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ContemplativeArthur Stringer

The Last of Summer

The opal afternoon Is cool, and very still. A wash of tawny air, Sea-green that melts to gold, Bathes all the skyline, hill by hill. Out of the black-topped pinelands A black crow calls, And the year seems old! A woman from a doorway sings, And from the valley-slope a sheep-dog barks, And through the umber woods the echo falls. Then silence on the still world lies, And faint and far the birds fly south, And behind the dark pines drops the sun, And a small wind wakes and sighs, And Summer, see, is done!
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

Chains

I watched the men at work on the stubborn rock, But mostly the one man poised on a drill Above the steam that hissed and billowed about him White in the frosty air, Where the lordly house would stand. Majestic, muscular, high like a god, He stood, And controlled and stopped And started his thundering drill, Offhand and careless and lordly as Thor, Begrimed and solemn and crowned with sweat, Where the great steel chains swung over the buckets of rock. Then out of a nearby house came a youth, All gloved and encased in fur and touched with content, Thin-shouldered and frail and finished, Leading a house-dog out on a silver chain.
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

I Sat in the Sunlight

I sat in the sunlight thinking of life; I sat there, dreaming of Death. And a moth alit on the sun-dial's face, And the birds sang sleepily, And the leaves stirred, And the sun lay warm on the hills, And the afternoon grew old. So, some day I knew the birds would sing, And the leaves would stir, And the afternoon grow old-- And I would not be there. And the warmth went out of the day, And a wind blew out of the West where I sat, And the birds were still!
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

The Surrender

Must I round my life to a song, As the waves wear smooth the shore-stone? Shall the mortal beat and throb Of this heart of mine Be only to crumble a dream, And fashion the pebbles of fancy, That the tides of time may cover, Or a child may find? Little in truth it matters; But this at the most I know: Infinite is the ocean That thunders upon man's soul, And the sooner the soul falls broken, The smoother will be its song!
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

April on the Rialto

A canyon of granite and steel, A river of grim unrest, And over the fever and street-dust Arches the azure of dream. And fretting along the tumult, Threading the iron curbs, Tawdry in tinsel and feather Drift the daughters of pleasure, The sad-eyed traders in song, The makers of joy, The Columbines of the city Seeking their ends! But under the beaded eye-lash, Under the lip with its rouge, Under the mask of white Splashed with geranium-red,
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

The Question

Glad with the wine of life, Reeling I go my way, Drunk with the ache of living And mouthing my drunken song! Then comes the lucid moment And the shadow across the lintel; And I hear the ghostly whisper, And I glimpse with startled eyes The Door beyond the doorway, And I see the small dark house Where I must sleep. Then song turns sour on my lips, And the warmth goes out of my blood, And I turn me back to the beaker, And re-draining my cup of dream, I drown the whispering voices,
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

Dreamers

There's a poet tombed in you, Man of blood and iron! There's a dreamer dead and buried Deep beneath your cynic frown, Deep beneath your toil! And deep beneath my music, There's a strong man stirs in me; There's a ghost of blood and granite Coffined in this madness Carpentered of Song! You live your day and drain it; I weave my dream and lose it; But the red blood lost in me awakens still at times, At all your city's sky-line, At all your roaring market-place, At all its hum of power--
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

March Twilight

Black with a batter of mud Stippled with silvery pools Stands the pavement at the street-end; And the gutter snow is gone From cobble and runnelling curb; And no longer the ramping wind Is rattling the rusty signs; And moted and soft and misty Hangs the sunlight over the cross-streets, And the home-bound crowds of the city Walk in a flood of gold. And suddenly out of the dusk There comes the ancient question: Can it be that I have lived In earlier worlds unknown? Or is it that somewhere deep
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

The Steel Workers

I watched the workers in steel, The Pit-like glow of the furnace, The rivers of molten metal, The tremulous rumble of cranes, The throb of the Thor-like hammers On sullen and resonant anvils! I saw the half-clad workers Twisting earth's iron to their use, Shaping the steel to their thoughts; And, in some way, out of the fury And the fires of mortal passion, It seemed to me, In some way, out of the torture And tumult of inchoate Time, The hammer of sin is shaping The soul of man!
ContemplativeArthur Stringer

The Pilot

I lounge on the deck of the river-steamer, Homeward bound with its load, Churning from headland to headland, Through moonlight and silence and dusk. And the decks are alive with laughter and music and singing, And I see the forms of the sleepers And the shadowy lovers that lean so close to the rail, And the romping children behind, And the dancers amidships. But high above us there in the gloom, Where the merriment breaks like a wave at his feet, Unseen of lover and dancer and me, Is the Pilot, impassive and stern, With his grim eyes watching the course.

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