I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN
WIELDS

I FEAR no power a woman wields

While I can have the woods and fields,
With comradeship alone of gun,

Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun.

For aye the heart's most poignant pain
Will wear away 'neath hail and rain,
And rush of winds through branches bare
With something still to do and dare,

The lonely watch beside the shore,
The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep
of oar,
And paths of virgin sky to scan
Untrod, and so uncursed by man.

Gramercy, for thy haunting face,
Thy charm of voice and lissome grace,
I fear no power a woman wields

While I can have the woods and fields.

THE EAST WIND

Dear, no! the city's weariest moods
May scarce veil Arcady.

"Tis in no unfamiliar land

Lit by some distant star;
See! Arcady is where you stand,
And song is where you are.

Then go but hand in hand with me
No road can lead us wrong;

Here are the hills of Arcady

271

This is the Land of Song.

Charles Buxton Going.

THE EAST WIND

GRAY-COWLED wind of the east!
Grimly you chant your psalter,
The sea your wild high-priest

And the seething rocks your altar
On which, in fierce confusion

While sad stars hide their eyes, You fling your dread profusion Of human sacrifice.

And then, by hill and prairie
As one who strives for rest,
As seeking sanctuary,

Unhailed, unloved, unblest,
You still cry on, entraining
Your clouds of spectral hosts
Shivering and complaining,
Eerie wind of the ghosts!

Charles Buxton Going.

LOVE SONG

I LOVE my life, but not too well
To give it to thee like a flower,
So it may pleasure thee to dwell
Deep in its perfume but an hour.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well
To sing it note by note away,
So to thy soul the song may tell

The beauty of the desolate day.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well
To cast it like a cloak on thine,
Against the storms that sound and swell
Between thy lonely heart and mine.
I love my life, but not too well.

Harriet Monroe.

A FAREWELL

GOOD-BYE! - no, do not grieve that it is over,
The perfect hour;

That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.

Grieve not it is the law. Love will be flying
Yes, love and all.

Glad was the living - blessed be the dying.

Let the leaves fall.

Harriet Monroe,

THE SHADOW-CHILD

273

THE SHADOW-CHILD

Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?

Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.

Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother?

While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?

Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,

Daughter, little daughter,

Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.

Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother?

If all day long I run and run,

Run with the wheels forever?

The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,

But with the wheels your feet must run
Run with the wheels forever.

Why do I feel so tired each night,

Mother, mother?

The wheels are always buzzing bright;

Do they grow sleepy never?

Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,

The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.

And is the white thread never spun,

Mother, mother?

And is the white cloth never done,

For you and me done never?
Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,
When we lie down out in the sun,
And work no more forever.

And when will come that happy day,
Mother, mother?

Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?

Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,

Daughter, little daughter,

Where green grass grows and roses gay,

There in the sun forever.

Harriet Monroe.

ONE DISTANT APRIL

Ан, worshipped one, ah, faithful Spring,
Again you come, again you bring

That flock of flowers from the fold

Where warm it slept while we were cold.

What shall we say to one so dear
Who keeps her promise every year?