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Adler, Philip A. (ed.) / The Wisconsin literary magazine
Volume XVI, Number 8 (May 1917)

Morsell, Mary P.; et al.
Verse,   p. 236

Page 236

We deemed you lovers but of dance and song,
Of glowing wines, and all the warmth of life;
We half forgot that deeper things belong
To gloried France; but now, in time of strife,
You cast off every sham, and bare your souls,
That all the world may know you truthfully-
Not wantoners who drink from brimming bowls
Wine, sparkling with the world's frivolity,
But as a race, earnest, and firm, and strong,
Though you are weary, and your bodies worn
With suffering; and if the day be long
Before all men shall feel themselves reborn
In liberty, you will abide the end,
So long as there is life and love to spend.
-Mary P. Morsell.
A fallen log is at the marsh's edge,
Whereon I lie, under the August sun,
And twine my fingers in the browning sedge
Or pull Jacks-in-the-pulpit for the fun
Of seeing how God could tear out the sun-
Then dartles past a burnished dragonfly,
And I forget that God is in the sky.
Oh, how can one think on such things as God
When heaven's blue goes flashing on those wings,
More free and quick than sleepy airs that nod
'Mong water-flags? The August ground-tone sings
Of life,-not God, who rules over dead things.
And yet-I fear. He, jealous, in His might
May snatch sun-loving me into chill night.
But wherefore grieve? Again that gauze of blue
Dips in and out of shadows of marsh flowers,
And glitters motionless, then shivers through
The yellow summer day, till hazy hours
Of twilight bring Death, greedy for his dowers,
And fold his wings. Did God ordain the way
Blue dragonflies dance deathwards in a day?
-Mary F. Lerch.
Here's love. This moment holds it.
Here Beauty breathes and stirs.
Her presence chastely folds it,
For it is child of hers.
It withers not as flowers
That die with the dying day.
This lives, the future lowers,
And I-I am its prey.
-Jerome Head
The dawn
Is salmon-colored. This I know
Because I saw it, long ago.
I was so sleepy, I could only go
To sleep again, nor thought it such a show,
The dawn.
The moon
Is like a slice of cantaloupe, in the sky.
How often I have seen it rolling by
And longed to salt and pepper it and eat
It with a spoon
Of ice cream, for it looks so cold and sweet,
The moon.
Her eyes
Are somewhat like the gray of winter skies,
Or of such hue as is the dust that flies
In summer, when the winds are high. Her eyes
Do not resemble any star;
They are not bright as jewels are.
I should not like them if they were,
Her eyes.
Clifford F. Gessler.
May, 1917

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