The Poetic Year for 1916: A Critical Anthology

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Small, Maynard, 1917 - 403 psl.

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18 psl. - said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time ; ' Is there anybody there ?
108 psl. - Where was he going, this man against the sky? You know not, nor do I. But this we know, if we know anything: That we may laugh and fight and sing And of our transcience here make offering To an orient Word that will not be erased, Or, save in incommunicable gleams Too permanent for dreams, Be found or known.
342 psl. - I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air — I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
100 psl. - Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day ; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown ; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet And left to Heaven the rest.
303 psl. - AN AQUARIUM STREAKS of green and yellow iridescence, Silver shiftings, Rings veering out of rings, Silver — gold — Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, With sharp white bubbles Shooting and dancing, Flinging quickly outward.
19 psl. - Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— 'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake...
18 psl. - Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill 10 Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners , That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's...
179 psl. - Soar, crash, and sparkle, Shoal of stars drifting Like silver fishes, Through the black sluggish boughs. Towards the impossible, Towards the inaccessible, Towards the ultimate, Towards the silence, Towards the eternal, These blossoms go. The peonies spring like rockets in the twilight, And out of them all I rise. II Downwards through the blue abyss it slides, The white snow-water of my dreams, Downwards crashing from slippery rock Into the boiling chasm: In which no eye dare look, for it is the chasm...
111 psl. - The coming on of his old monster Time Has made him a still man; and he has dreams -*' Were fair to think on once, and all found hollow. He knows how much of what men paint themselves Would blister in the light of what they are...
112 psl. - Would blister in the light of what they are; He sees how much of what was great now shares An eminence transformed and ordinary; He knows too much of what the world has hushed In others, to be loud now for himself; He knows now at what height low enemies May reach his heart, and high friends let him fall; But what not even such as he may know Bedevils him the worst: his lark may sing At heaven's gate how he will, and for as long As joy may listen, but he sees no gate, Save one whereat the spent clay...

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