Eight Harvard Poets Part 1

Eight Harvard Poets.

by E. Estlin c.u.mmings and S. Foster Damon and J. R. Dos Pa.s.sos and Robert Hillyer and R. S. Mitch.e.l.l.

E. ESTLIN c.u.mMINGS

[THOU IN WHOSE SWORD-GREAT STORY s.h.i.+NE THE DEEDS]

Thou in whose sword-great story s.h.i.+ne the deeds Of history her heroes, sounds the tread Of those vast armies of the marching dead, With standards and the neighing of great steeds Moving to war across the smiling meads; Thou by whose page we break the precious bread Of dear communion with the past, and wed To valor, battle with heroic breeds;

Thou, Froissart, for that thou didst love the pen While others wrote in steel, accept all praise Of after ages, and of hungering days For whom the old glories move, the old trumpets cry; Who gav'st as one of those immortal men His life that his fair city might not die.

A CHORUS GIRL

When thou hast taken thy last applause, and when The final curtain strikes the world away, Leaving to shadowy silence and dismay That stage which shall not know thy smile again, Lingering a little while I see thee then Ponder the tinsel part they let thee play; I see the red mouth tarnished, the face grey, And smileless silent eyes of Magdalen.

The lights have laughed their last; without, the street Darkling, awaiteth her whose feet have trod The silly souls of men to golden dust.

She pauses, on the lintel of defeat, Her heart breaks in a smile--and she is l.u.s.t ...

Mine also, little painted poem of G.o.d.

This is the garden: colors come and go, Frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing, Strong silent greens serenely lingering, Absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow Upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing, Of harps celestial to the quivering string, Invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap, And on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, In other lands where other songs be sung; Yet stand They here enraptured, as among The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

It may not always be so; and I say That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch His heart, as mine in time not far away; If on another's face your sweet hair lay In such a silence as I know, or such Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

If this should be, I say if this should be-- You of my heart, send me a little word; That I may go unto him, and take his hands, Saying, Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird Sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

CREPUSCULE

I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burn- ing flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls Will I complete the mystery of my flesh I will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

FINIS

Over silent waters day descending night ascending floods the gentle glory of the sunset In a golden greeting splendidly to westward as pale twilight trem- bles into Darkness comes the last light's gracious exhortation Lifting up to peace so when life shall falter standing on the sh.o.r.es of the eternal G.o.d May I behold my sunset Flooding over silent waters

THE LOVER SPEAKS

Your little voice Over the wires came leaping and I felt suddenly dizzy With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers wee skipping high-heeled flames courtesied before my eyes or twinkling over to my side Looked up with impertinently exquisite faces floating hands were laid upon me I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing up Up with the pale important stars and the Humorous moon dear girl How I was crazy how I cried when I heard over time and tide and death leaping Sweetly your voice

EPITAPH

Tumbling-hair picker of b.u.t.tercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers

S. FOSTER DAMON

INCESSU PATUIT DEUS

The little clattering stones along the street Dance with each other round my swimming feet; The street itself, as in some crazy dream, Streaks past, a half-perceived material stream.

Brighter than early dawn's most brilliant dye Are blown clear bands of color through the sky, That swirl and sweep and meet, to break and foam Like rainbow veils upon a bubble's dome.

Yours are the songs that burst about my ears, Or blow away as many-colored spheres.

You are the star that made the skies all bright, Yet tore itself away in flaming flight; You are the tree that suddenly awoke; You are the rose that came to life and spoke....

Guided by you, how we might stroll towards death, Our only music one another's breath, Through gardens intimate with hollyhocks, Where silent poppies burn between the rocks, By pools where birches bend to confidants Above green waters sc.u.mmed with lily-plants.

There we might wander, you and I alone, Through gardens filled with marble seats moss-grown, And fountains--water-threads that winds disperse-- While in the spray the birds sit and converse.

And when the fireflies mix their circling glow Through the dark plants, then gently might I know Your lips, light as the wings of the dragon-flies....

--Merely dreams, fluttering in my eyes....