Chapter One Walter Conrad Arensberg 1878-1954 Arithmetical Progression of the Verb "To Be" On a sheet of paper dropped with the intention of demolishing space by the simple subtraction of a necessary plane draw a line that leaves the present in addition carrying forward to the uncounted columns of the spatial ruin now considered as complete the remainder of the past. The act of disappearing which in the three-dimensional is the fate of the convergent vista is thus under the form of the immediate arrested in a perfect parallel of being in part. Edward Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) The Poor Relation No longer torn by what she knows And sees within the eyes of others, Her doubts are when the daylight goes, Her fears are for the few she bothers. She tells them it is wholly wrong Of her to stay alive so long; And when she smiles her forehead shows A crinkle that had been her mother's. Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, And wistful yet for being cheated, A child would seem to ask again A question many times repeated; But no rebellion has betrayed Her wonder at what she has paid For memories that have no stain, For triumph born to be defeated. To those who come for what she was-- The few left who know where to find her-- She clings, for they are all she has; And she may smile when they remind her, As heretofore, of what they know Of roses that are still to blow By ways where not so much as grass Remains of what she sees behind, her. They stay a while, and having done What penance or the past requires, They go, and leave her there alone To count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away, And yet she would not have them stay; She knows as well as anyone That Pity, having played, soon tires. But one friend always reappears, A good ghost, not to be forsaken; Whereat she laughs and has no fears Of what a ghost may reawaken, But welcomes, while she wears and mends The poor relation's odds and ends, Her truant from a tomb of years-- Her power of youth so early taken. Poor laugh, more slender than her song It seems; and there are none to hear it With even the stopped ears of the strong For breaking heart or broken spirit. The friends who clamored for her place, And would have scratched her for her face, Have lost her laughter for so long That none would care enough to fear it. None live who need fear anything From her, whose losses are their pleasure; The plover with a wounded wing Stays not the flight that others measure So there she waits, and while she lives, And death forgets, and faith forgives, Her memories go foraging For bits of childhood song they treasure. And like a giant harp that hums On always, and is always blending The coming of what never comes With what has past and had an ending, The City trembles, throbs, and pounds Outside, and through a thousand sounds The small intolerable drums Of Time are like slow drops descending. Bereft enough to shame a sage And given little to long sighing, With no illusion to assuage The lonely changelessness of dying,-- Unsought, unthought-of, and unheard, She sings and watches like a bird, Safe in a comfortable cage From which there will be no more flying. SARAH N. CLEGHORN (1876-1959) The Golf Links Lie So Near the Mill The golf links lies so near the mill That, almost every day The laboring children can look out And see the men at play. WITTER BYNNER (1881-1968) A Sigh Still must I tamely Talk sense with these others? How long Before I shall be with you again, Magnificently saying nothing. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS (1883-1963) Thursday I have had my dream--like others-- and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky-- feeling my clothes about me, the weight of my body in my shoes, the rim of my hat, air passing in and out at my nose--and decide to dream no more. Copyright © 2000 Literary Classics of the United States, Inc.. All rights reserved.