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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MY HUSBANDS by NATHALIA CRANE

First Line: I HEAR MY HUSBANDS MARCHING
Last Line: NEW YORK, MAY, 1924.
Subject(s): MARRIAGE; WEDDINGS; HUSBANDS; WIVES;
I HEAR my husbands marching
The æons all adown:
The shepherd boys and princes—
From cavern unto crown.

I hear in soft recession
The praise they give to me;
I hear them chant my titles
From all antiquity.

But never do I answer,
I might be overheard;
Lose Love's revised illusions
By one unhappy word.

I sit, a silent siren,
And count my cavaliers;
The men I wed in wisdom,
The boys who taught me tears.

To some I gave devotion,
To some I kinked the knee;
But there was one old wizard
Who laid his spells on me.

He showed me like a master
That one rose makes a gown;
That looking up to Heaven
Is merely looking down.

He marked me for the circle,
Made magic in my eyes;
He won me by revealing
The truth in all his lies.

So, when I see that wizard
Among the marchers dim,
I make the full court curtsy
In fealty to him.

AFTERWORD

IN a maze of contributions such as the poetry editor of a large
metropolitan newspaper printing daily two or three poems receives there came to
me unheralded one morning in the mail a little poem which bore the name of an
author of whom I had never heard—Nathalia Crane. It was a whimsical piece
of verse such as an editor rarely receives, a rhythmical, lilting production
that would gladden the heart of any one. It was called @3The History of Honey.@1
Needless to say it was accepted for publication. Subsequently others submitted
by Nathalia Crane also found a place in @3The Sun.@1
Then followed some correspondence in regard to various other poems but a
call at the office made by the author in answer to a letter about the poem @3The
Army Laundress@1 disclosed to my amazement that the writer was none other than a
little girl—a shy, unassuming youngster who was as embarrassed during the
interview as I was myself. For I must admit I was embarrassed—or rather
taken aback.
My surprise is excusable. So many times I had received "poems" from
youngsters who were careful to give their ages in addition to their names; so
often I had received visits from doting parents or relatives requesting
publication of verses by their children or sisters or cousins that I had never
dreamed any child would ever submit any work from his or her pen without adding
the words "Aged — years." But little Nathalia was the exception—and
there was nothing in her poems that I received to indicate her age.
The poems bought were accepted on their merits and on their merits alone,
and many a poet of greater years and of recognized standing would not despise
being known as the author of @3The Reading Boy, The Three-Cornered Lot@1 and
@3The Commonplace.@1
Nathalia Crane is a little girl who plays with dolls and toys and Roger
Jones, whom she has glorified in some of her poems, when she is not busy at a
typewriter giving expression to dreams and visions. She is also an author of
delightful verse who obtained wide recognition of her work not because it was
written by a child but because it was in itself worth while reading. For this
alone, if for nothing else, she deserves all the success that is hers, all the
laurels with which her friends and readers are glad to crown her and none more
than the writer of this "Afterword" who came to know Nathalia Crane through her
poetry which did not disclose her years.
EDMUND LEAMY
@3New York, May, 1924.@1


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