Glides here and there, lifts, settles on the red He snorts, and pauses couchant for a space; But he, the monster, swings his load around,- His mammoth jaw Drops widely open with a rasping sound, O thwarted monster, born at man's decree, Your fiery heart at war With this strange world, the city's restless ruck, And you the semblance only, and the strife? And hurl them down with shriek of shattered steel, Scorning your own sure doom, so you may feel, You too, the lust with which your fathers killed? Or is your soul in very deed so tame, The blood of Grendel watered to a gruel, That you are well content With heart of flame Thus placidly to chew your cud of fuel And toil in peace for man's aggrandizement? Poor helpless creature of a half-grown god, At night, When your forerunners, sprung from quicker sod, Would range through primal woods, hot on the scent, Or wake the stars with amorous delight, You stand, a soiled, unwieldy mass of steel, Till I must feel A quick creator's pity for your shame: That man, who made you and who gave so much, Yet cannot give the last transforming touch; That with the work he cannot give the wageFor day, no joy of night, For toil, no ecstasy of primal rage. Reprinted from Body and Raiment by Eunice Tietjens, by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers. Caliban in the Coal Mines Louis Untermeyer For biographical note concerning the author, see "Landscapes," page 33. Do not read this poem in a weak, complaining way. Rather let it be the medium for heroic resignation. Do not neglect the magnificent emotional outburst in the last two lines. GOD, we don't like to complain— We know that the mine is no lark- God, You don't know what it is- Warm, with the sun always by. God, if You had but the moon Even You'd tire of it soon, Down in the dark and the damp. Nothing but blackness above And nothing that moves but the cars. God, if You wish for our love, Fling us a handful of stars! From Challenge by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright, 1920, by Harcourt, Brace, and Howe, Inc. The Stone Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was born at Hexam, England, in 1878. His early work was sentimental and romantic, but in his later works he has set forth boldly the life of the working people. His later books include "The Stonefolds," published by the Samurai Press, London, "Daily Bread," published by Elkin Mathews, London, and "Fires," also published by Elkin Mathews and The Macmillan Company, New York. Great restraint should characterize the reading of this poem. All the varying moods are felt under the spell of the great mastermood of tragedy. "AND will you cut a stone for him, And will you cut a stone for him- Three days before, a splintered rock A rumbling fall. . . And, broken 'neath the broken rock, I went to break the news to her; And dropped it at her feet: And when I came, she stood, alone, Because her heart was dead, She could not weep. Her lover slept: She could not sleep. Three days, three nights, She did not stir: Three days, three nights, Were one to her, Who never closed her eyes From sunset to sunrise, From dawn to evenfall: |