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Ghosts of somber vaults and looming porches,Cyclopean faces, giant knees;How we anchored in a violet haven,Seeking under light of unknown starsMountains paler than the moonlight, gravenInto shapes of pinnacles and scars;Where our boat set all the lilies swinging,Sailed up rivers hushed and leafy-arbored,And, in caves of hanging blossom harbored,Heard the sound of an immortal singing.As when breathed upon, the ashen emberBlossoms into fire again and fades,So bright Junes flame up through our December,And at random whiles we half rememberSudden gusts of an immortal singing,Ancient visions of remote crusades.
The Century MagazineMartin Armstrong


FEMININE TALK
First Woman. Do you share the present dread   Of being sentimental?   The world has flung its boutonniére   Into the mud, and steps upon it   With elaborate gestures!   Certain people do this neatly,   Using solemn words for consolation:   Others angrily stamp their feet,   Striving to prove their strength.Second Woman. Sentimentality   Is the servant-girl of certain men   And the wife of others.   She scarcely ever flirts   With creative minds,

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