"The Untold Story" - Part II

I have a trim typewriter now,
They tell me none is better;
It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
And neat is every letter.
I tick out stories by machine,
Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,
And lathe them off in manner slick.
It is so easy, and it'€™s quick.

And yet it falls short, I a€™m afraid,
Of giving satisfaction,
This making literature by aid
Of scientific traction;
For often, I can'€™t fail to see,
The dashed thing runs away with me.
It bolts, and do whate'€™er I may
I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,
And endless are my verses,
Nor any yarn I start to make
Appropriately terse is.
'Tis plain that this machine-made screed
Is fit but for machines to read;
So Wanted (as an iron censor)
A good, sound, secondhand condenser!

I don't know how you do that, but I'm glad you do.

Unfulfilled
By Corinne Roosevelt Robinson

I READ the pain and pathos of your eyes,
The aftermath of anguish in your smile,
And yet I can but envy you the while!
Your heart has bled, an ardent sacrifice
To Love’s fulfillment. You have paid the price
Of keen, fierce living; nor can aught defile
The joys that once have been—they still beguile
The tear-swept memory that Time defies.

My soul’s adventure, pallid, incomplete,
Has lingered in the twilight, for my heart
Has dwelt aloof in some dim atmosphere
Betwixt the Earth and Heaven. My alien feet
Have known nor Pain nor its great counterpart.
I, who have never loved, may shed no tear.

“Grandmither, Think Not I Forget”
By Willa Sibert Cather

GRANDMITHER, think not I forget, when I come back to town,
An’ wander the old ways again an’ tread them up an’ down.
I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass,
Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass.
I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, 5
Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.
And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme,
Mayhap ’t is that I ’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine,
Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, 10
Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so.
Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score,—
I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.
Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast,
For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; 15
They grope among the shadows an’ they beat the cold black air,
They go seekin’ in the darkness, an’ they never find him there,
An’ they never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see
His own a-burnin’ full o’ love that must not shine for me. 20
Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow,
For mine be red wi’ burnin’ thirst an’ he must never know.
Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear
My lad a-singin’ in the night when I am sick wi’ fear;
A-singin’ when the moonlight over a’ the land is white— 25
Oh God! I ’ll up an’ go to him a-singin’ in the night,
A-callin’ in the night.

Grandmither, give me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache,
For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break.
It beats an’ throbs forever for the things that must not be,— 30
An’ can ye not let me creep in an’ rest awhile by ye?
A little lass afeared o’ dark slept by ye years agone—
Ah, she has found what night can hold ’twixt sunset an’ the dawn!
So when I plant the rose an’ rue above your grave for ye,
Ye ’ll know it ’s under rue an’ rose that I would like to be, 35
That I would like to be.

AND if I came not again
After certain days;
If no morning sun or rain
Met me on their ways;

If the meadows knew no more
How my feet go free,
And the folded hills forbore
Any speech of me;

If you did not find me here,
At the door at night,
And the cold hearth kept no cheer,
And the panes no light;—

Oh, if I came not again,
Would you miss me much?
Would your fingers once be fain
Of my wandering touch?

Would you dream me at your side
In the waking wood,
Where the old spring hungers hide
In blue solitude? 20

Would you wonder where I passed,
Into joy or pain?
Oh, to know you cared, at last,
Came I not again!


F.S. Davis