BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Poems by Alice S. BlackwellAll sorts of smells infest this feat And frightfully they mix, The worst is of Republican Black rotten politics It comes from Mrs Boyer's She keeps it very neat And she believes, deluded soul! That it is clean & sweet She fears it hides malignant germs And toils for their destruction Yet all all her [premises?] exude Political corruption.But we have pleasant [ideas?] too A fragrance round her house That charms her neighbors, every one And all foul stenches covers! They grudge it me especially Down in Louisiana And tis a thing for which myself I daily sing Hosanna I to her microbes am immune If not 'twere most distressing And she is in all other ways A flowing well of blessing And [as she] she has some intelligence Despite broad streaks of blindness A light and sunny cheerfulness And wondrous human Kindness She "makes a joy" for every oneQueen of all hearts is she; And for her pleasure in my home. Then may her Xmas day be beautiful. Her new year fair and sunny. As pleasant as she is herself. So jolly and so funny. To Mrs. Eliz - Tilton December 25, 1926 As Mrs. Valiant-for-the-Truth Of old withstood the devil, Our Mrs. Tilton bravely fights To free the world from evil. Amid so many hireling pens, As many foolish voices, She always strikes a true clear note; On her my soul rejoices! She worked as Frances Willard did, And those I knew in youth, Who sacrificed their very live, To spread the light and truth. Hats off to Mrs. Tilton, then! With loving hearts sincere We wish to her a Christmas bright, As good and glad New Year! ASBI'll tell you how the sun rose, -- A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!" . . . .. . . .. But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while Till when they reached the other side A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away. To Emily Dickinson She searched among the flowers To find the honeyed word. Her accents pure and silvered Seem stolen from a bird. She snared the stars in spider-webs Of quaint and careless rhyme. Skeins woven with the frailest threads But they shall hold through time. Alice Stone Blackwell OFFICE OF THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL, No. 3 TREMONT PLACE. Boston, 1872 99 in the Shade. Oh for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! Oh for an iceberg or two at control! Oh for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers! Oh for a pleasure trip up to the hole! Oh for a little one story thermometer, With nothing but zero's all ranged in a row! Oh for a big double barreled bydrometer, To measure the moisture that rolls from my brow! Oh that this cold world were twenty times colder! (That's irony red-hot, it seemeth to me), Oh for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder! Oh what a comfort an ague would be! Oh for a grotto to typify heaven, Scooped in the rock under cataract vast! Oh for a winter of discontent, even! Oh for wet blankets judiciously cast!Oh for a soda fount sprouting up boldly From every hot lamp post against the hot sky! Oh for a proud maiden to look on one coldly! Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye! Then oh for a draft from a cup of "cold pizen"! And oh for a resting place in the cold grave! With a bath in the Styx, where the thick shadow lies on And deepens the chill of the dark runnining wave! Punchinello.Easter, 1942. A triple alliance, effective and high, Is made up of Barbara, Edna and Guy. they work for good objects too many to name With skill and with vigor that all must acclaim. (over)2 From colds and distress may they soon be set free! My best Easter wishes I send to all [these?] Alice Stone Blackwell.3 hardly [reslide?] on the F th trust of or strngt the wage glee & ina me. Pr [avrge?] [gld?] F vime. th latr lettr f [such?] [I?] [?no?] [As I go out save it?]4 [In the] of [box] the first [?] coal [?] [?] he [?] She led her aid to those the other tone history, For, For she had many varied gifts, And talents not a few. She labors well and gallantly, Whatever her relation That later bade her gratitude.Hmage ud auin atrCENTRAL COMMITTEE FOR CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTORS 2006 Walnut Street Philadelphia 3, Pennsylvania Rittenhouse 6-1480 RAY NEWTON, Chairman CALEB FOOTE, Executive Secretary Dear Friend: The passage of peacetime conscription has again placed upon us the urgent task of supporting and defending conscientious objectors as they face the impact of the state upon their lives. For many of these men the workings of Selective Service machinery will probably mean imprisonment, and prison gates have already closed behind the vanguard of this group. Many of them are men who would have been classified IV-E as conscientious objectors during the last war, but who will be denied such recognition under the narrowed definition of the 1948 law. Many more are men who feel the greatest contribution they can make against conscription and war is to refuse all compliance with a draft law whose sole purpose is to build up the machinery of war. Organized by men widely representative of church, peace and civil liberties groups, the Central Committee for Conscientious Objectors is a national, independent organization planned to meet the specific needs of conscientious objectors under the 1948 draft. Arrangements have been made with the National Service Board for Religious Objectors to avoid duplications in function. Although the Central Committee stands ready to aid all types of objectors, it will complement the N.S.B.R.O. by concentrating upon those whose principles are not recognized by the law's discriminatory provisions, or who are in principle opposed to it and fall outside its provisions. To save overhead and avoid duplication of appeals the Central Committee will for the present also handle the work which the Committee for Amnesty was doing for men still imprisoned or deprived of important civil rights under the 1940 (World War II) Selective Service Act. Whether or not you agree with the specific stands these men take, we are sure you join us in striving to maintain the rights of conscience which are threatened when conscientious men are sent to prison because they cannot violate their deeply held principles. The American Friends Service Committee has made a substantial contribution that this work might be launched without delay, but further funds are now needed to carry out the plans outlined in the accompanying folder. Will you not join us in this task, and send us your contribution at this time? Sincerely yours, A. Muste A. J. Muste Ray Newton Ray Newton1950 All hail to you dear maids and people, On this your natal morn! A happy day for womankind It was when you were born. Your fairy godmother's bestowed Beauty of form and face and also beauty of the soul, A richer rarer grace, A keen intelligence there was within that lovely head. Through as our long and arduous fight the women's host for dead. Few can look back on such a life lived through a tremulous time. From your old colleague and your friend accept this grateful rhyme. When comes the spring and flower unfaced In couture for ... When blood ... Flood in flood ... a darkness...2 With undie bud rolas, They say, "Each year not later [??] 3 That cometh from [??]. [(The skill to cook delicious meals, Though she would have desird it, I think the [?fuvis] did not give]Oh, who shall be my Valentine? For whom do I my garland twine? The mistress of the prettiest pet That ever captured all he met; The owner of the sweetest pup That ever chewed a blanket up The mother of the [?arest] dog That ever relished [a?ity] [pr?g] The loudest [little beast] doggie [ki?] Momma That you'll discover, near or far For her my [laurel] myrtle wreath I twine 'Tis she shall be my Valentine!DOVE'S NESTS "Build doves' nests, And the doves will come." The old song our fathers loved There is weight and wisdom too. I have built a nest in my heart of hearts; I have made it soft and fair. Will the dove I seek from the wide, wide world Come in and nestle there? Lilith's Roses Lilith has two rose trees, One on either hand. You may seek their like in vain, Searching every land. He who smells the white rose Forgets his name and kin, Home and friends an early love, As if they had not been. He who smells the red rose, With rapture keen as pain, Sighs his soul out with the scent When he breathes again. Go gather blossoms East and West Through earth's far stretching bowers; Inhale their myriad fragrances, But touch not Lilith's flowers!I lay concealed behind a lattice high, Where roses clung and clustered in their pride. A band of maidens, silver-voiced and shy, Discoursed of love upon the other side. One sweetest voice of all enthralled mine ear, Among those many maids, who could she be? Although the vines were thick that clustered near, I made a little gap through which to see. O'er those bright faces in youth's rosy glow My eager glances wandered, seeking her. She spoke again, my sweet-voiced girl! And lo, it was the lovely white-haired grandmother. We sat alone in a circle Of shimmering birch trees green, Wrapted in their tender rustle, While the moon-light fell between. Oh the keen white sword of the moonlight. As it rested on the moss! A gulf of the outer darkness Had easier been to cross. And, oh the shimmering rustle That leaves of the birch trees make! The hush between Death and Judgement Had easier been to break.[*poetry*] [*aum 7*] THE HAPPY MAN. A happy man is not the man who never knew the storms of life, Whose fate was secure and never brought him in contact with cruelties of life. Neither the man who never tested his strength And never set example of power of will and spirit That beautify our life. The vanity of wealth is not the sign of human nature's greatness! No! Without constant fight of evil One can never acquire strength enough to withstand temptations; The spirit weakens and tries to grasp illusory lack. No, there is no beauty in the life of man who never knew the joy of fighting storms Of overcoming stormy seas. And happy is the man who holds his rudder firmly with his own hands, Who pulls his oars himself, Who looks far off and sees the shore beyond, Who strikes the raging waves and goes ahead undaunted. He may be tired out, exhausted even wounded, But victory is his! He will breathe freely if on and on he goes his own way. Thunders, lightnings, roaring storms, squalls of wind Never can shatter strength of spirit If the Man Respects Himself! IN ST. HUBERT'S CHAPEL "The trees in this secluded spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the earth there peeped out a lowly c chapel. Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple kind. In a small niche over the arched doorway stood a stone image of St. Hubert, with the bugle-horn around his neck. The inside of the chapel was adon adorned in a manner adapted to the occupation of the saint while on earth. The richest furs of such animals as are made the objects of the chase supplied the place of tapestry and hangings around the altar, an and elsewhere mingled with the heads of deer, wolves and other animals _Quentin Durward. In the heart of the shady beech forest, afar from the camp and the court Lies buried the old [f foret] forest chapel, where hunters no longer resort Old trees bend their branches above it, about it dark ivy-vines cling Of old the worn stones of its chancel were pressed by the knees of a [Kin] king. Here glitter no satins or samites; the skins of the wolf and the boar Are draped for a cloth on the altar, and spread for a rug on the floor Look round, in the glimmering twilight To statelier altars men carry their offerings of jewels and gold, But every rude gift in this chapel was bought with the blood of the bl bold. Look round, in the glimmering twilight that shines through the dim pa painted pane, And see in each tropbhy a token of sind men have conquered and slain. The fox-skins of falsehood and cunning are hung here; the boar's tawny hide, The symbol of passion and fury; the stag's lofty antlers, for pride. How many and many a hero, his name unremenmbered of men, Has faced the wild boar in his fury, or followed the wolf to his den. What struggles in wilds and waste places have reddened with life-blood the sod. What trophies brave hearts in all ages have brought to the altars of God. Till the greenwood is pleasant to walk in, made free from the perils of yore, And the sod, purpled only with violets, forgets the dark blood of the boar. But the old trees that looked on those conflicts wave slow their weird branches: "We k now." And the laurels that shadow the casements yet sing of them, dimly and low. Tall minsters are builded o'er heroes who fell 'misd the battle-field's flame, Who struck with the sword of the soldier, and live in the annals of fame. Aye, bright is the fame of the soldier, a clear-shining track of renon renown Yet braver, methinks, those old hunters who ranged through the beech forest brown. Men follow where bugles are calling, and banners stream bright in the sun; They march while the music is marking a thousand strong heartbeats as one; Ah, yes. but these wrestled with monsters alone in the wilderness dread, With none to applaud if they conquered, and none to cry "Shame." if they fled. Than all of earth's haughty cathedrals I hold it a holier place, This dim little old forest chapel, hung round with the spoils of the chase. Today our wild beasts are within us; they haunt the deep caves of the heart; Alone in the silence of midnight , their cries make us shudder and start. Nor only within us; around us they range on their errands of ill. Stern gifts to the shrine of St. Hubert the valiant may bring if they will. If ravening beasts of the darkness have vanished from mountain and moor, Great wrongs stalk abroad in the sunlight, devouring the weak and the poor. And the horns of the hunters are sounding_ for those who can hear them they blow, Clear, clear in the grey liquid twilight, and clear in the dawn's ruddy glow. Imperious, piercing, appealing, they ring over mountain and plain_ And the souls of the valiant, uprising, go forth to the hunting again. Alice Stone Blackwell.