Old Amaze. [Mahlon Leonard Fisher] Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze At mountains, and at meadows deftly strewn With bits of the gay jewelry of June And of her splendid vesture; and, agaze, I stand where Spring her bright brocade of days Embroidered o'er, and listen to the flow Of sudden runlets -- the faint blasts they blow, Low, on their stony bugles, in still ways. For wonders are at one, confederate yet: Yea, where the wearied year came to a close, An odor reminiscent of the rose; And everywhere her seal has Summer set; And, as of old, in the horizon-sky, The sun can find a lovely place to die. Voyage a l'Infini. [Walter Conrad Arensberg] The swan existing Is like a song with an accompaniment Imaginary. Across the grassy lake, Across the lake to the shadow of the willows, It is accompanied by an image, -- as by Debussy's "Reflets dans l'eau". The swan that is Reflects Upon the solitary water -- breast to breast With the duplicity: "~The other one!~" And breast to breast it is confused. O visionary wedding! O stateliness of the procession! It is accompanied by the image of itself Alone. At night The lake is a wide silence, Without imagination. After Sunset. [Grace Hazard Conkling] I have an understanding with the hills At evening when the slanted radiance fills Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, And they are quiet and look down at me. Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes Out of the centuries that made them wise. They lend me hoarded memory and I learn Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern, And why a dream of forests must endure Though every tree be slain: and how the pure, Invisible beauty has a word so brief A flower can say it or a shaken leaf, But few may ever snare it in a song, Though for the quest a life is not too long. When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull The twilight close with gesture beautiful, And shadows are their garments, and the air Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer, -- Their arms are strong around me; and I know That somehow I shall follow when you go To the still land beyond the evening star, Where everlasting hills and valleys are: And silence may not hurt us any more, And terror shall be past, and grief, and war. Morning Song of Senlin. [Conrad Aiken] It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie. Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones.