A Play Festival In Ogden Park

Oh gay and shining June time!
Oh meadow brave and bright,
Abloom with little children,
All tossing in the light!
They dance and circle singing-
Oh, what a joy to see!
They twinkle in the sunshine,
They shout in company.
Beyond are pointed houses
Patterned against the blue,
With bushes flower-embroidered,
And trees all trim and true.
Around are rows of people
Watching the dainty show,
Guarding the fairy kingdom
Where blossom babies blow.
Their merry little footsteps
Race with the tricksy air,
That puffs their filmy dresses
And frees their shining hair.
All pink and white and golden
Under the round gold sun,
Winging the wind with laughter,
They ring and wreathe and run.
Oh, sweet and soft the world is,
Ever so glad and gay,
All garlanded with children
Who sing and prank and play !
You posy girls wide-petalled,
And boys all round and red,
Dance in the sun forever
Till time goes off to bed!

by Harriet Monroe

A Power-Plant

The Fisk Street turbine power station in Chicago
The invisible wheels go softly round and round-
Light is the tread of brazen-footed Power.
Spirits of air, caged in the iron tower,
Sing as they labor with a purring sound.
The abysmal fires, grated and chained and bound,
Burn white and still, in swift obedience cower;
While far and wide the myriad lamps, aflower,
Glow like star-gardens and the night confound.
This we have done for thee, almighty Lord;
Yea, even as they who built at thy command
The pillared temple, or in marble made
Thine image, or who sang thy deathless word.
We take the weapons of thy dread right hand,
And wield them in thy service unafraid.

by Harriet Monroe

A Portrait

The little world span round and round,
Singing along her sunny ways,
And all the glory she unwound
She gave to him for joy and praise.
And he, whom lavish morning met
With new-blown flowers and minstrelsy,
Looked on the gift through eyelids wet
For sorrow of satiety.
And he, whom noon put to the proof,
With trumpet-call and weapon blessed,
Fought the brave fight with soul aloof
Harkening for some remote behest.
Not homeward could the winged feet fare,
The lyric laughter choked a sigh-
A wanderer from he knew not where,
Dreamer of dreams, he knew not why.

by Harriet Monroe

A Story

He loved her and he was untrue-
Untrue he was, let loved her still;
For out of nether darkness drew
The winds that lashed his wandering will.
She lived in joy all unaware,
In pain and joy his children bore,
While hidden spectres of despair
Drove him to love her more and more.
And when she knew the truth at last,
Suddenly she grew still and strange.
Her rag of haggard youth was cast
Upon the evil winds of change.
She heard, and could not understand;
She paled, and could not bloom again.
So bland death took her by the hand,
Looked in her eyes and made all plain,
Yes, wise death taught her all, and so,
Smiling once more, she kissed and passed.
And he, caught in life’s overthrow,
Faced love and death alone at last.
At last, made strong by love and death,
He gave her truth for truth, and knew
Now she had won his perfect faith.
Dying, she doomed him to be true.

by Harriet Monroe

After Sunset

The forest was a shrine for her,
A temple richly dressed;
And worshippers the tall trees were,
Each to his prayer addressed.
Scarce dared I lift my eyes, or stir,
So deeply was I blessed.
She took to herself the waning day
Like a round twilight moon,
Serenely rising far away-
A silvery moon of June,
That whiter than the morning is
And fairer than the noon.
The dim world darkened round her-all
Was night save where she shone,
Save where she stood so slim and small
The shadowed earth upon;
As though the earth were new, and she
Would light its fires anon.

by Harriet Monroe

North Carolina

Would you not be in Tryon
Now that the spring is here,
When mocking-birds are praising
The fresh, the blossomy year?
Look – on the leafy carpet
Woven of winter’s browns
Iris and pink azaleas
Flutter their gaudy gowns.
The dogwood spreads white meshes –
So white and light and high –
To catch the drifting sunlight
Out of the cobalt sky.
The pointed beech and maple,
The pines, dark-tufted, tall,
Pattern with many colors
The mountain’s purple wall.
Hark – what a rushing torrent
Of crystal song falls sheer!
Would you not be in Tryon
Now that the spring is here?

by Harriet Monroe

At The Grand Cañon

Wind of the desert, softly blow
Across the cañon shining wide.
Lightly among the temples go
That rise in towers of pride.
Soft, lest they float away
Out in the azure day!

by Harriet Monroe