And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

16

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

20

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

24

Shall come; the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. 28

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Vachel Lindsay.

32

THE GIPSY GIRL

"COME, try your skill, kind gentlemen,

A penny for three tries!"

Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.

4

She was a tawny gipsy girl,

A girl of twenty years,

I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;

I liked the flaring yellow scarf
Bound loose about her throat,
I liked her showy purple gown
And flashy velvet coat.

A man came up, too loose of tongue,
And said no good to her;

She did not blush as Saxons do,

Or turn upon the cur;

She fawned and whined "Sweet gentleman,

A penny for three tries!"

-But oh, the den of wild things in

The darkness of her eyes!

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12

16

20

Ralph Hodgson,

SONGS FOR MY MOTHER

I

HER HANDS

MY MOTHER'S hands are cool and fair,

They can do anything,

Delicate mercies hide them there

Like flowers in the spring.

When I was small and could not sleep,

She used to come to me,

And with my cheek upon her hand
How sure my rest would be.

For everything she ever touched

Of beautiful or fine,

Their memories living in her hands
Would warm that sleep of mine.

Her hands remember how they played
One time in meadow streams,
And all the flickering song and shade
Of water took my dreams.

Swift through her haunted fingers pass
Memories of garden things;

I dipped my face in flowers and grass
And sounds of hidden wings.

One time she touched the cloud that kissed

Brown pastures bleak and far;

I leaned my cheek into a mist

And thought I was a star.

All this was very long ago

And I am grown; but yet

The hand that lured my slumber so
I never can forget.

For still when drowsiness comes on

It seems so soft and cool,

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12

16

20

24

28

Shaped happily beneath my cheek,

Hollow and beautiful.

32

II

HER WORDS

My mother has the prettiest tricks
Of words and words and words.
Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek
As breasts of singing birds.

She shapes her speech all silver fine
Because she loves it so.

And her own eyes begin to shine
To hear her stories grow.

And if she goes to make a call

Or out to take a walk

We leave our work when she returns

And run to hear her talk.

We had not dreamed these things were so

Of sorrow and of mirth.

Her speech is as a thousand eyes
Through which we see the earth.

God wove a web of loveliness,

Of clouds and stars and birds, But made not any thing at all So beautiful as words.

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16

20

8

They shine around our simple earth
With golden shadowings,

And every common thing they touch
Is exquisite with wings.

There's nothing poor and nothing small
But is made fair with them.

They are the hands of living faith

That touch the garment's hem.

They are as fair as bloom or air,
They shine like any star,

And I am rich who learned from her

24

28

How beautiful they are.

32

Anna Hempstead Branch.

VICKERY'S MOUNTAIN*

BLUE in the west the mountain stands,
And through the long twilight
Vickery sits with folded hands,

And Vickery's eyes are bright.

Bright, for he knows what no man else
On earth as yet may know:

There's a golden word that he never tells,

And a gift that he will not show.

8

From "The Town Down the River"; copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.