Puslapio vaizdai
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tion of the violet theme, with one of the equally famous rain poems of John Gould Fletcher, the other American Imagist best known for this kind of work.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds:

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

Whirlpools of purple and gold,

Winds from the mountains of cinna

bar,

Lacquered mandarin moments, palanquins swaying and balancing

Amid the vermilion pavilions, against the jade balustrades;

Glint of the glittering wings of dragonflies in the light;

Silver filaments, golden flakes settling downwards,

Rippling, quivering flutters, repulse and surrender,

The sun broidered upon the rain,

The rain rustling with the sun.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds:

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

To catch a glimpse of the scope and versatility of this poet, who believes that poetry is capable of as many gradations in cadence as music is in time," follow perusal of the just given poem, with its strong, sweeping, rushing movement, by perusal of the following, also representing-rather than describingrain:

The spattering of the rain upon pale ter

races

Of afternoon is like the passing of a dream

Amid the roses shuddering 'gainst the wet green stalks

Of the streaming trees-the passing of the wind

Upon the pale lower terraces of my dream

Is like the crinkling of the wet gray robes

Of the hours that come to turn over the

urn

Of the day and spill its rainy dream. Vague movement over the puddled ter

races:

Heavy gold pennons-a pomp of solemn gardens

Half hidden under the liquid veil of spring:

Far trumpets like a vague rout of faded

roses

Burst 'gainst the wet green silence of distant forests:

A clash of cymbals-then the swift swaying footsteps

Of the wind that undulates along the languid terraces.

Pools of rain the vacant terraces

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Wet, chill, and glistening

Towards the sunset beyond the broken doors of today.

It might almost be said that the whole theory and philosophy of free verse, from origin to popular justification, lies in the pic

ture-making suggestions, the slow, languorous rhythm of those lines.

Edgar Lee Masters, with his wonderful psychology and power of character portraiture, his hard, ironic humor, and his encroaching obsession of sex, may be placed at the gamut end farthest opposed to the position occupied by Fletcher and "H. D." To many his remarkable "Spoon River Anthology" belongs rather in the realm of psychology than of poetry, but the poetic beauty of countless included cadences, as the incisive appeal of the haunting, embodying epitaphs, is undeniable. The tragedy that Mr. Masters loves best—in the “Anthology," indeed, is little but tragedy, mental, physical, moral, spiritual, and that of the grimmest—is well expressed in "Elsa Wertman," piteous as strong.

I was a peasant girl from Germany,
Blue-eyed, rosy, happy, and strong.
And the first place I worked was at
Thomas Greene's.

On a summer's day when she was away

He stole into the kitchen and took me Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat,

I turning my head. Then neither of us Seemed to know what happened.

And I cried for what would become of

me.

And cried and cried as my secret began to show.

One day Mrs. Greene said she understood,

And would make no trouble for me,
And, being childless, would adopt it.
(He had given her a farm to be still.)
So she hid in the house and sent out

rumors,

As if it were going to happen to her. And all went well and the child was

born- They were so kind to me. Later I married Gus Wertman, and years passed.

But at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying

At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene – That was not it.

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