Waiting for the moon to rise,
She will not rise till midnight,
And then she will rise, a poor half wreck of herself.
No whippoorwill has sung to-night,
And none will sing.
And if there are youths and maids and children
Hurrying into the dance on the water,
Embracing and fading in light,
I shall not see.
No, in this darkness where I breathe
The scent of the sweet alyssum
Which you planted and tended
I shall wait for midnight,
And the rise of our ruined moon.
In the darkness of the loggia
Under a sky that hopes for no moon to-night,
Save the wasted moon of midnight,
I am filled with a deep happiness
And a thankfulness to the Power
Behind the sky:
I am filled with a joy as wide and deep as nature
That my love for you
Can live without your love for me,
And asks nothing of you,
And nothing for you
Save that you find what you seek!
BE WITH ME THROUGH THE SPRING
The snow has passed, the crocus blooms,
A swelling tide of life returns;
Green lights invade the forest glooms,
All nature wakes and yearns.
The breeze lifts and the ships take wing
To havens which we long have known;
And yet--and yet I dread the spring,
For fear you may be gone.
Life gives us sweet delights and then
Gathers them back and buries them deep.
Oh, wanton hearts, that kill them when
They do not tire or sleep.
The breeze lifts and the ships take wing--
Be with me through the spring.
DESOLATE SCYTHIA
Χθονὀς μεν ἐς τηλουρὀν ἥκομεν πεδον--AES.
When there are no distances in music,
No far off things suggested of faery forests or celestial heights;
When nothing undiscovered stands back of the written page,
And the landscape contains nothing hidden,
And no alluring spirits of further places;
When no more in eyes shines the light of mystery,
And the thrill of discovered kinships
Has fallen into the familiar recognition
That takes all men and women
As daily associates of an accustomed world,
Then you have come to the uttermost plain of earth
Where lie the rocks of desolate Scythia.
THE SEARCH
When the hill grows green at midway time,
And bronze buds toss in the lane
It is sweet to follow the river swallow
Where the tiles are red from rain.
When the slanting wind shakes apple blossoms,
And the willow trees are bowed
The balcony banners flutter up
Where sails the hilltop cloud.
The balcony banners are ever the same
Wherever the heart may stray;
One sports the tiger and one the dragon
Whether you weep or play.
Where Little Boy Blue and the Knave of Hearts
And the Goose Girl dance on the green;
Where Knights in red and gold ride forth
Guarding the King and Queen;
Where the glint of swords is the only light
On a passing storm of men;
Or where the Furies rocking wait
For the world to die again;
Where horsemen ride by the winding river
Galloping in the quest:
One wears black and one wears yellow,
And one in red is dressed.
One fares in the flaunt of a scholar’s cloak,
And a velvet hat and plume;
Two ride with eyes fixed on the ground,
And one with a face of gloom.
One laughs at the others and laughs at himself,
Two think of themselves alone;
One sees a goal for his thirsting soul,
And life as a stepping stone.
They pass through a village where
Some boys are flying kites.
The people come with food and wine
To entertain the Knights.
And one takes bread and one takes cake,
Three drink a little wine.
And two drink for their heart’s delight,
And one for an anodyne.
And the Knight in red slips off to a tavern
And drinks him deep and strong,
And then he hurries to catch his fellows
And hails them with a song.
They come to a village that lay
Within a King’s domains:
The Knight in yellow takes his sword
And strikes away the chains.
They come to a place of festival
Through which there passed a hearse:
The Knight in black reins in his steed
To look thereon and curse.
They come to a hall of curious books
Under a mountain peak:
The Knight in the scholar’s cloak goes in
And talks with them in Greek.
And all the way by the winding river
By heaven’s breeze unfurled
The tiger banner and dragon banner
Flutter around the world.
As night drew down they come to a palace
Of laughter, lights and din.
Says the Knight in red, “I tarry here,
For I hear the violin.”
“Nay,” says the Knight in yellow dressed;
“Nay,” says the Knight in black;
“Nay,” says the scholar, “I sleep in the open
To study the Zodiac.”
Out comes to them an equerry
And sees their piteous dole:
“Come in,” says the ruddy equerry,
“And dine with Old King Cole.”
He seized their horses ere they could turn
And led them where candles shone,
And there with a crown tipped on his head
Sat the monarch on his throne.
“What is your name, all yellow dight,
And where does your sovereign reign?”
The sorrowful Knight then answered the King:
“I’m traveling back to Spain.”
“What is your name, all dressed in black,
And whither do you roam?”
“I was a mad prince they sent to England
And now I’m going home.”
“What is your name, in a scholar’s cloak,
And what is your heart’s joy?”
“I search through Europe night and day
For a spouse for Helen of Troy.”
“They’re as mad as hatters,” said King Cole
As he straightened his crown on his head.
“Go call in the fiddlers, bring my bowl,
Fetch me my pipe,” he said.
“But hold,” said Cole, “who are you, fellow,
“Now answer me fair and well?”
“I was born in France,” said the Knight in red,
“And my name’s Pantagruel.”
“That’s a good name,” laughed old King Cole.
“But whither are you bound?”
“I search for the Holy Bottle, King,
“And I pray it may be found.”
“That’s a true answer,” said Old King Cole,
“And here you shall abide;
“Come up to my throne and reign forever,
“And sit you by my side.”
“Away with the rest,” said Old King Cole,
“And fetch my bowl,” said he.
“Here is Pantagruel found at last,
“To keep me company.”
From under the throne he drew the bottle
And poured wine into the bowl;
Pantagruel stepped to the dais
And drank with Old King Cole.
“Give yellow and black and scholar’s cloak
A bed in the royal room.”
But Old King Cole and Pantagruel
Drank till the morning’s bloom.
They laughed and drank till the dawn was red,
While the sleepers prayed and wept.
They sang to the violins till day,
While black and yellow slept.
But Old King Cole, the merry old soul,
Was a curious soul as well:
“Who are these fellows,” queried he
Of his friend Pantagruel.
“Well, never ask me,” said Pantagruel,
“I met them down by the river;
“But whether they came from the Land of Lanterns
“They’re traveling on forever.”
They went to the room with a candle light
And looked in the face of the three--
“They’re a sorry lot,” said Old King Cole;
“They’re a sorry lot,” said he.
They held the candle to gray beard’s face,
And gray beard moaned in his rest.
And pricked in color of India ink
Was a windmill on his breast.
The other muttered “Life is a shadow,”
And his face was young and pale:
And pricked on his arm was a green serpent
Devouring its own tail.
The other sighed: “I still must struggle
And strive until I die.”
And over his heart was pricked the shape
Of a wingéd butterfly.
“What do I see,” said Old King Cole,
“Has the wine gone into my brain?
“Who’s Helen of Troy? Who’d leave England?
“And who’d return to Spain?”
Pantagruel and Old King Cole
Slip down the stairs in stealth,
They fill the bowl from the Holy Bottle
And drink each other’s health.
They stand at the window to watch the sun
And the mists of morning clear:
Three knights on horses climb the hill,
And silently disappear.
And yellow and black and scholar’s cloak
Into the light have gone;
And the tiger banner and dragon banner
Flutter against the dawn.
“There’s the dragon banner,” says Old King Cole,
“And the tiger banner,” he sighs.
Pantagruel breaks into a laugh,
As the monarch dries his eyes.
Printed in the United States of America.
* * * * *
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NEW MACMILLAN POETRY
Spoon River Anthology
BY EDGAR LEE MASTERS
New edition with new poems, With illustrations and decorations by OLIVER
HERFORD
$2.00
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BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE
Author of “Sadhana,” “The King of the Dark Chamber,” etc.
Fruit Gathering
Perhaps of all Tagore’s poetry the most popular volume is “Gitanjali.”
It was on this work that he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
These facts lend special interest to the announcement of this book,
which is a sequel to that collection of religious “Song Offerings.”
Since the issue of his first book, some four years ago, Tagore has
rapidly grown in popularity in this country, until now he must be
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the merit, the originality, the fine spiritual feeling of “Gitanjali”
would even further endear him to his thousands of American admirers.
The Hungry Stones and Other Stories
Some of the more notable of Mr. Tagore’s short stories are here
presented in translations by the author and with illustrations by native
Indian artists. Ernest Rhys, in his biography of Tagore, devotes much
space to a consideration of him as a short story writer, advancing the
opinion that this particular form of literature is one of the most
important expressions of Tagore’s genius. Now for the first time English
readers are given the opportunity of acquainting themselves with the new
Tagore and of forming their own estimate of him. None of the material in
this volume has ever appeared before in English.
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The New Poetry. An Anthology
EDITED BY HARRIET MONROE AND ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON, Editors of Poetry
Probably few people are following as closely the poetry of to-day as are
the editors of the _Poetry Magazine_ of Chicago. They are eminently
fitted, therefore, to prepare such a volume as this, which is intended
to represent the work that is being done by the leading poets of the
land. Here, between the covers of one book, are brought together poems
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Poems of the Great War
BY J. W. CUNLIFFE
Here are brought together under the editorship of Dr. Cunliffe some of
the more notable poems which have dealt with the great war. Among the
writers represented are Rupert Brooke, John Masefield, Lincoln Colcord,
William Benet, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Hermann Hagedorn, Alfred Noyes,
Rabindranath Tagore, Walter De La Mare, Vachel Lindsay and Owen Seaman.
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Californians
BY ROBINSON JEFFERS
$1.25
California is now to have its part in the poetry revival. Robinson
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is of such outstanding character that once it is read he is sure of
acceptance by those who have admired the writings of such men as John G.
Neihardt, Edgar Lee Masters, Edwin Arlington Robinson, and Thomas Walsh.
Virtually all of the poems in this first collection have their setting
in California, most of them in the Monterey peninsula, and they realize
the scenery of the great State with vividness and richness of detail.
The author’s main source of inspiration has been the varying aspects of
nature.
* * * * *
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS’S POEMS
Responsibilities
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Author of “The Cutting of an Agate,” “The Hour Glass and Other Plays,”
etc.
Under the title of Responsibilities William Butler Yeats brings together
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of people like to think of Mr. Yeats, and this newest collection, the
first in a number of years, is assured of a warm welcome.
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