Newspaper Poetry

Author: desperaudio

  • The Traitor

    From The Topeka State Journal, October 28, 1914. By Helen Hay Whitney.

    They lit for me no torches
        When I came home to die,
    For I had sinned against the land
        Where soon I low must lie.

    Black darkness hung about me;
        The dark woods knew my shame;
    The little lovely leaves drew back
        And shivered as I came.

    I, who had laughed and loved them,
        Who solved their secret streams,
    Forgetting honor, grasped for gain
        In barter with my dreams.

    From man I ask no quarter,
        No pardon for my birth;
    But O deep heart, betrayed and wronged,
        Forgive me, Mother Earth.

  • Edelweiss

    From the New York Tribune, October 27, 1914. By Giovanni.

    A rose I brought from Fancy’s bowers;
        She waved my offering away,
    And said, “The vows of youth are flowers,
        And wither like them in a day.”
    Unheeded now her way she goes—
        My passion faded like the rose.

    I trod the mountain-peak of years;
        Time’s snowflakes mingled with my hair;
    My heart was free from hopes and fears—
        Then Fate unveiled a maiden fair.
    I sought the flower that will not fade,
        And brought a blossom to the maid.

    Its fadeless bloom no message told;
        Flung under foot the blossom lay.
    She said, “It grows in Winter’s cold,
        And youth must have the buds of May.
    Your flower and you are of the snows—
        Today my lover brought a rose!”

  • October Party

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 26, 1914.

    October gave a party;
        The leaves by hundreds came—
    The Ashes, Oaks and Maples
        And those of every name.
    The sunshine spread a carpet,
        And everything was grand.
    Miss Weather led the dancing,
        Professor Wind the band.

    The Chestnut came in yellow,
        The Oaks in crimson dressed;
    The lovely Misses Maple
        In scarlet looked the best,
    And balanced all their partners,
        And gayly fluttered by;
    The sight was like a rainbow
        New fallen from the sky.

    Then, in the rustic hollows
        At “hide-and-seek” they played.
    The party closed at sundown,
        And everybody stayed.
    Professor Wind played louder;
        They flew along the ground,
    And then the party ended
        In jolly “hands around.”

  • Revenge

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, October 25, 1914. By Ralph Bacon.

    I’ve quit a-goin’ to Sunday school—
        I’m goin’ to be as bad
    As Captain Kidd or Nero was
        Or Jimmy Mayer’s dad.
    I’m goin’ to be so awful mean,
        I’m sure to go to hell;
    An’ when I see the devil, then
        I’ll go to him an’ tell
    How that ol’ man what catches dogs
        Came by our house one day
    An’ coaxed Spot right into his net
        An’ drug him away.
    An’ then I’ll say, “Good devil, please,
        I’ve come down here to work;
    I’m just as strong as any man,
        An’ I will never shirk.
    If you’ll just let me tend the fire
        An’ keep it good an’ hot,
    Where you have put that wicked man
        Who took away old Spot.

  • The Peace Pact

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 24, 1914. By Edith M. Thomas.

    They were foes as they fell in that frontier fight,
        They were friends as they lay with their wounds unbound,
    Waiting the dawn of their last morning light.
        It was silence all, save a shuddering sound
        From the souls of the dying that rose around;
    And the heart of the one to the other cried,
        As closer they drew, and their arms enwound,
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As the souls of the dying mounted high
        It seemed they could hear the long farewell!
    Then together they spake, and they questioned why—
        Since they hated not—why this evil befell
        And neither the Frank nor the German could tell
    Wherefore themselves and their countrymen died.
        But they said that hereafter in peace they should dwell—
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As they languished there on that field accursed,
        With their wounds unbound, in their mortal pain,
    Spake one to the other, “I faint from thirst!”
        And the other made answer, “What drops remain
        In my water flask thou shalt surely drain!”
    As he lifted the flask the other replied,
        “I pledge thee in this till we meet again—
    There will be no war on the Other Side!”

    And it came to pass as the night wore deep
        That fever through all their veins was fanned,
    So that visions were theirs (yet not from sleep)
        And each was flown to his own loved land.
        But rousing again, one murmured, “Thy hand!
    Thou art my brother—naught shall divide;
        Something went wrong, but understand,
    There will be no war on the Other Side.”

  • Self-Dependence

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 23, 1914. By Matthew Arnold.

    Weary of myself, and sick of asking
    What I am, and what I ought to be,
    At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
    Forward, forward, o’er the starlit sea.

    And a look of passionate desire
    O’er the sea and to the stars I send;
    “Ye who from childhood up have calm’d me,
    Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

    “Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
    On my heart your mighty charm renew;
    Still, still let me as I gaze upon you
    Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

    From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
    Over the lit sea’s unquiet way,
    In the rustling night air came the answer—
    “Would’st thou be as these are? Live as they.

    “Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
    Undistracted by the sights they see,
    These demand not that the things without them
    Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

    “And with joy the stars perform their shining,
    And the sea its long moon-silver’d roll;
    For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
    All the fever of some differing soul.

    “Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
    In what state God’s other works may be,
    In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
    These attain the mighty life we see.”

    O air-born voice! Long since, severely clear,
    A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
    “Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
    Who finds himself loses his misery!”

  • An Autumn Wail

    From The Topeka State Journal, October 22, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    By gum, I hate to go to school;
    I’d almost rather be a fool.
    I got to set in there all day
    When I ort to go out and play.
    I think it is a doggone bluff
    To make us learn a lot of stuff
    Which we ain’t never goin’ to use,
    Just look at all the time we lose.
    Who cares if Nero burned up Rome,
    Or if the world is round or flat?
    I don’t, and I will tell you that.

    I have to get licked every day,
    It somehow seems to come that way.
    If some kid don’t perform the trick,
    The teacher does it with a stick.
    And when the teacher licks me bad
    I always get one more from dad.
    There’s nearly always somethin’ wrong
    Right from the first tap of the gong.
    There ain’t no peace for any kid
    Who goes to school as I have did.
    It makes me stubborn as a mewl,
    By gum, to have to go to school.

  • A Great Leader

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 21, 1914.

    An Emporer went to the front,
        With colors proudly flying;
    His soldiers bore the battle’s brunt,
        The wounded and the dying.

    Upon a hill he viewed the scene,
        Beyond the range of firing,
    Or telephoned his troopers keen
        With energy untiring.

    At noon he scarcely stopped to take
        A cup o’ tea to warm him,
    Brewed by a chef too prone to quake
        Lest anything should harm him.

    The shades of night came down ere long
        And closed the bloody battle,
    And quiet reigned the hosts among,
        Save for the foe’s death rattle.

    Informed the victory was won,
        The monarch’s heart grew lighter
    And much he plumed himself upon
        His prowess as a fighter.

  • The Bitter Wit

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 20, 1914.

    To speak unkindly isn’t wit,
        To say things that wound the heart
    Is never clever—not a bit.
        Though at the time you think it smart,
    Far better is it to remain
        As silent as a marble bust
    Than speak and leave a track of pain
        Behind a smiling, bitter thrust.

    The poisoned barb within a jest
        That leaves a fellow being hurt
    Is not a cleverness the test,
        Nor of a brain that is alert.
    To gibe at age or private scars,
        Or sacred griefs proclaims the cad
    And he who does it sadly mars
        The laughter that should leave us glad.

    Unkindness isn’t wit at all,
        There’s little humor in a sneer.
    One cannot drench his speech in gall
        And seek to laugh away the tear.
    And he who poisons thus the gay
        Is just as cowardly as he
    Who kicks a cripple’s crutch away
        And laughs his helplessness to see.

  • First Love

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 19, 1914. By W. W. Hendree.

    Who has not had some little life-romance—
        Some dream of love so painful, yet so sweet?
    Who has not felt his heart thrilled by a glance,
        Nor known the ecstacy when fond lips meet?
    Such things grow tasteless as the years advance
        And age cools down the blood from feverheat;
    But still, although the thought of passion dies,
        We linger fondly o’er its memories.

    Few ever marry their first early love;
        But after one has mingled in the strife
    Of varied passions—after fate has wove
        More than one broken thread into his life,
    Then he begins to feel the dearth of love,
        And takes into his heart and home a wife;
    And oft, though love be wanting at the first,
        A sweet affection grows, by circumstances nursed.

    But still through all there oftentimes will break
        A whisper of the past we had thought dumb,
    And recollections swift and sweet will make
        The present seem so sad and wearisome;
    It sometimes seems as if the heart would break
        In thinking of the dreary years to come,
    And for the moment in our hearts we sin
        With vain regrets of that which might have been.