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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The Violinist.

But that one air for all that throng! And yet
How wondrously the magic strain went through
Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew
Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet,
While eyes long fed on visions of regret
Beheld life's rose, upspringing from its rue;
For some, the night-wind in thy music blew,
For some, the spring's celestial clarinet!

And each heart knew its own : the poet heard.
Ravished, the song his lips could never free;
The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word;
The mother thought, "O little, buried face!"
And one, through veil of doubt and agony,
Saw Christ, alone in the dim garden-place!

Margaret Steele Anderson

To A Fighter, Dead.

Pass, pass, you fiery spirit! Never bland
And halting never! Hosted round to-night,
At the great wall, with spears of lifted light,
Held by embattled seraphim, who stand
To greet their friend, their comrade, and their own!
Doubtless, spirit made for burning war.
Doubtless your God has need of you afar.
To lead, for Him, some heav'nly fight and lone.
And therefore knights you, thus, before the throne!

Margaret Steele Anderson

To The Fighting Weak.

Stand up, you Strong! Touch glasses! To the Weak!
The Weak who fight: or habit or disease,
Birth, chance, or ignorance, or awful wreak
Of some lost forbear, who has drained the cup
Of passion and wild pleasure! So! To these.
You strong, you proud, you conquerors, stand up!

Touch glasses! You shall never drink a glass
So salt of tears, so bitter through and through,
As they must drink, who cannot hope to pass
Beyond their place of trial and of pain,
Who cannot match their trifling strength with you;
To these, touch glasses, and the glasses drain!

They cannot build, they never break the trail.
No city rises out of their desires;
They do the little task, and dare not fail
For fear of little losses, or they keep
The humble path and sit by humble fires;...

Margaret Steele Anderson

To The Men Who Went Down On The Titanic.

(News Item: "It remains true that two hundred English and American men were sacrificed for as many peasant women.")

Once more I read, writ out in blood and tears,
Across this midnight page of sea and sky,
The legend of our English race that fears,
never death, but to refuse to die!

Soldier and merchant, men of bench and bar,
Of brush and pen, of gold deep-multiplied.
To those poor women, peasants from afar.
You gave your places, and in giving died!

Yet not for these, oh, not for these alone.
You made the last, the lasting sacrifice!
On those dark seas great Honor called her own.
All women's faces set before their eyes!

Lord of the virtues, spare, O spare us such!
We cannot live without this grace from thee;
Gold, statecraft, beauty, yea, we ...

Margaret Steele Anderson

Where There Is No Vision The People Perish.

Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill!
Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn
For our iniquity, that we have worn
Soft as a grace, these, if it be thy will,
But not unsouled darkness! Not the chill
Dead air, in which men move a while forlorn
And swiftly fail! Oh, break us, make us mourn
With tears of blood, but let us see thee still!

For we have visioned thee! Once, long ago,
O'er sea and wilderness a cloud of fire.
Thou led'st us forth; 'mid many a shame and woe.
We still have dreamed apocalypse; at last.
Ah, go not out, thou Flame of all the past!
Burn, thou bright Ardor, burn, thou great Desire!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Whistler.

(At the Exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum, March, 1910.)

So sharp the sword, so airy the defence!
As 'twere a play, or delicate pretence!
So fine and strange, so subtly poised, too
The egoist, that looks forever through!

That little spirit, air and grace and fire,
A-flutter at your frame, is your desire;
No, it is you, who never knew the net.
Exquisite, vain, whom we shall not forget!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Work.

Mine is the shape forever set between
The thought and form, the vision and the deed;
The hidden light, the glory all unseen,
I bring to mortal senses, mortal need.

Who loves me not, my sorrowing slave is he,
Bent with the burden, knowing oft the rod;
But he who loves me shall my master be,
And use me with the joyance of a god.

Man's lord or servant, still I am his friend;
Desire for me is simple as his breath;
Yea, waiting, old and patient, for the end,
He prays that he may find me after death!

Margaret Steele Anderson

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