Alfred Moir

WHY was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones?

Why, with all of my errant steps Did I miss the fate of Willard Fluke?

And why, though I stood at Burchard's bar, As a sort of decoy for the house to the boys To buy the drinks, did the curse of drink Fall on me like rain that runs off, Leaving the soul of me dry and clean?

And why did I never kill a man Like Jack McGuire?

But instead I mounted a little in life, And I owe it all to a book I read.

But why did I go to Mason City, Where I chanced to see the book in a window, With its garish cover luring my eye?

And why did my soul respond to the book, As I read it over and over?

Perry Zoll

MY thanks, friends of the County Scientific a.s.sociation, For this modest boulder, And its little tablet of bronze.

Twice I tried to join your honored body, And was rejected And when my little brochure On the intelligence of plants Began to attract attention You almost voted me in.

After that I grew beyond the need of you And your recognition.

Yet I do not reject your memorial stone Seeing that I should, in so doing, Deprive you of honor to yourselves.

Magrady Graham

TELL me, was Altgeld elected Governor?

For when the returns began to come in And Cleveland was sweeping the East It was too much for you, poor old heart, Who had striven for democracy In the long, long years of defeat.

And like a watch that is worn I felt you growing slower until you stopped.

Tell me, was Altgeld elected, And what did he do?

Did they bring his head on a platter to a dancer, Or did he triumph for the people?

For when I saw him And took his hand, The child-like blueness of his eyes Moved me to tears, And there was an air of eternity about him, Like the cold, clear light that rests at dawn On the hills!

Archibald Higbie

I LOATHED YOU, Spoon River.

I tried to rise above you, I was ashamed of you.

I despised you As the place of my nativity.

And there in Rome, among the artists, Speaking Italian, speaking French, I seemed to myself at times to be free Of every trace of my origin.

I seemed to be reaching the heights of art And to breathe the air that the masters breathed And to see the world with their eyes.

But still they'd pa.s.s my work and say: "What are you driving at, my friend?

Sometimes the face looks like Apollo's At others it has a trace of Lincoln's."

There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River And I burned with shame and held my peace.

And what could I do, all covered over And weighted down with western soil Except aspire, and pray for another Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River Rooted out of my soul?

Tom Merritt

AT first I suspected something-- She acted so calm and absent-minded.

And one day I heard the back door shut As I entered the front, and I saw him slink Back of the smokehouse into the lot And run across the field.

And I meant to kill him on sight.

But that day, walking near Fourth Bridge Without a stick or a stone at hand, All of a sudden I saw him standing Scared to death, holding his rabbits, And all I could say was, "Don't, Don't, Don't,"

As he aimed and fired at my heart.

Mrs. Merritt

SILENT before the jury Returning no word to the judge when he asked me If I had aught to say against the sentence, Only shaking my head.

What could I say to people who thought That a woman of thirty-five was at fault When her lover of nineteen killed her husband?

Even though she had said to him over and over, "Go away, Elmer, go far away, I have maddened your brain with the gift of my body: You will do some terrible thing."

And just as I feared, he killed my husband; With which I had nothing to do, before G.o.d Silent for thirty years in prison And the iron gates of Joliet Swung as the gray and silent trusties Carried me out in a coffin.

Elmer Karr

WHAT but the love of G.o.d could have softened And made forgiving the people of Spoon River Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt And murdered him beside?

Oh, loving hearts that took me in again When I returned from fourteen years in prison!

Oh, helping hands that in the church received me And heard with tears my penitent confession, Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!

Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

Elizabeth Childers

DUST of my dust, And dust with my dust, O, child who died as you entered the world, Dead with my death!

Not knowing Breath, though you tried so hard, With a heart that beat when you lived with me, And stopped when you left me for Life.

It is well, my child.

For you never traveled The long, long way that begins with school days, When little fingers blur under the tears That fall on the crooked letters.

And the earliest wound, when a little mate Leaves you alone for another; And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed; The death of a father or mother; Or shame for them, or poverty; The maiden sorrow of school days ended; And eyeless Nature that makes you drink From the cup of Love, though you know it's poisoned; To whom would your flower-face have been lifted?

Botanist, weakling?

Cry of what blood to yours?-- Pure or foul, for it makes no matter, It's blood that calls to our blood.

And then your children--oh, what might they be?

And what your sorrow?

Child! Child Death is better than Life.

Edith Conant

WE stand about this place--we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: "June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days."

And all things are changed.

And we--we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here.

Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age; He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice!

How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken, With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you.

It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world.