The Great Valley

Name: The Great Valley
Author: Masters, Edgar Lee

Masters, Edgar Lee

American poetry

And afterwards it wasn’t so much to be alone,
    Nor to dream of the days that were done,
    Save as it deepened the surge in my heart,
    Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thought
    Of your soul drawn away from me,
    So needlessly drawn it seemed.
    And it’s the music that deepens and changes,--
    For as your soul adds strings to its strings
    There are fingers to play--it almost seems
    There are fingers about us that watch and wait
    For a soul that’s adding strings to its harp
    To play them when they’re strung.
    And so it’s the music that deepens and changes
    That kills you at last I think.

    Well, I had a dream one night
    That a dead man well could dream:
    They had buried me in Rosehill.
    And after twenty years from France they brought you
    And put you just across the walk from me
    Where we slept while the crowding city grew
    To a vast six millions, and they were building
    A subway to Lake Forest.
    And we were forgotten of everyone,
    And almost our family names were lost.
    And our love you fled from all forgotten,
    And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgotten
    With the whispers of boys and girls
    In a temple’s shadow in Babylon.

    Well, to pursue, it’s a day in March
    When the colors are brilliantly white and blue;
    And it’s cold except for Poles and Italians
    Who dig with spades and cut with picks.
    And some of these fellows are digging us up,
    We lie in the way of the subway, you know.
    And they dump our bones in a careless heap,
    The ribs of me by the ribs of you,
    My skull lies ignorant by your skull.
    And behold our poor arms are entwined.
    For death you know is a mocker of Life.
    And there we lie like stocks and stones,
    And where is our love and where is your fear?
    And a young Pole pushes our bones together
    With a lusty shove of his heavy shoe,
    And he says to another: “You saw that girl
    I was dancing with last night?
    Well, I don’t think I’m the only one.
    And besides she bothers me most to death.
    And as soon as this subway job is over,
    Which will be in a year, or year and a half,
    I’m going to beat it back to Poland.”
    Then the other beginning to shovel muttered:
    “1976.”




      THE RADICAL’S MESSAGE

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The Great ValleyMasters, Edgar Lee

General

The Great Valley

Masters, Edgar Lee

American poetry

And afterwards it wasn’t so much to be alone,
    Nor to dream of the days that were done,
    Save as it deepened the surge in my heart,
    Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thought
    Of your soul drawn away from me,
    So needlessly drawn it seemed.
    And it’s the music that deepens and changes,--
    For as your soul adds strings to its strings
    There are fingers to play--it almost seems
    There are fingers about us that watch and wait
    For a soul that’s adding strings to its harp
    To play them when they’re strung.
    And so it’s the music that deepens and changes
    That kills you at last I think.

    Well, I had a dream one night
    That a dead man well could dream:
    They had buried me in Rosehill.
    And after twenty years from France they brought you
    And put you just across the walk from me
    Where we slept while the crowding city grew
    To a vast six millions, and they were building
    A subway to Lake Forest.
    And we were forgotten of everyone,
    And almost our family names were lost.
    And our love you fled from all forgotten,
    And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgotten
    With the whispers of boys and girls
    In a temple’s shadow in Babylon.

    Well, to pursue, it’s a day in March
    When the colors are brilliantly white and blue;
    And it’s cold except for Poles and Italians
    Who dig with spades and cut with picks.
    And some of these fellows are digging us up,
    We lie in the way of the subway, you know.
    And they dump our bones in a careless heap,
    The ribs of me by the ribs of you,
    My skull lies ignorant by your skull.
    And behold our poor arms are entwined.
    For death you know is a mocker of Life.
    And there we lie like stocks and stones,
    And where is our love and where is your fear?
    And a young Pole pushes our bones together
    With a lusty shove of his heavy shoe,
    And he says to another: “You saw that girl
    I was dancing with last night?
    Well, I don’t think I’m the only one.
    And besides she bothers me most to death.
    And as soon as this subway job is over,
    Which will be in a year, or year and a half,
    I’m going to beat it back to Poland.”
    Then the other beginning to shovel muttered:
    “1976.”




      THE RADICAL’S MESSAGE

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Great Valley

The Great Valley

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