Johnnie Sayre

    Father, thou canst never know
    The anguish that smote my heart
    For my disobedience, the moment I felt
    The remorseless wheel of the engine
    Sink into the crying flesh of my leg.
    As they carried me to the home of widow Morris
    I could see the school-house in the valley
    To which I played truant to steal rides upon the trains.
    I prayed to live until I could ask your forgiveness -
    And then your tears, your broken words of comfort!
    From the solace of that hour I have gained infinite happiness.
    Thou wert wise to chisel for me:
    "Taken from the evil to come."

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

Cooney Potter

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Anne Rutledge

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Enoch Dunlap

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Herbert Marshall

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 Helping Hand

    Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars.
    Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars?

    Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief.
    How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief?

    Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life.
    Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife.

    Mother, your face is but a face among a million more.
    You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore.

    I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath.
    You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death.

    Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God?
    Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod.

Edgar Lee Masters

In School-Days

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the masters desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knifes carved initial;

The charcoal frescos on its wall;
Its doors worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish fav...

John Greenleaf Whittier

In The Car

    We paused to say good-by,
    As we thought for a little while,
    Alone in the car, in the corner
    Around the turn of the aisle.

    A quiver came in your voice,
    Your eyes were sorrowful too;
    'Twas over - I strode to the doorway,
    Then turned to wave an adieu.

    But you had not come from the corner,
    And though I had gone so far,
    I retraced, and faced you coming
    Into the aisle of the car.

    You stopped as one who was caught
    In an evil mood by surprise. -
    I want to forget, I am trying
    To forget the look in your eyes.

    Your face was blank and cold,
    Like Lot's wife turned to salt.
    I suddenly trapped and discovered
    Your soul in a hidden fault.

    Your e...

Edgar Lee Masters

Harmon Whitney

    Out of the lights and roar of cities,
    Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
    Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
    The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
    But to hide a wounded pride as well.
    To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds -
    I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
    Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
    A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs, -
    I, whom fortune smiled on!
    I in a village,
    Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
    Out of the lore of golden years,
    Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
    When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
    To be judged by you,
    The soul of me hidden from you,
    With its wound gang...

Edgar Lee Masters

Henry C. Calhoun

    I reached the highest place in Spoon River,
    But through what bitterness of spirit!
    The face of my father, sitting speechless,
    Child-like, watching his canaries,
    And looking at the court-house window
    Of the county judge's room,
    And his admonitions to me to seek
    My own in life, and punish Spoon River
    To avenge the wrong the people did him,
    Filled me with furious energy
    To seek for wealth and seek for power.
    But what did he do but send me along
    The path that leads to the grove of the Furies?
    I followed the path and I tell you this:
    On the way to the grove you'll pass the Fates,
    Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.
    Stop for a moment, and if you see
    The thread of revenge leap out of the s...

Edgar Lee Masters

Harold Arnett

    I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
    Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
    Weak from the noon-day heat.
    A church bell sounded mournfully far away,
    I heard the cry of a baby,
    And the coughing of John Yarnell,
    Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying,
    Then the violent voice of my wife:
    "Watch out, the potatoes are burning!"
    I smelled them . . . then there was irresistible disgust.
    I pulled the trigger . . . blackness . . . light . . .
    Unspeakable regret . . . fumbling for the world again.
    Too late! Thus I came here,
    With lungs for breathing . . . one cannot breathe here with lungs,
    Though one must breathe
    Of what use is it To rid one's self of the world,
    When no soul may ever escape t...

Edgar Lee Masters