I said that peak is the thought of Budda,
And that one is the prayer of Jesus,
And this one is the dream of Plato,
And that one there the song of Dante,
And this is Kant and this is Newton,
And this is Milton and this is Shakespeare,
And this the hope of the Mother Church,
And this — why all these peaks are poems,
Poems and prayers that pierce the clouds.
And I said ‘What does God do with mountains
That rise almost to heaven?’
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The pine woods on the hill,
Showed clear as though behind a lensUnder a sky of peacock blue!But a blanket of cloud by afternoonMuffled the earth. And you walked the roadAnd the clover field, where the only soundWas the cricket’s liquid tremolo.Then the sun went down between great driftsOf distant storms. For a rising windSwept clean the sky and blew the…
(THE GRAVEYARD OF SPOON RIVER. TWO VOICES ARE HEARD BEHIND A SCREEN DECORATED WITH DIABOLICAL AND ANGELIC FIGURES IN VARIOUS ALLEGORICAL RELATIONS. A FAINT LIGHT SHOWS DIMLY THROUGH THE SCREEN AS IF IT WERE WOVEN OF LEAVES, BRANCHES AND SHADOWS.)
A game of checkers?SECOND VOICEWell, I don’t mind.FIRST VOICEI move the Will.SECOND VOICEYou’re playing it blind.FIRST VOICEThen here’s the Soul.SECOND VOICEChecked by the Will.FIRST VOICEEternal Good!SECOND VOICEAnd Eternal Ill.FIRST VOICEI haste for the King row.SECOND VOICESave your breath.FIRST VOICEI was moving Life.SECOND VOICEYou’re checked by Death.FIRST VOICEVery good, here’s Moses.SECOND VOICEAnd here’s the Jew.FIRST VOICEMy…
I am Minerva, the village poetess,
For my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk,And all the more when ‘Butch’ WeldyCaptured me after a brutal hunt.He left me to my fate with Doctor Meyers;And I sank into death, growing numb from the feet up,Like one stepping deeper and deeper into a stream of ice.Will some one go to the village newspaper,And gather…
At four o’clock in late October
Back from the road ‘mid stricken fields,And an eddy of wind blew leaves on the pane,And crooned in the flue of the cannon-stove,With its open door blurring the shadowsWith the spectral glow of a dying fire.In an idle mood I was running the planchette —All at once my wrist grew limp,And my hand moved rapidly…
I was a lawyer like Harmon Whitney
For I tried the rights of property,Although by lamp-light, for thirty years,In that poker room in the opera house.And I say to you that Life’s a gamblerHead and shoulders above us all.No mayor alive can close the house.And if you lose, you can squeal as you will;You’ll not get back your money.He makes the percentage…
Mr Kessler, you know, was in the army,
And stood on the corner talking politics,Or sat at home reading Grant’s Memoirs;And I supported the family by washing,Learning the secrets of all the peopleFrom their curtains, counterpanes, shirts and skirts.For things that are new grow old at length,They’re replaced with better or none at all:People are prospering or falling back.And rents and patches widen…