March
I See the snow-drops flutter
Their white wings in the gale.
I hear the robin utter
On high his gallant tale.
Look where the rash wind chases
With clouds the climbing sun!
The day makes merry faces—
Gaily her gray steeds run.
The bare brown trees are swinging,
The curled waves roll and rail.
Ho!—madcap Spring comes singing
On frosty Winter's trail!
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Titanic Requiem
Sleep softly in your ocean bed,
You who could grandly die !
Our fathers, who at Shiloh bled,
Accept your company.
O sons of warriors, lightly rest,
Daughters of pioneers!
Heroes freeborn, who chose the best,
No tears for you, but cheers!
Lovers of life, who life could give,
Sleep softly where you lie!
Ours be the vigil—help us live,
Who teach us how to die.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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At The Ship’s Rail
The blue sea bends to the ship
Like a dancer with skirts of lace—
Wide diaphanous laces that curl and dip
In the ardent wind's embrace.
Little rainbows dash at the play
And die of joy in the sun;
While over and under, the long bright day,
The sparkling footsteps run.
Lovely, melodious
Is the sound of the dance on the sea.
Softly the white robes trail and toss
Over blue waves that flee.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Why Not?
Poet, sing me a song to-day !
But the world grows old and my hair is gray.
Ah no! there are birds on the lilac bushes
And a snow-drop out of the wet earth pushes.
Two chattering robins are planning a marriage,
And see! there's a baby all pink in its carriage!
And the sun is wiping the clouds from his brow,
And who can look back when it's always now?
Oh, what is the use of a poet, say,
If he will not sing me a song to-day?
poem by Harriet Monroe
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At The Summit
Where bold Sierras cut the sky
Mount Whitney, of the high most high,
Halts the pale clouds that wander by.
We crept and climbed with eager feet,
Until the world, fulfilled, complete,
Plunged like despair before his seat.
So high the peak was we had won
Earth's air wore thin, its woof undone,
And blue space darkened round the sun.
Yet, as we trembled there and quailed,
Lo, higher yet an eagle scaled
Smooth steeps of air, and sunward sailed.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Lake Louise
Bluer than Helen's eyes she lies
Under the blue cloud-drifting skies;
A daughter fair of light and air
Dropped among warrior mountains there.
White glaciers kiss her feet so fleet—
Oh fugitive, too rare and sweet!
Will she not fling them off that cling,
And rise, a bluebird on the wing?
Will she not rise and stray away,
A blue gleam on the brow of day?
Look—still she stays, and bright, snow-white,
The glaciers guard her day and night!
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Fortunate One
BESIDE her ashen hearth she sate her down,
Whence he she loved had fled,—
His children plucking at her sombre gown
And calling for the dead.
One came to her clad in the robes of May,
And said sweet words of cheer,
Bidding her bear the burden in God’s way,
And feel her loved ones near.
And she who spake thus would have given, thrice blest,
Long lives of happy years,
To clasp his children to a mother’s breast,
And weep his widow’s tears.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Wonder Of It
How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be!
That the insensate rock dared dream of me,
And take to bursting out and burgeoning—
Oh, long ago—yo ho!—
And wearing green! How stark and strange a thing
That life should be!
Oh mystic mad, a rigadoon of glee,
That dust should rise, and leap alive, and flee
Afoot, awing, and shake the deeps with cries—
Oh, far away—yo hay!
What moony masque, what arrogant disguise
That life should be!
poem by Harriet Monroe
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I Love my Life, but not too well
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.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Rubens
Here you are, grand old sensualist!
And here are the three goddesses
displaying their charms to Paris.
It was all one to you &mdash goddesses, saints, court ladies &mdash
Your world was all curves of flesh
rolling curves repeated like a shell.
Mary Magdalen was almost as good copy as Venus,
Angels might be voluptuous as nymphs.
It was a rich old gorgeous world you painted &mdash
For kinds or prelates, what mattered! &mdash palace or church!
You had a wonderful, glorious time! &mdash
And no doubt the ladies loved you.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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