Small Press: The Magazine of Independent Publishing; V. 3, N. 1; September/October 1985
R. R. Bowker, , 1985, Wraps, , , Good
122 pp. Wraps soiled and bumped. ''Our Second Anniversary Issue.'' Contents: Features: Books from small presses; Over there: Americans are still busy publishing in Paris by David Applefield; Confessions of a Frankfurt first-timer by Janja Stanich; In Toronto: The Canadian Booksellers Association Convention by Beverly Slopen; Land of Small Presses by Shane Cleary (In Ireland that's the only kind of publishing there is); In Stockhom: The Swedish Book Fair by Nadia Steinzor; Doing Business with mainland China: China books and periodicals by Marianne Yen; Cross-cultural communications by Joseph Barbato (dedicated to bringing out notable works in neglected languages); Funding a Latin American poetry project: A saga with two surprises by Frank Graziano; 'Reckless and Doomed': Johnathan Williams and Jargon by Michael McFew; plus the regular departments and reviews. Cover: Fritz Eichenberg, wood engraving based on E. A. Poe story.
A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN
When late in summer the streams run yellow, Burst the bridges and spread into bays; When berries are black and peaches are mellow, And hills are hidden by rainy haze; When the goldenrod is golden still, But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, And slides o'er the path the striped adder; When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket, Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf; When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket, Grasshopper's rasp, and rustle of sheaf; When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle, And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle, And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone; When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle And shadows are deep in the heat of noon; When the air is white with the down o' the thistle, And the sky is red with the harvest moon; O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary, No time let slip, not a moment wait! If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning; And they who would wed must be done with their mooning; So let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle, And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]