And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. 16 His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. 20 The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn 24 Shall come; the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. 28 It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, Vachel Lindsay. 32 THE GIPSY GIRL "COME, try your skill, kind gentlemen, A penny for three tries!" Some threw and lost, some threw and won 4 She was a tawny gipsy girl, A girl of twenty years, I liked her for the lumps of gold I liked the flaring yellow scarf A man came up, too loose of tongue, She did not blush as Saxons do, Or turn upon the cur; She fawned and whined "Sweet gentleman, A penny for three tries!" -But oh, the den of wild things in The darkness of her eyes! 8 12 16 20 Ralph Hodgson, SONGS FOR MY MOTHER I HER HANDS MY MOTHER'S hands are cool and fair, They can do anything, Delicate mercies hide them there Like flowers in the spring. When I was small and could not sleep, She used to come to me, And with my cheek upon her hand For everything she ever touched Of beautiful or fine, Their memories living in her hands Her hands remember how they played Swift through her haunted fingers pass I dipped my face in flowers and grass One time she touched the cloud that kissed Brown pastures bleak and far; I leaned my cheek into a mist And thought I was a star. All this was very long ago And I am grown; but yet The hand that lured my slumber so For still when drowsiness comes on It seems so soft and cool, 8 12 16 20 24 28 Shaped happily beneath my cheek, Hollow and beautiful. 32 II HER WORDS My mother has the prettiest tricks She shapes her speech all silver fine And her own eyes begin to shine And if she goes to make a call Or out to take a walk We leave our work when she returns And run to hear her talk. We had not dreamed these things were so Of sorrow and of mirth. Her speech is as a thousand eyes God wove a web of loveliness, Of clouds and stars and birds, But made not any thing at all So beautiful as words. 12 16 20 8 They shine around our simple earth And every common thing they touch There's nothing poor and nothing small They are the hands of living faith That touch the garment's hem. They are as fair as bloom or air, And I am rich who learned from her 24 28 How beautiful they are. 32 Anna Hempstead Branch. VICKERY'S MOUNTAIN* BLUE in the west the mountain stands, And Vickery's eyes are bright. Bright, for he knows what no man else There's a golden word that he never tells, And a gift that he will not show. 8 From "The Town Down the River"; copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. |