The Second Book of Modern Verse.

by Jessie B. Rittenhouse.

Foreword

It was my intention, when preparing 'The Little Book of Modern Verse', published in 1913, to continue the series by a volume once in five years, but as it seemed inadvisable to issue one during the war, it is now six years since the publication of the first volume.

In the meantime, that the series might cover the period of American poetry from the beginning, 'The Little Book of American Poets' was edited, confined chiefly to work of the nineteenth century, but ending with a group of living poets whose work has fallen equally within our own period.

This group, including Edwin Markham, Bliss Carman, Edith Thomas, Louise Imogen Guiney, Lizette Woodworth Reese, and many others whose work has enriched both periods, was fully represented also in 'The Little Book of Modern Verse'; and it has seemed necessary, therefore keenly as I regret the necessity, which limits of s.p.a.ce impose, to omit the work of all poets who have been represented in both of my former collections.

Indeed the period covered by the present volume has been so prolific that it became necessary, if one would represent it with even approximate adequacy, to forego including many poets from 'The Little Book of Modern Verse' itself, and but twenty-eight are repeated from that collection.

Even with these necessary eliminations in the interest of s.p.a.ce for newer poets, the general scheme of the series -- that of small, intimate volumes that shall be typical of the period, rather than exhaustive -- has made it impossible to include all whose work I should otherwise have been glad to represent.

While I have not hesitated, where a poet's earlier work seemed finer and more characteristic than his later, to draw upon such earlier work, in the main 'The Second Book of Modern Verse' has been selected from poetry published since 1913, the date of my first anthology.

Jessie B. Rittenhouse New York September 23, 1919

The Road not taken. [Robert Frost]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was gra.s.sy and wanted wear; Though as for that the pa.s.sing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Symbol. [David Morton]

My faith is all a doubtful thing, Wove on a doubtful loom, -- Until there comes, each showery spring, A cherry-tree in bloom; And Christ who died upon a tree That death had stricken bare, Comes beautifully back to me, In blossoms, everywhere.

Spring. [John Gould Fletcher]

At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise."

At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth."

And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes Sank below the white horizon at the north.

At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst"; At the fourth hour, all the earth was still: Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.

At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown; At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.

At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; And the earth was then silent for the s.p.a.ce of three hours.

But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.

"There will come Soft Rain". [Sara Teasdale]

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire.

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly.

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Spring Song. [William Griffith]

Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood-song with the ancient thrill.

Gossiping on the country-side, Spring and the wandering breezes say, G.o.d has thrown Heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day.

The Day before April. [Mary Carolyn Davies]

The day before April Alone, alone, I walked in the woods And I sat on a stone.