Willard Fluke

    My wife lost her health,
    And dwindled until she weighed scarce ninety pounds.
    Then that woman, whom the men
    Styled Cleopatra, came along.
    And we - we married ones
    All broke our vows, myself among the rest.
    Years passed and one by one
    Death claimed them all in some hideous form
    And I was borne along by dreams
    Of God's particular grace for me,
    And I began to write, write, write, reams on reams
    Of the second coming of Christ.
    Then Christ came to me and said,
    "Go into the church and stand before the congregation
    And confess your sin."
    But just as I stood up and began to speak
    I saw my little girl, who was sitting in the front seat -
    My little girl who was born blind!
    After that, all is blackness.

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

The Hill

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Hamilton Greene

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Cassius Hueffer

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Lydia Humphrey

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

English

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The Bishop's Dream Of The Holy Sepulchre

A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner
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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,
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Edgar Lee Masters

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

Henry Phipps

    I was the Sunday-school superintendent,
    The dummy president of the wagon works
    And the canning factory,
    Acting for Thomas Rhodes and the banking clique;
    My son the cashier of the bank,
    Wedded to Rhodes, daughter,
    My week days spent in making money,
    My Sundays at church and in prayer.
    In everything a cog in the wheel of things - as - they-are:
    Of money, master and man, made white
    With the paint of the Christian creed.
    And then:
    The bank collapsed.
    I stood and hooked at the wrecked machine -
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    The rotten bolts, the broken rods;
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    When newspapers, ...

Edgar Lee Masters

Father Whimsett

    Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes
    So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown
    As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed
    Through thought of self while sitting for the artist;
    A nose well bridged with bone for will, the nostrils
    Distended as if sniffing diaphanous fire;
    A very bow for lips, the under lip
    Rich, kissable like a woman's; heavy cheeks
    Propped with a rounded tower of flesh for neck:
    Thus Perugino looked, says Raphael,
    And thus looked Father Whimsett at his desk,
    With vertical creases, where the nose and brow
    Together come, between the eye-brows slanting
    Unequally, half clown-wise, half Mephisto,
    With just a touch of that abandoned humor,
    And laughter at the world, the race of men,

Edgar Lee Masters

John Ballard

    In the lust of my strength
    I cursed God, but he paid no attention to me:
    I might as well have cursed the stars.
    In my last sickness I was in agony, but I was resolute
    And I cursed God for my suffering;
    Still He paid no attention to me;
    He left me alone, as He had always done.
    I might as well have cursed the Presbyterian steeple.
    Then, as I grew weaker, a terror came over me:
    Perhaps I had alienated God by cursing him.
    One day Lydia Humphrey brought me a bouquet
    And it occurred to me to try to make friends with God,
    So I tried to make friends with Him;
    But I might as well have tried to make friends with the bouquet.
    Now I was very close to the secret,
    For I really could make friends with the bouquet

Edgar Lee Masters