Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • When the Wrath Fell

    From the Evening Star, October 8, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    Nobody paid attention
        To the man who gathered wealth.
    Nobody paused to mention
        That his course was that of stealth,
    Till he offered some donations
        For the help of human kind,
    Then the fierce denunciations
        Sadly shook his peace of mind.

    They said his coin was tainted
        And his motives dark and deep,
    Till the pictures that they painted
        Caused him tears and loss of sleep.
    Nobody ever rapped him
        While he hoarded day by day,
    But, good gracious! How they slapped him
        When he gave the stuff away!

  • Insufficiency

    From the Evening Star, October 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    If talk alone would do the trick,
        What vast improvements we would see!
    We’d save the sinful and the sick,
        And fill the world with honest glee.
    From every fault we would be freed,
        And midst the generous acclaim,
    Ambition and his brother Greed
        Would hide their heads in sorrowing shame.

    Gay banners would not be unfurled
        To glorify the march of Death.
    We would not see a struggling world
        Half stifled by the cannon’s breath.
    We’d make our resolutions high,
        And make them so that they would stick.
    Men would not curse nor women cry
        If talk alone would do the trick.

  • October

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 6, 1914. By Folger McKinsey.

    A poem in the wind,
        A song in the sea;
    A dream in the sun,
        A hymn on the lea;
    A bird in the sky,
        A laugh in the morn;
    A heaven nearby
        And the gold in the corn.

    A wine in the blood,
        A fire in the heart;
    A will in the soul
        To be doing one’s part;
    A place in the world
        For the effort and zeal
    That ring with the joy
        Of the righteous and real.

    A dawn in the vale,
        A flame on the steep;
    A fire in the maple,
        A mist on the deep;
    A lilt and a lyric,
        A shout and a word;
    A streak of red wine
        On the breast of a bird.

  • The Death the Soldier Dies

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 5, 1914. By Robert Burns Wilson.

    Such is the death the soldier dies;
        He falls, the column speeds away;
    Upon the dabbled grass he lies,
        His brave heart following still, the fray.

    The smoke wreaths drift among the trees,
        The battle storms along the hill;
    The glint of distant arms he sees,
        He hears his comrades shouting still.

    A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
        And vanish in the roiling din;
    He knows the sweeping charge is made,
        The cheering lines are closing in.

    Unmindful of his mortal wound,
        He faintly calls and seeks to rise;
    But weakness drags him to the ground.
        Such is the death the soldier dies.

  • The Soldiers’ Parting Hymn

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, October 4, 1914.

    Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
    Keep safe my loved ones, be their strength and guide.
    If never more my own dear land I see,
    O thou who changest not, abide with me!

    One life I have to give, it is my all—
    And God be with me, if I live or fall!
    When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
    In stranger lands, O Lord, abide with me!

    Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,
    Dear hearts, forget me not when far away;
    Upon the battlefield, upon the sea,
    Whate’er my fate, O Lord, abide with me!

    So breathed the sad strains of the parting hymn,
    Farewells were said, and eyes with tears grew dim;
    “Abide with me”—a prayer it seemed to be—
    In Life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!

  • Artists

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 3, 1914. By J. A. Edgerton.

    The world contains many an artist,
        Who knows not the technique of art;
    Who knows not the tricks of the rhymer,
        And yet is a poet at heart;
    Who knows not the use of the chisel,
        Nor the deftness of eye or of hand,
    But whose spirit is filled with a longing
        He never can quite understand.

    There are painters who never touch canvas,
        Musicians who ever are still,
    Who have not the gift of expression,
        Lack adequate training and skill.
    There are men with the dreams of the masters
        Who never are known unto fame,
    Whose spirits are filled with a music
        And beauty they never can name.

    There are orators doomed to be silent,
        And singers who never are heard;
    There are actors untried and unnoted,
        Who with the grand passions are stirred;
    There are millions who struggle unconscious
        Of wonderful gifts they express,
    Whose spirits are ravished by glimpses
        Of thoughts they can never express.

    There are poems unsung and unspoken,
        Transcending the limits of art;
    There are visions unpainted that linger
        In the innermost realms of the heart;
    There are writers that never have written
        And sculptors who delve not in stone;
    There are spirits who thrill with a message
        Yet strive on in silence alone.

    Maybe there’s fruit and an answer
        Somewhere in the regions of bliss;
    At last they may find their lost visions,
        At last they may reach to the goal,
    The ones who fall short of expression
        And yet who are artists in soul.

  • Mary’s Dream

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 2, 1914. By John Lowe.

    The moon had climbed the highest hill
        That rises o’er the source of Dee,
    And from the eastern summit shed
        Her silver light on tower and tree;
    When Mary laid her down to sleep,
        Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
    When, soft and low, a voice was heard
        Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”

    She from her pillow gently raised
        Her head to ask who there might be,
    And saw young Sandy shivering stand
        With visage pale and hollow e’e.
    “Oh, Mary dear, cold is my clay,
        It lies beneath a stormy sea;
    Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
        So Mary, weep no more for me.

    “Three stormy nights and stormy days
        We tossed upon the raging main;
    And long we strove our barque to save,
        But all our striving was in vain.
    Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
        My heart was filled with love for thee.
    The storm is past and I at rest,
        So Mary, weep no more for me.

    “Oh, maiden dear, thyself prepare!
        We soon shall meet upon that shore
    Where love is free from doubt and care,
        And thou and I shall part no more!”
    Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled;
        No more of Sandy could she see,
    But soft the passing spirit said,
        “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”

  • Autumn Days

    From The Times Dispatch, October 1, 1914. By George West Diehl.

    The breath of autumn is sighing
        Through the trees,
    Whispering softly, “Summer’s dying,”
        To the leaves.
    And they beneath his frosty kiss
    Are blushing in their happy bliss,
        In the breeze.

    Now in the woodland depths is heard
        Foxes’ tread,
    And the cry of a winging bird
        Overhead.
    A blue haze o’er the landscape lies
    Stretching to where the mountains rise
        Far ahead.

    Beneath the leaning trees, silver gray
        Sycamore.
    The brooklet murmurs on its way
        By green shore.
    High above in the cloudless sky
    Legions of leaves go whirling by
        In full corps.

  • A Vision

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 30, 1914. By Edmund Leavey.

    Was I waking, was I dreaming?
    In the moonlight’s silver gleaming,
        Was there something treading softly, in my room?
    Was it gazing, death-like blazing,
    At my eyes which fear was glazing?
        Was it human or a spectre from the tomb?
    In my bed I lay, and trembled,
    For ’twas nothing it resembled,
        Not a thing that I had ever seen before;
    And my heart-strings swiftly tightened,
    As I more and more grew frightened,
        For the window fast was locked, and barred the door.
    Close it came, and nearer, nearer,
    And I saw it plainer, clearer,
        Saw it take a hidden shape like all that’s fair;
    And it came and stood before me,
    Stood and stooping slightly o’er me,
        Gently whispered to me, cringing, crouching there.
    And as it murmured to me,
    All my fear and torment flew me,
        And my soul was filled with satan-spawned chagrin.
    For it told me, oh, it told me
    “Come behold me, come behold me,
        For you I am as once you might have been.”
    And I drank in all its beauty—
    What was I if true to duty;
        And I begged it answer me if I could win
    To the grace I had passed blindly,
    For it looked so sad and kindly,
        That I knew it would have pity for my sin.
    But its answer chilled and stilled me.
    “No, you’ve killed me, killed me, killed me.
        For it’s you you’ve slain, and I you ne’er can be.”
    Then it left me in the darkness,
    To my soul in all its starkness—
        My forgotten better self—my other me.

  • A Mystery

    From the Evening Star, September 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    My grandsire is a husky chap; his age is eighty-five.
        He has a cheery smile and thinks it’s good to be alive.
    He does not claim perfection. When the New Year comes again
        He makes his resolutions, just the same as other men.
    He seemed to start life’s journey on unfavorable terms.
        His family did not know a thing about these wicked germs.
    They let him travel barefoot and he ate green fruit by stealth.
        I very often wonder how my grandsire kept his health.

    He ate his bread and marmalade and didn’t care a straw
        About the labels which are recommended by the law.
    And when a cut or bruise unto his careless lot befell,
        He tied a rag around it and then left it to get well.
    He tried to love his neighbor and he wasn’t wild for pelf.
        He did the best he could and then forgot about himself.
    He faced the outdoor life without the luxuries of wealth.
        It is a mystery how my good old grandsire kept his health!