Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • Modern Courtship

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 18, 1914.

    They sat upon a boulder
        That looked toward the sea.
    The wild waves washed the pebbly beach;
        The gulls dipped gracefully
    To catch the flying, silvery spray,
        But nature had no power
    With all her charms to draw one glance
        In this most solemn hour.
    They noted not the glorious sun,
        The bright and cloudless skies,
    But found a source of pure delight
        Within each other’s eyes.
    The minutes and the hours flew by,
        And still they sat alone.
    He held her slender fingers
        Tightly clasped within his own.
    The sun shone on; the waves rolled high,
        Just as they did before,
    But naught saw they of light or shade
        Or heard the ocean’s roar.
    At last he whispered, “Will you be
        My love, my bride, my wife,
    And walk together hand in hand
        Along the road of life?”
    She laid her head upon his breast,
        In manner shy, demure;
    Then raised her melting glance to his,
        And softly murmured, “Sure.”

  • The Suicide

    From The Sun, September 17, 1914.

    “Farewell, false world,” he wildly cries
        And registers despair.
    The frightened damsel vainly tries
        To grab him by the hair.

    Into the rushing tide he flops
        Despite the maiden’s squeal.
    The operator never stops
        The progress of his reel.

    “You did it like a pair of clams,”
        The chief yells from the shore.
    “Some action to it now, you hams!
        Go over it once more.”

  • Hohenlinden

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 16, 1914. By Thomas Campbell.

    On Linden, when the sun was low,
    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
    And dark as winter was the flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    But Linden saw another sight,
    When the drum beat at the dead of night
    Commanding fires of death to light—
    The darkness of her scenery.

    By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
    Each horseman drew his battle blade,
    And furious, every charger neighed
    To join the dreadful revelry.

    Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
    Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
    And louder than the bolts of heaven
    Far flashed the red artillery.

    But redder yet that light shall glow
    On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    ’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
    Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun,
    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
    Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

    The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
    Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
    And charge with all thy chivalry!

    Few shall part where many meet!
    The snow shall be their winding sheet,
    And every turf beneath their feet
    Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

  • When You Are Safe

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 15, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    It’s easy to be boasting when all your ventures pay;
    It’s easy to be cheerful when good things come your way;
    It’s easy to speak proudly to every one you meet,
    Except when you are feeling the bruises of defeat.

    It’s easy to talk bravely when danger is not near;
    It’s easy to have courage when there is naught to fear;
    It’s easy to be boasting when you are safe ashore,
    That you hear only music when angry billows roar.

    It’s easy to cry, “Coward”—when you have not been tried—
    At him who runs from danger, forgetting manly pride;
    It’s easy to be telling how fearless you would be
    When all is peaceful round you, as far as you can see.

  • School Days

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 14, 1914.

    It’s lonesome in the stable yard and where the chickens “peep.”
    It’s dull and stupid, ‘round the house, the kitten’s fast asleep;
    Old Towser, nosin’ everywhere and huntin’ ‘round the place,
    Comes back to whine and paw my knee and look up in my face;
    And mother, in the kitchen there, amongst the pans and things,
    Is busy, but I haven’t heard the song she always sings;
    There’s somethin’ missin’, somethin’ wrong that spoils the work and play—
    And don’t I know it? Well, I guess, he’s gone to school today.

    I try to work and not to think, but trying all I can,
    I stop and wonder why it’s still—no drummin’ on a pan,
    No rustlin’ in the apple trees, no splashin’ by the pump,
    And no one hid behind the post to “Boo” and make me jump,
    And in the house it’s all so prim—no tickin’ of the clock.
    I look at ma and she at me; no need for us to say
    What ails us both; we know too well—he’s gone to school today.

    He started out at half-past eight, all rigged up in his best,
    And with the slate beneath his arm, the books and all the rest;
    And mother fixed his tie once more, and did her best to smile.
    And I stood by and praised him up and laughed about his “style.”
    But when he marched off down the road and stopped to wave goodbye,
    ’Twas kind of choky in my throat and misty in my eye.
    Proud of him? Well, I rather guess, and happy too—but, say,
    It’s mighty lonesome round the place. He’s gone to school today.

    But ‘tisn’t just the lonesomeness that ails us, don’t you know?
    It isn’t jest because he’s gone till four o’clock or so;
    It’s like the little worsted socks that’s in the bureau there;
    It’s like the little dresses, too, that once he used to wear;
    The thought that something’s past and gone, outgrown and put away—
    That brings to mother’s heart and mine the bittersweet today.
    It’s jest another forward step, in Time’s unchanging rule—
    Our baby’s left us now for good; our boy has gone to school.

  • Lullaby

    From The Sun, September 13, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    Europe’s lands are filled with soldiers,
        Only one is safe and nigh;
    Go to sleep, my little baby,
        Ere the bolts of battle fly
    And destroy the magic country
        Where the Sand Man’s beaches lie.
            Hushaby!

    Europe’s clouds are filled with fighting,
        Only one is safe to try;
    Go to sleep, my little baby,
        Ere the navies of the sky
    Shall destroy the sunset towers
        Marking Sleepytown on high.
            Hushaby!

    Europe’s seas are red with conquest,
        Only one no foe may spy;
    Go to sleep, my little baby,
        Ere the warships grim reply
    And awake the drowsy waters
        Where the Slumber sea makes sigh.
            Hushaby!

  • Foolish Pity

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 12, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Men pitied him because he was so blind.
        They wondered why he neither saw nor guessed;
    His wife had woeful narrowness of mind,
        And meager were the charms that she possessed.
    To petty jealousies she grimly clung,
        And there was venom on her busy tongue.

    Men pitied him because he lacked the wit
        To see how shamefully he was betrayed,
    Because he was content to meekly sit
        In silence while her meanness was displayed,
    Because through spite and jealousy and hate
        She caused his friends to leave him to his fate.

    Men pitied him because he lacked the heart
        To suffer through her tyranny no more;
    But they were foolish thus to take his part,
        To think his case was one they might deplore;
    Within his corner silently he sat
        And thought her something to be marveled at.

  • The Trouble Maker

    From the Evening Star, September 11, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    Nothin’ only carelessness
        Said Hezekiah Bings,
    Is causin’ all the world’s distress
        An’ disconcertin’ things.
    For years the fields have blossomed gay,
        For years the sun has shown.
    This world would go its placid way
        If it were left alone.

    But as it blossoms and it thrives
        For mortals to enjoy,
    Man with his strange ambition strives
        To make the world his toy.
    Through hurt and horror man will trace
        His pathway to a throne,
    Yet earth would be a pleasant place
        If it were left alone.

  • When Some One Cares

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 10, 1914.

    When you meet some disappointment, an’ yer feelin’ kinda blue;
    When yer plans have all got sidetracked er some friend has proved untrue;
    When yer toiling, praying, struggling at the bottom uv the stairs—
    It is like a panacea—jest to know that some one cares.

    Some one who can appreciate one’s efforts when he tries;
    Some one who seems to understand—an’ so can sympathize;
    Some one who, when he’s far away, still wonders how he fares—
    Some one who never can forget—some one who really cares.

    It will send a thrill of rapture through the framework uv the heart;
    It will stir the inner bein’ till the tear drops want to start;
    For this life is worth the livin’, when some one yer sorrow shares—
    Life is truly worth the livin’, when you know that some one cares.

    Oh, this world is not all sunshine—many day’s hard clouds disclose;
    There’s a cross for ev’ry joy bell, an’ a thorn for ev’ry rose;
    But the cross is not so grievous, ner the thorn the rosebud wears—
    An’ the clouds have silver linin’s—when some one really cares.

  • 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.