There is no magic in a living tree, And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: My soul is seasick, and its only words Murmur desire for things more like a sea. In this dry landscape here there seems to be No water, merely persons in large herds, Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, Come from the Poetry Society. What could be drier, where all things are dry? What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, That I may have great sonnets on my lips! _Elinor Wylie_ (With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.) THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON Never believe this bird connotes Jade whorls of carven commonness: Nor as from ordinary throats Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. He is the cold and scornful Loon, Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, Steeps in the silver of the moon His burnished claws, his chiseled tail. _Leonora Speyer_ (Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.) A LANDSCAPE GETS PERSONAL Beloved.... I cannot bear that Bird He is green With envy of My Songs: "_Cheep! Cheep!_" This Tree Has a furtive look And the Brook Says, "Oh ... Splash...." And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ... It waves at me.... It is too flirtatious! Beloved, Let us leave swiftly ... _I fear this Landscape!_ _It would vamp me!_ [Illustration] _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ (Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this handsome tribute by wire.) THE SYMPOSIUM LEADING NOWHERE I sing of the joy of the Small Paths The paths that lead nowhere at all, (Though I never have gone on them nevertheless They are admirable, and so small!) I go out at midnight in motors But, being a Roosevelt, I drive Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, For I wish with much speed to arrive. Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths Surrounded with Birds and with Trees I would love to go down on a Small Path And sit in communion with these! Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you, For poetic communion I yearn But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs And alas, I've no time to return. _Oh alas, the undone moments,_ _Oh, the myriad hours bereft_ _Trying to be twenty people_ _And to do things right and left._ _I would sit down by a Small Path_ _And would make me a Large Rhyme_ _I should love to find my soul there_ _But I haven't got the time!_ _Ridgely Torrence_ (Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.) THE FOWL OF A THOUSAND FLIGHTS