swift and angry stave —
Unmeet for this desirous morn —
That I have striven, striven to evade?
Gazing on him, must I not deem they err
Whose careless lips in street and shop aver
As common tidings, deeds to make his cheek
Flush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak?
Surely some elder singer would arise,
Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mourn
Above this people when they go astray.
Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn?
Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away?
I will not and I dare not yet believe!
Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve,
And the spring-laden breeze
Out of the gladdening west is sinister
With sounds of nameless battle overseas;
Though when we turn and question in suspense
If these things be indeed after these ways,
And what things are to follow after these,
Our fluent men of place and consequence
Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase,
Or for the end-all of deep arguments
Intone their dull commercial liturgies —
I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!
I will not hear the thin satiric praise
And muffled laughter of our enemies,
Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword
Till we have changed our birthright for a gourd
Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut;
Showing how wise it is to cast away
The symbols of our spiritual sway,
That so our hands with better ease
May wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys.

VIII

Was it for this our fathers kept the law?
This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth?
Are we the eagle nation Milton saw
Mewing its mighty youth,
Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth,
And be a swift familiar of the sun
Where aye before God's face his trumpets run?
Or have we but the talons and the maw,
And for the abject likeness of our heart
Shall some less lordly bird be set apart?
Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat?
Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat?

IX

Ah, no!
We have not fallen so.
We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!
'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry
Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"
Then Alabama heard,
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho
Shouted a burning word.
Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,
And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,
East, west, and south, and north,
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,
By the unforgotten names of eager boys
Who might have tasted girl's love and been stung
With the old mystic joys
And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,
But that the heart of youth is generous, —
We charge you, ye who lead us,
Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!
Turn not their new-world victories to gain!
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays
Of their dear praise,
One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,
The implacable republic will require;
With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,
But surely, very surely, slow or soon
That insult deep we deeply will requite.
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!
For save we let the island men go free,
Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts
Where walk the frustrate dead.
The cup of trembling shall be drained quite,
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment,
With ashes of the hearth shall be made white
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent;
Then on your guiltier head
Shall our intolerable self-disdain
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain;
For manifest in that disastrous light
We shall discern the right
And do it, tardily. — O ye who lead,
Take heed!
Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.

Candlemas. [Alice Brown]

   O hearken, all ye little weeds
    That lie beneath the snow,
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)
   The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
   A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
   Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds
    Before ye rise and blow.

   O furry living things, adream
    On winter's drowsy breast,
(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)
   Arise and follow where a gleam
   Of wizard gold unbinds the stream,
   And all the woodland windings seem
    With sweet expectance blest.

   My birds, come back! the hollow sky
    Is weary for your note.
(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)
   Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,
   Shame on ye, laggards, to deny
   The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,
    The tawny, shining coat!

The Unreturning. [Bliss Carman]

The old eternal spring once more
 Comes back the sad eternal way,
With tender rosy light before
 The going-out of day.

The great white moon across my door
 A shadow in the twilight stirs;
But now forever comes no more
 That wondrous look of Hers.

A Song in Spring. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]

O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring,
 You hold my winter in forgetfulness;
Without my window lilac branches swing,
Within my gate I hear a robin sing —
 O little laughing blooms that lift and bless!

So blow the breezes in a soft caress,
 Blowing my dreams upon a swallow's wing;
O little merry buds in dappled dress,
You fill my heart with very wantonness —
 O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring!

May is building her House. [Richard Le Gallienne]

May is building her house. With apple blooms
   She is roofing over the glimmering rooms;
Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams,
   And, spinning all day at her secret looms,
With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall
She pictureth over, and peopleth it all
   With echoes and dreams,
   And singing of streams.

May is building her house. Of petal and blade,
Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made,
   With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover,
   Each small miracle over and over,
And tender, traveling green things strayed.

Her windows, the morning and evening star,
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar
   With the coming and going
   Of fair things blowing,
The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of things
She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings;
   From October's tossed and trodden gold
   She is making the young year out of the old;
    Yea: out of winter's flying sleet
    She is making all the summer sweet,
    And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet
She is changing back again to spring's.

Here is the Place where Loveliness keeps House. [Madison Cawein]