The drug clerk stands behind the counter
Young and dapper and debonair....
Before him burn the great unwinking lights,
The hectic stars of city nights,
Red as hell’s pit, green as a mermaid’s hair.
A queer half-acrid smell is in the air.
Behind him on the shelves in ordered rows
With strange, abbreviated names
Dwell half the facts of life. That young man knows,
Bottled and boxed and powdered here,
Dumb tragedies, deceptions, secret shames,
And comedy and fear.
Sleep slumbers here, like a great quiet sea
Shrunk to this bottle’s compass; sleep that brings
Sweet respite from the teeth of pain
To those poor tossing things
That the white nurses watch so thoughtfully.
And here again
Dwell the shy souls of Maytime flowers
That shall make sweeter still those poignant hours
When wide-eyed youth looks on the face of love.
And, for those others who have found too late
The bitter fruits thereof,
Here are cosmetics, powders, paints,—the arts
That hunted women use to hunt again
With scented flesh for bait.
And here is comfort for the hearts
Of sucking babes in their first teething pain.
Here dwells the substance of huge fervid dreams,
Fantastic, many-colored, shot with gleams
Of ecstasy and madness, that shall come
To some pale, twitching sleeper in a bunk.
And here is courage, cheaply bought
To cure a blue sick funk,
And dearly paid for in the final sum.
Here in this powdered fly is caught
Desire more ravishing than Tarquin’s....
And at last
When the one weary hope is past
Here is the sole escape,
The little postern in the house of breath
Where pallid fugitives keep tryst with death.
All this the drug clerk knows and there he stands,
Young and dapper and debonair ...
He rests a pair of slender hands,
Much manicured, upon the counter there
And speaks: “No, we don’t carry no pomade,
We only cater to the high-class trade.”
_Sara Teasdale_
Sara Teasdale was born August 8, 1884, at St. Louis, Missouri, and
educated there. After leaving school, she traveled in Europe and the
Near East. In 1914, she married Ernst B. Filsinger, who has written
several books on foreign trade, and moved to New York City in 1916.
Her first book was a slight volume, _Sonnets to Duse_ (1907), giving
little promise of the rich lyricism which was to follow. _Helen of
Troy and Other Poems_ (1911) contains the first hints of that
delicate craftsmanship and authentic loveliness which this poet has
brought to such a high pitch. The six monologues which open the
volume are splendid delineations written in a blank verse that is as
musical as many of her lyrics. At times it suffers from too
conscious a cleverness; the dexterity with which Miss Teasdale turns
a phrase or twists her last line is frequently too obtrusive to be
wholly enjoyable.
_Rivers to the Sea_ (1915) emphasizes this epigrammatic skill, but a
greater restraint is here, a warmer spontaneity. The new collection
contains at least a dozen unforgettable snatches, lyrics in which
the words seem to fall into place without art or effort. Seldom
employing metaphor or striking imagery, almost bare of ornament,
these poems have the sheer magic of triumphant song. Theirs is an
artlessness that is more than an art.
_Love Songs_ (1917) is a collection of Miss Teasdale’s previous
melodies for the _viola d’amore_ together with several new tunes.
The new poems emphasize the way in which this poet achieves a direct
enchantment without verbal subtleties. They also emphasize their
superiority to the earlier love lyrics that were written in a mood
of literary romance, of artificial moonlit roses, languishing lutes,
balconies, passionate guitars—a mood that was not so much erotic as
Pierrotic.
_Flame and Shadow_ (1920) is by far the best of her books. Here the
beauty is fuller and deeper; an almost mystic radiance plays from
these starry verses. Technically, also, this volume marks Miss
Teasdale’s greatest advance. The words are chosen with a keener
sense of their actual as well as their musical values; the rhythms
are much more subtle and varied; the line moves with a greater
naturalness. Beneath the symbolism of poems like “Water Lilies” and
“The Long Hill,” one is conscious of a finer artistry, a more
flexible speech that is all the lovelier for its slight (and
logical) irregularities.
Besides her own books, Miss Teasdale has compiled an anthology, _The
Answering Voice_ (1917), comprising one hundred love lyrics by
women.