William Jones

ONCE in a while a curious weed unknown to me, Needing a name from my books; Once in a while a letter from Yeomans.

Out of the mussel-sh.e.l.ls gathered along the sh.o.r.e Sometimes a pearl with a glint like meadow rue: Then betimes a letter from Tyndall in England, Stamped with the stamp of Spoon River.

I, lover of Nature, beloved for my love of her, Held such converse afar with the great Who knew her better than I.

Oh, there is neither lesser nor greater, Save as we make her greater and win from her keener delight.

With sh.e.l.ls from the river cover me, cover me.

I lived in wonder, worshipping earth and heaven.

I have pa.s.sed on the march eternal of endless life.

William Goode

To all in the village I seemed, no doubt, To go this way and that way, aimlessly. .

But here by the river you can see at twilight The soft--winged bats fly zig-zag here and there-- They must fly so to catch their food.

And if you have ever lost your way at night, In the deep wood near Miller's Ford, And dodged this way and now that, Wherever the light of the Milky Way shone through, Trying to find the path, You should understand I sought the way With earnest zeal, and all my wanderings Were wanderings in the quest.

J. Milton Miles

WHENEVER the Presbyterian bell Was rung by itself, I knew it as the Presbyterian bell.

But when its sound was mingled With the sound of the Methodist, the Christian, The Baptist and the Congregational, I could no longer distinguish it, Nor any one from the others, or either of them.

And as many voices called to me in life Marvel not that I could not tell The true from the false, Nor even, at last, the voice that I should have known.

Faith Matheny

AT first you will know not what they mean, And you may never know, And we may never tell you:-- These sudden flashes in your soul, Like lambent lightning on snowy clouds At midnight when the moon is full.

They come in solitude, or perhaps You sit with your friend, and all at once A silence falls on speech, and his eyes Without a flicker glow at you:-- You two have seen the secret together, He sees it in you, and you in him.

And there you sit thrilling lest the Mystery Stand before you and strike you dead With a splendor like the sun's.

Be brave, all souls who have such visions As your body's alive as mine is dead, You're catching a little whiff of the ether Reserved for G.o.d Himself.

Willie Metcalf

I WAS Willie Metcalf.

They used to call me "Doctor Meyers,"

Because, they said, I looked like him.

And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire.

I lived in the livery stable, Sleeping on the floor Side by side with Roger Baughman's bulldog, Or sometimes in a stall.

I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horses Without getting kicked--we knew each other.

On spring days I tramped through the country To get the feeling, which I sometimes lost, That I was not a separate thing from the earth.

I used to lose myself, as if in sleep, By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.

Sometimes I talked with animals--even toads and snakes-- Anything that had an eye to look into.

Once I saw a stone in the sunshine Trying to turn into jelly.

In April days in this cemetery The dead people gathered all about me, And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer.

I never knew whether I was a part of the earth With flowers growing in me, or whether I walked-- Now I know.

Willie Pennington

THEY called me the weakling, the simpleton, For my brothers were strong and beautiful, While I, the last child of parents who had aged, Inherited only their residue of power.

But they, my brothers, were eaten up In the fury of the flesh, which I had not, Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not, Hardened by the growth of the l.u.s.ts, which I had not, Though making names and riches for themselves.

Then I, the weak one, the simpleton, Resting in a little corner of life, Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision, Not knowing it was through me.

Thus a tree sprang From me, a mustard seed.

The Village Atheist

YE young debaters over the doctrine Of the soul's immortality I who lie here was the village atheist, Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments Of the infidels. But through a long sickness Coughing myself to death I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Jesus.

And they lighted a torch of hope and intuition And desire which the Shadow Leading me swiftly through the caverns of darkness, Could not extinguish.

Listen to me, ye who live in the senses And think through the senses only: Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.

John Ballard

IN the l.u.s.t of my strength I cursed G.o.d, but he paid no attention to me: I might as well have cursed the stars.

In my last sickness I was in agony, but I was resolute And I cursed G.o.d for my suffering; Still He paid no attention to me; He left me alone, as He had always done.

I might as well have cursed the Presbyterian steeple.

Then, as I grew weaker, a terror came over me: Perhaps I had alienated G.o.d by cursing him.

One day Lydia Humphrey brought me a bouquet And it occurred to me to try to make friends with G.o.d, So I tried to make friends with Him; But I might as well have tried to make friends with the bouquet.

Now I was very close to the secret, For I really could make friends with the bouquet By holding close to me the love in me for the bouquet And so I was creeping upon the secret, but--

Julian Scott

TOWARD the last The truth of others was untruth to me; The justice of others injustice to me; Their reasons for death, reasons with me for life; Their reasons for life, reasons with me for death; I would have killed those they saved, And save those they killed.

And I saw how a G.o.d, if brought to earth, Must act out what he saw and thought, And could not live in this world of men And act among them side by side Without continual clashes.

The dust's for crawling, heaven's for flying-- Wherefore, O soul, whose wings are grown, Soar upward to the sun!

Alfonso Churchill

THEY laughed at me as "Prof. Moon,"

As a boy in Spoon River, born with the thirst Of knowing about the stars.

They jeered when I spoke of the lunar mountains, And the thrilling heat and cold, And the ebon valleys by silver peaks, And Spica quadrillions of miles away, And the littleness of man.

But now that my grave is honored, friends, Let it not be because I taught The lore of the stars in Knox College, But rather for this: that through the stars I preached the greatness of man, Who is none the less a part of the scheme of things For the distance of Spica or the Spiral Nebulae; Nor any the less a part of the question Of what the drama means.