  Louis Untermeyer was born October 1, 1885, in New York City, where he has lived, except for brief sojourns in Maine and New Jersey, ever since. His education was sketchy; his continued failure to comprehend algebra and geometry kept him from entering college. His one ambition was to become a composer. At sixteen he appeared as a pianist in semi-professional circles; at seventeen he entered his father’s jewelry manufacturing establishment, of which he became designer and factory manager. It was with Challenge (1914), now in its fourth edition, that the author first spoke in his own idiom. Although the ghost of Henley still haunts some of these pages, poems like “Summons,” “Landscapes” and “Caliban in the Coal Mines” show “a fresh and lyrical sympathy with the modern world.... His vision” (thus the Boston Transcript) “is a social vision, his spirit a passionately energized command of the forces of justice.” Challenge was succeeded by These Times (1917), evidently an “interval” book which, lacking the concentration and unity of the better known collection, sought (not always successfully) for larger horizons. Certain poems (like “Swimmers,” “The Laughers” and the colloquial sonnets) stand out, but as a whole it has neither the energy of his earlier nor the surety of his later work. The New Adam (1920) is a more satisfactory unit; here the varied passions are fused in a new heat. Besides this serious poetry, Untermeyer has published two volumes of critical parodies, “—— and Other Poets” (1917) and Including Horace (1919)—paraphrases of the Latin bard as various classic and modern poets might have rendered him. He has also printed a strict metrical translation of three hundred and twenty-five Poems of Heinrich Heine (1917); a volume of prose criticism, The New Era in American Poetry (1919); and two text-books. He was one of the Associate Editors of The Seven Arts (1916-17) and has lectured at various universities in the Eastern States. SUMMONSThe eager night and the impetuous winds, The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on ... The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. A slender stream became a naked sprite, Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. A saffron moon, dangling among the trees, Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs, Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze ... And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away; The night kept tugging at my torpid mood And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; And over all indifference there streamed A myriad urges in one rushing wave ... Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, I felt the brave persistence of the grass; The far desire of rivulets; the keen, Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; The endless labors of the patient worm; The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant; The constancy of flowers; the blind belief Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun, And yet the groping faith of every root! Out of old graves arose the cry of life; Out of the dying came the deathless call. And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, The thing that was my boyhood woke in me— Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth, With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh, Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern. ... And then—veil upon veil was torn aside— Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys, Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand; The night, scorning its stubborn mystery, Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more than Song, Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; Love and the faces of a world of children Swept like a conquering army through my blood. And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, Beauty, the passion of the universe, Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, And, like a wine, poured itself out for me To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; To meet with confidence the cynic years; Battling in wars that never can be won, Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat. CALIBAN IN THE COAL MINESGod, we don’t like to complain We know that the mine is no lark— But—there’s the pools from the rain; But—there’s the cold and the dark. God, You don’t know what it is— You, in Your well-lighted sky— Watching the meteors whizz; Warm, with the sun always by. God, if You had but the moon Stuck in Your cap for a lamp, Even You’d tire of it soon, Down in the dark and the damp. Nothing but blackness above, And nothing that moves but the cars. ... God, if You wish for our love, Fling us a handful of stars! |
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