POSSESSION

BY WALTER CLYDE CURRY

Her thinking sometimes fleshes like a jewel
Fashioned and polished for a diadem;
I felt the cusps of diverse sparklings cruel
Till white-light filled its heart full to the brim.

Her mind unfolds and like a tube-rose swelling
Alters with every breeze to some new glory;
With faith disturbed, my quest had known no dwelling
Till fragrance told a right and constant story.

She grants me halves, conditioned songs and speech,
And guards the fairer deal of sweet emotions;

I claimed her being, all within my reach,
Till love revealed it vast and deep as oceans.

I must not chide, though meditation find
Eternity with bits of earth combined.

MORE WORLDS TO CONQUER

(Alexander the Great on his Death-Bed)

BY STANTON A. COBLENTZ

The long, triumphant march is over now,
The foeman vanquished!—was it all worth while?
Victor of victors, over lands far-off

I traced my name in blood, swinging my sword
From India to the waters of the Nile;

And men acclaimed me god, a thing to worship
With dread and awe; exultantly I boasted,
"More worlds to conquer!"-Bold, ironic phrase!
"More worlds to conquer!"-Who can conquer one?
Mine is an empire mighty as mankind
Has ever seen-I hold it in my hand,
Firm as my scepter, but it slips away

Like water through my fingers.-Bright mirage!
I thought I clasped imperishable granite,
And only clutched at foam! And like that foam
I gleam and vanish-leaving what?-a name?—
A name, that is the ghost of one's true self,
Or less than ghost, a phantom thing distorted,—
A bone for future men, like birds of prey,
To wrangle over! Was it all worth while?-
The battle shouts, the ordered phalanx marching,
Homage of vassal monarchs at my feet,-
Then glamour's luminous curtain ripped apart,
Showing but darkness into which I sink
While not the mightiest army in the world

Can lift a sword to save me. Happier now

The unhonored peasant with his wife and sons !—

What though they envy me?-they have not learned That men unequal born must die as equals!

For what to me is now the storm and strife,
Fierce longings and exultant consummation
After long hardships on the road that lured me
Across the world, while nations groveled low
To do my will? Ah, what the pose and pageant,
The gleam of banners and the blare of horns?—
A phantom picture darting through the mind
To fade in air!-a cloud upon the night-winds
That blows away and leaves but bare, waste skies!
For like dim twilight shadows after storm
The shadow of the end comes drooping near;

And like a meteor I flash to darkness,

While vainly, as that darkness deepens round me, I wonder: Was I conqueror or conquered? What was the flare and tumult all about?

MY LOWLIER LOT

BY LOUELLA STYLES VINCENT

I was not meant for princely state,
Too lowly things appeal to me,

Kind hearts more than the proud and great
And friendly hand, hard though it be.

Too lowly things appeal to me;
Fidelity, clean forthright speech
And friendly hand, hard though it be,
Whose proffered stay is quick to reach.

Fidelity, clean forthright speech,
Old-fashioned graces plainly dressed
Whose proffered stay is quick to reach,
Whose music is a truth expressed.

Old-fashioned graces plainly dressed,
Voices controlled as mastered flutes
Whose music is a truth expressed
Which always honesty salutes.

Voices controlled as mastered flutes
With guidance self-poised, unafraid,
Which always honesty salutes
Firmly in cause of right arrayed.

With guidance self-poised, unafraid
Whatever be the world's appraise,
Firmly in cause of right arrayed,
We simple folk thread simple ways.

Whatever be the world's appraise
There are some joys the high must lose;
We simple folk thread simple ways
And without money treasures choose.

There are some joys the high must lose;
They would not seek with eyes intent,
And without money treasures choose
Where primrose gold is glad besprent.

They would not seek with eyes intent
Windflowers' humble hiding-place
Where primrose gold is glad besprent
And purslane spreads its pretty lace.

Windflowers' humble hiding-place
Charms me from crowds in gilded hall,
And purslane spreads its pretty lace,
Luring where quail and fieldlarks call.

Charms me from crowds in gilded hall
Woodland or stream or sedgy field,
Luring where quail and fieldlarks call,
Or tuneful silences but yield.

Woodland or stream or sedgy field
Whispers a thousand secrets sweet,
Or tuneful silences but yield
Fastening wings to vagrant feet.

Whispers a thousand secrets sweet,
Things which mere money cannot buy,
Fastening wings to vagrant feet
With volant fancy free to fly.

Things which mere money cannot buy!
Mind for old books beside the fire

With volant fancy free to fly-
These coin delights that never tire.

Mind for old books beside the fire,

Kind hearts more than the proud and great, These coin delights that never tire;

I was not meant for princely state.