Spoon River Anthology Part 10

My favorite metaphor was p.r.i.c.kett's cow Roped out to gra.s.s, and free you know as far As the length of the rope.

One day while arguing so, watching the cow Pull at the rope to get beyond the circle Which she had eaten bare, Out came the stake, and tossing up her head, She ran for us.

"What's that, free-will or what?" said Ernest, running.

I fell just as she gored me to my death.

Amos Sibley

NOT character, not fort.i.tude, not patience Were mine, the which the village thought I had In bearing with my wife, while preaching on, Doing the work G.o.d chose for me.

I loathed her as a termagant, as a wanton.

I knew of her adulteries, every one.

But even so, if I divorced the woman I must forsake the ministry.

Therefore to do G.o.d's work and have it crop, I bore with her So lied I to myself So lied I to Spoon River!

Yet I tried lecturing, ran for the legislature, Canva.s.sed for books, with just the thought in mind: If I make money thus, I will divorce her.

Mrs. Sibley

THE secret of the stars--gravitation.

The secret of the earth--layers of rock.

The secret of the soil--to receive seed.

The secret of the seed--the germ.

The secret of man--the sower.

The secret of woman--the soil.

My secret: Under a mound that you shall never find.

Adam Weirauch

I WAS crushed between Altgeld and Armour.

I lost many friends, much time and money Fighting for Altgeld whom Editor Whedon Denounced as the candidate of gamblers and anarchists.

Then Armour started to s.h.i.+p dressed meat to Spoon River, Forcing me to shut down my slaughter-house And my butcher shop went all to pieces.

The new forces of Altgeld and Armour caught me At the same time. I thought it due me, to recoup the money I lost And to make good the friends that left me, For the Governor to appoint me Ca.n.a.l Commissioner.

Instead he appointed Whedon of the Spoon River Argus, So I ran for the legislature and was elected.

I said to h.e.l.l with principle and sold my vote On Charles T. Yerkes' street-car franchise.

Of course I was one of the fellows they caught.

Who was it, Armour, Altgeld or myself That ruined me?

Ezra Bartlett

A CHAPLAIN in the army, A chaplain in the prisons, An exhorter in Spoon River, Drunk with divinity, Spoon River-- Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame, And myself to scorn and wretchedness.

But why will you never see that love of women, And even love of wine, Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity, Reaches the ecstatic vision And sees the celestial outposts?

Only after many trials for strength, Only when all stimulants fail, Does the aspiring soul By its own sheer power Find the divine By resting upon itself.

Amelia Garrick

YES, here I lie close to a stunted rose bush In a forgotten place near the fence Where the thickets from Siever's woods Have crept over, growing spa.r.s.ely.

And you, you are a leader in New York, The wife of a noted millionaire, A name in the society columns, Beautiful, admired, magnified perhaps By the mirage of distance.

You have succeeded, I have failed In the eyes of the world.

You are alive, I am dead.

Yet I know that I vanquished your spirit; And I know that lying here far from you, Unheard of among your great friends In the brilliant world where you move, I am really the unconquerable power over your life That robs it of complete triumph.

John Hanc.o.c.k Otis

As to democracy, fellow citizens, Are you not prepared to admit That I, who inherited riches and was to the manor born, Was second to none in Spoon River In my devotion to the cause of Liberty?

While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay, Born in a shanty and beginning life As a water carrier to the section hands, Then becoming a section hand when he was grown, Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose To the superintendency of the railroad, Living in Chicago, Was a veritable slave driver, Grinding the faces of labor, And a bitter enemy of democracy.

And I say to you, Spoon River, And to you, O republic, Beware of the man who rises to power From one suspender.

The Unknown

YE aspiring ones, listen to the story of the unknown Who lies here with no stone to mark the place.

As a boy reckless and wanton, Wandering with gun in hand through the forest Near the mansion of Aaron Hatfield, I shot a hawk perched on the top Of a dead tree. He fell with guttural cry At my feet, his wing broken.

Then I put him in a cage Where he lived many days cawing angrily at me When I offered him food.

Daily I search the realms of Hades For the soul of the hawk, That I may offer him the friends.h.i.+p Of one whom life wounded and caged.

Alexander Throckmorton

IN youth my wings were strong and tireless, But I did not know the mountains.

In age I knew the mountains But my weary wings could not follow my vision-- Genius is wisdom and youth.

Jonathan Swift Somers (Author of the Spooniad)

AFTER you have enriched your soul To the highest point, With books, thought, suffering, The understanding of many personalities, The power to interpret glances, silences, The pauses in momentous transformations, The genius of divination and prophecy; So that you feel able at times to hold the world In the hollow of your hand; Then, if, by the crowding of so many powers Into the compa.s.s of your soul, Your soul takes fire, And in the conflagration of your soul The evil of the world is lighted up and made clear-- Be thankful if in that hour of supreme vision Life does not fiddle.

Widow McFarlane

I WAS the Widow McFarlane, Weaver of carpets for all the village.

And I pity you still at the loom of life, You who are singing to the shuttle And lovingly watching the work of your hands, If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth.

For the cloth of life is woven, you know, To a pattern hidden under the loom-- A pattern you never see!

And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing, You guard the threads of love and friends.h.i.+p For n.o.ble figures in gold and purple.

And long after other eyes can see You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth, You laugh in your strength, for Hope overlays it With shapes of love and beauty.

The loom stops short!

The pattern's out You're alone in the room!

You have woven a shroud And hate of it lays you in it.