University of Wisconsin Digital Collections
Link to University of Wisconsin Digital Collections
Link to University of Wisconsin Digital Collections
The Literature Collection

Page View

Meyer, Ernest L. (ed.) / Wisconsin literary magazine
Volume XVII, Number 1 (October 1917)

Kinnan, Marjorie; et al.
Verse,   p. 7


Page 7

OWISCONSIN LITERARY MAGAZINE
Verse
THE MIRACLE
I lay with half-closed eyes, worn out with pain;
And day was night, and life a fearful thing.
I heard a stirring, as of flowers in rain,
Or little birds that move before they sing.
And by my side I found a fairy form,
"Your own. A sturdy son," the kind nurse smiled.
A bundle of pink rose-leaves, soft and warm-
And unbelievable! A mystic child!
The white-garbed angel placed it close to me,
Showed tiny face and dimpled fingers bared,
And smiled again, and "Hush"-ed mysteriously;
Then tip-toed 'round the room. And still-I stared!
In dashed an interne with a tragic face.
"My God!" he cried. "My God! What have you done!
The infant here? This girl's a tonsil case!
It goes to Mrs. B-, in forty-one!"
MARJORIE KINNAN.
CHALLENGE
You, North!
Rugged, wind-swept, free-
I hear the laughter of your torrents in your voice,
I see the twinkle of your stars within your eyes,
And stamped upon your brows, the brooding of the centuries.
What can Spring,
Bubbling, boisterous, wanton!
That wind-swept fleck of cloud,
That spray-tossed sun-beam, vanishing-
Mean to you?
SYLVA BEYER.
TRUEBER TAG
Kalt weht der Westwind;
Grau ragen die Wolkenberge empor;
Feurig lodert im Westen der Abendrot
Wie eine brennende Stadt.
Kaltgrau und mit Nebel bedeckt steht einsam der Bergspitz;
Dunkel wird es im Tal, und traurig zu Mute.
Die Baume biegen sich vor dem Sturmk6nig;
Bose Geister schenken den Gifttrank aus,
Und der Mond sieht blass und gekrankt aus, wo er hinfluchtet.
Kaltgrau ist alles und finster,
Und finster wird's mir zu Mute,
Fast als war' ich in ferner Wiste verlassen.
Komm, susser Schlaf, damit ich's in Traumen vergesse!
CLIFFORD FRANKLIN GESSLER.
THE GOLDEN DAYS
Do you remember the golden days,
When the sky was bent in a deep blue cup,
And the sun mites danced in the shimmering haze
To the magical music the bluebell plays
When the dew-drops melt and the mists rise up?
Those were the days of our gypsying;
Like a ribbon of steel the road ran long,
And sheltering hedgerows, green with spring,
Hid the fluttering tip of a crimson wing,
And the whole, wide world was a maze of song.
Do you remember the wind-blown crown
Of Castle Rock, where the roadways meet?
Do you remember how we peered down
To the sun-washed roofs of the drowsing town
And the shadowy waves of the blowing wheat?
Those were the days of our wanderlust,
Of sunlit paths that never shall end;
Untrodden highways are white with dust,
Voices are calling, and walk we must-
Romance is waiting beyond the bendl
ERNEST L. MEYER.
THE SINGER
I have a lute that sings sad, sighing numbers-
None loves my songs save my lute and I-
I play on the hills when the windy world slumbers,
Spinning out melody under the sky.
Plaintive old melody, ancient as folly,
Built from the tinkle of sheep-bells in rain,
Throbbing with musical, lost melancholy
Finding her old home, her old haunts, again.
Here with my lute and me, dreaming and singing,
Here may the sorrows of ages find rest,
Rustling across my songs, like thrushes winging
Their tired, homeward way to the hedge-hidden neat
Far goes my melody over the rivers,
Farther than gypsy tents under the sky,
Far as the loneliest last star that shivers-
And none loves my songs save my lute and I.
MARJORIE KINNAN.
October, 1917
7


Go up to Top of Page