Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • Lying

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 18, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    I’m writing her a letter
        That I’m getting on all right,
    That I’m really feeling better,
        And I’m full of vim and fight.
    I’m telling her I’m working
        Every minute of the day,
    And I have no time for shirking
        And I have no time to play.

    I am telling her that nightly
        I am sitting round the home,
    And that time is passing lightly,
        And I’ve no desire to roam.
    I am telling her I’m hoping
        That a month or two they’ll stay
    Where the hillsides green are sloping
        And the little ones can play.

    I am glad they’re where the breezes
        Gently kiss them as they run,
    And I’m telling her it pleases
        Me to think of all their fun.
    And I write that I’m not lonely,
        But it’s all a fearful sham,
    For they’d come back if they only
        Knew how miserable I am.

    For I miss their sweet caresses
        And I miss their shouts of glee,
    And the empty home depresses
        Now the very soul of me.
    I miss the cry of “pappy”
        From each roguish little tot.
    I am writing that I’m happy
        But I’ll bet she knows I’m not.

  • Light Shining Out of Darkness

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 17, 1914. By William Cowper.

    God moves in a mysterious way
        His wonders to perform;
    He plants His footsteps in the sea
        And rides upon the storm.

    Deep in unfathomable mines
        Of never-failing skill,
    He treasures up His bright designs,
        And works His sovereign will.

    Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
        The clouds ye so much dread
    Are big with mercy, and shall break
        In blessings on your head.

    Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
        But trust Him for His grace;
    Behind a frowning Providence
        He hides a smiling face.

    His purposes will ripen fast,
        Unfolding every hour;
    The bud may have a bitter taste,
        But sweet will be the flower.

    Blind unbelief is sure to err,
        And scan His work in vain;
    God is His own interpreter
        And He will make it plain.

  • I Want to Go to Morrow

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 13, 1914. By Lew Sully.

    I started on a journey just about a week ago
    For the little town of Morrow, in the state of Ohio.
    I never was a traveler, and really didn’t know
    That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
    I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied
    For tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
    Said I, “My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
    Not later than tomorrow, for I haven’t time to burn.”

    Said he to me, “Now let me see if I have heard you right.
    You want to go to Morrow and come back tomorrow night.
    To go from here to Morrow and return is quite a way—
    You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back today.
    For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don’t you see,
    You could have got to Morrow and returned today at three.
    The train that started yesterday—now understand me right—
    Today it gets to Morrow and returns tomorrow night.”

    Said I, “My boy, it seems to me you’re talking through your hat.
    Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that.”
    “There is,” said he, “and take from me a quiet little tip:
    To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
    The train that goes to Morrow leaves today eight thirty-five.
    Half after ten tomorrow is the time it should arrive.
    Now, if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
    Can you go today to Morrow and come back today, you chump?”

    Said I, “I want to go to Morrow; can I go today
    And get to Morrow by tonight if there is no delay?”
    “Well, well,” said he, “explain to me, and I’ve no more to say,
    Can you go anywhere tomorrow and come back today?
    For if today you’d get to Morrow, surely you’ll agree
    You should have started not today, but yesterday, you see.
    So, if you start to Morrow, leaving today, you flat,
    You won’t get into Morrow till the day that follows that.

    “Now, if you start today to Morrow, it’s a cinch you’ll land
    Tomorrow into Morrow, not today, you understand;
    For the train today to Morrow, if the schedule is right,
    Will get you into Morrow by about tomorrow night.”
    Said I, “I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
    How can I go tomorrow if I leave the town today?”
    Said he, “You cannot go to Morrow any more today,
    For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way.”

    I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear.
    The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
    The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay—
    I didn’t go to Morrow, so I guess I’ll go today.

  • The Fire Alarm

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 8, 1914.

    When riding on their motor trucks
        I see the firemen pass,
    Like soldiers dressed in uniforms
        Of natty blue and brass,
    I think about the volunteers
        Who used, in other days,
    To rally to the fire-alarm
        And battle with the blaze.

    When clanged upon the midnight air
        That sudden summons loud,
    The people tumbled out of bed,
        A wild, excited crowd.
    The barking dogs ran on ahead,
        And shouts and cries arose
    Above the crackle of the flames,
        The hissing of the hose.

    To save a neighbor’s little home
        The axe and hose they plied,
    Until among the cinders black
        The lurid demon died.
    The old red shirts they used to sport
        Are full of moths and holes;
    The men who wore them, too, are dead—
        God rest their gallant souls!

    But still we fear the smoky scourge,
        And tremble with affright,
    When suddenly the fire-alarm
        Blares out upon the night.
    So here’s a tribute from the heart,
        A word of praise for all
    The heroes of the hose and truck
        Who answer to its call.

  • The Little Ball Player

    From the Newark Evening Star, June 19, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    With legs apart and shoulders bent
        And sparkling eyes he stands,
    The magic sphere of his delight
        Clutched tightly in his hands.
    With all his strength he sends the ball,
        And views its rapid flight,
    A frown upon his chubby face
        So softly pink and white.

    His aim was true, he straightens up
        And feels himself a man
    Who hears upon a crowded field
        The plaudits of the fan.
    Tricycle now, and teddy bear,
        And choo-choo cars and all,
    Are toys he’ll never want again—
        He’s learned to play baseball!

  • The Day is Done

    From the Newark Evening Star, June 16, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    The day is done, and the darkness
        Falls from the wings of Night,
    As a feather is wafted downward
        From an eagle’s flight.

    I see the lights of the village
        Gleam through the rain and the mist,
    And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
        That my soul cannot resist.

    A feeling of sadness and longing,
        That is not akin to pain,
    And resembles sorrow only
        As the mist resembles the rain.

    Come, read to me some poem,
        Some simple and heartfelt lay,
    That shall soothe this restless feeling,
        And banish the thoughts of day.

    Not from the grand old masters,
        Not from the bards sublime,
    Whose distant footsteps echo
        Through the corridors of Time.

    For, like strains of martial music,
        Their mighty thoughts suggest
    Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
        And tonight I long to rest.

    Read from some humble poet,
        Whose songs gushed from his heart,
    As showers from the clouds of summer,
        Or tears from the eyelids start.

    Who, through long days of labor,
        And nights devoid of ease,
    Still heard in his soul the music
        Of wonderful melodies.

    Such songs have power to quiet
        The restless pulse of care,
    And come like the benediction
        That follows after prayer.

    Then read from the treasured volume
        The poem of thy choice,
    And lend to the rhymes of the poet
        The beauty of thy voice.

    And the night shall be filled with music,
        And the cares, that infest the day,
    Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
        And as silently steal away.

  • All Things Shall Pass Away

    From the Newark Evening Star, June 15, 1914. By Theodore Tilton.

    Once in Persia reigned a king,
    Who upon his signet ring
    ‘Graved a maxim true and wise,
    Which, if held before the eyes,
    Gave him counsel at a glance
    Fit for every change and chance.
    Solemn words, and these were they:
    “Even this shall pass away.”

    Trains of camels through the sand
    Brought him gems from Samarcand;
    Fleets of galleys through the seas
    Brought him pearls to match with these.
    But he counted not his gain
    Treasures of the mine or main.
    “What is wealth?” the king would say:
    “Even this shall pass away.”

    In the revels of his court,
    At the zenith of the sport,
    When the palms of all his guests
    Burned with clapping at his jests,
    He, amid the figs and wine,
    Cried, “O loving friends of mine;
    Pleasure comes, but not to stay;
    ‘Even this shall pass away.’”

    Lady, fairest ever seen,
    Was the bride he crowned the queen.
    Pillowed on his marriage bed,
    Softly to his soul he said:
    “Though no bridegroom ever pressed
    Fairer bossom to his breast,
    Mortal flesh must come to clay –
    Even this shall pass away.”

    Fighting on a furious field,
    Once a javelin pierced his shield.
    Soldiers, with a loud lament,
    Bore him bleeding to his tent;
    Groaning from his tortured side,
    “Pain is hard to bear,” he cried;
    “But with patience, day by day,
    Even this shall pass away.”

    Towering in the public square,
    Twenty cubits in the air,
    ‘Rose his statue, carved in stone.
    Then the king, disguised, unknown,
    Stood before his sculptured name,
    Musing meekly, “What is fame?
    Fame is but a slow decay—
    Even this shall pass away.”

    Struck with palsy, sere and old,
    Waiting at the gates of gold,
    Said he, with his dying breath:
    “Life is done, but what is Death?”
    Then, in answer to the king,
    Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
    Showing by a heavenly ray:
    “Even this shall pass away.”

  • Three Fishers

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 25, 1914. By Charles Kingsley.

    Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
        Out into the west, as the sun went down,
    Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
        And the children stood watching them out of the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,
        Though the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
        And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
    They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
        And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown;
    But men must work, and women must weep,
    Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
        And the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three corpses lie out in the shining sands
        In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down,
    And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
        For those who will never come home to the town.
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep,
        And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

  • The Broken Pinion

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 18, 1914. By Hezekiah Butterworth.

    I walked through the woodland meadows,
        Where sweet the thrushes sing;
    And I found on a bed of mosses
        A bird with a broken wing.
    I healed its wound, and each morning
        It sang its old sweet strain,
    But the bird with the broken pinion
        Never soared as high again.

    I found a young life broken
        By Sin’s seductive art;
    And touched with a Christlike pity,
        I took him to my heart.
    He lived with a noble purpose
        And struggled not in vain;
    But the life that Sin had stricken
        Never soared as high again.

    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Kept another from the snare;
    And the life that Sin had stricken
        Raised another from despair.
    Each loss has its compensation.
        There is healing for every pain;
    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Never soars as high again.

  • Ode to My Back Yard

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 11, 1914. By Mary Dobbins Prior.

    O thou unpromising collection of rocks and roots and clay,
    I view thee with a sinking heart—is there perhaps a way
    To make thee bloom? I doubt it. Upon thy sterile breast
    I’ve scattered soil and nitrate, but thou’st withstood the test.
    One crop alone thou yieldest me, one crop alone succeeds;
    The winds of Heaven plant it. ’Tis weeds and weeds and weeds.
    Weeds of the field and wayside. Weeds of the wood and street,
    They flourish like the bay tree, within thy eighty feet;
    And when across the ocean the wind of Winter roars,
    It bears upon its pinions rare weeds from foreign shores;
    And scorning all the neighbors, straight to my yard they fly,
    And raise a brood of children that never, never die.
    Ah, no! They’re all immortal, and blow it cold or hot
    ’Tis all the same, both wild or tame, they’ll grow in my back lot.