As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau, Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away, Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day. Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know, Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau: Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé, Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away— Far and far away—far away. Edith Wyatt THE MORNING SONG OF SENLIN It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, Vine leaves tap my window, It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more. While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand shore. I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: The green earth tilts through a sphere of air There are houses hanging above the stars And a sun far off in a shell of silence Dapples my walls for me ... It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning I will dedicate this moment before my mirror Vine leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones, It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, There are horses neighing on far-off hills And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains . . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, Vine-leaves tap at the window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. Conrad Aiken CANTICLE Devoutly worshiping the oak Praying the summer to be long And daily full of sun and song, Praying the golden age to stay William Griffith All vision fades, but splendor does not fail And hopes the heart of man will know are vain Samuel Roth PERSONALITY IN POETRY Poetry enables us to share many experiences, the epic desires and agonies of great cities, the homely triumphs and tragedies of field and farmhouse, the lyric pleasure of cool woods, subtle picturing, grave symbolism, and the zest of fluent ideas and emotions. In addition to all this, poetry enables us to share one other thing, a sense of that mysterious human inflorescence which we call personality. By virtue of his sympathetic imagination, a good poet enters many spiritual mansions and entertains many ghostly visitors. Often he knows more about us than we know about ourselves and about each other. For his proper study is mankind. Practical persons must always be concerned with facts, deeds, and events. But the poet is chiefly interested in that impulsive energy which is the causation of facts, deeds and events-the human spirit. A detective, for example, may be clever enough in using his constructive imagination, to learn that a certain old woman has stolen a diamond and hidden it in her stocking. But his achievement is small as compared with that of the poet who tells her story. For the poet will reconstruct her world and show it to us. Through his eyes we shall see her eager old face, her nervous, twitching fingers. Through his penetrative power we shall learn why she wanted the diamond. And he will cause us to share a definite feeling with regard to the theft-pain, disgust, compassion-as the case may be. This feeling will be strong and moving in proportion as the poet possesses the gift of characterization. Modern civilization, on the whole, has been favorable to the development of this skill. Many contemporary poets take up their task of presenting personality in poetry with an equip |