Poems
Walsh, Francis & Kilmer, Aline & Tobin, James E. & Davies, Mary Carolyn & Mullins, Helene & Thomas, Martha Banning & Low, Benjamin R. C.
November n, 1925 THE COMMONWEAL POEMS The Lovers Miranda's lover sees himself A shield about her tender form; He sees Miranda as a thing Too frail to brave a storm. Miranda sees herself...
...Were not his fibres woven there His body and soul would fly apart...
...One bloomed with petals Caught on swaying stems: And one was hot and black, Scorched by the beauty of his kin, (They knew one parent-tree upon the hill) Resentful of the miracle Which charred his muscle into dust, And drenched the others With bright loveliness...
...The bountied harvests of a day gone by No longer fill its bins...
...But anyone who runs may read Disaster in their eyes...
...T^avello There are places so deliberately old, That in their age, As in this garden citadel, Time sleeps...
...Helene Mullins...
...Martha Banning Thomas...
...No more the busy millers bring their grain For it to grind...
...To One Lying Dead And is this wisdom, this desire to lie, With empty hands and unenquiring eyes, Uncaring of what terrene joys pass by, Nor touch your consciousness, nor draw low cries From your bewildered mouth...
...I, who have run After so many shadows, long to know If you escape emotion, lying so Carelessly here, with all your travail done...
...Francis Walsh...
...Yes, for, hear...
...Souvenir In all the crowds I never yet Have seen the face of sly Pierrette, But once along a summer lane I heard her calling in the rain...
...Two paces of green sward...
...Do trees feel so...
...They show no terror, no surprise...
...A precipice— The blue gulf dyes each minute of the day A different gold...
...The Windmill Four sweeping arms beseech the lowering sky...
...No more a swain Watches the moon behind Its frame...
...But, because we long to grow Faster, faster, it seems slow, Our walk to God...
...Benjamin R. C. Low...
...so we Grow toward God, too, eagerly...
...Impatient Trees Trees grow Nearer to the sky...
...I see them both as gentle wraiths Blown by the wind—so dry, so light...
...Faggots in a Fire One was a flute that played quick notes of flame, Lipped softly, golden-clear...
...One streamed with hair, Combed upward by the chimney-draught, Blue hair with curling, yellow ends, Magnificent enough for Bluebeard's taste...
...Look, how the water in that stone, Under the stir of that old Merlin tree, (Each drip a sorcery of dancing rings) Gives up dark, bearded Corsairs Out of Crete, and Saracens, Jeweled and damascened, From Africa, While—just one turn of head...
...Aline Kilmer...
...Their souls, like fireflies in the dark, Are piteously small and bright...
...And so Do you and I. Nearer every day...
...They sigh, they sigh Impatiently as you and I. Mary Carolyn Davies...
...James E. Tobin...
...I felt her fingers on my face But of herself there was no trace, Save where her feet had lightly trod And left a path of golden rod...
...Miranda sees herself the stone Securely settled at his heart...
...but lone, with memory-laden sigh, It mourns, uncomforted by kiss of rain Set by the wind...
...They are the victims of the world...
Vol. 3 • November 1925 • No. 1
