Dow Kritt

    Samuel is forever talking of his elm -
    But I did not need to die to learn about roots:
    I, who dug all the ditches about Spoon River.
    Look at my elm!
    Sprung from as good a seed as his,
    Sown at the same time,
    It is dying at the top:
    Not from lack of life, nor fungus,
    Nor destroying insect, as the sexton thinks.
    Look, Samuel, where the roots have struck rock,
    And can no further spread.
    And all the while the top of the tree
    Is tiring itself out, and dying,
    Trying to grow.

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

Henry Layton

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Wendell P. Bloyd

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Samuel Gardner

    I who kept the greenhouse,
    Lover of trees and flowers,
    Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm,
    Measuring its generous branches with my eye,
    And listened to its rejoicing leaves
    Lovingly patting each other
    With sweet aeolian whispers.
    And well they might:
    For the roots had grown so wide and deep
    That the soil of the hill could not withhold
    Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain,
    And warmed by the sun;
    But yielded it all to the thrifty roots,
    Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk,
    And thence to the branches, and into the leaves,
    Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang.
    Now I, an under - tenant of the earth, can see
    That the branches of a tree
    Spread no wider than its ...

Edgar Lee Masters

Calvin Campbell

    Ye who are kicking against Fate,
    Tell me how it is that on this hill-side
    Running down to the river,
    Which fronts the sun and the south-wind,
    This plant draws from the air and soil
    Poison and becomes poison ivy?
    And this plant draws from the same air and soil
    Sweet elixirs and colors and becomes arbutus?
    And both flourish?
    You may blame Spoon River for what it is,
    But whom do you blame for the will in you
    That feeds itself and makes you dock-weed,
    Jimpson, dandelion or mullen
    And which can never use any soil or air
    So as to make you jessamine or wistaria?

Edgar Lee Masters

Lucinda Matlock

    I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
    And played snap-out at Winchester.
    One time we changed partners,
    Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
    And then I found Davis.
    We were married and lived together for seventy years,
    Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
    Eight of whom we lost
    Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
    I spun,
    I wove,
    I kept the house,
    I nursed the sick,
    I made the garden, and for holiday
    Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
    And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
    And many a flower and medicinal weed -
    Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
    At ninety - six I had lived enough, that is all,
    And passed to a ...

Edgar Lee Masters

Willie Pennington

    They called me the weakling, the simpleton,
    For my brothers were strong and beautiful,
    While I, the last child of parents who had aged,
    Inherited only their residue of power.
    But they, my brothers, were eaten up
    In the fury of the flesh, which I had not,
    Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not,
    Hardened by the growth of the lusts, which I had not,
    Though making names and riches for themselves.
    Then I, the weak one, the simpleton,
    Resting in a little corner of life,
    Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision,
    Not knowing it was through me.
    Thus a tree sprang
    From me, a mustard seed.

Edgar Lee Masters

Elliott Hawkins

    I looked like Abraham Lincoln.
    I was one of you, Spoon River, in all fellowship,
    But standing for the rights of property and for order.
    A regular church attendant,
    Sometimes appearing in your town meetings to warn you
    Against the evils of discontent and envy
    And to denounce those who tried to destroy the Union,
    And to point to the peril of the Knights of Labor.
    My success and my example are inevitable influences
    In your young men and in generations to come,
    In spite of attacks of newspapers like the Clarion;
    A regular visitor at Springfield
    When the Legislature was in session
    To prevent raids upon the railroads
    And the men building up the state.
    Trusted by them and by you, Spoon River, equally
   ...

Edgar Lee Masters

Indignation" Jones

    You would not believe, would you
    That I came from good Welsh stock?
    That I was purer blooded than the white trash here?
    And of more direct lineage than the
    New Englanders And Virginians of Spoon River?
    You would not believe that I had been to school
    And read some books.
    You saw me only as a run-down man
    With matted hair and beard
    And ragged clothes.
    Sometimes a man's life turns into a cancer
    From being bruised and continually bruised,
    And swells into a purplish mass
    Like growths on stalks of corn.
    Here was I, a carpenter, mired in a bog of life
    Into which I walked, thinking it was a meadow,
    With a slattern for a wife, and poor Minerva, my daughter,
    Whom you tormented and drove to deat...

Edgar Lee Masters