BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Spanish-American Poems: Translations by Alice S. BlackwellLa Noche de [los] los Andes Hay en las soledades de la puna, cuaudo la noche augmenta ese reposo, un misterio solumne y religioso como el amor [du] de un alma sin fortuna. Cada cumbre de nieve es como una virgen, que, de la mano del esposo, aparece en el templo luminaso, envelta en fría castitad de Luna. ¡ Oh, quadro aquel de místicos reflejos! Los mismos Andes á los cielos crecen. Como torres de ingente campanario; los rayos se hacen cruces, í los lejos; y hasta los astros, al brota, parecen las desgranadas cuentas de un rosario.ODA CIVICA. José Santos Chocano. En la inauguración del monumento a Bonito Juarez, en la República de Guatemala. Canto este viejo tronco de la montaña azteca poblada ancestralmente de genios y vestiglos; y el torbellino alado de su hojarasca seca, que levanta en los aires su columna de siglos. Canto este viejo tronco de heroicas cicatrices, erguido entre el tumulto de las banderas rojas: canto el sudor de sangre que bana sus raíces y el viento de cien años que pasa por sus hojas... Y fué en la media noche de América. Y el coro de todos nuestros héroes se reunió en un puño. Imperativamente sonó un clarín de oro, y otro héroe, en cuyas sienes el Sol grabó su cuño, llegó, con tal reposo por largo derrotero como si en cada paso midiese un siglo entero. En ese coro estaba Bolívar el primero, enarbolando el irio de su bandera. Un día saltó a la peña que abre, como si fuese en brazo, del crespo Tequendama la majestas bravía; y recogió del fondo del agua aquel chispazo, de que hizo la bandera que luego en su osadía clavó en las irisadas nieves del Chimborazo. Y el dios recibió en júbilo al héroe que venía, traía él las sienes opresas entre abrojos; el rayo, el tibio rayo de la melancolía en las alucinantes cavernas de sus ojos, y la fatiga eterna del heroismo vano, en las desnidas plantas, que, por la selva umbría, supieron de la piedra, la zarza y el pantano y entraron en la gloria sangrando todavía. . . 2. ¿Quién era aquel trasunto de la vetusta raza, digno de que, en la pomopa de un medallón guerrero pusiérase en su diestra la abrumadora maza y en la siniestra el disco de su broquel de cuero? El era como un tronco que tuviese conciencia en una florescencia de heroicos desengaños: era la copa viva que recogió la esencia filtrada por los indios en novecientos años.3. El entonó los himnos con que cantaba al Sol la imperativa musa de Netzahualcoyotl; él recogió las flechas finas como miradas que dejó en diez mil troncos Quantlatonuatl clavadas; él aprendió la frase sin protesta ni ruego con que Cuauhtemoc puso las plantas en el fuego; y él soñó en una patria que fuese como una Zocnipapalotl necna de Sol y algo de Luna.. Se le obstinó la suerte, como un corcel salvaje que se encabrita al borde del antro; y, sin rendaje, sin espueles, cogido de la grat crin sonora, jinete de sol siglos, está corriendo abora... y el ritno de los cascos de ese galope arranca chispas para sus ojos, flores para su frente: clavó la última flecha de la estirpe, en el anca; y, así, partió hacia el viejo nopal de la serpiente. Después del día en que nizo girar sobre su gozne las puertas de la Gloria, volvió a las soledades; y eternamente encima de su corcel de bronce, aun corre por las selvas atravesando edadas... Juárez, no nas concluído. Juárez: corre a lo largo de este mar de Baiboa, no vanamente amargo... Ya ves tú cómo el Istmo de Morazán te aclama: retumbos de volcanes son trompas de tu fama. Corre, corre, atraviesa todo mi contiente: Poeta del Sur, hago que mi alabanza vibre para evitarte al éxodo hacia mi patria ausente. ¡Oh el Caballero Andante de la conciencia libre! El día en que el Estrecho llegue a escmchar tus bronces, todos seremos fuertes, todo seremos grandes; y, cual soñó Bolívar, han de formar ya entonces la misma cordillera los pueblos que los Andes. 206 I close my heart, as 'twere a convent garden Sealed by an abbess with her pious hand. Withered my soul is, [I] once a sacred rose-tree roses [?] bright petals to expand Where many flavors were wanted to expand Now I have lowered my flag of dreams & slowly, As in some rite archaic, pluck away The loves of all the blossoms of my springtime Amid infinity's clam peace today 37 Sometimes I chance to meet her in the world; She passes near me, & she smiles the while; And [then written] on my heart, I [mitily?] ask myself "How can she smile?" Then on my lips there dawns another smile; A mask for grief that bitter mocking smile must shine; And then, "Perhaps," within my heart I [say] think "Her laughter is like mine!"33 [Thou art] You are the whirlwind, of the lofty tower [That braving] That braves its power, [that defying] & meets it steadfastly You strive seek wish to [ch?] break breach or to lay me low; It cannot be! You are the ocean, I the [upright] towering rock visited the bellows [?] [Awaiting] That firmly can withstand the billowing sea [That faces] all its waves unflinchingly Fain would you break me, sweep me from my base - It cannot be! [You] beauteous you are, I proud; you To [overcome] vanquish conquer, I [unmoved to be] to [stand unyieldingly] yield not nor to [fly?] The path is narrow & we [?eids] must clash- It cannot be! 20 Two tongues of ruddy flame, that wind [& wander] embracing [Embracing the same] One trunk log with equal aim, Draw near, more near - and as they kiss each other Become one flame; two notes that from the lite the hand together Flinge forth upon the air, That meet in space, & melting & harmonious Are blended there; Two waves that roll together towards the sea-beach To perish there And with [a] one flung dying crest are crowned in breaking Of silver fair Two must wreaths [of vapor] from the lake [uprising] that rise, up floating To heaven's height [And join come together in] [And] That mingle there to form amid the ether [A] One cloud of white; Two thoughts that dawn together, or two kisses That [make] wake a single [echo on] sound upon the breeze That in one breath combine Two echoes that are mingled & [united] confounded in ours in a single sound comingled Thy soul & ruin are these These are thy soul & mine 99 The dusky swallows will return again To hand their nests upon thy balcony And with their wings against thy window panes [Sporting] Play, will call to thee But those that stayed their [airy] flight in air, to [gorge upon absorbed,] watch They beauty & my happiness of yore Those that had learned to know us by our names They will return no more The folded close-shut honeysuckles will [return] count back [To climb] thy garden [mud] walls up climbing as of old; Again at eventide, [an more faire, than in the past] still [?yore] beauteous yet Their blossoms will unfold But those, [dew-filled, that use were wont to see watch] all thick filled with rain whose drops we [used to see] saw Tremble & [upon them] glimmer in [the hours] those eves of yore And fall, like tears of the departing day Those will return no more [And] Thy ardent words of love will [come] sound anew Withing thine ear, breathed from the lips of men And from its slumber deep [profound & sound] & still thy heart [Perhaps] Perchance will wake again But mute, absorbed, & kneeling as men kneel To worship God, His alter pure below, As I have loved thee - do not be deceived, They will not love thee so! How does it live, that rose which thou [hast] didst fasten Close to thine heart this hour? Never till now have I o'er a volcano Beheld a flower! The moon, the messenger Of the echoes of tenderness That tents the ermine soft Of the cloud wreath colorless The star that with sadness sweet Burns with a timid light On the verge 'twixt joy & grief, Between the [eve] day & the night - The streamlet, gentle & pure And the sigh [that] it breathes alway As it glides on, kissing the wall Of her home of yesterday The swallows that come in flocks To the balconies & sing Where downward their deep festoons The fields & the ivies flingThe birds in their love tune sweet That take flight side by side Or talk of heaven, below Enter lacing boughs spread wide And all that [this picture fair] smiling scene Of shadows & hues that gleams Of murmurs & winds & flowers Is the image of a dream [O] For it is the scene that oft By [your] thy side I [used] was wont to see The paradise of my dreams That speaks to me still of theeMadrigal de la Noche A veces, de la noche entre la sombra, mientras viene del sueño el dulce instante, oigo una voz distante, un grito que clarisimo me nombre. Y estremecido por un vivo anhelo abro los ojos e interrogo al cielo: ¿De quién será esa voz, será de aquella que abrió en mi alma las primeras flores? Y me sonríe una lejana estrella, avivando sus limpidos fulgores! Sometimes amid the shadows [darkness] of the night When the slumber's moment sweet is drawing near [the sweet time of sleep is drawing softly near] I hear a voice that sounds from far away Calling upon my name in accents clear. Then trembling with keen longing, yearningly thine eyes I open, questioning the sky, Whose can [may] that voice be? Oh, can it be hers Who in my soul made spring's first flowers unfold? And a star smiles on me from far away Making more bright its rays of limpid gold!Contributing Editors Mary Johnston Stephen S. Wise Josephine Peabody Marks Zona Gale Florence Kelley Witter Bynner Ben B. Lindsey Caroline Bartlett Crane Ellis Meredith Mabel Craft Deering Eliza Calvert Hall Reginald Wright Kauffman The Woman's Journal 45 Boutwell Avenue, Dorchester, Boston, Mass. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Board of Directors Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt Miss Alice Stone Blackwell Mrs. Maud Wood Park Mrs. Lewis Jerome Johnson Mrs. George W. Blackwell PUBLISHER George Brewster GallupEl Junco y el Cipres Guillermo Blest Gana Al lúgubre Cipres, con triste acento el Junco melancólico decia: ¡ Ah, qué fatal destino! Yo me alcé tan alegre, tan contento cuando la aurora vino, Y hora sin fuerza ya, sin energía sobre mi tallo débil me reclino y me siento morir . . ¿ Por qué la suerte la vida te dá á tí y á mí la muerte? Y el Cipres respondía: El dolor es eterno, la dicha dura un día. En tí simbolizan la tristeza los hombres, dijo el Junco, en mí al anhelo de los que aman y esperan. ¿ Cómo es que nunca doblas tu cabeza, ni tu color alteran las lluvias y los vientos? - Para el duelode aquellas que de todo [desperan] desesperan hay un solo color, dijo el Cipres, y si tú nunca dobligar me ves me cabeza hácia el suelo, es que desprecio al mundo y miro solo al cielo. Antologia Ecuatoriana 1 Poetas 2 Cantares Juan Leon Mera Sal 5851.5 Obras, Blest Gana, Sal 5137.2.1 (3 vols.) Poesias Liricas, Manuel A. Hurtada Poesias de Mercedes Marin Sal 5267.1.2 Digo Uribe, Hielos Sal 5769.2.32 Margarita " " 31 Ritos, Valencia, 5775.2.31 Antologia Chilena, (pros & poetry) Figuera, Sal 5055.3 Antos, C. Oyuela; Sal 4500.1.6 Poesias, Manuel Acuira Sal 1502.1.3 Obras " " 1502.1.1 Antologia de Poetas Hispano Americanos (Royal Sal 60.7 Spanish Academy); vol. 1, Mex & Centr Am vol 2 Cuba, San Domingo, Porto Rico, Venezuela vol 3 Colombia, Equador, Peru, Bolivia; vol 4. Chile, Argentina, Uruguay Arpas Cubana Sal 160.8 Echeverria, Poesias, Sal 4378.1.1 vol 1 & vol 3Antologia Americana Sal 60 + 8 Lira Americana Sal 60.3.5 Palma " " Sal 60.3 Poesias de la America Meridional Sal 60.5 [All] Avellaneda, Obras Literarias, Sal 321.1.1. (1st vol. only) Herrera y Reissig Obras Completas Sal 7628.1.1 Honduras Literaria, Duron, Sal 1858.3 -- vol 2 Guirnalda Salvadorena 1860.5 (3 vols) Leyendas Mexicanas -- Roa Barcena 1726.1.2 Poetas Revolucionarios, Delgado, 1460.9 La Lira Mexicana 1460.3 Las Trovadores de Mexico 1460.4 (2 vols) Versos Zaragoza 1795.2.1 Urbina, Lamparas en Agonía 1769.1.3 " Ingenias 1769.1.2 Puestas 1.5 Juan de Dios Peya 1573.12 Hogar Patria, Recuerdas Esperanzas 3, Arpa de Amor 2 Flores del Alma 6? Leyendas de las Calles de Mejico 5 Davalos. 1570.1.5 MisDramas Intimos; 1570.1.7 Del Bajio u Carribenas Pimentel 1 copy Á Mis Enemigos Dolores Veintemilla de Galindo ¿ Qué os [hice] hice yo, mujer desventurada, que en mi rostro, traidores, escupís de la infame columnia la ponzoña y así matais á mi alma juvenil? ¿ Qué sombra os puede hacer una insensata que arroja de los vientos al confín los lamentos de su alma atribulada y el llanto de sus ojos, ay de mí! ¿ Envidiais, envidiaís que sus aromas les dé á las brisas mansas el jazmín? ¿ Envidiais que los pájaros intonen sus himnos cuando el sol viene á lucir? No! no os burlais de mí, sino del Cielo. . . que, al hacerme tan triste é infeliz, me dió para endulzar me desventura de ardiente inspiración rayo gentil. ¿ Por qué, por qué quereis que yo sofoque lo que en mi pensamiento osa vivir? Por qué matais para la dicha mi alma? (over)2 Por qué ¡Cobardes! á Traición me herís? No dan respeto la mujer, la esposa, la madre amante á vuestra lengua vil ... Me marcais con el sello de la impura ... ¡Ay! nada! nada! respetais en mí! [*G Halbritter*]/2 207 Peru Forest Love José Santos Choreano [?] I wish to be the humble spider That weaves its web round there, in sunny air, And that, as if exploring some high mountains Wishes itself in meshes of thine hair Fair would I be a silk worm, make my [?] And to the sharp toothed wheels my cocoon [?] That so I might, imprisoned in a garment, Feel there beneath my silk folds [?] live Fair would I be a tree and give the shadow And with my blossoming branches shelter [?] And with my dry leaves make for thee a carpet Where thou shouldst throw thyself to dream with me I am a trackless wood: oh, have the pathway the pathway open! Fair would I be a condor, and, exulting, Prison a [?] in my powerful beak, And this, with proud joy, offer this a [?] To make a fan, the fairest thou couldst seek1 Fair would I be a forest boa constrictor And clash my [?] on thy graceful waistWrap[ping] all thy pulses in my knots [close] tight wove, And die, yet hold thy beauty close embraced. The jaguar that roams upon thy mountains I fain would be, and drag thee to my lair, [And] So to have power to tear thine entrails open And see if haply any heart [is] be there! The Magnolia Within the forest, full of song & fragrance, Blooms the magnolia, delicate & light, Like snowy wool among the thorns entangled Or, on the placid lake, a foam flake-white. Its vase is worthy of a Grecian maker. A marble [wonder] marvel of the classic days, It shows its fine, pure roundness like a lady Who with hard [head] heart her loveliness displays. We do not know if it be pearl or tear drop Between it and the moon with wonders rife, There is some [unknown/mystic] story of enchantment In which, perhaps, a white dove lost its life. For it is pure and white & light & graceful Like a [soft/full] bright moonbeam [quilted all around] resting on the snow Or like a dove upon the bough [alighted] that slumbers And [in its slumber] mourns in sleep with [sweet heart] cooing soft & low. Chilmark, Mass. Within America’s rich stores there her Wealth which would shame the [heaven’s height] sun with splendor bright Gold of Peru woke longing’s utmost might In men of old, and silver’s precious prize Mexico gives, in torrents pouring white, Diamonds, Brazil, like eyes [with glances] that beam with light, [And] Pearls, Panama, [fine her hearts] like fine teeth [so white/bright white] pure & bright.1 copy My White House By Manuel Gutierrez Najera Hid in a vale of flowers and fragrances, Kissed by the glowing sun from heaven above. I have a house, a dwelling of white doves, Which is a nest of dreams, a house of love. 'Tis these the gentle breezes are most mild, And there the purest in the stars' clear light: 'Tis there the birds breathe out their sweetest strains, And stars set heaven's dark cloak aflame at night. The cooing of the loving turtle dove Is blended with the zephyr's low, soft sigh: The fountains flow with sweeter murmurs there, And limpid is the sapphire of the sky. Amid the hills in that weld, fertile dale, Clad in acacias and in April flowers, Is seen my small White House, all gist about With blooming orchards, pleasant garden flowers. The passing breezes, as they touch its walls, give it a kiss which trembles for love's sake, And cool and shady thickets all around White rosebushes and fair green myrtles make [Right] 2 Upon its walls the moss and ivy climb, And cover it with freshest greenery, In the stone basin bright the water shines: Cascades of pearls it [?] , fair to see. How beautiful it looks, my small white house, Beside a lake with a chair blue waters bright! It seems a dove that slumbers, hid away In a love-nest of filmy fabrics light. There, when the light of dawn begins to break, And pallid whiteness o'er the sky is poured, The holy hell appears to mourn aloud: The earth is then a song unto the Lord. Running together, the cool drops of dew Glimmer like pearls beneath the sun's clear light Amid the rising river mists, the cross Is seen above the sanctuary white. The birds their love-nests chant among the flowers, With languid sound the waters slide along, The breezes sigh, the flowers their perfume yield, And listen to the sad and distant song. And when the world is wrapped in evening shades, When the sun sets below the ocean deep3 The sweet flowers close, the sapphire of the sky Is dimly veiled, the calm lakes fall asleep. How beautiful to see all the pallid light Of countless stars in heaven overhead - To see how that black mourning-cloak they pierce And their soft light of consolation shed! Then, vibrating the billows of the wind Repeat the church bell's tones in [echoes] accents deep; The turtle dove breathes out her softest note, The pale white lily-flowers are all asleep. If o'er the sky the moon in silence glides, [How sweet it is with calmness] Ah, then, at peace, how pleasant to behold, [T] In the still water of the clear lagoon, The [mild] melting of her trembling ray of gold! Scents, breezes, sounds, the fountain and the flower, There all in beautiful, below, above; The gentle heavens there seem full of smiles, The air of sighs, the tranquil fields of love. There rise the cedar and the stately palm, The sturdy oak, the bamboo tall and fair. But ah! sweet Lola, all things lack their soul, And heaven is lacking, for you are not there!The Knight of the Pitcher. An old French Legend. By Alice Stone Blackwell. A baron lived in days of old Of whom a wondrous tale is told, Through ages handed down. To swell his overflowing store He plundered and oppressed the poor In hamlet and in town. So heartless was he that his name A terror and a curse became Oft from his castle gate He rode to hunt men down like deer, Till all the country lay in fear, Harried and desolate. Heaven wearied of his crimes. One day He passed where by the roadside lay A mother with her child -- A peasant woman nigh to death, Who scarce could draw her laboring breath; A babe that slept and smiled. A pitcher lay beside her hand. In accents faint to understand, She gasped, "For charity, Go yonder to the water's brink, And in this pitcher bring a drink To my poor child and me." 2 The infant woke with feeble wail; The mother's face was drawn and pale, The spring was cool and near; But pity ne'er was in him born; The baron cast a glance of scorn, And smote her with his spear. "Move on, move on!" he roughly cried, "Why cumberest thou the highway-side?" When lo! with accents dread, A Voice through all his being thrilled: "Until this pitcher shall be filled, Do thou move on!" it said. About his neck the pitcher, hung By hands invisible, was slung; It beat against his breast, knocked As forth he fared in amice gray, His knightly armor stripped away, Upon a baffling quest. The knight his pitcher sought to fill At many a fountain, cool and still, In wood or shady dell; At many a storied river's brink, Where pious pilgrims pause to drink, And many a holy well. But ever as, with laughter then, 3 The silver wave flowed softly in The earthen shell to fill, A change came o'er the ripples' play; -- The water sighed and sank away, And left it empty still. He wandered on by tower and town, No more the baron of renown, But nameless 'mid the poor. He dwelt among them day and night, And learned by many a piteous sight What wretched men endure. For months his hardened breast was full Of sullen pride and anger dull. At last the heart of steel That beat within that haughty man, By suffering tamed and taught, began For others' woes to feel. He gathered patience to endure; And in the hovels of the poor He grew a gentle guest In pity for the young, the old, Their wants and sorrows manifold, He half forgot his quest. 4 When seven years had passed away, His wandering foot steps chanced to stray Back toward his castle gate. Once more beside the dusty way A woman and her infant lay, Dying and desolate. The mother raised her languid head And in a whisper faintly said; "Kind sir, for charity Go yonder to the water's brink And in thy pitcher [fetch] bring a drink For my poor child and me." He felt his heart within him bleed, And, eager to supply her need, Swift to the spring he strode; But ere his haste could reach the well, A tear within the pitcher fell; -- The pitcher overflowed! If not accepted, please return to (Miss) Alice S. Blackwell Dorchester Mass. Stamp enclosed. THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL 585 Boylston Street, Boston, Massachusetts Telephone: Back Bay 4717 Contributing Editors Mary Johnston Stephen S. Wise Josephine Peabody Marks Zona Gale Florence Kelley Witter Bynner Contributing Editors Ben B. Lindsey Caroline Bartlett Crane Ellis Meredith Mabel Craft Deering Eliza Calvert Hall Reginald Wright Kauffman Assistant Editor Editor-In-Chief Manager Henry Bailey Stevens Alice Stone Blackwell Agnes E. Ryan The Battle-Field From the Hungarian of Alexander Petofi. [Petofi, the beloved national poet of Hungary, fell in the war for Hungarian independence, in 1849. This poem was written not long before his death.] Oh, who would think or who would say That this was once a battle-field -- That lure, a few short weeks ago, Blood flowed, and war's loud thunder pealed? 'Twas lure we fought; around us here The foe his armed legions spread; 'Twas death before and death behind -- An awful day, a day of dread! Then, like the sorrow of a man, Morose and gloomy was the sky; Now it is mild and purely blue, As is an infant's limpid eye. Then, like an old man's wintry head, The earth was white snow's chill sheen; Now, like a youth's upspringing hope, 'Tis bright with hues of living green. 2 Then the deep clangor of a bell Was booming on the atmosphere; Now in the air above my head The lark is singing, blithe and clear. Then lure upon the field we saw The blood-stained corpses of the slain; And where the dead were lying thick Now flowers are blooming on the plain Oh, who would think or who would say That this was once a battle-field -- That here, a few short weeks ago, Blood flowed, and war's wild thunder healed? Alice Stone Blackwell. If not wanted, please return to A.S. Blackwell 3 Monadnock St. Dorchester, Mass. Stamp enclosed.Moonbeam, come in! Thou art a welcome guest. 'Tis long since I have seen thy silver flame. Though oft I left the window often wide, Shadows alone into my chamber came. Ungrateful comrade, thou art still the same– The beam transparent, gliding through the night, The beauteous gleam of splendor from on high, Diaphanous with amber's yellow light. Come in! She is not here; naught caust thou spy. Moonbeam, thou caust not now be indiscreet, Even if thou upon the nuptial couch Shouldst cast thy pearly radiance, clear and sweet. O'er flow the carpet, like a glittering rain; Flood all the silent room, from wall to wall: And, clinging to the darksome drapery, Lend it the semblance of a silver shawl. See'st thou, all things are dusty and unkempt; The heart is chilled to view their mournful air. Upon the blacked nail the birdcage swings Untenanted; the song-bird is not there.2. See'st thou, around the railing rough, the vine Its faded blossoms wreathes; no flower we spy Upon the rose-tree, and the lilies now Are withered, and the mignonette is dry. Thou brightness indiscreet, from heaven above! She loved thee in the past; I love thee now. How often have I seen thy glimmering light Reflected from her pure and pensive brow! The girl with golden hair The little fair-haired girl is here no more, The dreamer, pallid as the ocean foam, Who said, as on thy changing light she gazed, "It is the smile of God within our home." Ungrateful comrade, only thou and I Are in this chamber, now a place of dole; Yet, heavenly brightness indiscreet! if thou Wouldst see her, welcome! Come look into my soul!Harmonias Antonio [Zaragaz] Zaragoza Cuando en la triste pradera las flores mustias están, y muere la primavera, las golondrinas se van. Otra vez el campo adornan de primavera las galas, y las golondrinas tornan dichas trayendo en sus alas. Cuando deján las pasiones en el pecha sólo espinas, del almas las ilusiones se van cual las golondrinas. Y en vano la antigua calma anhelamos con afán; las golondrinas del alma nunca, nunca volveran. To Leonora By Amado Nervo of Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Black as the wing of Mystery thine hair, Dark as a "Never" where deep sorrow lies, As a farewell, or as the words "Who knows?" Yet is there something darker still - thine eyes! Two musing wizards are those eyes of thine; Sphinxes asleep in shadow, in the South; Two beautiful enigmas, very fair; Yet is there something fairer still - thy mouth! Thy mouth! Ah, yes! Thy mouth, divinely formed For love's expression and to be love's goal, And for love's warm communion - thy young mouth! Yet is there something better still - thy soul. Thy soul, retiring, silent, brimming o'erWith pity & with tenderness, I deem, Deep as the ocean, the unsounded sea; Yet is there something deeper still-thy dream! The Bell Manuel Jose Othon What says my voice to thee as dawn breaks When the first beams o'er the horizon spring "Vanquished is death; life throbs in everything The open furrow waits the sower's care." When evening shadows darken all the air, I say, "Now rest. The home-laugh cheer doth bring. Ever my voice invites thee as I ring; Always I follow thee, and every where. i call the living unto prayer; the dead I mourn with deep, sad notes, like sobs that shake The aching breast in sorrow's bitter hour; And to the thunder of the torrents dread In awful tempests, I my answer make With iron voice that breaks the lightning's power.Lucy Stone's Marriage Protest To the Editor of the Globe: The celebration (on Aug. 13) of Lucy Stone's 100th birthday anniversary recalls. Verses An Evocation Amado Nervo. From the deep mystery of the past I called her, Where now a ghost among the ghosts is she, A shade mid shades - and at my call she hastened, Putting the centuries aside for me. The laws of time, astounded, followed after; The spirit of the graves, with mournful cry, Called to her, "Stay!" Like unseen hooks, the epochs Clutched at her faded silks when she went by But all was vain. she came, with red hair floating, That red hair fragrant of eternity; With wings loose hanging, clad like a chimera, That strange queen, following my will, drew nigh. I said to her, "Do you recall your promise Made in the year One Thousand, to my bliss?" "Remember, I am but a shade!" "I know it." "And I was mad." You promised me a kiss!" My kiss has by the chill of death been frozen; Long has my life been lost in Time's eclipse." "Queens do not break the word they once have given." This was my answer; and she kissed my lips.10 3 Bolvia When Night departs in silence, she leaves upon the blossoms Her beauteous tears in dewdrops that have no colors bright. But when the [day] dawn [has broken/breaks in] they turn to pearls of crystal, [all] Fair, luminous & shining, the blossoms’ crown of light. So likewise my poor verses that [brightness lack, and freshness] have [no light] no glory-lustre Upon your album’s pages [I pour] are pour’d out freely here. But if your eyes [turn] cast on them the brightness of their beauty, They will be pearls of friendship most precious & most dear. Sometimes a leaf that flutters in the air, Torn from the treetops by the breezes’ strife, A weeping of clear waters flowing by, A nightingale’s rich song, disturb my life. And soft, sweet languors, ecstasies supreme, Timid and far away, come back to me. That star and I, we know each other well; Brothers to me are yonder flower and tree. My spirit, entering into grief’s abyss, Dives to the farthest bottom, without fear. To me ’tis like a deep, mysterious book; Letter by letter I can read it clear. A subtle atmosphere, a mournful breeze, Make my tears flow in silence, running free, And I am like a note of that sad song Chanted by all things, whatsoe’er they be. Delirious fancies in a throng press near— Hallucination, or insanity?— The lilies’ souls to me their kisses give; The passing clouds all greet me, floating by.2 Divine communion! for a fleeting space My senses waken to a sharpness rare. I know what you are murmuring, shining fount! I know what you are saying, wandering air! I loose myself from all things, free myself To live a new life -- and I could not say If I through all things am diffused abroad, Or all come into me, and with me stay. But all things fles me, and my soul takes flight On heavy wings, mid faint and chilly breezes, In an aloofness inconsolable, Through solitude which terrifies and freezes Therefore, amid my pangs of loneliness, The while my senses sleep, I bend mine ear, O Nature, to receive thy lightest words I tremble at each murmur that I hear. And that is why a falling fluttering leaf, detached Torn from tree tops by the breezes' strife, a tear of limpid water flowing by, A night ingale's deep sorry, disturb my life The Castle Enrique Yougalz Martinez I built my castle on a summit high, One of those peaks where eagles love to nest. One window I left wide toward life's unrest; Those sounds, as of the far sea, rise and die. There I locked up my dreams, beneath the sky -- Poor wandering caravan that haunts my breast. Cloud girt, like some old mountains white- haired crest, That far, strange stronghold greets the gazer's eye. My dreams wait there till I shall close the door They will behold me from my home of yore Cross the still halls, to be their guest for aye. Latching the doors, the bolts I shall let fall, And in the [???] that castle wall115 The campanulas so beauteous Tell me, do you know their meaning? They are bells that chime [forth] out blithely At the wedding of the roses! The campanulas so beauteous They are [bells that chime out gayly] chiming bells, rejoicing See you, strawberries are ruddy, And more ruddy if you kiss them? Tell me, why is red their color? Those sweet strawberries, my fairest, Are the blood of all the birdlings That are slaughtered by the hunter. And the modest violets hidden In their leaves, the mystic violets, They are glow-worms locked in slumber. See you myriad lights bright gleaming Lights as brilliant as coquettish Never still, forever roving? Lo, the violets are flying! See, the happy vow is wedded Every myrtle flower a wound is and a wound is every myrtle The immaculate gardenia Is the bride in snowy white raincoat[*Who for her betrothed is waiting*] CITY CAMPAIGN COMMITTEE SOCIALIST PARTY Dear Mr. Voter: We are enclosing a copy of the platform to which Mr. James Oneal, endorsed by the Socialist Party for Mayor, subscribes. Contrast it with the so-called "issues" that have been raised by the other candidates and then decide where your interests lie. You will not find Oneal's name on the ballot. The main reasons for this are that some of this nomination papers were stolen, and that thousands of workingmen who might have signed his papers were intimidated by the threat of an afternoon paper that the signers of Oneal's papers should have their names published. All the other candidates are on the whole satisfactory to the reactionary powers that live on your labor. You were not threatened with a blacklist if you signed THEIR papers. If you are in favor of an early general peace, if you believe in conscripting profits to pay for the war; if you believe in the suppression of the food gamblers; if you want social control of necessities and favor having the city sell them at cost, vote for the candidate endorsed by the Socialist Party. This will be the only vote cast that will represent you and your dependents. To vote for James Oneal for Mayor paste the enclosed "sticker" on the ballot and mark a cross (X) to the right of the name. Hand stickers to your friends and advise them to do likewise. Any voter who fails to get a sticker can write in the name of James Oneal and mark a cross (X) after it. In either case the vote will be counted. BUT A CROSS AFTER THE NAME IS NECESSARY. REMEMBER, THAT HUMAN WELFARE IS OF MORE IMPORTANCE THAN THE PROFITS OF ANY CLASS. John J. McEltrick, 34 Common Street, Boston, Mass. 2 Who for her betrothed is waiting. Wheresoe'er for flowers you ask me Then "Forget me not!' I [hid you] answer, And those tender little blossoms That my chaste love holds the dearest, [still dearer] [Ask the daisies, "Does she love him?" Then daisies white - they wish them Ask the daisies, white and stainless,] The white daisies ask each other "Does she love him?" "Ne'er forget me!" [oferyll?] Blossoms fresh and newly gathered Lavish on[thee all] you their aromas their fragrance And on your [incliauting?] shoulders Perch and stay the gentle pigeons. 'Tis not winter! Gone is sadness! Nature lovingly is moving Everything, with stir unquiet [Life] Light she spreadeth, lives she soweth Do you see the falling snow flakes? They are doves benumbed & chilly [Now a soul] Souls have all things that are beauteous So, the diamonds are the trembling Lovers of [thy] your throat! The lily Envious of your is a novice [Straight & white that heart thee envy,]3. Who today the veil is taking. And a strawberry your mouth is. A red berry, moist & dewy! Tutelary gods in kindness Give me bouglis of orange blossoms! If I perish, let me slumber Neatti the shade of pitying favorite blossom If I perish, if I perish, Give me many everlastings! live-forevers! -- In Excelsis -- Inamuel Jose Ofhon. The mountain raises, by its heights a prayer, while-, as its snow, immense, as its summit. And, as the summit is very near the sky, that while- ness, Transformed into an invocation reaches the heavens very soon. What does the mountain ask from the heavens? Always to have its snowy crown and its summit very high. And, if the sun melts its immaculate snow, to be allowed to join serenly itstorrent of tears to the awful woe of the abyss.Don Quixote Jesus & Valenzuela Crowned with chimeras, on his way he goes, Dry, melancholy, on his gentle stud, With breastplate, belt and shield to serve his need. Tizona by his side to smite his foes, Immortal Quixote, mad with storied lore, Of the I dial the valiant paladin, For his bright, unknown love or fire within, Always far off, but loved forever wore 'Tis fiction, and 'tis truth: man's fruitful will Goes thus through life's perplexing path, so fair Yet so deceiving, full of false delight, Evil and good on earth contending still, The tent amid the burning desert bare, The dawn amid the darkness deep of night.O sweet violets blue as heaven, by the fair hands nursed each morning Of the maid for whom I sorrow, My love grows as grows her Scorn! If per chance in tender clusters You should check her brow or breast, Tell her of my grief, & softly Full Soothe her angry thoughts to rest! She must needs, O gentle blossoms, Bear Have a [tender] loving heart towards you, Since her soul your fragrance gave you And her eyes your heavenly love! "More Light!" Goethe's Farewell. The MODERNIST A Monthly Magazine of Modern Arts and Letters Edited by JAMES WALDO FAWCETT PUBLISHED BY THE MODERNIST ASSOCIATION EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE: GRAHAM AVERY RALPH CHEYNEY ELISABETH FREEMAN ROSALIE GOODYEAR CLARA HALLARD RUTH HELLER ROSETTA HURWITZ EMMANUEL JOCHELMAN LOUISE MALLINCKRODT KUEFFNER GORHAM B. MUNSON 29 East 14th Street New York City June 12th, 1919. Dear Friend:- Some days ago we sent you a copy of the prospectus of The Modernist Association, and invited you to become a part owner of THE MODERNIST. Up to this date we have not been favored with a reply. We have sold forty shares of MODERNIST stock and have our first issue ready for the printer. We want to sell another sixty shares before proceeding with the manufacture of the magazine. Won't you take at least one share? In THE MODERNIST you will find all the fine qualities of your favorite magazines, all the things you have praised in other papers, - and more! THE MODERNIST, as you will see, will justify all our claims for it. It will be a better and a freer magazine. Send in ten dollars for one share. Send it now! You will be helping "the peerless, passionate good cause" and making an investment of which you will be proud. We appeal to you to help us to help you. If you can't buy stock, at least subscribe for the magazine itself. One year: $1.50. Yours very faithfully, JAMES WALDO FAWCETT Editor. P. S.:- If we have immediate response to this appeal the first MODERNIST will be out June 20th. JWF.Deidad Como duerme la chispa en el guijarro y la estatua en el barro, en tí duerme la divinidad. Tan solo de un dolor constante y fuerte al choque, brota de la piedra inerte el relámpago de la deidad. No te quejes por tanto del destino, pues lo que en tu interior hay de divino sólo surge merced a él. Soporte, si es posible, sonriendo, la vida que el artista va esculpiendo, el duro choque del cincel. ¿ Que importan para tí las horas malas si cada hora en tus nacientes alas pone una pluma bella más? Ya verás al condor en plena altura, ya verás concluida la escultura, ya verás, alma, ya verás. - El Estanque de los Lotos. [*Typewrite this even if you have already done it.*] La Magnolía En el bosque, de aromas y de músicas lleno, la magnolía florece delicada y ligera, cual vellón que en las zarzas enredada y estuviera ó cual copo de espuma sobre lago sereno. Es un ánfora digna de un artífice heleno, un marmárea prodegia de la Clasica Era; y destaca su fina redondez á manera de una dama que luce descotada su seno. No se sabe si es perla, ni se sabe si es llanto. Hay [etre] entre ella y la luna cierta historia de encanto, en la que una paloma pierde acaso la vida; porque es pura y es blanca y es graciosa y es leve, como un rayo de Luna que se cuaja en la nieve ó como una paloma que se queda dormida.245 Joaquin Tellez? Before the sea of Vera Cruz The sea, the sea! Its waters rough with spray Are breaking at my feet in thunder white The graceful seagull, floating free & light Upon the stormy waves doth rock & sway The shores rise yonder, stretching far away, Restraining the Atlantic's angry might Whistling o'er forest, glen & mountain height The North Wind shakes its mane in stormy play. Before this picture, glorious & sublime Mute thought remains, all voices silent grow God manifests his greatness in the seas. Serve as a shield, O sea, to Mexico From every power that would our land oppress Roar fierce, with dreadful tossing to & fro 1 copy Loneliness Jorge Mateus All dark and sad the path has grown Because my love has passed away. Now in a new and unknown peace The ancient poplars rock and sway. The dog, that haply thinks it strange To see me at this hour alone, Begins to look at me, and whines Sadly,- thy loss, his heart divines Of someone he has loved and known. And, in the evening's glowing calm, The outline of a distant palm Stands out against the west: the tree seems like her spirit's ghostly shade, That haply hath its passing stayed To gaze at me! metre, first 2 stanzas, Third stanza,Please make one copy of this. Dewy Blossons By Felipe [Pérez] Pérez (Colombia) In a valley's fold at sunrise Once I saw some flowerets fair, Blossoms delicate and lovely, Waving in the gentle air. They were [small] few and they were beauteous; On their fragrant petals blue Myriad pearls and diamonds twinkled. Straightway then I thought of you. On your breast I saw a nosegay Of those dewy blossoms fair. Ah me! When I went to pick them Sharp thorns only met me there-- Thorns of your disdain! O lady, Those clear [drops] pearls [?] [?] shed Were not morning's drops of brightness, They were my own tears instead!A Spanish American Poem (The Argentine Republic has some noteworthy poets, in whose verse the grandeur of the natural secrecy is shown as the background [to] of great historic events. The following [version] translation [?] is an extract from "Gesta Magna," a long poem by Leopoldo Lugones. It refers to the time when General San Martin and his band of liberators rode through the mountains, and the country shook off the yoke of Spain.) How the Mountains Talk One day to Tupungato came a sound from far away, Of waves or of batallions, rolling upwards [towards] to the height. It rose from out the forests deep upon the swelling slopes. To mighty Tupungato, mountain of craters white, Who from his veins pours waterfalls, whose peak is like a lance Submerged in dawnlight when the seen, with eye of blazing gold, Looks from that giant balcony of heaven to explore The moveless host of granite rocks, far stretching, manifold. And Tupungato, turret of the winds, the home of storms, White like a pillow vast whereas the2 age-long dreams repose Of countless generations - he lifted up his voice, And all the world around him heard: the sea that darkly flows, The forests where on stormy nights the wind wakes deep laments, The green plains, wrinkled over with cattle where they spread. In his great voice, unwanted for a thousand years to speak, He called to Chimborazo: "Be on the watch!" he said. Asleep was Chimborazo. Dead pride of conquered faiths, The vanquished, lost religions, that hoary grandsire now Was but a corpse, mute, motionless, a pillar of the sky, Above a waste of ruin lifting a silent brow. 3 He let a hundred writers make white his shoulders broad, And in his beard the condors nest, and [?] their fledglings there. In vain the stormy hurricane plucked with its wild, fierce hand At the enormous cataract of his white-flowing hair. The roots of oak-trees pierced his sides: the sunsets and the dawns Spread o'er his grim and savage pride their colors delicate. That summit in the distance was terrible to see! When a cloud nimbus veiled his rest, he seemed to meditate. perhaps the clouds that floated around him were his thoughts. The tempests talked to him, the winds hurled at him insults deep, And in her blooming purity the Dawn upon him smiled; 4 The giant kept the silence of disdain. He was asleep. But when he heard the cry that stirred the mountains far and near, He lifted from his eyes their veil of hoary lashes white; He looked and saw the glaciers of the mighty mountain chain All flushed and shining, gilded with an ecstasy of light; The ocean calm, the cloudless day, just breaking diamond clear; The caravans of trees far off, outlived o'er vale and hill; And yonder, almost at his feet, the great fire of the sun. All things were swimming in its light, and all was hushed and still. The frosty summits mingled the outlived of their backs 5 Like sheep that journey in a flock, upon a long march led. The sky its cup inverted above the picture fair - And to the stern, steep mountain the lofty mountain said: "I hear a sudden tempest approaching through the vales, That sweeps on, roaring. It would seem the sea is drawing nigh! The trees are bending, dust-clouds vast rise from the troubled plains, Black shapeless masses mingle like a torrent wild and high." The other mountain answered and said. "It is the wind." heavy with sleep, his brow he veiled among the clouds once more. But Tupungato reared his head for upward, to behold The cause of that broad galloping the mountain echoes bore.6 Higher it came, all streaked with flames, that sparkled in the sun. The mountain on his shoulder huge lifted the arching sky. He saw, and spoke: "'Tis not the wind. He fancies that in vain!" He said to Chimborazo, "'Tis God who passes by! "No, it is Freedom! Bronze and steel have crowned her brow with stars. The flashes glitter keen and bright, for shining in the sun!" Then Chimborazo raised his voice above the deep abyss, And with a crash of breaking rocks, [he] replied, [said], "The two are one!"