All their sworded bodies must Lie low in their tower's dust . . .

Heel and toe, heel and toe, Blithely round the walls I go.

Heel and toe, heel and toe, -- I will blow a thunder note From my brazen bugle's throat Till the sand and thistle know The leveled walls of Jerico, Jerico, Jerico, Jerico. . . .

Students. [Florence Wilkinson]

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau -- 'T was Toussaint, just a year ago; Crimson and copper was the glow Of all the woods at Fontainebleau.

They peered into that ancient well, And watched the slow torch as it fell.

John gave the keeper two whole sous, And Jeanne that smile with which she woos John Brown to folly. So they lose The Paris train. But never mind! -- All-Saints are rustling in the wind, And there's an inn, a crackling fire -- (It's 'deux-cinquante', but Jeanne's desire); There's dinner, candles, country wine, Jeanne's lips -- philosophy divine!

There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud Wherein John's picture of her grew To be a Salon masterpiece -- Till the rain fell that would not cease.

Through one long alley how they raced! -- 'T was gold and brown, and all a waste Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced.

Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things Were company to their wanderings; Then rain and darkness on them drew.

The rich folks' motors honked and flew.

They hailed an old cab, heaven for two; The bright Champs-Elysees at last -- Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.

Paris, upspringing white and gold: Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic -- Fierce chargers, angels histrionic; The royal sweep of gardened s.p.a.ces, The pomp and whirl of columned Places; The Rive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray; The impa.s.se and the loved cafe; The tempting tidy little shops; The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops; Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays; Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

May -- Robinson's, the chestnut trees -- Were ever crowds as gay as these?

The quick pale waiters on a run, The round, green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers -- Lilac, laburnum's golden showers.

Kiss, clink of gla.s.ses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred.

And then that last extravagance -- O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him! -- "Let's play millionaire For just two hours -- on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine A deux and pledge across the wine!"

They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom.

The garcon has a splendid way Of bearing in grand dejeuner.

Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees -- Time waits for moments such as these.

Tampico. [Grace Hazard Conkling]

Oh, cut me reeds to blow upon, Or gather me a star, But leave the sultry pa.s.sion-flowers Growing where they are.

I fear their sombre yellow deeps, Their whirling fringe of black, And he who gives a pa.s.sion-flower Always asks it back.

Which. [Corinne Roosevelt Robinson]

We ask that Love shall rise to the divine, And yet we crave him very human, too; Our hearts would drain the crimson of his wine, Our souls despise him if he prove untrue!

Poor Love! I hardly see what you can do!

We know all human things are weak and frail, And yet we claim that very part of you, Then, inconsistent, blame you if you fail.

When you would soar, 't is we who clip your wings, Although we weep because you faint and fall.

Alas! it seems we want so many things, That no dear love could ever grant them all!

Which shall we choose, the human or divine, The crystal stream, or yet the crimson wine?

Apology. [Amy Lowell]

Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by.

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peac.o.c.k golds.

Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray.

My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town.

Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world.

I dwell impearled.

You blazon me with jewelled insignia.

A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed.

The Great Hunt. [Carl Sandburg]

I cannot tell you now; When the wind's drive and whirl Blow me along no longer, And the wind's a whisper at last -- Maybe I'll tell you then -- some other time.

When the rose's flash to the sunset Reels to the wrack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long" -- Maybe I'll tell you then -- some other time.

I never knew any more beautiful than you: I have hunted you under my thoughts, I have broken down under the wind And into the roses looking for you.

I shall never find any greater than you.

Dialogue. [Walter Conrad Arensberg]

Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate, And when he enters let him be at home.

Think of the roads that he has had to roam.