A stalk of the earth-sphere, Frail as star-light; Waiting to be drawn once again Into creation’s stream. But next time to be given birth Gazed at by Raphael and St. Francis Sometimes as they pass. For I am their little brother, To be known clearly face to face Through a cycle of birth hereafter run. You may know the seed and the soil; You may feel the cold rain fall, But only the earth-sphere, only heaven Knows the secret of the seed In the nuptial chamber under the soil. Throw me into the stream again, Give me another trial— Save me, Shelley! Anne Rutledge Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; “With malice toward none, with charity for all.” Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the beneficent face of a nation Shining with justice and truth. I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds, Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln, Wedded to him, not through union, But through separation. Bloom forever, O Republic, From the dust of my bosom! Hamlet Micure In a lingering fever many visions come to you: I was in the little house again With its great yard of clover Running down to the board-fence, Shadowed by the oak tree, Where we children had our swing. Yet the little house was a manor hall Set in a lawn, and by the lawn was the sea. I was in the room where little Paul Strangled from diphtheria, But yet it was not this room— It was a sunny verandah enclosed With mullioned windows And in a chair sat a man in a dark cloak With a face like Euripides. He had come to visit me, or I had gone to visit him—I could not tell. We could hear the beat of the sea, the clover nodded Under a summer wind, and little Paul came With clover blossoms to the window and smiled. Then I said: “What is ‘divine despair,’ Alfred?” “Have you read ‘Tears, Idle Tears’?” he asked. “Yes, but you do not there express divine despair.” “My poor friend,” he answered, “that was why the despair Was divine.” Mabel Osborne Your red blossoms amid green leaves Are drooping, beautiful geranium! But you do not ask for water. You cannot speak! You do not need to speak— Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst, Yet they do not bring water! They pass on, saying: “The geranium wants water.” And I, who had happiness to share And longed to share your happiness; I who loved you, Spoon River, And craved your love, Withered before your eyes, Spoon River— Thirsting, thirsting, Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love, You who knew and saw me perish before you, Like this geranium which someone has planted over me, And left to die. William H. Herndon