  Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated in the public schools, with a short special course at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss Anderson has been literary editor of The Evening Post, of Louisville, having a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in the Saturday edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" for McClure's Magazine; and since quitting McClure's, she has been a public lecturer upon literature and art in New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Memphis, and Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems have appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, The Century, McClure's, but the greater number of them have been published in The American Magazine. She has also contributed considerable verse to the minor magazines. The next year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought together in a charming volume, entitled The Flame in the Wind, which form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky woman of the present time has done better work in verse than has she.
THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK [From McClure's Magazine (September, 1909)] Lord of all strength—behold, I am but frail! Lord of all harvest—few the grapes and pale Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord, Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword, Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die, Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry: Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun; Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed Let me lift up my sapling like a blade; Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine! Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine! NOT THIS WORLD [From McClure's Magazine (November, 1909)] Shall I not give this world my heart, and well, If for naught else, for many a miracle Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?— Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss, Not this world, oh, not this! Shall I not give this world my heart, who find Within this world the glories of the mind— That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?— Nay, by the little footways it hath trod, And smiles to see, when thou art under sod, And by its very gaze across the abyss, Not this world, oh, not this! Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold One figure here above myself, my gold, My life and hope, my joy and my intent?— Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent, That fragile garment that shall soon be rent, By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss, Not this world, oh, not this! Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain? Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain, And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot? Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not; Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss, Not this world, oh, not this! WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM) [From The Atlantic Monthly (August, 1910)] So sharp the sword, so airy the defense! As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense; So fine and strange—so subtly-poisÈd, too— The egoist that looks forever through! That winged spirit—air and grace and fire— A-flutter at the frame, is your desire; Nay, it is you—who never knew the net, Exquisite, vain—whom we shall not forget! |
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