Part 7

There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

MARTHA HASKELL CLARK

CRETONNE TROPICS

The cretonne in your willow chair Shows through a zone of rosy air, A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, With blue-green crests and plumes of pride And beaks most formidably curved. I hear the river, silver-nerved, To their shrill protests make reply, And the palm forest stir and sigh.

Curious, the spell that colors cast, Binding the fancy coweb-fast, And you would smile if you could know I like your cretonne parrots so! But I have seen them sail toward night Superbly homeward, the last light Lifting them like a purple sea Scorned and made use of arrogantly; And I have heard them cry aloud From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud; And I brought home a brilliant feather, Lost like a flake of sunset weather.

Here in the north the sea is white And mother-of-pearl in morning light, Quite lovely, but there is a glare That daunts me.

Now the willow chair Suggests a more perplexing sea, Till my heart aches with memory And parrots dye the air around, And I forget the pallid Sound.

GRACE HAZARD

TO HILDA OF HER ROSES

Enough has been said about roses To fill thirty thick volumes; There are as many songs about roses As there are roses in the world That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon…

It is a pity your roses Are too late for Omar… It is a pity Keats has gone…

Yet there must be something left to say Of flowers like these! Adventurers, They pushed their way Through dewy tunnels of the June night Now they confer…. A little tremulous…. Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning

If Herrick would tiptoe back… If Blake were to look this way Ledwidge, even!

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

DANDELION

O Little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight!

HILDA CONKLING

RED ROOSTER

Red rooster in your gray coop, O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, Yellow and black, You have a comb gay as a parade On your head: You have pearl trinkets On your feet: The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don’t know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud… sharp… not beautiful!

HILDA CONKLING

VELVETS (BY A BED OF PANSIES)

This pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots; I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness; She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting, Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. I know you, Velvets, Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!

HILDA CONKLING

THE MOODS

The Moods have laid their hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart; My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,— A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book Of little verses, or a dancing child. My heart turns crying from the rose and book, My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair, And made my heart too wise, that was a child.

Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: I shall desire all things that may not be: The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,— Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, And holy things, and outcast things, and things, Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain.

My pity and my joy are grown alike. I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart.

FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS