The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1894-07-09
POETRY R -,
4 AS She Is Writ.

The dlVorcement OF sound from sense
has proceeded rapidly in these modern
days Of machine-made literature; until
when one nowadays picks up a conventional
poem he does SO with no serious expecta.
ton OF finding In it anything in the semb.
lance of definite idea. Nevertheless,
there is usually some faint struggle on the
part OF the modern poeta,tsr toward the
expression Of a thought, diffnse and hos
itant though it be. Very few fall into the
absolute wilderness OF rhythm which char
acterizss this effusion Of words in the At
lanta Constitutions:
Through days a-wsary, aad scenes 90
drenry,
Some hearts in the shadow must stay,
While the aching eyes scan gloomy skfe,
For light 10 the far-away.
Through the darkness deep, dread agonies
creep,
And sseal the reluctant perfume
Ot the flowers rare, that fate seemed TO
dare,
On the gri,f-stricken soil to bloom.
Through the dismal years, Of weeping
and fears,
Some hearts with their burden of woe,
On the grim highway, where no sunbeams
play,
Through the blacknsss of night must go.
Some hearts must weep whil0 other hearts
sleep,
Ne'eT dreaming Of pain or sorrow;
Some hearts are signing, some hearts are
crying
Der visions of dread tomorrow.
Some hearts must knsel and the chast' ming
feel,
As hopes that were framed in the past
Fall into decay, and, swift, pass away,
Too frail, through suffering, to last,
Some hsarts are aching, and silently
breaking,
While the lives Of others are crowned
With rarest delight, that never takes
fight
Where despair's dark face never
This chaotic mass OF redundancy and
senseless vocables is merely a slightly ex-
aggerated sample of the jingling verse
that today occupies high favor among
careless readers of newspapers and shallow
magazines. OF radically different char
acter, yet almost as Objectionable in its
way, is this double sonnet by John Talmau
on Chopins Twelfth Nocturne printed in
recent issue Of McClure's Magazine:
Beyond the realm Of being and Of pain,
Upward and onward fits my charmed
soul,
Captive to the ineifable Gon.rol
| OF music's wonder worker. Every strain
or this heaven-nurtured harmony is rain
To tho parched glebe Of memory; u
scroll
Whereon are craven cabalas that roll
Floods OF beWildering TRANSPORT on the
brain.
In joys whirlpool rovel as soar,
And from the ether heights whereto
climb,
List the sound-waves sweep back from
Lethe's shore
In letsening cadence toward the strand
OF Time.
Deeply in the CirceAn founts dip,
And with the wild winds mix in fellow
ship.
A season, and throughout my spirit runs
A pang OF awesoms desolateness, lent
The sombreneJs OF some dead Ornament t
OF cinerated worlds and buried suns.
And then, the presence Of long-vanishei
ones
soul-fsllows ere youths heritage was
spent
! Glides pnlpably ansar. am content;
My grasp Intutude no longer shunsl
A moment, and a mighty sorrow horn
| OF exaltation's excess, casts pail;
Tears start, as drops OF Natures grief a.
morn
Adown chameleon shafts OF sunlight
fall;
My being quiverS meath the sweet duress
OF pain more joyous than earth's joyous
ness!
|
| TayA hnya etraininp opa.a4
which causes great cords TO stand out on
John Talman's flushed countennnce. and
induces us TO hold our breath in suspense
lest he should rupture blood vessel
Who, in all this round world, cares With
the mercury above the seventies to read
about "the parehed glebe Of memory"
scrolls whereon are craven cabalAs that
roll floods Of transport on the brain"-a
mild way, perhaps, OF suggesting mental
dropsy-"Circea founts" or chameleon
shafts Of sunlightp These things are the
playthings of phrase tinkers and metaphor
maniacs. They are not the verbal imple-
ments Of true po.try. The object of postry
is not to take the readers lTsath away
with linguistic curios aRd rhetorical sur
prise parties. II ought to be to charm and
please by the pure union OF happy word =
ing to elevate thought Too many "dab.
blers in the supertipe" forget tho streng h
Of simplicity and try to soar into sublimi-
ties which collapse like the hot -air bal p
loon at the moment of nashiest brilliancy.
| kk&
Take the average man and VI Is q safe
guess thar he would prefer the poem we
are about to quote 10 all the tongue twis-
ters thar John Talman ever wrote or,read
--aid, honestly. now, can You blame him!
1t is from the Cincinnati Commercial Ca
zette. author not named and its title is
"The Coming Man"
A pair Of very chubby legs.
lncased in scarlet hose;