Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

October 8, 1867

October 7, 1921

English

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A Boy's Virgil.

Dust on the page, from these forgetful years!
I brush it off, to see the fading date
Written in boyish hand; to find through tears
The lad's dear name, inscribed with all the state
Of the first day's possession; and to read
Along the tell-tale margin, scribbled thick.
Here is the note, 'twas writ with guilty speed
And here the sketch, with guilty pencil quick;
And here's a picture! Was she ever so?
Were these her curls and this her merry look
Who lieth in her old green grave as low
As he is lying? Ah, this faded book!
I think not of the bold and storied wrong
Done for a woman's fairness, nor of strong
And god-like heroes, nor of beauteous youth
In game and battle, but, with heart of ruth,
About this boy, who laughed and played and read
So carelessly! Ah, ...

Margaret Steele Anderson

A Greek Lyrist Sings Of Apollo.

Ah, it was he I heard at early dawn,
From the high hilltop and the dew-wet hollow,
While I was yet as tender as a fawn.
Calling me, "Follow!"

And it was he who spoke at sultry noon,
By the bright pool, when Dian was away:
"Frail is your harp as is the crescent moon,
Yet shall you play!"

Still do I hear that calling, Apollo!
Though it is far, and failing is the light:
"Lo, you are spent, but you shall rise and follow
Into the night!"

Margaret Steele Anderson

A Stage-Figure.

(A painting by Whistler.)

A thing of flesh and blood? Not so!
Yet what you are I do not know.
A paper sword? A pasteboard flame?
Ah no, I cannot find the name!

Whate'er you are, 'tis not of earth,
Nor did high Heaven give you birth;
A marionette your mother? Well
But you were sired by Ariel!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Agostino Di Duccio.

The chime of silver bells; the sweet
Wild rush of fairy wings and feet;
The fluting birds of dawn; the small
And crystal music of the waterfall.
Or piping of some lone and hidden faun;
All this you were, and suddenly were not
A moment's Ariel, centuries forgot!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Allurement.

From yonder hedge, from yonder spray,
He calls me onward and away;
Broad lies the world and fair to see,
The cuckoo calls, is calling me!

I have not seen nor heard of Care,
Who used my very bed to share,
Since that first morn when, airily,
The cuckoo, calling, called to me!

My sweetheart's face? I have forgot;
My mother? But she calls me not;
From that green bank, from that dim lea,
The cuckoo calls, is calling me!

And I must go, I may not choose;
No gain there is, nor aught to lose;
And soon, ah, soon!, on some wild tree
The bird sits long and waits for me!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Autumn.

Tainted with death? Ah then, the taint is sweet!
As if God took the essences of life
And burned them in a brazier at his feet,
The smoke of them ascending rich and rife
To please his nostrils! What if man be loath
To your deep bosom, and would have the Spring
His bride forever! He who made you both
Knoweth your beauty for as fair a thing;
Like that of one who long hath been a wife.
And mothered men! As piercing as a knife,
And rich beyond all mortal imaging!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Beatrice.

Vision of light, above triumphal car
Vision of guidance, star of ev'ry star
And throned saint within the great white Rose,
I follow thee: the book at last to close,
And see again, while sun and stars grow less,
A little girl, in little crimson dress!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Childless.

Up to the little grave, with blossoms kept,
They went together; and one hid her face,
And spoke aloud the boy's dear name, and wept.
The other woman stood apart a space.
And prayed to God. "If only I," she said,
"Might keep a grave, and mourn my little dead!"

Margaret Steele Anderson

Conscience.

Wisdom am I when thou art but a fool;
My part the man, when thou hast played the clod;
Hast lost thy garden? When the eve is cool,
Harken!, 'tis I who walk there with thy God!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Courage.

I thank thee, Life, that though I be
This poor and broken thing to see,
I still can look with pure delight
Upon thy rose, the red, the white.

And though so dark my own demesne,
My neighbor's fields so fair and green,
I thank thee that my soul and I
Can fare along that grass and sky.

Yet am I weak! Ere I be done.
Give me one spot that takes the sun!
Give me, ere I uncaring rest.
One rose, to wear it on my breast!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Donatello.

Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes
How brood and burn the restless mysteries!
Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
That spray of antique laurel, how serene!

Margaret Steele Anderson

From Sudden Death. . . .

Roses about my way, and roses still!
0, I must pick and have my very fill!
Red for my heart and white upon my hair
And still I shall have roses and to spare!
    My child, I save thee thorns! Dear little friend,
        This is the end!

So long the road, so lone the road and gray,
My bleeding feet must travel many a day!
With not an inn where I may stop and rest,
With not a roof that claims me for its guest!
        Hush! the road vanishes! Yes, yes, poor friend,
            This is the end!

O Lord, let thou thy servant go in peace!
Now I have rounded out life's perfect lease,
Spare me the clouded brain, the dark'ning eye,
Nor let me be a burden ere I die!
        Thou shalt not he! Nay, even now, old friend,
            This ...

Margaret Steele Anderson

God, The Complement.
("Nor does being weary imply that there is any place to rest.")

Yea, by your wants bestead,
You come Myself to know;
For if I be not bread,
Why hunger so?

And if not water I,
Your fountain last and first,
Why should your earth be dry?
Why should you thirst?

Have you not read desire?
Do you not know your quest?
Spirit, why should you tire
Were I not rest?
Margaret Steele Anderson

Habit.
So, then! Wilt use me as a garment? Well,
'Tis man's high impudence to think he may;

But I, who am as old as heav'n and hell,
I am not lightly to be east away.

Wilt run a race? Then I will run with thee,
And stay thy steps or speed thee to the goal;

Wilt dare a fight? Then, of a certainty,
I'll aid thy foeman, or sustain thy soul.

Lo, at thy marriage-feast, upon one hand.
Face of thy bride, and on the other, mine!

Lo, at thy couch of sickness close I stand.
And taint the cup, or make it more benign.

Yea, hark! the very son thou hast begot

One day doth give thee certain sign and cry;

Hold thou thy peace, frighted or frighted not;
That look, that sign, that presence, it is I!
Margaret Steele Anderson

Hawthorne.
Child, lover, servant, master of Romance,
To you she showed, not splendid of attire,
With gaud and grace, but all to your desire
In lonelier hues of solemn radiance!
Long years you followed her, and at her glance,
As at some word, divinely sweet or dire,
Beheld the souls of men, in shapes of fire,
Through veiling flesh look out to her askance.

You saw the brand upon unbranded breast;
From evil heart you saw the witches wind;
You saw dark passion breed in frolic youth;
And yet, with sight all delicate and blest,
You knew the primrose of a maiden's mind,
You took of shame the grave white flower of truth!
Margaret Steele Anderson

Imagination.
With the old gods thou walkest, 'mid the leaf
And bloom of ancient morning and of light;
Thou die'st with Christ, and with the nailed thief
That dies upon his left hand and his right.

Yea, thou descendest into hell, and then
To the last heaven dost take thy road sublime;
Thine hostelries the secret souls of men,
Thy servants all the fleeting things of time!
Margaret Steele Anderson

In The Dawn.
At night it is not strange that thou art dead;
I give thee to the stars, the moonlight snow;
But ah, when desolate I lift my head,
And thou art gone at early morning, No!
Margaret Steele Anderson

In The Image Of God.
The falling of a leaf upon thy way,
The flutter of a bird along thy sky,
Thou God, to whom the ages are a day,
Ev'n such, alas! oh, ev'n such am I!

So long the time, O Lord, when I was not.
And ah, so long the time I shall not be,
So strange and small, so passing small my lot,
I cry aloud at thine immensity!

Will not thy garment brush the leaf aside?
Wilt thou, eternal, look upon the fall
Of one poor bird? Or canst thou, stooping wide
From thy great orbit, hearken to my call?

0, little child 0, little child and fool!
My planets are my gardens, where I go.
At morn and eve, at dawning and at cool.
To see my living green and mark it grow.

I know the leaves that fall from every tree,
I know the birds that nest those gardens through,
Margaret Steele Anderson

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