ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS(马萨诸赛诗人)

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ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

ANTHOLOGY OF

MASSACHUSETTS

POETS

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL

O BEAUTIFUL for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For

purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America!

God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood >From

sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Those stern, impassioned stress A

thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America!

God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty

in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife Who more than self

their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May

God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness, And every gain divine.

O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine

alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace

on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood >From sea to shining sea!

KATHERINE LEE BATES

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

YELLOW CLOVER

MUST I, who walk alone, come on it still, This Puck of plants The

wise would do away with, The sunshine slants To play with, Our wee,

gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover, Which once in Parting for a time

That then seemed long, Ere time for you was over, We sealed our own? Do

you remember yet, O Soul beyond the stars, Beyond the uttermost dim

bars Of space, Dear Soul, who found earth sweet, Remember by love's

grace, In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song, How suddenly we halted in

our climb, Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill, Stooped for the

blossoms closest to our feet, And gave them as a token Each to Each, In

lieu of speech, In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken, Those little,

gypsy, wondering blossoms wet With a strange dew of tears?

So it began, This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover, To be our

tenderest language. All the years It lent a new zest to the summer hours,

As each of us went scheming to surprise The other with our homely,

laureate flowers. Sonnets and odes Fringing our daily roads. Can amaranth

and asphodel Bring merrier laughter to your eyes? Oh, if the Blest, in their

serene abodes, Keep any wistful consciousness of earth, Not grandeurs,

but the childish ways of love, Simplicities of mirth, Must follow them

above With touches of vague homesickness that pass Like shadows of

swift birds across the grass. Beneath some foreign arch of sky, How many

a time the rover You or I, For life oft sundered look from look, And voice

from voice, the transient dearth Schooling my soul to brook This distance

that no messages may span, Would chance Upon our wilding by a lonely

well, Or drowsy watermill, Or swaying to the chime of convent bell, Or

where the nightingales of old romance With tragical contraltos fill Dim

solitudes of infinite desire; And once I joyed to meet Our peasant gadabout

A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat, Twinkling a saucy eye As potentates

paced by.

Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame >From friendship's altar fire!

How proudly we would pluck and tame

The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay! How swiftly they were sent

Far, far away On journeys wide, By sea and continent, Green miles and

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

blue leagues over, >From each of us to each, That so our hearts might

reach, And touch within the yellow clover,

Love's letter to be glad about Like sunshine when it came!

My sorrow asks no healing; it is love; Let love then make me brave To

bear the keen hurts of This careless summertide, Ay, of our own poor

flower, Changed with our fatal hour, For all its sunshine vanished when

you died; Only white clover blossoms on your grave.

KATHERINE LEE BATES

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

THE RETURNING

We long for her, we yearn for her-- Yes, ardently we yearn For her

return. Recalling those beloved days (Days intimate with ways Of friends

so near to us And life so dear to us), We yearn unspeakably for her return.

And come she must. . .Yet while we trust We soon may see the passing

of this agony Which makes intrusive years still seem A fearsome dream,

We know that when she comes She really comes not back again.

She'll come in other guise And under fairer skies-- And yet to bitter

pain! That day she went away Our homes with laughing youth were filled.

Where then was happiness Is now distress, The laughter stilled; For when

she left Youth followed her- We stay bereft.

So all our golden joy For what she brings Must carry gray alloy: The

sorrow that she can not lay, The mysery that she can not stay- While all

the gladsome songs she sings Must bear for undertones Old sighs and

echoed moans.

As they who go away In flush of youth May come quite worn and gray

And bringing naught but ruth- So, when the strife shall cease, And when

she comes at last, When all the armies vast Shall at her feet Kneel down to

greet Thrice welcome Peace, This world will be so changed (So many dear

ones dead, So many friends estranged, So many blessings fled, So many

wonted ways forever barred, So many coming days forever marred) That

then She truly comes not back again-- She, the Peace we knew.

Yet how we long for her! How ardently we yearn For her return!

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

SYLVESTER BAXTER

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL

YOUTH

I LOVE to watch the world from here, for all The numberless living

portraits that are drawn Upon the mind. Far over is the sea, Fronting the

sand, a few great yellow dunes, A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and

green, With brackish gullies wandering in between, All this from the hill.

And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars, Sentinels over the

marsh, and bright with the sun A field of daises wandering in the wind As

though a hidden serpent glided through, A broken wall, a new-plowed

field, and then The dusty road and the abodes of men Surrounding the hill.

How small the enclosure is wherein there lives Each phase and passion of

life, the distant sail Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea, >From that far

place to where in state the turf Raises a throne for me upon the hill, Each

little love and lust of a living thing Can thus be compassed in a rainbow

ring And seen from the hill.

II.

AGE

Why did I build my cottage on a hill Facing the sea?

Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope Down to the deep blue

billowy breast of hope, Surging and sweeping, laughing and leaping,

Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore, Rustling the sands that

know my step no more, I should have found a valley, deep and still, To

shelter me.

There flows the river, and it seems asleep So far away, Yet I remember

whip of wave and roar Of wind that rose and smote against the oar, Smote

and retreated, Proud but defeated, While I rejoiced and rowed into the

brine, Drawing on wet and heavy -straining line The great cod quivering

from the deep As counterplay.

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

What is the solace of these hills and vales That rise and fall? What is

there glorious in the greenwood glen, Or twittering thrush or wing of

darting wren? Give me the gusty, Raucous and rusty Call of the sea gull in

the echoing sky, The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die, Give me the

life that follows the bending sails, Or none at all!

ERNEST BENSHIMOL

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

A BANQUET ONE MEMORY

FROM SOCRATES

AFTER the song the love, and after the love the play, Flute girl and

pretty boy blowing Bubbles of sparkling Wine into darkling Beards of a

former austerity, stern even now, but Fast growing Foolish, with less of a

stately Reserve that held them sedately. Oh Zeus, what a sight! With the

wine dripping off it, The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet.

After the feast the night, and after the night the day, Fool and

philosopher stirring With the day dawning, Stretching and yawning, While

in each wine-throbbing, desolated brain is the Wheeling and whirring Of

thousands of bats, that the slaking Of throats will not hinder from aching,

No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting, But water at morning is

quench for the thirsting!

ERNEST BENSHIMOL

ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS

SONG

OUT of one heart the birds and I together, Earth hushed in twilight,

Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver, Gemmed with the sky-

light, Under the great wet star Shaking with light, we jar Lute-voiced the

silence with intervaled music.

While under the margined world the slow sun lingers, Flaming earth's

portal, Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers- Earth is immortal!

While the frail beauty dies. Dream in the dreamer's eyes, All the good

gladness turns praise for the singers.

Hark, 'tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it; Northern, gigantic,-

Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam Down the Atlantic; Leaves

from the autumn's store Shrill at my desert door, They and I out of one

heart that is grieving.

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

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ANTHOLOGYOFMASSACHUSETTSPOETS1ANTHOLOGYOFMASSACHUSETTSPOETSWILLIAMSTANLEYBRAITHWAITE,EditorANTHOLOGYOFMASSACHUSETTSPOETS2AMERICATHEBEAUTIFULOBEAUTIFULforspaciousskies,Foramberwavesofgrain,ForpurplemountainmajestiesAbovethefruitedplain!America!America!GodshedHisgraceontheeAndcrownthygoodwithbrotherho...

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