Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • The Two Glasses

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 9, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.
    One was ruddy and red as blood,
    And one was clear as the crystal flood.

    Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
    “Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
    I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
    Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;
    For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
    Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
    From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
    From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
    I have blasted many an honored name;
    I have taken virtue and given shame;
    I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
    That has made his future a barren waste.
    Far greater than any king am I,
    Or than any army beneath the sky.
    I have made the arm of the driver fail,
    And sent the train from the iron rail.
    I have made good ships go down at sea,
    And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
    Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
    Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,
    “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”

    Said the glass of water, “I cannot boast
    Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
    But I can tell of hearts that were sad
    By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
    Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
    Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
    I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
    Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
    I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
    And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
    I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
    I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
    I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
    That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.
    I can tell of manhood debased by you,
    That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
    I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
    I gladden the heart of man and maid;
    I set the wine-chained captive free,
    And all are better for knowing me.”

    These are the tales they told each other,
    The glass of wine and its paler brother,
    As they sat together, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.

  • The Gipsy’s Warning

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 1, 1914.

    Trust him not, O gentle lady,
        Though his voice be low and sweet;
    Heed not him who kneels before thee,
        Softly pleading at thy feet;
    Now thy life is in its morning,
        Cloud not this, thy happy lot.
    Listen to the gipsy’s warning—
        Gentle lady, trust him not.

    Lady, once there lived a maiden,
        Young and pure, and like thee, fair;
    Yet he wooed, and wooed and won her,
        Thrilled her gentle heart with care—
    Then—he heeded not her weeping—
        He cared not her life to save!
    Soon she perished—now she’s sleeping
        In the cold and silent grave!

    Lady, turn not from me so coldly,
        For I have only spoke the truth—
    From a stern and withering sorrow,
        Lady, I would shield thy youth;
    I would shield thee from all danger—
        Shield thee from the tempter’s snare;
    Lady, shun the dark-eyed stranger—
        I have warned thee; now, beware!

    Take your gold—I do not want it;
        Lady, I have prayed for this—
    For the hour that I might foil him,
        And rob him of expected bliss.
    Aye, I see thou art filled with wonder
        At my looks so fierce and wild—
    Lady, in the churchyard yonder
        Sleeps the gipsy’s only child!

  • An Old Battle Field

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 27, 1914. By Frank L. Stanton.

    The softest whisperings of the scented South,
    And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;
    And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
    The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;
    With song of larks, low lingering in the loam,
    And blue skies bending over love and home.

    But still the thought; somewhere, upon the hills,
    Or where the vales ring with the whippoorwills,
    Sad, wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
    For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
    And when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
    Dream of a battle and an unmarked grave.

  • Da Fightin’ Irishman

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 22, 1914. by Thomas Daly.

    Irishman he mak’ me seeck!
    He ees gat excite so queeck,
    An’ so queeck for fightin’, too;
    An’, besides, you nevva know
    How you gonna please heem. So
    W’ata deuce you gona do?

    W’en I work een tranch wan day
    Irish boss he com’ an’ say:
    “Evra wan een deesa tranch,
    I no care eef he ees Franch,
    Anglaice, Dago, Dootch or w’at,
    Evra wan’ he musta gat
    Leetla piece green to show
    For da San Patricio.
    Dees ees Irish feasta day.
    Go an’ gat som’ green!” he say,
    “An’ eef you no do eet, too,
    I gon’ poncha head on you!”
    So I gat som’ green to show
    For da San Patricio.

    Bimeby, ‘nudder Irishman
    He ees com’ where I am stan’,
    An’ growl at me an’ say:
    “W’at you wearin’ dat for, eh?
    Mebbe so you theenk you be
    Gooda Irishman like me.
    Green ees jus’ for Irishman,
    No for dumb Eyetalian!
    Tak’ eet off!” he say, an’, my!
    He ees ponch me een da eye!

    Irishman he mak’ me seeck,
    He ees gat excite’ so queeck,
    An’ so queeck for fightin’, too;
    An’, besides, you nevva know
    How you gona please heem. So
    W’ata deuce you gona do?

  • The Lesson

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 19, 1914.

    She gazes at her little brood,
        Their clamorous wants she must supply.
    New tenderness is in her tones—
        “Oh, blest and happy mother I!

    “But yesterday this humdrum life,
        Its homely burdens, wearied me.
    Impatient I, and discontent,
        My cares were all that I could see!

    “From dawn to dusk new tasks arose—
        How blessed each one seems today!
    The plain farm duties! How I joy
        Here, safe, protected, dull to stay!

    “The plenteous fields are stretching wide,
        The quiet village lies below,
    No rumor comes of pillage, want,
        There’s no alarm of threatening foe!

    “Gay hollyhocks nod by the wall,
        The boughs with ripening fruit hang low,
    From yonder oat field sounds the voice
        Of one whose fealty well I know!

    God pity women overseas,
        Whose husbands, sons, must give to die.
    God make me thankful! They deserved
        Love, safety, peace as much as I!”

  • The Summer Resort

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 3, 1914.

        Same old beach,
        Same old peach,
    With the same old winsome smile.
        Same old stare,
        Same hot air,
    And the same flirtatious style.
        Same old view,
        Nothing new,
    Same old skeeters there to sting.
        Same old sand,
        Same old band,
    Same old cash register to ring.
        Same old drones,
        Chaperones,
    Sitting in the rocking chairs.
        Same old walks,
        Same old talks,
    Same old spooning on the stairs.
        Same canned food,
        Boiled and stewed,
    Same transparent slice of meat.
        Same old girls,
        Same old curls,
    Same old slot machine to beat.
        Same old junk,
        Same old bunk,
    Same old stunt and nothing more.
        Same price list,
        Same bridge whist,
    Same old never-ending bore.

  • A Picture

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 30, 1914. By Miriam Teichner.

    Dad and mother’s picture, honeymooning at Niagara Falls;
    Routed from the trunk among the rags and scraps and camphor balls.
            Mother’s slender, fair, beguiling;
            Father’s straight and proud and smiling,
    Ah, the memories and fancies that the faded print recalls!

    Mother’s dressed in curious fashion; tiny bonnet, basque of plaid;
    Father, too, is wondrous strangely, yes, astonishingly clad.
            Seated, she; behind her standing,
            Trying hard to look commanding,
    Father is, and both are scarcely more than children, lass and lad.

    Smiling lovers of the picture much has come to make you sad;
    Faces both are lined and thinner since you mother are and dad.
            Girl and boy so fair and slender,
            How the heart grows warm and tender
    Just to think of all the glowing hopes and fancies that you had.

  • If We Only Knew

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 29, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    If we knew the cares and trials,
        Knew the efforts all in vain,
    And the bitter disappointment,
        Understood the loss and gain—
    Would the grim eternal roughness
        Seem—I wonder—just the same;
    Should we help where now we hinder,
        She we pity where we blame?

    Ah! We judge each other harshly,
        Knowing not life’s hidden force—
    Knowing not the fount of action
        Is less turbid at its source;
    Seeing not amid the evil
        All the golden grains of good;
    And we’d love each other better
        If we only understood.

    Could we judge all deeds by motives
        That surround each other’s lives,
    See the naked heart and spirit,
        Know what spur the action gives,
    Often we would find it better
        Just to judge all actions good;
    We should love each other better
        If we only understood.

  • The Buoy Bell

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 22, 1914. By Chart Pitt.

    The buoy-bell’s lone challenge wakes a dream of long ago,
    When the happy sound of church bells rang out across the snow.
    It sounds its sullen warning, o’er the murmur of the reef,
    Where heartless tides are sobbing, like a lost-soul grief.
    There was song and happy laughter, and the glint of love-lit eyes,
    Now listless snow is falling from the steel-gray Arctic skies.
    The angry surf is booming on the stubborn rock-bound shore,
    While the memory ship is drifting to the happy days of yore.

    The Northern wolf is calling from the headland’s wind-swept height.
    Hark! He sounds the call of hunger, to curse the Arctic night.
    The time-worn year is dying and the new waits at the door,
    The beacon light is blinking from the shadows of the shore.
    The mystic North is sleeping ‘neath the blanket of the snows,
    But weary hearts are dreaming of the fragrant Southern rose.
    The wild surf sounds its challenge and the shore flings back reply—
    The world is bound in chains of war, ‘neath the dreary Arctic sky.

  • Song

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 20, 1914. By William Shenstone.

    I told my nymph, I told her true,
    My fields were small, my flocks were few;
    While faltering accents spoke my fear
    That Flavia might not prove sincere.

    Of crops destroyed by vernal cold,
    And vagrant sheep that left my fold—
    Of these she heard, yet bore to hear:
    And is not Flavia then sincere?

    How, changed by Fortune’s fickle wind,
    The friends I loved became unkind,
    She heard, and shed a generous tear;
    And is not Flavia then sincere?

    How, if she deigned my love to bless,
    My Flavia must not hope for dress—
    This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear.
    And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.

    Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains!
    Go reap the plenty of your plains;
    Despoiled of all which you revere,
    I know my Flavia’s love sincere.