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The Marvelous Munchausen

The snug little room with its brazier fire aglow,

And Piet and Sachs and Vroom -- all in the long ago, --

Oh, the very long ago! -- o'er their pipes and hollands seen;

And on the wall the man-o'-war, and firelight on the screen!

Their flowered, bulging waistcoats that wrinkle when they chuckle;

The baron, much-mustachioed, and gay with star and buckle,

And bristling in a uniform as scarlet as his cheeks,

With choker lace beneath his chin, and splendid, yellow breeks!

The smoke drifts blue, and bluer through that window, all abreeze,

Are glinting sky and glistening sea beyond the Holland quays.

Blue tiles, red bricks, the bustling wharves, with color's oriflamme;

Starched caps and rosy-posy cheeks -- the girls of Amsterdam!

The snug little room with its brazier fire aglow!

Oh, listen, will he tell them, as he told them long ago, --

Oh, very long ago, a-laughing in his sleeve! --

The marvelous Munchausen, with the fables I believe?

.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

"When I had sown the Turkey beans that reachéd to the moon,

And lifted all Westminster in the sling from my balloon

(Swung over the Atlantic,

They peered from windows, franctic),

When, eagle-back, I'd scanned the pole in broad, eternal noon,

"In Queen Mab's chariot I ventured on the sea.

'Twas like a mammoth hazelnut, with matchless orrery

A-sparkle on its ceiling,

With planet systems wheeling

And giddy comets sizzling all about the head o' me.

"The nine bulls drew it, as stout as those of Crete,

And all were shod with horrid skulls that clattered on their feet.

Rich banners waved behind 'em

While on their backs, to mind 'em,

Postilion crickets chirruped them, all chirping loud and sweet.

"Ghost of the Cape I warn you of, for he is bottle-blue.

We split his Table Mountain. He gibbered and he flew.

The bulls straight showed disfeature

With gazing on the creature,

Stampeding in their harness when I gave the view-halloo.

"Though, wrecked on Egypt's obelisks, disaster I defied,

And harnessed Sphinx, the emperor's gift, to tow an ark as wide

As great Westminster;

With beau and bell and spinster,

And cleric, clerk, and coronet all tête-à-tête inside.

"'Good folk, we sail for Africa,' said I to all my train.

'When bold Munchausen leads you forth, what laggard dares remain

In slippered ease, uncaring

To share my deeds of daring?'

Their cheers amazed my modesty, and more had made me vain.

"'The sultan's bees I've shepherded. I've hornpiped at Marseilles,

Where gulped me down, well nigh to drown, the liveliest of whales.

I'm riskiest of riskers,

But, blow my grizzled whiskers!'

I cried, 'May jackals gnaw my bones if now Munchausen fails!'

"By night the lions roared at us. By day the simoons came

And swept across our caravan in sandy clouds of flame;

But naught dismayed our temper, or

The genial Afric emperor

Had missed my handsome greeting, to his long-abiding shame.

"The people of the Mountains of the Moon I wined and dined.

I reigned at Gristariska when His Majesty declined.

Reforms I wrought untiring,

With Gog and Magog squiring,

And Frosticos, my bosom friend, who lent a legal mind.

"For last superb achievement, -- bright tears may Envy shed! --

I built a bridge, from Africa to distant England spread.

No edifice of fable,

Nay, not the Tower of Babel,

Surpassed it mammoth glory in the heavens overhead.

"So back across its noble arch my retinue and I

Advanced with blaring trumpets through the regions of the sky.

Clouds lingered to enwreathe us,

Earth's kingdoms far beneath us,

And martial music cheered our march from all the birds that fly."

.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

The snug little room with its brazier fire aglow,

And Piet and Sachs and Vroom all sleeping long ago, --

Oh, so very long ago! -- and, chuckling in his sleeve,

Still o'er the slumbering table,

Drone-droning on his fable,

The marvelous Munchausen, with the stories I believe!

Century                                            William Rose Benét

Train-Mates

Outside hove Shasta, snowy height on height,

A glory; but a negligible sight,

For you had often seen a mountain-peak

But not my paper. So we came to speak.

A smoke, a smile, -- a good way to commence

The comfortable exchange of difference! --

You a young engineer, five feet eleven,

Forty-five chest, with football in your heaven,

Liking a road-bed newly built and clean,

Your fingers hot to cut away the green

Of brush and flowers that bring beside a track

The kind of beauty steel lines ought to lack, --

And I a poet, wistful of my betters,

Reading George Meredith's high-hearted Letters,

Joining betweenwhile in the mingled speech

Of a drummer, circus-man, and parson, each

Absorbing to himself -- as I to me

And you to you -- a glad identity!

After a while when the others went away

A curious kinship made us want to stay,

Which I could tell you now; but at the time

You thought of baseball teams and I of rhyme,

Until we found that we were college men

And smoked more easily and smiled again;

And I from Cambridge cried, the poet still:

"I know your fine Greek Theatre on the hill

At Berkeley!" With your happy Grecian head

Upraised, "I never saw the place," you said.

"Once I was free of class, I always went

Out to the field."

                          Young engineer

You meant as fair a tribute to the better part

As ever I did. Beauty of the heart

Is evident in temples. But it breathes

Alive where athletes quicken airy wreaths,

Which are the lovelier because they die.

You are a poet quite as much as I,

Though differences appear in what we do,

And I an athlete quite as much as you.

Because you half-surmised my quarter-mile

And I your quatrain, we could greet and smile.

Who knows but we shall look again and find

The circus-man and drummer, not behind

But leading in our visible estate,

As discus-thrower and as laureate?

Yale Review                                 Witter Bynner

The Kallyope Yell

[Loudly and rapidly with a leader, College yell fashion]

I

Proud men

Eternally

Go about,

Slander me,

Call me the "Calliope."

Sizz . . . . .

Fizz . . . . .

II

I am the Gutter Dream,

Tune-maker, born of steam,

Tooting joy, tooting hope.

I am the Kallyope,

Car called the Kallyope.

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

See the flags: snow-white tent,

See the bear and elephant,

See the monkey jump the rope,

Listen to the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!

Soul of the rhinoceros

And the hippopotamus

(Listen to the lion roar!)

Jaguar, cockatoot,

Loons, owls,

Hoot, Hoot.

Listen to the lion roar,

Listen to the lion roar,

Listen to the lion R-O-A-R!

Hear the leopard cry for gore,

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Hail the bloody Indian band,

Hail, all hail the popcorn stand,

Hail to Barnum's picture there,

People's idol everywhere,

Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop!

Music of the mob am I,

Circus day's tremendous cry: --

I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!

Hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot,

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Sizz, fixx . . . . .

III

Born of mobs, born of steam,

Listen to my golden dream,

Listen to my golden dream,

Listen to my G-O-L-D-E-N D-R-E-A-M!

Whoop whoop whoop whoop >b?whoop!

I will blow the proud folk low,

Humanize the dour and slow,

I will shake the proud folk down,

(Listen to the lion roar!)

Popcorn crowds shall rule the town --

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Steam shall work melodiously,

Brotherhood increase.

You'll see the world and all it holds

For fifty cents apiece.

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Every day a circus day.

What?

Well, almost every day.

Nevermore the sweater's den,

Nevermore the prison pen.

Gone the war on land and sea

That aforetime troubled men.

Nations all in amity,

Happy in their plumes arrayed

In the long bright street parade.

Bands a-playing every day.

What?

Well, almost every day.

I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Hoot, toot, hoot, toot,

Whoop whoop whoop whoop,

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Sizz, fizz . . . . .

IV

Every soul

Resident

In the earth's one circus tent!

Every man a trapeze king

Then a pleased spectator there.

On the benches! In the ring!

While the neighbours gawk and stare

And the cheering rolls along.

Almost every day a race

When the merry starting gong

Rings, each chariot on the line,

Every driver fit and fine

With the steel-spring Roman grace.

Almost every day a dream,

Almost every day a dream.

Every girl,

Maid or wife,

Wild with music,

Eyes a-gleam

With that marvel called desire:

Actress, princess, fit for life,

Armed with honor like a knife,

Jumping thro' the hoops of fire.

(Listen to the lion roar!)

Making all the children shout

Clowns shall tumble all about,

Painted high and full of song

While the cheering rolls along,

Tho' they scream,

Tho' they rage,

Every beast

In his cage,

Every beast

In his den

That aforetime troubled men.

V

I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope,

Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope;

Shaking window-pane and door

With a crashing cosmic tune,

With the war-cry of the spheres,

Rhythm of the roar of noon,

Rhythm of Niagara's roar,

Voicing planet, star and moon,

Shrieking of the better years.

Prophet-singers will arise,

Prophets coming after me,

Sing my song in softer guise

With more delicate surprise;

I am but the pioneer

Voice of the Democracy;

I am the gutter-dream,

I am the golden dream,

Singing science, singing steam.

I will blow the proud folk down,

(Listen to the lion roar!)

I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope,

Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope,

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot,

Whoop whoop, whoop whoop,

Whoop whoop, whoop whoop,

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Sizz . . . . .

Fizz . . . . .

The Forum            Nicholas Vachel Lindsay

Thanksgiving for Our Task

The sickle is dulled of the reaping and the threshing-floor is bare;

The dust of night's in the air;

The peace of the weary is ours:

All day we have taken the fruit and the grain and the seeds of the flowers.

The ev'ning is chill,

It is good now to gather in peace by the flames of the fire.

We have done now the deed that we did for your need and desire:

We have wrought our will.

And now for the boon of abundance and golden increase,

And immurèd peace,

Shall we thank our God?

Bethink us, amid His indulgence, His terrible rod?

Shall we be as the maple and oak,

Strew the earth with our gold, giving only bare boughs to the sky?

Nay, the pine stayeth green while the Winter growls sullenly by,

And doth not revoke

For soft days or stern days the pledge of its constancy.

Shall we not be

Also the same through all days,

Giving thanks when the batle breaks on us, in toil giving praise?

O Father who saw at the dawn,

That the folly of Pride would be the lush weed of our sin,

There is better than that in our hearts, O enter therein,

A light burneth, though wan

And weak be the flame, yet it floweth, our Humilty!

Ah, how can it be

Trimmed o' the wick,

And replenished with oil to burn brightly and golden and quick?

For deep in our hearts

We wish to be thankful through lean years and fat without change,

Knowing that here Thou hast set for the spirit a range:

We would play well our parts,

Making American throb with the building of souls and the glory of good;

Yea, and we would,

And before the last Autumn we will

Build a temple from ocean to ocean where deeds never still

Melodiously shall proclaim

Thanksgiving forever that Thou hast set here to our hand

So wondrous a mystical harvest, that Thou dost demand

Sheaves bound in Thy name,

Yea, supersubstantial sheaves of strong souls that have grown

Fain to be known

As the corn of Thine occident field:

O Yielder of All, can Amierca worthily thank Thee till such be her yield?

In the mellowing light

Of the goldenest days that precede the gray days of the year,

We sing Thee our harvesting song and we pray Thee to hear,

In the mist of Thy might:

Labor is given to us,

     Let us give thanks,

Power worketh through us,

     Let us give thanks!

Not for what we have

(So might speak a slave),

Not for the garnering,

Gratefully we sing,

But for the mighty thing

We must do, travailing!

For our task and for our strength;

For the journey and its length;

For our dauntless eagerness;

For our humbling weariness;

For these, for these, O Father,

     Let us give thanks!

For these, O Mighty Father,

     Take Thou our thanks!

The Forum                                                                   Shaemas OSheel

A Likeness

Portrait Bust of an Unknown, Capitol, Rome

In every line a supple beauty --

The restless head a little bent --

Disgust of pleasure, scorn of duty,

The unseeing eyes of discontent.

I often come to sit beside him,

This youth who passed and left no trace

Of good or ill that did betide him,

Save the disdain upon his face.

The hope of all his House, the brother

Adored, the golden-hearted son,

Whom Fortune pampered like a mother;

And then, -- a shadow on the sun.

Whether he followed Cæsar's trumpet,

Or chanced the riskier game at home

To find how favor played the stumpet

In fickle politics at Rome;

Whether he dreamed a dream in Asia

He never could forget by day,

Or gave his youth to some Aspasia,

Or gamed his heritage away;

Once lost, across the Empire's border

This man would seek his peace in vain;

His look arraigns a social order

Somehow entrammelled with his pain.

"The dice of gods are always loaded";

One gambler, arrogant as they,

Fierce, and by fierce injustice goaded,

Left both his hazard and the play.

Incapable of compromises,

Unable to forgive or spare,

The strange awarding of the prizes

He had not fortitude to bear.

Tricked by the forms of things material --

The solid-seeming arch and stone,

The noise of war, the pomp imperial,

The heights and depths about a throne --

He missed, among the shapes diurnal,

The old, deep-travelled road from pain,

The thoughts of men which are eternal,

In which, eternal, men remain.

Ritratto d'ignoto; defying

Things unsubstantial as a dream --

An Empire, long in ashes lying --

His face still set against the stream.

Yes, so he looked, that gifted brother

I loved, who passed and left no trace,

Not even -- luckier than this other --

His sorrow in a marble face.

Scribner's                      Willa Sibert Cather

The Field of Glory

War shook the land where Levi dwelt,

And fired the dismal wrath he felt,

That such a doom was ever wrought

As his, to toil while others fought;

To toil, to dream -- and still to dream,

With one day barren as another;

To consummate, as it would seem

The dry despair of his old mother.

Far off one afternoon began

The sound of man destroying man;

And Levi. sick with nameless rage,

Condemned again his heritage,

And sighed for scars that might have come,

And would, if once he could have sundered

Those harsh, inhering claims of home

That held him while he cursed and wondered.

Another day, and then there came,

Rough, bloody, ribald, hungry, lame,

But yet themselves, to Levi's door,

Two remnants of the day before.

They laughed at him and what he sought;

They jeered him, and his painful acre;

But Levi knew that they had fought,

And left their manners to their Maker.

That night, for the grim widow's ears,

With hopes that hid themselves in fears,

He told of arms, and featly deeds,

Whereat one leaps the while he reads,

And said he'd be no more a clown,

While others drew the breath of battle.

The mother looked him up and down,

And laughed -- a scant laught with a rattle.

She told him what she found to tell,

And Levi listened, and heard well

Some admonitions of a voice

That left him no cause to rejoice.

He sought a friend, and found the stars,

And prayed aloud that they should aid him;

But they said not a word of wars,

Or of reason why God made him.

And who's of this or that estate

We do not wholly calculate,

When baffling shades that shift and cling

Are not without their glimmering;

When even Levi, tired of faith,

Beloved of none, forgot by many,

Dismissed as an inferior wraith,

Reborn may be as great as any.

The Outlook        Edward Arlington Robinson

Rich Man, Poor Man --

Oh, joy that burns in Denver tavern!

The lights, the drink, the ceaseless play!

A kingdom, dull within a cavern,

Across the boards he flings away.

Then night that falls on either mountain

(Ah, bitter black it falls between);

But he, like water to its fountain,

Is come again where life runs clean.

So Death shall find him, delving, peering.

Still silver rock, still golden sand.

He weeps to hear the magpies' jeering,

But he is back in his own land.

Lippincott's                       Francis Hill

The Sin Eater

    I

Hark ye! Hush ye! Margot's dead!

Hush! Have done wi' your brawling tune!

Danced she did, till the stars grew pale;

Mother o' God, an' she's gone at noon!

Sh-h . . . d'ye hear me? -- Margot's dead!

Sickened an' drooped an' died in an hour!

(Bring me th' milk an' th' meat an' bread.)

Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower.

Come an' look at her, how she lies,

Little an' lone, and like she's scared . . . .

(She lost her beads last Friday week,

Tore her Book, an' she never cared.) . . .

Eh, my lass, but it's winter, now --

You that ever was meant for June,

Your laughing mouth an' your dancing feet --

An' now you're done, like an ended tune.

Where's that woman? Ah, give it me quick,

Food at her head an' her poor, still feet. . . .

There's plenty, fool! D'ye think the wench

Had so many sins for himself to eat?

Take up your cloak an' hand me mine. . . .

Are we fetchin' him? Eh, for sure!

An' you'll come with me for all your quakes,

Clear to his cave across the moor!

-- Margot, dearie, don't look so scared,

It's no long while till your peace begins!

What if you tore your Book, poor lamb?

I'm bringin' you one will eat your sins!

    II

It's a blood-red sun that's sinkin'. . . .

Ohooo, but the marshland's drear!

Woman, for why will you be shrinkin'?

I'm tellin' you there's nought to fear.

What if the twilight's gloomish

An' th' shadows creep an' crawl?

Woman, woman, here'll be th' cave!

Stand by me close till I call!

    "Sin Eater! Devil Cheater!"

    (Eh, it echoes hollowly!)

"Margot's dead at Willow Farm!

Shroud your face and follow me!"

    III

One o' th' clock . . . two o' th' clock. . . .

This night's a week in span!

Still he crouches by her side. . . .

Devil . . . ghost . . . or man? . . .

    IV

Woman, never cock's crow sounded sweet before!

Set the casement wide ajar, fasten back the door!

Eh, but I be cold an' stiff, waiting for th' dawn;

Fetch me flowers -- jessamine -- see, the food is gone. . . .

Light enough to see her now. . . . Mary! How her face

Shines on us like altar fires, now she's sure o' grace!

Never mind your Book, my lamb, never mind your beads,

There's th' Gleam before you now, follow where it leads.

    V

Tearful peace and gentle grief

Brood on Willow Farm:

Margot, sleeping in her flowers,

Smiles, secure from harm:

In a cave across the moor,

Dank and dark within,

Moans the trafficker in souls,

Freshly bowed with sin.

Smart Set                       Ruth Comfort Mitchell

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