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title: 'The Day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, January 09, 1914, NOON EDITION, Image 10',
meta: 'News about Chronicling America - RSS Feed',
Image provided by: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL
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HOW IS THIS FOR $40,000 POETRY
(News Item This year's Nobel
prize for literature went to Rabin
dranath Tagore, a formerly unknown
Bengali philosophefwnp now shares
the honors previously conferred up
on Kipline: and Maeterlinck. His
poetry is unique, and remarkable for
its spiritual quality.) .
, :TQ.NORAH .
You feet .are a vision;, your eyes
like saucers full of blue'jnilk.
Why do I love yoii? ' . Thai is the
question. A'sk :me. . ;
You, oniy you, have eyes' like sau
cers filled with blue milk. ' V
Freckles encumber your map with
So does the lemon the pink lem
onade. What's the answer, my Norah
Are they put there to curdle
Curdle the milk of your saucer-like
Another new poet, who claims he
can rival the great Hindu singer
Rabindranath Tagore, has been dis
covered. In this case the bard who
makes literature gasp is a mere
novice who did not become famous
simply because he did not know how.
This poet wrote the palpitating
lines at the head of this article. He
is Fredupta Schaeferji. Up to now
his only evidence of poetical expres
sion found vent in "Osgar und Adolf,"
"Diana Dillpickles" and similar ef
fusions. But nothing exalted or sub
lime. In Tact, he was not aware that
the Nobel commission was dealing
out a prize worth $40,000 for that
sort of dope. But when the award
was made he immediately got busy.
"It's the easiest thing I do," said
Schaeferji, with a wan smile. "I'm
willing to furnish spiritual poetry at.
40 cents a gob. However, i regret
that "the capital prize got away from
me. Hereafter I will keep my eyes
Below is one of Schaeferji's most
imaginative word pictures. It has
the ring of the real goods:
When vapors from sea drift land
ward warm bodies of air are met like
the meetings of old friends and lost
brothers. They pause and wring
hands. Tears mingle and fall. All
this in the infinite sky. It is raining.
On the brown earth the dust be
comes pitted. Heavenward hand
maidens turn a soft eye and cry, "La
mussy me!" Bustling afield in the
back yard they pluck shirts off the
line and white chemises. The vile of
the earth ponder and borrow um
brellas. With tongues of serpents
they cajole us of mushsticks. Some-
-times they swipe.
It is raining. On the clean tracks
of the trolleys the cars pause at new
puddles. Under the awnings of beer
saloons people wait for the rainbow.
The smell of the sawdust is like sick