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Who would not fail to speak for you；
And give God an intimate view of your soul
As only one of your flesh could do it。
That is the hand your hand will reach for；
To lead you along the corridor
To the court where you are a stranger！
Gustav Richter
AFTER a long day of work in my hothouses
Sleep was sweet； but if you sleep on your left side
Your dreams may be abruptly ended。
I was among my flowers where some one
Seemed to be raising them on trial；
As if after…while to be transplanted
To a larger garden of freer air。
And I was disembodied vision
Amid a light； as it were the sun
Had floated in and touched the roof of glass
Like a toy balloon and softly bursted；
And etherealized in golden air。
And all was silence； except the splendor
Was immanent with thought as clear
As a speaking voice； and I； as thought；
Could hear a
Presence think as he walked
Between the boxes pinching off leaves；
Looking for bugs and noting values；
With an eye that saw it all：
〃Homer； oh yes！ Pericles； good。
Caesar Borgia； what shall be done with it？
Dante； too much manure； perhaps。
Napoleon； leave him awhile as yet。
Shelley； more soil。 Shakespeare； needs spraying〃
Clouds； eh！
Arlo Will
DID you ever see an alligator
Come up to the air from the mud；
Staring blindly under the full glare of noon？
Have you seen the stabled horses at night
Tremble and start back at the sight of a lantern？
Have you ever walked in darkness
When an unknown door was open before you
And you stood； it seemed； in the light of a thousand candles
Of delicate wax？
Have you walked with the wind in your ears
And the sunlight about you
And found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor？
Out of the mud many times
Before many doors of light
Through many fields of splendor；
Where around your steps a soundless glory scatters
Like newfallen snow；
Will you go through earth； O strong of soul；
And through unnumbered heavens
To the final flame！
Captain Orlando Killion
OH； YOU young radicals and dreamers；
You dauntless fledglings
Who pass by my headstone；
Mock not its record of my captaincy in the army
And my faith in God！
They are not denials of each other。
Go by reverently； and read with sober care
How a great people； riding with defiant shouts
The centaur of Revolution；
Spurred and whipped to frenzy；
Shook with terror； seeing the mist of the sea
Over the precipice they were nearing；
And fell from his back in precipitate awe
To celebrate the Feast of the Supreme Being。
Moved by the same sense of vast reality
Of life and death； and burdened as they were
With the fate of a race；
How was I； a little blasphemer；
Caught in the drift of a nation's unloosened flood；
To remain a blasphemer；
And a captain in the army？
Joseph Dixon
WHO carved this shattered harp on my stone？
I died to you； no doubt。 But how many harps and pianos
Wired I and tightened and disentangled for you；
Making them sweet againwith tuning fork or without？
Oh well！ A harp leaps out of the ear of a man； you say；
But whence the ear that orders the length of the strings
To a magic of numbers flying before your thought
Through a door that closes against your breathless wonder？
Is there no Ear round the ear of a man； that it senses
Through strings and columns of air the soul of sound？
I thrill as I call it a tuning fork that catches
The waves of mingled music and light from afar；
The antennae of
Thought that listens through utmost space。
Surely the concord that ruled my spirit is proof
Of an Ear that tuned me； able to tune me over
And use me again if I am worthy to use。
Russell Kincaid
IN the last spring I ever knew；
In those last days； I sat in the forsaken orchard
Where beyond fields of greenery shimmered
The hills at Miller's Ford；
Just to muse on the apple tree
With its ruined trunk and blasted branches；
And shoots of green whose delicate blossoms
Were sprinkled over the skeleton tangle；
Never to grow in fruit。
And there was I with my spirit girded
By the flesh half dead； the senses numb
Yet thinking of youth and the earth in youth；
Such phantom blossoms palely shining
Over the lifeless boughs of Time。
O earth that leaves us ere heaven takes us！
Had I been only a tree to shiver
With dreams of spring and a leafy youth；
Then I had fallen in the cyclone
Which swept me out of the soul's suspense
Where it's neither earth nor heaven。
Aaron Hatfield
BETTER than granite； Spoon River；
Is the memory…picture you keep of me
Standing before the pioneer men and women
There at Concord Church on Communion day。
Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youth
Of Galilee who went to the city
And was killed by bankers and lawyers；
My voice mingling with the June wind
That blew over wheat fields from Atterbury；
While the white stones in the burying ground
Around the Church shimmered in the summer sun。
And there； though my own memories
Were too great to bear； were you； O pioneers；
With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrow
For the sons killed in battle and the daughters
And little children who vanished in life's morning；
Or at the intolerable hour of noon。
But in those moments of tragic silence；
When the wine and bread were passed；
Came the reconciliation for us
Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood；
Us the peasants； brothers of the peasant of Galilee
To us came the Comforter
And the consolation of tongues of flame！
Isaiah Beethoven
THEY told me I had three months to live；
So I crept to Bernadotte；
And sat by the mill for hours and hours
Where the gathered waters deeply moving
Seemed not to move：
O world； that's you！
You are but a widened place in the river
Where Life looks down and we rejoice for her
Mirrored in us； and so we dream And turn away； but when again
We look for the face； behold the low…lands
And blasted cotton…wood trees where we empty
Into the larger stream！
But here by the mill the castled clouds
Mocked themselves in the dizzy water；
And over its agate floor at night
The flame of the moon ran under my eyes
Amid a forest stillness broken
By a flute in a hut on the hill。
At last when I came to lie in bed
Weak and in pain； with the dreams about me；
The soul of the river had entered my soul；
And the gathered power of my soul was moving
So swiftly it seemed to be at rest
Under cities of cloud and under
Spheres of silver and changing worlds
Until I saw a flash of trumpets
Above the battlements over Time。
Elijah Browning
I WAS among multitudes of children
Dancing at the foot of a mountain。
A breeze blew out of the east and swept them as leaves；
Driving some up the slopes。 。 。 。
All was changed。
Here were flying lights； and mystic moons； and dream…music。
A cloud fell upon us。
When it lifted all was changed。
I was now amid multitudes who were wrangling。
Then a figure in shimmering gold； and one with a trumpet；
And one with a sceptre stood before me。
They mocked me and danced a rigadoon and vanished。 。 。 。
All was changed again。
Out of a bower of poppies
A woman bared her breasts and lifted her open mouth to mine。
I kissed her。
The taste of her lips was like salt。
She left blood on my lips。
I fell exhausted。
I arose and ascended higher； but a m