What do you see now? Globes of red, yellow, purple. Just a moment! And now? My father and mother and sisters. Yes! And now? Knights at arms, beautiful women, kind faces. Try this. A field of grain—a city. Very good! And now? A young woman with angels bending over her. A heavier lens! And now? Many women with bright eyes and open lips. Try this. Just a goblet on a table. Oh I see! Try this lens! Just an open space—I see nothing in particular. Well, now! Pine trees, a lake, a summer sky. That’s better. And now? A book. Read a page for me. I can’t. My eyes are carried beyond the page. Try this lens. Depths of air. Excellent! And now! Light, just light making everything below it a toy world. Very well, we’ll make the glasses accordingly. Magrady Graham Tell me, was Altgeld elected Governor? For when the returns began to come in And Cleveland was sweeping the East It was too much for you, poor old heart, Who had striven for democracy In the long, long years of defeat. And like a watch that is worn I felt you growing slower until you stopped. Tell me, was Altgeld elected, And what did he do? Did they bring his head on a platter to a dancer, Or did he triumph for the people? For when I saw him And took his hand, The child-like blueness of his eyes Moved me to tears, And there was an air of eternity about him, Like the cold, clear light that rests at dawn On the hills! Archibald Higbie I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you, I was ashamed of you. I despised you As the place of my nativity. And there in Rome, among the artists, Speaking Italian, speaking French, I seemed to myself at times to be free Of every trace of my origin. I seemed to be reaching the heights of art And to breathe the air that the masters breathed And to see the world with their eyes. But still they’d pass my work and say: “What are you driving at, my friend? Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.” There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River And I burned with shame and held my peace. And what could I do, all covered over And weighted down with western soil Except aspire, and pray for another Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River Rooted out of my soul? Tom Merritt At first I suspected something— She acted so calm and absent-minded. And one day I heard the back door shut As I entered the front, and I saw him slink Back of the smokehouse into the lot And run across the field. And I meant to kill him on sight. But that day, walking near Fourth Bridge Without a stick or a stone at hand, All of a sudden I saw him standing Scared to death, holding his rabbits, And all I could say was, “Don’t, Don’t, Don’t,” As he aimed and fired at my heart. Mrs. Merritt