Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • The Battle Christmas

    From The Sun, December 27, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    There are columns to be riven
        In the very face of hell,
    And the wild dumb beasts are driven
        To their doom of shot and shell.
    But above the shriek of battle
        And the chargers’ dying woe
    Sounds the lowing of the cattle
        In a manger long ago.

    There is midnight on the nations,
        There is hate instead of love.
    And the guns’ reverberations
        Shake the vaulted skies above.
    But beyond the thunders ringing
        As the foe replies to foe
    We can hear the angels singing
        On a midnight long ago.

  • Arithmetic

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 26, 1914. By Grip Alexander.

    The ashman worked away with vim.
        His terms are far from small.
    Before a man can talk to him
        He’s got to hire a haul.

    Said I, “Well, here’s a great to-do!
        I’ve ashes fine to sell,
    And I must give them all to you
        And give you cash as well!”

    He showed me all his teeth and laughed
        A laugh to raise the roof,
    And flashed an answer free from craft,
        “Dat sholy am de truf!”

    “At fifteen cents a barrel flat,
        Ten barrels to the load,
    Each night ’tis mighty riches that
        You tote to your abode.”

    Said he, “Well, sah, it’s dish yere way!
        All business am a risk,
    Ah mos’ly makes one load a day—
        Excusin’ when trade’s brisk.

    “Ah pays a quartah at de dump,
        An’ dat don’ make me holler;
    But when dem prices takes a jump
        It done cost half a dollar.

    “An’ dat ol’ ornery hoss o’ mine
        Is needin’ oats an’ hay.
    Ah guess his livin’ ain’ too fine
        At sixty cents a day.”

    “Dump charges, stabling, feed,” I said,
        “Will eat up cash like sin.
    And wear and tear! Say, uncle Ned,
        Just where do you come in?”

    The look he flashed was bright and quick,
        His voice was soft, caressin’,
    “Ah’s right smart at arithmetic,
        But dat sho has me guessin’!”

  • The Chimes of Termonde

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 25, 1914. By Grace Hazard Conkling.

    The groping spires have lost the sky,
        That reach from Termonde town:
    There are no bells to travel by,
        The minster chimes are down.
    It’s forth we must, alone, alone,
        And try to find the way;
    The bells that we have always known,
        War broke their hearts today.

        They used to call the morning
            Along the gilded street,
        And then their rhymes were laughter,
            And all their notes were sweet.

    I heard them stumble down the air
        Like seraphim betrayed;
    God must have heard their broken prayer
        That made my soul afraid.
    The Termonde bells are gone, are gone,
        And what is left to say?
    It’s forth we must, by bitter dawn,
        To try to find the way.

        They used to call the children
            To go to sleep at night;
        And then their songs were tender
            And drowsy with delight.

    The wind will look for them in vain
        Within the empty tower.
    We shall not hear them sing again
        At dawn or twilight hour.
    It’s forth we must, away, away,
        And far from Termonde town,
    But this is all I know today—
        The chimes, the chimes are down!

        They used to ring at evening
            To help the people pray,
        Who wander now bewildered
            And cannot find the way.

  • The Right Spirit

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 24, 1914.

    “I’m very glad to be alive,”
        A sturdy fellow said,
    “Although ’tis true I seldom thrive
        And I’m not often fed
    On dainty dishes. Still, I get
        A good substantial fare
    And manage to keep out of debt
        By taking proper care.

    “This suit I have on isn’t what
        You might consider fine,
    But then that sort is never got
        For seven ninety-nine.
    And while my overcoat was bought
        At least three years ago,
    It keeps me warm when I am caught
        Where winds of winter blow.

    “All luxuries I rather think
        I’ll ever be denied;
    No costly wines are mine to drink,
        I walk instead of ride.
    But, nevertheless, as you’ll infer,
        I’m far from being blue.
    What’s that? A Merry Christmas, sir?
        Why, thanks. The same to you!”

  • A Christmas Carol

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 23, 1914. By Edmund Hamilton Sears.

    It came upon the midnight clear,
        The glorious song of old,
    From angels bending near the earth,
        To touch their harps of gold;
    “Peace on earth, good will to men
        From heaven’s all-gracious King!”
    The world in solemn stillness lay
        To hear the angels sing.

    Still through the cloven skies they came,
        With peaceful wings unfurled;
    And still their heavenly music floats
        O’er all the weary world;
    Above its sad and lowly plains
        They bend on hovering wings,
    And o’er its Babel-sounds
        The blessed angels sing.

    But with the woes of sin and strife
        The world has suffered long;
    Beneath the angel strain have rolled
        Two thousand years of wrong;
    And man, at war with man, hears not
        The love song which they bring;
    Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,
        And hear the angels sing!

    And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
        Whose forms are bending low,
    Who toil along the climbing way
        With painful steps and slow,
    Look now, for glad and golden hours
        Come swiftly on the wing;
    Oh, rest beside the weary road
        And hear the angels sing.

    For lo, the days are hastening on
        By prophet bards foretold,
    When with the ever-circling years
        Comes round the age of gold;
    When peace shall over all the earth
        Its ancient splendors fling,
    And the whole world give back the song
        Which now the angels sing!

  • The Old-Fashioned Presents

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 22, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    How dear to my heart are the gifts of my childhood,
        When fond recollections present them to view;
    The old rubber doll with the whistling stomach,
        Which was such a miracle when it was new.
    The handpainted sled and the 20-cent jackkife,
        The animal blocks and the little tin train
    Brought joy to our hearts that amounted to rapture,
        A joy that we never will pass through again.

    The fine jumping jack and the model pile driver,
        The hose cart and engine that pulled with a string;
    The top hook and ladder, the real magic lantern,
        The drum which my father would burst the first thing.
    Of course, nowadays they would seem sort of foolish—
        The things that old Santa brought when we were small;
    But when you consider the joy that they gave us,
        The old-fashioned presents were best after all.

  • Little Johnnie’s Fears

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 21, 1914.

    Where we used to live we had
        A fireplace, big and wide,
    An’ all that Santy had to do
        Was hold his breath an’ slide,
    An’ squeeze hisself until he fit
        The hole, an’ then jest drop—
    An’ he knowed where the stockin’s was,
        ‘Cause that was where he’d stop.

    Where we used to live it was
        No trick for him to climb
    Up to the chimbly on the roof
        An’ find us, Christmas-time;
    But now I’m worryin’ for fear
        He won’t know where he’s at,
    Or mebbe can’t get in at all!
        We’re livin’ in a flat.

    We’re livin’ in a flat, an’ say,
        You mus’ be mos’ polite,
    Or else the janitor he’ll go
        An’ lock you out at night!
    There ain’t no chimbly to our house
        Where Santy Claus can slide—
    There ain’t no fireplace—just a pipe
        About two inches wide.

    They heat our flat with steam—that’s why
        I’m afraid he can’t get in
    With all his toys, an’ drums an’ things,
        Unless he’s awful thin;
    An’ how’s he gon’ to wiggle out
        When he gets in? Gee whiz!
    There’s such an awful little hole
        There where the sizzle is!

  • Interlude

    From the Evening Star, December 20, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
        The headstones thicken along the way;
    And life grows sadder, but loves grows stronger,
        For those who walk with us day by day.

    The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
        The courage is lesser to do and dare;
    And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower
        And seldom covers the reefs of care.

    But all true things in the world seem truer,
        And the better things of earth seem best,
    And friends are dearer as friends are fewer,
        And love is all as our sun dips west.

    Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
        And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone;
    For no man knows on the morrow whether
        We two pass on—or but one alone.

  • The Tree of Life

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 19, 1914.

    In his mother’s sacred eyes,
        Lit from God’s own altar place,
    Earth grows heaven, and gray time dies
        In the infant’s smiling face.
    From the shroud of withered years
        Love and hope come young again,
    And the heart awakened hears
        Songs that make the life of men.

    Children’s lightsome laughter rings;
        Dull waste places hear their tread,
    And the gleams of gracious wings
        Light old chambers of the dead.
    All bright shapes of memory,
        All glad dreams of youth and love,
    Meet about the Christmas tree
        Underneath the mystic dove.

    Time and fate are babbling words,
        Vain vibrations of the tongue,
    Since the song God’s singing birds
        O’er the Babe of Bethlehem sung.
    Child of death that was to be,
        Child of love and life with men
    Round the holy Christmas tree
        Make us children, too, again.

    Eyes that are love’s deathless shrine,
        Where our holiest prayers arise,
    Blest and blessing, dear, divine,
        Little children’s happy eyes,
    In your light the dark years change,
        From your light all foul things flee,
    And all sweet hopes soar and range
        Round the Christ Child’s Christmas tree.

  • The Hunter

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    He seeks no rabbits. They are too tame.
    He’s going out for bigger game,
    A thing he has wished to do
    E’er since he was a barefoot boy.
    He’s spent most all his hard earned dough,
    More than he could afford to blow
    Because he wants to go in style
    And do the thing up simply right.
    There’s nothing that he hasn’t bought
    By way of fixin’ that he ought.
    He’s all fussed up in hunting clothes
    Of loud design and out of sight.
    A week goes by. They get no word,
    And start to wonder what’s occurred.
    Until one day a telegram
    Fills them with nervous dread and fear.
    ’Tis short but very eloquent
    And everyone knows what is meant:
    “Mistaken for a deer.”