I would I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk-flowers bee-infested, Into the mirror-like core of fire Of the light of life, the sun of delight. For what are anthers worth or petals Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows Of the heart of the flower, the central flame All is yours, young passer-by; Enter the banquet room with the thought; Don’t sidle in as if you were doubtful Whether you’re welcome—the feast is yours! Nor take but a little, refusing more With a bashful “Thank you”, when you’re hungry. Is your soul alive? Then let it feed! Leave no balconies where you can climb; Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest; Nor golden heads with pillows to share; Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet; Nor ecstasies of body or soul, You will die, no doubt, but die while living In depths of azure, rapt and mated, Kissing the queen-bee, Life! Thomas Trevelyan Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty passion of Tereus for Philomela, The flesh of him served to Tereus by Procne, And the wrath of Tereus, the murderess pursuing Till the gods made Philomela a nightingale, Lute of the rising moon, and Procne a swallow Oh livers and artists of Hellas centuries gone, Sealing in little thuribles dreams and wisdom, Incense beyond all price, forever fragrant, A breath whereof makes clear the eyes of the soul How I inhaled its sweetness here in Spoon River! The thurible opening when I had lived and learned How all of us kill the children of love, and all of us, Knowing not what we do, devour their flesh; And all of us change to singers, although it be But once in our lives, or change—alas!—to swallows, To twitter amid cold winds and falling leaves! Percival Sharp Observe the clasped hands! Are they hands of farewell or greeting, Hands that I helped or hands that helped me? Would it not be well to carve a hand With an inverted thumb, like Elagabalus? And yonder is a broken chain, The weakest-link idea perhaps— But what was it? And lambs, some lying down, Others standing, as if listening to the shepherd— Others bearing a cross, one foot lifted up— Why not chisel a few shambles? And fallen columns! Carve the pedestal, please, Or the foundations; let us see the cause of the fall. And compasses and mathematical instruments, In irony of the under tenants, ignorance Of determinants and the calculus of variations. And anchors, for those who never sailed. And gates ajar—yes, so they were; You left them open and stray goats entered your garden. And an eye watching like one of the Arimaspi— So did you—with one eye. And angels blowing trumpets—you are heralded— It is your horn and your angel and your family’s estimate. It is all very well, but for myself I know I stirred certain vibrations in Spoon River Which are my true epitaph, more lasting than stone. Hiram Scates