Sonnets
Field, Mildred Fowler & Arvin, Newton & Mullins, Helene & Thayer, Mary Dixon & Jennings, Leslie Nelson & Ryan, Kathryn White
507 SONNETS Shells When we return from the long-quiet places, Shall we find these, old tortuous shells again? Shall we look forth from smooth, earth-softened faces Into a selflessness beyond...
...A white wreath hung there once, and sorrow fought With faith, a battle—day by dreary day...
...Thin, bodiless and lost...
...Or shall there be a sighing Here where the sinuous white-armed breakers comb The sea's green hair . . . less than the lone loon's cryingLess than the spray that splinters on old foam...
...Kathryn White Ryan...
...Hush...
...France, 1Q25 tJtCetaphysics These are the rooms, and these the corridors Where gracious ladies strolled in silken clothes...
...Four fluted columns and a Georgian door, Shutters that creaked, lace curtains frayed and brownIts hand-hewn timbers must have stood before The British made a bonfire of the town...
...Palms, roses, supersede dark human weeds...
...Newton Arvin...
...Mildred Fowler Field...
...Was it a sigh...
...Shall we look forth from smooth, earth-softened faces Into a selflessness beyond our ken But sentient...
...Was it the vrind that stirred...
...Through the blue dusk you come and, intently, 1 listen for your step where lilies grow Paler than dreams...
...Yours is a weapon that you need not whet, Being finely fashioned of a durable steel, Edged sharply on an everlasting wheel, Tempered in fires eternal, and beset With indestructible jewels: never yet Has man's flesh felt the stroke that now I feel— The stroke of that injurious ideal— And hid from other men the scar of it...
...The lilies bow their heads . . . The night is deep . . Was it a shadow touched us, and passed by...
...Still for an hour My heart trembles beneath your swift caress...
...Too willing captive am I to your power, Too eagerly I give, and you possess...
...Now, dust forms ragged carpets for the floors, And splendor lifts her dainty skirts and goes Tip-toeing softly down the creaking stairs, And only sorrow lingers, with her eyes Full of conflicting shadows...
...In amongst them, gently, Teach me, O Youth, the beauty that you know...
...the light of stars is dim...
...forlorn to follow Down to the shore, with never a step to stain Its level peace...
...Love demands No sacrifices at her lonely shrine, And ecstasy lies at the feet of sleep...
...Your beauty is not yours only, or if it were, How should it flash upon my eyes a light As of a pure world traveling a clear course Through a remote and white and cloudless air, Far from the pain and passion of our night, And far from fear, and far from our remorse...
...Black shadows trail the footprints through white dust Of climbing stragglers on a march that goes Into locked speechless hills, line after line: Shrill, rhythmic, burdened head and sprawling toes Defile through mounting jungles like the thrust And spread of some far-tendrilled helpless vine...
...Youth 0 Youth, still I am yours...
...Sequel Just off the common, on a little street Nobody ever thought of using twice, We came upon it suddenly, a retreat For family ghosts, old furniture and mice...
...Helene Mullins...
...Slim despairs Hover about the people in the guise Of desperate exhaustions...
...And on decay the spotted leopard feeds...
...There must be shells to hollow Some of the ecstasy of body-pain...
...There falls a sound as of far seraphim . . . Then silence...
...Dreams fall, like wasted gifts, on listless hands, And night and day conspire to undermine The faith of youths who've never learned to weep...
...Eager and young and beautiful, she bought Peace at a price too dear for one to pay . . . Behind that weathered, tumbled-down facade An old, old woman sits alone with God...
...Mary Dixon Thayer...
...Haiti The leopard, sun and shade, crouches and speeds Over the backs of hills, over the sand, Over blue-molded seas, uncooled and bland...
...To bowl the cry that once was you or me— As old shells bowl the sorrow of the sea...
...And sloth sprawls sleeping on the clotted land, A subtle horror in each limp black hand— A lingering of ancient blood-red deeds...
...Leslie Nelson Jennings...
...Why are you sad, O Youth...
...Why do you weep...
Vol. 2 • September 1925 • No. 21
