Streets everywhere,— Endless, labyrinthine, chasmy, crowded,— All leading through the Egyptian night of ancient blackness To these oases of tables,— These howling dervish-tents,— These feasts of lanterns .... Strange altars of the midnight! Doubtful sanctuaries between wars! Perilous tombs of forgotten goddesses! VII. I mark you well, my companions, Though you do not mark me. To which one of you shall I go As the girl to me once came, And take your hands, and speak With silence across gulfs of silence? Where in your mist Is the friend who might be mine? Do the pale blue veils of smoke So utterly hide him? Life, like a restless wave, Has gathered us here together As pebbles upon a remote shore— Scattered when the next wave shall come. VIII. It is a chaos, this world. Therefore it rests me. For I have striven long To create a world of my heart’s desire,— To erect pinnacles of dream That should shine amid the sunlight, Giving intelligible form To the intentions of the earth. And I am tired— Tired of my pinnacles of dream,— Both those that shine already amid the sunlight And those that shall never be upraised. And I descend Into this chaos, this real world of waiters, And it rests me. IX. I too have been here with my gay companions— But I do not like it. For I love my companions with an inexpressible passion— I love them better Elsewhere. This is a place Of desolation— Of those who do not love Or honor one another— A purgatory, a hall That is entrance to the Pit, Whither many a one Will go from here. Now I will rise, And taking with me the volume Of George Santayana, on the back of which I have been writing,— Taking my black lacquer stick That is now almost famous,— I will pay the check, Forgetting not the waiter, And hie me to a friend, if I can find him; Or failing that, I will go home And in the awed grey dawnlight Read from Santayana’s “The Life of Reason” In five noble volumes. For this is a place of madness, And this city is doomed. Emma Goldman on Trial LOUISE BRYANT Just about the time that one Portland, Oregon, newspaper had smugly remarked, editorially, that Portland was far ahead of many other cities in its treatment of Emma Goldman in that it ignored her altogether, pandemonium broke loose. Within a few days, that paper and all the others in town gave Miss Goldman such front page notices and such flaring headlines that the war in Europe seemed quite an insignificant thing compared to the peril which seemed to be threatening the “Rose City” on account of her presence in our midst.