Davis Matlock

    Suppose it is nothing but the hive:
    That there are drones and workers
    And queens, and nothing but storing honey -
    (Material things as well as culture and wisdom) -
    For the next generation, this generation never living,
    Except as it swarms in the sun-light of youth,
    Strengthening its wings on what has been gathered,
    And tasting, on the way to the hive
    From the clover field, the delicate spoil.
    Suppose all this, and suppose the truth:
    That the nature of man is greater
    Than nature's need in the hive;
    And you must bear the burden of life,
    As well as the urge from your spirit's excess -
    Well, I say to live it out like a god
    Sure of immortal life, though you are in doubt,
    Is the way to live it.
    If that doesn't make God proud of you
    Then God is nothing but gravitation
    Or sleep is the golden goal.

Edgar Lee Masters

Edgar Lee Masters was an American poet, biographer, and dramatist. Born in Kansas and raised in Illinois, Masters is best known for his collection of poems entitled "Spoon River Anthology" (1915), which is a series of epitaphs of residents of the fictional small town of Spoon River. His works reflect the everyday lives and frustrations of middle America. Masters also practiced law and wrote biographies for historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln and Mark Twain.

Edgar Lee Masters

Ralph Rhodes

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Finding Of The Body

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Knowlt Hoheimer

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

The Landscape

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Menagerie

        Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut
        Such capers every day! I 'm just about
        Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut.
        Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snout
        Was twitching when the keeper turned me out.

        That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold.
        Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant
        Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold,
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        (It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)

        I 'll foot it home, to try and make believe
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Neanderthal

"Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry
I woke from deeper slumber - was it sleep? -
And saw a hooded figure standing by
The bed whereon I lay.

    "Why do you keep,
O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard
About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep
Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard,
As that unearthly shape was veiled to you
At Casa Magni?"

        Then the room was starred
With light as I was speaking, and I knew
The god, my brother, from whose face the veil
Melted as mist.

        "What mission fair and true,
While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale
Amid this solemn stillness, for your face
Unutterably majestic."

    As when the dale
At midnight echoes for a little space,
The night-bird's cry, ...

Edgar Lee Masters

So Much To Do

The face of the world is a homely face,
And the look of the world unkind,
When harsh on your arm a hand it lays
And bids you into the grind,
That 's little to your mind, my dear,
That 's little to your mind.

But it 's work that counts in the world, you see;
Not what we dream, but do:
For the dreamer of dreams, whatever he be,
If he 'd have his dreams come true,
Must be a workman, too, my dear,
Must be a workman, too.

So much to do; so much to know;
So much that life would shirk!
But each is one of a hive below,
The world's great Hive of Irk,
Where each must do his work, my dear,
Each one must do his work.

A song, a look, a word of cheer,
Will help more than a sigh!
For this is the law of the hive, my dear,
That every ...

Madison Julius Cawein

Life

I.

Pessimist

There is never a thing we dream or do
But was dreamed and done in the ages gone;
Everything's old; there is nothing that's new,
And so it will be while the world goes on.

The thoughts we think have been thought before;
The deeds we do have long been done;
We pride ourselves on our love and lore
And both are as old as the moon and sun.

We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,
And the end for each is one and the same;
Time and the sun and the frost and wet
Will wear from its pillar the greatest name.

No answer comes for our prayer or curse,
No word replies though we shriek in air;
Ever the taciturn universe
Stretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.

With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,<...

Madison Julius Cawein

Edmund Pollard

    I would I had thrust my hands of flesh
    Into the disk - flowers bee-infested,
    Into the mirror-like core of fire
    Of the light of life, the sun of delight.
    For what are anthers worth or petals
    Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows
    Of the heart of the flower, the central flame
    All is yours, young passer-by;
    Enter the banquet room with the thought;
    Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful
    Whether you're welcome - the feast is yours!
    Nor take but a little, refusing more
    With a bashful "Thank you", when you're hungry.
    Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!
    Leave no balconies where you can climb;
    Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest;
    Nor golden heads with pillows to share;
    Nor wine cups while the...

Edgar Lee Masters

Man, The Destroyer

O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name
Known among men, even as our fathers bent
Before thee, and as little children came
For counsel in Life's dread predicament,
Even we, with all our lore,
That only beckons, saddens and betrays,
Have no such key to the mysterious door
As he that kneels and prays.

The stern ascension of our climbing thought,
The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul,
Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought,
But only tempt us further from the goal;
Yea! the eternal plan
Darkens with knowledge, and our weary skill
But makes us more of beast and less of man,
Fevered to hate and kill.

Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew,
Fades and dissolves and vanishes away,
And the sole art the sons of men pursue
Is t...

Richard Le Gallienne