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Maxine Ralph
May 1940
I can't explain the feeling
Or why it comes to me.
It may be the turn of your head
Or your laughter, low yet free.
It may be the clothes you wear
Or the way that you trip along;
It may be your baby stare
Or the way that you hum a song.
Perhaps it is your voice
Or things you say or do.
Whatever the cause may be,
I have no use for you!
- Adele Lichtblau
May 1940
Clean clothes on a line.
Like young dancers are
Wild in their abandon.
- June Turner
May 1940
The mist wrapped itself tenaciously
About the rooftops and spire, gable and tower.
Clinging obstinately to the dank walls
And hugging the city with its huge,
Gray arms.
- Edward Breen
May 1940
The sun stirred and yawned.
His breath froze and became a pale light
On the horizon. He struggled up,
Stretched his mighty beams; and stood staring down
Upon a slumbering world.
- Harriet Davis
May 1940
Wake me gently
From my peaceful musings.
I need time now to dream,
To see the old anew,
Clear and fresh in the fleeing hours.
- I must live with the future, strange
And mysterious in its yawning growth.
I must search higher and higher
Ever nearer to my childish mountain
My foolish mountain of unreality.
I must have castles, too, spun of sunrays
And the wind and the sea and the cloud;
And I'll sing and I'll laugh and I'll dream
In the rapture of my freedom.
- Dorothea Ginn
May 1940
With slight ripples forming now and then,
Like the sweet strains of a violin
Haunting the air with its love songs,
Smooth waters glide along.
But gradually this quiet comes to an end;
And suddenly, as though a spirit had commanded them,
The quiet waters rush madly, beating, pounding the dirt beneath them
As warriors beat their tom-toms
And come crashing down at the climax
With the harmonic intensity and wildness of an orchestra
Reaching the height of confusion
Then gradually flowing off Like the silken threads of a harp.
- Florence Epstein
May 1940
The clothes flap gaily on the line;
They whip the March air
With wet and sparkling fingers
And flirt with the sunbeams.
- Miriam Winik
May 1940
Here from my window
In the school, I watch the world.
I am a god looking down
From a cloud all my own.
- Rita Silver
May 1940
I stood alone on a windy hill—
Fair was the wind and free—
And I saw the dusky marshes creep
Into the arms of the sea.
The ship's white sails grew dim and gray;
A star was born in the sky
The mystic voice of the spruces sang
Its tremulous lullaby.
I stood alone on a windy hill—
Soft was the wind and sweet—
And the night, enfolding earth and sea,
Lay quivering at my feet.
- Eva Hertz
May 1940
I touched it lightly, my rounded curving bulb,
Its paper rustled beneath my fingers like a child's head of windblown hair;
I put it in a sky-green bowl, latent with thoughts unsaid.
And then in the fertile darkness, on my very blackest closet shelf,
It grew into a shining touch of polished ivory.
Each day I filled it with new water,
As men read new books, and hear new music,
Until they grow strong with other men's strength.
And after many days, I lifted it out to face the warm flow
Of the April air, to quiver in the light.
I waited with a trembling pen for the white flowers;
They came like words, delicate and clear, cut with silver from fine parchment, White and yellow flame, slowing on a slim green taper.
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