Part 17

Suppose it is nothing but the hive: That there are drones and workers And queens, and nothing but storing honey— (Material things as well as culture and wisdom)— For the next generation, this generation never living, Except as it swarms in the sun-light of youth, Strengthening its wings on what has been gathered, And tasting, on the way to the hive From the clover field, the delicate spoil. Suppose all this, and suppose the truth: That the nature of man is greater Than nature’s need in the hive; And you must bear the burden of life, As well as the urge from your spirit’s excess— Well, I say to live it out like a god Sure of immortal life, though you are in doubt, Is the way to live it. If that doesn’t make God proud of you Then God is nothing but gravitation Or sleep is the golden goal.

Herman Altman

Did I follow Truth wherever she led, And stand against the whole world for a cause, And uphold the weak against the strong? If I did I would be remembered among men As I was known in life among the people, And as I was hated and loved on earth, Therefore, build no monument to me, And carve no bust for me, Lest, though I become not a demi-god, The reality of my soul be lost, So that thieves and liars, Who were my enemies and destroyed me, And the children of thieves and liars, May claim me and affirm before my bust That they stood with me in the days of my defeat. Build me no monument Lest my memory be perverted to the uses Of lying and oppression. My lovers and their children must not be dispossessed of me; I would be the untarnished possession forever Of those for whom I lived.

Jennie M’Grew

Not, where the stairway turns in the dark A hooded figure, shriveled under a flowing cloak! Not yellow eyes in the room at night, Staring out from a surface of cobweb gray! And not the flap of a condor wing When the roar of life in your ears begins As a sound heard never before! But on a sunny afternoon, By a country road, Where purple rag-weeds bloom along a straggling fence And the field is gleaned, and the air is still To see against the sun-light something black Like a blot with an iris rim— That is the sign to eyes of second sight. . . And that I saw!

Columbus Cheney

This weeping willow! Why do you not plant a few For the millions of children not yet born, As well as for us? Are they not non-existent, or cells asleep Without mind? Or do they come to earth, their birth Rupturing the memory of previous being? Answer! The field of unexplored intuition is yours. But in any case why not plant willows for them, As well as for us?

Wallace Ferguson

There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock; And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor Of dancing water under a torrent of light; And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau Was the silent music of all we saw or heard— There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less Because I could not link myself with the I of yore, When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River? Nor remember what I was nor what I felt? We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by. Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death, And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc, What do you care if you know not yourself as the you Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished?

Marie Bateson

You observe the carven hand With the index finger pointing heavenward. That is the direction, no doubt. But how shall one follow it? It is well to abstain from murder and lust, To forgive, do good to others, worship God Without graven images. But these are external means after all By which you chiefly do good to yourself. The inner kernel is freedom, It is light, purity— I can no more, Find the goal or lose it, according to your vision.

Tennessee Claflin Shope

I was the laughing-stock of the village, Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves— Also of the learned, like Rev. Peet, who read Greek The same as English. For instead of talking free trade, Or preaching some form of baptism; Instead of believing in the efficacy Of walking cracks, picking up pins the right way, Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder, Or curing rheumatism with blue glass, I asserted the sovereignty of my own soul. Before Mary Baker G. Eddy even got started With what she called science I had mastered the “Bhagavad Gita,” And cured my soul, before Mary Began to cure bodies with souls— Peace to all worlds!

Plymouth Rock Joe

Why are you running so fast hither and thither Chasing midges or butterflies? Some of you are standing solemnly scratching for grubs; Some of you are waiting for corn to be scattered. This is life, is it? Cock-a-doodle-do! Very well, Thomas Rhodes, You are cock of the walk, no doubt. But here comes Elliott Hawkins, Gluck, Gluck, Gluck, attracting political followers. Quah! quah! quah! why so poetical, Minerva, This gray morning? Kittie—quah—quah! for shame, Lucius Atherton, The raucous squawk you evoked from the throat Of Aner Clute will be taken up later By Mrs. Benjamin Pantier as a cry Of votes for women: Ka dook—dook! What inspiration has come to you, Margaret Fuller Slack? And why does your gooseberry eye Flit so liquidly, Tennessee Claflin Shope? Are you trying to fathom the esotericism of an egg? Your voice is very metallic this morning, Hortense Robbins— Almost like a guinea hen’s! Quah! That was a guttural sigh, Isaiah Beethoven; Did you see the shadow of the hawk, Or did you step upon the drumsticks Which the cook threw out this morning? Be chivalric, heroic, or aspiring, Metaphysical, religious, or rebellious, You shall never get out of the barnyard Except by way of over the fence Mixed with potato peelings and such into the trough!

Imanuel Ehrenhardt

I began with Sir William Hamilton’s lectures. Then studied Dugald Stewart; And then John Locke on the Understanding, And then Descartes, Fichte and Schelling, Kant and then Schopenhauer— Books I borrowed from old Judge Somers. All read with rapturous industry Hoping it was reserved to me To grasp the tail of the ultimate secret, And drag it out of its hole. My soul flew up ten thousand miles And only the moon looked a little bigger. Then I fell back, how glad of the earth! All through the soul of William Jones Who showed me a letter of John Muir.

Samuel Gardner

I who kept the greenhouse, Lover of trees and flowers, Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm, Measuring its generous branches with my eye, And listened to its rejoicing leaves Lovingly patting each other With sweet aeolian whispers. And well they might: For the roots had grown so wide and deep That the soil of the hill could not withhold Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain, And warmed by the sun; But yielded it all to the thrifty roots, Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk, And thence to the branches, and into the leaves, Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang. Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see That the branches of a tree Spread no wider than its roots. And how shall the soul of a man Be larger than the life he has lived?

Dow Kritt

Samuel is forever talking of his elm— But I did not need to die to learn about roots: I, who dug all the ditches about Spoon River. Look at my elm! Sprung from as good a seed as his, Sown at the same time, It is dying at the top: Not from lack of life, nor fungus, Nor destroying insect, as the sexton thinks. Look, Samuel, where the roots have struck rock, And can no further spread. And all the while the top of the tree Is tiring itself out, and dying, Trying to grow.

William Jones

Once in a while a curious weed unknown to me, Needing a name from my books; Once in a while a letter from Yeomans. Out of the mussel-shells gathered along the shore Sometimes a pearl with a glint like meadow rue: Then betimes a letter from Tyndall in England, Stamped with the stamp of Spoon River. I, lover of Nature, beloved for my love of her, Held such converse afar with the great Who knew her better than I. Oh, there is neither lesser nor greater, Save as we make her greater and win from her keener delight. With shells from the river cover me, cover me. I lived in wonder, worshipping earth and heaven. I have passed on the march eternal of endless life.

William Goode

To all in the village I seemed, no doubt, To go this way and that way, aimlessly. But here by the river you can see at twilight The soft-winged bats fly zig-zag here and there— They must fly so to catch their food. And if you have ever lost your way at night, In the deep wood near Miller’s Ford, And dodged this way and now that, Wherever the light of the Milky Way shone through, Trying to find the path, You should understand I sought the way With earnest zeal, and all my wanderings Were wanderings in the quest.

J. Milton Miles

Whenever the Presbyterian bell Was rung by itself, I knew it as the Presbyterian bell. But when its sound was mingled With the sound of the Methodist, the Christian, The Baptist and the Congregational, I could no longer distinguish it, Nor any one from the others, or either of them. And as many voices called to me in life Marvel not that I could not tell The true from the false, Nor even, at last, the voice that I should have known.

Faith Matheny