The Day Is Done

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound the carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn, the households born
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Tears, Idle Tears

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

This is my letter to the world

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,—
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

Grass

by Carl Sandburg (1878–1967)

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.

Scenes from Our Town

by Thornton Wilder (1897-1975)


*conversation between Mrs. Gibbs & Mrs. Webb in Act One:

(MRS. GIBBS fills her apron with food for the chickens and comes downstage.)

MRS. GIBBS
Here, chick, chick, chick.

No, go away, you. Go away.

Here, chick, chick, chick.

What’s the matter with you? Fight, fight, fight,--that’s all you do.

Hm…you don’t belong to me. Where’d you come from?

(Flings last of her feed, which causes loud clucks.)

Oh, don’t be so scared. Nobody’s going to hurt you.

(MRS. WEBB, laden with two large bowls, crosses through trellis to sit L. end of bench, puts one bowl on floor, other on lap, strings beans into bowl on lap.)

(MRS. GIBBS turns to catch sight of MRS. WEBB.)

Good morning, Myrtle. How’s your cold?

MRS. WEBB
Well, I still get that tickling feeling in my throat. I told Charles I didn’t know as I’d go to choir practice tonight. Wouldn’t be any use.

MRS. GIBBS
Have you tried singing over your voice?

MRS. WEBB
Yes, but somehow I can’t do that and stay on the key.

While I’m resting myself I thought I’d string some of these beans.

MRS. GIBBS
(Rolling up her sleeves as she crosses the stage for a chat.)

Let me help you. Beans have been good this year.

MRS. WEBB
I’ve decided to put up forty quarts if it kills me. The children say they hate ’em, but I notice they’re able to get ’em down all winter.

(Pause. Brief sound of chickens cackling.)

MRS. GIBBS
Now, Myrtle. I’ve got to tell you something, because if I don’t tell somebody I’ll burst.

MRS. WEBB
Why, Julia Gibbs!

MRS. GIBBS
Here, give me some more of those beans. Myrtle, did one of those secondhand-furniture men from Boston come to see you last Friday?

MRS. WEBB
No-o.

MRS. GIBBS
Well, he called on me. First I thought he was a patient wantin’ to see Dr. Gibbs. ’N he wormed his way into my parlor, and, Myrtle Webb, he offered me three hundred and fifty dollars for Grandmother Wentworth’s highboy, as I’m sitting here!

MRS. WEBB
Why, Julia Gibbs!

MRS. GIBBS
He did! That old thing! Why, it was so big I didn’t know where to put it and I almost give it to Cousin Hester Wilcox.

MRS. WEBB
Well, you’re going to take it, aren’t you?

MRS. GIBBS
I don’t know.

MRS. WEBB
You don’t know—three hundred and fifty dollars! What’s come over you?

MRS. GIBBS
Well, if I could get the Doctor to take the money and go away someplace on a real trip, I’d sell it like that. —Y-know, Myrtle, it’s been the dream of my life to see Paris, France. —Oh, I don’t know. It sounds crazy, I suppose, but for years I’ve been promising myself that if we ever had the chance—

MRS. WEBB
How does the Doctor feel about it?

MRS. GIBBS
Well, I did beat about the bush a little and said that if I got a legacy—that’s the way I put it—I’d make him take me somewhere.

MRS. WEBB
M-m-m...What did he say?

MRS. GIBBS
You know how he is. I haven’t heard a serious word out of him since I’ve known him. No, he said, it might make him discontented with Grover’s Corners to go traipsin’ about Europe; better let well enough alone, he says. Every two years he makes a trip to the battlefields of the Civil War and that’s enough treat for anybody, he says.

MRS. WEBB
Well, Mr. Webb just admires the way Dr. Gibbs knows everything about the Civil War. Mr. Webb’s a good mind to give up Napoleon and move over to the Civil War, only Dr. Gibbs being one of the greatest experts in the country just makes him despair.

MRS. GIBBS
It’s a fact! Dr. Gibbs is never so happy as when he’s at Antietam or Gettysburg. The times I’ve walked over those hills, Myrtle, stopping at every bush and pacing it all out, like we were going to buy it.

MRS. WEBB
Well, if that secondhand man’s really serious about buyin’ it, Julia, you sell it. And then you’ll get to see Paris, all right. Just keep droppin’ hints from time to time—that’s how I got to see the Atlantic Ocean, y’know.

MRS. GIBBS
Oh, I’m sorry I mentioned it. Only it seems to me that once in your life before you die you ought to see a country where they don’t talk in English and don’t even want to.

STAGE MANAGER
(Entering briskly downstage. He tips his hat to the ladies.)

Thank you, ladies. Thank you very much.

*conversation between George & Emily in Act One

(Stepladders are moved onstage. GEORGE and EMILY enter R. and L. and mount ladders, where they do their arithmetic as if on windowsills.)

(EMILY leans out window and peers at GEORGE a moment, then works again.)

GEORGE
Hsst! Emily!

EMILY
Hello.

GEORGE
Hello.
(Pause.)

EMILY
I can’t work at all. The moonlight’s so terrible.

GEORGE
(Pause.) Emily, did you get the third problem?

EMILY
Which?

GEORGE
The third?

EMILY
Why, yes, George—that’s the easiest of them all.

GEORGE
I don’t see it. Emily, can you give me a hint?

EMILY
I’ll tell you one thing: the answer’s in yards.

GEORGE
!!! In yards? How do you mean?

EMILY
In square yards.

GEORGE
Oh…in square yards.

EMILY
Yes, George, don’t you see?

GEORGE
Yeah.

EMILY
In square yards of wallpaper.

GEORGE
Wallpaper,--oh, I see.

(He erases and rewrites.) Thanks a lot, Emily.

EMILY
You’re welcome.

(Looks out.) My, isn’t the moonlight terrible? And choir practice going on. —I think if you hold your breath you can hear the train all the way to Contoocook. Hear it?

GEORGE
(Leans out window to listen.) M-m-m—What do you know!

EMILY
Well, I guess I better go back and try to work.

GEORGE
Good night, Emily. And thanks.

EMILY
Good night, George.

*conversation between Dr. & Mrs. Gibbs the day of George & Emily's wedding in Act Two

DR. GIBBS
(Enters downstairs.)

Well, Ma, the day has come. You’re losin’ one of your chicks.

MRS. GIBBS
Frank Gibbs, don’t you say another word. I feel like crying every minute. Sit down and drink your coffee.

DR. GIBBS
(Sits at table, puts sugar in coffee.)

The groom’s up shaving himself—only there ain’t an awful lot to shave. Whistling and singing, like he’s glad to leave us.—Every now and then he says “I do” to the mirror, but it don’t sound convincing to me.

MRS. GIBBS
I declare, Frank, I don’t know how he’ll get along. I’ve arranged his clothes and seen to it he’s put warm things on,--Frank! They’re too young. Emily won’t think of such things. He’ll catch his death of cold within a week.

DR. GIBBS
I was remembering my wedding morning, Julia.

MRS. GIBBS
Now don’t start that, Frank Gibbs.

DR. GIBBS
(Smiling)

I was the scaredest young fella in the State of New Hampshire. I thought I’d make a mistake for sure.

And when I saw you comin’ down that aisle I thought you were the prettiest girl I’d eve seen, but the only trouble was that I’d never seen you before. There I was in the Congregational Church marrin’ a total stranger.

MRS. GIBBS
And how do you think I felt! —Frank, weddings are perfectly awful things. Farces,--that’s what they are!

(Sets a plate before him.) Here, I’ve made something for you.

DR. GIBBS
Why, Julia Hersey—French toast!

MRS. GIBBS
’Tain’t hard to make and I had to do something.

DR. GIBBS
How’d you sleep last night, Julia?

MRS. GIBBS
Well, I heard a lot of the hours struck off.

DR. GIBBS
Ye-e-s! I get a shock every time I think of George setting out to be a family man—that great gangling thing!—I tell you Julia, there’s nothing so terrifying in the world as a son. The relation of father and son is the darndest, awkwardest—

MRS. GIBBS
Well, mother and daughter’s no picnic, let me tell you.

DR. GIBBS
They’ll have a lot of troubles, I suppose, but that’s none of our business. Everybody has a right to their own troubles.

MRS. GIBBS
Yes…people are meant to go through life two by two. ’Tain’t natural to be lonesome.

DR. GIBBS
(After a slight pause; laughing.)

Julia, do you know one of the things I was scared of when I married you?

MRS. GIBBS
Oh, go along with you!

DR. GIBBS
I was afraid we wouldn’t have material for conversation more’n’d last us a few weeks. (Both laugh.) I was afraid we’d run out and eat our meals in silence, that’s a fact.—Well, you and I been conversing for twenty years now without any noticeable barren spells.

MRS. GIBBS
Well,--good weather, bad weather—’tain’t very choice, but I always find something to say.

Did you hear Rebecca stirring around upstairs? (Rises)

DR. GIBBS
No. Only day of the year Rebecca hasn’t been managing everybody’s business up there. She’s hiding in her room.—I got the impression she’s crying.

MRS. GIBBS
Lord’s sakes!—This has got to stop.—Rebecca! Rebecca! Come and get your breakfast.

GEORGE
(Runs down stairs cheerily.)

Good morning, everybody. Only five more hours to live.

(Makes the gesture of cutting his throat, and a loud “k-k-k,” and starts through the trellis.)

MRS. GIBBS
George Gibbs, where are you going?

GEORGE
Just stepping across the grass to see my girl.

MRS. GIBBS
Now, George! You put on your overshoes. It’s raining torrents. You don’t go out of this house without you’re prepared for it.

GEORGE
Aw, Ma. It’s just a step!

MRS. GIBBS
George! You’ll catch your death of cold and cough all through the service.

DR. GIBBS
George, do as your mother tells you!

(GEORGE stoops, puts on overshoes.)

MRS. GIBBS
From tomorrow on you can kill yourself in all weathers, but while you’re in my house you’ll live wisely, thank you. —Maybe Mrs. Webb isn’t used to callers at seven in the morning.

—Here, take a cup of coffee first.

*"flashback" conversation between George & Emily at the soda counter in Act Two

(EMILY and GEORGE sit on stools. BOTH looking front. EMILY's been crying.)

STAGE MANAGER You look all shook up. I tell you, you’ve got to look both ways before you cross Main Street these days. Gets worse every year.—What’ll you have?

EMILY
(Hardly able to speak.)
I’ll have a strawberry phosphate, thank you, Mr. Morgan.

GEORGE
No, no, Emily. Have an ice-cream soda with me. Two strawberry ice-cream sodas, Mr. Morgan.

STAGE MANAGER
(Facing out, as he mixes two sodas.)
Two strawberry ice-cream sodas, yes sir. Yes, sir. There are a hundred and twenty-five horses in Grover’s Corners this minute I’m talking to you. State Inspector was in here yesterday. And now they’re bringing in these auto-mo-biles, the best thing to do is to just stay home. Why, I can remember when a dog could go to sleep all day in the middle of Main Street and nothing come along to disturb him. (Sets the glasses before them.) There they are. Enjoy ’em. (Sees someone off downstage) Yes, Mrs. Ellis. What can I do for you? (Exits)

EMILY
They’re so expensive.

GEORGE
No, no.—don’t you think of that. We’re celebrating our election. And then do you know what else I’m celebrating?

EMILY
N-no.

GEORGE
I’m celebrating because I’ve got a friend who tells me all the things that ought to be told me.

EMILY
(Tearfully) George, please don’t think of that. I don’t know why I said it. It’s not true. You’re—

GEORGE
No, Emily, you stick to it. I’m glad you spoke to me like you did. But you’ll see: I’m going to change so quick—you bet I’m going to change.

And, Emily, I want to ask you a favor.

EMILY
What?

GEORGE
Emily, if I go away to State Agriculture College next year, will you write me a letter once in a while?

EMILY
I certainly will. I certainly will, George…
It certainly seems like being away three years you’d get out of touch with things. Maybe letters from Grover’s Corners wouldn’t be so interesting after a while. Grover’s Corners isn’t a very important place when you think of all—New Hampshire; but I think it’s a very nice town.

GEORGE
The day wouldn’t come when I wouldn’t want to know everything that’s happening here. I know that’s true, Emily.

EMILY
Well, I’ll try to make my letters interesting. (Pause.)

GEORGE
Y’know. Emily, whenever I meet a farmer I ask him if he thinks it’s important to go to Agriculture School to be a good farmer.

EMILY
Why, George—

GEORGE
Yeah, and some of them say that it’s even a waste of time.
You can get all those things, anyway, out of the pamphlets the government sends out. And Uncle Luke’s getting old,--he’s about ready for me to start in taking over his farm tomorrow, if I could.

EMILY
My!

GEORGE
And, like you say, being gone all that time…in other places and meeting other people…Gosh, if anything like that can happen, I don’t want to go away. I guess new people aren’t any better than old ones. I’ll bet they almost never are. Emily…I feel that you’re as good a friend as I’ve got. I don’t need to go and meet the people in other towns.

EMILY
But, George, maybe it’s very important for you to go and learn all that about—cattle judging and soils and those things… Of course, I don’t know.

GEORGE
(After a pause, very seriously.)
Emily, I’m going to make up my mind right now. I won’t go. I’ll tell Pa about it tonight.

EMILY
Why, George, I don’t see why you have to decide right now. It’s a whole year away.

GEORGE
Emily, I’m glad you spoke to me about that...that fault in my character. What you said was right; but there was one thing wrong in it, and that was when you said that for a year I wasn’t noticing people, and…you, for instance. Why, you say you were watching me when I did everything…I was doing the same about you all the time.

Why, sure,--I always thought about you as one of the chief people I thought about. I always made sure where you were sitting on the bleachers, and who you were with, and for three days now I’ve been trying to walk home with you; but something’s always got in the way. Yesterday I was standing over against the wall waiting for you, and you walked home with Miss Corcoran.

EMILY
George!...Life’s awful funny! How could I have known that? Why, I thought—

GEORGE
Listen, Emily, I’m going to tell you why I’m not going to Agriculture School. I think that once you’ve found a person that you’re very fond of…I mean a person who’s fond of you, too, and likes you enough to be interested in your character… Well, I think that’s just as important as college is, and even more so. That’s what I think.

EMILY
(Quietly)
I think it’s awfully important, too. (Pause.)

GEORGE
Emily.

EMILY
Y-yes, George.

GEORGE
Emily, if I do improve and make a big change…would you be…I mean: could you be…

EMILY
I…I am now; I always have been.

GEORGE
(Pause.)
So I guess this is an important talk we’ve been having—

EMILY
Yes…yes.
(Pause.)

*from the scene of the wedding in Act Two


(GEORGE, having come down stage-right aisle through audience, has mounted steps over footlights and now stands R. of them surveying the scene, frightened. He stares at the congregation a moment, then takes a few steps of withdrawal, toward the right proscenium pillar.)

MRS. GIBBS
George! George! What’s the matter!

GEORGE
Ma, I don’t want to grow old. Why’s everybody pushing me so?

MRS. GIBBS
Why, George…you wanted it.

GEORGE
No, Ma, listen to me—

MRS. GIBBS
No, no, George,--you’re a man now.

GEORGE
Listen, Ma,--for the last time I ask you…all I want to do is to be a fella—

MRS. GIBBS
George! If anyone should hear you! Now stop. Why, I’m ashamed of you!

GEORGE
(Calms down. Pause.)
What? Where’s Emily?

MRS. GIBBS
(Relieved.)
George! You gave me such a turn.

GEORGE
Cheer up, Ma. I’m getting married.

MRS. GIBBS
Let me catch my breath a minute.

GEORGE
(Following, takes her arms, comforts her.)
Now, Ma, you save Thursday nights. Emily and I are coming over to dinner every Thursday night…you’ll see. Ma, what are you crying for? Come on; we’ve got to get ready for this.

(MRS. GIBBS fixes his tie, smoothes his hair, and kisses him.)

(EMILY, in white and wearing her wedding veil, has come down the stage-left aisle through the audience, stepped over the footlights and mounted onto the stage. She too draws back, frightened, and turns half-front.)

EMILY
I never felt so alone in my whole life.

And George over there, looking so…! I hate him. I wish I were dead. Papa! Papa!

MR. WEBB
(Leaves his seat in the pews and comes toward her anxiously.)
Emily! Emily! Now don’t get upset…

EMILY
But Papa,--I don’t want to get married…

MR. WEBB
Sh-sh-Emily. Everything’s all right.

EMILY
(Pleading) Why can’t I stay for a while just as I am? Let’s go away,--

MR. WEBB
No, no, Emily. Now stop and think a minute.

EMILY
Don’t you remember that you used to say,--all the time you used to say—all the time: that I was your girl! There must be lots of places we can go to. I’ll work for you. I could keep house.

MR. WEBB
Shh…You mustn’t think of such things. You’re just nervous, Emily. (He turns and calls:) George! George! Will you come here a minute? (to EMILY) Why you’re marrying the best young fellow in the world. George is a fine fellow.

EMILY
But Papa,--

(GEORGE, on being called, crosses to meet them. MR. WEBB, arm about EMILY, puts his hand on GEORGE’S shoulder.)

MR. WEBB
I’m giving away my daughter, George. Do you think you can take care of her?

GEORGE
Mr. Webb, I want to…I want to try.

Emily, I’m going to do my best. I love you, Emily. I need you.

EMILY
Well, if you love me, help me. All I want is someone to love me.

GEORGE
I will, Emily. Emily, I’ll try.

EMILY
And I mean for ever. Do you hear? For ever and ever.
(She flings her arms about his neck; his go about her waist in a long embrace.)

MR. WEBB
(Turns and takes EMILY’S R. arm.)
Come, they’re waiting for us. Now you know it’ll be all right. Come, quick.

STAGE MANAGER
(Hands holding lapels.)
Do you, George, take this woman, Emily, to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish till death do us part?

MRS. SOAMES
(Turns to her neighbors and speaks in a shrill voice. Her chatter drowns out the clergyman’s words.)
Perfectly lovely wedding! Loveliest wedding I ever saw. Oh, I do love a good wedding, don’t you? Doesn’t she make a lovely bride?

GEORGE
I do.

STAGE MANAGER
Do you, Emily, take this man, George, to be your wedded husband,--

MRS. SOAMES
Don’t know when I’ve seen such a lovely wedding. But I always cry. (Wiping tears.) Don’t know why it is, but I always cry. I just like to see young people happy, (EMILY says “I do.”) don’t you? Oh, I think it’s lovely.

(The ring. GEORGE takes it from pocket, slips it on EMILY’S finger, then steps to embrace and kiss her.)

(The stage is suddenly arrested into silent tableau. The STAGE MANAGER, his eyes on the distance, as though to himself:)

STAGE MANAGER
I’ve married over two hundred couples in my day. Do I believe in it? I don’t know. M…marries N….millions of them. The cottage, the go-cart, the Sunday-afternoon drives in the Ford, the first rheumatism, the grand-children, the second rheumatism, the deathbed, the reading of the will,--(He now looks at the audience for the first time, with a warm smile that removes any sense of cynicism from the next line.) Once in a thousand times it’s interesting.

(The ORGAN picks up the March. CHURCH BELLS sound.)
(The BRIDE and GROOM turn, smiling happily, and go slowly down aisle as lights flood on them. )

MRS. SOAMES
Aren’t they a lovely couple? Oh, I’ve never been to such a nice wedding. I’m sure they’ll be happy. I always say: happiness, that’s the treat thing! The important thing is to be happy.



*from the scene of Emily's posthumous return to her twelfth birthday in Act Three to End

EMILY
(Whispers.)
Papa.

MR. WEBB
(Stamping snow from feet as he enters his house.)
Good morning, Mother.

MRS. WEBB
(At stove.) How did it go, Charles?

MR. WEBB
Oh, fine, I guess. I told’m a few things.—Everything all right here?

MRS. WEBB
Yes—can’t think of anything that’s happened, special.

Been right cold. Howie Newsome says it’s ten below over to his barn.

MR. WEBB
Yes, well, it’s colder than that at Hamilton College. Students’ ears are falling off. It ain’t Christian.—Paper have any mistakes in it?

MRS. WEBB
None that I noticed.

Coffee’s ready when you want it. Charles! Don’t forget; it’s Emily’s birthday. Did you remember to get her something?

MR. WEBB
(Patting his pocket.)
Yes, I’ve got something here.
(Calling gaily.) Where’s my girl? Where’s my birthday girl?

MRS. WEBB
Don’t interrupt her now, Charles. You can see her at breakfast. She’s slow enough as it is. Hurry up, children! It’s seven o’clock. Now, I don’t want to call you again.

EMILY
(Softly.)
I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? (Crossing to near mother, who turns down to putter at stove.) Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all, everything. (Looking around room as if wanting to embrace it.) —I can’t look at everything hard enough.

(She turns a few steps as if entering kitchen, then beams at mother. Now as a girl of 12.)
Good morning, Mama.

MRS. WEBB
(Crossing to embrace and kiss her--in her characteristic matter-of-fact manner.)
Well, now, dear, a very happy birthday to my girl and many happy returns. (Returns to stove.) There are some surprises waiting for you on the kitchen table.

EMILY
Oh, Mama, you shouldn’t have.

(Looking toward the unmoved STAGE MANAGER.) I can’t—I can’t.

MRS. WEBB
But birthday or no birthday, I want you to eat your breakfast good and slow. I want you to grow up and be a good strong girl.

That in the blue paper is from your Aunt Carrie; and I reckon you can guess who brought the postcard album. I found it on the doorstep when I brought in the milk—George Gibbs…must have come over in the cold pretty early…right nice of him.

EMILY
(Very gently, picking up album.)
Oh, George! I’d forgotten that…

MRS. WEBB
Chew that bacon good and slow. It’ll keep you warm on a cold day.

EMILY
Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me.

(MRS. WEBB turns to stir oatmeal at stove, not hearing, EMILY turns close behind her.)

Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. (More and more desperate.) I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too! Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember? (More gently and appealing) But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. (In greatest desperation.) Let’s look at one another.

MRS. WEBB
(Steps to put dish on table.)
That in the yellow paper is something I found in the attic among your grandmother’s things. You’re old enough to wear it now, and I thought you’d like it.

EMILY
(Turns to table, in her child’s tone.)
And this is from you. Why, Mama, it’s just lovely and it’s just what I wanted. It’s beautiful! (She flings her arms around her mother’s neck. Her MOTHER pats her hand, then turns away to stove.)

MRS. WEBB
(Pleased) Well, I hoped you’d like it. Hunted all over. Your Aunt Norah couldn’t find one in Concord, so I had to send all the way to Boston. Wally has something for you, too. He made it at manual-training class and he’s very proud of it. Be sure you make a big fuss about it.—Your father has a surprise for you, too; don’t know what it is myself. Sh—here he comes.

MR. WEBB
(Offstage)
Where’s my girl? Where’s my birthday girl?

EMILY
I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. (She breaks down sobbing, looks off downstage) I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed.

(To STAGE MANAGER) Take me back—up the hill—to my grave. But first: Wait! (Turns) One more look. Goodbye. Goodbye, world. Goodbye, Grover’s Corners… Mama and Papa. Goodbye to clocks ticking—and my butternut tree… and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and walking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.

(To the STAGE MANAGER, questioning gently) Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?

STAGE MANAGER
(Quietly) No. (Pause.) The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.

EMILY
(Calm) I’m ready to go back.

(Crosses slowly to sit. As she does so, the lights dim, leaving only a deep blue except for amber on the dead.)

MRS. GIBBS
(After a long pause, quietly.) Were you happy?

EMILY
No…I should have listened to you. That’s all human beings are! Just blind people.

MRS. GIBBS
(Gently and cheerfully) Look, it’s clearing up. The stars are coming out.

EMILY
(After a glance up, turning slowly)
Oh, Mr. Stimson, I should have listened to them.

SIMON STIMSON
Yes, now you know. Now you know! That’s what it was to be alive. To move about in a cloud of ignorance; to go up and down trampling on the feelings of those…of those about you. To spend and waste time as though you had a million years. To be always at the mercy of one self-centered passion, or another. Now you know—that’s the happy existence you wanted to go back to. Ignorance and blindness.

MRS. GIBBS
Simon Stimson, that ain’t the whole truth and you know it. Emily, look at that star. I forget its name.

1ST DEAD MAN
(Quietly) My boy Joel was a sailor,--knew ’em all. He’d set on the porch evenings and tell ’em all by name. Yes, sir, wonderful!

2ND DEAD MAN
A star’s mighty good company.

1ST DEAD WOMAN
Yes, yes, ’tis.

SIMON STIMSON
Here’s one of them coming.

2ND DEAD WOMAN
That’s funny. ’Tain’t no time for one of them to be here.—Goodness sakes.

EMILY
Mother Gibbs, it’s George.

(GEORGE appears, hat in hand, crossing slowly to face EMILY.)

MRS. GIBBS
Shh, dear. Just rest yourself.

EMILY
(Tenderly) It’s George.

(GEORGE slowly comes toward them.)

1ST DEAD MAN
And my boy, Joel, who knew the stars—he used to say it took millions of years for that speck o’ light to git to the earth. Don’t seem like a body could believe it, but that’s what he used to say—millions of years.

(GEORGE sinks to his knees, drops hat, and slowly falls forward face on ground.)

1ST DEAD WOMAN
Goodness! That ain’t no way to behave!

MRS. SOAMES
He ought to be home.

(GEORGE gives a convulsive sob.)

EMILY
(Softly, looking down at GEORGE.)
Mother Gibbs?

MRS. GIBBS
Yes, Emily?

EMILY
They don’t understand, do they?

MRS. GIBBS
No, dear. They don’t understand.

(TRAIN WHISTLES offstage)

STAGE MANAGER
Most everybody’s asleep in Grover’s Corners. There are a few lights on: Shorty Hawkins, down at the depot, has just watched the Albany train go by. And at the livery stable somebody’s setting up late and talking.—Yes, it’s clearing up. (Stops a moment, looking out and up.) There are the stars—doing their old, old crisscross journeys in the sky. Scholars haven’t settled the matter yet, but they seem to think there are no living beings up there. Just chalk…or fire. Only this one is straining away, straining away all the time to make something of itself. The strain’s so bad that every sixteen hours everybody lies down and gets a rest.

(CLOCK strikes.)

Hmm….Eleven o’clock in Grover’s Corners. (He winds his watch.)—You get a good rest, too.

Good night.

Miniver Cheevy

by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)


Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

Men Past Forty

by Ed Sissman (1928-1976)

Men past forty
Get up nights,
Look out at city lights
And wonder
Where they made the wrong turn
And why life is so long.

Preface to In Memoriam, A.H.H.

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

Break, Break, Break

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

My Lost Youth

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

When We Two Parted

by George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Sea Fever

by John Masefield (1878-1967)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

by Alan Seeger (1888–1916)

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.